The Tolpuddle Martyrs

‘I break my back on many a rock,

And tramp for many a mile,

With an iron clamp on my weary leg

And a chain that frets for a while,

A road to build in the searing heat,

An iron gang shuffling on,

We swing the pick, we clear the track

And curse the road that we’ve done.’

 

‘The road is a trail of blood, my friend,

The road is a trail of pain,

The work is slow and laborious

For we have nothing to gain,

But the sting of the lash of ‘justice’

The magistrate’s able friend,

And the hope of a ticket-of-leave, so we

May hold up our heads again.’

 

‘A labouring man I used to be

A labouring man I am,

Though Tolpuddle is a far acry

From Melbourne’s hellish land,

For he sent us out on a passing whim,

He turned his back on our cry,

And he tells the Queen it must surely be

As he hopes we’ll silently die.’

 

‘But I’ll not go off through swinging a pick

For this is my very life,

Though the sweat and toil may wear me down

And I’ll cry at the thought of my wife,

But then if the brute should spring to life

I’ll struggle to hold it down,

To preserve the light of my sanity

In this hell-hole, Sydney Town.’

 

‘A Union we had thought to begin

By swearing allegiance to it,

Uniting the plight of the working class

And willing to suffer to do it,

But Melbourne martyred the foundling scheme

And started a flame so bright,

Within all the hearts, within all the minds

Of the followers of the right.’

 

‘So one-two-three, I swing the pick

And give out a savage cry,

One-two-three, Lord Melbourne’s son

Will see the fruit of his father’s try

To shackle the working class in chain,

And keep them the slaves of the land,

As Tolpuddles everywhere will rise

With their working class demands.’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Mark]

I was astonished to see an unreviewed poem by my favorite narrative poet on the site!
Is this a story from Australia's past, when she was a penal colony, a dumping ground as it were for Great Britain? I am woefully ignorant of Australian history, but would I be correct in deducing that Lord Melbourne was the Crown's overseer, Governor-general, or whatever, and he put down a worker's revolt, shipping them to Tolpuddle Gaol in Sydney? The narrator, then, speaks of his lost life in Melbourne, and his hopes of one day returning?
As ever, my friend a masterful blending of history and verse! None better, David! Thank you!