Sit by the union hall door.
The little girls hand was brown as the curles
That played on the dress that she wore.
The little boys head was hatless,
And tears in each little eye,
"Why don't you go home to your mama", I said
And this was the strikers reply:
"Our mama's in jail, they locked her up:
Left Jim and me alone,
So we've come here to sleep in the tents tonight,
For we have no mother, no home.
"Our Papa got hurt in the shooting Friday night,
We waited all night for him,
For he was a union guard you know,
But he never came home any more."
Contributed by The Lone Ranger - 2010/5/20 - 11:27
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