Albert & Mike's - Rhymes of Rail

Some Info for you

The Rhymes of The Rail In my Fathers documents i found a few books that he owned and one i remember because he kept it with him sometimes on the footplate on whatever train he was driving that day, The book was of poems written about trains and the people who drove them so I thought i would add the poems from this book . I decided to add the whole book so you can see it as it really is so the scan may not be of great as seeing the book in front of you and well the book has seen better days you will notice the price of the book to the lower picture of the front cover and i believe the copy write has now finished but I am sure that this train enthusiast would have loved for his book to live on even on my amerture webpage so i hope the writer of the book would have enjoyed to see this here.

written by

F.W.SKERRET

Foreword.

In Writing a Foreword to this little volume of poems,I am somewhat at a loss how to express my appreciaton of the merits of our Locomotive cousins in possessing a poet of our own.The American Brotherhood for many years had its own particular versifier in one of its members , The late Mr,Patrick Fennell,who adopted as his ''none-de-plune''the good old name of ''Sandy Maguire.'' Mr Fennell attended our Conference in 1909,and recited a poem he had specially Written for the occasion. In some of his poems in this volume Mr Skerrett has equalled ''Shandy Maguire'' at his best.

TO THE MEN OF THE IRON HORSES,WHO WILL UNDERSTAND THEM REST,THESE VERSES ARE DEDICATED BY ONE OF THEIR NUMBER F.W.S

I have found the odd time when looking at the text in any scroll box that the top half of the text sometimes doesnt show a little click inside the scroll box will normaly put this right

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THE POEMS

Scroll till your hearts content

ODE TO THE DRIVER

you're only the driver,just a human machine,And I smile When I think What a fool you been;So kind and obliging to all other grades,That they take it for granted it's part of your trade.For instance,the Brakesman belittles your skill;And says that your job he could do-and he will. if you let him,the bread from your mouth he would take,And then asks you to make a fire in his brake. At the signal you're standing,and snow's on the ground,To the pointsman your Fireman you have to send round;They soon turn him out of their sanctified hole;Then come down and ask for a bucket of coal. In spectors and Shunters all treat you with scorn;The Guard won't let on till his tea wants a warm,The Porter will shun you,and with anger you boil,Then his barrow runs bad,and he borrows your oil, The Controler sits in his office all day,Getting work out of you that gets him his pay; Though he's no friend of yours,still with kindness sublime,When he works you long hours you must give him some time. You seem to be known by the Passenger,too, For When works to be done they will come round to you oblige them,lay in,Make up time on the trip,Then the Guard come along and runs off with the tip.When you've finished your trips and your off to the shed,''We are Shut of 'em now,''to your Mate you have said;But you're not,for the lot on yourfootplate will roam,And they want you to give them just a ride home. You are only the Driver,just a pawn in the game,Whose Works most important, but whose pays not the same; A lever for others;''Come,WakeDriver,I do. And do unto them as they do unto you.''

*****

IN THE QUEUE.

Have you seen the new invention That attracts so much attention?if you've not,Id like to mention it to you. If it's tea you want,or sugar,Be you sister,Wife,or Mother ,just stand one behind another in a Que. You arrive at early morning,Just as soon as daylight's dawning;Hundreds more you'll find there yawning-noses blue,It makes you wonder how they rolled up;When it comes your turn they're sold up-OH;That Que. Perhaps the little baby's ailling:you must leave the darling wailing,Though you know it's what you never used to do. Never mind about the young'uns,You must have that pound of onions-and the crowd jump on your bunions in the Que. Perhaps your husband joined the Navy,Or the Army,and so ,maybe you thought some useful work you'd like to do.Thought you'r daily getting thinner,you must go without your dinner,Just because you cannot stand within,a Que if you lame, or old or feeble and want ham or jam,or treacle,you must do like common people have to do. If you're blind or epileptic,you must go and get rheumatic From your feet right to your attic,in the Queue. So if you want your bit of Butter;If you want your meat to make a stew;you'll get every attention,Everything you like to mention-yes,you'll get the Old Age Pension in the Queue

*****

HOW LONG?HOW LONG?

