Poem by Edward P. Mead

The Steam King

There is a King, and a ruthless King,
	Not a King of the poet’s dream; 
But a tyrant fell, white slaves know well,
	And that ruthless King is Steam.

He hath an arm, an iron arm,
	And tho’ he hath but one,                                  
In that mighty arm there is a charm,
	That millions hath undone.

Like the ancient Moloch grim, his sire
	In Himmon’s vale that stood, 
His bowels are of living fire,
	And children are his food.

His priesthood are a hungry band,
	Blood-thirsty, proud, and bold; 
’Tis they direct his giant hand,
	In turning blood to gold.

For filthy gain, in their servile chain
	All nature’s rights they bind; 
They mock at lovely woman’s pain,
	And to manly tears are blind.

The sighs and groans of Labour’s sons
	Are music in their ear,  
And the skeleton shades, of lads and maids,
	In the Steam King’s hells appear.

Those hells upon earth, since the Steam King’s birth
	Have scatter’d around despair; 
For the human mind for heav’n design’d,
	With the body, is murdered there.

Then down with the King, the Moloch King,
	Ye working millions all; 
Î chain his hand, or our native land
	Is destin’d by him to fall.

And his Satraps abhor’d each proud Mill Lord,
	Now gorg’d with gold and blood; 
Must be put down by the nation’s frown,
	As well as their monster God.

The cheap bread crew will murder you,
	By bludgeon, ball, or brand; 
Then your Charter gain and the power will be vain
	Of the Steam King’s bloody band.

Then down with the King, the Moloch King,
	And the satraps of his might; 
Let right prevail, then Freedom hail!
	When might shall stoop to right!

1. Chartist Song
2. The Brave Old King

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