The jaded light of late July Shone yellow down the dusty Strand, The anxious people bustled by, Policeman, Pressman, you and I,
And thieves, and judges of the land. So swift they strode they had not time To mark the humours of the Town, But I, that mused an idle rhyme,
Looked here and there, and up and down, And many a rapid cart I spied That drew, as fast as ponies can, The Newspapers of either side,
These joys of every Englishman! The Standard here, the Echo there, And cultured ev'ning papers fair, With din and fuss and shout and blare
Through all the eager land they bare, The rumours of our little span. ‘ Midst these, but ah, more slow of speed, A biggish box of sanguine hue
Was tugged on a velocipede, And in and out the crowd, and through, An earnest stripling urged it well Perched on a cranky tricycle!
The paper carts fled fleetly by And vanished up the roaring Strand, And eager purchasers drew nigh Each with his penny in his hand,
But JUSTICE, scarce more fleet than I, Began to permeate the land, And dark, methinks, the twilight fell, Or ever JUSTICE reached Pall Mall.
Oh Man, ( I stopped to moralize,) How eager thou to fight with Fate, To bring Astraea from the skies; Yet ah, how too inadequate
The means by which thou fain wouldst cope With Laws and Morals, King and Pope! “JUSTICE!” — how prompt the witling's sneer, - “Justice! Thou wouldst have Justice here!
And each poor man should be a squire, Each with his competence a year, Each with sufficient beef and beer, And all things matched to his desire,
While all the Middle Classes should With every vile Capitalist Be clean reformed away for good, And vanish like a morning mist!
“Ah splendid Vision, golden time, An end of hunger, cold, and crime. An end of Rent, an end of Rank, An end of balance at the Bank,
An end of everything that's meant To bring Investors five per cent!” How fair doth Justice seem, I cried, Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers
That war against on every side Justice, and this great dream of ours, And what have we to plead our cause ‘ Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws,
What but a big red box indeed, With copies of a weekly screed, That's slowly jolted, up and down, Behind an old velocipede
To clamour JUSTICE through the town: How touchingly inadequate These arms wherewith we'd vanquish Fate! Nay, the old Order shall endure
And little change the years shall know, And still the Many shall be poor, And still the Poor shall dwell in woe; Firm in the iron Law of things
The strong shall be the wealthy still, And ( called Capitalists or Kings ) Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill. Leaving the weaker for their gain,
Leaving the gentler for their prize Such dens and husks as beasts disdain, - Till slowly from the wrinkled skies The fireless frozen Sun shall wane,
Nor Summer come with golden grain; Till men be glad, mid frost and snow To live such equal lives of pain As now the hutted Eskimo!
Then none shall plough nor garner seed, Then, on some last sad human shore, Equality shall reign indeed, The Rich shall be with us no more,
Thus, and not otherwise, shall come The new, the true Millennium!
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