Cheer up, cheer up, you sons of toil, and listen to my song, The times should much amuse you; you are up, and going strong. The Working Men of England at length begin to see That their parsnips for to butter now the Parties all agree. Chorus. It's high time that the Working Men should have it their own way, And their prospect of obtaining it grows brighter every day! It isn't "Agitators" now, but Parties and M.P.'s, Who swear we ought to have our way, and do as we darn please. Upon my word it's proper fun! A man should love his neighbour, Yet Whigs hate Tories, Tories Whigs; but oh! they all love Labour! Chorus--It's high time, etc. There's artful Joey Chamberlain, he looks as hard as nails, But when he wants to butter us, the Dorset never fails; He lays it on so soft and slab, not to say thick and messy, He couldn't flummerify us more were each of us a Jesse! Chorus--It's high time, etc. Then roystering Random takes his turn; his treacle's pretty thick; He gives the Tories the straight tip--and don't they take it--quick? And now, by Jove, it's comical!--where will the fashion end?-- There's Parnell ups and poses as the genuine Labourer's Friend! Chorus--It's high time, etc. Comrades, it makes me chortle. The Election's drawing nigh, And Eight Hours' Bills, or anything, they'll promise for to try. They'll spout and start Commissions; but, O mighty Labouring Host, Mind your eye, and keep it on them, or they'll have you all on toast! Chorus. It's high time that the Working Men should have it their own way, They'll strain their throats--you mind your votes, and you may find it pay!