Swinging a Pick

The feel of a pick in yer hand at last,
   And an acre of earth to dig!
Didn't seem much in the days gone past,
   When yer chance of a job was big.
For work was a troublesome thing to some;
   But a thing that had to be done.
Little we thought that a time would come
   When a job looked reel good fun.

Swingin' a pick on a railway job;
   Slingin' the "banjo" round,
Cursin' the need for to earn a abob,
   Or even a measly pound.
Doin' it in on a Saturday night;
   Growlin' on a Monday morn;
Lookin' on work as a bit of a blight,
   An' treatin' a job with scorn.

But a man must learn thro' days of stress;
   An' I've had full time to learn.
An' there came a day when I learned to bless
   The chance for a man to earn,
An' the feel of a pick in yer hand again
   An' the good brown earth below;
For it's good, hard toil that makes sound me,
   As I've had full cause to know.

Swingin' a pick with a grin an' a joke;
   Slingin' the "banjo" round.
Oh, the toil comes good to a decent bloke
   An' the hope of a hard-earned pound.
Countin' it up of a Saturday night;
   Shovin' a bit in the sock;
For wisdom comes to a cove all right
   When he once has "took the knock."