Citizen, capitalist,--ah! the hours of _your_ empire seem few,
An empire ill-gendered, unjust, blindly selfish, and heartlessly
strong
For the crushing of famishing weakness, the rearing of
wealth-founded wrong.
Few, if these throngs have their will, for the fierce proletariat
throbs
For revenge on the full-fed _Bourgeoisie_ which ruthlessly harries
and robs.
'Tis fired with alarms, and it arms with hot haste for the
imminent fray,
For it quakes at the tramp of King Mob, and the thought of this
Queen of the May.
The bandit of Capital falls, and shall perish in shame and in filth!
The harvest of Labour's at hand!--The harvest; but red is the
And the reapers are wrathful and rash, and the swift-wielded
sickle that strives
For the sheaves, not the gleaners' scant ears, seems agog for the
reaping of--lives!
Assassins of Capital? Aye! And their weakening force will ye mee
With assassins of Labour? Shall Brotherhood redden the field and
the street?
Beware of the bad black old lesson! Behold, and look close, and
beware!
There are flowers at your newly-built shrine, is the evil old
serpent not there?
[Illustration: THE NEW "QUEEN OF THE MAY.
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