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F.

Poem: 'Points for Patriots'

    Breathes there a man with soul so dead —

       Some modern slave at factory gate

    Who never to himself hath said,

       In cynic bitterness and hate:

    "This is my own, my native land"

 

    Breathes there a man with soul so dead —

       A numbered hand in a factory hell

    Who never to himself hath said,

       When hurried to toil by the factory bell:

    "This is my own, my native land"?

 

    Breathes there a man with soul so dead

       Mocked by flaunted wealth and power

    Who never to himself hath said,

       As he sold himself for sixpence an hour:

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