WE HAVE FED YOU ALL A THOUSAND YEARS
(WRITTEN BY `AN UNKNOWN PROLETARIAN,' MUSIC BY VON LIEBICH)
(FIRST LISTED PRINTING, INDUSTRIAL UNION BULLETIN, APRIL 18, 1908)

We have fed you all for a thousand years
And you hail us still unfed,
Though there's never a dollar of all your wealth
But marks the workers' dead.
We have yielded our best to give you rest
And you lie on crimson wool.
Then if blood be the price of all your wealth,
Good God! We have paid it in full!

There is never a mine blown skyward now
But we're buried alive for you.
There's never a wreck drifts shoreward now
But we are its ghastly crew.
Go reckon our dead by the forges red
And the factories where we spin.
If blood be the price of your cursed wealth,
Good God! We have paid it in!

We have fed you all a thousand years-
For that was our doom, you know,
From the days when you chained us in your fields
To the strike a week ago.
You have taken our lives, and our babies and wives,
And we're told it's your legal share,
But if blood be the price of your lawful wealth,
Good God! We bought it fair!

SHEEP AND GOATS
(BY MIKE QUIRKE)

Say mate, have you seen the mills where the kids at the loom spit blood?
Have you been in the mine when the firedamp blew?
Shipped as a hand with a freighter's crew or worked in a levy flood?
Have you rotted wet in a grazing camp or scorched in a desert line?
Have you done your night stint with your lamp, watching the timbers drip with damp or hear the oil rig whine?
Have you had your pay held back for tools you never saw or could use?
Have you gone like a fool with the other fools to the bosses saloon where the strong arm rules and cashed your time for booze?
I do no kicking at god or fate.
I keep my shoes for the road.
The long, gray road, and I love it, mate, hay-foot, straw-foot, that's my gait, and I carry no other man's load.
I don't mind working to earn my bread and I'd just as soon keep straight,
But just like the preacher man said, I'm a ram and I've missed the gate.
But I'm jogging along, jogging ahead, perhaps I'll find it, mate.

THE TIMBER-BEASTS LAMENT
(GEORGE MILBURN COLLECTED THIS UNSIGNED I.W. W POEM AND INCLUDED IT IN THE HOBO HORNBOOK [NEW YORK, 1930]. ITS SOURCE IS NOT KNOWN.)

I'm on the boat for the camp
With a sick and aching head;
I've blowed another winter's stake,
And got the jims instead.

It seems I'll never learn the truth
That's written plain as day,
it's the only time they welcome you
is when you make it pay.

And it's "blanket-stiff" and "jungle-hound,"
And "pitch him out the door,"
But it's "Howdy, Jack, old-timer,"
When you've got the price for more.

Oh, tonight the boat is rocky,
And I ain't got a bunk,
Not a rare of cheering likker,
just a turkey full of junk.

All I call my life's possessions,
Is just what I carry `round,
For I've blowed the rest on skid-roads,
Of a hundred gyppo towns.

And it's "lumberjack" and "timber-beast,"
And "Give these bums a ride,"
But it's "Have one on the house, old boy,"
If you're stepping with the tide.

And the chokers will be heavy,
Just as heavy, just as cold,
When the hooker gives the high-ball,
And we start to dig for gold.

And I'll cuss the siren skid-road,
With its blatant, drunken tune,
But then, of course, I'll up and make
Another trip next June.

DUMP THE BOSSES OFF YOUR BACK
(TUNE: TAKE IT TO THE LORD IN PRAYER (BY JOHN BRILL) (9TH EDITION, 1916)

Are you poor, forlorn and hungry?
Are there lots of things you lack?
Is your life made up of misery?
Then dump the bosses off your back.
Are your clothes all patched and tattered?
Are you living in a shack?
Would you have your troubles scattered?
Then dump the bosses off your back.

Are you almost split asunder?
Loaded like a long-eared jack?
Boob - why don't you buck like thunder,
And dump the bosses off your back?
All the agonies you suffer
You can end with one good whack
Stiffen up, you orn'ry duffer
And dump the bosses off your back.

THE LUMBERJACK'S PRAYER
(TUNE: PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW)
(BY T-BONE SLIM [VALENTINE HUHTA], ABOUT 1920)

I pray dear Lord for Jesus' sake
Give us this day a T-bone steak.
Hallowed be Thy Holy Name,
But don't forget to send the same.

Oh, hear my humble cry, O Lord,
And send us down some decent board,
Brown gravy and some German fried
With sliced tomatoes on the side.

Observe me on my bended legs,
I'm asking you for ham and eggs,
And if thou havest custard pies,
I'd like, dear Lord, the largest size.

Oh, hear my cry, Almighty Host,
I quite forgot the quail on toast.
Let your kindly heart be stirred
And stuff some oysters in that bird.

