Whitechapel 1870

The wretched street-haunters of London tell me where are their vile homes, The gin palaces alone invites them into a warmth that burns their hearts, The dreary lodging houses scenes of filth they spend their nights in hell, And in these dens of hate humans heard together with a rudeness of beasts. No songs of olden days no romance, the city has poisoned grace and beauty, No tenderness or love breaks through the darkness of their bitter spirits, Nothing to look froward to with no hope, nothing soothes them into virtue, Degradation is hideous with vulgarity the most revolting of life's gifts. Theft with cunning, murder and brutal violence, crowd and crouch together, They dream of more successful lies grander theft more infamies for tomorrow, Tossing and turning through the bitter night half sleeping and half guarding, Such is this a grand triumph of our great civilization, our countries wealth.