C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)
From ‘Dunstan; or the Politician’
N
Our shop is duller:
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost its old
Red-republican color.
Though he was sickly and thin,
’Twas a sight to see his face,
While, sick of the country’s sin,
With a bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free,
And the money-bags be bled!
“She’s coming, she’s coming!” said he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat
Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,
And prophesied Tyranny’s death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitched and stitched away
In the thick smoke of our breath.
Weary, weary were we,
Our hearts as heavy as lead;
But “Patience! she’s coming!” said he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”
The rest allowed to us,
The paper came, and the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us:
And then, in his witty way,
He threw the jests about;—
The cutting things he’d say
Of the wealthy and the gay!
How he turned ’em inside out!
And it made our breath more free
To hearken to what he said—
“She’s coming! she’s coming!” said he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”
Would mutter, “Master!
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
A little faster!”
Then, ’twas fine to see Tom flame,
And argue, and prove, and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,
Or a fit of coughing came
O’ sudden, to spoil Tom’s speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see
When Tyranny should be sped—
“She’s coming! she’s coming!” said he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek;
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him:
Ere long the cheery sound
Of his chat among us ceased,
And we made a purse, all round,
That he might not starve, at least.
His pain was sorry to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
“She’s coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait!” cried he:
“Freedom’s ahead!”
To see his passion!
“Bring me a paper,” he cried,
And then to study it tried,
In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering,
His look on me he bent,
And said that savage thing
Of the lords o’ the Parliament.
Then, dying, smiling on me,
“What matter if one be dead?
She’s coming at last!” said he:
“Courage, boy! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”
The shop feels duller:
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old
Red-republican color.
But we see a figure gray,
And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away
In the thick smoke of our breath;
Ay, while in the dark sit we,
Tom seems to call from the dead—
“She’s coming! she’s coming!” says he:
“Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom’s ahead!”
Must thy handmaid linger—
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the poor sufferer strong?
Sweet morrow, bring her!
Hasten her over the sea,
O Lord! ere hope be fled!
Bring her to men and to me!—
O slave, pray still on thy knee,
“F