Now for the soil, for the children of toil !
How for the object of ages unite ;
Landlord and agent, their power and their pageant,
Like the work of the winter have shrunk from our sight ;
Castles are crumbling, tall towers are tumbling,
Parchments are torn or toss'd to the wind ;—
Prostrate their power, boys, this is the hour, boys,
The last path of freedom to seek for and find.
Who are the free, beyond the broad sea ?
They who in cities bear Mammon's strong thrall ?
No ! but the farmer, with grain in his garner,
Owning no landlord or agent at all.
He is the free man, where'er he may be, man,
Whose roof pays no rent, whose land knows no lord,
Whose thick falling sweat, golden grain may beget,
While his glad children play on the fee-simple sward.
Grand is the cause of our flag and our laws,
Ancient and holy and noble I own:
But without a free land could our liberties stand ?
Could our flag for a summer unsullied be shown ?
Let us have but the soil for the children of toil ;
Then call them together to compass your cause,
Each man a free bolder, will be all the bolder,
Give us the land, and we'll give you the laws !
Notes
From the Victorian Newspaper The Advocate 8 Feb 1868 p. 14.
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