The Workers

Tho' the days of the drowsy hamlet, Of arrow and bow, be done, Tho' we live 'mid forges and foundries, And fight with Gatling guns, Are we not men and Britons As the people of England then? Can we not fight the battles And do the deeds of men? We may not slumber our lives out In sweet Arcadian ease, Hearkening the gentle music Of the birds on the forest trees. Tho' these be drowned in the clamour 'Mid the engines' smoke and smell, Patience and toil and courage Are the tales the engines tell. Man's skill, man's labour, man's triumph Seeking some unknown thing, And the wondrous art of the ages, Are the songs that our engines sing. We honour the days that are vanished, Nor look on the past in scorn, And we do, in our generation, The work to which man was born.