(Dedicated to our late Brother William Hood,who for nearly 50 years was in the employ of The L,& N,W,Railway Company ,as cleaner,Fire man,Driver,. And for many years as Loco ,Arranger at Exchange Station ,Manchester,He Died after a brief illness ,on Jan,29th,1918). So you've left the service ,now Bill,where you spent so many years,and you've left this World behind you ,with it's hopes ,and joys,and fears;And theres dear ones left to mourn you but all the grief and tears Life cannot save. Well for nearly half a-century you gave them of your best; In the sphere alloted to you,worked with zeal and zest; And there's no man lives to-day can say you have not earned your rest-Your rest ,the grave,In spite of nature's warning ,Bill you went to work that day,And little thought ere many hours your soul would pass away. It was dfuty you heard calling ,and felt you could not stay-You must obey. Thus a life spent in the service,like many more,must end; Not in happiness or comfort,as more fortunate ones spend their last years with a pension;you must work right to the end,Then pass away. Well theres many gone before you,Bill;and thres many left behind,With old age creeping on them ,in every shed .we find. And they look with fearless pride upon the years they've left behind-They gave their all. Theres Drivers and theres Turners,Whose poor body now grown tired; As boys they started cleaning,and later on they fired,and they've driven;now they are waiting for the dread words''not required'', Or Death to call. Theres hope that springs eternal,Bill,in the breast of everyone,and sometimes good will follow on the wrongs that have been done,The old ones yet may get the rest on earth er life is done-for you had none. How long'twill be we cannot see,we yet have got to learnHow long before that happy day for which we so much yearn,When our old men get the pension they so well and truly earn-. HOW LONG ?HOW LONG?

*****

This poem my Late Father said was very true

The Drivers TO BLAME

I stood by the line at the still hour of night,And watched the Express by its fire lurid light;To something enchanted I like ne,When the silence was rent by a terrible crash. I rushed to the scene ,and with awe gazed around Where the wreck of the train now is strewn o’er the ground. The cries of the injured still ring in my ears,And in fancy I picture the anguish and tears. ‘’What caused this?’’ I asked—in reply someone said,The Driver’s to blame ‘’—and the Driver lay dead. The scene now is changed,and a court-house we find,Where a jury seek light;but,alas,they are blind-Made so by the fact that one spirit has fled That would have brought vision-the Driver is dead. And yet they’ve a duty,if only in name,someone must be culprit,someone they must blame. Tis the Law that expects it;dispite it,not they,They are only the actors-the whole things a play. The last act is over,the verdict is read:’’The Drivers to blame.-and the Driver was dead.’’The Driver’s to blame often ‘tis said;And as often in print that same verdict is read. Providing naught ,’cept the man in the old greasy coat,in death as in Life ,must be someone’s scapegoat. But there’ll yet come a time ,sure as day follows night,And as certain the darkness must give way to light,When the World will acclaim ‘gainst those verdicts of shame,And less will be heard of ‘’The Driver’s to blame,’’Then the man on the footplate will come to his own,The Driver will live, and the truth shall be known

*****

One union*****Our own

1917

What’s this talk we here of fusion? What’s the reason for this shout of a great One Union Movement That we hear so much about? Have they something new to tell us---Something we’ve heard before?No,it is the same old story,Nothing less and nothing more. Do they think we’re worse than cowards,Weak of heart ,so mild so meek,That we’d lick the hand that smites?Do they think mere talk can turn us from the truth?it seems absurd. “By their actions we shall know them”,These speak louder than their words. Do they think that we’ve forgotten Things that recently took place---Things implanted on our memory,Time alone can e’er efface?Did they show the hand of friend-ship?Did they speek or act like men/If they’d any wish to help us,surely they’d have shewn it then. We may offer federation,As we’ve often done before,Helping them when help is needed,Expect the same ,as nothing more,Nail our colours to the mast,Till our wrongs have all been righted,And the goal is reached at last. Shall we ,then ,join in this Fusion?Shall we let the fruits of Victory from our fingers idly slip? Shall we now forsake our birthright?Into oblivion surely go?Shades of sunter.fox and hunter,Sound the echoing answer;No!” Be of courage—be not weary !Be of courage—firm of will!Though the night’s been dark and dreary,See the dawn peeps o’er yon hill. There are brighter days before us Than we ever yet have known,When we are all within One Union,And that Union is –

OUR OWN

*****

.

