[CON] [YO] HELP US A BIT?”
The [following] stirring appeal on behalf of the distressed operatives in Lancashire, has been addressed [to] [the] [working] men of Victoria, by Mr. W. Stitt Jenkins of [Geelong] .
A “Lancashire Lad” has been writing
Long letters at home to the Press ----
He tells how America’s fighting
Has plunged in the direst distress
The men and the women and children –
The hands of the mill and the pit;
Heartbroken and famished they wander,
And cry, “Con yo help us a bit?”
No more at the bell’s cheery ringing
We hurry away to the mill;
At our labour no longer we’re singing,
The loom and the shuttle are still;
Lord, lead us not into temptation
To thee in our sorrow, we cry,
O stretch forth Thine arm o’er our nation,
Send succour, or thousands must die.
“Con yo help us a bit” oh! our brothers,
Who far from old England have fled
Con yo help the poor fathers and mothers,
And children that perish for bread;
Con yo help us across the wide ocean,
For all kinds of work we are fit;
Dear friends, with the wildest emotion,
We cry, “Con yo help us a bit?”
We are willing to work – oh! how willing! –
But work can no longer be had.
And gone is our very last shilling,
And hunger is driving us mad.
Ah! think [on] " our sad desolation,
And say con yo help us to flit
From wretchedness, woe, and starvation –
Con yo help us, dear sisters, a bit?
To you, oh our sisters, we’re crying =
Con you spare some help from your store?
Alas! we are starving and dying,
And your eyes shall behold us no more.
Ah! say con yo revel in riches,
Or peacefully sleep on your bed,
While thousands of Lancashire witches
Are begging for morsels of bread?
Is it true – the fine tales they are telling
Of rivers and mountains of gold?
And that in the land where you’re dwelling
Is room for the young and the old?
That there, in contentment reclining,
Each man neath his fig-tree may sit,
While we with grim hunger are pining?
Oh! try, “Con yo help us a bit?”