[Forty Fathoms]

{Begin page}FOLKLORE

NEW YORK

FORM C Text of Interview (Unedited)

STATE New York

NAME OF WORKER Saul Levitt

ADDRESS 27Hamilton Terrace, New York City

DATE December 1, 1938

SUBJECT "FORTY FATHOMS"--(SERGEANT O'HOULIHAN TELLS 'EM) (IN THOSE DAYS)

SEARGEANT O'HOULIHAN TELLS 'EM

by "Forty Fathoms" but the pseudonym for this story was "Mooring Swivel."

The police in the station house near Strike Headquarters were whiling away the hours reading the [ {Begin handwritten}New Masses{End handwritten}?], [ {Begin handwritten}New Republic{End handwritten}?] and [ {Begin handwritten}The Pilot{End handwritten}?]. For it was an order from headquarters that the police should keep in touch with the times and improve their minds. Silence reigned.

At last Officer O'Toole remarked: "Sure, and the Fascists aren't doing so well in Spain. Now that's phwat I've been saying all the time. You can't lick a people that's fighting for their just rights and duly elected government. Democracy always wins."

Sergeant O(Houlihan fixed the speaker with a baleful gleam: "I wish you intellectuals would come back home and pay some attintion to local affairs. Not that I'm not in favor of the working class of all countries," he hastily added, on seeing Officer Sullivan laying aside his paper and clearing his throat. "But, " continued the sergeant, "phwat about the seamen? That's what I'm interested in."

O'Toole grew angry: "Just because you used to be a seaman before you commenced to live off the people's taxes, all we can get from you is the cause of the seamen. Neglecting every other trade and craft. An obsession with you.

{Begin page no. 2}Let me tell you, O'Houlihan, the longshoremen are noticing your partiality and are complaining. They see you distributing the Pilot and they say you never bother to fetch around copies of the ShapeUp."

The sergeant hung his head "Faith, you can't blame a man for having a soft spot in his heart for the bhoys," he mumbled.

* * * * * *

"Lave the Sergeant alone, O'Toole," said Officer Sullivan. "And me brave bhoy, let us know phwat ye are doing for the worrkers in Spain. Talk is cheap, you know."

"I distributed over 1000 copies of the New Masses and as many New Republics along the front in the past week, besides donating $10 out of me last pay cheek. And I ruined a couple of scabs that was thrying to sneak aboard a ship."

"Begorra, O'Toole, said the sergeant, "so you're the man who did that? Well, yere a credit to the ould sod and to yer faither. I was beginning to think ye had forgotten the boys, ye were so busy with yer worrld politics."

Sullivan cleared his throat: "World polities is {Begin inserted text}{Begin handwritten}it{End handwritten}{End inserted text}, Sarrgeant O'Houlihan? [?] And phwere would ye be if it wasn't for the British and worrld politics? Ye know dom well ye were chased out of ould Ireland and had to came over here to make yer living. If we'd stayed in the ould country ye'd have been hung for fighting for yer rights and ye know it. I won't have you throwing any disparaging remarks at worrld politics. Ye and yer seamen!"

"That's enough, Sullivan," shouted the worthy sergeant. "The seamen, be jabers, are the salt of the earth. I was one of thim and I know. And another thing. I'll have ye scallywags know that I'll have no blacklegs among my crew. Look phwat I found in me desk this morning. Be the shades of Pthrick will ye look at this!"

He pulled out a copy of a Hearst newspaper and his voice shook with rage.

"Be the eternal powers," he said, "if I only knew the spalpeen that did {Begin page no. 3}this thrick I'd fine him his whole month's wages, and give it to yer seamen. Aren't they on strike? Don't the bhoys need help?"

No one answered. It did not do to get O'Houlihan riled. The old sergeant's eyes roamed about the room: "You, O'Roarke, from the watherfront beat! Now phwat have you done for the bhoys?"

O'Roarke reached to his hip pocket and fished out a tin can marked 'Help the striking seamen.' "I've filled manys the can in me time. And this about half full."

"And phwat is the mather with filling her up now, may I ask?" inquired Sergeant O(Houlihan. "Pass the can around. Come on bhoys, it's for me brrave lads on the picket line."

* * *

The sergeant cleared his throat: "All right, Sullivan, we must shtand by the ones who pay our taxes and that's the worrking class."

The can was passed around.

"And," said the sergeant, "If ye see any carrs thrying to sneak around the watherfront with scabs, rrun them off and give them a taste of the ould shillahli. The scallywags, thrying to take away a descent man's job."

