Their labor has builded humble homes,
And cities with lofty halls;
And the one owns cities and houses and lands
And the ninety and nine have empty hands.
But the night so dreary and dark and long,
At last shall the morning bring;
And over the land the victor's song
Of the ninety and nine shall ring,
And echo afar, from zone to zone,
"Rejoice! for Labor shall have its own."
Now, workingmen, you know you live a life of misery,
So join the union of your class, determined to be free.
Don't let the master gouge your lives for many years to come,
But organize upon the job and put him on the bum.
CHORUS:
It's the road to Emancipation, it's the right way to go;
For the toilers to run the nation, and the world both high and low.
Kick in, and do your duty; for it's up to you and me—
It's the One Big Union of the Workers that will bring prosperity.
Don't be a meek and lowly slave like lots of those you meet,
Don't be a servile scissorbill and lick the bosses' feet.
Don't let them starve you off the earth, don't fear their prison cell,
Make your laws in the union hall—the rest can go to hell.
Now, workingmen, the masters they have no more jobs to give;
You must form the taking habit if you ever wish to live.
Postponing meals is suicide on the installment plan,
So organize to get the goods, and take them like a man.
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