Paroles de Song To The Men Of England
Men of England, wherefore ploughFor the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?
Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who could
Drain your sweat - nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.
Sow seed, - but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth ,- let no impostor heap;
Weave robes, - let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, - in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells,
In halls ye deck another dwells. And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre.
Drain your sweat - nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.
Sow seed, - but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth ,- let no impostor heap;
Weave robes, - let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, - in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells,
In halls ye deck another dwells. And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre.
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