There'll be Salisbury, and Carnot, and Caprivi to peak and pine.
For there'll be a stir of the Labourer in every land, they say,
And Toil's to be Queen o' this May, chummy, Toil's to be Queen o' this May.
I do sleep sound at night, chummy, but to-morrow morn I'll wake;
The Cry of the Crowd will sound aloud in my ear ere dawn shall break.
'Twill muster with its booming bands and with its banners gay;
For to-morrow's the Feast of May, brother, to-morrow's our Feast of May.
They've kept us scattered till now, comrade; but that no more may be:
Our shout goes up in unison by Thames, Seine, Rhine and Spree.
We are not the crushed-down crowd, chummy, we were but yesterday.