Joe Corrie (1894-1968), poet and playwright, was a Fife miner, and his early poems were published in the left-wing paper, the 'Forward'. He has been described as "a class-consious poet." T. S. Eliot described him as "the greatest Scots poet since Burns". Many of his poems have now been set to music by such as the Battlefield Band. The Corrie Centre in Cardenden was named after him as belated recognition of his talents.
Corrie's first plays, The Shillin' a Week-Man and The Poacher, were performed by his group of fellow miners, the Bowhill Village Players, during the 1926 General Strike. In Time o' Strife Corrie dramatised the subsequent lockout. He wrote the play about the strike (which was heading to a bitter, protracted defeat) because he was on strike. Had he not been on strike, he couldn’t have written a full length play of any kind. The play itself is a family argument about how to make the best out of defeat. The last line will resonate with the defeated miners of the 84-85 strike. “Sing tho they hae ye crushed in the mire…you’ll win through yet, for there’s nae power on earth can crush the men who can sing on a day like this.”
Some of his poetry
I AM THE COMMON MAN
I am the Common Man
I am the brute and the slave
I am the fool, the despised
From the cradle to the grave
I am the hewer of coal
I am the tiller of soil
I am serf of the seas
Born to bear and to toil
I am the builder of halls
I am the dweller of slums
I am the filfth and the scourge
When winter's depression comes
I am the fighter of wars
I am the killer of men
Not for a day or an age
But again and again and again
I am the Common Man
But Masters of mine take heed
For you have put into my head
Oh! many a wicked deed
For other poems click read more
Rebel Tam
When Rebel Tam was in the pit
He tholed the very pangs o' Hell
In fectin' for the Richts o' Man,
And ga'e nae thoucht unto himsel'.
"If I was just in Parliament,
By God!" he vowed,"They soon would hear
The trumpet-ca' o' Revolution
Blastin' in their ear!"
Noo he is there, back-bencher Tam,
And listens daily to the farce
O' Tweeledum and Twedledee,
And never rises off his arse.
Eat More
’Eat more fruit!’ the slogans say,
’ More fish, more beef, more bread!’
But I’m on Unemployment pay
My third year now, and wed.
And so I wonder when I’ll see
The slogan when I pass,
The only one that would suit me, -
’ Eat More Bloody Grass!’
MINERS' WIVES
We have borne good sons to broken men
Nurtured them on our hungry breast
And given them to our masters when
Their day of life was at its best
We have dried their clammy clothes by the fire
Solaced them, tended them, cheered them well
Watched the wheels raising them from the mire
Watched the wheels lowering them to Hell
We have prayed for them in a Godless way
(We never could fathom the ways of God)
We have sung with them on their wedding day
Knowing the journey and the road
We have stood through the naked night to watch
The silent wheels that raised the dead
We have gone before to raise the latch
And lay the pillow beneath their head
We have done all this for our masters' sake
Did it in rags and did not mind
What more do they want? what more can they take?
Unless our eyes and leave us blind
WOMEN ARE WAITING TONIGHT
Women are waiting tonight on the pit-bank,
Pale at the heart with dread,
Watching the dead-still wheels
That loom in the mirky sky,
The silent wheels of Fate,
Which is the system under which they slave.
They stand together in groups.
As sheep shelter in storm,
Silent, passive, dumb.
For in the caverns under their feet,
The coffin seams of coal
'Twixt the rock and the rock,
The gas has burst into flame,
And has scattered the hail of Death.
Cold the night is, and dark,
And the rain falls in a mist.
Their shawls and their rags are sodden,
And their thin, starved cheeks are blue,
But they will not go home to their fires,
Tho' the news has been broken to them
That a miracle is their only hope.
They will wait and watch till the dawn,
Till the wheels begin to revolve,
And the men whom they loved so well,
The strong, kind, loving men,
Are brought up in canvas sheets,
To be identified by a watch,
Or a button,
Or, perhaps, only a wish.
And three days from now,
They will all be buried together,
In one big hole in the earth.
And the King will send his sympathy,
And the Member of Parliament will be there,,
Who voted that the military be used
When last these miners came on strike
To win a living wage.
His shining black hat will glisten over a sorrowful face,
And his elegantly shod feet will go slowly behind the bier.
And the director of the company will be there,
Who has vowed many a time
That he would make the miner eat grass.
And the parson, who sits on the Parish Council,
Starving the children and saving the rates,
Will pray in a mournful voice,
And tear the very hearts of the bereaved.
He will emphasize in godly phrase,
The danger of the mine,
And the bravery and valour of the miner.
