It stands so proud, the wheel so still,
A ghostlike 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 shift done,
Never having seen the sun.
Will it become a sacred ground?
Foreign tourists gazing round
Asking if men once worked here,
Way beneath the pithead gear:
Empty trucks once filled with coal,
Lined up just like men on the dole.
Will they e'er 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 do to them they treat like dirt.
A ghostlike 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 shift done,
Never having seen the sun.
Will it become a sacred ground?
Foreign tourists gazing round
Asking if men once worked here,
Way beneath the pithead gear:
Empty trucks once filled with coal,
Lined up just like men on the dole.
Will they e'er 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 do to them they treat like dirt.