Hear the miners’ heavy tramping,
See the loading of the coal.
Feel the coal dust as it settles
In your lungs, and in your soul.
I can see their hands are bloody,
I can see how hard they tried.
But one day all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
The pit wheels stopped their turning,
Like they knew they’d been condemned.
And all that day the news came down,
From Chryston to Bridgend.
I travelled in my memory,
To where the women cried.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
They all heard the confusion,
They ran to the pithead.
The Salvation Army handed out
Tea and soup and bread.
Mothers, wives and sweethearts,
Asking questions, none replied.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
There’s a woman by the railway
With a baby in her arms.
She is dressed in black and mourning
She is weeping for her man.
There’s a line of coffins waiting
To be buried, crucified.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
The mine never did re-open,
It died as well that day.
Death took their breath, then took his leave,
And the people moved away.
Now I’m looking from my window,
And I remember those who cried.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
See the loading of the coal.
Feel the coal dust as it settles
In your lungs, and in your soul.
I can see their hands are bloody,
I can see how hard they tried.
But one day all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
The pit wheels stopped their turning,
Like they knew they’d been condemned.
And all that day the news came down,
From Chryston to Bridgend.
I travelled in my memory,
To where the women cried.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
They all heard the confusion,
They ran to the pithead.
The Salvation Army handed out
Tea and soup and bread.
Mothers, wives and sweethearts,
Asking questions, none replied.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
There’s a woman by the railway
With a baby in her arms.
She is dressed in black and mourning
She is weeping for her man.
There’s a line of coffins waiting
To be buried, crucified.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
The mine never did re-open,
It died as well that day.
Death took their breath, then took his leave,
And the people moved away.
Now I’m looking from my window,
And I remember those who cried.
The day that all the lights went out,
And forty-seven died.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2019/12/16 - 10:35
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Along The Miners' Rows
“(Along The Miners' Rows) summon(s) up and celebrate(s) the rich cultural history of central Scotland’s now-vanished mining communities”
The Herald