Shelley’s ‘Song to the Men of England’ throws a series of bitter questions at the laborers of his day. The speaker demands to know why they exhaust themselves ploughing, weaving, and forging for “ungrateful drones” who steal the fruits of their work. He compares them to bees robbed by stingless masters, then turns the tables: stop feeding the idle, he urges, and take up arms for your own defense instead. If they refuse, the final image is chilling—they will simply dig their own graves and weave their own shrouds, turning England into a tomb. The voice crackles with fury and scorn for the tyrants, but also with a desperate frustration for the workers’ passivity. The mood sharpens from indignant questioning into a furious rallying cry, then sinks into a grim, sarcastic warning that leaves a haunting chill.
Song to the Men of England — Summary
Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay ye low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear?
Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, From the cradle to the grave, Those ungrateful drones who would Drain your sweat--nay, drink your blood?
Wherefore, Bees of England, forge Many a weapon, chain, and scourge, That these stingless drones may spoil The forced produce of your toil?
Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, Shelter, food, love's gentle balm? Or what is it ye buy so dear With your pain and with your fear?
The seed ye sow, another reaps; The wealth ye find, another keeps; The robes ye weave, another wears; The arms ye forge; another bears.
Sow seed,--but let no tyrant reap; Find wealth,--let no impostor heap; Weave robes,--let not the idle wear; Forge arms,--in your defence to bear.
Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; In halls ye deck another dwells. Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see The steel ye tempered glance on ye.
With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, Trace your grave, and build your tomb, And weave your winding-sheet, till fair England be your sepulchre.