THE MINER

I’ll tell a tale about a miner

Digging coal for ocean liners

And trains that steam across the land

And machines that place baked beans in cans.

He started work while six years old

Deep underground in damp and cold

No school for him I’m sad to say

He had to work twelve hours a day.

Down the shaft he was lowered in a basket

Although many came up in a wooden casket

For once that cage started to fall

He knew there was no going back at all.

In total darkness for half a minute

Imagine how you’d feel if you were in it

Nothing to see but plenty to hear

As cables unwind close to your ear.

Falling at thirty metres a second

Cold wind rushes up and fear beckons

And change in air pressure does its worst

To eardrums almost ready to burst.

You reduce the pain by pinching your nose

And blowing hard right down to your toes.

But soon your basket hits rock bottom

Too late now if you’ve forgotten

The items you’ll need for your working day

Let’s list them quick without delay.

Although a child, he’s not so cute

Our miner’s wearing his father’s boots

They’re made of leather but full of holes

And cardboard toughens up the soles.

To make sure he doesn’t get too cranky

He carries with him a dampened hankie

You’re no doubt wondering what good that does

It stops him breathing in the dust.

He’s got a tin with his sandwich in

And he’s ready now for his day to begin

On the brim of his hat he fastens a candle

At six years of age his life is a scandal.

For he’ll not see daylight for twelve long hours

And fetid, stale air his lungs will devour

A five mile walk below ground to work

If your morning bus is late you go berserk

But that was then and this is now

Our young lad makes the coalface somehow

He may have to dodge a pit pony or two

That’ll bowl him over and kick like Kung Fu.

Under the sea these tunnels stretch

It’s a tough old life for this little wretch

But if this long journey he survives

Let’s see what he does when he arrives.

At six years of age life’s not so dapper

For the job for him is that of trapper.

Yet if you’re thinking that its rats he traps

To add flavour and body to a stew of scraps

For tucking into later with a glass of champagne

You’re on the right track but the wrong train.

‘Cause as wagons pass on underground rails

There’s quite a danger they’ll be derailed

So our trapper’s job is to sit and wait

And open and close the trapdoor gates

That prevent them careering out of control

And adding more carnage to this dark hellhole.

By the age of seven he’s more mature

And a tougher life this lad can endure

No slacking now you understand

As he loads the wagons of coal by hand.

A year later there’s no room for error

As he changes jobs to that of bearer

Bearing heavy bags on strong young shoulders

Sane thoughts drift away and lunacy smoulders.

He spends a final year pulling and pushing the dragon

Which is what in those days they termed the wagon

And as he strains against a dragon full of boulders

The ropes cut painful strips from toughened shoulders.

And by the time he’s ten, his apprenticeship served

He’s spent four long years dodging the pervs.

Which is something about which nobody talked

Yet these boys down the pits were often stalked.

But such is life, and we’ll move forward now

Twenty odd years if you’ll allow

To find our miner lying on his side

Digging the coal that the face provides.

It’s sandwiched between layers of fruitless rock

And while digging it out he takes many hard knocks

If you listened close you’d hear him blaspheme

As with pick and hammer he attacks the seam.

His other tools are wedges and chisels

And a home-made clock as his candle fizzles

For it takes an hour for a candle to burn

So the passing of time he easily discerns.

But while trying to earn his family a crust

Nothing prevents him breathing the dust.

The air is thick and this man is young

And the disease he catches is known as black lung.

He coughs and the phlegm he spits up is black

Hitting the rock with a mucous splash-back

Which spreads the illness, though he’s not to know

For with airborne disease there’s nothing to show.

A friend comes along in the form of canary

Which when it stops singing our miner’s wary

For deadly gases lurk in the air

With poisonous choke-damp he hasn’t a prayer.

The build-up of gases can often explode

Causing roof props to fall and waters to flow

So while dust and gas are the saboteur

There are many ways for death to occur

When his shift is over he needs a wash

But the bathroom at home isn’t so posh

The bath is tin and the water freezing

His wife’s grown used to his laboured wheezing.

She takes pan off the fire and approaches the tub

Starting with his back she begins to scrub

His wife is strong and extremely busty

Our miner’s tired yet still feels lusty

And while she’s busy washing his bits

He reaches up and grabs her tits

On the remainder of this scene, we’ll close the curtain

But he sleeps well tonight, that much is certain.

A tribute to the brave, hardy and gritty men of the pits. Courageous doesn't cry. My Great-Grandfather Greenaway, on my mother’s side, was awarded a gold medal for his work at the Senghenydd Pitt Disaster of 1913, in which 435 miners died leaving nearly 1000 widows and orphans. Mum spoke very fondly of him.

Copyright © Karl Wiggins