When I was a laddy, a laddy at school
With a head full of lettuce, a belly of [bad word] 
No training to speak of, spit out of fool
Thought life was for working cheap shots and [bad word] 

The masters would tussle and argue and fight
Boys we made property currency blight
God forbid anyone show us the light
Avast with the caning to put us to right.

Cause they're mine, mine, You filthy old swine
Get your own pigs to feed off, These ones are mine.

And then we were men to the factory bound
penny a week and a face pushed to ground
No matter if you lose a finger or hand
Owners and workers the fight goes around.

Cause they're mine, mine, You filthy old swine
Get your own pigs to feed off, These ones are mine.

I married a lass as my father before
And set to make babies to feed to the war
As we went to our business and knock at the door
The boss cried keep writhing, the factory needs more.

But they're mine, mine, You filthy old swine
Get your own pigs to feed off, These ones are mine.

So if [bad word] looking for labour to spoil
Men who don't question, men who will toil
To your factories they're product, to your banks they are oil
To chew up and spit out and grind out for soil.

But they're mine, mine, You filthy old swine
Get your own pigs to feed off, These ones are mine.

Cause they're mine, mine, You filthy old swine
Get your own pigs to feed off, These ones are mine