The Little Moles
When grasping tyranny offends,
Or angry bigots frown;
When rulers plot, for sefish ends,
To keep the nations down;
When statesmen form unholy league
To drive the world to war;
When knaves in palaces intrigue
For ribbons or a star
We raise our heads, survey their deeds,
And cheerily reply,
Grub, little moles, grub under ground,
There’s sunshine in the sky.
When canting hypocrites combine
To curb a free man’s thought,
And hold all doctrine undivine
That holds their canting nought;
When round their narrow pale they plod.
And scornfully assume
That all without are cursed of God,
And justify the doom,
We think of God’s eternal love,
And strong in hope reply,
Grub, little moles, grub under ground,
There’s sunshine in the sky.
When greedy authors wield the pen
To please the vulgar town,
Depict great thieves as injured men
And heroes of renown;
Pander to prejudice unclean,
Apologize for crime,
And daub the vices of the mean
With flattery like slime;
For Milton’s craft, for Shakspere’s tongue
We blush, but yet reply
Grub, little moles, grub under ground,
There’s sunshine in the sky.
When smug philosophers survey
The various climes of earth,
And mourn, poor sagelings of a day!
Its too prolific birth;
And prove by figure, rule, and plan,
The large fair world too small
To feed the multitudes of man
That flourish on its ball;
We view the vineyards on the hills,
Or corn-fields waving high;
Grub, little moles, grub under ground,
There’s sunshine in the sky.
When men complain of humankind
In misanthropic mood,
And thinking evil things, grow blind
To presence of the good;
When, wall’d in prejudices strong,
They urge that evermore
The world is fated to go wrong
For going wrong before,
We feel the truths they cannot feel,
And smile as we reply,
Grub, little moles, grub under ground,
There’s sunshine in the sky.