"Sailors again," muttered Sullivan.

The sergeant glared: "And phwat were ye doing when ye worrked for a living, may I ask?"

"Who, me?" asked Sullivan, "why, I was a painter."

"Oh, yis," said the sergeant. "Well, I never did see a painter that couldn't find a bether painter in a seaman. Put that in yer pipe and shmoke it. And what were ye doing, O'Toole?"

"Ay was a riveter in a shipyard."

* * *

{Begin page no. 4}"And who sailed the ships so that ye could get worrk riveting? Shure, the seamen, And you, O'Roarke. Ye were a longshoreman. Well, I'll have ye to know that ye would have very little worrk if the sailors did not sail the ships. Begorra and all of ye would be missing coffee in the morrning, I'm thinking."

He commenced to read the Pilot. Suddenly he looked up and shouted: "Now git out of here. There's a shtrike on and by me sowl there'll be no scabs go through the picket lines on my beat as long as me name is O'Houlihan. I was borrn and raised a worrker and with the Worrkers I'll sthick. And here, take some of these to the watherfront when you go."

He laid a bundle of Pilots on the desk. As they were leaving, he called Officer Sullivan back. "Leave me yer copy of the New Republic, Sullivan. I want to sthudy a little on this worrld situation."

(published in the I S U pilot, December 25, 1936)

* * * IN THOSE DAYS

(The strange tale of a mysterious stranger who sailed the ships of Carthage and knew Orsis, the first merchant who tried to organize against the seamen.)

Shanghai Slim had had enough of the beer in No. 6 and so he left the gang and went out on the street for a breath of fresh air. And the air was fresh on South Street with garbage and contact with the great unwashed who slept in the doorways or wandered in bleary eyed fashion up and down the street.

"Gas hounds!" scornfully thought Slim. "Why in hell don't they leave that stuff alone?" Slim meditated on the ills of humanity and sailors in particular. Some of these human wrecks were personally known to him and at one time not so long {Begin page no. 5}ago had been first rate sailor men. And now look at them. Slim spat on the sidewalk.

He stood on the curb meditating. Suddenly his attention was arrested by an apparition bearing down on him. Slim had seen strange sights in his travels, but this man, strolling down the street, was the strangest sight that Slim had ever seen. The man was tall and swarthy. He might have been any age. A Moorish jacket, wide bottomed trousers, and a huge pair of gold earings comprised his attire. That he was a seafaring man, was evident by his walk.

Slim shook his head. Was it possible that a few beers in No. 6 had made him see things. By the Lord he would see to it that the joint's ad was taken out of the Pilot. No, it could not have been the beer. The street looked in perfect order and he could read the number over the saloon perfectly.

* * * * *

The stranger drew abeam and Slim greeted him. "Whither away mate?"

The stranger answered in broken yet clear English. The accent was new to Slim. It was not German, Spanish or any dialect which Slim had heard. He was mystified. He was more mystified at the stranger's reply. "I have come to see what Time and Progress have done for the Sailors on this continent," said he.

"Where are you from?" asked Slim.

"I am from the land of Terra del Blanco," replied the stranger.

Slim began to think rapidly. He had never heard of such a place. Where in hell was that. The map of the world began whirling thru Slim's head. Terra del Fuego, Terra Nova, but where was Terra del Blanco? He was being taken for a sleigh ride? Well, he would show this stranger, that He, Shanghai Slim, was no fool.

"So you want to find out how we are making out in this country? Well, you came a little late. A week or so ago the I. S. U. officials had the cops {Begin page no. 6}riding us down on the picketline and throwing us in the hoosegow. But you will get a different tale if you go to see the I. S. U. officials."

* * *

"The I. S. U. officials?" said the stranger." "There were no ISU officials when I was here last. I remember bowsprits that used to stick out over the street in those days. And the masts of the windjammers, the Yankee clippers, a regular forest of them."

Slim looked at the stranger and then calculated the distance to the ambulance at the Broad Street Hospital. This man was another looney.

"Tell me," said the stranger, "about these officials who are supposed to be handling your affairs. Are they bettering your conditions? We were not so fortunate in my day."

"Fortunate?" said Slim who could not longer contain himself. "Fortunate?" Is it fortunate to have the officials collecting our money to use against us when we strike? Is it fortunate for us to get our membership rights taken away because we fight for better conditions? Is it fortunate for us to have officials who are friends with the shipowners? Is it fortunate that some of our officials are now wealthy men at our expense? And now Dave Grange* has thousands of dollars missing from the Union funds." Slim was now enraged.

