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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=400563" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Secret People</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;<br>For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.<br>There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,<br>There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.<br>There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.<br>There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;<br>You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:<br>Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.<br>We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.<br>The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;<br>There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.<br>And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way,<br>And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day.<br>They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,<br>Till there was no bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find.<br>The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak.<br>The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the face of the King's Servants grew greater than the King:<br>He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.<br>The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey's fruits,<br>And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots,<br>We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,<br>And some were pure and some were vile; but none took heed of us.<br>We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;<br>And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A war that we understood not came over the world and woke<br>Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.<br>They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people's reign: <br>And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and scorned us never again.<br>Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;<br>Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that we were men.<br>In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albuera plains,<br>We did and died like lions, to keep ourselves in chains,<br>We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not<br>The strange fierce face of the Frenchmen who knew for what they fought,<br>And the man who seemed to be more than a man we strained against and broke;<br>And we broke our own rights with him. And still we never spoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.<br>But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain,<br>He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,<br>He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.<br>Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,<br>Come back in shining shapes at last to spoil his last carouse:<br>We only know the last sad squires rode slowly towards the sea,<br>And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,<br>Lords without anger or honour, who dare not carry their swords.<br>They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;<br>They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.<br>And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,<br>Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,<br>Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.<br>It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,<br>Our wrath come after Russia's wrath and our wrath be the worst.<br>It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest<br>God's scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.<br>But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.<br>Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Gilbert+Keith+Chesterton">Gilbert Keith Chesterton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=400563" data-title="The Secret People de Gilbert Keith Chesterton" data-description="Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;
For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.
There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
Ther..."></div>
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