Striking Times
Cheer up, cheer up, you sons of toil, and listen to my song,
While I try to amuse you — it will not take me long.
The working men of England at length begin to see,
They've made a bold strike for their rights in 1853.
And it's high time that working men should have it their own way,
And for a fair day's labour receive a fair day's pay.
This is the time for striking, at least it strikes me so,
Monopoly has had some knocks, but this must be the blow;
The working men by thousands complain their lot is hard,
May order mark their conduct and success be their reward.
Some of our London printers this glorious work begun,
And surely they've done something, for they've upset the Sun .
Employers must be made to see they can't do what they like;
It is the masters' greediness that causes men to strike.
The labouring men of London on both sides of the Thames,
They made a strike last Monday, which adds much to their names.
Their masters did not relish it, but made them understand,
Before the next day's sun had set they gave them their demand.
The unflinching men of Stockport, Kidderminster in their train,
Three hundred honest weavers struck, their ends all for to gain.
Though masters find they lose a deal the tide must soon be turning;
They find the men won't quietly be robbed of half their earning.
Our London weavers mean to show their masters and the trade
That they will either cease to work or else be better paid.
In Spitalfields the weavers worked with joy in former ages,
But they're tired out of asking for a better scale of wages.
The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made,
For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid;
They roll along in splendour and with a saucy tone,
As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone.
At Liverpool the postmen struck and sent word to their betters,
Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters;
They asked for three bob more a week and got it in a crack,
And though each man has got his bag they have not got the sack.
The coopers and the dockyard men are all a-going to strike,
And soon there'll be the devil to pay without a little mike.
The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go,
And swear they'll have their wages rose before they reap or sow.
While I try to amuse you — it will not take me long.
The working men of England at length begin to see,
They've made a bold strike for their rights in 1853.
And it's high time that working men should have it their own way,
And for a fair day's labour receive a fair day's pay.
This is the time for striking, at least it strikes me so,
Monopoly has had some knocks, but this must be the blow;
The working men by thousands complain their lot is hard,
May order mark their conduct and success be their reward.
Some of our London printers this glorious work begun,
And surely they've done something, for they've upset the Sun .
Employers must be made to see they can't do what they like;
It is the masters' greediness that causes men to strike.
The labouring men of London on both sides of the Thames,
They made a strike last Monday, which adds much to their names.
Their masters did not relish it, but made them understand,
Before the next day's sun had set they gave them their demand.
The unflinching men of Stockport, Kidderminster in their train,
Three hundred honest weavers struck, their ends all for to gain.
Though masters find they lose a deal the tide must soon be turning;
They find the men won't quietly be robbed of half their earning.
Our London weavers mean to show their masters and the trade
That they will either cease to work or else be better paid.
In Spitalfields the weavers worked with joy in former ages,
But they're tired out of asking for a better scale of wages.
The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made,
For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid;
They roll along in splendour and with a saucy tone,
As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone.
At Liverpool the postmen struck and sent word to their betters,
Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters;
They asked for three bob more a week and got it in a crack,
And though each man has got his bag they have not got the sack.
The coopers and the dockyard men are all a-going to strike,
And soon there'll be the devil to pay without a little mike.
The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go,
And swear they'll have their wages rose before they reap or sow.
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