The Green Ban Fusiliers

Words:  Denis Kevans
Tune:  Traditional (McAlpine's Fusiliers)




CHORUS:
Up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.
They stole the street with their marching feet, placards high above their ears.
In Sydney town they would not lie down, they gave Martin's scabs some cheer,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

Half-smart thieves with their Gucci sleeves and car parks on the brain
Told the usual lie: 'The trees've got to die' - the fig trees in Sydney's domain,
And some said, 'Joe, we orta let 'em go. It's only bloody timber to be cleared,
Ah, but listen to the trees as they whisper to the breeze and the Green Ban Fusiliers.

Bulldozer blades made a lightning raid, coming in with a great big rush,
Moving in for the kill up at Hunter's hill, at beautiful Kelly's Bush,
But the local women lay down in the bulldozer's way, to the bucking and the shuddering of the gears,
When their hands were raised the ones they praised were the Green Ban Fusiliers.


CHORUS:
Up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.
They stole the street with their marching feet, placards high above their ears.
In Sydney town they would not lie down, they gave Martin's scabs some cheer,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

They made a stand for our sunny land at the Rocks and Woolloomooloo.
On the chimney tops they waltzed with the cops to save a bit of Sydney for you,
And the finance fleas who made refugees of families who had been pioneers
Finished on their arse, and they did their brass with the Green Ban Fusiliers.

Through the years and through my tears I can see 'em marching again,
From the dizzy heights and the concrete sites in sunshine and in rain,
That patch of green's gettin' a lovely old sheen, no matter how many flow the years,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

CHORUS:
Up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.
They stole the street with their marching feet, placards high above their ears.
In Sydney town they would not lie down, they gave Martin's scabs some cheer,
And it's up Broadway to the MBA come the Green Ban Fusiliers.

This parody of Dominic Behan's McAlpine's Fusiliers was written by Denis Kevans in 1972 and used as part of the presentation, An Unlikely Alliance at the 2011/2012 Woodford Folk Festival.  

Another of Denis' songs on the topic of the Green Bans industrial movement.

This recording from the last performance at the festival features:

Ann Bermingham:  vocals, shaker

Dale Jacobsen:  vocals

Sandy McCutcheon:  vocals

Nicole Murray:  vocals, fiddle

Helen Rowe:  vocals, fiddle

Peggy Seeger:  vocals, banjo

John Thompson:  vocals, guitar

The illustration to this post is a photograph of Jack Mundey, one of the principal actors in the Green Bans movement, in conversation with police.

Monuments

Words:  Denis Kevans
Tune:  Bob Fagan



Some leave a marble monument, or a statue made of brass
That stands in cold retirement, getting tickled by the grass
Some leave a passive portrait they’ve commissioned for a fee,
But no one comes to sculpt or carve, or paint a pic of me.

Don’t worry, I’ve been carved up by experts, not a few.

Subbies, foremen use their knives to carve a pound or two.

I’ve been sculpted by the cleaver winds that scream up in the struts.
I’ve been painted by the mud and slush in bogging rickshaw ruts

I am a kind of portrait if you could read between
The lines that mark my face with time and see just what they mean
The leagues and laughs and lands I've known, the years of wear and tear
No gypsy woman on the earth could glean the stories there.

From the mullock heavy rickshaw to the hook that rides with ease,
From the sucking clay caught shovel, to the steel walk in the breeze,
From the jack pick gun’s staccato to the steady chisel chip,

I’ve worked upon my monument in a life’s apprenticeship.

From the convict’s pickmarked alphabet in Hawkesbury River stone 

To where the dogman carves his name in the concrete rise alone 

From mud in acres poured and squared, to the bright mosaic eye, 

I’ve worked upon my monument, and build before I die.

I see your monuments displayed in cavalcades of war,

In lands where you make ashes from the courage of the poor. 

In little children hobbling down to drink from sorrow’s well 

Looking sadly at their faces, cut to bits by petrol gel.

I see your monuments displayed in smog polluted air.

To the wraiths of black shawled mountains, in the wake of ‘I don’t care’ 

In oil choked harbours, upturned fish, and nuclear sullied seas

In forests felled, and deserts made from songbird’s aviaries

You’ve had your chance, you’ve run the world your way, we know it’s true. 

Your monuments stick in my craw, the monuments to you.

We leave the cities of the world cemented with our sweat

The cemeteries of our youthful years, but we’re not beaten yet.

For there’s a living monument to all we’ve lived and learned

The green bans we’ve created, and the victories we have earned 

And one day when our cities are but dust upon the air

The pollen from our fighting hearts will bloom again somewhere.