The Fireman's Growl

(With all due Apologies)

It's not all beer and skittles,this blooming job of mine,And it's not a bed of roses ,isn't firing on the line. You don't get much money,you get lots of slack instead,And they teach you how to work at night to earn your daily bread. Just fancy being knocked up in the middle of the nightwith a noise enough to wake the dead,give the neighbourhood a fright;You leave your bed with rtegret, prepare to catch your train,Then a chap comes round to tell you you can go back to sleep again. And when you do get to the sheds,that's when the fun begins,for someone's pinched your spannersand lamps and other things. You know it's not quite up to rules,still you like to do the same,so you take someone else's and pre-tend youv'e played the game. You often get an engine thats is very shy for steam,And it's then you start to realise that life's not a dream;you get quite a "fed-up"feelingwhen the Driver tells you that"we're losing time",and then you lose your temper and your hat. Then he starts to be sarcastic,and you swear there'll be a rup,When he asks you "Do you think you've put the coal on right side up?;. He sugests you get your Jimmy,then you give a silent groan,As you suddenly remember that your Jimmy's safe at home. It's lively in the tunnels when you slip,and then you stick,And the air mixed with the language gets beutifullythick;The smoke it nearly blinds you ,and withsulphur you near choke,You turn to get a drink and find your blooming bottle's broke. Of course,it's not expected that we chaps want much to eat,But now and then we get a chance, and it really is a trat;When you've put your food upon the floor ,it's enough to raise your ire,Your mate gets absent -minded like,and drops it in the fire.And when the stick'sat danger,as sure as you're alive There is a rule made by some fool,they call it fifty-five. You've got to walk perhaps-half-a-mile,through snow,or hail,or rain. You sighn a book ,then sling your hook,and tramp it back again .Well you reach your destination,neither happy ,blythe,nor gay,with just strength enough to whistle"End of a perfect Day." All your hopes are fairly stranded,When the Turner says "Book-off"--Miles away from home you're landed,neither money ,bacca,scoff. They send you to a Barracks built inside the station yard,Where the engines sing your lullaby,and the beds are nice and hard;Or ,perhaps,it's private diggings,they're another lively hole,for it's ten-to-one the blooming fire's gone out to find some coal,you goto bed half famished ,and pretend it's for the best,And say "when the stomach's empty the brain will get a rest." But it's fairly aggravatin'-just about chills you to the bone,When they Knock you up to tell you you've to work the "Dinner" home. You start the homeward journey, and thingsreach a pretty pass;When you're half inclined to envy the cattle out at grass,And you vow you'll chuck your're job up,you swear you'll do no more. Reach your home;"come on in ninehours,"and the game starts as before. It's a shame they work the Drivers till of age they nearly drop;Why can't they have a pension ,like a postman or a "slop"? They earn it,they desrve it,and thencontented they would be;Besides twould mean promotion,and ther'ed be a chance for me. I often Wonder if i'll ever get a Drivers job,for I'm sick and tired of fireing sixty hours for thirty bob. Perhaps i'll fire until I die ,and then to heaven I'll go--Or ,perhaps.I will be fireing still for the old Lad down bellow.

*****

lABOUR'S Task.

When Armageddon is o'er ,and peace reigns once more,When we've finished the job o'er the foam. Then ,if Labour is Wise from its slumber`twill rise,for there's things to be done nearer home. There's the base profiteer,he's the Hum over here,And the Sweater to shun from our midst; When the fighting is done ,scrap the sword and the gun,;et all armaments cease to exist,in Labour's next break the Autocrat's might,or be burdened for ever you will;Keep your Vote from the class,Whocare naught for the mass;They Make laws,then send you the bill. You've a strenghth ,to make it known;The oppressor from power you must wrench; Even you in your hire ,have the right to aspire to Parliament,Council ,or Bench. Crush the Slum-owner's might in Labour's nexed fight,Too long we've been under his ban;It's certainly good for Man. The possession of Health is more precious than Welath;Do Away with the hovel and slum; Be determined the more ,when the day's work is o'er That Labour's task Must we beg? Nead we ask? Be a Man ,take a hand in fray. Don't sit on the gate,bewailing your fate,. We grow older,you know,every day. There's work to be done ere the Victory's Won,Ceaseto be like a book on the shelf; What you have in your show,it's a duty you owe to your children ,your Wife and yourself.

*****

ODE TO THE PROFITEER.

