This poem was inspired by the lecture (with music) by John Young detailing the story behind the Rising and its tragic (at least for some) ending.
You can read a full account here
The Pentrich Rising
In eighteen hundred and seventeen
three hundred men and true
marched on the city of Nottingham
to fight to get their due
The Corn Laws raised their prices
They could buy no bread
Cheap labour taking all their jobs
They were hanging by a thread
The government in London
cared nothing for the poor
The bastard Henry Addington
was master of the law
He suspended habeus corpus
he crushed rebellious thoughts
He used his secret agents
and his lackeys in the courts
The men had surely had enough
when they gathered at the inn
They were part of a national movement
that would free their kith and kin
But as they marched together
their problems became clear
No food, no guns or muskets
Not even any beer
They never reached their target
At Eastwood they fell short
The army quickly crumbled
and the ringleaders were caught
There were no other armies
There were no other troops
They fell for Addington's dirty tricks
They were sacrificial dupes
They took them off to Derby
and held them in the jail
They silenced all the protests
no one could tell the tale
They were drawn upon a carriage
to their hanging place
Six thousand saw them struggle
into death's cold embrace
Others were transported
Their sentences reduced
But Brandreth, Turner and Ludlam
faced the hangman's noose
The elite had won the battle
but there was more to do
Fifteen more were slaughtered
in the shame of Peterloo
So remember not to trust the rich -
raise a glass of English Beer
in memory of two hundred years
since the Pentrich mutineers
Tim Fellows 2018
No comments:
Post a Comment