Some men, faint-hearted, ever seek

Our programme to retouch,

And will insist, when're they speak

That we demand too much.

'Tis passing strange, yet I declare

Such statements cause me mirth,

For our demands most moderate are,

We only want the earth.



"Be moderate" the trimmers cry.

Who dread the tyrants thunder.

You ask too much and people fly

From you aghast in wonder.

'Tis passing strange, for I declare

Such statements give me mirth,

For our demands most moderate are,

We only want the earth.



Our masters all a godly crew,

Whose hearts throb for the poor,

Their sympathies assure us, too,

If our demands were fewer.

Most generous souls! But please observe,

What they enjoy from birth

Is all we ever had the nerve

To ask, that is, the earth.



The"labour fakir" full of guile,

Base doctrine ever preaches,

And whilst he bleeds the rank and file

Tame moderation teaches.

Yet, in despite, we'll see the day

When, with sword in its girth,

Labour shall march in war array

To seize its own, the earth.



For labour long' with sighs and tears,

To its oppressors knelt.

But never yet, to aught save fears,

Did the heart of tyrant melt.

We need not kneel, our cause no dearth

Of loyal soldiers' needs

And our victorious rallying cry

Shall be we want the earth!