Classic Poem

AB OAT is rowed along the sea,
Full of souls as it may be;
Their dress is coarse, their hair is shorn,
And every squaiid face forlorn
Is full of sorrow, and hate, and scorn!
What is 't? — — It is the Convict Boat,
That o'er the waves is forced to float,
Bearing its wicked burden o'er
The ocean, to a distant shore:
Man scowls upon it; but the sea
(The same with fettered as with free)
Danceth beneath it heedlessly!

Slowly the boat is borne along:
Yet they who row are hard and strong,
And well their oars keep time,
To one who sings (and clanks his chain,
The better thus to hide his pain,)
A bitter, banished rhyme!
He sings: and all his mates in woe
Chaunt sullen chorus as they go!

SONG .

Row us on, a felon band,
Farther out to sea,
Till we lose all sight of land,
And then — we shall be free;
Row us on, and loose our fetters;
Yeo! the boat makes way:
Let's say " Good bye " unto our betters,
And, hey for a brighter day!

CHORUS .

Row us fast! Row us fast!
Trial's o'er and sentence past;
Here's a whistle for those who tried to blind us,
And a curse on all we leave behind us!

Farewell, juries, — jailors, — friends,
(Traitors to the close;)
Here the felon's danger ends.
Farewell, bloody foes!
Farewell, England! We are quitting
Now thy dungeon doors:
Take our blessing, as we 're flitting, —
" A curse upon thy shores! "

Farewell, England, — honest nurse
Of all our wants and sins!
What to thee 's a felon's curse?
What to thee who wins?
Murder thriveth in thy cities;
Famine through thine isle:
One may cause a dozen ditties;
T' other scarce a smile.

Farewell, England, — tender soil,
Where babes who leave the breast,
From morning into midnight toil,
That pride may be proudly drest!
Where he who 's right and he who swerveth
Meet at the goal the same;
Where no one hath what he deserveth,
Not even in empty fame!

So, fare thee well, our country dear!
Our last wish, ere we go,
Is — May your heart be never clear
From tax, nor tithe, nor woe!
May they who sow e'er reap for others,
The hundred for the one!
May friends grow false, and twin-born brothers
Each hate his Mother's son!

May pains and forms still fence the place
Where justice must be bought!
So he who 's poor must hide his face,
And he who thinks — his thought!
May Might o'er Right be crowned the winner,
The head still o'er the heart,
And the Saint be still so like the Sinner,
You 'll not know them apart!

May your traders grumble when bread is high,
And your farmers when bread is low,
And your pauper brats, scarce two feet high,
Learn more than your nobles know!
May your sick have foggy or frosty weather,
And your convicts all short throats,
And your blood-covered bankers e'er hang together,
And tempt ye with one pound notes!

And so, — with hunger in your jaws,
And peril within your breast,
And a bar of gold, to guard your laws,
For those who pay the best,
Farewell to England's woe and weal!
... For our betters, so bold and blythe,
May they never want, when they want a meal,
A Parson to take their Tithe!