[I.]
"Toil! toil! toil!"What curse is this sent from the hand of God,That man must work till placed beneath the sod,And see no recompense in future years,Save anxious thoughts and bitter, fruitless tears;What fight is this from morn till close of day,To keep starvation's meagre face away.Unjust proceeding, man's the slave of man,And this, they say, is a divine command.
"A cobbler's son I saw when quite a boy,The mean privations that the soul annoy;And childhood's days, the happiest time of life,Was blighted by this same, disgraceful strife,Just so it was with manhood's happy prime,And so 'twill be until I've done with time;And toil, and toil, and toil, thus, thus, I must,Until this tired frame returns to dust."