* * *

"Ah, Ostrap, you are still up to your old tricks, you did not die," murmured the stranger.

"Who was Ostrap," questioned Slim.

"He was a sailor who formed what you now call a "Union," in the days when I sailed with the Phoenician traders carrying dyes to Egypt" said the stranger.

Slim did not know who the Phoenicians were except that he had read somewhere that they were the first commercial seamen on the Mediterranean thousands of years ago. Slim looked once more towards the Broad Street Hospital. But, no.

{Begin page no. 7}He would humor this stranger. "What happened to Ostrap?" asked Slim.

"Over the side," said the stranger significantly. "But these ships," said he. "Do the seamen ever own these ships?"

"Own them," said Slim. "I should say not. The bankers own them. How in hell can a sailor own anything on a lousy $62.50 per month?"

"It was not so in my days," said the stranger. "We received a just share of the value of the cargoes. There was a chance for sailors to became rich in the days when I sailed on the ships of Carthage. We were seafaring men and traders. We owned the ships and sailed them. The merchants paid us tribute. There was a man called Orsis who tried to organize the merchants against us bit it did not work."

"What happened to him?" said Slim.

"Over the side," answered the stranger.

"But these men who are lying about in the gutters! What is the meaning of this?" Slim did not want to answer that these were the "unwanted," the castoffs of the profit system. He kept silent.

"The last time I seen such a sight," continued the stranger," was when I sailed with the private Henry Morgan on the Spanish Main. Then it was only in strongholds after a successful raid that such sights were seen. They did not remain in that state. What is done to rehabilitate these men?" asked the stranger.

"Nothing," said Slim, as he looked across at the Muni** where thousands were lining up for bread. There's old Mother Roper*** who claims to rehabilitate the seamen but everyone knows she rehabilitates the Church Institute and herself. The seamen see none or very little of it."

"How everything has changed since the days I knew John Paul Jones, the American revolutionist," the apparition commented. "Ah, HE was a fighter. Tell me, do the American seamen retain their revolutionary traditions?"

"What hell is this," ghought Slim. "He's not only crazy, he's another Red. Didn't he read somewhere in a Hearst newspaper about such talk. "Revolutionary {Begin page no. 8}traditions! Sure, he must be a Red."

"Is Terra del Blanco a part of Russia," questioned Slim.

The stranger shook his head and smiled.

"Then how do you get such ideas?" truculently asked Slim.

"My boy," said the stranger, "we seamen had those ideas before Confucius, before the Mongols invaded what is now called Russia, before the rise and fall of the mighty Roman Empire. We and our opinions manned the galleys of Rome, Carthage and Egypt. Later we sailed with Lief Erickson, Columbus, the Portuguese, the English.

"That is why I have come and see how the world is progressing. Not so long ago, the Colonists were the seamen in every part of the world. I was with Cook on the South seas, with Ross in the Antarctic, with Vasco de Gama and Americus Vespucius. In cockle shells we risked our lives over uncharted seas without aid of sextant. The wind and luck was all we had and our destinations were unknown. The spirit of Freedom and adventure lived in us."

The stranger glanced at the declining sun, which by now grazed the roof of the Muni and started off.

Slim shouted, "Who are you?"

The man paused: "I am the spirit of Progress," he answered and then disappeared around the corner of Broad Street below the old M. W. I. U. hall.

Slim gazed on the street which was now almost deserted except for the "gas hounds." Was he dreaming? Was it Kaplan's beer that had done this to him? It was about time he shipped out or he would wind up in Bellevue, he thought.

And Slim said to himself: "At any rate, whether I am dreaming or not, he must have been a damn good Union man. Jesus, think of it, they ran their ships back there in those days."

(as published in the "I. S. U. Pilot")

* * *

* Dave Grange, a former official of the I. S. U. from which seamen on the East Coast broke away to form the N. M. U.

