| Men of England, wherefore plough
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| For the Lords who lay you low?
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| Wherefore weave with toil and care
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| The rich robes your tyrants wear?
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| Wherefore feed and clothe and save
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| From the cradle to the grave
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| Those ungrateful drones who
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| Drain your sweat — nay, drink your blood
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| Have ye Leisure, comfort, calm
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| Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?
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| Or what is ye buy so dear
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| With your pain and with your fear
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| The seed ye sow another reaps
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| The wealth ye find, another keeps
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| THe robes ye weave, another wears
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| The arms ye forge, another bears
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| Sow seed — but let no tyrant reap
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| Find wealth — let no impostor heap
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| Weave robes — let not the idle wear
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| Forge arms — in your defence to bear
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| With plough and spade and hoe and loom
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| Trace your grave and build your tomb
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| And weave your winding sheet till fair
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| England be your sepulchre |