Hark to the tongues of toil!

The power of your hands it falls at last,
The strength of your rule is o'er,
Where the might of a million slaves is massed
To the shouts of a million more.
We rise, we rise, 'neath the western skies,
And the dawns of the east afar;
And our myriads swarm in the southlands warm,
And under the northern star!

We take no thought of the fears you feel,
And the rage you hold at heart,
Nor of all your strength of the gold and steel
Enthroned at the gates of mart.
We have no care for the deeds you dare,
For the force of your armies hurled;
You stand but few, and we challenge you--
Strong men of all the world!

We served as your fools when time was young,
And long, long we forbore.
Glad of the niggard boons you flung,
The least of your ample store;
But the gnawing pain of a starving brain
Is great as the belly need--
We have learned at last from a hungry past
The joys of a rebel deed!

We come, we come, with the force of fate;