Wie kleine Kinder lernen - von 3-6 Jahren (Abridged)
Narrated by Manfred Spitzer, Norbert Herschkowitz
Manfred SpitzerAbridged — 1 hours, 16 minutes
Wie kleine Kinder lernen - von 3-6 Jahren (Abridged)
Narrated by Manfred Spitzer, Norbert Herschkowitz
Manfred SpitzerAbridged — 1 hours, 16 minutes
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Overview
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940171658106 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | mvg Verlag |
| Publication date: | 11/05/2018 |
| Edition description: | Abridged |
| Language: | German |
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Read an Excerpt
I.W.W. Songs
To Fan the Flames of Discontent
By PM Press
PM Press
Copyright © 2014 PM PressAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60486-998-9
CHAPTER 1
THE REBEL GIRL
Words and Music by Joe Hill
There are women of many descriptions
In this queer world, as everyone knows,
Some are living in beautiful mansions,
And are wearing the finest of clothes.
There are blue blooded queens and princesses,
Who have charms made of diamonds and pearl;
But the only and thoroughbred lady
Is the Rebel Girl.
CHORUS
That's the Rebel Girl, that's the Rebel Girl!
To the working class she's a precious pearl.
She brings courage, pride and joy
To the fighting Rebel Boy.
We've had girls before, but we need some more
In the Industrial Workers of the World.
For it's great to fight for freedom
With a Rebel Girl.
Yes, her hands may be hardened from labor,
And her dress may not be very fine;
But a heart in her bosom is beating
That is true to her class and her kind.
And the grafters in terror are trembling
When her spite and defiance she'll hurl;
For the only and thoroughbred lady
Is the Rebel Girl.
* * *
Words and Music of "The Rebel Girl" may be obtained in popular sheet form by applying to I. W. W. Publishing Bureau. Price 25 cents.
CHAPTER 2 THE INTERNATIONALE
By Eugene Pottier
(Translated by Charles H. Kerr)
Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!
Arise, ye wretched of the earth,
For justice thunders condemnation,
A better world's in birth.
No more tradition's chains shall bind us,
Arise, ye slaves; no more in thrall!
The earth shall rise on new foundations,
We have been naught, we shall be all.
REFR AIN
'Tis the final conflict,
Let each stand in his place,
The Industrial Union
Shall be the human race.
We want no condescending saviors
To rule us from a judgment hall;
We workers ask not for their favors;
Let us consult for all.
To make the thief disgorge his booty
To free the spirit from its cell,
We must ourselves decide our duty,
We must decide and do it well.
Behold them seated in their glory,
The kings of mine and rail and soil!
What have you read in all their story,
But how they plundered toil?
Fruits of the workers' toil are buried
In the strong coffers of a few;
In working for their restitution
The men will only ask their due.
WE WILL SING ONE SONG
By Joe Hill
(Air: "My Old Kentucky Home")
We will sing one song of the meek and humble slave,
The horny-handed son of toil,
He's toiling hard from the cradle to the grave,
But his master reaps the profit from his toil.
Then we'll sing one song of the greedy master class,
They're vagrants in broadcloth, indeed,
They live by robbing the ever-toiling mass,
Human blood they spill to satisfy their greed.
Chor us
Organize! Oh, toilers, come organize your might;
Then we'll sing one song of the workers' commonwealth.
Full of beauty, full of love and health.
We will sing one song of the politician sly,
He's talking of changing the laws;
Election day all the drinks and smokes he'll buy,
While we make the welkin ring with our applause.
Then we'll sing one song of the girl below the line,
She's scorned and despised everywhere,
While in their mansions the "keepers" wine and dine
From the profits that immoral traffic bear.
We will sing one song of the preacher, fat and sleek,
He tells you of homes in the sky.
He says, "Be generous, be lowly and meek,
If you don't you'll sure get roasted when you die."
Then we'll sing one song of the poor and ragged tramp,
He carries his home on his back;
Too old to work, he's not wanted 'round the camp,
So he wanders without aim along the track.
We will sing one song of the children in the mills,
They're taken from playgrounds and schools,
In tender years made to go the pace that kills,
In the sweatshops, 'mong the looms and the spools.
Then we'll sing one song of the One Big Union Grand,
The hope of the toiler and slave,
It's coming fast! it is sweeping sea and land,
To the terror of the grafter and the knave.
WORKERS OF THE WORLD, AWAKEN!
By Joe Hill
Workers of the world, awaken!
Break your chains, demand your rights.
All the wealth you make is taken
By exploiting parasites.
Shall you kneel in deep submission
From your cradles to your graves?
Is the height of your ambition
To be good and willing slaves?
Chorus
Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!
Fight for your own emancipation;
Arise, ye slaves of every nation.
In One Union grand.
Our little ones for bread are crying,
And millions are from hunger dying;
The end the means is justifying,
'Tis the final stand.
