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Machine-Room Chants - Tom Maguire · The Book of Jasher

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Speaker 1: Section zero of Machine Room Chance. This is a LibriVox recording.
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Speaker 1: All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
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Speaker 1: information or to volunteer, please visit a LibriVox dot org
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Speaker 1: recording by Newgate novelist Machine Room Chance by Tom McGuire.
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Speaker 1: Prefatory material. Where faster and faster our iron Master, the
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Speaker 1: thing we made forever drives, bids us grind treasure and
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Speaker 1: fashion pleasure for other hopes and other lives. William Morris,
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Speaker 1: Tom McGuire. Whom the gods love die young, and thus
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Speaker 1: are they ensured of everlasting youth. The idea is full
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Speaker 1: of beauty, were it not that this weary old world
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Speaker 1: so much needs those on whom the gods have bestowed
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Speaker 1: their choicest gifts, that life, by their music and mirth,
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Speaker 1: may be made endurable. The verses to which these lines
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Speaker 1: are a forward are not mirth provoking. They are full,
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Speaker 1: as words can be crammed, of the tragic pathos of
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Speaker 1: the life of the factory in the work room. Had
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Speaker 1: Tom maguire never penned a line save what is here given,
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Speaker 1: he could have proved his title to take high rank
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Speaker 1: not only as a poet, but as a deep sighted
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Speaker 1: student of humanity, he sees things as they are, and,
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Speaker 1: avoiding alike a superficial optimism or morbid pessimism, reveals with
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Speaker 1: the touch of a master, the inner workings of the
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Speaker 1: mind of the average working girl, and makes plain much
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Speaker 1: which to the casual observer remains obscure. The socialist movement,
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Speaker 1: none too rich in men who combine a clear wisdom,
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Speaker 1: unerring judgment and a large sympathetic heart, could but ill
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Speaker 1: afford to yield back to the gods. One gifted young comrade,
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Speaker 1: and yet who had the power to keep him. It
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Speaker 1: is in contemplation to issue a complete collection of his writings,
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Speaker 1: and it is in the belief that what is here
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Speaker 1: given will whet the appetite for more, that, in accordance
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Speaker 1: with his original plan, we give to the world his
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Speaker 1: machine Room. Chance. The prophets on the sale will go
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Speaker 1: to his mother, as they would in any case have
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Speaker 1: done had her son been alive. April eighteen ninety five, j.
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Speaker 1: Keir Hardy. These Chance originally appeared in The Labor Leader,
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Speaker 1: but Tom mc guire always intended that they should be
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Speaker 1: published subsequently as a separate volume. I think many who
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Speaker 1: knew something of our comrade mc guire and his ten
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Speaker 1: years work for socialism in Leeds and Yorkshire. Many too,
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Speaker 1: who enjoyed some personal friendship with him, and many who
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Speaker 1: only knew the genial wit and sympathetic touch of Bardolf
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Speaker 1: may value this small book. To me, there is a
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Speaker 1: strange pathos in writing these few words for the publication
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Speaker 1: of my friend's first book after his death. His life
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Speaker 1: long labors for the people and his battling with magnificent
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Speaker 1: odds are not ended with his death, and his poetry
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Speaker 1: is not confined within the covers of this book. Leeds, J. Clayton.
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Speaker 1: One Sunday in March, Tom McGuire was laid in the
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Speaker 1: cemetery Leeds. An unusual, almost unimposing procession of his comrades
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Speaker 1: in Leeds and neighboring Yorkshire towns followed his body, born
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Speaker 1: shoulder high to the grave. Tears that seldom fall for
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Speaker 1: a mere comrade in political arms wet many and many
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Speaker 1: a cheek. Tom McGuire was one of the small band
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Speaker 1: of men whom the spirit of social revolution called out
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Speaker 1: from amongst the millions of people in this land to
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Speaker 1: first voice the new hope of socialism. His name is
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Speaker 1: affixed together with that of William Morris and twenty two others,
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Speaker 1: to the Manifesto of the Socialist League, published in the
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Speaker 1: first number of The Commonweal in February eighteen ninety five.
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Speaker 1: He well knew the humors and the testing struggle of
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Speaker 1: propaganda when all mankind appeared to be against it. Nowadays,
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Speaker 1: when a really noble soul bids us farewell, there are
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Speaker 1: no words available to bemoan his loss, the currency of
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Speaker 1: which has not been debased upon the tombstone of knaves.
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Speaker 1: It has become customary, therefore, to be silent of praise
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Speaker 1: and endearment when we have much to express, and fulsome
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Speaker 1: of flattery and moan when the lies almost stick in
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Speaker 1: our throats. This inversion of the natural order of speech
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Speaker 1: matters little, perhaps, when the dead one has figured greatly
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Speaker 1: before the nation, and his deeds, good or ill, cannot
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Speaker 1: be unsaid by praise of friends or abuse of foe.
