The Chartist’s March

I was born in a Bleanafon
where the wind blows hard
and the rain falls grey and cold.
I work everyday o to earn my pay
digging down that black hole.
I’ve got a house that sits
looking down on the pits
and a chapel at the end of my row,
the grave yards nice and its cold as ice,
so I won’t have far to go.

CHORUS.
And we work and we slave
all the live long day to buy food
from the company store.
But the prices rise high
till they reach the sky,
the boys just said no more.
Saying no more.

At the age of 13
I was put to the seam
to start my working days.
There was younger than me
digging down on their knees,
and remembering how to pray.
Now there’s talk in the hills
about government bills,
and a man that they call John Frost.
He says we must fight
for what we know to be right
and take back all that we’ve lost.

CHORUS

So we all marched down
to that Newport town
to fight for a better way,
but they met us with guns
from the cannon we’d run,
not an inch did we gain that day.
Now all hope is gone
and it won’t be long
till I’m down in Van Dieman’s Land.
But everyday I will say
as I kneel and pray.
Gods help to the working man!

CHORUS x 2

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