With features haggard and worn;
With a child in its coffin--dead;
With a wife and sons o'er a fireless hearth,
In a hovel with never a bed;
While the wind through lattice and door
Is driving the sleet and rain,
A workman strong, with sinews of steel,
Sits singing this dismal refrain:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

Ah! What though the little ones die,
And women sink weary and weak;
And the paths of life, with suffering rife,
Be paved with the hearts that break?
While souls, famine-smitten and crusht,
Seek food in the skies away,
This workman strong, with sinews of steel,
Sits singing his terrible lay:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

And while the dark workhouse gate
Is besieged by a famishing crowd,
Forge, hammer, and mine, with their mission divine,
Lie dumb, like a corpse in a shroud.
And Plenty, with beckon and smile,
Points up at the golden rain
That is ready to fall to beautify all,
But is checked by the dread refrain:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.

Alas! That a spirit so brave,
That a heart so loyal and true,
Should crouch in the dust with a sightless trust
At the nod of a selfish few.
Alas! That the olden ties--
The links binding Master and Man--
Should be broken in twain, and this ghostly refrain
Cloud all with its shadowy ban:
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Let the bright wheels of Industry rust:
Let us earn in our shame
A pauper's name,
Or eat of a criminal crust.