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Speaker 1: But it is a hurt to us when men of
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Speaker 1: humble lives and unobtrusive service fall in our midst, and
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Speaker 1: we find ourselves deprived of the use of simple and
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Speaker 1: sincere terms of affectionate testimony. Tom MacGuire is one of these,
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Speaker 1: and the very marvel of the delightfulness of his personality
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Speaker 1: compels expressions of love and sorrow from his comrades, which
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Speaker 1: to those who did not know him may seem unfittingly
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Speaker 1: extravagant and superlative. He was one of those men of
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Speaker 1: whom we seldom meet more than one in a lifetime,
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Speaker 1: who possess that indefinable charm of friendship that suffers not
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Speaker 1: by passing through the furnace heat or killing cold of
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Speaker 1: life's vicissitudes. One of those whose contact with their fellows
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Speaker 1: seems exquisitely adjusted, as by a secret art of life.
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Speaker 1: In no way wise a saint marred, indeed with faults
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Speaker 1: and weaknesses that from the beginning have maimed the effectiveness
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Speaker 1: of the more generous and sensitive spirits of the race.
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Speaker 1: He was nevertheless beloved, allheartedly beloved of his friends, a
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Speaker 1: merit that saints have seldom or never attained. His writings
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Speaker 1: possess two great qualities of interest. The first their real
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Speaker 1: excellence of poetical and dramatic accomplishment, not truly of the
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Speaker 1: highest order of poetry, but of that kind which is
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Speaker 1: almost rarer, which obtains for us spontaneous thoroughly expert and
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Speaker 1: vivid transcription of unconstrained thought and emotion. The second the
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Speaker 1: emanation or fragrance which they yield of the rare gentleness
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Speaker 1: and of a soothing charity and kindliness of humor which
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Speaker 1: he possessed, and which is perhaps one of the highest
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Speaker 1: gifts which civilization has yet given to the hearts and
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Speaker 1: heads of men. The present little collection of machine room chants,
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Speaker 1: which he compiled for publication immediately before his death, by
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Speaker 1: no means exhibit the full variety of his powers. Their
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Speaker 1: poetical merit, the freshness of light, truthfulness of feeling, and
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Speaker 1: effortless song which he imparts to subjects of every day
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Speaker 1: factory life, will not, however, be denied by those who
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Speaker 1: have a right to pronounce an opinion. Barbara and the
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Speaker 1: Old Order Changeth are masterpieces of their kind. It is
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Speaker 1: to be hoped that some day a more complete volume
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Speaker 1: will be published, containing a co election of his songs,
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Speaker 1: humorous pieces, and political squibs. Of the latter, many of
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Speaker 1: which were written against time for the cartoons of the
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Speaker 1: labor leader. There are some which have not been excelled.
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Speaker 1: For humor, happiness of phrase, and tunefulness of verse in
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Speaker 1: the literature of our time. But we must not overburden
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Speaker 1: this little book with other words than his own. It will,
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Speaker 1: I am sure, be gladly preserved in many a socialist
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Speaker 1: home as a memento of one of the earliest and
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Speaker 1: youngest of our street corner agitators, and one of the last,
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Speaker 1: but gentlest and best of the old race of genuine
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Speaker 1: wayfaring bards. J. Bruce Glazier end of section zero Barbara
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Speaker 1: by Tom mc guire read for LibriVox dot Org Ban
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Speaker 1: Newgate novelist. The foam gave us a holiday. Our fines
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Speaker 1: made up expenses for railway fare, for breakfast and for tea,
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Speaker 1: And hadn't we a jolly day? We took leave of
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Speaker 1: our senses and laughed and carried on like mad at
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Speaker 1: Scarborough by the sea. And oh the sea was new
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Speaker 1: to me at Scarborough, At Scarborough a shining and a
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Speaker 1: shimmering through a veil of misty gray. Its face was fair,
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Speaker 1: but ah, its lips were fringed with foam. At Scarborough
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Speaker 1: that curled about my feet in scorn and spattered me
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Speaker 1: with spray. We rolled about on don backs and slipped
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Speaker 1: and kicked and shouted. We heard the nigger minstrel's joke
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Speaker 1: and sing. We bought a lot of cheap knick knacks
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Speaker 1: and dodged the men who touted for photos, fish and
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Speaker 1: carriage rides and almost everything. And still the sea looked
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Speaker 1: strange to me at Scarborough. At Scarborough, I climbed up
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Speaker 1: Castle Hill and saw it stretching miles away. But sooner,
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Speaker 1: all alone, i'd be than I would be with Barbara,
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Speaker 1: who beckoned from a pleasure boat that sailed within the bay.
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Speaker 1: Oh Barbara was beautiful and light and bright and jolly,
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Speaker 1: yet generous and kind of heart was she, while I
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Speaker 1: was only plain and dull and mostly melancholy. So Barbara,
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Speaker 1: a favorite with the fore Men, used to be. And
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Speaker 1: though the sea looked wild to me at Scarborough at Scarborough,
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Speaker 1: a creepy, shiny monster twisting sideways up and down, Yet
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Speaker 1: sooner in the sea I'd be than walk along with Barbara,
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Speaker 1: lightly gallovanting with the Foremn round the town. We started
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Speaker 1: in the morning, when the four men flourished bottles and
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Speaker 1: gaily passed the liquor round and round. They occupied the
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Speaker 1: time like men attending to their throttles, who were not
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Speaker 1: really happy till their wits were nearly drowned, and fast
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Speaker 1: and free in giddy glee at Scarborough. At Scarborough, the
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Speaker 1: foremen and their favorites went jigging up and down, for
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Speaker 1: they were out upon the spree, and they had taken
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Speaker 1: Barbara to treat her and bewilder her and show her
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Speaker 1: round the town. We set off home by nine that night.
