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Thomas Phillips Thompson

"Thirty Cents a Day! (karaoke)

"Thirty Cents a Day!" (sheet music)


In a dim-lighted chamber, a dying maiden lay;

The tide of her pulses was ebbing fast away;

In the flush of her youth, she was worn with toil and care,

And starvation showed its traces on the features once so fair.

 

No more the work-bell calls the weary one.

Rest, tired wage-slave, in your grave unknown.

Your feet will no more tread life's thorny, rugged way.

They have murdered you by inches upon thirty cents a day!

 

From earliest childhood, she'd toiled to win her bread;

In hunger and rags, oft she wished that she were dead;

She knew naught of life's joys or the pleasures wealth can bring

Or the glory of the woodland in the merry days of spring.

 

No more the work-bell calls the weary one.

Rest, tired wage-slave, in your grave unknown.

Your feet will no more tread life's thorny, rugged way.

They have murdered you by inches upon thirty cents a day!

 

By the rich, she was tempted to eat the bread of shame,

But her mother dear had taught her to value her good name;

Mid want and starvation, she waved temptation by;

As she would not sell her honor, she in poverty must die.

 

No more the work-bell calls the weary one.

Rest, tired wage-slave, in your grave unknown.

Your feet will no more tread life's thorny, rugged way.

They have murdered you by inches upon thirty cents a day!

 

She cried in her fever, "I pray you let me go,

For my work is yet to finish: I cannot leave it so.

The foreman will curse me and dock my scanty pay.

I am starving amid plenty upon thirty cents a day."

 

No more the work-bell calls the weary one.

Rest, tired wage-slave, in your grave unknown.

Your feet will no more tread life's thorny, rugged way.

They have murdered you by inches upon thirty cents a day!

 

Too late, Christian ladies! You cannot save her now.

She breathes out her life: see the death-damp on her brow.

Full soon she'll be sleeping beneath the churchyard clay

While you smile on those who killed her with thirty cents a day.

 

No more the work-bell calls the weary one.

Rest, tired wage-slave, in your grave unknown.

Your feet will no more tread life's thorny, rugged way.

They have murdered you by inches upon thirty cents a day!


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