| Ah me name is Jackie White
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| I’m the foreman of the yard
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| And ya don’t mess with Jackie on this quayside
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| I’m as hard as iron plate
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| Woe betide you if you’re late
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| When we have to push a boat out on the spring tide
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| Now they could die and hope for Heaven
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| But they’d need to work their shift
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| And I’d expect them all to back me to the hilt
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| And if St. Peter at his gate were to ask them why they’re late?
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| Why, they’d tell him that they had to get a ship built
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| We build battleships and cruisers (ah)
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| For her Majesty the Queen
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| Super tankers for Onassis, (ah)
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| And all the classes in between
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| We built the greatest shipping tonnage
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| That the world has ever seen
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| And the only life we’ve known is in the shipyard
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| Now, gentlemen
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| Steel in the stockyard
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| Iron in the soul
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| We’ll conjure up a ship
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| Where there used to be a hole
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| But we don’t know what we’ll do
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| If the yard gets sold
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| For the only life we’ve known is in the shipyard
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| Why are we makin' nice with this bloke if he’s just out to shut us down?
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| We’re trying to make him understand
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| It’s about bloody time he understood me then!
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| My name is Billy Thompson
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| I’m shop steward for the Union
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| And me dream is proletarian revolution
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| Comrades, brothers, fellow travelers and others
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| Class struggle is the means of dialectic evolution
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| And Das Kapital’s me bible
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| So the ruling class are liable
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| And quoting Marx and Engels, it’s entirely justifiable
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| If the workers revolution here is
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| Ever to be viable
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| We become the rightful owners of the shipyard
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| Look, there’s a mixture of emotions
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| Hatred, gratitude and pride
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| And you hate yourself for crying
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| But that’s difficult to hide
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| For there’s a sadness in the launching
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| And ye worry what’s ahead
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| And that worry never leaves ye
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| No, it keeps on nagging in your head
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| So ye pray to God for orders
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| But ye’ll worry till ya dead…
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| Until they bury your remains
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| In the blacksmith’s shed
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| And the only life ye’ve known is in the shipyard
|
| Steel in the stockyard
|
| Iron in the soul
|
| We’ll conjure up a ship
|
| Where there used to be a hole
|
| But we don’t know what we’ll do
|
| If the yard gets sold
|
| For the only life we’ve known is in the shipyard
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| My name is Peggy White
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| And I’ve nursed them through their injuries
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| And their cuts and wounds I’ve bound
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| Busted arms, and busted heads
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| Broken backs and broken legs
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| I’d often put them in a splint
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| Before we put them in the ground
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| And the fumes from all the welding
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| Where the poison air is hung
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| And the toxic radiation
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| That’s been blackening their tongues
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| I’d be giving them an aspirin
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| They’d be coughing up their lungs
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| It was all they ever got here in this shipyard
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| Jackie. |
| Far be it from me to intrude, but I’m wondering if I might say a few
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| words
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| Of course, Father. |
| The floor is yours
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| Well, me name is James O’Brien, it’s from Ireland I was sent
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| To be the pastor of this flock and your spiritual guide
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| I might suggest to all of you heathens
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| What you might give up for Lent
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| But ye won’t give up your dignity
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| Ye can’t give up your pride
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| And ye can’t give up your history, ye can’t give up the ghost
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| For on the last day of judgment, a heavenly host
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| Will descend on this community to separate the just
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| From the damned and the wicked and the ones ye couldn’t trust
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| And there are times when the good Lord might ask for sacrifice
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| But it’s the devil that be tempting ye, even if he’s paid you twice
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| For their souls cannot be purchased as they haven’t got a price
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| And they won’t give up
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| No, we won’t give up, we won’t give up your/our lives here in the shipyard
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| Mind you, I once gave up the drinking, was it 1963?
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| It seems as though sobriety was not the thing for me
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| It was the worst three hours I ever hope to see
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| Steel in the stockyard
|
| Iron in the soul
|
| We’ll conjure up a ship
|
| Where there used to be a hole
|
| And the ship sets sail and the tail gets told
|
| And the only life we’ve known is in the shipyard
|
| Steel in the stockyard
|
| Iron in the soul
|
| We’ll get the bastard finished
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| Or we’ll end up on the dole
|
| But we
|
| Never minded working
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| In the rain and the cold
|
| Shootin' rivets in the bulkheads
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| Welding in the hold
|
| But we don’t know what we’ll do
|
| If the yard gets sold
|
| The only
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| Life we’ve ever known is in the shipyard |