Classic Poem

When weakness now do strive wi' might
In struggles ov' an e'thly trial,
Might mid overcome the right,
An' truth be turn'd by might's denial;
Withstanders we ha' mwost to feär,
If selfishness do wring us here,
Be souls a-holden in their hand
The might an' riches o' the land.

But when the wicked, now so strong,
Shall stan' vor judgment, peäle as ashes,
By the souls that rued their wrong,
Wi' tears a-hangen on their lashes —
Then withstanders they shall deäre
The leäst ov' all to meet wi' there,
Mid be the helpless souls that now
Below their wrongvul might mid bow.

Sweet children o' the dead, bereft
Ov all their goods by guile an' forgen;
Souls o' driven sleäves that left
Their weäry limbs a-mark'd by scourgen;
They that God ha' call'd to die
Vor a truth ageän the worold's lie,
An' they that groan'd an' cried in vain,
A-bound by foes' unrighteous chain.

The maid that selfish craft led on
To sin, an' left wi' hope a-blighted;
Starven workmen, thin an' wan,
Wi' hopeless leäbour ill requited;
Souls a-wrong'd, an' call'd to vill
Wi' dread, the men that used em ill, —
When might shall yield to right as pliant
As a dwarf avore a giant.

When there, at last, the good shall glow
In starbright bodies lik' their Seäviour,
Vor all their flesh noo mwore mid show
The marks o' man's unkind beheäviour:
Wi' speechless tongue, an' burnen cheäk,
The strong shall bow avore the weäk,
An' vind that helplessness, wi' right,
Is strong beyond all e'thly might.