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, -

Come and lead the way,
    Hushed, implacable,
Suffering no delay,
Forgetting not that day
    Dreadful, hateful, fell,

When the liar king,
    The liar gentlemen,
Wrought that foulest thing,
Robbing, murdering
    Men who'd trusted them! {36}

Come and lead the way,
    Hushed, implacable.
What shall stop us, say,
On that day, our day? -
    Not unloosened hell!

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

Hong-Kong Lyrics.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To Edith.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Axiom.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Farewell To The Market. "Susannah And Mary-Jane."

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Day Is Coming.

Come hither lads and hearken,
for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all
shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country,
a land in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England
in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand
in the days that are yet to come,
Shall have some hope of the morrow,
some joy of the ancient home.

* * * * *

For then, laugh not, but listen,
to this strange tale of mine,
All folk that are in England
shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him,
and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,
Nor yet come home in the even
too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming
shall...

William Morris

The Day Is Coming

Come hither, lads, and hearken, for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come
Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.

For then--laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine -
All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,
Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear
For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-...

William Morris

To The Sons Of Labour.

Grave this deep in your hearts,
Forget not the tale of the past!
Never, never believe
That any will help you, or can,
Saving only yourselves!
What have the gentlemen done,
Peerless haters of wrong,
Byrons and Shelleys, what?
They stand great famous names,
Demi-gods to their own,
Shadows far off, alien
To us and ours for ever.
Those who love them and hate
The crime, the injustice they hated,
What can they do but shout,
Win a name from our woes,
And leave us just as we were?
No, but resolutely turned,
Our wants, our desires made clear,
And clear the means that shall win them,
Drill and drill and drill!
Then when the day is come,
When the royal battle-flag's up,
When blood has been spilled in vain
In timid half-hearted war,...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

England. In The Camp.

This is a leader's tent. "Who gathers here?"
    Enter and see and listen. On the ground
Men sit or stand, enter or disappear,
    Dark faces and deep voices all around.

One answers you. "You ask who gathers here?
    Companions! Generals we have none, nor chief.
What need is there? The plan is all so clear -
    The future's hope, the present's grim relief!

"Food for us all, and clothes, and roofs come first.
    The means to gain them? This, our leaguered band!
The hatred of the robber rich accursed
    Keeps foes together, makes fools understand.

"Beyond the present's faith, the future's hope
    Points to the dawning hour when all shall be
But one. The man condemned shall fit the rope
    Around the hangman's neck, and both be free!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

To John Ruskin. (After Reading His "Modern Painters.")

Yes, you do well to mock us, you
    Who knew our bitter woe -
To jeer the false, deny the true
    In us blind struggling low,

While, on your pleasant place aloft
    With flowers and clouds and streams,
At our black sweat and toil you scoffed
    That marred your idle dreams.

"Oh, freedom, what was that to us,"
(You'd shout down to us there),
"Except the freedom foul, vicious,
    From all of good and fair?

"Obedience, faith, humility,
    To us were empty names." -
The like to you (might we reply)
    Whose noisy life proclaims

Presumption, want of human love,
    Impatience, filthy breath, {32}
The snob in soul who looks above,
    Trampling on what...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

An "Assassin."

. . . They caught them at the bend. He and his son
Sat in the car, revolvers in their laps.
From either side the stone-walled wintry road
There flashed thin fire-streaks in the rainy dusk.
The father swayed and fell, shot through the chest.
The son was up, but one more fire-streak leaped
Close from the pitch-black of a thick-set bush
Not five yards from him, and lit all the face
Of him whose sweetheart walked the Dublin streets
For lust of him who gave one yell and fell
Flat on the stony road, a sweltering corse.
Then they came out, the men who did this thing,
And looked upon their hatred's retribution,
While heedlessly the rattling car fled on.
Grey-haired old wolf, your letch for peasants' blood,
For peasants' sweat turned gold and silver and bronze,
Is done...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams