Dark and hot, with dust and damp
Lit only by a miners lamp
Two thousand feet beneath the ground
Was where the colliers, could be found

Off to work all shiny bright
But faces blackened by the night
Work twelve hours to earn a wage
Tired when exiting the cage

Homeward bound with dragging feet
A bath and supper, spuds and meat
Off to the pub but I can’t stay
Tomorrow is another day

I catch the train at half past five
With eyes half open, half alive
My mates all pile upon the train
We’ve got to go to work again

Tomorrow morning’s Saturday
A time to watch our fifteen play
And Sunday is a day of rest
To chapel in our Sunday best.

But all too soon it’s Monday morn
Off to work at crack of dawn
Another week of underground
Life’s wheel continues round and round

They’ve shut the mines, no work is left
And we feel victims of a theft
Our livelihood has gone away
Sign on the dole, another day

I have a cough, from lungs and chest
I walk a little, then I rest
There is no hope for men like me
The future won’t be there to see.

Ten past five and the bedside clock rings out its dreadful din,
I stumble wearily down the stairs; my day is about to begin.
A quick cold swill and a hurried cup of tea, no time for any fuss,
then off I go with my "Tommy box" to catch the workmen's bus.

Six o'clock at the pithead baths, my clean clothes all are shed,
now there's heavy boots on my feet and a hard hat on my head.
I take my lamp it's been fully charged, in the lamp-room over night,
the battery hangs down from my belt; on my hat I fix the light.

Half past six and I'm on the cage, descending at great speed,
crammed in tight with all the rest, to hold on there's no need.
We hit pit bottom with a bump and set off for the face,
the walk is long and arduous to reach our working place.

Seven o'clock I'm at the face, the conveyor belt is filling,
Blast-picks hammer at the coal, the dust they make is killing.
Pick and shovel I use in turns, until my arms are tired and ache,
and bending over in the low, my back feels like it will break.

Ten o'clock it's time for our food, with hands all sweaty and black,
but the cheese and onion goes down a treat,
a miner's favourite snack.
All too soon our short break is done and it's back to work we must,
once more into the breach dear friends and the ever present dust.

One o'clock the days last coal's all shifted,
I'm sat here blacker than tar,
the roof is made safe and supported and the tools are back on the bar.
I stretch as I get in the heading;
it's nice to stand straight for a change,
though tired I'm feeling light-hearted,
for the end of the shift is in range.

Two o'clock in the pithead baths,
I'm washing away the grime,
now clean and refreshed I head for home,
the bus it arrives on time,
On the table my dinner is waiting and it's devoured without delay,
with heavy eyes I slump in my chair,
at the end of my working day.

I spent some time on the picket line, back in eighty-four,
Scargill was the union man and Thatcher was the foe.
We tried to stop pit closures, our one and only goal,
Our jobs were being threatened; we wanted Coal not Dole.

I spent some time on the picket line, trying to stop the scabs,
They drove them through in heavy trucks and guarded Taxicabs.
Now Maggie said, "these miners, we must not let them win",
She called us "Reds and Traitors" and "The Enemy Within".

I spent some time on the picket line; I did my duty there,
But Maggie used her Bullyboys; they came from everywhere.
They were not your friendly Bobbies, to see that all was fair,
Those Baton Beating Maniacs, they hit and did not care.

I spent some time on the picket line, with no money coming in,
We survived on a weekly parcel and the help of friends and kin.
After twelve long months, we'd had enough nothing did we gain,
So one by one she closed the mines; our struggle was in vain.

I spent some time on the picket line, I sometimes wonder why,
Why fight to work in danger and dirt? It's stupid I can't deny.
And the valleys are looking greener, now the pits are no more,
Perhaps she did us a favour, back in Nineteen eighty-four.

The Pits are closed, Good riddance, goodbye.
Listen to me and I will tell you why.
Forget the tales and the myths you've been told.

Remember the men who never grew old.
Pity the children whith out any dad,
cry for the mother who buried a lad.

Don't mourn the death of an industry
that caused so much pain and misery.
Be happy that no one else will die,
The Pits are closed, Good riddance, goodbye.