OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Mr. Block

MR. BLOCK.
By Joe Hill.
(Air: "It Looks To Me Like a Big Time Tonight.")
Please give me your attention, I'll introduce to you A man that is a credit to "Our Red, White and Blue"; His head is made of lumber, and solid as a rock; He is a common worker and his name is Mr. Block. And Block he thinks he may Be President some day.
CHORUS:
Oh, Mr. Block, you were born by mistake, You take the cake, You make me ache. Tie on a rock to your block and then jump in the lake, Kindly do that for Liberty's sake.
Yes, Mr. Block is lucky; he found a job, by gee! The sharks got seven dollars, for job and fare and fee. They shipped him to a desert and dumped him with his truck, But when he tried to find his job, he sure was out of luck, He shouted, "That's too raw, I'll fix them with the law."
Block hiked back to the city, but wasn't doing well. He said, "I'll join the union—the great A. F. of L." He got a job next morning, got fired in the night, He said, "I'll see Sam Gompers and he'll fix that foreman right." Sam Gompers said, "You see, You've got our sympathy."
Election day he shouted, "A Socialist for Mayor!" The "comrade" got elected, he happy was for fair, But after the election he got an awful shock, A great big socialistic Bull did rap him on the block. And Comrade Block did sob, "I helped him to his job."
The money kings in Cuba blew up the gunboat Maine, But Block got awful angry and blamed it all on Spain. He went right in the battle and there he lost his leg, And now he's peddling shoestrings and is walking on a peg. He shouts, "Remember Maine, Hurrah! To hell with Spain!"
Poor Block he died one evening, I'm very glad to state, He climbed the golden ladder up to the pearly gate. He said, "Oh, Mr. Peter, one word I'd like to tell, I'd like to meet the Astorbilts and John D. Rockefell." Old Pete said, "Is that so? You'll meet them down below."
STAND UP! YE WORKERS.
By Ethel Comer.
(Air: "Stand Up For Jesus.")
Stand up! Stand up! Ye workers; Stand up in all your might. Unite beneath our banner, For Liberty and right. From victory unto victory This army sure will go, To win the world for labor And vanquish every foe.
Stand up! Stand up! Ye workers; Stand up in every land. Unite, and fight for freedom, In ONE BIG UNION grand. Put on the workers' armor, Which is the card of Red, Then all the greedy tyrants Will have to earn their bread.
Arouse! Arouse! Ye toilers, The strife will not be long. This day the noise of battle, The next the victor's song. All ye that slave for wages, Stand up and break your chain: Unite in ONE BIG UNION— You've got a world to gain.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Stand Up, Ye Workers

STAND UP! YE WORKERS.
By Ethel Comer.
(Air: "Stand Up For Jesus.")
Stand up! Stand up! Ye workers; Stand up in all your might. Unite beneath our banner, For Liberty and right. From victory unto victory This army sure will go, To win the world for labor And vanquish every foe.
Stand up! Stand up! Ye workers; Stand up in every land. Unite, and fight for freedom, In ONE BIG UNION grand. Put on the workers' armor, Which is the card of Red, Then all the greedy tyrants Will have to earn their bread.
Arouse! Arouse! Ye toilers, The strife will not be long. This day the noise of battle, The next the victor's song. All ye that slave for wages, Stand up and break your chain: Unite in ONE BIG UNION— You've got a world to gain.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Christians at War

CHRISTIANS AT WAR.
By John F. Kendrick.
(Tune: "Onward, Christian Soldiers.")
Onward, Christian soldiers! Duty's way is plain: Slay your Christian neighbors, or by them be slain. Pulpiteers are spouting effervescent swill, God above is calling you to rob and rape and kill, All your acts are sanctified by the Lamb on high; If you love the Holy Ghost, go murder, pray and die.
Onward, Christian soldiers, rip and tear and smite! Let the gentle Jesus, bless your dynamite. Splinter skulls with shrapnel, fertilize the sod; Folks who do not speak your tongue, deserve the curse of God. Smash the doors of every home, pretty maidens seize; Use your might and sacred right to treat them as you please.
Onward, Christian soldiers! Eat and drink your fill; Rob with bloody fingers, Christ O. K.'s the bill. Steal the farmer's savings, take their grain and meat; Even though the children starve, the Saviour's bums must eat. Burn the peasant's cottages, orphans leave bereft; In Jehovah's holy name, wreak ruin right and left.
Onward, Christian soldiers! Drench the land with gore; Mercy is a weakness all the gods abhor. Bayonet the babies, jab the mothers, too; Hoist the cross of Calvary to hallow all you do. File your bullets' noses flat, poison every well; God decrees your enemies must all go plumb to hell.
Onward, Christian Soldiers! Blighting all you meet, Trampling human freedom under pious feet. Praise the Lord whose dollar sign dupes his favored race! Make the foreign trash respect your bullion brand of grace. Trust in mock salvation, serve as pirates' tools; History will say of you: "That pack of G—— d—— fools."
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Workers of the World

