Classic Poem

You sons of England, now listen to my rhymes,
And I'll sing you a short sketch of the times,
Concerning poor labourers we all must allow
Who work all day at the tail of the plough.

Oh pity poor labourers, oh pity them all,
For five or six shillings they work the whole week.

There's many poor labourers to work they will go
Either hedging or ditching, to plough or to sow;
And many poor fellows are used like a Turk,
They do not get paid fair for half a day's work.

And many poor labourers, I'm sorry to say,
Are breaking of stones for eighteen pence a day.
Bread and water's the fare of the poor lab'ring man,
While the rich they can live on the fat of the land.

Some pity the farmers, but I tell you now,
Pity poor labourers that follow the plough.
Oh pity poor children half-starving and then
Divide every great farm up into ten.

There's many young fellows you'll see every day
For snaring a hare they are banished away
To Van Dieman's Land or to some foreign shore,
And their wives and their children are left to deplore.

There's many a farmer that's making a fuss,
While the poor and the starving can scarce get a crust.
Do away with their hounds and their hunters so gay
And give the poor labourers a little fair play.

Fair play is a stranger these many years past,
And pity's bunged up in an old oaken cask;
But the time's fast approaching, it's very near come,
When we'll have the farmers all under our thumbs.