The Cry Of The Children

    Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
    Ere the sorrow comes with years?
    They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—
    And that cannot stop their tears.
    The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
    The young birds are chirping in the nest;
    The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
    The young flowers are blowing toward the west—
    But the young, young children, O my brothers,
    They are weeping bitterly!—
    They are weeping in the playtime of the others
    In the country of the free.

    Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
    Why their tears are falling so?—
    The old man may weep for his to-morrow
    Which is lost in Long Ago—
    The old tree is leafless in the forest—
    The old year is ending in the frost—
    The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest—
    The old hope is hardest to be lost:
    But the young, young children, O my brothers,
    Do you ask them why they stand
    Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
    In our happy Fatherland?

    They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
    And their looks are sad to see,
    For the man’s grief abhorrent, draws and presses
    Down the cheeks of infancy—
    “Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary;”
    “Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak!
    Few paces have we taken, yet are weary
    Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
    Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,
    For the outside earth is cold,—
    And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
    And the graves are for the old.

    “True,” say the young children, “it may happen
    That we die before our time.
    Little Alice died last year—the grave is shapen
    Like a snowball, in the rime.
    We looked into the pit prepared to take her—
    Was no room for any work in the close clay:
    From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her
    Crying, ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’
    If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
    With your ear down, little Alice never cries!—
    Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
    For the smile has time for growing in her eyes—
    And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
    The shroud, by the kirk-chime!
    It is good when it happens,” say the children,
    “That we die before our time.”

    Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
    Death in life, as best to have!
    They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
    With a cerement from the grave.
    Go out, children, from the mine and from the city—
    Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do—
    Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty—
    Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
    But they answer, “Are your cowslips of the meadows
    Like our weeds anear the mine?
    Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
    From your pleasures fair and fine!

    “For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
    And we cannot run or leap—
    If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
    To drop down in them and sleep.
    Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping—
    We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
    And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
    The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
    For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,
    Through the coal-dark, underground—
    Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
    In the factories, round and round.

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1 Response to historyplace.com/unitedstates/childlabor/birmingham.jpg

  1. do u have the breaker boys

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