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We Will Sing One Song

Joe Hill
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OriginaleTraduzione svedese / Swedish translation / Svensk översättning:...
WE WILL SING ONE SONG

We will sing one song of the meek and humble slave,
The horn-handed son of the soil,
He's toiling hard from the cradle to the grave,
But his master reaps the profits 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.

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 he's living from the sweat of your brow.
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.

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 preacher, fat and sleek,
He tells you of homes in the sky.
He says, "Be generous, be lowly, and be meek,
If you don't you'll sure get roasted when you die."
Then we 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.

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 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.

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.
LÅT OSS SJUNGA

Låt oss sjunga sången om jordens tysta slav.
Hans näve är valkig och tung.
Han får slita hårt från sin vagga till sin grav,
men hans mödas lön blir mynt i husbonds pung.
Låt oss sjunga sen om en luffare i blåst.
För honom ej arbete fanns.
Han är böjd och grå. Varje grind är lyckt och låst.
Han får vandra utan mål mot ingestans.

Slut er samman, bröder! Bryt sönder mödans ok!
Låt oss sjunga sången om artbetsfolkets stat!
Framtidslandet utan nöd och hat!

Låt oss sjunga sången om alla bleka barn
i gruvor och spinnhus och natt.
De rycks bort från leken till dödens grottekvarn
som förstummar deras friska skratt.
Låt oss sjunga sen om vårt stora värlsförbund,
de slavande trälarnas hopp.
Se, det krossar snart som en storm kring jordens rund
alla dem som suger blodet ur vår kropp.

Slut er samman, bröder! Bryt sönder mödans ok!
Låt oss sjunga sången om artbetsfolkets stat!
Framtidslandet utan nöd och hat!


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