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
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IV
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V
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VII
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VIII
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IX
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X
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XI
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CXIX
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CXXI
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CXXII
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CXXIV
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CXXV
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CXXVII
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CXXVIII
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CXXIX
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XII
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XIV
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XV
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XIX
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XX
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XXI
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XXIII
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XXIX
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XXXI
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XXXII
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XXXIII
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L
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LI
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LII
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LIII
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LIV
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LV
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LVI
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LVII
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LVIII
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LIX
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LX
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LXI
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LXIV
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LXV
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LXVI
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LXVIII
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LXXI
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LXXVIII
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LXXIX
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LXXXI
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LXXXIII
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LXXXIV
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LXXXV
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LXXXIX
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XC
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XCI
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CI
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CIX
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CL
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CLIII
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CLV
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CCIX
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CCX
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CCXI
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CCXII
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CCXIV
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CCXVI
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CCXVII
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CCXVIII
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CCXX
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CCXXI
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CCXXII
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CCXXIV
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CCXXV
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CCXXVII
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CCXXVIII
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CCXXIX
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CCXXX
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CCXXXI
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CCXXXII
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CCXXXIII
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CCXXXIV
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CCXXXV
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CCXXXVI
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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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