** Muni the shortened name for the Municipal loding house used by seamen, transient (workers.)

*** Mother Roper. Mrs. Roper, an official of the Seamen's Church Institute.

{Begin page no. 9}* * * * *

Literary polish, sometimes a barrier in "Forty Fathom's" poetry and stories here lends itself to an interesting effect: his artless and straightforward use of an old literary device is immediately apparent; it is deliberate and transparent usage and as such the seaman reader accepts it and immediately proceeds to absorb Forty Fathom's "message." The analogy is in the setting up of stage sets and the naming of actors for their parts within full view of the audience which is fully prepared to understand and appreciate beforehand the conclusion of the play. "Forty Fathoms" is concerned with the message to the seamen, no chauvinism, no scabbing, organization, unity, etc. The effect of the story is heightened if the reader knows South Street, the waterfront of the East River at the lower end of Manhattan, a wide street with a bumpy surface. On one side are small buildings which house concerns handling marine goods; sailors' eating places where the menu is printed black crayon on white paper, the walls are papered in dull and faded designs, and the windows half-frosted over because of the wet off sea breezes mirror faces hunched over bowls of chowder and the racing sheets. Like Red Shirt Flanagan's place on South Street near Wall. And on the other side are the long pierhouses and the ships and Brooklyn Bridge is to be seen from any part of South Street and no fooling it is really "of harp and anvil fused, " as [Hart'?] Crane said.

* * * * * {Begin page no. 10}"SAILOR" BILL.

If you want to meet a sailor
Not a tinker or a tailor
But the man who knows the answers--
From A to Z,
Horny-handed shell-back sailor
Knowing anchor from a bailer
And whose title in the foo'sle's
Plain A B,
Step right up and give a gander
At the man who world would wander
And straighten out the troubles
Of the sea;
It's the "sailor" William Greeno
Who has maggots in his beano
And who'd sell us all his Charter,
You and me.
"Dry land Sailor" William Greeno
With his rackets keen as keeno
Who would reap an AF of L harvest
From the sea
He will toil like any demon
Work like hell to chain the seamen
And with Bosses on this topic
Will agree.
But the real seamen on the ocean
Have another sort of notion
Which with dry land sailor Greeno
Don't agree;
They know well the ratty racket
Of the AF of L Executive packet
And this bloated, fat-faced savior Of the sea,

(Published in Pilot)

Written after William Green, President of the AF of L had issued a national charter to Harry Lundeberg to form a seamen's union in order to fight the National Maritime Union, a CIO affiliate. {Begin page no. 11}MASS MOVEMENT

by Forty Fathoms

There's a rumbling in the "auto,"
There's a mass move in the "steel,"
There's a landslide in the coal mines,
That the workers all can feel;
There is new life in the "rubber,"
There's new Leaders in Marine,
Dawning of a modern era,
Best that Labor's world has seen.
There are fakers in their caucus,
Fearful, hiding in their holes,
Torrent, flood of demagogy,
There is vision blind as moles;
For a new day is a borning,
When all workers have their say,
To their right to sweated profits,
They will sweep our clouds away.
There is murmur in the "textiles,"
Echoes from the lumber wood,
There is thunder from the shipyards,
And all workers call it good;
For the long, dark night is over,
And all workers see the light.
Each has common cause with others,
Sharing in each others might.
Yes, our long dark night is over,
And our power we can feel,
Sweeping clean the far horizons,
With a workers' hand of steel,
For there's living, peace and plenty,
Room enough for One and All,
Heritage of our founding Fathers,
Not for Morgan --Street called Wall.

{Begin page no. 12}THE BLACK MAN SPEAKS.

I have studied, Brothers, studied!
From the lowest ranks I came
By my striving and my labor
I have tried to play the game!
From the fo'csle to a master
Any tonnage sail or steam
I have fought my way unaided
But 't was all a useless dream.
Colored skin was mine, my Brothers!
Trials and torments in my path
Boss owned hands were raised against me
And ambition raised their wrath!
Theirs the creed 'keep men divided',
Pit the black against the white!
Break the black man's soul and spirit
Lest his mind should see the light.
Light, that sees all men as Brothers
Who must sail upon the sea,
Who must sell their labor power
And whose Hope is Unity!
Standing in a mighty army,
Black and white in vast array,
Marching ON TO FEDERATION
And the light of modern day.

(Published in the Pilot).

