The Toilers.

We Come! We Come! A Mighty Throng
To Claim our Rights at last—
The rights ignored by Church and State
In all the ages past:
The rights that speak in every breast
Where Love and Justice wed—
That Wrong shall be forever slain
And Right shall reign instead.

The Monarch sitting on his throne,
Who claims the Right Divine
To take the thousands from their hearths
And spend their blood like wine,
Shall come down from his lofty place,
And in the busy moil
Take up his task by hand or head
Among the Sons of Toil.

The man that grinds his fellow man
In factory, mine, or mill,
And takes three-fourths his laboured sweat
Produces, shall refill

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The hands and mouths he robbed by law:
By juster laws in force
Shall Labour's Wealth return to him
From whom it has its source.

The man who holds vast tracts of land
That should be held by all,
Whose title-deeds are drawn in blood,
Where rightful owners fall—
We hold no man shall own the earth:
'Tis Nature's gift to all :
As well lay claim to summer's rain
Or sunbeams on the wall.

Ye priestly band throughout the land,
No more to Mammon bow,
But rise and preach the cause that's just—
We call upon ye now.
The life we have must stand before
All thoughts of what may be—
The ailing wife and starving babe
Before Eternity.

We march along, a Mighty Throng
Encircling all the earth,
Fast gathering to our inmost selves
Whate'er there is of worth.
The day draws nigh,—'tis all but here—
For tyrant-times are past,
When man shall own whate'er he earns,
And Right shall reign at last.