May e hope you'll soon be done,Proiteer. When your cruel race is run How we'l cheer. For long ime you've made good,Making Money at th flood,Builing fortunes out of blood Oh ,profiteer,Hardly loosed were Dos of War,profiteer,Thn you stretched your greedy claw Far and near,Dragging victims to your mesh,Grinding down ,thn seeking freshTalking all your pound of flesh,You profiteer. Tommy went t fight for you,profiteer. Ye ,you saw him off,tht's true,and gave a cheer. Be determined the more ,when the days work is o'er,That you'll have a place in the sun. That's Labour's task .Must we beg?BNeed we ask?Bea man ,take a hand in the fray. Don't sit on the gate,bewailing your fate,We grow older,you know,every day. There's work to be done ere the victory's wone,Cease to be like a book on the shelf;What you have in your show,it' a duty you oweTo your children ,your wife,and yourself. Tommy went to play the game out on Flanders'bloody plain;Tommy's loved ones pawns became To profiteer. And the workers ,what of them,profiteer? Honest women ,toiling men,Children dear. Little children cry for bread,Did it touch your heart of lead,Whilst your own clothed and fed,By profiteer?In the Empire's darkest hour,profiteer,seeking victims to devour,subject dear;Out for spoils ,on plunder bent, Then to lend to Government. Patriotism ? No !per cent.Profiteer. Thyough you go to Church and pray,profiteer,You shall have your Judgment Day,Never fear. On the reckoning did you dwell?What the tale your'e going to tell?Will you count your gains in Hell?

you PROFITEER.

*****

Engine Driving As It Is

Hes'sa goodnjob has the Driver,it's thebest job on the Line;He makes no end of money -When he works no end of time;He goes on "When they want him ,"and he comes off"When he can,Yes,theres no Mistake,the Driver is a very lucky Man. Quite a nice job has the Driver,working 'midst the oil and grease;Someday they may his engine clean,for wonders never cease,His self-bought clothes will the facts disclose,but he'se not one to complain,Still he hopes things will be better "when the boys come home again."It takes years to make a Driver-quite a score of years or more. When he gets the job it's neither very safe nor very sure;Just a sham examination all the past career may blot;Try and grasp the explanation;One eyes failed to count some dots. It must be grand to be a Driver on a rough and heavy road,Time and again he pleads in vain,they won't reduce the load. The position far from pleasant,as with tonnage he will tug,He drops some time ,some thought sublime ,and then he drops the plug. There are some who think the Driver has princely salary;We can hear of different Movements;he contented has to be. The publick Safety's in his hands,Whilst at his post he sticks,and he's paid about as much per hour asthe man who carries bricks. And what about the Driver ,When his working days are o'er,They let him toil and sweat and boil till he ca do no more. Wilhe get a handsome pension When the tree has lost its sap?Just like th Engine that hw works,he's placed amongst the scrap.

*****

Land-Lordship

In almost every social problamWhich faces man to-day,And every efort for reform,Land -Lordship blocks the way. How they first came to possess itWas never clearly shewn:And yet a few men wish to claimThis earth their very own. When winters chilly weather Draws you closer to the fire,And your hear the wife complainingHer coal bills getting higher,You're inclined to strafe the miner,Who for Justice merely fights;You forget about his Lordship And what he calls his rights,For the Brick Box that you live in ,You must clearly understand You're indebted to his Lordship,Who allows it on his Land. Whilst the food that's sent from Heaven--Well,t least they tell us so--Costs you Far more than it should do,For his Lordship lets it grow. So his Lordship claims the minerals That are underneath the ground;He allso claims the good thingsWhich upon the earth abound. In the Highways or the BywaysAnd the Railroads he'se share. Will he want to tax our sky-rides?Does his Lordship own the air?

*****

VOTING

If your Father was a Tory ,he has often said to you:”When you get the vote ,lad give it to the man who wears the blue;Never mind about the Liberals ,and the tales that they can tell ,I have always voted Tory ,you must do the same as well . For things we have be thankful,No matter what they be:I never ask just what we have ,you must do the same as me. Bless the Squire and his relations ,All the land and wealth he’s got ,Work for him and make him happy: be contented with your lot,. If he chanced to be a Liberal then a different tale would be : Red would be his favourite colour,you must wear the same as he,and he’d speak about the Tories ,o’er their failings he would gloat Say”To reach Emancipitation,for the Liberals you must Vote”. Then he’d tell you of the Eden that his party’s sure to make. When they get the power and often he would make your poor heart ache Whilst you listened to his pleadings;o’er their promise he’d pore-if we’d only half they promise we should never want no more. Both the liberals and the tory on your doorstep you will find. When the time comes round for voting –each has got his axe to grind. Though they join and preach Coalition,that to you is just the same;. Names will never change their methods, each will play his party’s game. Labour now must win it’s freedom;break the despot’s cruel rule,You must have got the power to do it-play the man ,and not the fool. Don’t get stranded in coalition build a strong and better boat; you’ve to get your bread by labour-then let labour have your vote.

