Dawn Fraser: Echoes From Labor's War

He Starved, He Starved, I Tell You

His name was Eddie Crimmins
And he came from Port aux Basques,
Besides a chance to live and work
He had nothing much to ask;
No, not a dream he ever had
That he might work and save—
Was quite content to live and die
And be a working slave.
And yet, he starved, he starved, I tell you,
Back in nineteen twenty-four,
And before he died he suffered
As many have before.
When the mines closed down that winter
He had nothing left to eat,
And he starved, he starved, I tell you,
On your dirty, damned street.

The papers told of how the prince
Had caught a little cold,
And how the princess' youngest kid
Was nearly four years old;
Such news is featured foremost
In every yellow sheet,
But they don't tell when workers die
Standing on their feet;
Standing on their feet because
Nowhere to lay their head.
No, such news ain't featured much—
I bet you never read
How for days young Crimmins
Wandered round the street,
And how a half-froze apple
Was the last he had to eat.

Too poor to buy, too proud to beg,
He sunk down like a log,
You never threw the lad the crust
You'd throw a lonely dog.
Oh Capital! oh Capital!
You've an awful debt to pay—
Oh Capital, I hope it's true
There is a judgment day;
And when the great judge calls you up,
May I be there to see,
And if he wants a witness
I hope he calls on me.
If I have wings, I'll gladly fly,
If not, I'll use my feet,
And then I'll tell how Crimmins died
Upon your damned street.

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