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My
grandfather on my father's side was a mill worker, my uncle
worked for MetroVick, and as a young man I worked at Naylor
Brothers' pipe works in Cawthorne, the engine sheds at Longsight
in Manchester and, like my uncle, I worked for a couple of years
at AEI, Metropolitan Vickers as was, in Trafford park. All these
jobs were on the shop floor, or closely associated with it,
and this has given me an abiding respect for those who work
with their hands in conditions which few office workers can
begin to imagine. I have always
been interested in industrial archeology and social history
and like my parents I've always been a socialist. Perhaps
this is why ballads and broadsides about work in factories,
mills and mines hold a special attraction for me.
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| The Little
Piecer
Buzzer's blowing Willy lad,
Lights are blazing down below,
Come on best get ready lad,
It almost time to go.
Sithy old Wilson's shut his gate,
Henry Cartwright's crossin't fold,
Come on lad best not be late,
The mornin's black and cold.
Kettle's boiled, your cocoa's brewed,
Y'll find a bun on't cellar head,
Sun has touched on yonder hill,
Come on lad, it's time for't mill.
Buzzer's blowing Willy lad,
Lights are blazing down below,
Come on best get ready lad,
It almost time to go. |
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"I go at 5 o'clock
in the morning ...
and go home sometimes at 9, sometimes 10 at
night. On Friday we work all night sometimes.
I go on Friday at breakfast time; on Friday night
at 6 o'clock I go home to bed for four hours.
I feel very tired when I leave on Saturday morning.
My feet are often blood raw and they pain me."
- boy of 12, 1855 |
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The
Collier Lass
My name's Polly Parker, I come o'er from Worsley
My mother and father work down the coal mine
Our family is large, we have got seven children
So I am obliged to work down that same mine
And as this is my fortune I know you'll feel sorry
That in such employment my days I must pass
But I keep up my spirits, I sing and look cheerful
Although I am but a poor collier lass
By the greatest of dangers each day I'm surrounded
I hang in the air by a rope or a chain
The mine may give in; I may be killed or wounded
Or perish by damp or the fire of a flame
But what would you do if it weren't for our labours
In greatest privation your days you would pass
For we would provide you with life's greatest blessing
So do not despise a poor collier lass
All the day long you may say we are
buried
Deprived of the light and the warmth of the sun
And often at night from our beds we are hurried
The water is in and barefoot we run
And though we go ragged and black are our faces
As kind and as free as the best we'll be found
And our hearts are more white than your lords' in high places
Although we're poor colliers that work underground
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"I have a belt round my waist
and a chain
passing between my legs and I go on my hands
and feet... The pit is very wet where I work and
the water comes over our clog tops always ...
my clothes are wet through almost all day long. ..
I have drawn till I have had the skin off me ...
Betty Harris 37, 1842 |
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