In The Pit. "Chant Of The Firemen."

"This is the steamer's pit.
    The ovens like dragons of fire
Glare thro' their close-lidded eyes
    With restless hungry desire.

"Down from the tropic night
    Rushes the funnelled air;
Our heads expand and fall in;
    Our hearts thump huge as despair.

"'Tis we make the bright hot blood
    Of this throbbing inanimate thing;
And our life is no less the fuel
    Than the coal we shovel and fling.

"And lest of this we be proud
    Or anything but meek,
We are well cursed and paid -
    Ten shillings a week!"

Round, round, round in its tunnel
    The shaft turns pitiless strong,
While lost souls cry out in the darkness:
    "How long, O Lord, how long?"

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

A Death At Sea. (Coral Sea, Australia.)

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Pere-La-Chaise. {45} (Paris.)

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Axiom.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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At The India Docks. A Memory Of August, 1883.

[The spectacle of the life of the London Dock labourers is one of the most terrible examples of the logical outcome of the present social system. In the six great metropolitan docks over 100,000 men are employed, the great bulk of whom are married and have families. By the elaborate system of sub-contracts their wages have been driven down to 4d., 3d., and even 2d. for the few hours they are employed, making the average weekly earnings of a man amount to 7, 6, and even 5 shillings a week! Hundreds and hundreds of lives are lost or ruined every year by the perilous nature of the work, and absolutely without compensation. Yet so fierce is the competition that men are not unfrequently maimed or even killed in the desperate struggles at the gates for the tickets of employment, guaranteeing a "pay" which often does not amount to more than a fe...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

The Peasants' Revolt. {35}

Thro' the mists of years,
    Thro' the lies of men,
Your bloody sweat and tears,
Your desperate hopes and fears
    Reach us once again.

Brothers, who long ago,
    For life's bitter sake
Toiled and suffered so,
Robbery, insult, blow,
    Rope and sword and stake:

Toiled and suffered, till
    It burst, the brightening hope,
"Might and right" and "will and skill,"
That scorned, and does, and will,
    Sword and stake and rope!

Wat and Jack and John,
    Tyler, Straw, and Ball,
Souls that faltered not,
Hearts like white iron hot,
    Still we hear your call!

Yes, your "bell is rung,"
    Yes, for "now is time!"
Come hither, every one,
Brave ghosts whose day's not done,
    Avengers of old rime, -<...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

At The Seamen's Union. {84} "The Seamen And The Miners."

. . . One rises now and speaks: "The Cause is one -
    Labour o'er all the earth! Shan't we, then, share
With these, whose very flesh and blood's our own,
    All that we can of what we have and are?

"What is it that their work is in the earth,
    Down in its depths, and ours is on the sea?
The fight they fight is ours; their worth our worth;
    Their loss our loss. We help them! They are we!

"We help them! - Ay, and when our hour too breaks,
    And on to every ship that ploughs the wave
We put our hand at last, our hand that takes
    Its own, will they forget the help we gave?

"And, if our robber lords would rob us still
    With the foul hoard of beasts without a soul,
They may find leprous hands to work their will,
    But, for thei...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

The Fire

Near the house flowed, or paused, the black Canal,
Edged by the timber piles so black and tall.
From the rotten fence I watched the horses pull
Along the footpath, slow and beautiful,
Moving with strength and ease, in their great size
And untired movement wonderful to my eyes;
Their dull brass clanking as each shaggy foot
Stamped the soft cinder track as fine as soot.
The driver lurched old and forbidding by,
Not seeing the child that feared to meet his eye.
I watched the rope dip, tighten, and the water flash
In falling, and then heard the hiss and splash;
I watched the barge drag slowly on and on,
Not dreaming how lovely a ship could ride the water upon,
Not dreaming how lovely flowing water was,
Sung to by trees and fingered by long grass,
Or running from t...

John Frederick Freeman

Song Of The Artesian Water

Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought;
But we're sick of prayers and Providence, we're going to do without;
With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,
We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we'll sink it deeper down:
As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,
If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil;
Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down.

Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot,
And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what:
When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs,
She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper ...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Rescue

There's a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft,
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft:
Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call,
Run, you fool! Number Twos gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below,any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?
Heave away! says the knocker. Theyve started. God be praised, hes no youngsters or wife!

Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur,
And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague frightened murmur of birds,
With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticu...

Edward