THE SONG OF THE WAGE SLAVE
Ìóçûêà Âàëåíòèíà Äóáîâñêîãî,
ñòèõè Ýðíñòà Äæîíñà
The land it is the landlord’s,
the trader’s is the sea,
the ore the usurer’s coffer fills –
but what remains for me?
The engine whirls for master’s craft,
the steel shines to defend,
with labour’s arms, what labour raised,
for labour’s foe to spend.
The camp, the pulpit, and the law
for rich men’s sons are free.
Theirs, theirs the learning, art and arms –
but what remains for me?
The coming hope, the future day,
when wrong to right shall bow,
and hearts that have the courage man,
to make that future now.
I pay for all their learning,
I toil for all their ease.
They render back, in coin for coin,
want, ignorance, disease.
They render back, those rich men,
a pauper’s niggard fee,
mayhap a prison, – then a grave,
and think they are quits with me.
We read it there, where’er we meet,
and as the sun we see,
each asks, “The rich have got the earth,
and what remains for me?”
We bear the wrong in silence,
we store it in our brain.
They think us dull, they think us dead,
but we shall rise again.