Australia's "Poet Lorikeet", Denis Kevans (1939 - 2005) first published this poem in the new South Wales Builders Labourers Federation Journal in 1970.

The song (with Bob Fagan's tune) has been performed in Australia as part of shows about the Green Bans disputes in Sydney.  Over a period of four years in the 1970s, over 40 development projects were delayed in the Sydney area by a union which had decided in 1970 to adopt a principle of social benefit in determining where to exert their industrial muscle.  Projects which threatened natural or heritage values where subjected to Green Bans.

Follow this link for a lengthier discussion of the Green Bans: http://www.dictionaryofsydney.org/entry/green_bans_movement.

Number Twenty-Two

Words:  Unknown (Javey)
Tune:  Traditional (The Wearing of the Green)



If you talk of locomotives and would like to know the star,
Step up here on the footplate for a trip to Waratah.
Oh, I drive the finest engine - I can prove the statement true,
They've neither man or engine equals me and Twenty - Two.

There's the four-wheeled coupled Fairburns, Numbers One, and Two, and Three,
They're as fleet as Flying Dutchmen, but they're weak as any flea:
For speed and strength and steaming, and likewise for running true,
There's a happy combination in old Number Twenty - Two.

Look at Billy Martin when he is running late,
A- ripping and a -whipping Doctor is his mate;.
Drive, Billy, drive, but no matter what you do
You couldn't hold a candle to old Number Twenty - Two.

There's Four, Five, Six and Seven, Number Eight and Number Nine,
They could all hook on behind me and I'd tow them up the line;
Ten, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen - I can only name a few -
And I'd gladly do without them if they'd give me Twenty - Two.

There's the Thirties and the Forties, they are Beyer Peacock's make,
They're easy on the lever, they're handy with the brake,
With improvements and inventions, and with everything that's new;
But the bully engine of them all is Number Twenty - Two.

What's the use of Norman, bothering his pole,
Sighing and a crying about his oil and coal.
Drive Freddy drive, but no matter what you do
For economising fuel, you can't beat old Twenty - Two.

There's the bogies, Beyer and Peacocks, and some more by Dubs supplied,
And the new Mogul goods engines, with their cylinders outside,
With their air brakes and their steam brakes, give me the good old screw,
I can pull up in a jiffy, when I'm driving Twenty - Two.

There's Bill Gold and Jack McNulty, and there's Sam and Billy Brown,
Sure they blow about their Moonbies, and the gradients up and down.
There's Matt Coburn, Pierce and Saxon and the Murrurundi crew,
But they all play second fiddles, when I'm driving Twenty - Two.

Take a trip with Wrightson, Number thirty eight,
Always on the knocker, not a minute late.
Drive Geordie drive, but no matter what you do,
The darling of the Northern Line, is Number Twenty - Two.

There's Bill Neal and Tom his brother, Harry Wallace and old Nat
Matthews, Sanderson and Blundells, Stewart King and Billy Pratt
Oh they skite about their sheep trains and the work they have to do,
But I'd pull their loads and engines with old Number Twenty - Two.

There's Fred Bracey, Doug and Dedman, brother Tom and brother Dick,
Sure they talk of Micky Reynolds, 'til they'd make a fella sick,
Of expansion and combustion, they can prate 'til all is blue,
But when they want real science, they must come to Twenty - Two.

Cabby runs to Maitland, little seventeen,
Dancin' and a prancin', like a ballet queen.
Drive cabby drive, but no matter what you do,
You know you couldn't foot it, with old Number Twenty - Two.

There's Jim Massie and Jack Howden, Johnny Boyd and Harry Bell
There's the coal men and the goods men, half their names I couldn't tell,
But if you want a driver that is sure to pull you through,
Just ask for Thomas Plunkett and old Number Twenty - Two.

I can work the staff and ticket and keep time with any train,
I can pull the best amongst them and I'll tell you once again,
You may search the Northern Railway, you may search it through and through,
And the devil blast the engine, equals Number Twenty - Two.

Look at Billy Martin, doctor looking sour,
Ripping and a slipping, sixty miles an hour,
Drive Billy drive, but no matter what you do,
You know it's "Faugh a Ballagh",
When I'm out with Twenty - Two.


Published in The Locomotive Journal (Journal of the Australian Federated Union of Enginemen) in 1880 under the pen-name of "Javey" of Murrurundi.

Recited by Denis Kevans on Trains of Treasure: Poems, Songs and Music of the Railways (a project of the Rail, Tram and Bus Union).  Set to this tune by Ron Edwards.

Faugh a Ballagh is an Irish war cry, meaning "Clear the Way!"

The illustration to this post is a photograph from around 1880 from the State Library of Queensland.  Follow this link for more information.