Aye, through our veins since earliest days, 'tis poor man's blood has run. . .
Treasure ye in your inmost heart this legacy of hate
For those who on the poor man's back have climbed to high estate,
The lords of land and capital, the slave lords of our age,
Who of this smiling earth of ours have made for us a cage. . .
And howsoe'er you earn your wage, and wheresoe'er you go,
Be it beneath the tropic heat or 'mid the northern snow,
Or closely pent in factory walls, or burrowing in the mine,
Or scorching in the furnace hell of steamers 'cross the brine. . .
The men and women of your class, tell them their wrongs and yours—
Plant in their hearts that hatred deep that suffers and endures,
And treasuring up each deed of wrong, each scornful word and look,
Inscribe it in the memory, as others in a book.
And wait and watch through galling years the ripening of time,
Yet deem to strike before that hour were worse than folly—crime!
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