At the docks there is a strike|
That the company don't like.
A tanner on the hour they'll have to pay.
Like slaves they'd have us work,
Far more than any Turk,
And make us sweat our lives out every day.
Strike, boys, strike for better wages,
Strike, boys, strike for better pay,
Go on fighting at the docks.
Stick it out like fighting cocks,
Go on fighting till the bosses they give way.
Every morning' there are flocks
For employment at the docks,
Hard working men who scarce can get a meal;
With wives and children dear,
It would make you shed a tear
If only you knew the hardship that they feel.
If it's slavery that you seek,|
For about a quid a week,
They'll take you on as soon as you come near.
Sweat your guts out with a will
Or they'll try your job to fill,
But that won't wash with working men, that's clear.
We'll stand up for our rights,
And the company we will fight,
Supported by our brothers everywhere,
For we have friends galore -
The good old stevedores,
And the seamen and the firemen they are there.
Starvation, 'tis they bids
To a man with seven kids,
When he brings home only fifteen pence a day,
For what can you get to eat
On seven-and-six a week,
When it often takes it all the rent to pay?
Here's a health to Mr Burns,|
He's done us all a turn,
Ben Tillett, Mann and Mr Toomey, too;
We won't give in a bit,
for we've got 'em in a fit,
And we've put the old dock company in a stew.