J
Jerry
Guest
The Immigrant
He hailed from beautiful Kerry, a son of dirt poor farmers, unversed in city life and English ways
At the tender age of fourteen he left his home behind for London and a hope of better days
A bellboy in a hotel, shining shoes for meagre pay and dreaming of the riches sure to come
Then Fords at Dagenham, digging coal at Coventry, then finally he settled here in Brum
On holiday back home he met his lifelong partner, a teacher with a laugh like summer wine
He brought her back to Brummagem, to digs in Winson Green, they were there when war broke out in thirty-nine.
He joined the British Army and served throughout the war then afterwards returned back here to Brum
They rented a house in Small Heath, it was all that they could get, two up, one down, a truly awful slum
Then jobs at Bakelite, King Dicks and Fisholow then slum clearance, the family was moved
To Aston they went and though they all missed Small Heath they felt that their lot had improved
Then a few years at Buttons in old Portland Street then Halfords warehouse in the City
Then with Halfords to Redditch and goodbye to Brum but he needed his job more’s the pity
Those were the good years, family grown up, money to spend, life was great
But it didn’t last long, his world was brought down by the cruel fickle finger of fate
A cancer they said, his right lung removed, chemotherapy, coughing and tears
His family stood helpless, what could they do? Dad is dying, the sum of all fears
Then came New Year’s Eve, not with joy but with grief, the New Year had lost all it’s charms
A fierce coughing fit, his one lung couldn’t cope and he died in my dear mother’s arms
And he never took tests to prove he had “Britishness” but he never conned people or stole
And he worked all his life and carried his weight and he never drew a single day’s dole
And he stood tall and strong and he brought up his kids and worked hard and so did his wife
Yet he had to endure the taunts and insults from the racists for all of his life
Any old scum or dosser or bum thought that being English gave them the right
To insult a man a hundred times better than them, I think I’ve met one or two here tonight
He hailed from beautiful Kerry, a son of dirt poor farmers, unversed in city life and English ways
At the tender age of fourteen he left his home behind for London and a hope of better days
A bellboy in a hotel, shining shoes for meagre pay and dreaming of the riches sure to come
Then Fords at Dagenham, digging coal at Coventry, then finally he settled here in Brum
On holiday back home he met his lifelong partner, a teacher with a laugh like summer wine
He brought her back to Brummagem, to digs in Winson Green, they were there when war broke out in thirty-nine.
He joined the British Army and served throughout the war then afterwards returned back here to Brum
They rented a house in Small Heath, it was all that they could get, two up, one down, a truly awful slum
Then jobs at Bakelite, King Dicks and Fisholow then slum clearance, the family was moved
To Aston they went and though they all missed Small Heath they felt that their lot had improved
Then a few years at Buttons in old Portland Street then Halfords warehouse in the City
Then with Halfords to Redditch and goodbye to Brum but he needed his job more’s the pity
Those were the good years, family grown up, money to spend, life was great
But it didn’t last long, his world was brought down by the cruel fickle finger of fate
A cancer they said, his right lung removed, chemotherapy, coughing and tears
His family stood helpless, what could they do? Dad is dying, the sum of all fears
Then came New Year’s Eve, not with joy but with grief, the New Year had lost all it’s charms
A fierce coughing fit, his one lung couldn’t cope and he died in my dear mother’s arms
And he never took tests to prove he had “Britishness” but he never conned people or stole
And he worked all his life and carried his weight and he never drew a single day’s dole
And he stood tall and strong and he brought up his kids and worked hard and so did his wife
Yet he had to endure the taunts and insults from the racists for all of his life
Any old scum or dosser or bum thought that being English gave them the right
To insult a man a hundred times better than them, I think I’ve met one or two here tonight
