A Song by Ben Murray
The wheel is still, and on the hill The cattle graze contented.
Children climb, ’twas fore their time This symbol of remembrance.
It may sound sad, but I am glad The farmer got his field back.
For every spoke someone has woke To find themselves a loser:
Husband; dad; brother; lad Have paid to mining’s altar.
It may sound sad, but I am glad, The farmer got his field back.
‘Twixt heaven and hell, the old men tell It all ‘came off the shoulder’, With wooden props ‘tween floor and top They hewed black golden treasure.
N ow big machines rip through the seams And roofs are power-supported, Yet still the coal takes its toll, Though men are better rewarded.
Young men of today, I have to say, Aren’t bound by pithead’s calling.
There’s a wider range than the old Trimdon Grange,
Pit cage and yard-high crawling.
So lift your eyes above the hill, Where cows and sheep are grazing.
It may sound sad, But I am glad The farmer got his field back.