We are toiling when the sons of toil have found a Sabbath blest;
But for us no Sabbath dawning, no holy day of rest.
We are toiling thro’ the dewy fields ere peeps the eye of morn,
When the mist on pastures hanging makes the aspect so forlorn;
Thro’ mud and mist, and mire, and rain we pick our toilsome way,
While fellow-men are warmly housed upon the Sabbath day.
If in the annals of the world your names unrivalled stand,
Then cleanse so foul a blot from the escutcheon of our land,
And a thousand hands shall cease from toil, and find a day of rest,
And the God of heaven shall bless you, as He has our country blest.