The Song of the Drainer
He is the Drainer.—
Out on the moorland bleak and grey, using his spade in a primitive way, through chilly evening and searing day. Call him a fool, and well you may—
He is the Drainer.
The toil of the Drainer.—
Only the simple work to do, to plod and delve the quagmire through, for thirty pence, his daily screw.—The labour is healthy—but not for you,
Just for the Drainer.
The artless Drainer.—
It does n't require a lot of skill to dig with a spade or hammer a drill, but it 's bad enough for a man when ill with fevery bones or a wintry chill—
Even a Drainer.
The home of the Drainer.—
A couple of stakes shoved into the ground, a hole for a window, a roof tree crowned with rushes and straw, and all around a waste where lichens and weeds abound.
Is the home of the Drainer.
The rugged Drainer.—
The sleepy bog breezes chant their hymn, the rushes and lilies are soft and slim, the deep dark pools the sunbeams limn—but what do these beauties matter to him—
The rugged Drainer?
The poor old Drainer.—
Some day he 'll pass away in a cramp, where the sundews gleam and the bogbines ramp, and go like a ghost from the drag and the damp—the poor old slave of the dismal swamp.
The hapless Drainer.
Such is the Drainer.—
Voiceless slave of the solitude, rude as the draining shovel is rude—Man by the ages of wrong subdued, marred, misshapen, misunderstood—
Such is the Drainer.
Out on the moorland bleak and grey, using his spade in a primitive way, through chilly evening and searing day. Call him a fool, and well you may—
He is the Drainer.
The toil of the Drainer.—
Only the simple work to do, to plod and delve the quagmire through, for thirty pence, his daily screw.—The labour is healthy—but not for you,
Just for the Drainer.
The artless Drainer.—
It does n't require a lot of skill to dig with a spade or hammer a drill, but it 's bad enough for a man when ill with fevery bones or a wintry chill—
Even a Drainer.
The home of the Drainer.—
A couple of stakes shoved into the ground, a hole for a window, a roof tree crowned with rushes and straw, and all around a waste where lichens and weeds abound.
Is the home of the Drainer.
The rugged Drainer.—
The sleepy bog breezes chant their hymn, the rushes and lilies are soft and slim, the deep dark pools the sunbeams limn—but what do these beauties matter to him—
The rugged Drainer?
The poor old Drainer.—
Some day he 'll pass away in a cramp, where the sundews gleam and the bogbines ramp, and go like a ghost from the drag and the damp—the poor old slave of the dismal swamp.
The hapless Drainer.
Such is the Drainer.—
Voiceless slave of the solitude, rude as the draining shovel is rude—Man by the ages of wrong subdued, marred, misshapen, misunderstood—
Such is the Drainer.
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