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Speaker 1: The men were drunk and rowdy. We girls were all
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Speaker 1: dog tired and sore tried. The favorites were a sorry sight.
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Speaker 1: They all looked flushed and dowdy. Save Barbara, so pale
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Speaker 1: and scared, who sat down by my side, And oh,
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Speaker 1: the sea came back to me, the restless sea of Scarborough.
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Speaker 1: When looking in her ghastly face, I saw her troubled eyes.
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Speaker 1: Are you ill or like to be? And what's amiss,
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Speaker 1: dear Barbara? But Barbara said nothing, So I held my
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Speaker 1: peace likewise, and not a word did Barbara say till
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Speaker 1: months had followed. After we wondered what was preying on
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Speaker 1: her mind, For she who once was light and gay,
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Speaker 1: had lost her life and laughter in Scarborough on our
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Speaker 1: outing day, and left them there behind. And though the sea,
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Speaker 1: the mocking sea, his treacherous at Scarborough, and cold as
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Speaker 1: winter's clammy winds, that death delights to fan yet sooner
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Speaker 1: in its livid waves. I'd look for pity, Barbara, than
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Speaker 1: seek it in the muddy heart of lust. Begotten man,
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Speaker 1: Barbara took a holiday. A letter came next morning from Scarborough,
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Speaker 1: a black line round the rim. It told of her,
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Speaker 1: who'd passed away from reach of human scorning, with never
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Speaker 1: a hint concerning the identity of him. And Oh, the sea,
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Speaker 1: the wild blue sea holds Barbara, hides Barbara, and shields
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Speaker 1: her in its shadow from the glances of the sun.
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Speaker 1: The mermaids chant her r I p she lost her
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Speaker 1: soul in Scarborough, and cast away her body where her
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Speaker 1: sorrow was begun. End of poem. This recording is in
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Speaker 1: the public domain. Unspoken Confidences by Tom mc guire read
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Speaker 1: for LibriVox dot Org, Banugate novelist not known of the
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Speaker 1: Lady Visitor. Oh, I am tired of factory life, tired,
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Speaker 1: tired as you would be. I fain would be a
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Speaker 1: rich man's wife, or any man's wife, but a poor
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Speaker 1: man's wife. For I am sick of the worry and strife,
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Speaker 1: as you would be. If you were me. My eyes
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Speaker 1: are saddened. They once were bright, bright, bright as yours, lady.
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Speaker 1: My hopes are heavy that once were light. And I
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Speaker 1: grow weary and worn and white, weary of fading before
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Speaker 1: men's sight, and worn by the hateful thought. May be,
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Speaker 1: why do I shrink from a poor wife's lot? Why
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Speaker 1: why do you ask, lady, Oh, I have lived in
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Speaker 1: the humble cot and know the fears and the cares
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Speaker 1: that wrot the heart until even hopes forgot in the
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Speaker 1: dismal round of drudgery. Drear is the lot of the
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Speaker 1: poor man's spouse. Drear, drear and dull, lady. A prison
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Speaker 1: cell is the poor man's house. And what of the
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Speaker 1: rights the law allows? There is no rest for the
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Speaker 1: poor man's spouse. There are no rights for such as she.
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Speaker 1: The factory air is rank and close, close, close, It
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Speaker 1: stifles me. The fore man comes, and the fore man goes.
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Speaker 1: We shrink beneath the look he throws. But out in
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Speaker 1: the street the cool wind blows. Sweet and cool are
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Speaker 1: the streets, lady. The breath of the grave has damped
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Speaker 1: my brow. Cold, cold and moist, lady, Cold is the
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Speaker 1: breath of the grave. On my brow, and nearer and
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Speaker 1: nearer to earth, I bow yet a life seem'd never
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Speaker 1: so fair as now, never so fair was the world
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Speaker 1: to me, alas that sin is the world's elect Sin, Sin,
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Speaker 1: and shame, lady, while purse proud virtue stalks erect so boldly,
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Speaker 1: brazenly circumspect that lowly virtue in Tatter's deck'd shames in
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Speaker 1: the sight of the pharisee. Tis but a step to
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Speaker 1: the streets and the roar of life, life, mad, life, lady,
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Speaker 1: Only a step from the factory door for a brief,
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Speaker 1: brief span, and but one step more to the sullen river,
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Speaker 1: when all is o'er and there is an end to
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Speaker 1: my shadow and me. End of poem. This recording is
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Speaker 1: in the public domain. The Minotaur by Tom mc guire
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Speaker 1: read for Librivos dot Org Benygate novelist. Here in the
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Speaker 1: heart of the cloud wrapt town, where strong men thrive
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Speaker 1: upon weak men, down where trade prepares its rank soul
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Speaker 1: for hell. Oh, Here, along with the damned, I dwell,
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Speaker 1: and maidens are brought from near and far to sate
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Speaker 1: the lust of the Minotaur. I prey on your budding
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Speaker 1: womanhood and drain the color of life from her blood.
