THE NAVVY

Remote from mansion and from mart,
Beyond our outer, furrowed fields—
One with the rock he cleaves apart,
One with the weary pick he wields—
Bowed with his weight of discontent,
Beneath the heavens sagging gray,
His steaming shoulders stark and bent,
He drags his joyless years away.

For dreamy dames with haughty eyes,
And cunning men with soft white hands
Have offered you in sacrifice
Lone outcast of the outcast lands.
For all the furs that keep them warm,
For all the food that keeps them fit,
Through all the years they've wrought you harm,
And take a churlish pride in it.

Brutish we've hashed it far and near,
I've shared your woe and dull despair;
We've sung our songs, and none to hear,
And told our wrongs, and none to care.
Some day—how soon we may not tell—
We'll rend the riven fetters free.
Till then, may heaven guard you well,
And God be good to you—and me.