WORKERS OF THE WORLD.
(Air: "Lillibulero")
By Connell
Stand up, ye toilers, why crouch ye like cravens? Why clutch an existence of insult and want? Why stand to be plucked by an army of ravens, Or hoodwink'd forever by twaddle and cant? Think of the wrongs ye bear, Think on the rags ye wear, Think on the insults endur'd from your birth; Toiling in snow and rain, Rearing up heaps of grain, All for the tyrants who grind you to earth.
Your brains are as keen as the brains of your masters, In swiftness and strength ye surpass them by far; Ye've brave hearts to teach you to laugh at disasters, Ye vastly outnumber your tyrants in war. Why, then, like cowards stand, Using not brain or hand, Thankful like dogs when they throw you a bone? What right have they to take Things that ye toil to make? Know ye not, workers, that all is your own?
Rise in your might, brothers, bear it no longer; Assemble in masses throughout the whole land; Show these incapables who are the stronger When workers and idlers confronted shall stand. Thro' Castle, Court and Hall, Over their acres all, Onwards we'll press like waves of the sea, Claiming the wealth we've made, Ending the spoiler's trade; Labor shall triumph and mankind be free.
"War is Hell" for the workers. Let us make the Class War a nightmare for the masters.
"The poor—is any country his? What are to me your glories and your industries—they are not mine."
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Solidarity Forever

SOLIDARITY FOREVER.
By Ralph H. Chaplin.
(Tune: "John Brown's Body.")
When the Union's inspiration through the worker's blood shall run, There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun, Yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one? But the Union makes us strong.
CHORUS:
Solidarity forever! Solidarity forever! Solidarity forever! For the Union makes us strong.
Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might? Is there anything left for us but to organize and fight? For the Union makes us strong.
It is we who plowed the prairies; built the cities where they trade, Dug the mines and built the workshops; endless miles of railroad laid. Now we stand, outcast and starving, mid the wonders we have made; But the Union makes us strong.
All the world that's owned by idle drones, is ours and ours alone. We have laid the wide foundations; built it skywards, stone by stone. It is ours, and not to slave in, but to master and to own, While the Union makes us strong.
They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to earn But without our brain and muscle not a single wheel can turn. We can break their haughty power; gain our freedom, when we learn That, the Union makes us strong.
In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold; Greater than the might of armies, magnified a thousand fold. We can bring to birth the new world from the ashes of the old, For the Union makes us strong.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/The White Slave

THE WHITE SLAVE.
By Joe Hill.
(Air: "Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland.")
One little girl, fair as a pearl, Worked every day in a laundry; All that she made for food she paid, So she slept on a park bench so soundly; An old procuress spied her there, She came and whispered in her ear:
CHORUS:
Come with me now, my girly, Don't sleep out in the cold: Your face and tresses curly Will bring you fame and gold, Automobiles to ride in, diamonds and silk to wear, You'll be a star bright, down in the red light, You'll make your fortune there.
Same little girl, no more a pearl, Walks all alone 'long the river, Five years have flown, her health is gone, She would look at the water and shiver, Whene'er she'd stop to rest and sleep, She'd hear a voice call from the deep:
CHORUS:
Girls in this way, fall every day, And have been falling for ages, Who is to blame? you know his name, It's the boss that pays starvation wages. A homeless girl can always hear Temptations calling everywhere.
CHORUS:
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Overalls and Snuff

