Classic Poem

Sons of Saint Crispin, 'tis in vain!
Indeed 'tis fruitless to complain.
I know ye wish good beef or veal to carve:
But first the hungry Great must all be fed;
Meantime, ye all must chew hard, musty bread,
Or, what is commonly unpleasant, starve.

Your Masters, like yourselves, oppression feel —
It is not they would wish to stint your meal:
Then suck your paws like bears, and be resigned.
Perhaps your sins are many; and if so,
Heav'n gives us very frequently, we know,
The Great as scourges for mankind.
Your Masters soon may follow you, so lank —
Undone by simple confidence in Rank.

The royal Richmond builds his state on coals;
Sal'sb'ry and Hawksb'ry, lofty souls,
With their fair dames must have the ball and rout;
Kings must our millions have, to make a glare,
Whose sycophants must also have a share;
But pout not — 'tis a libel, sirs, to pout.

Closed be your mouths, or dread the jail or thong:
Ye must not for your money have a song.
Cease, cease your riots, pray, my friends:
It answereth (believe me) no good ends —
And yet the time will come, I hope to God,
When black-faced, damned Oppression to his den
Shall howling fly before the curse of men,
And feel of angered Justice the sharp rod.

Go home, I beg of ye, my friends, and eat
Your sour, your mouldy bread, and offal meat;
Till Freedom comes — I see her on her way —
Then shall a smile break forth upon each mien,
The front of banished Happiness be seen,
And, sons of Crispin, you once more be gay.

Now go, and learn submission from your Bible:
Complaint is now-a-day a flagrant libel.
Yes, go and try to chew your mouldy bread —
Justice is sick, I own, but is not dead.
Let Grandeur roll her chariot on our necks,
Submission sweet humility bespeaks:
Let Grandeur's plumes be lifted by our sighs —
Let dice, and chariots, and the stately thrones
Be formed of poor men's hard-worked bones —
We must contribute; or, lo, Grandeur dies.
We are the parish that supports her show;
A truth that Grandeur wishes not to know.