A fine guild of craftsmen was nobly conceived,
By a great man of vision untarnished by greed,
Who just wanted to follow the Ruskin-esque dream,
By rebelling against the cold, soulless ‘machine’.

This small band of workers in silver and leather,
Set up in that autumn of Whitechapel terror,
When the artistic conscience was bestially ripped,
And the name ‘leather apron’ was on every lip,

He removed to a Gloucestershire workers’ retreat,
And there, from the East End of London’s bleak streets,
His Whitechapel workshops of lathe and of loom,
Were re-sited as part of a workers’ commune,

Where production of beauty through good honest sweat,
And provision of food through the plough and the net,
He hoped would support them and bind them as well,
And supplement prices at which they could sell,
A beautiful hand-produced functional style …

They struggled and struggled but, after a while,
These artisan craftsmen producing fine goods,
In hand-hammered metals and all kinds of woods,
Just couldn’t compete with the Birmingham mills,
Turning from arms now the guns had been stilled.

And so, in the course of three decades and more,
That had started with murder and ended in war,
The world turned its back on the Arts and Crafts dream,
Embracing instead the cheap, tawdry machine.