*****

Do it Now

Life’s too short for you and me To allow Putting off the things that we should do now,Each some task to do has got,Strike the iron while it’s hot. Things laid by are best forgot-Do it now. If the Branch don’t suit your taste,show them now. How their preciouses time they waste,you’ll allow. It’s your place to show them there,In their efforts take a share;perhaps they’ll put you in the chair-Try them now if a kind word you can say,Speak it now. Anger oft t’will turn away;And somehow,frowns are never worth our while,tis better far to give a smile;Kind words help one o’er the stile-Give them now. To your children you’ve a debt,you’ll allow;Then our orphan fund accept,for I vow, Though in Health tis said you to –morrow may be dead,Join it now. If a “Non “should work with you tell him now That his apathy won’t do Do it now.E’en the strongest will may bend,Just a little patience spend,And you’ll win him in the end-try him now. If a friend you can assist Di it now. His appeal do not resist,anyhow. You can help him if you try;perhaps he’s sick ,and should he die He won’t see the wreath you buy-Help him now.

*****

IF

If a member takes the trouble just to glance ,but once again, At the motto of his union on the medal on his chain,If he askes himself the question ,can he truly say that he Is worthy of that motto:”Brothers in Unity?” If you hold the hand of friendship to a comrade when he’s down, And help him when misfortune comes-not pass him by and frown;If whilst through this life your passing,you do what good you can. Despising meanly actions ,working straight with every man;If you do your business at the branch and not in shed or street,And don’t pretend you're better than each other man you meet;If you pay your contributions when e’er the same are due,And don’t forget when Branch night is ,as so many seem to do; If you meet each levy that is made without a row or fuss,But recollect that others have to pay far more than us;If you always look for guidance to Head Office or E,C,And know too many leaders means chaos and anarchy;If your mate should be a driver who is getting on in years,you give him all assistance ,don’t insult his age with sneers;If ,perchance ,he is a Fireman ,who for your advice does yearn,And you give it freely ,knowing you yourself had once to learn;If a days work is sufficient and you’re satisfied with it,Remember there are others who perhaps would like a bit;If you shun all thoughts of malice,and worship at the shrine Which says “To err is human,”whilst “Forgiveness is divine,”If you speak the word that’s helpful,not the one which causes pain,You’ve a right to wear the medal that you have upon your chain.

*****

The cry of The Woman

They decline to heed our pleadings,the hope expressed that we ,The woman of those brave lads who lie buried o’er the sea,over there in France or Belgium,Where in fancy we oft trace. The Wooden cross denoting our dear one’s resting place. They are thinking now of money after all we woman gave,And refuse a natural longing:just a last look at his grave. They’re forgetting ,now it’s finished,how the Victory was won:All the gold on earth can’t equal what a Mother gave –her son. Did those brave lads stand at money when they proudly marched away,leaving home ,friends and position for a paltry coin a day?. If those lads had hesitated ,what a story would be told;Where would be wealth of England ,what would be worth of gold? But those heroes stood at nothing,they simply heard the call and answered it right ,in battle grim to fall. Counting not the cost in money ,leaving Mother ,children ,wife.Giving all they had for England ,giving more than gold –their life. Men must do the fighting ,woman simply wait and weep;So ,the mothers and the widows of those heroes brave who sleep,May not see the grave out yonder,may not look upon that cross-The richest nation in the world is standing now at dross. None can tell a Mothers feelings,or the widows bitter pain,Whilst she’s thinking of the lost one she will never see again. Are there none to hear our pleadings? Can’t our grief be understood? They decline to find the money ,when my God ,we found the blood.

