We of the hut and the hovel,
We of the grime and sweat,
To you of the purple and linen fine,
Of the palace home and the sparkling wine,
Are exceedingly in debt!

For our bread we are indebted
To you of the banquet spread,—
For the crumbs that fall when ye need no more,
For the hunger howls of the wolf at the door,
Ye, for our famished dead!

For our lives we are indebted
To ye that lord the earth!
Our lives! Ha, ha! Look on and see
For the gift how thankful we should be!
Ye gods! Is it not worth?

For its round of ceaseless travail,
Of knavish fears and cares,
For darkened mind and stunted frame,
For childhood lost and blotted name,
We owe you, O Millionaires!

For many a long-drawn contest,
Our hunger against your gold,—
Your gold and the right arm of the law,
And the breath of Famine's gasping maw,
'Gainst us, O ye Warriors bold!

Red Cœur d'Alene and Homestead
Were yours, Victorious Foe,
And the cities twain beside the Lakes,
Where brothers fell e'en for our sakes!
But ours was the debt and woe!

For ever and ever it crieth,
And we may not forget,
The blood of the murdered Twenty-four!
Say, shall we pay you with golden ore,
O Plutocrats, this deep debt?

Yea, but our debts be many,
We of the grime and sweat
Awake, O Sleepers, O Blind, and think!
'Tis not well to dream on the crater's brink!
We love not to be in debt!