H. GASSAWAY.
'Twas the time of the working men's great strike,
When all the land stood still
At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths
That labour could not fill;
When the thunder of the railroad ceased,
And startled towns could spy
A hundred blazing factories
Painting each midnight sky.
Through Philadelphia's surging streets
Marched the brown ranks of toil,
The grimy legions of the shops,
The tillers of the soil;
White-faced militia-men looked on,
And women shrank with dread;
'Twas muscle against money then--
'Twas riches against bread.
Once, as the mighty mob tramped on,
A carriage stopped the way,
Upon the silken seat of which
A young patrician lay.
And as, with haughty glance, he swept
Along the jeering crowd,
A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks
Took off his cap and bowed.
That night the Labour League was met,
And soon the chairman said:
"There hides a Judas in our midst;
One man who bows his head,
Who bends the coward's servile knee
When capital rolls by."
"Down with him! Kill the traitor cur!"
Rang out the savage cry.
Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held
Erect his head of grey--
"I am no traitor, though I bowed
To a rich man's son to-day;
And though you kill me as I stand--
As like you mean to do--
I want to tell you a story short,
And I ask you'll hear me through.
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