Charles Mackay (Чарльз Маккей)
The Working Man’s Song
Who lacks for bread of daily work And his appointed task would shirk, Commits a folly and a crime; A soulless slave— A partly knave— A clog upon the wheels of Time. With work to do and stores of health, The man’s unworthy to be free Who will not give, That he may live. His daily toil for daily fee. No; Let us work! We only ask Reward proportioned to our task; We have no quarrel with the great; No feud with rank— With mill or bank— No envy of a lord's estate. If we can earn sufficient store To satisfy our need, And can retain, For age and pain, A fraction, we are rich indeed. No dread of toil have we or ours; We know our worth, our weight, our powers. The more we work, the more we win; Success to Trade! Success to Spade, And to the corn that's coming in; And joy to him who, o'er his task, Remembers toil is nature's plan; Who working thinks, And never sinks His independence as a man. Who only asks for humble wealth. Enough for competence and health, And leisure when his work is done, To read his book By chimney nook, Or stroll at setting sun; Who toils, as every man should toil. For fair reward, erect and free; These are the men— The best of men— These are the men we mean to be.
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