Albany Freeholder May 21, 1845

THE NEW YORK SEAMSTRESSES APPEAL

DEDICATED TO MRS. ANN S. STEVENS

Come fathers, come brothers, come one and come all,
Come list to the tale of our woes;
So many, so grievous—so down trod are we,
Starvation the whole doth disclose.
From morning till night, worn and weary we toil,
From night till morning again.
It is nothing but work—work, work, and work, work,
And hardship on hardship, amain!
We starve, while around us, gay fashion and pride,
Are seen in a brilliant array,
With the baubles we made—still moist with our tears;
Oh, why this sad difference we pray?
Oh, why in a land of religion and light,
Where freedom is vaunted so loud;
Why—why, this vast difference? Why are we so poor,
And bow us to earth as with blows.
You give for our labor two shillings, per chance,
Where a lawyer, ten thousand may earn;
To Landlords and doctors, three-quarters of that,
If back to our homes we return.
But cheated—demure—unprotected and lone,
The wealthy oft lure us astray;
Our fall-scarce a fall—can disgrace us no more,
For surely we’re good as are they!
Where freedom to plunder the millions that toil,
Is the law and the usage of all;
Where labor’s disgraceful and license the rule,
The poor and the feeble must fall!
Come fathers, come brothers, come list to our tale,
‘Tis the voice of your mothers now cries,
Woe, woe, shall befall all your future of fame
If equality bless not your skies.
Go sell what you have—give all to the poor,
If perfect on earth you would be—
Was the labor of love, and the duty of all
Whom Christ, bade “follow thou me.”
Where usage makes law—and enables the few,
All the bounties of God to secure,
Tyrant Lust will step in and defile what remains
And rob e-en of virtue, the poor!
Then silence your preachers—leave us to our God,
Better trust to his mercy than thine;
Ye vaunters of freedom—proud boasters of right,
Yet panderers to lust and rapine.
And if for the future—your children should be
Half fiend and half mortal, you’ll know
Whence they sprung, and how fit the revenge they will take
For their mother’s misfortunes and woe.
Come fathers, come brothers, come one and come all,
Come list, to our tale of deep woe;
If you poison the fountain, death and hell fills the stream
Where e’er its foul waters may flow! – Franklin.

Transcribed for this website by Terri Nan Treibits.