And the Press
That has spilled oceans of ink
Poisoning the public against the 'destroyers of industry',
Will tell the sad tale,
And the public will say,
'How sad.
'But a week today all will be forgotten,
And the Member of Parliament,
The coalowner,
The parson,
The Press,
And the public,
Will keep storing up their venom and their hatred,
For the next big miners' strike.
Women are waiting tonight at the pit-bank,
But even God does not see
The hypocrisy and the shame of it all.
The Image O' God
Crawlin about like a snail in the mud,
Covered wi clammy blae,
ME, made after the image o’ God -
Jings! but it's laughable, tae.
Howkin awa neath a mountain o’ stane,
Gaspin for want o air,
The sweat makin streams doon my bare back-bane
And my knees aw hauckit and sair.
Strainin and cursin the hale shift through,
Half-starved, half-blin, half-mad;
And the gaffer he says, 'Less dirt in that coal
Or ye go up the pit, my lad!'
So I gie my life to the Nimmo squad*For eicht and fower a day;**
Me! made after the image o’ God -
Jings! but it's laughable, tae.
* "the Nimmo Squad" is a reference to Sir Adam Nimmo, a prominent coalowner who had an aggressive attitude towards the miners. Nimmo seems to have been on the board of a number of Scottish coal companies, including the Fife Coal Company. Corrie would have worked for the Fife Coal Company from about the age of 14 when he was living in Cardenden.
** "eicht and fower a day" A face-worker' wage in the 20's was eight shillings and fourpence
SCOTTISH PRIDE
It’s fine when ye stand in a queue
at the door o’ the ‘Dole’
on a snawy day,
To ken that ye leive in the bonniest
land in the world,
The bravest, tae.
It’s fine when you’re in a pickle
Whether or no’
you’ll get your ‘dough’,
To Sing a wee bit sang
o’ the heather hills,
And the glens below.
It’s fine when the clerk says,
"Nae ‘dole’ here for you!"
To proodly turn,
and think o’ the bluidy slashin’
the English got
at Bannockburn.
.
CAGE LOAD OF MEN
Just like a truck load of cattle,
Sixteen crushed on at a time,
The yawning abyss beneath them,
Awaiting the bottomer’s chime,
To leave all the glories of nature,
And toil in the muck and the grime.
Hard-handed stalwarts of labour,
Nutured to grin and to bear,
Seldom a thought of the danger
That haunts every corner down there,
Praying to Christ it was shift change
But not in the language of prayer.
Nipper so proud to be working,
Grandad with hair like the snow,
One with eyes on the heavens,
One with his eyes on below,
Free to stay up if they wish it,
But hunger, ah! both of them know,
One with the cares of the household,
Weary and sick of it all,
The best of his years he was given,
And now with his back to the wall.
Haunted with fears of the future,
Dreading how far he will fall.
Clang! goes the bottomer’s signal,
Down, strangely silent, they go,
In comes another mixed cageload,
Each with a number to show,
Cogs in the wheel of production
Grinding so sure and so slow.
IT’S FINE TAE KEEP IN WI’ THE GAFFER.
For mony a year I ha’e worked doon alow,
But never in pits that are wet or are low,
For I mak’ it my business wherever I go,
Aye tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
I wasna’ lang started till plain I could see
That some had it easy, as easy could be;
So I tocht tae mysel’ that the best thing for me
Was tae try and keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
My boss at the time was Mason, ye ken,
So I went tae the bank for my seven pounds ten,
And bravely I bearded the goat in its den,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
The next ane tae come was a musical hand,
He stood in the middle and waggled the wand;
So I learned the cornet and played in his band,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
The next was a cratur o’ different stamp,
A high heid cadet in the Salvation camp;
So I got him tae save me and carried the lamp,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
The next was a punter -- a horse racin’ man
So I bocht the Noon Record and followed his plan;
And I finished it up wi’ my shirt in the pawn,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Tae the lad wi’ ambition I gi’e this advice,
Nae maitter wha says, tae the gaffer be nice;
Jist work tae his orders and never think twice,
For it pays tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
God! How I've Wearied For The Spring
God! how I’ve wearied for the Spring,
To hear the birds above me sing;
And see the blue within the sky,
For there were times I thought I’d die.
Eight hours’ darkness in the pit,
Dark when we got out of it,
Darkness, darkness all the while,
Not even the sunlight of a smile.
Hunger, misery, strife and pain,
Hoping, knowing hopes were in vain,
Striving snarling, trusting to
The brute in us to see us through.
God! how I’ve wearied for the Spring,
’How few there are...’
How few there are with unsoiled hands,
And educated tongues,
Who’ll stand by us, my working friends,
And help to right our wrongs.
They go a certain length with us,
But faint of heart return
When we meet someone with a cross,
Bearing a crown of thorn.
Corrie's first plays, The Shillin' a Week-Man and The Poacher, were performed by his group of fellow miners, the Bowhill Village Players, during the 1926 General Strike. In Time o' Strife Corrie dramatised the subsequent lockout. He wrote the play about the strike (which was heading to a bitter, protracted defeat) because he was on strike. Had he not been on strike, he couldn’t have written a full length play of any kind. The play itself is a family argument about how to make the best out of defeat. The last line will resonate with the defeated miners of the 84-85 strike. “Sing tho they hae ye crushed in the mire…you’ll win through yet, for there’s nae power on earth can crush the men who can sing on a day like this.”
Some of his poetry
I AM THE COMMON MAN
I am the Common Man
I am the brute and the slave
I am the fool, the despised
From the cradle to the grave
I am the hewer of coal
I am the tiller of soil
I am serf of the seas
Born to bear and to toil
I am the builder of halls
I am the dweller of slums
I am the filfth and the scourge
When winter's depression comes
I am the fighter of wars
I am the killer of men
Not for a day or an age
But again and again and again
I am the Common Man
But Masters of mine take heed
For you have put into my head
Oh! many a wicked deed
For other poems click read more
Rebel Tam
When Rebel Tam was in the pit
He tholed the very pangs o' Hell
In fectin' for the Richts o' Man,
And ga'e nae thoucht unto himsel'.
"If I was just in Parliament,
By God!" he vowed,"They soon would hear
The trumpet-ca' o' Revolution
Blastin' in their ear!"
Noo he is there, back-bencher Tam,
And listens daily to the farce
O' Tweeledum and Twedledee,
And never rises off his arse.
Eat More
’Eat more fruit!’ the slogans say,
’ More fish, more beef, more bread!’
But I’m on Unemployment pay
My third year now, and wed.
And so I wonder when I’ll see
The slogan when I pass,
The only one that would suit me, -
’ Eat More Bloody Grass!’
MINERS' WIVES
We have borne good sons to broken men
Nurtured them on our hungry breast
And given them to our masters when
Their day of life was at its best
We have dried their clammy clothes by the fire
Solaced them, tended them, cheered them well
Watched the wheels raising them from the mire
Watched the wheels lowering them to Hell
We have prayed for them in a Godless way
(We never could fathom the ways of God)
We have sung with them on their wedding day
Knowing the journey and the road
We have stood through the naked night to watch
The silent wheels that raised the dead
We have gone before to raise the latch
And lay the pillow beneath their head
We have done all this for our masters' sake
Did it in rags and did not mind
What more do they want? what more can they take?
Unless our eyes and leave us blind
WOMEN ARE WAITING TONIGHT
Women are waiting tonight on the pit-bank,
Pale at the heart with dread,
Watching the dead-still wheels
That loom in the mirky sky,
The silent wheels of Fate,
Which is the system under which they slave.
They stand together in groups.
As sheep shelter in storm,
Silent, passive, dumb.
For in the caverns under their feet,
The coffin seams of coal
'Twixt the rock and the rock,
The gas has burst into flame,
And has scattered the hail of Death.
Cold the night is, and dark,
And the rain falls in a mist.
Their shawls and their rags are sodden,
And their thin, starved cheeks are blue,
But they will not go home to their fires,
Tho' the news has been broken to them
That a miracle is their only hope.
They will wait and watch till the dawn,
Till the wheels begin to revolve,
And the men whom they loved so well,
The strong, kind, loving men,
Are brought up in canvas sheets,
To be identified by a watch,
Or a button,
Or, perhaps, only a wish.
And three days from now,
They will all be buried together,
In one big hole in the earth.
And the King will send his sympathy,
And the Member of Parliament will be there,,
Who voted that the military be used
When last these miners came on strike
To win a living wage.
His shining black hat will glisten over a sorrowful face,
And his elegantly shod feet will go slowly behind the bier.
And the director of the company will be there,
Who has vowed many a time
That he would make the miner eat grass.
And the parson, who sits on the Parish Council,
Starving the children and saving the rates,
Will pray in a mournful voice,
And tear the very hearts of the bereaved.
He will emphasize in godly phrase,
The danger of the mine,
And the bravery and valour of the miner.
And the Press
That has spilled oceans of ink
Poisoning the public against the 'destroyers of industry',
Will tell the sad tale,
And the public will say,
'How sad.
