Moritz:—Never mind, Father Ansorge; we’re making the place hot for ’em. Becker and I have been and given Dreissiger (the master) a piece of our mind, and before we came away we sang him “Bloody Justice.”
Ansorge:—Good Lord! Is that the song?
Moritz:—Yes; I have it here.
Ansorge:—They call it Dreissiger’s song, don’t they?
Moritz:—I’ll read it to you.
Mother Baumert:—Who wrote it?
Moritz:—That’s what nobody knows. Now listen. (He reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect accentuation, but unmistakably strong feeling. Despair, suffering, rage, hatred, thirst for revenge, all find utterance.)
The justice to us weavers dealt
Is bloody, cruel, and hateful;
Our life’s one torture, long drawn out: