Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/13

 

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;
 * 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;

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—
 * O, Buddy, hoI'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 starving hate can sting!

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—
 * Oh, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!

Paint Creek, W. Va., 1913 