New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1856-05-10
A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.


TIE merry brown harcs came leopin2
Over he crest OF the hill,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
Under the moonlight still.
LeapiDg late and early,
Til under their bite and their tread
The swed dee, and the wheat, and the barley,
Lay cankered, and tramDled and dead.
poachero widow sat sighing
On the side of the white chalk bank,
Where under the gloomy fir-woOds
One spot in the ley tilroye rank.
She watched a long tuit Of clover
Where rabbit or hare never ran;
For it, black sOur haulm covered over
The hood Of a murdered man.
She sought Of tie dark plantation.
And the hnes, snc her husbands blood,
And the voice OF her Indignation
Rose up Ia the throne OF God.
am 10 & past wailing and whining
have wept too much in my life:
I've had twenty years of pining
A. an English labOrers wife.
A laborer in Christian England
Where they cant of a Sayiors name,
And yet waste mems lives like the verrnin's
For few more brace of game.
There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
There's blood on your pointers feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire,
And there's blood on the game you eat.
You have sold the labOring-man, squire,
Body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in House squire,
And to pay fOr the feed of your game.
You made him poecher yourself, squire.
When you'd give neither work nor meat,
And your barley fed hares robbed the garden
at our starving chidren's feet.
When packed in one rocking chamber,
Man, maid, mother snd little ones lay;
While the rain battered in on the rotten bride bed
And the walls let in the day;
When we lay in the burning fever
On the mud of the cold clay floor,
Til you parted us all for three months, squire,
AT the cursed wOrk-hOUse door.
We quareled Ike brutes, and who wonders
What selfrespect could we keep
Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,
Worse fed than youf hogs and your sheep'
Our daughters with base born babies
Have wandered away in their shame;
If your m-.es had slept squire, where they did,
Your misses might do tue same.
Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking
With hardlu!s OF Goals and rice,
Or by dealing out flannel and sheetlDg
A little below cost pricel
You may tire Of the jail and the workhouse,
And take to allotments and schools
But you We run up debt that will never
BE repaid US by penny Club rules.
In the seaeOn of shame and sadness,
In tie dark and dleery Gay,
When scrofula, CONT and madness,
Are eating your race away;
Wien to kennels and verled vsrlets
You have cast your daughters bread,
And, worn out with liquor and barlOts,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;
When your Youngest the meay- mOuthed rector,
Lets your soul 70, asleep TO the grave
You viii find in your God the protector
OF the freeman you fencied your slave
She looked a. the trft Of clover,
And wept TIL her heart grew light;
And at last wien her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.
Bot the meny brown hares came eapiGg
Over the uplands It'll.
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.
he wall Of melodious pathos called the " Sands
Dee, will long echo in the memory of all who
e listened to it, plrintiye music. "a Myth"
he Anglers Questions" and "The Words
wer," The Deed Church" ga Parable from
Big conceal in mystic pbrsseOlOgy pro.
I'd significance. Noble reform poems arc the
copies Song" The Day OF the Lord, as
as the ballad already quoted.
ONhFNTapY on THF pPIsTIT TIC TIP PPHE.