One day as I was walking along the railroad track,
I met a man in Wheatland with his blankets on his back;
He was an old-time hop picker; I’d seen his face before;
I knew he was a Wobbly by the button that he wore;
By the button that he wore, by the button that he wore,
I knew he was a Wobbly by the button that he wore;
He was an old-time hop picker; I’d seen his face before;
I knew he was a Wobbly by the button that he wore.
He took his blankets off his back and sat down on the rail
And told us some sad stories ’bout the workers down in jail;
He said the way they treat them there, he never saw the like,
For they’re putting men in prison just for going out on strike;
Just for going out on strike, just for going out on strike,
For they’re putting men in prison just for going out on strike;
He said the way they treat them there, he never saw the like,
For they’re putting men in prison just for going out on strike.
They have sentenced Ford and Suhr, and they’ve got them in the pen;
If they catch a Wobbly in their burg, they vag him there and then;
There is one thing I can tell you, and it makes the bosses sore,
As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more;
We can always get some more, we can always get some more,
As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more;
There is one thing I can tell you, and it makes the bosses sore,
As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more.
Oh, Horst and Durst are mad as hell, they don’t know what to do;
And the rest of those hop barons are all feeling mighty blue;
Oh, we’ve tied up all their hop fields, and the scabs refuse to come;
And we’re goin’ to keep on striking till we put them on the bum;
Till we put them on the bum, till we put them on the bum,
And we’re goin’ to keep on striking till we put them on the bum;
Oh, we’ve tied up all their hop fields, and the scabs refuse to come,
And we’re goin’ to keep on striking till we put them on the bum.
Now, we’ve got to stick together, boys, and strive with all our might;
We must free Ford and Suhr; boys, we’ve got to win this fight;
From these scissorbill hop barons, we are taking no more bluff;
We’ll pick no more damned hops for them for overalls and snuff;
For our overalls and snuff, for our overalls and snuff,
We’ll pick no more damned hops for them for overalls and snuff;
From these scissorbill hop barons, we are taking no more bluff;
We’ll pick no more damned hops for them for overalls and snuff.
I met a man in Wheatland with his blankets on his back;
He was an old-time hop picker; I’d seen his face before;
I knew he was a Wobbly by the button that he wore;
By the button that he wore, by the button that he wore,
I knew he was a Wobbly by the button that he wore;
He was an old-time hop picker; I’d seen his face before;
I knew he was a Wobbly by the button that he wore.
He took his blankets off his back and sat down on the rail
And told us some sad stories ’bout the workers down in jail;
He said the way they treat them there, he never saw the like,
For they’re putting men in prison just for going out on strike;
Just for going out on strike, just for going out on strike,
For they’re putting men in prison just for going out on strike;
He said the way they treat them there, he never saw the like,
For they’re putting men in prison just for going out on strike.
They have sentenced Ford and Suhr, and they’ve got them in the pen;
If they catch a Wobbly in their burg, they vag him there and then;
There is one thing I can tell you, and it makes the bosses sore,
As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more;
We can always get some more, we can always get some more,
As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more;
There is one thing I can tell you, and it makes the bosses sore,
As fast as they can pinch us, we can always get some more.
Oh, Horst and Durst are mad as hell, they don’t know what to do;
And the rest of those hop barons are all feeling mighty blue;
Oh, we’ve tied up all their hop fields, and the scabs refuse to come;
And we’re goin’ to keep on striking till we put them on the bum;
Till we put them on the bum, till we put them on the bum,
And we’re goin’ to keep on striking till we put them on the bum;
Oh, we’ve tied up all their hop fields, and the scabs refuse to come,
And we’re goin’ to keep on striking till we put them on the bum.
Now, we’ve got to stick together, boys, and strive with all our might;
We must free Ford and Suhr; boys, we’ve got to win this fight;
From these scissorbill hop barons, we are taking no more bluff;
We’ll pick no more damned hops for them for overalls and snuff;
For our overalls and snuff, for our overalls and snuff,
We’ll pick no more damned hops for them for overalls and snuff;
From these scissorbill hop barons, we are taking no more bluff;
We’ll pick no more damned hops for them for overalls and snuff.
inviata da Bernart Bartleby - 22/4/2015 - 15:15
Lingua: Inglese
Versione australiana del 1917, di anonimo autore attivista nell’ambito del movimento contro la coscrizione obbligatoria voluta dal primo ministro Bill Hughes.
Trovata su Australian Folk Songs
Trovata su Australian Folk Songs
THE BUTTON THAT HE WORE
I met a working man to-day who worein his lapel
A photo of a plutocrat, and a Union Jack as well.
I looked into his toil-worn face, and a simple look it bore.
I could tell he was a bonehead by the button that he wore.
He asked me how I got along ; I told him pretty tight ;
That for a country where men starved I would refuse to fight.
He said he stood for Empire, though he could'nt find a job ;
He praised the British Navy-- and he bummed me for a bob.
I asked him many questions then why he was knocked about.
his answer it was usual, for he had'nt thought it out.
"Thank Cod this Country'a free," he cried, "and the people own the land."
But why the copper moved us on he could'nt understand.
I told him how the rich grew rich by plundering the poor ;
And that for us to organise was the sure and only cure
The message I kept driving home his frozen brain did thaw,
And now with every one round here he's shouting "Stop the War!"
He took the buttons from his coat and flung them to the wind.
He made a resolution that he never will rescind.
He's pledged to solidarity, and a wiser look he bears;
You can tell he is your comrade by the button that he wears.
I met a working man to-day who worein his lapel
A photo of a plutocrat, and a Union Jack as well.
I looked into his toil-worn face, and a simple look it bore.
I could tell he was a bonehead by the button that he wore.
