At Our Doors.

A woman dying, starving, cold, unknown,
Crying for bread outside the workhouse late -
Crying for bread, and getting - what ? - a stone -
A stone to die on at the workhouse gate.

Over the seas go ships of English gold
To clothe the savage, feed the lazy Turk;
Here lay our sister hungry in the cold-
To feed the English is not England's work!

Out on the Poor Law sham! - the heartless jest
That makes a mock of Want's despairing cry;
That in the cloak of Charity sits drest,
And robs the rich and leaves the poor to die.

O' England, blush! And now, for very shame,
Strike at this system, rotten to the core.
Until you do, 'tis yours alone the blame,
And each starved pauper dies at England's door.