'But a week today all will be forgotten,
And the Member of Parliament,
The coalowner,
The parson,
The Press,
And the public,
Will keep storing up their venom and their hatred,
For the next big miners' strike.
Women are waiting tonight at the pit-bank,
But even God does not see
The hypocrisy and the shame of it all.
The Image O' God
Crawlin about like a snail in the mud,
Covered wi clammy blae,
ME, made after the image o’ God -
Jings! but it's laughable, tae.
Howkin awa neath a mountain o’ stane,
Gaspin for want o air,
The sweat makin streams doon my bare back-bane
And my knees aw hauckit and sair.
Strainin and cursin the hale shift through,
Half-starved, half-blin, half-mad;
And the gaffer he says, 'Less dirt in that coal
Or ye go up the pit, my lad!'
So I gie my life to the Nimmo squad*For eicht and fower a day;**
Me! made after the image o’ God -
Jings! but it's laughable, tae.
* "the Nimmo Squad" is a reference to Sir Adam Nimmo, a prominent coalowner who had an aggressive attitude towards the miners. Nimmo seems to have been on the board of a number of Scottish coal companies, including the Fife Coal Company. Corrie would have worked for the Fife Coal Company from about the age of 14 when he was living in Cardenden.
** "eicht and fower a day" A face-worker' wage in the 20's was eight shillings and fourpence
SCOTTISH PRIDE
It’s fine when ye stand in a queue
at the door o’ the ‘Dole’
on a snawy day,
To ken that ye leive in the bonniest
land in the world,
The bravest, tae.
It’s fine when you’re in a pickle
Whether or no’
you’ll get your ‘dough’,
To Sing a wee bit sang
o’ the heather hills,
And the glens below.
It’s fine when the clerk says,
"Nae ‘dole’ here for you!"
To proodly turn,
and think o’ the bluidy slashin’
the English got
at Bannockburn.
.
CAGE LOAD OF MEN
Just like a truck load of cattle,
Sixteen crushed on at a time,
The yawning abyss beneath them,
Awaiting the bottomer’s chime,
To leave all the glories of nature,
And toil in the muck and the grime.
Hard-handed stalwarts of labour,
Nutured to grin and to bear,
Seldom a thought of the danger
That haunts every corner down there,
Praying to Christ it was shift change
But not in the language of prayer.
Nipper so proud to be working,
Grandad with hair like the snow,
One with eyes on the heavens,
One with his eyes on below,
Free to stay up if they wish it,
But hunger, ah! both of them know,
One with the cares of the household,
Weary and sick of it all,
The best of his years he was given,
And now with his back to the wall.
Haunted with fears of the future,
Dreading how far he will fall.
Clang! goes the bottomer’s signal,
Down, strangely silent, they go,
In comes another mixed cageload,
Each with a number to show,
Cogs in the wheel of production
Grinding so sure and so slow.
IT’S FINE TAE KEEP IN WI’ THE GAFFER.
For mony a year I ha’e worked doon alow,
But never in pits that are wet or are low,
For I mak’ it my business wherever I go,
Aye tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
I wasna’ lang started till plain I could see
That some had it easy, as easy could be;
So I tocht tae mysel’ that the best thing for me
Was tae try and keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
My boss at the time was Mason, ye ken,
So I went tae the bank for my seven pounds ten,
And bravely I bearded the goat in its den,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
The next ane tae come was a musical hand,
He stood in the middle and waggled the wand;
So I learned the cornet and played in his band,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
The next was a cratur o’ different stamp,
A high heid cadet in the Salvation camp;
So I got him tae save me and carried the lamp,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
The next was a punter -- a horse racin’ man
So I bocht the Noon Record and followed his plan;
And I finished it up wi’ my shirt in the pawn,
A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
Tae the lad wi’ ambition I gi’e this advice,
Nae maitter wha says, tae the gaffer be nice;
Jist work tae his orders and never think twice,
For it pays tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
God! How I've Wearied For The Spring
God! how I’ve wearied for the Spring,
To hear the birds above me sing;
And see the blue within the sky,
For there were times I thought I’d die.
Eight hours’ darkness in the pit,
Dark when we got out of it,
Darkness, darkness all the while,
Not even the sunlight of a smile.
Hunger, misery, strife and pain,
Hoping, knowing hopes were in vain,
Striving snarling, trusting to
The brute in us to see us through.
God! how I’ve wearied for the Spring,
’How few there are...’
How few there are with unsoiled hands,
And educated tongues,
Who’ll stand by us, my working friends,
And help to right our wrongs.
They go a certain length with us,
But faint of heart return
When we meet someone with a cross,
Bearing a crown of thorn.
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