You who spared the stately homes
For all the world to see.
And those who keep the nation's trust,
Please listen to my plea.
Spare the place where I was born
For it means the same to me-
As the mansion to the nobleman,
Whoever he may be. |
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Spare the house at number nine
Where I first saw the day.
And from where I journeyed to the mine,
To labour for my pay.
A home we call the Jig Brow,
Where everyone's a friend.
In a comradeship along the street,
That should not have to end. |
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Keep the wreckers from the street.
Touch not a single wall.
And leave the corner shop alone
Where once lived Beatie Ball.
There still, grows my family tree,
With branches round the town.
And you'll commit a murder
If you knock the Jig Brow down. |
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My heart will always dwell there
No matter where I roam.
I'm speaking still the dialect,
That I always spoke back home.
Now my eyes begin to sting
With the coal dust on my face.
So once again I plead to you.
Don't touch this precious place. |
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I remember still, my school mates,
There were Sapper, Todge and Mig.
Three of the many noblemen
Belonging to the Jig.
In the eye of the beholder
Beauty lies deep in the past.
Save the Jig from all the planners
Before the dice they cast. |
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A birth place for the humble craft
That made the nation strong.
The weaving sheds and coal mines
Are two that still belong.
They should build a monument
Of granite, steel and stone,
To the little town of Tyldesley.
And leave the Jigs alone. |
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The gas lamp's lights are burning dim,
Each face now wears a frown.
With anger growing in the heart
Of every man in town.
All pleas made, just went unheeded.
The planners won the race.
For where the Jigs once proudly stood
Now lies an empty place.
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