"Men of Cambria" O, men of Cambria, why do you choose Lifetimes of methane and dusts, Disfiguring anthracite tattoos And silicosing chests? O, sons of Wales, why do you go? What secrets are you hiding? Does He meet with you down below? Are you down there at His bidding? To dying coal-pits filled with grief, And rats and props and pillars, And grunts and groans and injuries, You go to seams familiar. You're there to toil. And toil you should, For loved-ones else learn hunger. You rant and rave and curse aloud To exorcise your anger. With throbbing ears, and smarting eyes In coal-encrusted sockets, You line your lungs with viscid pus While you line pit-owners' pockets. Deep underground, you journey far, Clutching feathered companions, Whose sudden deaths too often are Ill-fated premonitions. To terraced houses filled with fun, And comfort, warmth and sharing, And loving daughters, wives and sons, You go to feel the caring. You're there to rest. And rest you should, For the shift has wrought its toll. You'd lay for ever if you could, And to hell with all that coal. To public houses filled with drear, And dartboards, friends and leisure, And poverty, despair and fear, You go to make your pleasure. You're there to dream. And dream you should, For reality can break you. And mild and bitter from the wood To kinder worlds can take you. To chapel basements filled with song, And pianos, bass and tenors, And whirling batons urging on, You go to join your choirs. You're there to sing. And sing you should, For colliers know the value Of harmony and brotherhood When others bank upon you. To playing fields filled with teams, And rugby-boots and jerseys, And dead-ball lines and corner posts, You go to show no mercy. You're there to play. And play you should For clogging lungs need airing, And win or lose, the fans applaud, Rewarded for their shillings. To crumbling chapels filled with prayers, And hymns and guilt and gossip, And muffled coughs and creaking chairs, You go to make your worship. You're there to pray. And pray you should, For fragile are your fates, And certainty of life's not found On brass collection plates. As sermons from the pulpits tell Of miracles and morals, You hear the sounds of outside bells And you look around your chapels. Their windows, bright as lantern slides, With God's sun the source of power, Are casting saintly images On the cassocks of the choirs. To village churchyards filled with death, And gloom and damp and sorrow, And moss-green headstones, musty earth, You go to your tomorrows. You're there to sleep. And sleep you should, For none begrudge your slumber. No strangers to being underground Are you, brave men of Cambria
Norman Thomas, Canada
'The Day our Valley Stopped Singing" "Come on now, Davy, you'll be late for school." At eight came his mam's last warning. "Young Megan next door has long since gone. You've got to shape up in the mornings." Through the damp and misty streets he ran T'ward the sound of the school bell's ringing. He ran for his life, yet he ran to his death, For the streets that he raced were of Aberfan On the day our valley stopped singing. In the classrooms sat the future of Wales At the Pantglas Junior School. Young Davy sat with a group of his friends At their desks at the back of the room. A full day of lessons ahead, so they thought, Of arithmetic, reading and writing. But it wasn't to be, for this was to be The day our valley stopped singing And the world kissed our children goodbye. It was soon after nine on the twenty-first day Of October of year sixty six, That the call went out to emergency teams To hurry with shovels and picks. The Junior school and some nearby homes Were the object of their desperation, And the reason our valley stopped singing Was soon to be shared with the nation. And the horror was just beginning. A slag heap high on the mountainside That towered above the school, Had begun to creep in the morning's mist Unhindered by God, man, and tool. There was nothing on earth that could hold it back; Small wonder our valley stopped singing, For that hump-backed monster draped in black Continued its slide, unabating, Till it totally covered the school. All fire brigades and Civil Defence Were rushed to the ravaged scene. There were miners, teachers, and parents, And police and ambulance men. On the day our valley stopped singing It was full of volunteers, And though the rain fell through the day, It couldn't out-fall the tears The results of their labours were bringing. Roughly half of the twelve score pupils were safe, While the others were smothered or missing. Each rescuer toiled with the strength of two On the day our valley stopped singing. With spades they shovelled, with hands they clawed At the quagmire for signs of the living, And every live child was ample reward For the sweat, and the toil, and the effort, And the time they were selflessly giving. The medical staff at St. Tydfil's Had not before known such distress, And this day our valley stopped singing Was to bring even more grief, not less. After only an hour it was gravely feared That the trapped childrens' chances were slimming, And then, near the stroke of eleven o'clock, The last of the children still living Were pulled from the sludge where they'd mired. They'd recovered the sixtieth body by ten Of the evening our valley stopped singing, And they'd pull lifeless forms out again and again By the seventh and last day of digging. One hundred and sixteen dear children, And twenty-eight adults would die, And after their bodies were cleaned of the slime They were put in the care of their loved ones To be buried a second time. On the day our valley stopped singing We recalled pit disasters of yore, But the impact was not quite so chilling For the victims, the miners, had been more mature, And had known of the risks they were taking. What now touched all the hearts of the nation Were the maimed and the dead girls and boys, And the people responded with kindness, With donations of money and toys. Young Davy lost his life that day, And Megan the use of her legs, And even those children who came out unscathed Had suffered the loss of their friends. Life's not been the same in Aberfan Since those hopes and young bodies were crushed, And it's not been the same in a certain two homes, For Davy can't dawdle, and Megan can't rush Since the day our valley stopped singing. Author's note The ascending order through verses 1 - 9 of the phrase "our valley stopped singing" symbolizes the souls of the children ascending into Heaven. In verse 10 it is used to end the poem. Norman Thomas, Canada