The Steam King - Edward P. Mead

There is a King, and a ruthless King;

Not a King of the poet’s dream;

But a tyrant fell, white slaves know well,

And that ruthless King is Steam.

He hath an arm, an iron arm,

And tho’ he hath but one,

In that mighty arm there is a charm,

That millions hath undone.

Like the ancient Moloch grim, his sire

In Himmon’s vale that stood,

His bowels are of living fire,

And children are his food.

His priesthood are a hungry band,

Blood-thirsty, proud, and bold;

’Tis they direct his giant hand,

In turning blood to gold.

For filthy gain in their servile chain

All nature’s rights they bind;

They mock at lovely woman’s pain,

And to manly tears are blind.

The sighs and groans of Labour’s sons

Are music in their ear,

And the skeleton shades, of lads and maids,

In the Steam King’s hell appear.

Those hells upon earth, since the Steam King’s birth,

Have scatter’d around despair;

For the human mind for Heav’n design’d,

With the body, is murdered there.

Then down with the King, the Moloch King,

Ye working millions all;

O chain his hand, or our native land

Is destin’d by him to fall.

And his Satraps abhor’d, each proud Mill Lord,

Now gorg’d with gold and blood,

Must be put down by the nation’s frown,

As well as their monster God.

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Edward P. Mead (19th century) England

Source: She-Wolf

Originally published in The Northern Star, and Leeds General Advertiser (Vol. 6, February 1843); reproduced in Freidrich Engels, The Conditions of the Working Class in England (1845)