England. In The Camp.
By Francis William Lauderdale Adams
This is a leader's tent. "Who gathers here?"
Enter and see and listen. On the ground
Men sit or stand, enter or disappear,
Dark faces and deep voices all around.
One answers you. "You ask who gathers here?
Companions! Generals we have none, nor chief.
What need is there? The plan is all so clear -
The future's hope, the present's grim relief!
"Food for us all, and clothes, and roofs come first.
The means to gain them? This, our leaguered band!
The hatred of the robber rich accursed
Keeps foes together, makes fools understand.
"Beyond the present's faith, the future's hope
Points to the dawning hour when all shall be
But one. The man condemned shall fit the rope
Around the hangman's neck, and both be free!
"The sun then rises on a happier land
Where Wealth and Labour sound but as one word.
We drill, we train, we arm our leaguered band.
What is there more to tell you have not heard?"
This is a leader's tent. They gather here,
Resolute, stern, menacing. On the ground
They sit or stand, enter or disappear,
Dark faces and deep voices all around.