THE TOILERS

Joe Cone

Saybrook, Conn.

A song for the man who toils all day,

  Whatever his calling may be;

The man at the bench, the man with the pan,

  Whose wage is a salary.

For work is work whatever it be,

  And toiler are toiler all;

So a song I pen for the toiling men,

  Be their incomes great or small.

The smoke and the grime of the smithy’s forge,

  Or dust of a hammer’s blow;

Is as clean as the ink that dots the page,

  Of the time-book white as snow.

The cloth spun rough for overalls

  Is as worthy of renown

As the cloth wove into a business suit,

  Or ministerial gown.

The grip of the hard and horny hand

  Is an honor no way surpassed

By the touch of the soft and limpid palm

  Which has wealth and fame amassed.

The employer was once an office-boy,

  An owner you yet may be;

Betwixt you all, the great and the small,

  Should resound fine harmony.

We are workers all, we are toilers all,

  For a great and lasting good;

Unite and wipe out the bad, bad blood,

  And be perfectly understood.

A song for the Toiler, you and you,

  And me, and everyone;

Go hand in hand with a purpose grand,

  And the battle of life is done.

Joe Cone

c. April 8 - 21, ‘04