[Stumped]

Here I go again, harping on about the good old days, but I am sure that anyone born in the aftermath of WW2 will recall the sentiment I sought to express in this little ditty . . .

King Cotton
©1999

It seems like only yesterday whence Cotton were the King,
An' steeples pointed skyward by the score,
When roads were lined wi' cobbles an' streets were lit with gas,
An' it were safe to go outside bout' lockin' door;
When we 'ad full employment both for lasses and for lads,
An' factory whistles echoed all around the town,
When pride were somethin' valued and manners taught in school,
An' young men did national service for The Crown.

Come sixty three when I got wed and left me 'Arrod Town,
Bent on starting out afresh in pastures new,
Little did I realise that the rot would soon set in,
An' King Cotton's reign would end up in a stew;
Wi't railways trashed by Beeching and cheap imports from abroad,
Cotton mills began to fold up one by one,
Familiar landmarks like the Deveron an' the Palatine,
Like the Leather Works and Oxo - dead and gone.

As me memories draw me back to't nineteen forties,
To the sounds o't rag and bone man on our street,
I still hear the earthy chatterings of the mill girls,
An' the clatter of the clogs upon their feet;
Me owd' mother and me aunties were all mill girls,
Lasses skilled in th'art of runnin' umpteen looms,
An' the racket in the weavin' shed were deafnin',
Loud enough to stir cadavers in their tombs.

These precious mill girls were true treasures of their time,
A breed apart to whom we'll always be in debt,
An' like as always, faceless moguls without conscience,
Gambled blindly with their lives and lost the bet;
Now when you walk the railway beds of yesteryear,
Just take time to close your eyes and hark awhile,
An' should you heed the ghostly wail of factory whistles,
Pray remember Old King Cotton died in style.

End