O tragic comrade, dusky grey!

Of whom so few have truly sung,

Believe me, I respect your bray,

Your heaven-cleaving mother-tongue.

I long to know the thoughts you think,

For you can think if mortals can,–

Sad contrast to the gaudy pink

Turban of your grim washerman!

I know your wretchedness, your grief,

And knowing it mine own hath ceased.

But how shall I impart relief

To you, O poor exploited beast?

When I behold your master’s whip

And hear it on your body crack

I seem to feel the warm blood drip

And trickle right across my back.

I seem to have become a part

Of all exploited things like you;

My heart goes beating to your heart

And every beat rings clear and true.

With you I toil and trudge and keep

Incessant pace, being equal-hired,

But, brother! soon we both shall sleep

For God knows, we are very tired!