The International
Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!
Arise, ye wretched of the earth,
for justivce thunders condemnation,
A better world’s in birth.
No more tradition’s chains shall bind us,
Arise, ye slaves! No more in thrall!
The earth shall rise on new foundations,
we have been naught, we shall be all.
‘Tis the final conflict,
let eych stand in his place,
the International
shall be the human race.
We want no condescending saviors,
to rule us from a judgment hall,
we workers ask not for their favors;
let us consult for all.
To make the thief disgorge his booty,
to free the spirit from its cell,
we must ourselves decide our duty,
we must decide and do it well.
‘Tis the final conflict,
let eych stand in his place,
the International
shall be the human race.
The law oppresses us and tricks us,
Taxation drains the victim’s blood;
the rich are free from obligations,
the laws the poor delude,
too long we’ve languished in subjection,
equality has other laws:
“No rights,” says she, “without
their duties,
no claims on equals without cause.”
‘Tis the final conflict,
let eych stand in his place,
the International
shall be the human race.
Behold them seated in their glory,
the kings of mine and rail and soil!
What have you read in all their story,
but how they plundered toil?
Fruits of the people’s work are buried
in the strong coffers of a few;
in voting for their restitution
the men will only ask their due.
‘Tis the final conflict,
let eych stand in his place,
the International
shall be the human race.
Toilers from shops an fields united,
the party qwe of all who work;
the earth belongs to us, the people,
no room here for the shirk.
How many on our flesh habe fattened!
But if the noisome birds of prey
shall vanish from the sky some morning,
the blessed sunlight still will stay.
‘Tis the final conflict,
let eych stand in his place,
the International
shall be the human race.