If the workers take a notion,
They can stop all speeding trains;
Every ship upon the ocean
They can tie with mighty chains
Every wheel in the creation,
Every mine and every mill,
Fleets and armies of the nation,
Will at their command stand still.
Join the union, fellow workers,
Men and women, side by side;
We will crush the greedy shirkers
Like a sweeping, surging tide;
For united we are standing,
But divided we will fall;
Let this be our understanding —
"All for one and one for all."
Workers of the world, awaken!
Rise in all your splendid might;
Take the wealth that you are making,
It belongs to you by right.
No one will for bread be crying,
We'll have freedom, love and health.
When the grand red flag is flying
In the Workers' Commonwealth.
* * *
A shorter workday for all employed workers would put thousands of unemployed to work. If everybody worked there would be no poverty.
CHAPTER 5 ONE BIG INDUSTRIAL UNION
By G. G. Allen
(Air: "Marching Through Georgia")
Bring the good old red book, boys, we'll sing another song.
Sing it to the wage slave who has not yet joined the throng;
Of the revolution that will sweep the world along,
To One Big Industrial Union.
CHORUS
Hooray! Hooray The truth will make you free.
Hooray! Hooray! When will you workers see?
The only way you'll gain your economic liberty,
Is One Big Industrial Union.
You migratory workers of the common labor clan,
We sing to you to join and be a fighting Union Man;
You must emancipate yourself, you proletarian,
With One Big Industrial Union.
THE RED FLAG
By James Connell
The workers' flag is deepest red,
It shrouded oft our martyred dead;
And ere their limbs grew stiff and cold
Their life-blood dyed its every fold.
CHORUS
Then raise the scarlet standard high;
Beneath its folds we'll live and die,
Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer,
We'll keep the red flag flying here.
Look 'round, the Frenchman loves its blaze
The sturdy German chants its praise;
In Moscow's vaults its hymns are sung,
Chicago swells its surging song.
It waved above our infant might
When all ahead seemed dark as night;
It witnessed many a deed and vow,
We will not change its color now.
It suits today the meek and base,
Whose minds are fixed on pelf and place;
To cringe beneath the rich man's frown,
And haul that sacred emblem down.
With heads uncovered swear we all,
To bear it onward till we fall;
Come dungeons dark or gallows grim,
This song shall be our parting hymn.
THE WORKERS OF THE WORLD ARE NOW AWAKING
By Richard Brazier
(Tune: "The Shade of the Old Apple Tree")
The Workers of the World are now awaking;
The earth is shaking with their mighty tread.
The master class in great fear now are quaking,
The sword of Damocles hangs o'er their head.
The toilers in one union are uniting,
To overthrow their cruel master's reign.
In One Big Union now they all are fighting,
The product of their labor to retain.
CHORUS
It's a union for true Liberty
It's a union for you and for me;
It's the workers' own choice,
It's for girls and for boys,
Who want freedom from wage slavery;
And we march with a Red Flag ahead,
'Cause the blood of all nations is red —
Come on and join in the fray,
Come on and join us today,
We are fighting for Freedom and Bread.
The master's class in fear have kept us shaking,
For long in bondage they held us fast;
But the fight the Industrial Workers are now making
Will make our chains a relic of the past.
Industrial unionism now is calling,
The toilers of the world they hear its cry;
In line with the Industrial Workers they are falling,
By their principles to stand or fall and die.
HARVEST WAR SONG
By Pat Brennan
(Tune: "Tipperary")
We are coming home, John Farmer; we are coming back to stay.
For nigh on fifty years or more, we've gathered up your hay.
We have slept out in your hayfields, we have heard your morning shout;
We've heard you wondering where in hell's them pesky go- abouts?
CHORUS
It's a long way, now understand me; it's a long way to town;
It's a long way across the prairie, and to hell with Farmer John.
Here goes for better wages, and the hours must come down;
For we're out for a winter's stake this summer, and we want no scabs around.
You've paid the going wages, that's what kept us on the bum.
You say you've done your duty, you chin-whiskered son of a gun.
We have sent your kids to college, but still you rave and shout.
And call us tramps and hoboes, and pesky go-abouts.
But now the long wintry breezes are a-shaking our poor frames,
And the long drawn days of hunger try to drive us boes insane.
It is driving us to action — we are organized today;
Us pesky tramps and hoboes are coming back to stay.
* * *
YOU cannot be free while your CLASS is enslave Join the I. W. W. and find YOUR place in the final battle for the emancipation of the world's workers.
CHAPTER 9 WORKERS OF THE WORLD
(Air: "Lillibulero")
By Connell
Stand up, ye toilers, why crouch ye like cravens?
Why clutch an existence of insult and want?
Why stand to be plucked by an army of ravens,
Or hoodwink'd forever by twaddle and cant?
Think of the wrongs ye bear,
Think on the rags ye wear,
Think on the insults endur'd from your birth;
Toiling in snow and rain,
Rearing up heaps of grain,
All for the tyrants who grind you to earth.
