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Magazine Village
The Bromborough Pool Band in 1906
The Bromborough Pool Band in 1906
The Bromborough Pool Football Team c1905
The Bromborough Pool Cricket Team
The Bromborough Pool Football Team
The Bromborough Pool Cricket Team c1905
Map of  Bromborough Pool Band in 1901
Map of  Bromborough Pool Band in 1901
The following poem was for private circulation only at Bromborough Pool.  The leaflet asked 'what are you doing to win
the war' and suggested that readers look at the ballad to learn what they have been doing.
This is the ballad of Bromborough Pool
A factory built on the ancient rule
That where there’s muck, there’s money, for so
Men thought in the days of long ago
Before the modern works were built
Of glass and concrete, paint and gilt
And here men worked in the days of peace
Grabbing a living from out of the grease
And here they worked in the days of war
IN reserved occupations by the score
No bright uniforms, no romance
Nothing to recognise at a glance
As “This is a spitfire, this is a bren”
“This is a tank” again, and again
The same old battles of stinking grease
The same old trap holes without surcease
But read the ballad and you shall see
How they are working for victory
The men who work at PRICES
This is the locker of Davy Jones
That opened its doors to receive the bones
Of the Bismark sunk, to avenge the Hood
The Bismark that went while the going was good
But could not escape the Prince of Wales
That chased her through the artic gales
That fired twelve guns that loudly roared
As 15 cwt shells they poured
That were loaded by men from Merseyside
That packed the explosive tight inside
That’s a mixture that is called cordite
Of Nitro Cotton and Dynamite
That is made from Glycerine, made from fats
In the dirty old, smelly old, Twitchel vats,
By the men who worked at PRICES.
These are the burning desert sands
That surrounds the rich Egyptian lands
The sands that are shattered with burnt out planes
And broken cars, and tractor chains
That were once the pride of the dirty wop
That had ambitions, but came to a flop
When his ice cream army had a look
AT the Anzaks and Aussies that took Tubruk
With tanks that run on endless track
That above is loose and running slack
But below is running on solid tyres
Of hardened rubber, that requires
Sulphur and sterine, that is drawn
By the press men who sweat from dusk to dawn
And from dawn till the day is getting old
Twelve batches hot, and twelve batches cold
The men who work at PRICES
This is the iceberg, dead and grim
Afloat on sea where the red suns rim
Heralds a six month artic night
That assists the submarines deadly spite
That lies in wait for the convoyed flet
Of merchant vessels, that bring the meat
For your Sunday dinner, corn and tea
And munitions of war, across the sea
That is swept secure by the men in blue
Alert in the tropics, and ice fields too
That defy the artic blasts if warm
Wrapped up in woollen uniform
Wool sheared and carded, and spun, and scoured
And woven and dyed, yard by yard
But before the processing can begin
The wool must be oiled with Oleine
Or brown cloth oil, or the dyeing  bath
Needs Ceryl Sulphate to smooth the path
So thousands of tons of textile oil
Here are made by the daily toil
Of all who work at PRICES
Beware the soul of the dirty hun
Who when he knows the day is done
Will drench our island land with gas
That mother and baby and granny and lass
And lad alike, will blister their skins
But the last of the Huns barbarian sins
Will as usual prove a sad disappointment
This is the governments No 2 ointment
Thousands of tons of it, packed in stock
All over the country awaiting the shock
Of the gas attack, he surely try
Made from the stearine, you and i
Have planned and toiled to produce, and yet
When that attack fails the moil and sweat
The scheming and planning, the work in the muck
Will have saved the country from the ruck
So we should be proud of the thousand devices
Of war that are made by us al at PRICES
Yes all who work at PRICES
A transport vessel docking at the Pool c1905