On April the thirtieth,
In 1933,
Upon the streets of Wilder
They shot him, brave and free.
They shot my darling father,
He fell upon the ground;
'Twas in the back they shot him;
His blood come streaming down.
They took the pistol handles
And beat him on the head;
The hired gunmen beat him
Till he was cold and dead.
When he left home that morning,
I thought he'd never return;
But for my darling father
My heart shall ever yearn.
We carried him to the graveyard
There we laid him down;
To sleep in death for many a year
In the cold and sodden ground.
Although he left the union
He tried so hard to build,
His blood was spilled for justice,
And justice guides us still.
In 1933,
Upon the streets of Wilder
They shot him, brave and free.
They shot my darling father,
He fell upon the ground;
'Twas in the back they shot him;
His blood come streaming down.
They took the pistol handles
And beat him on the head;
The hired gunmen beat him
Till he was cold and dead.
When he left home that morning,
I thought he'd never return;
But for my darling father
My heart shall ever yearn.
We carried him to the graveyard
There we laid him down;
To sleep in death for many a year
In the cold and sodden ground.
Although he left the union
He tried so hard to build,
His blood was spilled for justice,
And justice guides us still.
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