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As we go marching, marching,
in the beauty of the day
A million darkened kitchens,
a thousand mill lofts gray
Are touched with all the radiance
that a sudden sun discloses
For the people hear us singing,
bread and roses, bread and roses.

As we go marching, marching,
we battle too, for men,
For they are women's children,
and we mother them again.
Our days shall not be sweated
from birth until life closes,
Hearts starve as well as bodies,
give us bread, but give us roses.

As we go marching, marching,
un-numbered women dead
Go crying through our singing
their ancient call for bread,
Small art and love and beauty
their trudging spirits knew
Yes, it is bread we fight for,
but we fight for roses, too.

As we go marching, marching,
we bring the greater days.
The rising of the women means
the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler,
ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories,
bread and roses, bread and roses.

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