An Anthology of Chartist Poetry: Poetry of the British Working Class, 1830s-1850s

Első borító
Peter Scheckner
Fairleigh Dickinson Univ Press, 1989 - 353 oldal
Chartist poetry was written by and for workers. In contrast with the portrayal of workers by mainstream Victorian writers, Chartist verse is intellectual, complex, and socially conscious and reflects an international outlook.

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Tartalomjegyzék

II
59
IV
63
V
66
VII
67
VIII
68
IX
69
X
70
XI
71
CXIX
199
CXXI
201
CXXII
203
CXXIV
205
CXXV
206
CXXVII
208
CXXVIII
209
CXXIX
211

XII
72
XIV
73
XV
74
XVII
76
XVIII
77
XIX
79
XX
80
XXI
82
XXII
83
XXIII
85
XXV
87
XXVI
88
XXVII
89
XXVIII
90
XXIX
91
XXXI
93
XXXII
95
XXXIII
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XXXIV
97
XXXV
98
XXXVI
99
XXXVIII
100
XL
101
XLII
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XLIII
105
XLIV
107
XLVI
108
XLVII
109
XLIX
110
L
112
LI
114
LII
116
LIII
119
LIV
120
LV
122
LVI
123
LVII
124
LVIII
125
LIX
126
LX
127
LXI
128
LXII
129
LXIV
130
LXV
131
LXVI
133
LXVIII
134
LXIX
135
LXX
136
LXXI
138
LXXII
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LXXIII
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LXXIV
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LXXVI
143
LXXVII
144
LXXVIII
145
LXXIX
146
LXXXI
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LXXXII
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LXXXIII
149
LXXXIV
150
LXXXV
151
LXXXVI
152
LXXXVII
153
LXXXVIII
154
LXXXIX
155
XC
156
XCI
157
XCII
159
XCIV
161
XCVI
163
XCVIII
165
C
166
CI
168
CII
169
CIII
170
CIV
171
CV
172
CVI
173
CVII
175
CVIII
179
CIX
182
CX
184
CXI
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CXII
186
CXIII
192
CXIV
194
CXV
195
CXVI
196
CXVII
197
CXXX
213
CXXXI
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CXXXII
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CXXXIII
216
CXXXIV
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CXXXV
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CXXXVI
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CXXXVII
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CXXXIX
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CXL
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CXLI
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CXLII
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CXLIII
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CXLIV
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CXLV
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CXLVI
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CXLVII
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CXLVIII
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CL
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CLIII
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CLIV
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CLV
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CLVII
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CLVIII
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CLIX
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CLX
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CLXI
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CLXIII
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CLXIV
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CLXV
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CLXVII
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CLXVIII
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CLXIX
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CLXX
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CLXXI
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CLXXIII
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CLXXIV
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CLXXV
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CLXXVI
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CLXXVII
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CLXXIX
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CLXXX
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CLXXXI
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CLXXXII
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CLXXXIII
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CLXXXIV
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CLXXXV
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CLXXXVI
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CLXXXVIII
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CLXXXIX
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CXC
281
CXCII
282
CXCIV
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CXCV
285
CXCVII
287
CXCVIII
288
CXCIX
289
CC
291
CCI
292
CCII
293
CCIV
294
CCV
296
CCVI
298
CCVII
299
CCIX
300
CCX
302
CCXI
303
CCXII
304
CCXIV
305
CCXVI
307
CCXVII
308
CCXVIII
309
CCXX
311
CCXXI
312
CCXXII
313
CCXXIV
314
CCXXV
315
CCXXVII
317
CCXXVIII
318
CCXXIX
319
CCXXX
320
CCXXXI
321
CCXXXII
322
CCXXXIII
325
CCXXXIV
326
CCXXXV
346
CCXXXVI
351
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161. oldal - Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal.
159. oldal - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch— stitch— stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! She sang this
161. oldal - WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread, — • Stitch— stitch— stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!
30. oldal - AN old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king ; Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow Through public scorn — mud from a muddy spring ; Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know. But leech-like to their fainting country cling...
160. oldal - Work, work, work! From weary chime to chime ; Work, work, work, As prisoners work for crime : Band and gusset and seam, Seam and gusset and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.
70. oldal - Rattle his bones over the stones; He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!
28. oldal - More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us.
146. oldal - Condensed in ire ! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land ; Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, And God's right hand ! Madmen ! they trample into snakes The wormy clod ! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of God ! Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave ; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave.
160. oldal - Work, work, work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, and rags ; That shattered roof, and this naked floor, A table, a broken chair, And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there.
259. oldal - Of the good time coming. Cannon-balls may aid the truth, But thought's a weapon stronger ; We'll win our battle by its aid ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The pen shall supersede the sword, And Right, not Might, shall be the lord In the good time coming.

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