Written to fight Jim Crow carriers' in the NMU. {Begin page no. 13}MARCH OF THE CIO

Lightning flashes to the Eastward
Thunder sweeping in the West
Storm clouds o'er the Great Lakes region
Where the fight for Life is pressed;
Hurricanes along the Gulf ports
East and West from New Orleans
Maritime workers march together
Coasts United are their dreams.
Every barge and every towboat
Every tanker, freighter, scow
Answer to the shout of Brother
Aid to each their pledge and vow;
Federation, flag and symbol
In the forward march they go
Liners passing out to seaward
Flash their message CIO.
All longshoremen, every harbor
From Seattle round to Maine
Hear the message, ports and seaward
March with us and play the game;
Every warehouse, every truckman
Every barge and every dredge
Know the sweep of this vast movement
Offer CIO a pledge.
Every Union its own destiny
Leaders arising from their own
Sweeping clear the graft and rackets
That on Labor ranks have grown;
Ever upwards, living standards
Like the lightning bolt a blow
Shattering all sub-human values
Sounds the message --CIO

(Published in the Pilot.) {Begin page no. 14}VOYAGE

This ship shall sail
On the course we plan
For our National good
Our chart we scan
Our log is our Record
Of Progress made
Since our ship slid down
The strikebound ways.
Then crowd on sail
Loose the royals high
Both fore and aft
She is taut and dry
Of good stout oak
Are her timers made
While the men who man her
Have made the grade.
Up with your pennant N M U
To the topmost swaying against the blue
Our figurehead is the C I O
To lead the way thru the hardest blow
To lead the way tho the shoals abeam
To our National harbor
The Seamen's dream.

(Published in the Pilot) {Begin page no. 15}KYOTE MARU

There she lies, the heavy-laden bitch,
Gorging her holds with death.
Blood, blood with every slingload
To snuff out mankind's breath;
Innocent men and women, crushed
By this scrap iron swinging oer the side.
Ill 'gotten tide that bears you out to sea
You carrion. The curse of Christ be on you,
Kyote Maru! But no, 'tis not your fault;
You're nothing but a ship, and fair to see.
'Tis men, degenerate Men do this to you,
Filling your belly with death and misery
For profits for the few,
Death for the many.
You should be bearing life, not blood,
And mne should welcome you with open arms
As something precious; but now
Your guts compose the iron flood
To wreck our civilization, our world.
Are we gone made that we permit such things,
Stand idly by and watch these iron slings
Unmoved? Ah no, we suffer too and know
That evil things like this should ne'er be so.
We shall avenge this outrage 'gainst mankind
And peace on earth through struggle yet shall find.

(Published in the Pilot).

(Refers to shipments of scrap iron to Japan and its use as war material.) {Begin page no. 16}RETREAT

Oh, the Great Chief Oscar Carlson
Took a passage in the night,
For he could not face the seamen
Who were spoiling for a fight.
He was looking for green pastures
And his thoughts were far away
To the days when life was easy
And his days were bright and gay.
Now his thoughts are far from rosy
As he scampered through the night,
Looking for his ancient cronies
Who had tried to rule by might;
And his eyes rolled up to heaven,
While his mind was full of gloom,
As he raced from off the waterfront
Rather than face his doom.
Now his strong arm squad deserted
When the going got too rough
For the seamen of the nation
Proved to be both strong and tough;
And he sought Gus Brown, his buddy,
Who had chiselled through the years,
Then they wept and wailed together,
For their hearts were full of fear,
Then there came Dave Grange the tyrant
Full of bitter, anguished fear.
With his silver spats bespattered
By his copious falling tear
Thus in gloom the falling Caesars
Sat throughout the dismal night
In their ears resounded uproar
Of the rising seamen's might.
There's an end to longest voyage,
And all traitors will but fail
Who have thrived on sweated Labor,
Who have loved the yellow kale,
Sold their souls to the shipowners,
Fought against the Workers All!
And they knew the end was nearing
When their Fascist rule must fall.

(Published in the Pilot) {Begin page no. 17}NEW YEAR

Eight bells have struck "Tis New Year's night
Old Year -- it is your watch below
So pack your gear and hit the pike;
Yet just a word before you go.
You've witnessed hard and bitter fight:
Thru thick and thin and bitter woe
The torch of Freedom raised on high
By men who dared to strike the blow.
You've seen our struggle for the Right:
The march and growth of Rank and File;
You've witnessed wretches laid full low
Who would all honor, truth defile.
Eight bells have struck--be on your way!
The infant New Year's on the scene,
But know that You have seen the birth
Of what till now has been a dream.
You've witnessed East, West, North and South
United in a mighty plan:
The path of struggle forged the chain
That bind us each and every man.
We wish you luck, Old Year, goodbye;
We carry on what we've begun,
We shall not rest or halt our stride
Till Truth and Right and Freedom's won.

