The plowman plows, the sower sows,
The reaper reaps the ear,
The woodman to the forest goes
Before the day grows clear;
But of our toil no fruit we see,
The harvest's not for you and me;
A robber band has seized the land,
And we are exiles here.
— EDWARD CARPENTER, The People to the Land, Chants of Labor, p. 51.