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Speaker 1: I scale her skin tilt, tis yellow and dry and dim.
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Speaker 1: The luster that lighted her eye, the marrow out of
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Speaker 1: her bones, eye, raw her breasts. I grip with a
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Speaker 1: cancerous claw her husk. In the end to the dogs,
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Speaker 1: I fling a bloodless, soulless, sexless thing. Cholera rags diphtherical
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Speaker 1: tags are bundled to England in bales and bags, worn
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Speaker 1: out stockings and socks and pants, shirts and bodices, blouses
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Speaker 1: from France, cast off singlets and derelict drugs. The whole lot,
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Speaker 1: seething with alien bugs in short or where that has
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Speaker 1: reached its last level, is forwarded Yorkshire via leads to
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Speaker 1: the devil. The rags are cast in the devil's wide maw.
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Speaker 1: He tears them to tatters with steel tooth and claw.
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Speaker 1: From tatters, he rends them asunder to shreds, till nothing
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Speaker 1: remains but manure and fine threads. A few stray hairs
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Speaker 1: from Ability's skull are mixed with the mass in lieu
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Speaker 1: of sheep's wool to act as straw axe in the
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Speaker 1: making of bricks, whereon it is sized until somehow it sticks,
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Speaker 1: then dyed in the water of rivers, whose stink can
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Speaker 1: be palpably felt twenty yards from the brink. And thus
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Speaker 1: are the sheddings of every poor body reclaimed from the
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Speaker 1: gutter and made into shoddy, fast and faster flies. The
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Speaker 1: machine threading the soapy seam, binding the ends of a
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Speaker 1: cloth unclean hark to its steely scream. All the hope
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Speaker 1: of your womanhood crossed by a fateful star, All that
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Speaker 1: is best of her pure heart's blood sapt by the minotaur.
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Speaker 1: Stuffy and fowl, the work room reeks with shoddy fumes
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Speaker 1: and breath, breath that tells of disease and speaks of
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Speaker 1: a silent, creeping death. Clothes are cheap in the world
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Speaker 1: to day, cheaper the women are, and mournfully they their
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Speaker 1: tribute pay to the factory minotaur, as rags to the devil.
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Speaker 1: Your maidens to me are thrown with the curse on them,
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Speaker 1: and out of the mouth of the brick castile, with
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Speaker 1: clatter of shuttle and rattle of wheel shrills the wild requiem,
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Speaker 1: and the poor blind souls grope into the night and
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Speaker 1: gather in mists afar. They list to the shriek that
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Speaker 1: follows their flight from the blood fed Minotaur end of poem.
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Speaker 1: This recording is in the public domain. The Duchess of
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Speaker 1: Number Three by Tom mc guire read for librovox dot
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Speaker 1: org banugate novelist. Ahem, you may look, but don't touch me,
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Speaker 1: pray her walk, her style and bearing. Say no common
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Speaker 1: trash about me, you see, for I don't work for
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Speaker 1: my living like you. My paws are thing o me
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Speaker 1: in the prue. I could stay at home if I
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Speaker 1: chose to do, says the Duchess of number three. If
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Speaker 1: I work for less, it's my own concern. I dress
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Speaker 1: myself with the money iron. It wouldn't find bread and
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Speaker 1: tea for me. But when lady visitors on us drop,
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Speaker 1: they come to me and beside me. Stop and so
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Speaker 1: I give a high tone to the shop, says the
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Speaker 1: Duchess of number three. Trade unions are vulgar and low.
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Speaker 1: My paw has frequently told me so. They don't catch
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Speaker 1: hold of men thy d and they are vulgar and
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Speaker 1: low things who believe in such and support them too.
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Speaker 1: I'd tell their names if I only knew, says the
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Speaker 1: Duchess of number three. It's stuff and nonsense for girls
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Speaker 1: to spose the firm can sply them with food and
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Speaker 1: clothes when bad times chance to be, says she. My
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Speaker 1: paw thinks if folk practiced thrift on next to nothing,
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Speaker 1: they might to make shift till Providence gave commerce a lift,
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Speaker 1: says the Duchess of number three. They say, I am
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Speaker 1: cutting the other girls out who work for their bread
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Speaker 1: and tea, no doubt, but thank you England's free tea.
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Speaker 1: I will do as I like as long as I dare.
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Speaker 1: What's fair to me is my own affair, and I'll
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Speaker 1: please myself anyhow So there says the Duchess of Number
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Speaker 1: three and the number three department girls. They copy her hat,
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Speaker 1: and the cut of her curls tis a touching sight
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Speaker 1: to see. Dear me, her slightest word is their sacred law.
