My Tailor'S Shears I Scorned Then; I Strove For Something Higher: To Edit News--Live By The Pen-- The Pen That Shall Not Tire! The Pen, That Was My Humble Slave, Has Now Enslaved Its Master; And Fast As Flows Its Midas-Wave, My Rebel Tears Flow Faster. The World I Clad Once, Tailor-Hired, Whilst I In Tatters Quaked, Today, You See Me Well Attired, Who Lets The World Go Naked. What Human Soul, How'Er Oppressed, Can Feel My Chained Soul'S Yearning! A Monster Woe Lies In My Breast, In Voiceless Anguish Burning. Oh, Swing Ajar The Shop Door, Do! I'll Bear As Ne'er I Bore It. My Blood!... You Sweatshop Leeches, You!... Now Less I'll Blame You For It. I'll Stitch As Ne'er In Former Years; I'll Drive The Mad Wheel Faster; Slave Will I Be But To The Shears; The Pen Shall Know Its Master!