Only a Workingman's Child.
You ask why my dress is so tattered and torn.
You wonder my face is so pale,
And why I am always so sad and forlorn,
The reason my lot I bewail.
I'll tell if you list why in silence I grieve,
It's the number of hours that I've toiled ;
It's useless to say it, for who will believe
The down-trodden workingman's child.
Only a workingman's child,
On whom fortune seldom has smiled;
Kind words are so rare that they would me amaze,
For I'm only a workingman's child.
Yes, long hours of toil and a pittance of pay,
For bosses can do as they like;
For one moment late you are charged half a day,
No wonder we join in a strike.
They'll cut down our wages, treat us like a slave,
It's enough to drive any one wild;
How can we dress decent or nicely behave.
We're only a workingman's child.-Chorus.
But there'll be a change, and it's not far away,
A change for the rich and the poor;
When the trumpet sounds on the great judgement day,
Then there'll be no wolf at the door.
The rich and the poor on a level will be,
It is then justice cannot be foiled;
The banker will then be no better than me
The down-trodden workingman's child.-Chorus.