We're full of the Promise o' May, brother, mad with the Promise of May!
They thought us wandering ghosts, brother. Divided strength is slight;
But what will they say when our myriads assemble in banded might?
They call us craven-hearted, but what matter what they say?
They'll know on the First o' May, brother; they'll learn on the First o' May.
They say ours is a dying cause, but that can never be:
There's many a heart as bold as Tell's in the New Democracy.
There's many a million of stalwart lads who toil for poorish pay;
And they'll meet on the First o' May, brother, they'll speak on the First o' May.
The tramp of a myriad feet shall sound where the young Spring grass is green,