The Black Hole of Calcutta
Bread-tax’d weaver, all can see
What that tax hath done for thee,
And thy children, vilely led,
Singing hymns for shameful bread,
Till the stones of every street
Know their little naked feet.
Building lawyer‘s nominee,
What hath bread-tax done for thee?
Ask thy fainting thoughts, that strive
But to keep despair alive;
Ask thy list of friends betray‘d,
Houses empty, rents unpaid,
Rising streets and falling rents,
Money fights for half per cents;
Ask yon piles, all bread-tax-built,
Guiltless, yet the cause of guilt,
Swallowing fortunes, spreading woes,
Losing, to make others lose.
Bread-tax-eating absentee,
What hath bread-tax done for thee?—
Cramm’d thee, from our children’s plates,
Made thee all that nature hates,
Fill’d thy skin with untax’d wine,
Fill’d thy purse with cash of mine,
Fill’d thy breast with hellish schemes,
Fill’d thy head with fatal dreams—
Of potatoes basely sold
At the price of wheat in gold,
And of Britons sty’d to eat
Wheat-priced roots, instead of wheat.
England! what for mine and me,
What hath bread-tax done for thee?
It hath shown what kinglings are,
Stripp’d the hideous idols bare,
Sold thy greatness, stain’d thy name,
Struck thee from the rolls of fame,
Given thy fields to civil strife,
Changed thy falchion for the knife,
To th’ invading knout consign’d
Basest back, and meanest mind,
Cursed thy harvests, cursed thy land,
Hunger-stung thy skill‘d right hand,
Sent thy riches to thy foes,
Kick’d thy breech, and tweak’d thy nose,
And beneath the western skies,
Sown the worm that never dies.
Man of Consols, hark to me!
What shall bread-tax do for thee?
Rob thee for the dead-alive,
Pawn thy thousands ten for five,
And, ere yet its work be done,
Pawn thy thousands five for one.
What shall bread-tax yet for thee,
Palaced pauper? We shall see.
It shall tame thee, and thy heirs,
Beggar them, and beggar theirs,
Melt thy plate, for which we paid,
Buy ye breeches ready made,
Sell my lady’s tax-bought gown,
And the lands thou call’st thy own.
Then of courses five or more,
Grapery, horse-race, coach and four,
Pamper’d fox-hounds, starving men,
Whores and bastards, nine or ten,
Twenty flunkies fat and gay,
Whip and jail for holiday,
Paid informer, poacher pale,
Sneaker’s license, poison‘d ale,
Seat in senate, seat on bench,
Pension’d lad, or wife, or wench,
Fiddling parson, Sunday card,
Pimp, and dedicating bard,-
On the broad and bare highway,
Toiling there for groat a day,
We will talk to thee and thine,
Till thy wretches envy mine,
Till thy paunch of baseness howl,
Till thou seem to have a soul.
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