A Chartist Poem

To Working Men of Every Clime

Working Men of every clime,
Gather still, but bide your time,
Bide your time, and wait a wee,
Yours will be the victory.

Britain’s sons, whose constant toil
Plies the looms and tills the soil,
Lift the voice for liberty,
Yours will be the victory.

Toil-worn sons of Spain advance,
Give the hand to those of France,
Join you both with Italy,
Yours will be the victory.

Serfs of Poland, gather near,
Raise, with Austria’s sons, the cheer,
Echo’d far through Germany,
Yours will be the victory.

Danish workmen, hear the cry,
Scandinavia’s quick reply,
Workmen, "panting to be free,"
Yours will be the victory.

Dutchmen, linger not behind,
Working men should be combined,
Russian slaves themselves will see
Yours will be the victory.

Europe’s workmen, one and all,
Rouse ye at your brethren’s call,
Shouting loud from sea to sea,
Yours will be the victory.

Kings and nobles may conspire,
God will pour on them his ire;
Workmen shout, for ye are free,
Yours is now the victory.

Northern Star 28 November 1840