Classic Poem

Some thousands in England are starving,
And all through no fault of their own,
The troubles of poverty sharing,
And only to them is it known.
It's hard when the cupboard is empty,
And through the streets the poor men must roam,
And all the week through with nothing to do,
Yet with poor hungry children at home.

Then pity the ex-service workmen
Who starve all the week through,
They don't want to shirk any kind of hard work,
But, alas, they can't get it to do.

A man who is fond of his children
To keep them alive does his best
So to him it must be bewildering,
Yet brings sorrow to both parents' breast
To see his dear little ones starving,
In the midst of deep poverty hurled,
For no-one can tell what they must feel
So friendless and alone in the world.

The workman must live by his labour,
And that he needs have day by day,
And altho' he may have feeling neighbours
They have nothing they can give away.
For no-one knows where the shoe pinches,
But those who the pain have to bear,
With no work to do, all the week through,
And just nothing but sorrow and care.

There are many in towns and in cities
Who are walking the streets all foot-sore,
They surely deserve all your pity,
As dejected they pass by your door.
At factories and workshops they're calling
But they're told the same words every day:
There's no orders in hand, all over the land,
So no wages the masters can pay.

It used to be called happy England,
But where is its happiness now?
When people are slaving in thousands
At the factory, the loom and the plough.
In this country there's millions of money,
But those who have got it take care
Their sovereigns they nurse and they keep a full purse,
So the poor man can't get a share.

Then do what you can to assist them,
For they're all flesh and blood like yourselves.
Their poverty sadly oppresses them
With no food at all on the shelves.
The help that your fellow-man's needing
Should be given the country all through,
So help the poor man the best way you can,
Who would work if he had it to do.