Читать книгу Modern Street Ballads - John Ashton - Страница 12

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It’s high time that working men should have it their own way, And for a fair day’s labour, receive a fair day’s pay.

This is the time for striking, at least, it strikes me so,

Monopoly has had some knocks, but this must be the blow,

The working men, by thousands, complain their fate is hard,

May order mark their conduct, and success be their reward.

Some of our London Printers, this glorious work begun,

And surely they’ve done something, for they’ve upset the Sun.

Employers must be made to see they can’t do what they like,

It is the master’s greediness causes the men to strike.

The labouring men of London, on both sides of the Thames,

They made a strike last Monday, which adds much to their names.

Their masters did not relish it, but they made them, understand,

Before the next day’s sun had set, they gave them their demand.

The unflinching men of Stockport, with Kidderminster in their train,

Three hundred honest weavers have struck, their ends to gain.

Though the masters find they lose a deal, the tide must soon be turning,

They find the men won’t, quietly, be robbed of half their earning.

Our London Weavers mean to show their masters, and the trade,

That they will either cease to work, or else be better paid.

In Spitalfields the Weavers worked with joy, in former ages,

But they’re tired out of asking for a better scale of wages.

The monied men have had their way, large fortunes they have made,

For things could not be otherwise, with labour badly paid;

They roll along in splendour, and with a saucy tone,

As Cobbett says, they eat the meat, the workman gnaws the bone.

In Liverpool the Postmen struck, and sent word to their betters,

Begging them to recollect that they were men of letters,

They asked for three bob more a week, and got it in a crack,

And though each man has got his bag, they have not got the sack.

The Cabmen, and their masters, made up their minds last week,

To stop the Cabs from running, now is not that a treat,

The Hackney Carriage Act[9] has proved a very bitter pill, It’s no use to call out, Cab, Cab,[10] drive off and show your skill.

The Coopers and the Dockyard Men are all a going to strike.

And soon there’ll be the devil to pay, without a little Mike,

The farming men of Suffolk have lately called a go,

And swear they’ll have their wages rose, before they reap or sow.

We are all familiar with the carefully got up mendicants who infest the streets of London, with their mournful howls—how that they are “Frozen-out gardeners,” or “Have got no work to do,” etc., etc.; and in the early part of the century they were more numerous than now, as the police were not so efficient. One sample of this style of ballad must suffice.