O boys and men of British mould,
With mother's milk within you
A simple word for young and old,
A word to warn and win you:
You've each and all got human hearts
As well as human features,
So hear me, while I take the parts
Of all the poor dumb creatures.

I wot your lot is sometimes rough;
But theirs is something rougher,-
Empty of joys, with pain enough,
And only sense to suffer:
You, men and boys, have friends and joys,
And homes and hopes in measure,-
But these poor brutes are only mutes,
And never knew a pleasure.

A little water, chaff, and hay,
And sleep, the boon of heaven,
How great returns for these have they
To your advantage given:
And yet the worn-out horse or ass
Who makes your daily gaining,
Is paid with goad and thong, alas!
Though nobly uncomplaining.

Stop, cruel boy! you mean no ill,
But never thought about it,-
Why beat that patient donkey still?
He goes as well without it:
Here, taste and try a cut or two,-
Ha! you can shout and feel it;
Boy - that was Mercy's hint to you,-
In shorter measure deal it.

Stop, sullen man : 'tis true to tell
How ill the world has used you;
The farmers didn't treat you well,
The squire's self refused you:
But it is that any reason why
A bad revenge you're wreaking
On that poor, lame, old horse,- whose eye
Rebukes you without speaking?

Oh! think not thou that this dumb brute
Has no strong Friend to aid him;
Nor hope, because his wrongs are mute,
They rouse not God who made him!
A little while, and you are - dead,
With all your bitter feelings;
How will the Judge, so just and dread,
Reward your cruel dealings?

Go, do some good, before you die,
To those who make your living:
They will not ask you reasons why,
Nor tax you for forgiving:
Their mouths are mute, but most acute
The woes whereby you wear them;
Then come with me, and only see
How easy 'tis to spare them!

Load for'ard; neither goad nor flog:
For
rest
your beast is flagging:
And do not let that willing dog
Tear out his heart with dragging:
Wait, wait awhile, those axles grease,
And shift this buckle's fretting;
And give that galling collar ease;-
How grateful is he getting!

So poor yourselves, and short of joys,
Unkindly used, unfairly,
I sometimes wonder, men and boys,
You're merciful so rarely:
If you have felt how hunger gripes,
Why famish and ill-use 'em?
If you've been wealed by sores and stripes,
How can you beat and bruise 'em.

Oh, fear! lest God has taught in vain,
And so your hearts you harden;
Oh, hope! for lo! He calls again,
And
now's
the time for pardon:
Yes, haste to-day to put away
Your cruelties and curses,-
And man at least, if not his beast,
Shall bless me for my verses.