Classic Poem

Hurrah ! Who was e'er so gay
As we merry folks to-day?
Brother Beggars, do not stare,
But toss your rags into the air,
And cry, “No work, and better fare!”
Each man, be he saint or sinner,
Shall to-day have—M EAT for Dinner!!!

Yesterday, oh, Yesterday!
That indeed was a bad day;
Iron bread, and rascal gruel,
Water drink, and scanty fuel,
With the beadle at our backs,
Cursing us as we beat flax,
Just like twelve Old Bailey varlets,
Amongst oakum-picking barlots!

Why should we such things endure?
Though we be the parish Poor,
This is usage bad and rough.
Are not age and pain enough?
Lonely age, unpitied pain?
With the Ban, that, like a chain,
To our prison bare hath bound us,
And the unwelcomed Winter round us!

Why should we for ever work?
Do we starve beneath the Turk,
That, with one foot in the grave,
We should still toil like the slave?
Seventy winters on our heads,
Yet we freeze on wooden beds!
With one blanket for a fold,
That lets in the horrid cold,
And cramps and agues manifold!

Yet,—sometimes we're merry people,
When the chimes clang in the steeple:
If 't be summer-time, we all
(Dropsied, palsied, crippled,) crawl
Underneath the sunny wall:
Up and down like worms we creep,
Or stand still and fall asleep,
With our faces in the sun,
Forgetting all the world has done!

If 't be May, with hawthorn blooms
In our breasts, we sit on tombs,
And spell o'er, with eager ken,
The epitaphs of older men,
(Choosing those, for some strange reasons,
Who've weather'd ninety,—a hundred seasons,)
Till forth at last we shout in chorus,
“We've thirty good years still before us!”

But, to-day's a bonny day!
What shall we be doing?
What's the use of saving money,
When rivers flow with milk and honey
Prudence is our ruin.
What have we to do with care?
Who, to be a pauper's heir,
Would mask his false face in a smile,
Or hide his honest hate in guile?

But come,—why do we loiter here?
Boy, go get us some small beer:
Quick! 'twill make our blood run quicker,
And drown the devil Pain in liquor!
March, so fierce, is almost past,
April will be here at last,
And May must come,
When bees do hum,
And Summer, over cold victorious!
Hurrah! 'Tis a prospect glorious!
Meat! Small Beer! and Warmer Weather!
Come boys,—let's be mad together!