THE HODMAN'S LAMENT.
Tune- "Poor Pat Must Emigrate."
My name is Dennis Morgan,
I was born in the County Mohicon;
Where a nice nate farm I lived upon,
That was in days gone by;
I come over to this country
Along with my small family,
Where rich And poor were on equality.
My fortune for to try.
I am a long time from that good old sod,
Many miles of this broad land I trod,
My occupation was carrying the hod.
But those days will never more be seen;
For they've cut our wages down so small
A poor man can scarce live at all,
For the hod, the mortar, bricks and all,
They're hoisting up by steam.
Long life and health to you, Bill Tweed,
What'ere your nation or your creed,
For you always helped the poor in need
When you were Senator;
No soup house paupers then did lurk.
And less poor men were out of work,
For you fought the wolf just like a Turk.
When hunger did occur.
But if ere you should come back again.
You'll meet the help of honest workingmen,
For no matter who may you condemn,
You were poverty's best screen;
But now your loss we do deplore,
And none will say much less, I'm sure.
Though you robbed the rich you fed the poor,
And never acted mean.
I could recall many facts here in my rhymes.
But God be with them good old times,
"When in New York we had less crimes,
And labor got its pay;
But we daily see before our sight
That capital still backs up might.
And still do strive to cheat the rights
Up to the present day.
But pull together, show our power,
And wash out might with a rightful shower,
And heaven's blessing every hour.
Will help the poor man's cause;
For if Washington was here to-day,
His eloquence he would display,
And grant the poor man still fair play,
And put down thievery And fraud.