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The Great Strike
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“Twas in the Twenties that it started,
When Saxon blood turned to the boil.
When working class and Landlord parted,
And a million marched on British soil.

The mining man, deep in the Pit
In lowly toil, for years had worked.
His eyes and skin, red raw with grit,
And when he died the owners shrugged.

And so the men, they downed their tools
For better things, they vowed they’d starve.
They’d show them now they were not fools,
To ban injustice, now they’d strive.

Soon the nations workers joined,
This noble cause, so pure and right.
The mighty cry was then enjoined’
“Workers of the world unite !”

A cut in pay! Not on your life!
To work for less, my pay in half ?
How can I feed my wife and kids,
On seven Bob ? Boy, that’s a laugh.

Come on, lets down to London march,
We’ll reign in hell to save our jobs,
Cry loud demands, ‘till throats are parched.
And damn to hell, all wealthy slobs.

But soon enthusiasm died,
And the miner left to fight alone.
For a better life they’d fought – some died.
But the public’s heart had turned to stone.

The T.U.C., and radicals too
Had made their point at last.
And now for peace, they had to sue.
The revolution lost.

The workers went back down the Pit,
For many years they worked and toiled.
Till the owners, Finaly agreed to sit.
And wipe the blood from British soil.

Robin. A. Spicer © 1992 / Amended 2003