BATTLE SONGS OF THE HOBOS
There are many types of tramp songs but most conspicuous are the songs of protest. The I.W.W. have done much to stimulate song writing, mostly songs of the struggle between the masses and the classes.
Most hobo songs are parodies on certain popular airs or on hymns. One can easily determine when certain songs were written if he knows when certain popular airs, to which they are fitted, were the rage. The tunes most used by the tramp song writers are those that are so well known that the song may be sung by any group of transients. When the songs are parodies on hymns there is usually a note of irony running through them. The following is called the hobo’s “Harvest War Song.” It was written by Pat Brennan and is sung to the tune of “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 prairies, and to hell with Farmer Brown.
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 hobos, 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 bos insane,
It is driving us to action; we are organized today;
Us pesky tramps and hobos are coming back to stay.
Joe Hill, whose real name was Joseph Hilstrom, holds the place of honor among the I.W.W.’s as a song writer. Before his death he was one of the most enthusiastic of the I.W.W. organizers. His execution in Utah in 1915 has not lessened his popularity among the “Wobblies.” Most of his songs are parodies. “The Tramp” is a parody on the old tune: “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp; the Boys Are Marching.”
If you will shut your trap,
I will tell you ’bout a chap,
That was broke and up aginst it too for fair;
He was not the kind to shirk,
He was looking hard for work,
But he heard the same old story everywhere.
Chorus
Tramp, tramp, tramp, keep on a-tramping,
Nothing doing here for you;
If I catch you ’round again;
You will wear the ball and chain,
Keep on tramping, that’s the best thing you can do.
He walked up and down the street,
’Till the shoes fell off his feet;
In a house he spied a lady cooking stew,
And he said, “How do you do,
May I chop some wood for you?”
What the lady told him made him feel so blue.
’Cross the street a sign he read,
“Work for Jesus,” so it said,
And he said, “Here is my chance, I’ll surely try,”
And he kneeled upon the floor,
Till his knees got rather sore,
But at eating time he heard the preacher say:
Down the street he met a cop,
And the copper made him stop,
And he asked him, “When did you blow into town?”
“Come with me to the judge.”
But the judge he said, “Oh fudge!
Bums that have no money needn’t come around.”
“The Preacher and the Slave,” also written by Joe Hill and sung to the tune of “Sweet Bye and Bye,” is especially popular among the malcontents because of its attack upon religion:
Long haired preachers come out every night,
Try to tell you what’s wrong and what’s right;
But when asked how ’bout something to eat
They will answer in voices so sweet:
Chorus
You will eat bye and bye
In that glorious land above the sky;
Work and pray, live on hay,
You’ll get pie in the sky when you die.
And the starvation army, they play,
And they sing and they clap and they pray,
Till they get all your coin on the drum,
Then they’ll tell you when you’re on the bum:
Workingmen of all countries, unite,
Side by side we for freedom will fight;
When the world and its wealth we have gained
To the grafters we’ll sing this refrain:
Last Chorus
You will eat bye and bye
When you’ve learned how to cook and to fry;
Chop some wood, ’twill do you good,
And you will eat in the sweet bye and bye.
The “Portland County Jail” is one of the few songs of the road that does not wear out.
I’m a stranger in your city,
My name is Paddy Flynn;
I got drunk the other evening,
And the coppers run me in.
I had no money to pay my fine,
No friends to go my bail,
So I got soaked for ninety days
In the Portland County Jail.
Chorus
Oh, such a lot of devils,
The like I never saw;
Robbers, thieves, and highwaymen,
And breakers of the law.
They sang a song the whole night long,
And the curses fell like hail,
I’ll bless the day they take me away
From the Portland County Jail.
The only friend that I had left,
Was Happy Sailor Jack;
He told me all the lies he knew,
And all the safes he’s cracked.
He cracked them in Seattle;
He’d robbed the Western Mail;
It would freeze the blood of an honest man,
In the Portland County Jail.