Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RESIGNATION; AN ODE TO THE JOURNEYMEN SHOEMAKERS, SELECTION, by JOHN WOLCOTT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RESIGNATION; AN ODE TO THE JOURNEYMEN SHOEMAKERS, SELECTION, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Sons of saint crispin, 'tis in vain! / indeed 'tis fruitless to complain
Last Line: A truth that grandeur wishes not to know.
Alternate Author Name(s): Pindar, Peter; Wolcot, John
Subject(s): Labor & Laborers; Labor Unions; Oppression; Shoes; Strikes; Wages; Work; Workers; Boots; Sneakers; Shoemakers; Labor Disputes; Lockouts; Salaries


SONS of Saint Crispin, 'tis in vain!
Indeed 'tis fruitless to complain.
I know ye wish good beef or veal to carve:
But first the hungry Great must all be fed;
Meantime, ye all must chew hard, musty bread,
Or, what is commonly unpleasant, starve.

Your Masters, like yourselves, oppression feel—
It is not they would wish to stint your meal:
Then suck your paws like bears, and be resigned.
Perhaps your sins are many; and if so,
Heav'n gives us very frequently, we know,
The Great as scourges for mankind.
Your Masters soon may follow you, so lank—
Undone by simple confidence in Rank.

The royal Richmond builds his state on coals;
Sal'sb'ry and Hawksb'ry, lofty souls,
With their fair dames must have the bali and rout;
Kings must our millions have, to make a glare,
Whose sycophants must also have a share;
But pout not—'tis a libel, sirs, to pout.

Closed be your mouths, or dread the jail or thong:
Ye must not for your money have a song.
Cease, cease your riots, pray, my friends:
It answereth (believe me) no good ends—
And yet the time will come, I hope to God,
When black-faced, damned Oppression to his den
Shall howling fly before the curse of men,
And feel of angered Justice the sharp rod.
Go home, I beg of ye, my friends, and eat
Your sour, your mouldy bread, and offal meat;
Till Freedom comes—I see her on her way—
Then shall a smile break forth upon each mien,
The front of banished Happiness be seen,
And, sons of Crispin, you once more be gay.

Now go, and learn submission from your Bible:
Complaint is now-a-day a flagrant libel.
Yes, go and try to chew your mouldy bread—
Justice is sick, I own, but is not dead.
Let Grandeur roll her chariot on our necks,
Submission sweet humility bespeaks:
Let Grandeur's plumes be lifted by our sighs—
Let dice, and chariots, and the stately thrones
Be formed of poor men's hard-worked bones—
We must contribute; or, lo, Grandeur dies.
We are the parish that supports her show;
A truth that Grandeur wishes not to know.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net