Men of England, wherefore plough



For the lords who lay ye low?



Wherefore weave with toil and care



The rich robes your tyrants wear?







Wherefore feed and clothe and save



From the cradle to the grave



Those ungrateful drones who would



Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood?







Wherefore, Bees of England, forge



Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,



That these stingless drones may spoil



The forced produce of your toil?







Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,



Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?



Or what is it ye buy so dear



With your pain and with your fear?







The seed ye sow, another reaps;



The wealth ye find, another keeps;



The robes ye weave, another wears;



The arms ye forge, another bears.







Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap:



Find wealth—let no imposter heap:



Weave robes—let not the idle wear:



Forge arms—in your defence to bear.







Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells—



In hall ye deck another dwells.



Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see



The steel ye tempered glance on ye.







With plough and spade and hoe and loom



Trace your grave and build your tomb



And weave your winding-sheet—till fair



England be your Sepulchre.













