You can hear the guns all day Rumbling eighty miles away; You can hear them all night long Booming out the devil's song, Taking God's own right to kill— From the top of high Kench Hill.
The hay smells sweet on high Kench Hill When we go out a-raking; And, round about, the Roman Marsh In summer heat lies baking.
There's miles of sky on high Kench Hill With colored clouds a-spreading Like gold fish in a great blue bowl, When we the hay are tedding.
And you may see on high Kench Hill, Clear over hedge and railing, A little slip of silver sea With ships upon it sailing.
Merry's the time on high Kench Hill When we the hay are carting ; Fun runs free like the ale and tea, And lovers go sweethearting.
'Tis peaceful time on high Kench Hill— Below the lambs are bleating ; The last load home is lost in mist, Night sheds her quiet greeting.
You can hear the guns all day Rumbling eighty miles away. You can hear them all night long Booming out the devil's song. Taking God's own right to kill— From the top of high Kench Hill.
H.W., in London "Herald."
The "Daily Herald" published in London was also trade union supported which encouraged the Worker to trade stories and occasionally poems