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In his chamber, weak and dying,
While the Norman Baron lay,
Loud, without, his men were crying,
‘Shorter hours and better pay.’
Know you why the ploughman, fretting,
Homeward plods his weary way
Ere his time? He’s after getting
Shorter hours and better pay.
See! the Hesperus is swinging
Idle in the wintry bay,
And the skipper’s daughter’s singing,
‘Shorter hours and better pay.’
Where’s the minstrel boy? I’ve found him
Joining in the labour fray
With his placards slung about him,
‘Shorter hours and better pay.’
Oh, young Lochinvar is coming;
Though his hair is getting grey,
Yet I’m glad to hear him humming,
‘Shorter hours and better pay.’
E’en the boy upon the burning
Deck has got a word to say,
Something rather cross concerning
Shorter hours and better pay.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make as much as they,
Work no more, until they find us
Shorter hours and better pay.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley)
Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay.
Soaring, sing above the mêlée,
‘Shorter hours and better pay.’
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