Dawn Fraser: Echoes From Labor's War

The Widow in the Ward

No, I can't forgive them, parson,
Here on my dying bed,
Them as calls me "the crazy widow"
And say I am out of my head.
Let it pass, what they calls me—
It's not the worst they have done;
I'll always hold it ag'in them
For killing my second son.
With Harry, he was different,
I know the boy was wild;
Maybe I was most to blame,
When he was a little child.
Maybe I was over-kind
And let him run too free;
But they don't understand a mother—
He was always kind to me.
'Twas full of life the lad was,
Roaming the night and day,
Brave and happy and careless,
Easily led astray.
'Twas bad companions spoiled him
With cards and dice and drinks;
It's a wonder when one gets started,
How quickly a mortal sinks.

Then the labor trouble started,
The men were out on strike,
Riots and pickets and scabbers—
You never saw the like.
And my Harry was a leader,
Working the night and day,
With little hope of winning,
Without a penny of pay.
Desperate and starving the boy was,
Times were terrible bad—
And though he shot a policeman,
There was no real harm in the lad. T
hen the dark days of trouble
When he was taken to jail;
No one to offer him counsel,
No one to offer him bail,
Except the lawyer the Crown appointed
To take and plead his case—
He was the most ag'in him—
It was a clean disgrace.
And black Judge James presiding,
Him with the evil eye,
'Twas only what all expected—
The boy was sentenced to die.

And one dark morning it happened—
God! but it seemed hard—
They took my boy and hanged him
Out in the court house yard.
And, parson, I never murmured—
I was younger and stronger then—
And the law must be abided
By the best and worst of men.
And I still had little Thomas,
He was my pride and joy;
I prayed to God to help me
To bring up my little boy.
He seemed different from Harry,
Pretty and gentle and mild,
His rougher companions called him
The "widow's angel child".
And so he grew to manhood,
Working hard each day,
Coming home each week-end
And bringing me home his pay;
Trying to help his mother,
But they wouldn't give him a chance;
They killed him the same as Harry,
As they told me, "Somewhere in France".
What was the use of trying,
And fretting about my son?
They fattened him up and killed him
Just like the other one.
It was a common murder
I'll say it my dying day—
Very same policeman came for him
That took poor Harry away.
Conscripting the lad to make him fight,
Such action I never saw;
After I always told him
To fight was ag'in the law.
What was the use of trying?
I wouldn't try any more
Making him do the very thing
They hanged his brother for.

Away to some camp they took him,
Took him ag'in his will,
Training and feeding him all the time,
Getting him ready to kill.
He had no trial like Harry,
No, not as good a chance—
Just carried him off and killed him
Over somewhere in France.
They confessed it in the telegram
And the letter they sent along—
Said they were sorry for it;
Don't that show they were wrong?
And they wanted to give me money
To make up the wrong they done—
Forty dollars a month they said
Was the price of my son.
But I couldn't take money for him
Now that the deed is done;
And I'll never forgive them, parson,
For killing my second son.

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