Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/42

 In cheerless model and filthy pub, his sinful hours were passed, Or footsore, weary, he begged his grub, in the sough of the hail-whipped blast, So some might riot in wealth and ease, with food and wine be crammed, He wrought like a mule, in muck to his knees, dirty, dissolute, damned.

Arrogant, adipose, you sit in the homes he builded high; Dirty the ditch, in the depths of it he chooses a spot to die, Foaming with nicotine-tainted lips, holding his aching breast, Dropping down like a cow that slips, smitten with rinderpest; Drivelling yet of the work and wet, swearing as sinners swear, Raving the rule of the gambling school, mixing it up with a prayer.

He lived like a brute as the navvies live, and went as the cattle go, No one to sorrow and no one to shrive, for heaven ordained it so— He handed his check to the shadow in black, and went to the misty lands, Never a mortal to close his eyes or a woman to cross his hands.

''As a bullock falls in the rugged ruts He fell when the day was o'er, Hunger gripping his weasened guts, But never to hunger more''—