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Speaker 1: They run her errands and stand her jaw, content to
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Speaker 1: find neither fault nor flaw in the Duchess of Number
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Speaker 1: three end of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
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Speaker 1: The novelette Reader by Tom mc guire read forlibrivox dot
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Speaker 1: Org by Ygate novelist. Tell me a tale, and I'll
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Speaker 1: hear with ears alert and heart as well. Yet it
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Speaker 1: must be a tale of life, high life, my thirst
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Speaker 1: to wet, not a story of hopeless toil, for that
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Speaker 1: is my daily lot. Read me the loves of high
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Speaker 1: born dames, and wrapped in their loves all heed, then
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Speaker 1: will I laugh and cry with them for love of
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Speaker 1: their hero men. So through shrubbery, park and wood in fancy,
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Speaker 1: I shall go all the din of the singer machine
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Speaker 1: forgotten by me. It's the bread and tea, and the
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Speaker 1: foreman and the early morning call for It's tea and
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Speaker 1: bread in the morning, bread and tea at noon. Waiting
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Speaker 1: wearily all day long, singing drearily snatches of song, praying
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Speaker 1: for work in the morning, begging the precious spoon till
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Speaker 1: night comes down on my aching eyes, and not too soon. Lord,
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Speaker 1: how I loathe the guardian who plots against his ward
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Speaker 1: great as I hate the villain marked to fall at
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Speaker 1: the hands of fate. Pure is the lovely heroine of origin, obscure.
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Speaker 1: He is noble who wins her she an heiress, proves
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Speaker 1: to be. Oh, the thought springs into my head, and
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Speaker 1: what if I were but no wild hope laughs at
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Speaker 1: a thought of the thought, For I am a nobody's child.
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Speaker 1: To my story of sorrow and love, I turn and
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Speaker 1: weep anew until all things come right in the end,
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Speaker 1: as at least entails they do. Tea and bread in
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Speaker 1: the morning, bread and tea at noon, locked outside of
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Speaker 1: the workhouse gate find for being too late to wait
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Speaker 1: for work in the early morning. Real life is a
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Speaker 1: doleful tune till night clouds over another dead day, and
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Speaker 1: not too soon. Nay, it's not lies in a novelette
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Speaker 1: that leads work girls astray, but the hard faced fact
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Speaker 1: of a life in one long, joyless rut, while youth
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Speaker 1: flies on the wing and dies with a sickly mocking smile,
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Speaker 1: and the curse of a toil cross to life is
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Speaker 1: all that is left on hand. Cold is the winter morning.
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Speaker 1: The cough has a deeper hold, dearth of work and
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Speaker 1: no wages with home, a hell upon earth, brain and
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Speaker 1: body wasting away. God, what a cruel toll a woman
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Speaker 1: pays to Mammon in the hope of saving her soul.
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Speaker 1: Tea and bread in the morning, bread and tea at noon,
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Speaker 1: breathing a poisoned atmosphere, till eyes grow leaden and face
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Speaker 1: grows sere facing the sleet in the morning, dizzy and
29:46
Speaker 1: like to swoon till death comes down from a merciful God,
29:51
Speaker 1: and not too soon. End of Pommeam. This recording is
29:58
Speaker 1: in the public domain. The Singer Machine by Tom mc guire,
30:09
Speaker 1: read for LibriVox dot Org by Newgate novelist Little Ellen
30:18
Speaker 1: came to me, fresh out of the country, came and
30:21
Speaker 1: sat before me in her common home, cut gown. Said
30:26
Speaker 1: she meant to master me. Said it with the frontree,
30:30
Speaker 1: laughed I at her timid touch as the child sat down.
30:36
Speaker 1: Pink cheeks in the country, chalk cheeks in the town.
30:41
Speaker 1: Ellen's were carnation, where they were not russet brown. Oh
30:46
Speaker 1: the health and promise there coming from the country. As
30:51
Speaker 1: she touched my shoulder on the morning she sat down,
30:56
Speaker 1: soon we grew to bosom friends. At her touch, I yielded,
31:01
Speaker 1: picking natty stitches with a straight, unbroken thread, answering her
31:07
Speaker 1: every thought, even as my wielded, flying at the pressure
31:12
Speaker 1: of her tiny footed tread, Pink cheeks from the country
31:18
Speaker 1: shining on me down, wondering at her white faced mates
31:22
Speaker 1: who bore the stamp of town, trembling at their heedless
31:27
Speaker 1: gibes coming from the country, praying that her face and
31:32
Speaker 1: hands were white instead of brown. Little Ellen murmured, low, Oh,
31:40
Speaker 1: my heart afraid is And I felt a tear drop
31:45
Speaker 1: touch my face of burnished steel. For on either hand
31:50
Speaker 1: of her worked the finest ladies, languid, pale and thin
31:56
Speaker 1: and worn, and every way genteel pink face from the country,
32:03
Speaker 1: puckered in a frown, pained by every small remark reflecting
32:09
Speaker 1: on her gown, sweet young body, freshened fair, coming from
32:15
Speaker 1: the country, drinking in the humors of the foul polluted town,
32:23
Speaker 1: Little Ellen. If I could thus, I would make ancer
32:29
Speaker 1: fear not that your face is brown. Time shall bleach it.
32:33
Speaker 1: Yet on your left, consumption sits on your right, sits cancer.
32:41
Speaker 1: White disease has blown its breath on all Yon, bloodless
32:46
Speaker 1: set pink cheeks in the country, chalk cheeks in the town.
32:54
Speaker 1: Ellen's deep carnation, yet shall merge itself in brown brown
32:59
Speaker 1: shall change to livid gray. All that speaks the country
33:05
Speaker 1: soon shall disappear, my dear, And to the worms go down.
33:14
Speaker 1: End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
33:24
Speaker 1: The Feller Hand by Tom McGuire read for LibriVox dot org.
