Where'er the eye its glance may throw,
Earth's fairest hills and valleys viewing,
There Labor toils with beaded brow,
Her rich gifts in the sunlight strewing.
'Tis Labor sows the seeds and finds
The wealth of autumn's golden treasure,
And shapes the whirling wheel that grinds
Our dally food's abundant measure.
Then high aloft be borne her banner
Through fiercest fights she wins her way.
Free as the winds of heaven that fan her,
'Tis Labor now that wins the day.
She delves the mine to forge her swords
Though ne'er so deep the ore be lying ;
Builds palaces for living lords,
And shapes their coffins for the dying.
The Iron rails that link the lands,
The ships that o'er the waves are are driven,
Are wrought by Labor's mighty hands ;
To her be all the glory given.
She works and weaves while others rest.
Has naught for roof but heaven above her ;
For others spins their silken nest,
With scarce a rag her limbs to cover.
Provides the robes that pleasure wears,
With want and misery around her ;
And knowing not her strength, she bears
The chains in which her lords have bound her.
Yet see ! the dawn for day gives token,
The mists of night disperse and die ;
Her chains at length are burst and broken.
And Labor's triumph lasts for aye.
--Andreas Schew.
Notes
From the Queensland Newspaper The Worker 17 Oct 1934 Page 2.
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