| In October thirty-six they took a trip,
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| The men who made the ships,
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| Searching for some kind of salvation.
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| With heads held high, and dignified,
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| The towns folk and passers by,
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| Held them in some kind of admiration.
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| March on, Marshall Riley’s Army,
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| Marching for your rights,
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| You’ve surely earned them.
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| March on, Marshall Riley’s Army,
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| Marching for your rights,
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| The lessons you taught us,
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| Who has learned them.
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| Soldiers in the front line of the struggle,
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| For the right to work,
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| God gave me these hands just to be idle.
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| Why has holyness the bishop,
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| With his infinite christian wisdom,
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| Like Peter in when the cock crew had denied them.
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| And the yes men, and the press men,
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| In London Town all came down,
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| Brought with them the curious, and derranged.
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| And forty years has since gone past,
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| But you’re still down there,
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| If you’re working class.
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| Can anybody tell me what has changed? |