THE WEAVERS' STRIKE.
Tune-"Wearing of the Green."
Written and Sung by Harry Barron.
Ye people all, both great and small, come listen to my lay,
'Tis about the striking weavers who demand an honest pay;
But the bosses say they will not yield, they love too much their pelf.
Before they die, ah, who can tell, each may be poor himself.
The weavers only say, "Be just: an honest toil's reward."
Enough to keep the hungry wolf from those we most regard;
Enough to pay our rent, and live on less we cannot do,
'Tis just as well to idle starve, not work while starving, too.
But the meanest thing of all, I think, is bringing workers here
To take our honest towns folks' place, who've toiled for many a year;
No wonder people gather, just to hoot the dirty curs,
An honest Indignation in each honest bosom stirs.
What a shame to think policemen have to club the people so,
Who are goaded half to madness by their bitter wrong and woe:
Although deploring violence, what can wretched labor do?
A worm will turn when trod upon-he honest, wouldn't you?
In Kensington on Workers' toil each boss grows quickly rich,
In Manayunk the same, I ween-the poor sink in the ditch.
After lolling on and moiling on, each generation fade.
And leaves the one they leave behind poorer and poorer paid.
A Schofield lives high on a hill, the people starve below.
For one man's wealth a thousand toil, so that's the way we go;
For wealth can ever find some tool to do its dirty work.
And closer grind their fellowman, a task they never shirk.
Ye Camerons and Stevensons can ever be found and bought.
And thus it is that workmen's strikes forever come to naught;
For traitors have existed ever since the world began,
The informer and the rat seem made to be the workman's banc;
Why such people should exist at all, I really cannot say;
I would send them to light the Mahdi, if I only had my way;
I would send them all to Africa or to the Polar zone,
Or to the penitentiary to work at breaking stone.