Poetry Archives

Grimy men with picks and shovels
     Who in darkness sweat unseen,
Climb from out your lousy hovels,
     Build a palace for the Queen;
Praise the powers that be for giving
     You a chance to make a living.

Yet it would be better far
     Could you build with cosy lure
Skyey tenements where are
     Rabbit-warrens of the poor;
With a hope bright as a gem
     Some day you might live in them.

Could the Queen just say: ‘A score
     Of rich palaces have I.
Do not make me any more,—
     Raise a hostel heaven-high;
House the hundreds who have need,
     To their misery give heed.’

Could she make this gesture fine
     To the pit where labour grovels,
Mother hearts would cease to pine,
     Weary men would wave their shovels.
All would cry with hope serene:
     ‘Little children, bless the Queen!’