The land it is the landlords,
the traders is the sea,
the ore the usurers coffer fills
but what remains for me?

The engine whirls for masters craft,
the steel shines to defend,
with labours arms, what labour raised,
for labours foe to spend.

The camp, the pulpit, and the law
for rich mens sons are free.
Theirs, theirs the learning, art and arms
but what remains for me?

The coming hope, the future day,
when wrong to right shall bow,
and hearts that have the courage man,
to make that future now.

I pay for all their learning,
I toil for all their ease.
They render back, in coin for coin,
want, ignorance, disease.

They render back, those rich men,
a paupers niggard fee,
mayhap a prison, then a grave,
and think they are quits with me.

We read it there, whereer we meet,
and as the sun we see,
each asks, The rich have got the earth,
and what remains for me?

We bear the wrong in silence,
we store it in our brain.
They think us dull, they think us dead,
but we shall rise again.