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 around 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 melee, "Shorter hours and better pay.' |