What the deuce would men be after? If those fellows had their will, England would be straight converted To a monstrous cotton-mill. Everywhere would ghastly chimneys Vomit forth their odious mist, Settling, like the breath of Satan, O’er this island of the blest; When the only occupation Would be spinning yarn and twist! Spin away, my brave compatriots! Spin as largely as you can; Who shall dare to set a limit To the sale of shirts for man? Whilst the raw material’s granted, Spin away with might and main; Use the time that’s still vouchsafed you, For it may not come again. There’s a smartish kind of notion Running in the Yankees’ head, That they need not be indebted To your kindness for their thread. In the meanwhile go for cheapness, Smite the farmers hip and thigh— Making honest people bankrupt Is the way to make them buy. Starve the masses of the nation, Drive them all into the mills; Clear the plains and sweep the valleys, Desolate the Highland hills. Let the rough hard-fisted yeoman, All too clumsy for the loom, Migrate to the western prairies, Where for labour still there’s room. Let the peasant and the cottar Quit the useless plough and spade— Built for them are costly mansions, Raised for them are rates in aid. To the workhouse let them gather, Or by theft attain the jail; Honesty has bread and water, Crime is fed on beef and ale. O the glorious consummation Of this truly Christian scheme, Such as never saint or prophet Witnessed in ecstatic dream! Wasted fields and crowded cities, Swarming streets and desert downs, All the light of life concentred In the focus of the towns! Yea, exult, ye foes of England! In the downfall of the race That of yore, in fiery combat, Met your fathers face to face: For the pride of lusty manhood, And the giant Saxon frame, Never more shall be embattled In the coming fields of fame; Shrunken sinews, sallow faces, Twisted limbs, and factory scars— These shall mark your next opponents In the European wars.