Song of the Baker (1860)
With features haggard and pale,
With cheeks unhealthily red-A baker stood near an oven door
A making our daily bread. Knead, knead, knead,
With a wearied trembling hand,-
And knead, knead, knead,
'Till he scarce at the trough could stand. Inhaling unwholesome gas,
He labored the live long night,
'Till his brow grew damp
with excessive toil,
And his eye with consumption bright. Knead, knead, knead,
As the dull hours glide along,
Yet as he labored, he tried to sing,
And these were the words of his song ;- "Knead, knead, knead,
From midnight to break of day,
And knead, knead, knead,
'Till my head is turn'd to grey.
And I'm old before my time,
Still 'tis knead, knead, knead,
For many a weary chime. "Knead, knead, knead,
Whilst staggering for want of rest,
And knead, knead, knead,
With a weight like lead at my breast,
Which bears on my weary frame,
With a numbing toilborn pain,
And I feel the folds of a glowing heat,
Like a serpent round my brain. "Knead, knead, knead,
Oh, when will this slavery case,
Must I knead, knead, knead,
Without ever moment's peace.
Without ever a moment's peace,
Or escape from this galling yoke-
'Till the little strength I have left is gone,
And the heart 'neath its burdens broke." With features haggard and pale.
With cheek unhealthily red,
A baker stood near an oven door,
Making our daily bread.
Knead, knead, knead,
With a wearied and trembling hand,
And knead, knead, knead,
'Till he scarce at the trough could stand. Notes From the Victorian Journal The Melbourne Punch 28 Jun 1860 p. 6.