Thomas Anderson

We are but images of stone
Do us no harm
We can do none
St. Crispin and St. Crispian are we
On the arch of the Shoemaker's arbour

High above the river on Kingsland we stood
On the gate to the hall of the shoemakers' guild
Where the bakers, the tailors, the butchers, the smiths
And the saddlers too their guild arbours built
Each year in procession the guilds gave a show
And marched through the town to the sound of the drum
Then it's back to Kingsland to feast and carouse
And enjoy the great day the guild members come

We are but images of stone
Do us no harm
We can do none
St. Crispin and St. Crispian are we
On the arch of the Shoemaker's arbour

On the 10th of June 1752
In a house called The Crown that stood on Pride Hill
John Richards' workmen received a week's pay
And there they stayed and drank their fill
When a redcoat patrol chanced to pass by
The men mocked and reviled them with Jacobite songs
And who struck the first blow no-one was sure
But a bloody riot soon raged through the town

The authorities trembled with passion and fear
When news of this Jacobite outburst was known
For the House of Hanover had won few hearts
And the Stuarts still plotted to win back the throne
And so that same year, one raw day in December
The rebellious townsfolk of Salop looked on
While below the old arch of the Shoemaker's Arbour
They made an example of Tom Anderson

Who was once spared by death on the field of Culloden
Then joined the dragoons but deserted, they say
Only to die on the banks of the Severn
By firing squad on a cold Winter's day
When the black velvet suit was stripped from his body
The Chevalier's colours were beneath it, it's said
Received from the hands of Bonny Prince Charlie
Whose cause like young Thomas is broken and dead

For it's 200 years since Bonny Prince Charlie
Died drunk and embittered, an old man in Rome
While a century ago in the flowers of the Dingle
The old arbour gateway found a new home
Now who's to remember the Shoemakers' Guild
Or the Jacobite rebels who fought for a throne
And who's left to grieve for Tom Anderson
But these two hearts of stone

We are but images of stone
Do us no harm
We can do none
St. Crispin and St. Crispian are we
On the arch of the Shoemaker's Arbour