A Welsh Coal Mines web pa

Six Bells

 
One hundred years ago beneath a hilltop farm, 
We lost our sheep to men who'd do us harm.

Were they English? 
These men of shit? 
Gave us no compensation, 
For getting sucked down a black pit.

Now old men need colour 
To get rid of their grey 
"Bring me my ale lad!, you know not the trouble I've had" 
- he shouts at close of day.

But when the deep eyes roll 
The hand skinny but strong, 
Knows political wrong, 
And there's a city built on coal, 
But no reminder cut in stone 
To know the steepness of the hill, 
Or that now his boots hang in shadows still.

And the warmth still glows.

Look, look. 
Green bloody fields, that have grassed over pain and loss. 
His dreams are all of wheels turning, 
No need to ask who counts the cost.

But now it's no more sweat and tears 
'Cos the green and white's at half mast. 
They've covered up lies and glory, 
With supermarkets and food they call fast.

Six Bells rings out a silent chime, 
Now they've left us for pastures golder. 
This green revolution was once dying time, 
And the valleys they only grow colder.

But this man who is drawn, he still remains, 
So dip your dollared brushes and help your pilgrim grey. 
For without him you'd be colourless, 
And on your knees you'd stay.

But with a voice as deep as horses, 
And a vivid memory of hell 
He'll protect the little children, 
With the stories he will tell.

            E T Lewis 
            
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