33:28
Speaker 1: When you get novelist, if you please, sir, I can't
33:34
Speaker 1: help it. I'm only a feller hand and low wages
33:39
Speaker 1: means low living. As perhaps you'll understand. Six shillings was
33:44
Speaker 1: the biggest weekly wage I ever drew, But I have
33:48
Speaker 1: to live on less than that. And how do you
33:50
Speaker 1: think I do If I could earn six shillins every
33:54
Speaker 1: week all through the year. Do you think I'd stand
33:57
Speaker 1: as hiverin and talking to you? You hear? But half
34:02
Speaker 1: of it's more like what with slack and no time too,
34:07
Speaker 1: And I've got to make the best of it, the
34:09
Speaker 1: best that I can do, for I haven't no relations
34:14
Speaker 1: to fall back upon like some, and I've nothing in
34:18
Speaker 1: the bank put by to draw when hard times come,
34:23
Speaker 1: and I've got to dress respectable and pay my way
34:26
Speaker 1: like you and live somehow. Besides, sir, as a woman
34:31
Speaker 1: wants to do. No, I wouldn't like to die, sir,
34:36
Speaker 1: for I think the Good Lord's hard on us, common
34:39
Speaker 1: working women and the like a mease debarred from his
34:43
Speaker 1: high uncertain heaven where fine ladies all go too. So
34:48
Speaker 1: I try to keep on living, though the Lord knows
34:52
Speaker 1: how I do. I wonder, and I wonder as I
34:57
Speaker 1: sometimes sit and sew if lady callers take us for
35:02
Speaker 1: a sort of waxwork show, and what they'd say about
35:06
Speaker 1: us if one half the truth they knew, and whether
35:10
Speaker 1: they would manage any better than we do. But the
35:14
Speaker 1: good Lord isn't merciful. For some are born to hell well,
35:19
Speaker 1: some are born to heaven here and afterwards as well.
35:24
Speaker 1: And good people are so cruel, and kind people oh
35:29
Speaker 1: so few. And the world goes to the devil as
35:33
Speaker 1: it cannot help. But do good night, sir, if you're going, Thanks,
35:40
Speaker 1: you don't give no advice. What I want is food
35:44
Speaker 1: and clothing, which is mostly virtue's price, at least it
35:49
Speaker 1: seems to me so, though I'm but a poor wretch
35:53
Speaker 1: who has tried her best and worst to live, and
35:58
Speaker 1: found it hard to do. End of poem. This recording
36:05
Speaker 1: is in the public domain. For a Living by Tom
36:15
Speaker 1: mc guire read for LibriVox dott urgwrin you Gate novelist,
36:22
Speaker 1: youth and beauty, pity, ruth, love, and all that soars
36:26
Speaker 1: above brute existence, low and mute man is giving for
36:31
Speaker 1: a living. Tis for this he justifies his soul's hopeless sacrifice.
36:38
Speaker 1: This the burden of his size for a living round
36:42
Speaker 1: the piteous phraser found broken hearts and hopes unspoken, and
36:47
Speaker 1: the humans all unmanned, sink below the brute brink, shrinking
36:52
Speaker 1: from heroic death, drinking in a poisoned breath for a
36:57
Speaker 1: living all things giving, and a brutalish life receiving. Christ
37:03
Speaker 1: is hourly sacrificed in can't consecrated sin by false teachers
37:08
Speaker 1: trained to lie for a living, the lie giving, while
37:13
Speaker 1: the traders, versed in guile, pile the rich reward of,
37:16
Speaker 1: while smile and lear like strumpets vile for a living,
37:22
Speaker 1: cursed at birth and famine, nursed hollow eyed, the women
37:26
Speaker 1: follow life that mocks with endless strife, crowned with but
37:30
Speaker 1: the grave mound, trooping to the streets in crowds. Drooping
37:34
Speaker 1: maids seek harlet shrouds for a living, virtue giving, and
37:40
Speaker 1: a speedy death receiving. End of poem. This recording as
37:47
Speaker 1: in the public domain. The Old Order Changeth by Tom
37:58
Speaker 1: McGuire read for Liberal Box dot Org when you gate
38:01
Speaker 1: novelist twas the doctor from the hospital, Jane, the old
38:10
Speaker 1: man slowly said. The wife looked up at her husband,
38:16
Speaker 1: and again she bowed her head. The doctor's been and
38:21
Speaker 1: he talked to me, And he says, she's dying there
38:26
Speaker 1: And number one word first turned to the right at
38:30
Speaker 1: the top of the hospital stair, and the doctor he asked,
38:34
Speaker 1: would we see her, Jane, And I says in his
38:38
Speaker 1: keen face no, And he called me a harsh old fool.
