Poem by James Syme

Labour Song

Toil, brothers, toil; sing and toil,
	From earliest dawn till dark. 
What matter, though kings and priests should spoil;  
	You have nothing to do but work.

Go form the richest fabrics,
	And the costliest robes of gold, 
To deck the legal plunderers,
	Whilst you’re shivering with the cold.

Sing, brothers, sing, sing and toil, 
	Though ragged and scant of bread;
You are honoured—the palace deigns to spoil 
	From the workman’s lowly shed.

Toil, brothers, toil; let the anvil ring
	With clanging blows, and strong; 
Go forge the ponderous bars, and sing
	(As you pant and sweat) a song.

Then sing, brothers, sing, “the good and great,”
	Who tenant the gay saloon, 
Who “graciously” stoop from their high estate, 
	And rob you. Blissful boon!

Toil, brothers, toil, sing and toil;
	Draw not the avenger’s blade, 
Though perjured legislators spoil        
	Your famishing children’s bread.

Raise palace homes upon the land,
	Send navies ocean o’er; 
The sickle wield with sturdy hand,
	The sparkling mine explore.

Toil, brothers, toil, from dawn to dark;
	Let not the heart complain, 
Though you have hardly aught, save work;
	The idler all the gain.

Then toil, brothers, toil, sing and toil,
	Let not a curse be said, 
Though mitred knaves, and princes, spoil
	Each comfort from your shed.

Sing, brothers, sing, I’d have you sing,
	But let your ditties be 
Such anthems as can only ring
	From spirits that are free.

Oppression’s funeral dirge go sing,
	And peal the dying knell 
Of public plunder and each courtly thing.
	Such songs would suit you well.

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