What ho! my lads, the time is ripe,
Away with foolish fear!
The slave may dread his master’s stripe,
We’ll have no tyrants here!
We’ll have no tyrants here, my boys.
No lords to rule the roast;
Their threats are nought but empty noise,
And nought but breath their boast.

Nor slaves nor kings in all our ranks
Shall evermore be found;
Elsewhere the knaves may play their pranks
But this is holy ground—
But this is holy ground, my friends,
Where Freedom’s cause is won,
Where tyrants all shall make amends
For all the wrong they’ve done.

In our Republic all shall share
The right to work and play;
The right to scoff at carking care,
And drive despair away—
Drive poverty away, my mates,
With struggle, strain and strife:
What use are Parliaments and States
Without a happy life?

When Hunger holds a harmless rod,
And all lands laugh for glee,
And none need fear a master’s nod,
And all are really free—
When all indeed are free, my hearts,
And our great Cause is won,

Oh, then, when Poverty departs,
Will all our work be done.