SONG OF THE TOILERS.

Industrial Unionist, Volume 1, Issue 18, 20 November 1913, Page 3

SONG OF THE TOILERS.

(By Ralph Bacon.

Oh; I sing the song of the underworld, where life is lean and grim, Where children toil in the red hot broil, with mother, wan and thin, And lest you forget it’s by our sweat you hold your places •of ease, I sing the cry of the ones who die of your mighty mills’ disease.

Oh, our backs are strong, But your hours are long, And our lungs lick up your lint; Can we work a day, from the dawn to the grey, Though your wage our stomach stint? Can our children live When the toys you give Are the overwrought machines? When our children are dead How will you be fed — He vou know what the slaughter means ?

Spindle and spool are spun— A worker’s life is done — Then put in another, a child or a mother, The mills, oh, the mills, must run !

Oh, sing the song of the underworld, where life is lean and grim, Where a ton of coal outweighs the soul of the man it closes in ; And lest you forget that our grimy sweat warms your couches of ease, I sing the cry of tlie ones who die in the wake oi the Winter’s freeze.

Oil, our backs are strong, But your hours are long, And we breathe your deadly gas; Your careless haste Has choked with waste The drifts that should let us pass; So we’re bottled in Like rates in a tin, While our weeping widows wait At the black hole’s rim Till the sun does dim And the dull hours tell our fate. Shut from the life of the sun — A worker’s life is done — Then put in another, a father or brother, The mines, oh, the mines, must run !