Dear Lord, we know Your holy wish,
On Friday we must have a fish.
Our flesh is weak and spirit stale;
You better make that fish a whale.

Oh, hear me, Lord, remove these "dogs,"
These sausages of powdered logs;
The bull beef hash and bearded snouts,
Take them to Hell or thereabouts.

With alum bread and pressed beef butts
Dear Lord, they've damn near ruined my guts;
The whitewash milk and oleorine
I wish to Christ I'd never seen.

Oh, hear me, Lord, I'm praying still,
But if you won't, our Union will
Put porkchops on the bill of fare
And starve no workers anywhere.

MR. BLOCK
(TUNE: IT LOOKS TO ME LIKE A BIG TIME TONIGHT)
(BYJOE HILL) (1913 EDITION)

Please give your attention, I'll introduce to you
A man that is a credit to "Our Red, White and Blue";
His head is made of lumber, and solid as a rock;
He is a common worker and his name is Mr. Block.
And Block thinks he may
Be President some day

(Chorus)
Oh, Mr. Block, you were born by mistake,
You take the cake,
Tie a rock on your block
and then jump in the lake,
Kindly do that for Liberty's sake.

Yes, Mr. Block is lucky; he found a job, by gee!
The shark got seven dollars, for job and fare and fee.
They shipped him to a desert
and dumped him with his truck,
but when he tried to find his job,
he sure was out of luck.

He shouted, "That's too raw,
I'll fix them with the law"
(chorus)

Block hiked back to the city, but wasn't doing well.
He said, "I'll join the union - the great A.E of L."
He got a job next morning, got fired in the night,
He said, "I'll see Sam Gompers
and he'll fix that foreman right."
Sam Gompers said, "You see,
You've got our sympathy."
(chorus)

Election day he shouted, "A Socialist for Mayor!"
The "comrade" got elected, he happy was for fair,
But after the election he got an awful shock:
a great big Socialist Bull did rap him on the block
and Comrade Block did sob.
"I helped him to his job."
(chorus)

Poor Block, he died one evening, I'm very glad to state.
He climbed the golden ladder up to the pearly gate.
He said, "Oh, Mr. Peter, one word I'd like to tell.
I'd like to meet the Astorbilts and John D. Rockefell."
Old Pete said, "Is that so?
You'll meet them down below"
(chorus)

THE PREACHER AND THE SLAVE
(TUNE: IN THE SWEET BYE AND BYE) (BY JOE HILL) (1911 EDITION)

Long-haired preachers come out every night,
Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right;
But when asked how `bout something to eat
They will answer with voices so sweet:

(Main Chorus)
You will eat, bye and bye,
In that glorious land above the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay,
You'll get pie in the sky when you die.

And the Starvation Army they play,
And they sing and they clap and they pray
Till they get all your coin on the drum,
Then they tell you when you're on the bum:
(chorus)

If you fight hard for children and wife -
Try to get something good in this life -
You're a sinner and bad man, they tell,
When you die you will sure go to hell.
(chorus)

Workingmen of all countries unite,
Side by side we for freedom will fight;
When the world and its wealth we have gained
To the grafters we'll sing this refrain:

(Last Chorus)
You will eat, bye and bye,
When you've learned how to cook and to fry:
Chop some wood, `twill do you good,
And you'll eat in the sweet bye and bye.

THE POPULAR WOBBLY
(TUNE: THEY GO WILD, SIMPLY WILD, OVER ME)
(BY T-BONE SLIM [VALENTINE HUHTA]) (1920 EDITION)

I'm as mild-mannered man as can be,
And I've never done them harm that I can see;
Still on me they put a ban and they threw me in the can,
They go wild, simply wild over me.

They accuse me of ras-cal-i-ty,
But I can't see why they always pick on me;
I'm as gentle as a lamb, but they take me for a ram,
They go wild, simply wild over me.

Oh the "bull" he went wild over me,
And he held his gun where everyone could see;
He was breathing rather hard when he saw my union card,
He went wild, simply wild over me.

Then the judge, he went wild over me,
And I plainly saw we never could agree;
So I let the man obey what his conscience had to say,
He went wild, simply wild over me.

Oh the jailer, he went wild over me,
And he locked me up and threw away the key;
It seems to be the rage, so they keep me in a cage,
They go wild, simply wild over me.

They go wild, simply wild over me,
I'm referring to the bedbug and the flea;
They disturb my slumber deep, and I murmur in my sleep,
They go wild, simply wild over me.

Will the roses grow wild over me
When I'm gone into the land that is to be?
When my soul and body part in the stillness of my heart,
Will the roses grow wild over me?

