[_He sits down on the bench by the stove crying._
JAEGER
[_With a sudden violent ebullition of rage._] An' yet there's people not
far from here, justices they call themselves too, over-fed brutes, that
have nothing to do all the year round but invent new ways of wastin'
their time. An' these people say that the weavers would be quite well off
if only they wasn't so lazy.
ANSORGE
The men as says that are no men at all, they're monsters.
JAEGER
Never mind, father Ansorge; we're makin' the place hot for 'em. Becker
and I have been and given Dreissiger a piece of our mind, and before we
came away we sang him "Bloody Justice."
ANSORGE
Good Lord! Is that the song?
JAEGER
Yes; I have it here.
ANSORGE
They calls it Dreissiger's song, don't they?
JAEGER
I'll read it to you,
MOTHER BAUMERT
Who wrote it?
JAEGER
That's what nobody knows. Now listen.
[_He reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect accentuation,
but unmistakably strong feeling. Despair, suffering, rage, hatred,
thirst for revenge, all find utterance._
The justice to us weavers dealt
Is bloody, cruel, and hateful;
Our life's one torture, long drawn out:
For Lynch law we'd be grateful.
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