| |
| THE HILLS are very bare and cold and lonely; | |
| I wonder what the future months will bring. | |
| The strike is on—our strength would win, if only— | |
| O, Buddy, how I’m longing for the spring! | |
| |
| They’ve got us down—their martial lines enfold us; | 5 |
| They’ve thrown us out to feel the winter’s sting, | |
| And yet, by God, those curs can never hold us, | |
| Nor could the dogs of hell do such a thing! | |
| |
| It isn’t just to see the hills beside me | |
| Grow fresh and green with every growing thing; | 10 |
| I only want the leaves to come and hide me, | |
| To cover up my vengeful wandering. | |
| |
| I will not watch the floating clouds that hover | |
| Above the birds that warble on the wing; | |
| I want to use this GUN from under cover— | 15 |
| O, Buddy, how I’m longing for the spring! | |
| |
| You see them there, below, the damned scab-herders! | |
| Those puppets on the greedy Owners’ String; | |
| We’ll make them pay for all their dirty murders— | |
| We’ll show them how a starveling’s hate can sting! | 20 |
| |
| They riddled us with volley after volley; | |
| We heard their speeding bullets zip and ring, | |
| But soon we’ll make them suffer for their folly— | |
| O, Buddy, how I’m longing for the spring! | |
| |