*****

DON'T

Don't get enviouse of another Who ,perhaps ,has more than you;Jealouse feelings try to smother,only hope for what is due. If you're feeling tired of trying,Try once more success to bring,And the poor man .if he's honest.Is as good as any King.Don't refuse to help a fellow Who ,perhaps ,is down at heel;None of us can help misfortune,Lend your ear to his appeal. Theres none too poor to help another With but a crust from off the shelf;And before the journey's ended you may want a lift yourself. Don't speak ill of any other,E'en though speak ill of you;. Two blacks never change their colour,But remain the same dark hue. Say a good word or keep silent,As along through life you pass ;If you must pick holes in someone,Do it through a looking -glass.Don't give up when things look blackest,Or in grief cry out aloud;Think about the silver lining Hiding somewhere in the cloud. Keep on smiling,'tis far better;Crush despair with mighty tread;Dont get thinking of your funeral,you'll attend it--when you're dead.

*****

The Toiler's Dream.

Toil -worn,the worker reached his home. Withinthat meagre street;A smile lights up his featuresAs his children run to greet The one who toils that they may live,Who earns their Bread of Life,And guides their footsteps through a worldOf ceaseless care and strife. Inside his cottage all clean,Althoughperhaps ,'tis bare;He realises here is rest,And known he's welcome there. Through void of showy furniture,Or fittings great and grand,tea inmates make it poradise,Where peace and love shall stand. The evening meal is finished,And the children gone to rest;of all things he likes bestTo read and learn its meanings,For knowledge long he's yearned,And afterwards he seeks that sleepso well and nobly earned. Whilsthus asleep,a vision passed Across that toiler's brain,And everything he'd give could heBut dream that dream again;The days of living hand to mouth had passed beyond recall,His wages sufficient now,at last to meet the wants of all. He saw his little children dear improved in strengh and health;A country home had brought to them of God's pure air a wealth.Their education to improve,He'd found a better school,That they might have a chance in life,Not be the rich mans tool. And when his days work was o'er,The evenings pleasant hours Would pass away too quickly in his garden midst the floweres. Hisdaily task seemed toil no more,The dreary days had gone,That which was hell is Heaven now,of cares he had not one. Yet,better still he saw himself With lifes task nearly done,Enjoying in his own wayThat rest so nobly won. No more the workhouse seemed to say;"Toll on ,ill get you yet";His pension had supplanted that ,its windows said "To let". The morni9ng breaks ,the toiler wakes,his dream has passed away;Another round of toil begins,Another yesterday. Twas but a dream of happy theme,A shadow cast before,As though to tell that toilerThose dark dreary days were o'er. When he must toil from morn to nightTo dwell within a slum,Where health is sacrificed to wealth and sunshine cannot come. God speed the day when man can say No more his birth he'll rue,When peace and happiness abound,When toiling men can look around,And see where his good gifts abound and the toilers dream come true.

THE DAWN

(These verses were penned at the conclusion of the National Strike of September ,1919,and are at once a tribute to the Magnanimous spirit and courage of the " Associated "mens leader ,and the men who responded so magnificently to the call,)

For long ,long years our World was one of strife,Light seldom entered into railway life;Disgrunted men would mourn their cruel fate,And often blame another one -their mate. Man against man .a sad and sorry plight,And thus employers saw and used their might. The leaders ,too ,too oft would follow onAlong those lines ,till hopes of peace seemed gone. Man doubted man ,or so it seemed to be;Jealousy reighned ,that shroud of misery. Each for himself,the strong to win the fight,And all seemed dark our world one long black night-The darkest night Then ,like a thunderbolt from out the skies,Labour arose with loud resonant cries,someone with power ,in definitive strain,Would touch the poor-paid workers'wage again. And then it was that Bromley.fear-less,bold,Spoke out those words which should be marked in gold;"Dead is the past,all jealousies and pride,you have to fight ,friend ,then I' by your side."Words such as these will live the ages through,proving that Labour shall to itself be true. Clouds of distrust thus sped on wings of fight,Gone was the darkness ,men again saw light-The needful light. Ours not to dwell upon the Victory won;That will acclaim itself in days to come;For us moral ,the mistakes of pastgo with the darkness ,light has come at last. Therefore dear comrades ,no matter what you are-"Associated"or,perhaps,NUR-Sinkselfish aims and follow Bromley's plan,All helping each ,"one Brotherhood of Man." That is our lesson ,from it ne'er depart,Strengthen your future,be firm and stout of heart ,Gone is your night,for you a day is born,Rise up and greet the coming of the dawn-The gloriouse dawn.

*****

The?

