Who waits the wind to part the chaff;
the mason’s sweat; who sorts the mail.
Who swings the pick; there’s hay to stack;
who longed a breeze but fought a gale.
To them who toil in weathers all,
who read the skies, the ways of beasts.
Who watch the ocean’s rise and fall,
where fathoms hide pelagic feasts.
To them who till and cut the drill,
who herd the kine and mow the lea
Know not, the poet’s daffodil.
when making hay or trawl the sea.
To them who hone and shape the wood,
who bear the hod and bore the ground.
The miner, smith, the butcher’s blood,
the miller’s wheel, the baker’s round.
To praise the arts these hands provide
and not the banker’s lending fee.
Who suck and drain till debt betide,
care not the skills of artistry.
To them whose stories rarely told,
who weed and sow, who shear the flock.
Who’d bear the winds, the heat, the cold
take care their kin, their land and stock.
Who weave the cloth, who fan the stoves
and all day long each day the week.
Who take their lot, their heavy loads,
an honest wage is all they seek.
Be tough them lads their lassies too,
complaining not, come what the toil.
And kind they be in what they do,
rewards they’ll hail and share the spoil.
To uniform, when called to pride,
defend your lands from thief and foe.
With scars returned and cast aside,
for black their skin and kept below.
To them you call, the backward hicks,
who hurt you not nor done you wrong.
Let rain your names, your stones an’ sticks,
oh, dare you not if sang their song.
To them who stake and play their bets,
who fix whate’er the world has broke.
To them who climb the many steps,
when burdened you, they’ll bear your yoke.
Who’d care not what your colour be,
believing you in God or nowt.
Be you a tramp, a migrant thee,
as sure as truth would help you out.
To them who’d face whate’er they’d meet,
in fair or foul, to greet, defend.
To them who’d pass you on the street,
bid ‘Fair your day to you, me friend.’