OVERALLS AND SNUFF.
(Tune: "Wearing of the Green.")
One day as I was walking along the railroad track, I met a man in Wheatland with his blankets on his back, He was an old-time hop picker, I'd seen his face before, I knew he was a wobbly, by the button that he wore. By the button that he wore, by the button that he wore I knew he was a wobbly, by the button that he wore.
He took his blankets off his back and sat down on the rail And told us some sad stories 'bout the workers down in jail. He said the way they treat them there,he never saw the like, For they're putting men in prison just for going out on strike, Just for going out on strike, just for going out on strike, They're putting men in prison, just for going out on strike.
They have sentenced Ford and Suhr, and they've got them in the pen, If they catch a wobbly in their burg, they vag him there and then. There is one thing I can tell you, and it makes the bosses sore, As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more. We can always get some more, we can always get some more, As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more.
Oh, Horst and Durst are mad as hell, they don't know what to do. And the rest of those hop barons are all feeling mighty blue. Oh, we've tied up all their hop fields, and the scabs refuse to come, And we're going to keep on striking till we put them on the bum. Till we put them on the bum, till we put them on the bum, We're going to keep on striking till we put them on the bum.
Now we've got to stick together, boys, and strive with all our might, We must free Ford and Suhr, boys, we've got to win this fight. From these scissorbill hop barons we are taking no more bluff, We'll pick no more damned hops for them, for overalls and snuff, For our overalls and snuff, for our overalls and snuff, We'll pick no more damned hops for them, for overalls and snuff.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Don't Take My Papa Away From Me

DON'T TAKE MY PAPA AWAY FROM ME.
Words and Music by Joe Hill
(Written just before his execution)
A little girl with her father stayed, in a cabin across the sea, Her mother dear in the cold grave lay; with her father she'd always be— But then one day the great war broke out and the father was told to go; The little girl pleaded—her father she needed. She begged, cried and pleaded, so:
CHORUS
Don't take my papa away from me, don't leave me there all alone. He has cared for me so tenderly, ever since mother was gone. Nobody ever like him can be, no one can so with me play. Don't take my papa away from me; please don't take papa away.
Her tender pleadings were all in vain, and her father went to the war. He'll never kiss her good night again, for he fell 'mid the cannon's roar. Greater a soldier was never born, but his brave heart was pierced one day; And as he was dying, he heard some one crying, A girl's voice from far away:
CHORUS
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/The Hope of the Ages

THE HOPE OF THE AGES.
By E. Nesbit.
(Tune: "Three Cheers for the Red, White and Blue.")
If you dam up the river of progress— At your peril and cost let it be; That river must seawards despite you— 'Twill break down your dams and be free; And we heed not the pitiful barriers That you in its way have downcast; For your efforts but add to the torrent, Whose flood must overwhelm you at last.
CHORUS:
For our banner is rais'd and unfurled; At your head our defiance is hurled; Our cry is the cry of the ages— Our hope is the hope of the world.
We laugh in the face of the forces That strengthen the flood they oppose; For the harder oppression the fiercer The current will be when it flows. We shall win, and the tyrant's battalions Will scatter like chaff in the fight. From which the true Soldiers of Freedom Shall gather new courage and might.
Whether leading the van of the fighters, In bitterest stress of the strife; Or patiently bearing the burden Of changelessly commonplace life, One hope we have ever before us, Our aim to attain and fulfill, One watchword we cherish to mark us, One kindred and brotherhood still.
What matter if failure on failure Crowd closely upon us and press? When a hundred have bravely been beaten The hundred and first wins success. Our watchword is "Freedom"; new soldiers Flock each day where her flag is unfurled, Our cry is the cry of the ages, Our hope is the hope of the world.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Stung Right

