[With apologies to Mr. Budyaid Kipling.]
Seven men from out the mines, up from work belong,
Rolling down the dusty road, shouting as we go,
Give the boys another glass, ain't we miners gay ?
Cause we've quit them bloomin' mines, out on strike to-day.
We won't stand no contract work, yes, we put it plain.
When they talked of contract terms Union men resisted.
No, we hold out for our rights, fighting might and main,
Union only calls us out 'cause t'other side persisted.
Fighting for our rights, my boy, cheering as we go;
Standing by each other, lad, giving blow for blow.
Fighting for our rights, my boy; don't you think it's play,
Bully for the Union boys, out on strike to-day.
Guess we work our time all right when the boss is by.
What's the odds if now and then we cut it a bit short :
Don't believe the boss himself would look a bit more spry,
Just you try an eight-hours' shift, you'll find it isn't sport.
Mind you what our leaders say, "Freedom is our goal,
No dictated terms for us, as each man owns his soul.
Yes, we mean to tight it out, cost us what it may,
Not much fear for Union boys out on strike to-day.
'Knowed that things would come to this, betted on a break;
Wondered if the shareholders would feel a precious shock.
Thank the Lord we haven't got a ha'porth's chink at stake ;
Not a cent invested in a single British Block.
"Listen to a compromise?" we don't care a cuss
Long as Union forks out pay. Sleath's the man for me.
"Listen for your children's sake." You be darned I say,
Compromise is tommy-rot with hands on strike to-day.
No, we know a thing or two, just you put that by-
Cut-throat competition soon would starve a man to death.
Them as say 'twill better us are telling what's a lie
Them as jaws that kind o' stuff are only wastin' breath.
Stand up for our rights, my mate's, steady as we go.
When they'd dock our wages rates, sternly answer "No."
We won't flinch or budge an inch, don't care what they say,
Not if "Union boys are found" on strike' at Judgment Day.
Once we changed our cheques for cash shovelled from the till ;
Paid our way like honest men every action free.
Now we take our daily dole, seldom get our fill
When the kids are howling for some extra meat or tea.
Now we hear our leaders spout, drearily we laugh ;
Boys, the strike has gone to pot—nothing left but chaff.
Darn their high-flown talk of "lights"' they can take their pay,
Making slaves of Union boys out on strike to-day.
Just a pack o' rotten lies, half their speeches are:
Some of them is right enough, but mostly goes too far.
Curse the whole concern. I'm blowed, "blacklegs" tho' we be.
If we don't get back to work, Unionists but free.
Seven men from all the world, talking as they go.
Tramping down a dusty road, steady, staid, and slow.
Stand another glass, old man, 'fore we sign away,
'Cause we've quit that bloomin' strike, back to work today.
"The Mopoke"
Notes
From the South Australian Newspaper The South Australian Register 20 Sep 1892 Page 7.
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