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332 Bids men leave their own workshops to work in committees,
 * And their own wedded wives to protect yours and mine!

That we working-men prophets are sadly mistaken,
 * If yours is not, Hogbin, a durable fame,

As lasting as England’s philosopher Bacon,
 * Whom your ancestors housed, if we judge by his name.

When the moment arrives that we’ve won the good fight,
 * And broken the chains of laws, churches, and marriages,

When no infants are born under six feet in height,
 * And our chimney-sweeps mount up a flue in their carriages—

That glorious time when our daughters and sons
 * Enjoy a blue Monday each day of the week,

And a clean shirt is classed with the mastodon’s bones,
 * Or a mummy from Thebes, an undoubted antique—

Then, then, my dear Hogbin, your statue in straw,
 * By some modern Pigmalion delightfully wrought,

Shall embellish the Park, and our youths’ only law
 * Shall be to be Hogbins in feeling and thought.

H.