There's a fellow full of knowledge,You will see him everywhere;In the train or on the tramcar You will allways find him there. You will talk about the weather,Tell you when it's goiung to rain,If it's comeing down in torrents,knows when it will stop again. Talk of work ,he's just as anxiouse.Saysit's good for mind and pelf,Though it very often happensHe won't do too much himself. If you fancy backing horses,He can tell you what will win;But it's you who does the talkingWhen you've been lost your tin. and he'll tell you how to diet Whatto eat and what to fear;knows where he can get a liquid which is camouflaged as bear. He can talk about the planetsVenus Jupiter and MarsTill you feel inclined to send himon voyage seeing stars. With politics he's brimming;what you know of them is rot;says this Government a right oneperhaps it is ,perhaps it's not--That they just want his assistanceNow and then a hint he'll dropQualified ?oh yes .that's obvious.is it not"The Talkin Shop?" Thus on you he vents his knowledge Talks of this and those and that,till you wonder how he stores it,How his head goes in his hatStill if you would like to beat himTheeres a chance to do so yetAsk him quitly ,nexed you meet himwhere you'll find"A House to Let"

Tommy's opinion

Just a line or two from Tommy,Who his little bit has done. In the fightwe fought for freedom;Is it freedom that we've won? Home again ,demobed,in Blightly All around me things look bad,and I have a sort of feeling That my class has again been "had". Remember well the promise,As I proudly Marched away,That for me my work was waitingWhen back home I came some day. Now I'm back they do not want me,after years in hell I spent;Did they say my work was waiting ?Twas the workhouse that they meant. When I came on leave to Blighty,Jerry's pills in my inside,And they gave me rides in motors,How my bosom filled with pride. Do their motors now assist me ?Well the truth to you Ill tell;All day long to dodge them,And my share of them's a smell . There's this blinking profiteering on your clothes,your boots ,your bread. On the kiddie in its cradle,And your funeral when your'e dead. Yes I know ,when caught they fine them,camourflage,thats very plain;just a shilling out of profits,Then they do you in again. What about their cruel promise To dear ones left behind?That the graves of those whov'e fallen could ve visited How kind?yes they may have money once again the key is drossif youv'e none then hold your sorrow,Think about his grave,your loss. When they formed their great coalation As a cure for all our ills,all they done is sought to tax us . What we've got from them as Bills But the people now are wakening,Through this trickery they seeLabours only hope is labour,only they do ought for me. Would they get me quite as easy,Should there come another war?Would I still sing Tipperary After what i've done and saw?Why,the thought gives me the wind -up Can you wonder that I grouse?They would build a land for heroese,And can't his blinking house!

THEN AND NOW

So Wev've one more trip together,Now anothe's had you out; Well theres no mistake ,Old lady,You to-day are knocked about. First by one ,and then another,Little thought for you is shewn; Worked by all and cared by no one, you once I called "My Own". And so well do I remember How ,not very long ago,it for me it was a shed -day,There was one for you also. It was then you had attention,just like I needfed rest;When resuming ,need I mention,We could give them our best. Those were days indeed ,old Lady;And to memory oft is brought Thoughts of trips we had togetherFit and strong and fearing naught. Many times I live them over ,In my ear a sound oft steals of valves .as true as heart beats,And the rythum of your wheels. Those were the days when naught was wasted;You had care ,was sound and true;Oil and fuel,with but little,I knewwell what you could do, Now ,alas they say you're wasteful,But to me it's very plain We would show the same old savingHad we but the chance again. Then you'd steam for aye,old lady;Now you stop as though for breath,Just as I shall stop when called onBy the Master hand-grim Death. When the finger points to zero,And the boilers run quite dry,proving ther's not much between us Both machines,yes you and I . Just like me you need attention;And you almost cry for care;But ,alas ,the times have altered,naught but work is now your share. None to heed you,you continue;Night and day at work your'e found;And they only find your value When your wheels no more go round. Could we live the old life overyou and I ,o'er hill and dale,watching mile-posts flashing by us,and the moon above us pale;We ,again would show that system And efficiency must blend. That to care for man and engine is the best way in the end. Though you're crumpy ,lumpy, thumpy, Moaning,groaning,slow and weak,And you show a sad consumption,Naught against you will I speek. In my heartI cannot chide you It's the system that's to blame. Though you're streeky,squeaky,Leaky,I respect you just the same

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