I'd second 'The Coming of the Road' by Billy Ed Wheeler. Recorded many years ago by Brenda Wootton. Perhaps not just what you want for this particular situation, but the effect on countryside is well made, I think.

"Now that our mountain is growing,
With people hungry for wealth,
How come it's you that's a-going
And I'm left alone by myself?
You used to hunt the cool caverns
Deep in the forest of green;
Then came the road and the taverns,
And you found a new love it seems.
Once I had you and the wildwood;
Now it's just dusty road,
And I can't help from blaming your going
On the coming of the road.

"Look how they've torn all to pieces,
Our ancient poplar and oak,
And the hillside is stained with the greases
That burned all the heavens with smoke.
You used to curse the bold crewmen
That stripped our earth of its ore,
Now you've changed and you've gone over to them,
Learned to love what you hated before.
Once I thanked God for my treasure;
Now, like rust, it corrodes,
And I can't help from blaming your going
On the coming of the road."

The other one is "Tide of Change" by Hilary Bix, which came out of a conversation in 1973 that she had with her then elderly neighbour, but still so relevant today, though the recession has put paid to some of it for a while, so maybe even that has its up side!

"My husband died and left me here with three fine sons to raise,
And as I cared for them, I thought, 'They'll be here in my old age,'
But there's no work for them round here, not even for farmers' sons;
They've had to leave to find a life, yes, each and every one.

    Old ways, young folk, swept up by the tide
    Of change that's come and torn the heart from out the countryside.

My cottage they will take from me - it's always been our home;
It was tied to the land for the labouring man - it was never ours to own;
Our life bound up in these four walls through sad and happy days;
Now they'll sell my home to city folk for country holidays.

Yes, the cottages have all been sold, and I'm the last to go,
But I'm damned if I will be torn out like any old hedgerow;
Now all around by night and day machines tear at the earth;
And I long for the sight of a working horse, or the sound of a farm boy's laugh.

My friend has moved into the town to be close to her son,
And the new folks leave in winter time - they don't seem to think it's fun;
The chapel's gone, Post Office closed, and I'm left high and dry
By the tide of change that's torn the heart from out the countryside."

Barbara