No one will for bread be crying,
We'll have freedom, love and health.
When the grand red flag is flying
In the Workers' Commonwealth.
THE RED FLAG.
By James Connell.
The workers' flag is deepest red,
It shrouded oft, our martyred dead;
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold
Their life blood dyed its every fold.
CHORUS:
Then raise the scarlet standard high
Beneath its folds, we'll live and die,
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the red flag flying here.
Look 'round the Frenchman loves its blaze
The sturdy German chants its praise;
In Moscow's vaults, its hymns are sung,
Chicago swells its surging song.
It waved above our infant might
When all ahead seemed dark as night;
It witnessed many a deed and vow,
We will not change its color now.
It suits today, the meek and base
Whose minds are fixed on pelf and place;
To cringe beneath the rich man's frown,
And haul that sacred emblem down.
With heads uncovered, swear we all,
To bear it onward till we fall;
Come dungeons dark, or gallows grim,
This song shall be our parting hymn!
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