Page:Andromeda, and other poems - Kingsley (1858).djvu/146

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THE BAD SQUIRE.
'When we lay in the burning fever On the mud of the cold clay floor,Till you parted us all for three months, squire, At the dreary work-house door.
'We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders? What self-respect could we keep,Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?
'Our daughters with base-born babies Have wandered away in their shame;If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, Your misses might do the same.
'Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking With handfuls of coals and rice,Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting A little below cost price?
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