Tune: “O Tannenbaum.”
Ye scions that come from Erin’s shore,
Just list to what I have in store.
Of Celtic race and grace you came,
Of fighting blood and noble strain.
Your blood on every battle field
You’ve shed for master class to wield,
The Iron Hand in name of state
To bring you to an awful fate.
But Irish folk, you’re not to blame.
In other lands, it’s just the same.
The workers of the world are slaves;
The parasites are heartless knaves.
If you’d be free, you’ve got to stand
With working folk from every land.
Race prejudice you’ve got to banish
From out your minds and not be clannish.
Our interests are just the same
From County Cork to the State of Maine;
The masters rule with iron hand
From Australia to Baffin’s Land.
So workers of the world, unite
Beneath one banner for the right.
In Labor’s ranks, there is a place
For every one of every race.
Now Erin’s scions, again I say,
Don’t be a slacker in the fray.
The world for workers be your cry,
Resounded loud from earth to sky.