Long hours spent toiling the land, his family had done for generations.

Living in tune with the seasons, never thinking of other occupations.

Farmers his father and grandfather before him had been, what else to be?

Of his sons he was proud, he said “one day you will take over from me”.

 

Come work in our factories, leave your village, leave your land.

Come work in our factories, live in our town, live as we planned.

 

1820 was the year, November the month it happened.

He’d stored his grain for winter, his calf it was fattened.

“Father we must leave, we’re promised work in the mill”.

Slowly the village emptied, leaving old timers and the ill.

 

Come work in our factories, take our money, take your pay.

Come work in our factories, work in danger, work as we say.

 

Factories filled with young farmers along with their wives.

Children know only noise and danger all their young lives.

Living in the towns, surrounded by bricks and by stone.

Their farms but a memory, now forlorn and alone.

 

Come work in our factories, low income, low rewards.

Come work in our factories, make us rich, make us Lords.

 

Long hours spent toiling in factories, his family had done for generations.

Living working men and women, never thinking of other occupations.

Factory workers his father and grandfather before him had been, what else to be?

Until modernisation and mechanisation, he said “what will become of me?”.

 

Come work in our factories, learn new skills, learn computers.

Come work in our factories, live in villages, live as commuters.

 

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