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This section contains 132 words (approx. 1 page at 300 words per page) |
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And from the sleep of serfdom waking;
See the sons of toil arise.
Hearken to the song they're singing,
Through the welkin gladly winging,
Joy unto the weary bringing,
On, still on, it flies.
See the sons of toil arise.
Hearken to the song they're singing,
Through the welkin gladly winging,
Joy unto the weary bringing,
On, still on, it flies.
"Let scabs and cowards
Do what they may,
Eight hours, eight hours,
Shall be our day."
Aloft our banner courts the sky,
The glorious day of freedom's nigh,
>From toiling long and late;
"Eight hours" shall be our working day,
"Eight hours" to sleep fatigue away,
"Eight hours" to seek in wisdom's ray,
Improvement of our state.
"Let scabs and cowards
Do what they may,
Eight hours, eight hours,
Shall be our day."
Source:
Philip S. Foner, American Labor Song of the Nineteenth Century (Urbana, Chicago & London: University of Illinois Press, 1975).
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This section contains 132 words (approx. 1 page at 300 words per page) |
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