While The Billy BoilsSearchI walked with Man in his Paradise,That lies in the city street;The air is foul, and the Halls of ViceAre free to his children's feet.The children fall where the father fell,Where the snares of ruin are;The son goes down through the gates of HellBy the father left ajar.The mother works "as the woman should",But weeps when the day is doneAnd hides her face in the hands that could,But may not, save her son.
I walk with Man in his Paradise,And ask if his rule be just.Small vengeance follows the sacrificeOf the daughter's soul to lust!The mother shares in the shame, but notIn the rule that lets it live,She fights unarmed, and the tears are hotFor the shield she cannot give.She breaks her heart for the boy astrayOr the girl that is defiled.But has not even the right to say;"They shall not tempt my child!"
I say to Man in his ParadiseThat justice must now be doneTo her who's slave (says the Arab) thrice;To the father, husband and son.A poor wife hungers in rooms that areAs bare as the barren street,And longs for a law that would close the barTo her husband's wavering feet."'Tis I who suffer for all," she sobs,"O why is the landlord freeTo thrive on my hushand's vice, that robsMy little ones and me?"
The streets are filled with the snares that lurkIn the wayward children's path.Yet people say that a woman's workIs still by the homely hearth.But the stagnant air of the world is srirredBy the voice despised so long:The woman's voice in the land is heard,--The words of a strange new song.We'll know the worth of a purer youthWhen the women rule with men,For love virtue and peace and truthShall save the world again.