Songs of the Workers (15th edition)/Fifty Thousand Lumberjacks
FIFTY THOUSAND LUMBERJACKS
(Tune: "Portland County Jail")
Fifty thousand lumberjacks, fifty thousand packs,
Fifty thousand dirty rolls of blankets on their backs,
Fifty thousand minds made up to strike and strike like men;
For fifty years they've "packed" a bed, but never will again.
Fifty thousand wooden bunks full of things that crawl;
Fifty thousand restless men have left them once for all.
One by one they dared not say, "Fat, the hours are long."
If they did they'd hike—but now fifty thousand strong.
Fatty Rich, we know game, know your pride is pricked.
Say—but why not be a man, and own when you are licked?
They've joined the One Big Union—Gee. For goodness sake, "get wise"!
The more you try to buck them now the more they organize.
Take a tip and start right in—plan some cozy rooms,
Six or eight spring beds in each, with towels, sheets and brooms;
Shower baths for men who work keeps them well and fit.
A laundry, too, and drying room, would help a little bit.
Get some dishes, white and clean; good pure food to eat.
See that cook has help enough to keep the table neat.
Tap the bell for eight hours work; treat the boys like men,
And fifty thousand lumberjacks may come to work again.
Men who work should be well paid. "A man's a man for a' that."
Many a man has a home to keep same as yourself, Old Fat.
Mothers, sisters, sweethearts, wives, children, too, galore,
Stand behind the men to win this bread and butter war.
"Such a lot of devils," that's what the papers say—
"They've gone on strike for shorter hours and some increase in pay.
They left the camps, the lazy tramps, they all walked out as one;
They say they'll win the strike or put the bosses on the bum."