Now burst above the city’s cold twilight The piercing whistles and the tower-clocks: For day is done. Along the frozen docks The workmen set their ragged shirts aright. Thro’ factory doors a stream of dingy light Follows the scrimmage as it quickly flocks To hut and home among the snow’s gray blocks.— I love you, human labourers. Good-night! Good-night to all the blackened arms that ache! Good-night to every sick and sweated brow, To the poor girl that strength and love forsake, To the poor boy who can no more! I vow The victim soon shall shudder at the stake And fall in blood: we bring him even now.
James Ephraim McGirt
The fields are white, The laborers are few; Yet say the idle, There’s nothing to do. Jails are crowded, In Sunday Schools few; We still complain There’s nothing to do. Drunkards are dying, Your sons, it is true; Mothers’ arms folded, With nothing to do. Heathens are dying, Their blood falls on you; How can you people Find nothing to do?