Yer next skool for teaching freedom ain't the workus, but the jail!

'Andcuffs ain't the sole "Compulsion," nor yet laws ain't, nor yet
whips;
There is sech things as 'unger, and yer starving kids' white lips,
And bizness ties, a hempty purse, bad 'ealth, and ne'er a crust;
Swells may swear these ain't Compulsion, but _we_ know as they
means _must_.

Ah! wot precious rum things _words_ is, 'ow they seems to fog the
wise!
If they'd only come and look at _things_, that is with their hown
heyes,
And not filantropic barnacles _or_ goldian giglamps--lor!
Wot a lob of grabs and gushers might shut up their blessed jor!

The nobs who're down on workmen, 'cos on "knobsticks" _they_ will
frown,
Has a 'arty love for Libbaty--when keepin' wages down.
Contrack's a sacred 'oly thing, freedom carnt 'ave _that_ broke,
But Free Contrack wot's _forced_ on yer--wy, o'course, that sounds
a joke.

If they knowed us and our sort, gents, they would know Free
Contrack's fudge,
When one side ain't got a copper, 'as been six weeks on the trudge,
Or 'as built his little bizness up in one pertikler spot,
And if the rent's raised on 'im must turn hout, and starve or rot!

Coarse words, my lords and ladies! Well, yer may as well be dumb,