SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF POVERTY.
A song, a song, for the beldame Queen,
A Queen that the world knows well;
Whose portal of state is the workhouse gate;
And throne, the prison cell.
A Queen that the world knows well;
Whose portal of state is the workhouse gate;
And throne, the prison cell.
I have been crown'd in every land
With nightshade steep'd in tears;
I've a dog-gnawn bone for my sceptre wand;
Which the proudest mortal fears.
With nightshade steep'd in tears;
I've a dog-gnawn bone for my sceptre wand;
Which the proudest mortal fears.
No gem I wear in my tangled hair,
No golden vest I own;
No radiant glow tints cheek or brow;
Yet say, who dares my frown?
No golden vest I own;
No radiant glow tints cheek or brow;
Yet say, who dares my frown?
Oh! I am Queen of a ghastly court,
And tyrant sway I hold;
Baiting human hearts for my royal sport
With the bloodhounds of Hunger and Cold.
And tyrant sway I hold;
Baiting human hearts for my royal sport
With the bloodhounds of Hunger and Cold.
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