English poem
Oh Fools
by Bernard Gilbert (1882–1927)
Oh Fools! who plough, with hunger faint; Who reap the harvest, lacking grain; Oh Sheep! who offer no complaint; Oh Worms! who dare not turn again.
The farmer leads the best of lives, His food pours in: abundant feast; Full fed upon your sweat he thrives; And you—and you—are but a beast!
Each day you tend the growing corn, 'The ox shall not be muzzled'—True! All animals must have their turn; But less than any beast are you!
The horse is stabled, dry and warm, His food is measured, manger-full; The sheep is valued on the farm, A price is found for meat and wool.
You—you are but a working man! Your wages run from day to day, Your wife and brood live as they can; They count for no return of pay.
Old age creeps o'er your wrinkled face, Your shoulders droop toward the soil; When, faltering, you leave the race, The workhouse well repays your toil.
Oh piteous soul! with none to care, At length they recognize your worth; And England yields, herself, your share: A pauper grave in Mother Earth.