Axiom.

Let him who toils, enjoy
    Fruit of his toiling.
Let him whom sweats annoy,
    No more be spoiling.

For we would have it be
    That, weak or stronger,
Not he who works, but he
    Who works not, hunger!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Francis William Lauderdale Adams (27 September 1862 – 4 September 1893) was an English writer, poet, dramatist, and social reformer. His literary work often reflected his radical socialist views. Adams lived a life marred by poverty and struggles with his health, eventually committing suicide at the age of 30. Despite his brief life, his contributions to literature and social thought remain significant.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

In The Street. Lord - - .

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Dai Butsu. {70}

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Evening Hymn In The Hovels.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

A Glimpse Of China. In A Chair.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

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The Truth.

Come then, let us at least know what's the truth.
    Let us not blink our eyes and say
We did not understand; old age or youth
    Benumbed our sense or stole our sight away.

It is a lie - just that, a lie - to declare
    That wages are the worth of work.
No; they are what the Employer wills to spare
    To let the Employee sheer starvation shirk.

They're the life-pittance Competition leaves,
    The least for which brother'll slay brother.
He who the fruits of this hell-strife receives,
    He is a thief, an assassin, and none other!

It is a lie - just that, a lie - to declare
    That Rent's the interest on just gains.
Rent's the thumb-screw that makes the worker share
    With him who worked not the produce of his pains.

Rent's the...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Why!

"Why is it we toil so?
    Where go all the gains?
What do we produce for it,
    All our pangs and pains?"

Why it is we toil so,
    Is it because, like sheep,
Since our fathers sought the shears,
    We the same course keep.

Where go all the gains? Well,
    It must be confessed,
First the landlords take the rent,
    And the masters take the rest.

What do we produce for it?
    Gentlemen! - and then
Imitation snobs who'd be
    Like the gentlemen!

"What, is it for such as these
    That we suffer thus?
Fuddle-brained and vicious fools,
    Vermin venomous?

"What, is that why on the top
    Creeps that Royal Louse,
<...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Work Lads!

Work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor;
If able, show willin, - ther's plenty to do,
Ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre,
But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.

Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin,
An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift;
For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin,
An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.

Ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on,
If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife;
A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on,
Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.

But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter,
Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat,
'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter,
An th' pleasures yo hope...

John Hartley

Art.

Yes, let Art go, if it must be
    That with it men must starve -
If Music, Painting, Poetry
    Spring from the wasted hearth.

Pluck out the flower, however fair,
    Whose beauty cannot bloom,
(However sweet it be, or rare)
    Save from a noisome tomb.

These social manners, charm and ease,
    Are hideous to who knows
The degradation, the disease
    From which their beauty flows.

So, Poet, must thy singing be;
    O Painter, so thy scene;
Musician, so thy melody,
    While misery is queen.

Nay, brothers, sing us battle-songs
    With clear and ringing rhyme;
Nay, show the world its hateful wrongs,
    And bring the better time!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

The Ploughman

Tearing up the stubborn soil,
        Trudging, drudging, toiling, moiling,
        Hands, and feet, and garments soiling -
Who would grudge the ploughman's toil?
            Yet there's lustre in his eye,
            Borrowed from yon glowing sky,
            And there's meaning in his glances
            That bespeak no dreamer's fancies;
            For his mind has precious lore
            Gleaned from Nature's sacred store.

Toiling up yon weary hill,
        He has worked since early morning,
        Ease, and rest, and pleasure scorning,
And he's at his labor still,
            Though the slanting, western beam
            Quivering on the glassy stream,
            And yon old elm's lengthened shadow
            Flung athwart the verdant mea...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Evening Hymn In The Hovels.

"We sow the fertile seed and then we reap it;
    We thresh the golden grain; we knead the bread.
Others that eat are glad. In store they keep it,
    While we hunger outside with hearts like lead.
Hallelujah!

"We hew the stone and saw it, rear the city.
    Others inhabit there in pleasant ease.
We have no thing to ask of them save pity,
    No answer they to give but what they please.
Hallelujah!

"Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers,
    That we must toil and never know the light?
Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers,
    That they must grind us dead here in the night?
Hallelujah!

"O we who sow, reap, knead, shall we not also
    Have strength and pleasure of the food we make?
O we who hew, build, deck,...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams