Song of the TUC
The wind from the heath, brother, Is blowing bitter cold. We don't like its look, brother, Or what it may unfold. The weather forecast's rotten, No horror is forgotten, As we move from one depression to another.
However poor the weather, However bad the freeze, We must all stand together, And if we cough or sneeze, We will warm the body's mass By all turning off the gas, And then float on hot air light as any feather.
We don't think competition Will keep food prices low. We've made it a condition That if the price winds blow, Like Canute, they'll try to brave The advancing tidal wave, As it seeks to sweep us down to perdition.
But it's quite another thing To regulate our wage; To free bargaining we cling And thus our power engage.
On wages competition Is in the true tradition,
Free to strike to make the merry welkin ring.
The wind from the health, brother, Is blowing bitter cold.
Don your fur-lined coats, brother, If warmth you want to hold.
We must back the TUC
If we still want to be free To ask more and pull the rug from one another.
Basil Charles
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