A man who always did his best.
The gods ordained that he should move
Along a lowly, humble groove,
For him there was no wreath or fame.
He bore no proud ancestral name,
No palace doors for him swung wide,
But in his hut he lived and died.
His years were many, and his toil
Brought riches from the stubborn soil,
But all that wealth to them was brought
Who owned the land whereon he wrought.
He fashioned lumber, and the boards
Made shelter for the languid lords.
He fed the cows and herded swine
That other men might nobly dine.
From break of dawn till close of day
He toiled along his weary way
And took his earnings in his hand
To fatten those who owned the land.
His feet were seamed with bramble scars.
That others might have motor cars.
This strip of ground is his reward.
'Twas given by his overlord.
It's six feet long and two feet wide,
And there they brought him when he died.
To labour hard for fifty years.
Endure the burdens and the tears;
To have no grateful hours of rest;
To toil, and bend, and do your best;
To grind and moil, and delve and save,
And at the last to get a grave !
Poor souls, that in the darkness grope,
And weave and spin and have no hope. --Walt. Mason Notes From the Queensland Newspaper The Worker 6 Aug 1951 p. 4.