He asked me how I got along ; I told him pretty tight ;
That for a country where men starved I would refuse to fight.
He said he stood for Empire, though he could'nt find a job ;
He praised the British Navy-- and he bummed me for a bob.
I asked him many questions then why he was knocked about.
his answer it was usual, for he had'nt thought it out.
"Thank Cod this Country'a free," he cried, "and the people own the land."
But why the copper moved us on he could'nt understand.
I told him how the rich grew rich by plundering the poor ;
And that for us to organise was the sure and only cure
The message I kept driving home his frozen brain did thaw,
And now with every one round here he's shouting "Stop the War!"
He took the buttons from his coat and flung them to the wind.
He made a resolution that he never will rescind.
He's pledged to solidarity, and a wiser look he bears;
You can tell he is your comrade by the button that he wears.
inviata da Bernart Bartleby - 16/7/2015 - 13:48
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Canzone di autore anonimo, sull’aria di The Wearing Of The Green, ballata irlandese risalente alla ribellione del 1798.
Testo trovato su Political Folk Music Dot Org
Dalla ribellione settecentesca degli United Irishmen a quella dei braccianti californiani all’inizio del 900 il passo è breve…
Wheatland, Yuba County, California, torrida estate del 1913.
Il ranch di Ralph H. Durst era il più grande dello Stato ed ogni anno il raccolto impegnava centinaia di braccianti stagionali. Quell’anno si prevedeva una produzione eccezionale e il latifondista e miliardario Durst ebbe l’iniziativa di stampare migliaia di volantini in cui si prometteva lavoro per tutti (ma solo per i bianchi, no job for niggers) e buona paga. La voce si diffuse e a Wheatland arrivarono quasi 3.000 aspiranti, mentre il realtà c’era lavoro solo per la metà di loro. Conseguenze: la paga non fu più tanto buona, causa overbooking, e inoltre il sovraffollamento determinò condizioni di vita terribili dal punto di vista igienico sanitario. Si pensi che lo squalo impedì persino il rifornimento d’acqua, appaltando ad un parente un servizio di distribuzione di limonata scadente e cara. La paga per 12 ore di lavoro sotto il sole rovente, sempre a temperature superiori ai 40°, era di poco più di 1 dollaro al giorno. E oltretutto l’aguzzino ne tratteneva il 10% per impedire che qualcuno mollasse prima della fine della stagione…
Era abbastanza per incazzarsi un po’? Alcuni pensavano di sì e alla fine di luglio una trentina di braccianti, tutti appartenenti all’Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), innescarono la protesta. Il portavoce del gruppo si chiamava Richard "Blackie" Ford, che fu subito licenziato insieme a tutti i suoi compagni. Ma l’allontanamento delle “teste calde” non mise fine alla protesta, anzi: nei primi giorni di agosto moltissimi altri incrociarono le braccia e piccoli meeting spontanei e pacifici si tennero in tutto il campo, con gente che arringava i lavoratori anche in tedesco, greco, arabo, italiano e spagnolo. La manifestazione generale, con interruzione totale del lavoro, venne indetta per il 3 agosto. Ralph H. Durst, furioso e spaventato, si rivolse alle autorità, tra cui figuravano un giudice ed uno sceriffo suoi amici. Quelli arrivarono in forze al ranch e cercarono di farsi largo tra la folla per raggiungere il palco ed arrestare Richard "Blackie" Ford e gli altri sindacalisti. I lavoratori glielo impedirono e quando i tutori dell’ordine cominciarono a sparare in aria, a scopo intimidatorio, sortirono in realtà l’effetto contrario: nessuno “s’intimidì” e, anzi, alcuni saltarono loro addosso. Nella rissa con sparatoria che ne seguì restarono uccisi il giudice, lo sceriffo e due braccianti, un inglese e un portoricano.
Conseguenze: fuggi fuggi generale, arrivo della Guardia nazionale, arresti di massa.
Tutti i prigionieri furono picchiati e torturati sotto custodia, per costringerli a testimoniare contro i leader dello sciopero. Un giovane bracciante svedese di nome Alfred Nelson fu picchiato ripetutamente e minacciato di morte se non avesse confessato di aver partecipato all’incidente. Per far smettere i torturatori fu necessaria l’emissione di un habeas corpus giudiziale e l’intervento del consolato svedese. Ma nel frattempo Richard "Blackie" Ford ed Herman D. Suhr, un altro wobbly, furono incriminati per omicidio. In carcere ci furono un paio suicidi e gente che andò fuori di testa.
Il processo a Ford, Suhr e gli altri si tenne in un clima caldissimo, molto più di quello dei campi californiani in pieno agosto. L’IWW raccolse contributi volontari per la difesa degli imputati, mentre i giornali “liberali” scatenarono una campagna di demonizzazione dei wobblies, dipinti come serpenti velenosissimi da schiacciare ad ogni costo. Il giudice decise quindi di trasferire il processo fuori della contea ma il governatore glielo impedì e lo sollevò dall’incarico, assegnandolo ad un altro meno ligio al dovere e più affidabile… La maggioranza dei membri della giuria erano proprietari terrieri… A Suhr fu estorta una confessione sotto tortura, ammessa al processo senza che vi fossero testimoni diversi dalle guardie a confortarla.
Il 13 gennaio 1914 la sentenza, scontata: Ford e Suhr furono condannati all’ergastolo.
I due wobblies furono scarcerati solo dieci anni dopo, grazie ad una pronuncia della Corte Suprema e ad un’indagine federale sulle condizioni di lavoro e di vita dei braccianti stagionali in California.
Appena fuori di prigione Ford e Suhr furono nuovamente arrestati e processati, ma questa volta andarono assolti.