Classic Poem

(After seeing his Picture in the Press)

Working Man! whose psychic beauty
(Unattainable by me)
Still it is my pleasing duty
Painted by your friends to see, —
You, whose virtues ne'er can bore us,
Daily though their list we scan,
Let me swell th' admiring chorus,
Let me hymn the Working Man!

You whose Leaders, highly moral,
Always shocked by war's alarms,
Could not in their country's quarrel
Contemplate the use of arms,
Yet, should strikes provide occasion,
Then by higher promptings led
Do with more than moral suasion
Break the erring Blackleg's head: —

You, whose intellectual state is
Such that you are aiming at
Getting all your culture gratis
(Not that you're alone in that), —
Always with the strict injunction
That what'er be false or true
Every teacher's simple function
Is to teach what pleases you: —

Not to gain by learned labour
Any sordid quid pro quo :
Not to rise above your neighbour
(Comrades ne'er are treated so):
Not to change your lowly station,
Not for rank and not for pelf,
Academic education
Only, only for itself, —

Yet in whose commercial dealings
Vainly we attempt to find
Those disinterested feelings
Which adorn the Student's mind, —
Seeing that, O my high-souled brothers!
There your dream of happiness
Is (like mine, and several others')
Earning more for working less!

'Tis not that I blame your getting
Anything you think you can:
'Tisn't that which I'm regretting,
Noble British Working Man!
No — although the facts I mention
Sometimes wake a wild surprise —
Still — the truth 's beyond contention —
You are good, and great, and wise:

Swell my taxes: stint my fuel:
Last, to close the painful scene,
Send me, rather just than cruel,
Send me to the guillotine:
Ere the knife bisects my spinal
Cord, and ends my vital span,
This shall be my utterance final,
Bless the British Working Man!