CASEY JONES - THE UNION SCAB
(TUNE: CASEY JONES)
(BY JOE HILL) (1912 EDITION)

The workers on the S.P line to strike sent out a call;
But Casey Jones, the engineer, he wouldn't strike at all;
His boiler it was leaking, and its driver's on the bum,
And his engine and its bearings
they were all out of plumb.

Casey Jones kept his junk pile running;
Casey Jones was working double time;
Casey Jones got a wooden medal,
For being good and faithful on the S.P line.

The workers said to Casey: "Won't you help us win this strike?"
But Casey said: "Let me alone, you'd better take a hike."
Then Casey's wheezy engine ran right off the worn-out track,
And Casey hit the river with an awful crack.

Casey Jones hit the river bottom;
Casey Jones broke his blooming spine;
Casey Jones was an Angeleno,
He took a trip to heaven on the S.P line.

When Casey Jones got up to heaven to the Pearly Gate,
He said: "I'm Casey Jones, the guy that pulled the S.P freight."
"You're just the man," said Peter, "our musicians went on strike:
You can get a job a-scabbing any time you like."

Casey Jones got a job in heaven;
Casey Jones was doing mighty fine;
Casey Jones went scabbing on the angels,
just like he did to workers on the S.P line.

The angels got together and they said it wasn't fair
For Casey Jones to go around a-scabbing everywhere.
The Angel Union No. 23, they sure were there,
And they promptly fired Casey down the Golden Stair.

Casey Jones went to Hell a-flying;
"Casey Jones," the Devil said, "Oh fine;
Casey Jones, get busy shoveling sulfur
That's what you get for scabbing on the S.P line."

THE BOSS
(TUNE: PRAISE GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW
(AUTHOR UNKNOWN-PERHAPS JOHN NEUHAUS)

Praise boss when morning work-bells chime.
Praise him for bits of overtime.
Praise him whose wars we love to fight.
Praise him, fat leech and parasite.

WHERE THE FRASER RIVER FLOWS
(TUNE: WHERE THE RIVER SHANNON FLOWS)
(WRITTEN BY JOE HILL, FRASER RIVER STRIKE CAMP) (1912 EDITION)

Fellow workers, pay attention
to what I'm going to mention,
For it is the clear contention
of the workers of the world
That we should all be ready,
true-hearted, brave and steady,
To rally `round the standard
when the Red Flag is unfurled.

(Chorus)
Where the Fraser River flows,
each fellow worker knows,
They have bullied and oppressed us,
but still our Union grows.

And we're going to find a way, boys,
for shorter hours and better pay, boys!
And we're going to win the day, boys;
where the Fraser River flows.

For these gunny-sack contractors
have all been dirty actors,
And they're not our benefactors,
as each fellow worker knows.
So we've got to stick together
in fine or dirty weather,
And we will show no white feather
where the Fraser River flows.
(Chorus)

Now the boss the law is stretching,
bulls and pimps he's fetching,
And they are a fine collection,
as Jesus only knows.
But why their mother reared them,
and why the devil spared them
Are questions we can't answer,
where the Fraser River flows.
(Chorus)

BREAD AND ROSES
(MUSIC BY CAROLINE KOHLSAAT, WORDS BY JAMES OPPENHEIM)

As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

We come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for - but we fight for roses, too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
Nor more the drudge and idler - ten that toil where one reposes,
But sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!

JOE HILL
(MUSIC BY EARL ROBINSON, WORDS BY ALFRED HAYES)
(COPYRIGHT 1938 BY LEEDS MUSIC CORPORATION)

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night
Alive as you and me.
Says I, "But Joe, you're ten years dead."
"I never died," says he.
°I never died," says he.

"In Salt Lake, Joe, by God," says I,
Him standing by my bed,
"They framed you on a murder charge."
Says Joe, "I didn't die."
Says Joe, "I didn't die."

And standing there as big as life
And smiling with his eyes,
Joe says, "What they forgot to kill
Went on to organize.
Went on to organize.

"Joe Hill ain't dead," he says to me,
"Joe Hill ain't never died.
Where working men are out on strike
Joe Hill is at their side.
Joe Hill is at their side."

"From San Diego up to Maine
In every mine and mill,
Where workers strike and organize,"
Says he, "You'll find Joe Hill,"
Says he, "You'll find Joe Hill."

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night
Alive as you and me.
Says I, "But Joe, you're ten years dead."
"I never died," says he.
"I never died," says he.

