Song on the Times

You working men of England, one moment now attend

While I unfold the treatment of the poor upon this land

For nowadays the factory lords have brought the labor low

And daily are contriving plans to prove our overthrow

So arouse you sons of freedom, the world seems upside down

They scorn the poor man as a thief in country and in town

There's different parts in Ireland, it's true what I do state

There's hundreds that are starving for they can't get food to eat

And if they go unto the rich to ask them for relief

They bang their door all in their face as if they were a thief

So arouse you sons of freedom the world seems upside down

They scorn the poor man as a thief in country and in town

Alas how altered are the times, rich men despise the poor

And pay them off without remorse quite scornful at their door

And if a man is out of work, his Parish pay is small

Enough to starve himself and wife, his children and all

So arouse you sons of freedom the world seems upside down

They scorn the poor man as a thief in country and in town

So to conclude and finish these few verses

I have made I hope to see before it's long men for their labor paid

Then we'll rejoice with heart and voice and banish all our woes

Before we do old England must pay us what she owes

So arouse you sons of freedom the world seems upside down

They scorn the poor man as a thief in country and in town