THE first of all the frolicsome days

In the merry old month of May,

Was smeared with machine-grease

And roughly hauled away.

The drab and dreary workerists

Delight in stacking shelves,

They fill our day with metal cogs

And steal it for themselves.

‘Tho once we danced as fervid Celts

Through woods and meadows green,

The union man he made a drone

Of every village queen.

Throw down your picks and shovels, boys,

Take up this wild refrain,

Reject their scheming ‘right to work’

And break that bitter chain.

The first of May is ours to claim

In city, town and shire,

We celebrate the Beltane glow

Of every factory fire.

© Troy Southgate