By the fire and by the quarry ,
  they spend life without choice,
  None ever feel truly sorry,
  to annul their pitiful,pained voice.
  By age they seem children,
  what they do is otherwise.
  Day after night and night after day,
  is something they know not,
  for to them it is always night,
  in this life that's so unright.
  Crooked spines, visionless eyes,
  Aching muscles and their cries.
  This is what is their prize,
  for all their labour and tries.
  Tears oft not flow down cheeks
  'cos the glands are dried and weak.
  Shame on us that always wait,
  to use the sweets things as our bait.