The heralds dressed in banker’s garb now whisper through the veil,
With digits cold they bind the free, and watch the ledgers scale.
They ask us why we draw our gold, what cause we dare to name,
As if the coin we toiled to earn were now the tyrant’s claim.
They forge a crown of circuits grim, where once the sovereign shone,
And gild their rule in coded script, though flesh and land are gone.
The vault is sealed, the tongue is leashed, the law grows weak and pale,
And those who speak of birth and soil are cast in gaol or jail.
They silence speech not with the sword, but with the frozen purse,
And choke the trades of honest men beneath a coded curse.
The alms of State are sold as grace, yet bought with servile chain,
For every “gift” must own your soul, or leave you marked insane.
No longer may the smith or sow pull coin from hidden hoard,
For gold is now a rebel’s sin, and silver shunned and scored.
The ancient gleam of honest trade is lost to screens and codes,
While strangers ride the dragon’s share upon our shrinking roads.
The hearth-tax comes, the gate-fee grows, the old man begs to eat,
Yet still the feaster drains our bowl and never knows defeat.
And so the children wonder now if labour's worth the price,
When taxed for speech, and fined for thought, and told their faith is vice.
But some there are who will not yield, though threatened, starved, or shamed,
They keep the watch on Albion's shore, and hold what can't be named.
For though the purse is stripped and bare, and crowns are struck from lead,
The heart of folk and fire of soul shall not be taxed or bled.
Oh rise, ye kin of ancient toil, and break the silent yoke,
Let not the hand that built the land be bound by foreign stroke.
We are the keepers of the flame, the stewards of the grain,
And though they steal the sovereign’s mark, the soil shall still remain.
So plant the seed, and guard the vault, and speak though bids forbid,
For truth endures beyond the mint, and gold lies where it's hid.
(By John Shenton)