1. |
Cotton Lords
03:43
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Cotton Lords
(words. trad; music: Paul Sartin)
Cotton Lords, Lords of Creation,
Feeds the slaves which made your wealth,
Is this not a Christian nation?
Work’s conducive to their health.
Though you shut your factory gates,
Sell your cotton, stop each loom,
Though war is raging in the States,
The cotton tree twice yearly blooms.
Cotton Lords, Lords of Creation,
Feeds the slaves which made your wealth,
Is this not a Christian nation?
Work’s conducive to their health.
Time will come when you will buy
Cotton for to work each slave,
Food or work, for they will die,
Keep them from an early grave.
Cotton Lords, Lords of Creation,
Feeds the slaves which made your wealth,
Is this not a Christian nation?
Work’s conducive to their health.
Save the English maidens’ beauty,
Keep them from immoral crime,
Those that has, it is their duty
For to help at such a time.
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2. |
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The Lancashire Operatives’ Appeal
(words: trad; music: Benji Kirkpatrick)
Pray help us, we are starving;
None can our sufferings tell,
God only knows the anguish
That in our hearts doth dwell.
Pray help us, we are starving;
And cannot work obtain;
To go about a begging
Runs sore against the grain.
Pray help us, we are starving;
This we could bear alone,
But wives and children clemming
Would rend a heart of stone.
Pray help us, we are starving;
Our chattels one by one
We’ve had to sell to buy us food,
And now the last is gone.
Pray help us, we are starving;
Bare boards are our best beds,
And thankful are, if we on straw
Can rest our weary heads.
Pray help us, we are starving;
Home drives us to despair;
No cheerful voices greet us
When we now enter there.
Pray help us, we are starving;
To our country we apply,
She promptly must support us,
Or we shall fall and die.
Pray help us, we are starving;
Pray help us in our need;
Pray help us now and freely
And God will bless the deed.
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3. |
Lancashire Factory Girl
05:40
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Lancashire Factory Girl
(words: trad; music: Paul Sartin)
Oh, all are gone, I’ve nothing more
To pawn or sell for bread;
And soon ther’ll be no home for me,
No place to lay my head.
Oh, none can tell the grief I’ve felt,
The tears that I have shed,
In parting with some little things
Presented by the dead.
Before my little brother died
He said, “Come hither and see,
I’ll leave to you my singing bird;
Be kind to it for me.”
Then little sister Nelly died,
And, oh, I loved her well;
She left me all she had to leave,
A little silver bell.
Oh, all are gone, I’ve nothing more
To pawn or sell for bread;
And soon ther’ll be no home for me,
No place to lay my head.
I loved my brother, sister, all,
As well, as well could be;
But my poor sainted mother’s death
Was more than all to me.
“My child,” she said, “this is a gift
Thy father gave to me;
A token of his early love:
I’ll leave it unto thee.”
My brother’s little singing bird,
And Nelly’s silver bell,
The golden locket which in life
My mother loved so well.
Oh, all are gone, I’ve nothing more
To pawn or sell for bread;
First went my Sunday clothes, and then
The reliques of the dead!
‘Midst all my trials I have kept
To paths of honesty;
This oftentimes when troubles come,
Is consolation to me.
Oh, Father of the fatherless
List to an orphan’s prayer:-
Help me to keep in virtue’s path,
Shield me from tempter’s snare!
Grant soon that peace may be proclaimed to
Our brethren o’er the sea;
And then our mills will run again,
And happy we shall be!
Oh, all are gone, I’ve nothing more
To pawn or sell for bread;
And soon ther’ll be no home for me,
No place to lay my head.
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4. |
Wrongs and Rights
03:47
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Wrongs and Rights
(words: W. C. music: Saul Rose)
Oh shame on the man be him caitiff or lord
Who would have the borne Freeman to cringe at his word
And a man would degrade to a tool and a slave
To strut like a lordling would stoop to be knave
Oh shame on the man though master he be
Who would steal from a workman his own liberty
Who would snatch from his mouth the bread of his toil
To starve out his conscience on free English soil
Who’d compel him, a wanderer, houseless to roam
Down trample his rights or drive him from home
Who would give for his birthright a portion of ale
Oh tell the insulting, the soul stirring tale
Aye point at him, mark him well, pass round his name
Dishonoured to sink with his deep branded shame
Til he sneaks like a felon condemned through the streets
To be scornfully sneered at by each one meets
Englishmen up, from your lethargy rouse
The dearly bought rights of your freedom espouse
Though betrayed and defeated by tyrant’s foul plot
Let your wrongs not be sneered at or lightly forgot
Let the shouts of the freemen be borne on the gale
Til the proud tyrants tremble, their craven hearts quail
And rally for freedom with the cry ‘Do us right ‘
Our watchword and motto, on, on to the fight
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5. |
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I Would This War Were Ended
(words: William Billington; music: Paul Sartin)
Nobody knows what we’ve been through
Since the factories stopped at first,
And how much life’s been wasted too,
And how much brass we’ve lost;
I try sometimes to reckon up,
But counting cannot mend it;
When I sit down with nowt to sup
I would this war were ended!
A body’s lifetime’s not so long
Not them that lives the longest;
So doesn’t it seem sadly wrong
For th’ healthiest and strongest
To give three whole years’ pith and pride
To rust and ruin blended,
And raving upon the loss beside
I would this war were ended!
A decent chap will do his best,
And out of what he’s earning
Get the oldest son in trade, and the rest
Of the lads a bit of learning;
But if he’s out of work; well then,
Unscholared, unbefriended,
His children grow up into men
I would this war were ended!
Now I fear neither dun nor bum,
With all their kith and kin:
They’ll fetch nowt out of the house, by gum,
Because there’s nowt left in.
I’m nearly weary of my life,
And couldn’t, if I’d spend it,
Get scran for the kids, myself, and the wife.
I would this war were ended!
Some talks for t’ North, an’ some for t’ South,
With a smooth an’ oily tongue,
But if they’d sense they’d shut their mouth,
For both of ‘em’s in the wrong!
An’ it’s not right to let em fight, ---
If the world has wisdom --- lend it,
To set these two crooked people straight,
An’ then the war would be ended!
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6. |
Slaves (live)
03:08
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Slaves
Men of England you are slaves,
Though you quell the roaring waves.
Though you boast by land and sea,
That Britons everywhere are free.
Men of England you are slaves,
Bought by tyrants, sold by knaves.
Yours the toil, the sweat and pain,
Theirs the profit, the ease and gain.
Men of England you are slaves,
Beaten by the policeman’s staves.
If their force you dare repel,
Yours shall be the prison cell.
Men of England you are slaves,
Even the House of Commons craves,
From the crown on bended knee.
That its motions may be free.
Men of England you are slaves,
Hark the stormy tempest raves.
Tis the nation’s voice I hear,
Shouting, “Liberty is near”.
Europe’s people one and all,
Rise up at your brethren’s call.
Shouting loud from sea to sea,
“Ours shall be the Victory”.
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Faustus England, UK
‘’One of Britain's outstanding folk bands.’ - **** The Guardian
--------------------
‘The concept? To rescue contemporary
folk from the curse of feyness…
Bloke-folk!... Fans of Led Zep III should take a thoughtful interest.’ **** Independent on Sunday
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