The Edwin Burgess 

Letters on Taxation



SONG OF THE EARTH.
     Listen, dear friends, to the song of the Earth:
     Did I not bear every being at birth!
     Am I not present wherever you rove
     Over the mountain, in valley and grove?
     
             CHORUS.
     
             Plough me, and dig me, rake, harrow and hoe
             Plant and manure me, and freely I'll grow'
             Sing me a song on the land or the main,
             Then will your parent, Earth, never complain.
     
     Do I not aid all your innocent glee?
     Why is no song ever written to me?
     All the rich fruit and the beauty I show,
     Are they not pressed wherever you go?
     
     Do I not turn to the sun and the moon,
     Making it even, night, and morning, and noon?
     Do I not hold all your metals in store
     Iron and silver, and gold in the ore? '
     
     Do I not bear all the ships of the main,
     All the rich harvests of fruit and of grain?
     Fishes that dwell in pond, river, and sea,
     Are they not all well supported by me?
     
     Animals grazing the hill or the plain,
     Roaming the forest, or skirting the main,
     Birds of rich plumage, of beauty and song,
     All to your parent, Earth, ever belong.
     
     Shall I expose my rich bosom in vain?
     Parched with the sun, and then drenched with the rain;
     Clad every winter with crystals of snow,
     Swept by the whirlwinds that terribly blow.
     
     Who supplies mortar and stone for your halls,
     Clay for the potter, and lime for your walls?
     Where would your statues and paintings e'er be,
     Were marble and colour not given by me?
      
     Do I not make all the forests to grow,
     All the choice woods which the workers well know?
     What would their planing and polishing be,
     Were not the beauties provided by me?
     
     Do I not hold every mountain and hill;
     Beds for each ocean, lake, river, and rill;
     Coal fields for fuel, and fining your ore:
     What can a parent Earth do for you more?
     
     When you are planting your fruit and your grain,
     Blessed with the sunshine, the dew, and the rain,
     Giving rich harvest to fill you with glee;
     Think you how much is provided by me?
     
     Let all your wars and your quarrelling cease,
     Dwell on my bosom in plenty and peace;
     Love one another, be honest and true;
     Thus would your parent, Earth, teach unto you.
     
     Let not a brother, when strong to command,
     Rob anyone of his right to the land:
     Is there not room on my bosom for all;
     Why fill your Earth-life with wormwood and gall?
     
     Why am I rented, and bartered and sold,
     By part of my children for silver and gold;
     Robbers by law, and rulers by might,
     Foes unto justice, and freedom, and right?
     
     Is not my bosom to everyone free,
     Do I demand of each tenant a fee?
     Take what is needed, but joyfully give
     Everyone else the same freedom to live.
     
     Let not the strong ones the weaker enslave;
     Those who are strong, should be tender and brave,
     Foes to the tyrant, and friends to the free;
     Such would give joy unto you and to me.
     
     When you are steaming by sea and by land,
     All you desire being yours to command;
     Gratitude ever will heighten your glee-
     Oft a kind thought would be welcome to me.
To: Burgess Letters

Hovedside: Grundskyld - Henry George
Henry George
Retsmoral
Andre Skribenter
Parabler
Kritik
Hvem er jeg
Præ-georgister
Eksempler

Summary of pages in English: Land and taxation
  
March 2009