(Published in the Pilot)

Written for New Year's, 1937, following the fall-winter strike of the New York Seamen. {Begin page no. 18}THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING.

(Ode to Harry Lundberg)

I'm known as "Lunchbox Harry"
From Seattle town I came
To lead the West Coast Sailors
In an everlasting fame.
I arose as a rank and filer
In the days of '34
The AF of L Executive tactics
I loudly did deplore.
Cast forth to the outer darkness
Away from the august fold
I found the rank and file of the sea
All in one common mold.
And then came a blinding vision
I dreamt of a stepping stone
That would lead to power and glory
Where I would rule alone.
Forgot was the cause of struggle
The Rights of the rank and file
A King I'be on every sea
To rule in a modern style.
I'd use the trust of my members
To extend my narrow realm
I'd stand as a master mariner
A skipper at thehelm. {Begin page no. 19}I gazed on far horizons
To the East, the Gulf and West
Then Bill Green came to my rescue
To aid me in my quest.
He dangled an AF of L Charter
Before ny glittering eye
Forgot was the path of struggle
With Green I'd do or die.
With my "trusted" friends around me
To William Green I rushed
A prodigal Son to his Father returned
Behind closed doors and hushed.
So great was the golden promise
That dazzled my reeling ken
That I forgot the picture
Which rose in the minds of Men.
The men who have fought the struggle
From every coast and sea
Who marched on the far flung picket lines
For Freedom and Unity.
Condemned by the Nation's seamen
I stand at their Judgment gate,
"Lundeberg the pawn of Green's treacher," To meet my well-earned fate.

(Forty Fathoms) (Published in the Pilot){Begin page no. 20}WHEN KNIGHTHOOD WAS IN FLOWER

(Per William Green Esq.)

I dubb thee Knight, Sir Lundeberg,
I give you accolade
To joust with Truth and Honor,
Thou Brutus unafraid.
Arise, Arise, Sir Harry,
Up from your bended knees,
For you have earned your laurels
In Joe Ryan's companie.
Take now your trusty weapon
Arch racketeer art thou
Yo've won your spurs; Sir Harry,
With Scharrenberg by now.
Slay thou the CIO dragon,
St. George and William Green,
To split the Federation
Will serve us well I ween.
Arise, Arise, Sir Harry,
Ride, Ride, for days of old
Bring back the errant seaman
To King Bill Green's own fold.

(continued) {Begin page no. 21}

Bring back the Gold days, Harry,
To Sir Scharrenberg and Me,
Bring back our long lostmillions
From slaves who sail the sea.
I dubb thee Knight, Sir Lundeberg,
A Knight both brave and bold
Although to Honor traitor
T'is healed by Owner's gold.

(Forty Fathoms) (Published in the Pilot){Begin page no. 22}EPITAPH.

Weep, mourn, you great
At Copeland's fate
Your Will to serve no more
Death with Erernal Fink Book
His corpse laid at your door.
Your works, your name,
Oh Copeland,
Who danced to Owner's hire,
"Like far-famed Roman road of old
Has ended in the mire."
The chains you forged
For Labor,
Born in the Bosses' womb,
Shall be engraved by toilers,
And chiseled on your tomb.

(Forty Fathoms) (Published in thePilot)

(Lines beginning "Like Far-famed Roman road . . . in the mire."), are possibly from Burns. Interviewer recalls informants comment as mentioning this line from Burns. Informant is great admire of Burns. {Begin page no. 23}MARCH OF THE BLACK GANG.

We are marching, Brothers, marching,
We are now upon our way
To our hard won Union freedom
To a finer better day.
Raise aloft the Union banner
Raise a shout, ten thousands strong,
We are marching ALL United
Truth and Right our marching song.
We are marching, Brothers, marching
And we gather strength anew,
See the vision of the Future
And the broader, grander view.
Raise aloft your Union banner
Close the ranks, you rank and file
Gather round your chosen leaders
In a democratic style.
We are through with Oligarchy,
We are through with Autocrats,
We are through with shyster methods
And all dirty crawling rats.

(continued) {Begin page no. 24}

See, the power of the Black Gang
Bursting like a sudden storm;
Back, you fakers, and take warning
For 'tis Freedom that is born.
Wave on wave of anger sweeping
Like the surf along the shore
Telling all the Union fakers
Get you gone before we roar.
We are marching, Brothers, marching
To a newer, finer day
With our OWN elected chieftains
In the Democratic way.

Forty Fathoms. (Published in the Pilot)