Page:Andromeda, and other poems - Kingsley (1858).djvu/145

'There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
 There's blood on your pointer's feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire,
 And there's blood on the game you eat.

'You have sold the labouring-man, squire,
 Body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
 And to pay for the feed of your game.

'You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
 When you'd give neither work nor meat,
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
 At our starving children's feet;

'When, packed in one reeking chamber,
 Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;
While the rain pattered in on the rotting bride-bed,
 And the walls let in the day.