Son of a Collier by Daz Beattie
Tell me abart pit granddad whilst yer sat
Is it dark as arr cellar or worss than that?
Tell me abart that deputy bloke
Hez he really got horns or is it a joke?
Duzz he bite and shart a lot?
Hez hee er gun to fire that shot?
Me dad sed he hez
If they hev mashines that are so smart
Why carnt they cut coil and lift it art
Carnt yer drive em from up ont top
Wi buttons that startem and mekem stop
Mi granny ses you'd like that part
Yer wunt hev to bother bathin for a start
Mi Gram's a reight laff
Mi mam sez that miners are barmy
An I hev to be a sailor or goo int army
An that she waint let me work darn pit
Sez I ent even got ter think abart it
But I thort that you en mi dad
Liked it an dint think on it bein that bad
Mi mam's mardy
Will you tork to mi mam an sort it art
Tell her you'll luck after me when ar start
Am shuer that yer cud convince her that
If I wear the booits, knee pads an an hat
Ard be safe wi thee darn undergrarnd
Goo on grandad try an tork her rarnd
Mi grandads a reight good torker
If mi dad werr heer narr heed tell er
An heed hev a word wi that manajer fella
Bet mi dad wud let mi wurk darn 't pit
Cos ar reckon he made some money art er it
Wished he werr heer to help me narr
Wish heed hed time to set that bar
Mi dad got killed in't pit.
Tempus Bluddy Fugits by Daz Beattie
Munda bluddy mornin, shaft side ageean
Setda an Sunda weer hev they gon
Happy as Larry on Setda neet
Same teeam here but not fit ter meeat
In't club all smiles and cleean
Here a Monda all scowls and meean
Five sodding shifts left
Stud here like lemmings abart ter jump
Nine hundred yards straight darnn ter sump
Hope that winder feels better'n us
Not like the prat that drove ar bus
Ice and snow he just dint care
As long as he got arr tanner fare
I hate chuffing Mondas
Darn't shaft all't Mondas stink same
Start er grafting, end er't game
Stale an wet like a cellar stinkin
Frida's different, sets yer thinkin
Glad to breath it Frida mornin
Last shifts heer an pay que's formin
Wor happened to Frida?
Wigan Stock by Daz Beattie
Although am Yorkshire born and bred
Of Lancashire ar'll hev now't bad said
I was reared to cherr an wots fer't doo
To coil an muck an top err brew.
Mi gretgrandad from Wigan kem
Lookin fer wurk in nineteen ten
The pits round Ince were thinning art
Nowt for colliers barring a shart
So this man of iron set art his stall
And walked ter east wi nowt at all.
Other than a will to werk
A responsibility he'd niver sherk
.
He kem ter Wath wi a few er his mates
Non erem knowin their likely fates.
Chances wer fon in a newer pit
An ter newer masters they did commit.
T'argue prices they just wu'nt dare
So set ter werk ter earn the fare
A family uprooited in poverty
But reunited then in dignity.
A collier's curss fer werk to roam
Bur a pit's a pit an any house an home
Wi a bed and just abart sufficient food
Fer a werker an his beloved brood.
