Journal of a Tour in England

The news that the government proposes to build a high-speed rail link from London to Birmingham through the Chilterns prompted me to dig out these verses. For decades now, all governments have sworn their commitment to the environment whilst covering ever larger areas in concrete. Ours is an age of mega-cities so I would expect England to end up as one huge city fringed and interspersed with industrial farmland, parks and golf courses. I hate golf.
   Incidentally, Porton was/is the government's nerve gas research establishment, and Calder Hall was a predecessor of Sellafield nuclear power station.

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Here is the Avon’s pleasant land
Where oak trees in the evening stand;
But Bristol makes a loud request
For tar and brick to line her nest.
   So we shall build a motorway,
   My boys, my boys,
   A motorway.

Here is a tidal estuary

Where dunlin poke and sip the sea;
But Liverpool has cast an eye
And thinks, “A bargain, why not try?”
   So we shall build a canning plant,
   My boys, my boys,
   A canning plant.

Here is the fruitful Surrey soil

Which answered “yes” to all our toil;
But London with a sullen frown
Self-righteously has claimed its own.
   So we shall build the new estates,
   My boys, my boys,
   The new estates.

Here is a silent, brooding plain

Which still retains a bloody stain;
But Salisbury with a smart salute
Requires the land for tank and boot.
   So we shall build a chain-link fence,
   My boys, my boys,
   A chain-link fence.

Here is an ancient country scene

Where starlings year by year have been;
But Porton with an acid hand
Wants all the people to be banned.
   So we shall build an entry point,
   My boys, my boys,
   An entry point.

And here are Wordsworth’s mighty lakes

Where statesemen farm and tend the brakes;
But Calder Hall is short of water
And like a baron gives no quarter.
   So we shall build a burly dam,
   My boys, my boys,
   A burly dam.

In a few places here and there

The natural sounds and scenes repair;
But Mr Smith is in his car
And on his way to where they are.
   And then we’ll heave the deadly axe,
   My boys, my boys,
   The deadly axe.

For England whose especial fame

Was the lush foliage of her name
Wants Mr Smith to have his due
And cares not what the dryads do.
   So say farewell to England,
   My boys, my boys,
   To England.

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© March 1980