Classic Poem

Come lads and listen to my song, a song of honest toil;
'Tis of the English labourer, the tiller of the soil;
I'll tell you how he used to fare, and all the ills he bore,
Till he stood up in his manhood, resolved to bear no more.

This fine old English labourer,
One of the present time.

He used to take whatever wage the farmer used to pay,
And work as hard as any horse for eighteen pence a day;
And if he grumbled at the nine and dared to ask for ten,
The angry farmer cursed and swore, and sacked him there and then.

He used to tramp off to his work while townsfolk were abed,
With nothing in his belly but a slice or two of bread;
He dined upon potatoes, and never dreamed of meat,
Except a lump of bacon fat sometimes by way of treat.

He used to find it hard enough to give his children food,
But sent them to the village school as often as he could;
But though he knew that school was good, they must have bread and clothes,
So he had to send them to the fields to scare away the crows.

He used to walk along the fields and see his landlord's game
Devour his master's growing crops, and think it was a shame;
But if the keeper found him with a rabbit or a wire,
He got it hot when brought before the parson and the squire.

But now he's wide awake and doing all he can,
At last for honest labour's rights he's fighting like a man;
Since squires and landlords will not help, to help himself he'll try,
And if he doesn't get fair wage he'll know the reason why.

They used to treat him as they liked in the evil days of old;
They thought there was no power on earth to beat the power of gold;
They used to threaten what they'd do if ever work was slack,
But now he laughs their threats to scorn with the Union at his back.