Farewell Tom (Sam Hayward’s Blues)
In hard labour I sweated on the day that they hanged him,
the morning dawned dark with skies grey and coal-grim:
so different it was on the day that we marched
and stood strong together while the yeomanry watched.
Mr Eyton was there, with his magistrates’ crew,
but we held our heads high, for our cause it was true.
Now they’ve dandled Tom Palin from the end of a rope,
to teach us our place and abandon all hope.
Times never were harder, our tables were bare,
but the ironworks owners just didn’t care;
the colliery lords too had tried every way
to warm their fine houses by cutting our pay.
Enough was enough and the word went around:
“in Dawley we’ll gather, then we’ll stand our ground
on the Cinder Hills of Old Park. We’ll make a good show,
our voice must be heard before coal and iron flow!”
Now they’ve dandled Tom Palin from the end of a rope,
to teach us our place and abandon all hope.
From all over we walked, from each yard and pit,
five hundred set out, the flame it was lit
and scores more joined in as we strode along,
with wives, children, grandparents all in the throng.
When the slag heaps by Botfield’s were ours to command
there were three thousand souls with one clear demand:
“you can’t slash our wages, we are poor but we’re proud!”
So when Eyton read the Riot Act it left us unbowed.
Now they’ve dandled Tom Palin from the end of a rope,
to teach us our place and abandon all hope.
Determined we were to have bread or blood,
we gave not a fig for old Colonel Cludde.
So he ordered his yeomen to grab Hassall and me,
but Tom Palin and pals soon set us both free.
You’ve not seen piles of clinker shifted so quick
as the stones rained on yeomen so fast and so thick!
But instead of retreating, Cludde’s voice could be heard:
“Open fire!” and the first shots killed young Billy Bird.
Now they’ve dandled Tom Palin from the end of a rope,
to teach us our place and abandon all hope.
Tom Gittins, sore wounded, the next was to die,
with many more gunshot ‘midst wild hue and cry:
we scattered and ran from their horses and guns,
those cruel gamekeepers and fat farmers’ sons.
They rounded up nine of us, we were soon in the dock
with all pronounced guilty – now there was a shock!
“Felonious riot” hung round Tom’s neck and mine,
with a swing on the gallows at the end of the line.
Now they’ve dandled Tom Palin from the end of a rope,
to teach us our place and abandon all hope.
Some worthies came forward and pleaded compassion,
so the powers-that-be said: “this is our ration –
Hayward can labour ‘longside the other seven,
whilst Palin is bound for Hell or for Heaven”.
Word came to us soon of how Tom met his death,
jolting for minutes whilst the crowd held their breath.
“Farewell Tom!” had echoed as he waited to drop,
the bravest among us, the cream of our crop.
Now they’ve dandled Tom Palin from the end of a rope,
to teach us our place and abandon all hope.
Like Peterloo’s field, eighteen short months before,
our Cinder Hill battle was just part of a war,
a justified struggle against all that is rotten,
and Tom Palin’s name will not be forgotten:
in hope we’ll stand together to banish all fears
whether it takes two hundred or two thousand years!
Ted Eames, 2018