A man may own jewels and gold,
A piano, horse, railway shares,
A cellar of wine, new or old,
A house, and the clothes that he wears.
Everything he may sell, or may buy,
That is purchased by wealth or by toil;
But he mustn't own--no matter why--
A single square yard of the soil.
He this who from HODGE, its true owner, perverts,
Is a brigand, and merits a brigand's deserts!
This park that around you you see,
These gardens you so much admire,
Each hedgerow, each copse, every tree,
Is the owner's bequeathed from his sire.
He may have remitted his rents!
What of that till the Nation cries "Quits!"
His land, with the march of events,
Being purloined and cut up into bits?
For until to its true owner, HODGE, it reverts,--
He's a brigand, and merits a brigand's deserts!
[_At the conclusion of the ballad_ Mr. JOSEPH ARCH _gives a signal
and the_ OWNER OF THE PROPERTY _is led on in the custody of
Trade-Union Myrmidons_.