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English Soil

Lyrics


Poor as a stockinger was something people used to say

Fourteen hours, every day, knitting on a narrow frame

Wider frames are coming and progress ain’t good for the folk round here

Money men just keep on making money

And famine and factories fill everyone else with fear


Nine mouths to feed and rents keep on getting higher

Desperate men make desperate plans to keep meat on the family fire

The judge was high and haughty and “we don’t need your kind round here”

Fifteen years transportation, frame stands empty, family in the workhouse, tell me who’s the winner here


CHORUS

Never to stand again on English soil

Headed for the prison hulks where the tough men spoil

Never to stand again on English soil

Headed for the wind and the waves and the ropes to coil


Poor as a stockinger was something people used to say

Back to fourteen hours, every day, but now it’s Mam on the narrow frame

Cottage industry is dying, your kin will find different jobs to do

Merchants, miners and soldiers

and some of them are servants, looking after rich folks, like the one who sentenced you


CHORUS 

Never to stand again on English soil

Headed for the prison hulks where the tough men spoil

Never to stand again on English soil

Headed for the wind and the waves and the ropes to coil

I vaguely remember being told as a child that one of my ancestors had been transported to Australia, so when I started exploring my family history it was an obvious story to dig into. Turns out it was my 4x Great Grandad Henry Cain. He was a framework knitter who was born in the early 1800s. I don’t know the precise date because his early life is a complete mystery at the moment, and looking at the records I can find at least five different years of birth. 

In 1837 he was arrested for stealing a ewe sheep from a Mr Samuel Taylor Esq of Bulcote. A bit of research shows that Mr Taylor was not only a landlord of an inn but was also involved in overseeing a workhouse. Not being overly fond of the concept of workhouses I must say I felt a sense of pride in my ancestor sticking it to ‘the man’.


The framework knitters had hard lives, as textile workers have throughout history and still do in some parts of the world today. The wages were often paid in tokens to be spent at the shop, which was also run by the boss. They couldn’t go anywhere else for a better deal and it was common for families to struggle to make enough to feed the family. Families often all worked together, Dad would work the frame for 14 hours a day with the children helping to maintain the frame and spooling the wool while Mam sewed the knitted pieces up into stockings. 

Henry had six children and one on the way when he was sentenced to fifteen years transportation. He was briefly in a prison hulk before disembarking on the 5th October for New South Wales. They arrived on January 31st the following year, having lost two of the 226 prisoners to malaria en route.


Henry’s wife Mary had to go into the workhouse to have baby Elizabeth. I initially thought it was very sad that she wouldn’t have met her Dad, but then I found a record of her travelling to Australia when she was in her 30s. Her Mum had died by this time, which led me to wonder if Henry would have still been alive. He had a range of health issues. His prison record shows he had scrofula marks on his throat and a speech impediment, which may have been the result of childhood tuberculosis. He was treated aboard the ship to Australia for digestive issues and arthritis, presumably caused by the long hours at the knitting frame, although he would have been a relatively young man at this point. 


I have never been so happy to find a prison record. In 1870 Henry is readmitted to Goulburn prison, a place he’d been in and out of several times before. He’s picked up a few more scars and shave around ten years off his age somewhere along the line. He’s probably in his mid sixties now, a cook and an educated man. Unlike previous visits, I have no idea what he was in for, but this record sweetens what could have otherwise been a rather bitter story.

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