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Black Country Times
by
Gary Westwood
The furnace roar, the fiery blast,
it's our heritage, our rugged past
our nails and chain made in the yard
by men and women, times were hard.
Coal and iron ore, limestone, sand,
all extracted from this land.
From dawn 'till dark our folk would graft,
in factory, forge and dark mine shaft.
Earning cash for wealthy bosses,
shovellin' coal and drivin' 'osses,
with no let up, no time to rest,
work took its toll, it killed the best.
Men and boys and women died,
they ne'r complained, they had their pride,
the products made by calloused hands
were marketed in many lands.
Chains and nails, bowls and pails,
steel for bridges, railway rails,
cars and bikes, trucks and planes
wrought with blood from Black Country veins.
We've lost a lot in recent years,
recession, closure, job loss fears
but like a Phoenix from an ashen tomb,
there's new life stirring in the womb.
The place where industry was born
sees hope again, a brand new dawn.
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