38:43
Speaker 1: He did, and I liked him to take on so
38:48
Speaker 1: till he talked as to put the blame on me
38:51
Speaker 1: for the loose way Letty had gone. But twas dancing,
38:55
Speaker 1: that did it? Dancing, I say, And of course it
39:00
Speaker 1: dancin John. I told him as how we brought her up,
39:05
Speaker 1: and he listened as if he knew, and how she
39:09
Speaker 1: had school and mourn a bit, and he just says,
39:13
Speaker 1: quite right too, how I planted the fear of God
39:17
Speaker 1: in her with the rod when there was need, as
39:21
Speaker 1: my father had done with me Jane. And the doctor
39:24
Speaker 1: says he indeed. Then I told him about her going
39:30
Speaker 1: to work at the new fangled sewing machine and her
39:34
Speaker 1: pickin up with some smart work mates and dressin up
39:38
Speaker 1: like a queen and a singin and larkin and chassising
39:43
Speaker 1: and such like carrions on. But twas dancin I blame
39:48
Speaker 1: for it, dancin' Jane. And indeed it was dancin' John.
39:55
Speaker 1: I went on to say I had warned her and
39:58
Speaker 1: was goin to stand no more of her stayin out
40:03
Speaker 1: late at parties, and as how I would bolt the
40:06
Speaker 1: door at ten on night in the future, which at
40:11
Speaker 1: afterwards came about that she landed home at a quarter
40:16
Speaker 1: past time and found herself locked out. And I mentioned
40:22
Speaker 1: how she had rapped and knocked and cried out to
40:25
Speaker 1: me and you to let her in for the love
40:28
Speaker 1: o God, which you woman like wanted to do. And
40:34
Speaker 1: the doctor he walked about the room, and his eyes
40:37
Speaker 1: they fairly shone. But twas dancing that started it, That's
40:43
Speaker 1: what I say, Yes, yes, it was dancing John. The
40:49
Speaker 1: doctor he asked what happened then, and I says, she
40:54
Speaker 1: went sobbing away where we laid awake all through the
40:58
Speaker 1: night and waited through the day, expecting her back, repentant
41:04
Speaker 1: and willing to take the blame for breaking the fourth commandment.
41:09
Speaker 1: But the hussy she never came. Then I told him
41:14
Speaker 1: how you fell ill, Jane, and about the oath. I
41:18
Speaker 1: swore to let her go her own road to the dogs,
41:23
Speaker 1: and to speak of her never no more, And how
41:27
Speaker 1: I took off my hat as I did with my
41:30
Speaker 1: hand the old book on and cursed all their academie
41:34
Speaker 1: dancin And but what did he say, John, Well, the
41:40
Speaker 1: doctor he eyed me curious. Like then he suddenly ups
41:45
Speaker 1: and outs wi oath as big as a bogy's fist,
41:49
Speaker 1: And he turns on me and shouts, you would drive
41:53
Speaker 1: a saint to the devil, you would with your damned
41:56
Speaker 1: old puritan ways. It isn't me that swearin Jane, the
42:01
Speaker 1: blame on. The doctor lays you. An, y're rod an
42:06
Speaker 1: yr ten o'clock. We'd still have the curfew bell if
42:11
Speaker 1: we all did just as our father's he says. An
42:15
Speaker 1: the wild way he went on, when twas dancin' that,
42:19
Speaker 1: did it not me at all? An? Well, maybe twas
42:24
Speaker 1: dancin' John. He quieted down in a while and says,
42:31
Speaker 1: I'm sorry I spoke so strong, But it's well meant
42:35
Speaker 1: misplaced acts like yours that make for so much wrong.
42:41
Speaker 1: When girls go into the factory, they are drilled and
42:45
Speaker 1: driven and tried. An they want some relaxation away from
42:50
Speaker 1: their own fire side. It's too much to ask of
42:54
Speaker 1: a woman pent up all day in the shop to
42:58
Speaker 1: take on the duties of home. Bess sides, and forever
43:01
Speaker 1: at home to stop the world is wider to her
43:05
Speaker 1: than it was to our mothers in times by gone,
43:10
Speaker 1: and dancings all right in itself, says he. And perhaps
43:15
Speaker 1: he was right too, John, You never mind that. What
43:21
Speaker 1: he says is this, the woman who earns her bread
43:25
Speaker 1: is a lot more independent than the one who lives
43:29
Speaker 1: to get wed. And she's safe enough to be trusted
43:34
Speaker 1: for to keep from coming to grief. But it's doubting
43:38
Speaker 1: and crying down all she does that plays the most mischief.
43:44
Speaker 1: Most that is bad is bad because good dull folk
43:49
Speaker 1: will have it so, and souls are sent to perdition
43:54
Speaker 1: sometimes when the godly whisper low. Where never a wrongful
43:59
Speaker 1: thing was done, and wrong thought there was none the doctor,
44:05
Speaker 1: he says, looking fierce at me, and God bless him
44:09
Speaker 1: for speaking, John. Then he says she was under the ether,
44:16
Speaker 1: for they had to cut her deep for a deadly
44:19
Speaker 1: spreading cancer, Jane, and she dropped some words in her
44:23
Speaker 1: sleep and talked about us. The doctor says, in such
44:29
Speaker 1: a heart broken way that he waited until she came
44:33
Speaker 1: to herself to hear what she would say. And she's
44:38
Speaker 1: dying and longin to see us Jane, her husband being dead.