STUNG RIGHT.
By Joe Hill.
(Air: "Sunlight, Sunlight.")
When I was hiking 'round the town to find a job one day, I saw a sign that thousand men were wanted right away, To take a trip around the world in Uncle Sammy's fleet, I signed my name a dozen times upon a great big sheet.
CHORUS:
Stung right, stung right, S-T-U-N-G, Stung right, stung right, E. Z. Mark, that's me; When my term is over, and again I'm free, There'll be no more trips around the world for me.
The man he said, "The U. S. fleet, that is no place for slaves, The only thing you have to do is stand and watch the waves." But in the morning, five o'clock, they woke me from my snooze, To scrub the deck and polish brass and shine the captain's shoes.
One day a dude in uniform to me commenced to shout, I simply plugged him in the jaw and knocked him down and out; They slammed me right in irons then and said, "You are a case." On bread and water then I lived for twenty-seven days.
One day the captain said, "Today I'll show you something nice. All hands line up, we'll go ashore and have some exercise." He made us run for seven miles as fast as we could run, And with a packing on our back that weighed a half a ton.
Some time ago when Uncle Sam he had a war with Spain, And many of the boys in blue were in the battle slain, Not all were killed by bullets, though; no, not by any means, The biggest part that died were killed by Armour's Pork and Beans.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/The Optimistic Laborites

THE OPTIMISTIC LABORITES.
By John F. Kendrick.
(Tune: "The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls.")
We'll sing in praises of future days, The happy times to be, When every man shall guard the plan That every man be free. We have no ties beyond the skies, Our loves and hopes are here; No holy fool can make us drool The dismal hymns of fear.
With ready hand we take our stand To hope and work and fight; And while we live, our strength we'll give For liberty and right. We make all wealth, conserve all health, By cunning craft and trade; We bring all joys, for we're the boys Of hammer, brush and spade.
Then live the part that warms the heart, And wakens manhood's pride: All Nature's laws confirm the cause For which our comrades died. Some day we'll own the fields we've sown, When hunger's rule is past; No child shall slave to feed a knave, When man is free at last.
THE "BLANKET STIFF."
He built the road, With others of his class he built the road, Now o'er it, many a weary mile, he packs his load, Chasing a job, spurred on by hunger's goad, He walks and walks and walks and walks And wonders why in Hell he built the road.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Casey Jones—The Union Scab

CASEY JONES—THE UNION SCAB.
By Joe Hill.
The Workers on the S. P. line to strike sent out a call; But Casey Jones, the engineer, he wouldn't strike at all; His boiler it was leaking, and its drivers on the bum, And his engine and its bearings, they were all out of plumb.
CHORUS:
Casey Jones kept his junk pile running; Casey Jones was working double time; Casey Jones got a wooden medal, For being good and faithful on the S. P. line.
The Workers said to Casey: "Won't you help us win this strike?" But Casey said: "Let me alone, you'd better take a hike." Then some one put a bunch of railroad ties across the track, And Casey hit the river with an awful crack.
Casey Jones hit the river bottom; Casey Jones broke his blooming spine, Casey Jones was an Angeleno, He took a trip to heaven on the S. P. line.
When Casey Jones got up to heaven to the Pearly Gate, He said: "I'm Casey Jones, the guy that pulled the S. P. freight." "You're just the man," said Peter; "our musicians went on strike; You can get a job a-scabbing any time you like."
Casey Jones got a job in heaven; Casey Jones was doing mighty fine; Casey Jones went scabbing on the angels, Just like he did to workers on the S. P. line.
The angels got together, and they said it wasn't fair, For Casey Jones to go around a-scabbing everywhere. The Angels' Union No. 23, they sure was there, And they promptly fired Casey down the Golden Stair.
Casey Jones went to Hell a-flying. "Casey Jones," the Devil said, "Oh fine; Casey Jones, get busy shoveling sulphur: That's what you get for scabbing on the S. P. line."
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/It is the Union

IT IS THE UNION.
By Richard Brazier.
(Tune: "We Have a Navy.")
Sing a song in praise of toiling masses, Sing a song about our sons of toil; Sing of wrongs done to the working classes, Wrongs that make our hearts boil. We have always borne the blows and lashes— No more we'll patient stand, But on every hand, throughout this splendid land, We sons of toil will make our stand. Then in our glory will we tower, What will be the secret of our power?
CHORUS:
It is the Union, the Industrial Union— Our banner is unfurled. We will unite in all our splendid might In the Industrial Workers of the World. We have a union, a fighting union, And our masters know that, too. It will keep them in their place When they know they have to face Our union of workingmen that's true.
For countless years and ages we've been enslaved Beneath the capitalistic rule; We, the strong, cringing to those men depraved, In whose hands we have ever been a tool. But the day of liberty is dawning— Freedom now draws nigh. We must unite to win the fight— Wage slavery then will die. Then in our glory will we tower; Great will be the workers' power.
An eight-hour day for all employed workers, would put thousands of the unemployed to work.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/We Will Sing One Song

