Thy safety-where, stray Liberty?
In lands where discords cease.
Thy glory-where, bright Liberty?
In universal Peace.

Ernest Jones.

"A Vote in the Laws"

VOTE in the laws they make!
A home on the land I till!

Where the hearts of the many break
The cup of the few to fill.

By the right of their laws I pine;

But what are their laws to me?

For I live by right divine,

And that is the right to be free.
A home in my native isle!
A share in the wealth I heap!
Where the rich in their revel smile,
And the poor in their anger weep.

The strength that in numbers lies
Each hour is making known:
Pioneers of the truth, arise,

At the word of the cruel few
The clouds of the battle frown:

But, as long as the many are true,
We'll say: let the storm come down-
And on as the masses sweep,

Our cry shall meet them still:

A share in the wealth we heap

A home in the land we till.
A home in my native isle,
A vote in the laws we keep,

Then the rich, if they like, may smile,

But the poor shall cease to weep.

Ernest Jones.

Holy Thursday

S this a holy thing to see

T

In a rich and fruitful land-
Babes reduced to misery,

Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine,

And their fields are black and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns: It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babes should never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.

William Blake.

Chartist Song-1838

HE time shall come when Wrong shall end,
When peasant to peer no more shall bend—
When the lordly Few shall lose their sway,
And the Many no more their frown obey.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done-
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!
The time shall come when the artisan
Shall homage no more the titled man—
When the moiling men who delve the mine
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done-
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!
The time shall come when the weavers' band
Shall hunger no more in their fatherland-
When the factory-child can sleep till day,
And smile while it dreams of sport and play.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done-
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!

The time shall come when kingly crown
And mitre for toys of the Past are shown—
When the Fierce and False alike shall fall,
And Mercy and Truth encircle all.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free-
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee!

The time shall come when earth shall be

A garden of joy, from sea to sea,

When the slaughterous sword is drawn no more,
And goodness exults from shore to shore.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free

Till goodness shall hold high jubilee!

T. Cooper.

Tom Dunstan

OW poor Tom Dunstan's cold
Our shop is duller;

Scarce a tale is told,

And our talk has lost its old
Red-republican colour!

Poor Tom was crippled and thin,
But, Lord, if you'd seen his face,
When, sick of the country's sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin

Stuck out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free!
And the money bags be bled!

"She's coming, she's coming!" said he; Courage, boys! wait and see!

Freedom's ahead!"

Cross-legg'd on the board we sat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching and sweating, while fat
Old Moses, with eyes like a cat,
Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,

And prophesied Tyranny's death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitch'd and stitch'd away
In the thick smoke of our breath.

Poor worn-out slops were we,

With hearts as heavy as lead; But "Patience! she's coming!" said he; "Courage, boys! wait and see! Freedom's ahead!"

Poor Tom was little and weak,
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him.
And at last the cheery sound

Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse all round,
That he mightn 't starve, at least.
His pain was awful to see,

Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
"She's coming, in spite of me!
Courage and wait!" said he;
"Freedom's ahead!"

Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold
The shop feels duller;
Scarce a tale is told,

And our talk has lost the old
Red-republican colour.

But we see a figure grey,

And we hear a voice of death, And the tallow burns all day, And we stitch and stitch away

In the thick smoke of our breath;

Ay, while in the dark sit we,

Tom seems to call from the dead

"She's coming! she's coming!" says he; "Courage, boys! wait and see!

Freedom's ahead!"

Robert Buchanan.