Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/276

 that I've at last got hold of somethin' with a taste in it, my stomach won't keep it. (He sits down on the bench by the stove crying.)

(with a sudden violent ebullition of rage):—And yet there are people not far from here, justices they call themselves too, over-fed brutes, that have nothing to do all the year round but invent new ways of wasting their time. And these people say that the weavers would be quite well off if only they weren't so lazy.

they're monsters.
 * —The men as say that are no men at all,

the place hot for 'em. Becker and I have been and given Dreissiger (the master) a piece of our mind, and before we came away we sang him "Bloody Justice."
 * —Never mind, Father Ansorge; we're making


 * —Good Lord! Is that the song?


 * —Yes; I have it here.


 * —They call it Dreissiger's song, don't they?


 * —I'll read it to you.


 * —Who wrote it?

(He reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect accentuation, but unmistakably strong feeling. Despair, suffering, rage, hatred, thirst for revenge, all find utterance.)
 * —That's what nobody knows. Now listen.

The justice to us weavers dealt Is bloody, cruel, and hateful; Our life's one torture, long drawn out: For lynch law we'd be grateful.

Stretched on the rack day after day, Hearts sick and bodies aching, Our heavy sighs their witness bear To spirit slowly breaking.