A Labor Day Lyric
by Arthur Gordon Burgoyne
Labor Day, Labor Day! Incomparable "fest"
When Labor rightly revels in a period of rest,
When pleasure takes the place of sordid travail and turmoil.
It surely is a blessing to the honest sons of toil.
Ask any individual that doesn't have to spend
His days in hard and grinding toil that never has an end
And ten to one he'll tell you that there's nothing quite so fine
As the spirit shown by heroes in the horny-handed line.
He'll tell you that, if not deterred by other stern demands,
He'd love to cultivate a crop of horns upon his hands
And that he'd feel exalted if he only had the time
In manual pursuits himself to roughen and begrime.
The politician, if he is an adept in his art,
Will speak of loving Labor from the bottom of his heart.
He'll pose before the toilers as their true, unselfish friend
And bind himself their interests to champion and defend.
And other kinds of publicists with axes to be ground
Will glorify the workman as a sort of king uncrowned.
They'll talk of giving him his rights and glowing pictures draw
Of his future, if they only had the making of the law.
Now Labor in this kind of guff small consolation sees.
'Twould cheerfully swap places with the class that lives at ease.
And Labor Day on other days has certainly the call
Inasmuch as then the toiler doesn't have to toil at all.