The Palace

 Grimy men with picks and shovels
 Who in darkness sweat unseen,
Climb from out your lousy hovels,
 Build a palace for the Queen;
Praise the powers that be for giving
 You a chance to make a living.


Yet it would be better far
 Could you build with cosy lure
Skyey tenements where are
 Rabbit-warrens of the poor;
With a hope bright as a gem
 Some day you might live in them.


Could the Queen just say: 'A score
 Of rich palaces have I.

Do not make me any more,--
 Raise a hostel heaven-high;
House the hundreds who have need,
 To their misery give heed.
'

Could she make this gesture fine
 To the pit where labour grovels,
Mother hearts would cease to pine,
 Weary men would wave their shovels.

All would cry with hope serene:
 'Little children, bless the Queen!'

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