WE WILL SING ONE SONG.
By Joe Hill.
(Air: "My Old Kentucky Home.")
We will sing one song of the meek and humble slave, The horn-handed son of the toil, He's toiling hard from the cradle to the grave, But his master reaps the profits from his toil. Then we'll sing one song of the greedy master class, They're vagrants in broadcloth, indeed, They live by robbing the ever-toiling mass, Human blood they spill to satisfy their greed.
CHORUS:
Organize! Oh, toilers, come organize your might; Then we'll sing one song of the workers' commonwealth. Full of beauty, full of love and health.
We will sing one song of the politician sly, He's talking of changing the laws; Election day all the drinks and smokes he'll buy, While's he living from the sweat of your brow. Then we'll sing one song of the girl below the line, She's scorned and despised everywhere, While in their mansions the "keepers" wine and dine From the profit that immoral traffic bear.
We will sing one song of the preacher, fat and sleek, He tells you of homes in the sky. He says, "Be generous, be lowly, and be meek, If you don't you'll sure get roasted when you die." Then we'll sing one song of the poor and ragged tramp, He carries his home on his back; Too old to work, he's not wanted 'round the camp, So he wanders without aim along the track.
We will sing one song of the children in the mills , They're taken from playgrounds and schools, In tender years made to go the pace that kills, In the sweatshops, 'mong the looms and the spools. Then we'll sing one song of the One Big Union Grand, The hope of the toiler and slave, It's coming fast; it is sweeping sea and land, To the terror of the grafter and the knave.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/The Rebel Girl

THE REBEL GIRL.
Words and Music by Joe Hill
(Copyrighted 1916)
There are women of many descriptions In this queer world, as everyone knows. Some are living in beautiful mansions, And are wearing the finest of clothes. There are blue blooded queens and princesses, Who have charms made of diamonds and pearl; But the only and thoroughbred lady Is the Rebel Girl.
CHORUS:
That's the Rebel Girl, that's the Rebel Girl! To the working class she's a precious pearl. She brings courage, pride and joy To the fighting Rebel Boy. We've had girls before, but we need some more In the Industrial Workers of the World. For it's great to fight for freedom With a Rebel Girl.
Yes, her hands may be hardened from labor, And her dress may not be very fine; But a heart in her bosom is beating That is true to her class and her kind. And the grafters in terror are trembling When her spite and defiance she'll hurl; For the only and thoroughbred lady Is the Rebel Girl.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/We're Ready

WE'RE READY.
(Air: "Soldier's Song.")
Courage and honor to him who's jailed; Our hearts shall cheer him and cry "All Hail!" Our hands shall help to win the fight— We're ready to fight, we're ready to die For Liberty.
Words and Music of "The Rebel Girl" may be obtained in popular sheet form by applying to I. W. W. Publishing Bureau.
# Songs of the Workers (9th edition)/Wage Workers, Come Join the Union

WAGE WORKERS, COME JOIN THE UNION.
(Tune: "Battle Hymn of the Republic.")
We have seen the reaper toiling in the heat of summer sun, We have seen his children needy when the harvesting was done, We have seen a mighty army dying, helpless, one by one, While their flag went marching on.
CHORUS:
Wage workers, come join the union! Wage workers, come join the union! Wage workers, come join the union! Industrial Workers of the World.
O, the army of the wretched, how they swarm the city street— We have seen them in the midnight, where the Goths and Vandals meet; We have shuddered in the darkness at the noises of their feet, But their cause went marching on.
Our slavers' marts are empty, human flesh no more is sold, Where the dealer's fatal hammer wakes the clink of leaping gold, But the slavers of the present more relentless powers hold, Though the world goes marching on.
But no longer shall the children bend above the whizzing wheel, We will free the weary women from their bondage under steel; In the mines and in the forest worn and helpless man shall feel That his cause is marching on.
Then lift your eyes, ye toilers, in the desert hot and drear, Catch the cool winds from the mountains. Hark! the river's voice is near: Soon we'll rest beside the fountain and the dreamland will be here As we go marching on.