A poem from a previous generation, though written about the miners, it applies equally to all members of of the toiling class in this stinking exploitative system.
The Miners.
Ye're heroes, aye, ye're heroes,
When workin' doon the mine.
They slap yer back an' praise ye,
Ye're gallant lads an' fine,
Toilin' there among the damp
Where nane o' them wid daur,
Ye're heroes, aye, ye're heroes,
When gettin' coals for war.
They humour ye, an' praise ye,
As ye keep the bunkers fu',
An' the convoys bring the foostuffs
That they ration out to you;
Or the troopships tak' yer brithers
To the battlefields afaur,
Ye're heroes, aye, ye're heroes
When gettin' coals for war.
They'll promise ye high heaven
As the furnace flames ye feed,
In a world that's mad wi' murder,
Truth is sacrificed to greed;
As factories belch their smoke-clouds
An' their profits daily soar,
Ye're heroes, aye, ye're heroes,
When gettin' coals for war.
It was yince a different story----
Das ye mind their hunnish tricks?
They battoned ye in "Twenty-one",
Ye were jailed in "Twenty-six",
Did they aid ye in the "Thirties",
As yer miseries did increase?
Ye were traitors, rogues, an' workshies
In pipin' days o' peace.
They flatter to deceive ye,
Their creed is aye the same;
Watch them when the victory's won,
The'll try the same old game
Forget their rosy promises-----
Remind them if ye daur,
An' see how they treat the heroes
Who produced the coals for war.
James Mitchell.
Striking Spanish miners fire homemade rockets at police
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