Two Chartist Songs

Men of the honest heart,
    Men of the stalwart hand,
Men, willing to obey,
    Thence able to command:

Men of the rights withheld,
    Slaves of the power abused,
Machines cast to neglect,
    When your freshness has been used.

Ye labourers in the vineyard,
    We call you to your toil!
Though bleak may be the furrows,
    The seed is in the soil.

'Tis not to raise a palace,
    Where Royalty may dwell,
Nor build for broken hearts
    The petty parish hell;

'Tis not to turn the engine,
    'Tis not the field to till,
That, for the meed you gain,
    Might be a desert still!

'Tis not to dig the grave,
    Where the dying miner delves;
'Tis not to toil for others
    But to labour for yourselves.

And nobler coin will pay you,
    Than Kings did e'er award
To the men, they hired to murder,
    The brothers they should guard.

No glittering stars of knighthood,
    Shall soil your simple vest--
But the better star of honour 
    Brave heart in honest breast. 

No changing Norman titles,
    To hide your English name--
But the better one of freemen,
    With its blazoning of fame. 

Up!  Labourers in the vineyard!
    Prepare ye for your toil!
For the sun shines on the furrows,
    And the seed is in the soil.

A hundred years, a thousand years 
We are marching on the road. 
The going isn't easy yet, 
We've got a heavy load. 
  Oh - we've got a heavy load. 

The way is blind with blood and sweat 
And debt sings in our ears,
But time is marching on our side; 
We will defeat the years.
  Oh - we will defeat the years.

We men of bone of shrunken shank, 
Our only treasure: dearth
Women who carry at the breast 
Heirs to the hungry earth
  Oh - heirs to the hungry earth.

Speak with one voice, we march, we rest 
And march again upon the years
Sons of our sons are listening, 
To hear the Chartist cheers,
  Oh - to hear the Chartist cheers.