Classic Poem

Now poor Tom Dunstan's cold,
— Our shop is duller;
Scarce a story is told,
And our chat has lost the 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 bang of the fist, and chin
— Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied folk 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! "

All day we sat in the heat,
— Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While the old Jew on his seat
— Sat greasily grinning:
And there Tom said his say,
— And prophesied Tyranny's death,
And the tallow burnt all day,
And we stitched and stitched away
— In the thick smoke of our breath,
Wearily, wearily,
— With hearts as heavy as lead —
But " Patience, she's coming! " said he;
" Courage, boys! wait and see!
— Freedom's ahead! "

And at night, when we took here
— The rest allowed to us,
The paper came with 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 them 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! "

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
— Would mutter, " Master,
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
— A little faster! "
Then it was 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! "

But Tom was little and weak;
— 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! "

A little before he died,
— 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 of the Parliament.
Then, darkening, smiling on me,
— " What matter if one be dead?
She's coming, at last! " said he;
" Courage, boys! wait and see!
— Freedom's ahead! "

Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold,
— The shop feels duller;
Scarce a story 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! "

How long, O Lord, how long
— Doth Thy handmaid linger?
She who shall right the wrong?
Make the oppressed 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 —
— " Freedom's ahead! "