The hearth once roared with jest and song, where ale ran free and tongues were bold,
Where men could speak of right and wrong, and tales of kings and wars were told.
Yet now the whisper walks the floor, as shadowed laws like phantoms creep,
And landlords hush the voice of thought, lest they should wake the beast from sleep.
No jest, no quarrel, no debate, no challenge raised to power’s claim,
For fear now grips the common space, and silence walks where speech once came.
The landlord bows, the barkeep nods, their faces drawn with quiet dread,
For law has chained their alehouse walls, and bids them fear the words once said.
In workshops, markets, streets and squares, the hush of caution dulls the air,
No worker dares to voice his mind, lest speech should bring the lash to bear.
For those who talk must weigh their words, and glance behind with furtive eye,
For now the law does not defend, but stands to judge, to scold, to spy.
Where Cromwell’s voice once shook the land, where Churchill’s words the storm defied,
Where martyrs burned for conscience free, and truth was voiced though kings denied,
Shall we now bow to coward’s law? Let silence be our prison gate?
And stand as wretches, meek and cowed, beneath the weight of censors’ fate?
Oh, England, land of speech and thought! Will ye now kneel and bite the chain?
Shall tyrants rob the voice of men, and make their doubts unvoiced, in vain?
Or shall ye wake and shake the yoke, and cast these treacherous laws aside,
And speak as once ye dared to speak, with fearless hearts and English pride?
For those who yield their right to speak, shall wake to find their freedom dead,
And those who think to tame the word, shall rule a realm of ghosts instead.
No law, no leash, no iron bar, shall hold back thought for long untried,
The truth will rise, the voice will sound, and tyrants fall, as they have died.
(By John Shenton)