Your brains are as keen as the brains of your masters,
In swiftness and strength ye surpass them by far;
Ye've brave hearts to teach you to laugh at disasters,
Ye vastly outnumber your tyrants in war.
Why then like cowards stand,
Using not brain or hand,
Thankful like dogs when they throw you a bone?
What right have they to take
Things that ye toil to make?
Know ye not, workers, that all is your own?
Rise in your might, brothers, bear it no longer;
Assemble in masses throughout the whole land;
Show these incapables who are the stronger
When workers and idlers confronted shall stand.
Thro' Castle, Court and Hall,
Over their acres all,
Onwards we'll press like waves of the sea,
Claiming the wealth we've made,
Ending the spoiler's trade;
Labor shall triumph and mankind be free.
JOHN GOLDEN AND THE LAWRENCE STRIKE
By Joe Hill
(Tune: "A Little Talk with Jesus")
In Lawrence, when the starving masses struck for more to eat
And wooden-headed Wood he tried the strikers to defeat,
To Sammy Gompers wrote and asked him what he thought,
And this is just the answer that the mailman brought:
CHORUS
A little talk with Golden
Makes it right, all right;
He'll settle any strike,
If there's coin in sight;
Just take him up to dine
And everything is fine —
A little talk with Golden
Makes it right, all right.
The preachers, cops and money-kings were working hand in hand,
The boys in blue, with stars and stripes were sent by Uncle Sam;
Still things were looking blue, 'cause every striker knew
That weaving cloth with bayonets is hard to do.
John Golden had with Mr. Wood a private interview,
He told him how to bust up the "I double double U."
He came out in a while and wore the Golden smile.
He said: "I've got all labor leaders skinned a mile."
John Golden pulled a bogus strike with all his "pinks and stools."
He thought the rest would follow like a bunch of crazy fools.
But to his great surprise the "foreigners" were wise,
In one big solid union they were organized.
CHORUS OF THE LAST VERSE
That's one time Golden did not
Make it right, all right;
In spite of his schemes
The strikers won the fight.
When all the workers stand
United hand in hand,
The world with all its wealth
Will be at their command.
SCISSOR BILL
By Joe Hill
(Tune: "Steamboat Bill")
You may ramble 'round the country anywhere you will,
You'll always run across the same old Scissor Bill.
He's found upon the desert, he is on the hill,
He's found in every mining camp and lumber mill.
He looks just like a human, he can eat and walk,
But you will find he isn't when he starts to talk.
He'll say, "This is my country," with an honest face,
While all the cops they chase him out of every place.
CHORUS
Scissor Bill, he is a little dippy,
Scissor Bill, he has a funny face,
Scissor Bill should drown in Mississippi,
He is the missing link that Darwin tried to trace.
And scissor Bill, he couldn't live without the booze,
He sits around all day and spits tobacco juice.
He takes a deck of cards and tries to beat the Chink!
Yes, Bill would be a smart guy if he only could think.
And Scissor Bill, he says, "This country must be freed
From Niggers, Japs and Dutchman and the gol durn Swede."
He says that every cop would be a native son
If it wasn't for the Irishman, the sonna fur gun.
Scissor Bill, the "foreigner" is cussin;
Scissor Bill, he says: "I hate a Coon";
Scissor Bill is down on everybody
The Hottentots, the bushmen and the man in the moon.
Don't try to talk your union dope to Scissor Bill,
He says he never organized and never will.
He always will be satisfied until he's dead,
With coffee and a doughnut and a lousy old bed.
And Bill, he says, he gets rewarded thousand fold,
When he gets up to heaven on the streets of gold.
But I don't care who knows it, and right here I'll tell,
If Scissor Bill is goin' to Heaven, I'll go to Hell.
Scissor Bill, he wouldn't join the union,
Scissor Bill, he says, "Not me, by Heck!"
Scissor Bill gets his reward in Heaven,
Oh! sure. He'll get it, but he'll get it in the neck.
* * *
For every dollar the parasite has and didn't work for there's a slave who worked for a dollar he didn't get.
CHAPTER 12 DUMP THE BOSSES OFF YOUR BACK
By John Brill
(Tune: "Take It to the Lord in Prayer")
Are you poor, forlorn and hungry?
Are there lots of things you lack?
Is your life made up of misery?
Then dump the bosses off your back.
Are your clothes all patched and tattered?
Are you living in a shack?
Would you have your troubles scattered?
Then dump the bosses off your back.
Are you almost split asunder?
Loaded like a long-eared jack?
Boob — why don't you buck like thunder?
And dump the bosses off your back?
All the agonies you suffer,
You can end with one good whack —
Stiffen up, you orn'ry duffer —
And dump the bosses off your back.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from I.W.W. Songs by PM Press. Copyright © 2014 PM Press. Excerpted by permission of PM Press.
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