44:44
Speaker 1: There isn't a friend but the doctor to sit by
44:48
Speaker 1: our poor child's bed. And it's number one. Ward are
44:54
Speaker 1: we going, Jane? Before our letty is gone? The old
45:00
Speaker 1: dwife's heart gushed into her eyes, and thank Heaven, we'll
45:05
Speaker 1: go now, John. End of poem. This recording is in
45:13
Speaker 1: the public domain. An Underpaid Agitator by Tom McGuire, read
45:24
Speaker 1: for LibriVox dot Org by Newgate novelist. It's cruel to
45:30
Speaker 1: cut things so fine. It's strange that the girls will
45:35
Speaker 1: not learn to fall into line and boldly combine to
45:40
Speaker 1: keep up the wages they own. The slightest reduction. It
45:46
Speaker 1: drives and goads us and sweats us the more, since
45:50
Speaker 1: all of us strive, and some may contrive to earn
45:55
Speaker 1: just as much as before. And first, when I entered
46:00
Speaker 1: the work girl's union, I put it to Sarah Anne Lee,
46:05
Speaker 1: but she laughed in my face and called me a lunion.
46:09
Speaker 1: No union but marriage for me, says she. It's shameful
46:16
Speaker 1: to put us on peace and find us at times
46:19
Speaker 1: if we're late, when the work in the shop has
46:22
Speaker 1: come to a stop and there's nothing to do but
46:26
Speaker 1: to wait, and it's worse to be fined for a
46:30
Speaker 1: stitch that a minute or two would set right. But
46:34
Speaker 1: they drop on us hot if a fault they can spot,
46:39
Speaker 1: and as often as not out of spite. And I
46:44
Speaker 1: put it to Sarah Anne Lee that the union said
46:48
Speaker 1: find such as them shouldn't be. But she snapped and declared,
46:53
Speaker 1: I was always a moonion. The tight marriage union for me,
46:59
Speaker 1: says she she married, did Sarah Anne Lee, He wasn't
47:06
Speaker 1: a duke or an earl, that a commonplace chap, with
47:10
Speaker 1: his head full of sap and the hair of it
47:13
Speaker 1: nicely in curl. They had a full week's honeymoon, and
47:19
Speaker 1: then she came back to her place for the chap
47:23
Speaker 1: she had wed. Didn't turn much, she said, on account
47:28
Speaker 1: of his very young face. But she cared for him
47:33
Speaker 1: more than she cared for the union, and therefore I
47:37
Speaker 1: let her a bee. She fancied. I wasn't cut out
47:42
Speaker 1: for a spoonin like poor unfortunate me, laughed she. She
47:50
Speaker 1: went home one day to her bed. Dread was the
47:54
Speaker 1: disease that she bore, and she lay as one dead.
47:59
Speaker 1: Her husband had fled to return to her side nevermore.
48:05
Speaker 1: We tended her and nursed her for weeks. But her
48:09
Speaker 1: poor broken spirit was spent, and the most we could
48:13
Speaker 1: do was to see her pull through before to the
48:17
Speaker 1: workhouse she went. But poor sarah Anne wasn't long for
48:23
Speaker 1: the union, not long for the world was she. She
48:28
Speaker 1: died of the birth of her babe, a still punion.
48:33
Speaker 1: The union buried them free. Ah me. The story is common,
48:40
Speaker 1: God knows, too common may be for to tell. But
48:45
Speaker 1: the work girl wife still toils for dear life and
48:49
Speaker 1: attends to her home work as well. And blind and
48:54
Speaker 1: blinder than eyeless owls. We bent to our slavish lot
49:00
Speaker 1: and pile up the wrong till our prince comes along.
49:05
Speaker 1: When we go arm in arm straight to part. You
49:11
Speaker 1: proud women, snobs who sneer at the union, What fools
49:15
Speaker 1: in your hearts are ye vain self loving slaves? You
49:21
Speaker 1: are bidding for graves like that which holds sarah Anne
49:26
Speaker 1: Lee rent free. End of poem. This recording is in
49:34
Speaker 1: the public domain. The Watches of the Night by Tom
49:43
Speaker 1: mc guire read for Lebrevox dot Org when you get novelist.
49:50
Speaker 1: I had waited, mutely, waited, unmarried and unmted till my
49:56
Speaker 1: very soul and senses had grown dumb, and I wondered
50:01
Speaker 1: if the bride I had dreamt of in my pride
50:05
Speaker 1: would from out the murky, dusty, hidden future ever come.
50:11
Speaker 1: But she's coming coming. I hear the fife and drumming,
50:15
Speaker 1: heralding her happy way. She's coming coming. The air around
50:22
Speaker 1: his humming with the music of the silvery feet of
50:26
Speaker 1: socialism coming. Oh, the wide outlook was dreary, and my
50:32
Speaker 1: eyes were tired and weary, for my hopes were burnt
50:36
Speaker 1: to ashes, cold and white. My heart was sick and faint,
50:41
Speaker 1: and I felt the deadly taint of the dull despair
50:46
Speaker 1: that hovers round the watches of the night. But she's
50:51
Speaker 1: coming coming. I hear the fife and drumming, heralding the
50:56
Speaker 1: happy way turning night to light and day. She's coming coming.
51:03
Speaker 1: The air around is humming with the music of the
51:07
Speaker 1: silvery feet of socialism coming. End of poem. This recording
51:15
Speaker 1: is in the public domain and end of Machine Room
51:21
Speaker 1: Chance by Tom mc guire. Thank you for listening.