Chants for Socialists
O strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the gain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labour in vain.
Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man
For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.
And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?
Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;
And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;
And the painter's hand of wonder; and the marvellous fiddle-bow, And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.
For all these shall be ours and all men's, nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair.
Ah! such are the day