Big Geordie was a miner,
on those hacky black coal seams.
This working man, none finer,
held a pocket full of dreams.
This bloke enjoyed a smoke,and toyed,
with calling it a day.
But since a boy,he'd been employed,
and knew no other way.
Geordie stood atop the Pit shaft,
smoking rollies to the butt.
No smiles or ciggies after,
that steel gate had slammed tight shut.
With a Davy Lamp in one hand,
and his bait box in the other.
Descending deeper with a band,
of comrades,more like brothers.
The clanging and the shudder of,
that dull descending cage.
That brought good men from up above,
to earn a grafters wage.
The men would all fall silent as,
they knew what lay ahead.
Stretched longways swinging axes,
weighing heavier than lead.
Sharp contrast with the morning sun,
could not have been more stark.
It was anything but fun,
and was perpetually dark.
Big Geordie worked his socks off,
till his aching hands would bleed.
All this despite his barking cough,
(he'd hungry mouths to feed)
Shift at an end the lads ascend,
each one as black as crows
A quick smile for oncoming friends,
then hot baths and fresh clothes.
Year in year out,they'd show their clout,
fine fellows head to toe.
Then word came down around the town,
their jobs would have to go.
The Rising sun was all but done,
the Government called it time.
No longer would that pit still run,
onwards of sixty nine.
With work now hard to come by,
and Geordie feeling so betrayed.
He resolved to head for Cotgrave,
down there Nottinghamshire way.
A few of Geordie's comrades went,
and near the mines they settled.
All for a wage that payed the rent,
Big Geordie showed his mettle.
For fifteen years without a care,
a worker in his prime.
The black stuff of the highest grade,
came from that Cotgrave mine.
The work was hard ,the work was tough,
Big Geordie did his bit.
But even that was not enough,
they closed this thriving pit.
But not before those men so proud,
stood firmly for their rights.
With staunch support from all around,
they fought the gallant fight.
The papers used Psychology,
to gain the hearts and minds.
Did Thatcher get those army men,
to bash those picket lines?
Now Geordie and his black stuff kings,
lived life out on the dole.
As just like all the other things,
we imported our coal!!
Big Geordie was a mining man,
Until the day he died.
They took his pocket full for dreams,
but couldn't take his pride!!
Copyright James Bridgewood.