Coal Not Dole
(Sutcliffe)
It stands so proud, the wheels so still,
A ghost-like figure on the hill.
It seems so strange, there is no sound,
Now there are no men underground.
What will become of this pit-yard,
Where men once trampled faces hard?
Tired and weary, their work done,
Never having seen the sun.
Will it become like sacred ground?
Foreign tourists gazing round.
Asking if men once worked here,
Way beneath this pit-head gear.
Empty trucks once filled with coal,
Lined up like men on the dole.
Will they e're be used again,
Or left for scrap just like the men?
There'll always be a happy hour
For those with money, jobs and power.
They'll never realise the hurt,
They cause to men they treat like dirt.
What will become of this pit-yard,
Where men once trampled faces hard?
Tired and weary, their work done,
Never having seen the sun.
There'll always be a happy hour
For those with money, jobs and power.
They'll never realise the hurt,
They do to them they treat like dirt.
Mining was latterly a well paid job leading to communities with pride. Go to Frickley now and tell people they are lucky they don't have to go down the mines and see what reception you get. The end of coal mining - which may or may not have been an economic inevitability - was still the death of fine and noble communities that generations had built. That, at least, is worth shedding a tear for.
Years ago this fine old Dame was singing for the Weavers.