UNION BURYING GROUND
(BY WOODY GUTHRIE)
(COPYRIGHT WOODY GUTHRIE PUBLICATIONS)

I see they're lowering the right new coffin,
I see they're letting down the right new coffin,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
And the new dirt's falling on a right new coffin,
The new dirt's falling on a right new coffin,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
O, tell me who's that they're letting down, down,
Tell me who's that they're letting down, down
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
Another union organizer,
Another union organizer,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
A union brother and a union sister,
A union brother and a union sister,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
A union father and a union mother,
A union father and a union mother,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
Well I'm going to sleep in a union coffin,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
Every new grave brings a thousand new ones,
Every new grave brings a thousand members,
Way over in that Union Burying Ground.
Every new grave brings a thousand brothers,
Every new grave brings a thousand sisters,
To the union in that Union Burying Ground.

THE TWO BUMS
(AUTHOR UNKNOWN, FIRST PRINTED IN GEORGE MILBURN'S THE HOBO'S HORNBOOK, NEW YORK, 1930)

The bum on the rod is hunted down
As the enemy of mankind;
The other is driven around to his club
And feted, wined and dined.
And they who curse the bum on the rods
As the essence of all that is bad

Will greet the other with a winning smile
And extend him the hand so glad.
The bum on the rods is a social flea
Who gets an occasional bite;
The bum on the plush is a social leech,
Blood-sucking day and night.

The bum on the rods is a load so light
That his weight we scarcely feel,
But it takes the labor of dozens of men
To furnish the other meal.

As long as you sanction the bum on the plush,
The other will always be there,
But rid yourself of the bum on the plush
And the other will disappear.

Then make an intelligent, organized kick,
Get rid of the weights that crush;
Don't worry about the bum on the rods,
Get rid of the bum on the plush!

HALLELUJAH, I'M A BUM!
(TUNE: REVIVE US AGAIN)
(HARRY [HAYWIRE MAC] MCCLINTOCK) (ADAPTED BY SPOKANE IWW WINTER OF 1908 FOR USE ON SONG CARD OF THAT YEAR)

O, why don't you work Like other men do?
How in hell can I work
When there's no work to do?

(Chorus)
Hallelujah, I'm a bum!
Hallelujah, bum again!
Hallelujah, give us a handout
To revive us again.

O, why don't you save
All the money you earn?
If I did not eat
I'd have money to burn.
(Chorus)

O, I like my boss -
He's a good friend of mine;
That's why I'm starving
Out in the breadline.
(Chorus)

I can't buy a job
For I ain't got the dough,
So I ride in a box-car
For I'm a hobo.
(Chorus)

Whenever I get
All the money I earn
The boss will be broke
And to work he must turn.
(Chorus)

SOLIDARITY FOREVER
(TUNE: JOHN BROWN'S BODY) (BY RALPH CHAPLIN, JANUARY 1915) (9TH EDITION, 1910)

When the Union's inspiration through the workers' blood shall run,
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun.
Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one?
But the Union makes us strong.

Solidarity forever!
Solidarity forever!
Solidarity forever!
For the Union makes us strong.

Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite
Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might?
Is there anything left to us but to organize and fight?
For the Union make us strong. (Chorus)

It is we who plowed the prairies; built the cities where they trade;
Dug the mines and built the workshops; endless miles of railroad laid.
Now we stand outcast and starving, `midst the wonders we have made;
But the Union makes us strong. (Chorus)

All the world that's owned by idle drones is ours and ours alone.
We have laid the wide foundations; built it skyward stone by stone.
It is ours, not to slave in, but to master and to own,
While the Union makes us strong. (Chorus)

They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to earn,
But without our brain and muscle not a single wheel can turn.
We can break their haughty power; gain our freedom when we learn
That the Union makes us strong. (Chorus)

In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold;
Greater than the might of armies, magnified a thousand-fold.
We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old.
For the Union makes us strong. (Chorus)

THERE IS POWER IN A UNION
(TUNE: THERE IS POWER IN THE BLOOD) (BY JOE HILL) (1913 EDITION)

Would you have freedom from Wage slavery,
Then join in the grand Industrial band;
Would you from mis'ry and hunger be free,
Then come, do your share, like a man.

(Chorus)
There is pow'r there is pow'r in a band of workingmen,
When they stand hand in hand,
That's a pow'r, that's a pow'r
That must rule in every land-
One Industrial Union Grand.

Would you have mansions of gold in the sky,
and live in a shack, Way in the back?
Would you have wings up in heaven to fly,
And starve here with rags on your back?
(Chorus)

If you've had `nuf of the "blood of the lamb"
Then join in the grand industrial band;
If, for a change, you would have eggs and ham,
Then come, do your share, like a man.
(Chorus)

If you like sluggers to beat off your head,
Then don't organize, all unions despise.
If you want nothing before you are dead,
Shake hands with your boss and look Wise.
(Chorus)

Come, all ye workers, from every land,
Come, join in the grand industrial band;
Then we our share of this earth shall demand.
Come on! Do your share, like a man.
(Chorus)