England. In The Camp.

This is a leader's tent. "Who gathers here?"         Enter and see and listen. On the ground      Men sit or stand, enter or disappear,         Dark faces and deep voices all around.      One answers you. "You ask who gathers here?         Companions! Generals we have none, nor chief.      What need is there? The plan is all so clear -         The future's hope, the present's grim relief!      "Food for us all, and clothes, and roofs come first.         The means to gain them? This, our leaguered band!      The hatred of the robber rich accursed         Keeps foes together, makes fools understand.      "Beyond the present's faith, the future's hope         Points to the dawning hour when all shall be      But one. The man condemned shall fit the rope         Around the hangman's neck, and both be free!      "The sun then rises on a happier land         Where Wealth and Labour sound but as one word.      We drill, we train, we arm our leaguered band.         What is there more to tell you have not heard?"      This is a leader's tent. They gather here,         Resolute, stern, menacing. On the ground      They sit or stand, enter or disappear,         Dark faces and deep voices all around.