Classic Poem

There's a cry in our South that I can't understand,
Of the dearness of Labor, the cheapness of Land;
I thought if the world had a vision of bliss
Since Eve (and Tom Moore!) — " It was this — it was this: "

Cheap Labor! Dear Land! Shall the dial go back
A cycle or so for the blessing we lack?
Shall the darkest of ages, their annals expand
With the cheapest of Toil and the dearest of Land?

Then your blood was so cheap that your Seignor's repose
Could afford it in foot-baths, and bless his old toes!
Let grumble who list, there's a rise in your kind,
Since your shackles went up, and your Seignor declined.

Your labor too high! who , ever, was known
To utter that cry for a work of his own?
Too much for a darkey! How much for the hint?
He might be a " gold mine " — might I be the mint?

There's a law on the subject that holds like a vice —
Of all a man hath his labor is price;
And there's only one " wage " you can fasten on man,
To have what he makes, and to make what he can.

To steal with New England, to beg with old Cork,
Let them fix the price of your land and your work;
But for bread, while you live, and for peace when you die,
Keep your Land cheap as dirt, and your Labor sky-high!