Mining Poetry

A number of poems describing elements of the Scottish coal industry at the end of the 19th century.

Posted at the request of Mason Cogin - the comments below are his -

Joe Corrie, a Welsh Scot, was a word smith of extrodinary talent.   His fine
Scottish accent is woven into the rhyme and meter of his work like the woof
and warf of well made kilt.   As a miner, I am impressed that much of his
poetry is still good after a century of technical and social change.   Like
this one.  

CAGE LOAD OF MEN

Just like a truck load of cattle, 
	Sixteen crushed on at a time, 
The yawning abyss beneath them, 
	Awaiting the bottomer’s chime,
To leave all the glories of nature,
	And toil in the muck and the grime.

Hard-handed stalwarts of labour,
	Nutured to grin and to bear,
Seldom a thought of the danger
	That haunts every corner down there,
Praying to Christ it was  shift change
	But not in the language of prayer.

Nipper so proud to be working, 
	Grandad with hair like the snow,
One with eyes on the heavens, 
	One with his eyes on below,
Free to stay up if they wish it,
	But hunger, ah! both of them know,

One with the cares of the household,
	Weary and sick of it all,
The best of his years he was given,
	And now with his back to the wall.
Haunted with fears of the future, 
	Dreading how far he will fall. 

Clang! goes the bottomer’s signal,
	Down, strangely silent, they go, 
In comes another mixed cageload,
	Each with a number to show,
Cogs in the wheel of production
	Grinding so sure and so slow.  
		Joe Corrie    cir. 1890
or this one

IT’S FINE TAE KEEP IN WI’ THE GAFFER.

For mony a year I ha’e worked doon alow,
But never in pits that are wet or are low,
For I mak’ it my business wherever I go,
	Aye tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
	Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.

I wasna’ lang started till plain I could see
That some had it easy, as easy could be;
So I tocht tae mysel’ that the best thing for me
	Was tae try and keep in wi’ the gaffer.
	Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.

My boss at the time was Mason, ye ken,
So I went tae the bank for my seven pounds ten, 
And bravely I bearded the goat in its den, 
	A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
	Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.

The next ane tae come was a musical hand,
He stood in the middle and waggled the wand;
So I learned the cornet and played in his band,
	A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
	Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.

The next was a cratur o’ different stamp, 
A high heid cadet in the Salvation camp;
So I got him tae save me and carried the lamp,
	A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
	Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.





The next was a punter -- a horse racin’ man
So I bocht the Noon Record and followed his  plan;
And I finished it up wi’ my shirt in the pawn,
	A’ tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.
	Oh! it’s fine tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.

Tae the lad wi’ ambition I gi’e this advice,
Nae maitter wha says, tae the gaffer be nice;
Jist work tae his orders and never think twice,
	For it pays tae keep in wi’ the gaffer.

Corrie, Joe, The Image O’ God and other Poems, The Forward Publishing Co.,
Lote., 26 Brown Street, Port-Dundas, Glasgow 188?

This one shows Corrie's humor.

THE IMAGE O’GOD

Crawlin’ aboot like a snail in the mud,
	Covered wi’ clammy blae,
Me, made after the image o’ God--
	Jings! but it’s a laughable tale. 

Howkin’ awa’ ‘neath a mountain o’ stane,
	Gaspin’ for want o’ air,
The sweat makin’ streams doon my bare back-bane,
	And my knees a’ haucket and sair.

Strainin’ and cursin’ the hale shift thro’,
	Half starved, half blin’, half mad;
And the gaffer he says, Less dirt from you,
	Or you go up the pit, my lad!

So I give my life to the graveyard shift
	For eight-and four a day,
Me, made after the image o’ God--
	Jings! but it’s a laughable tale.  

Corrie, Joe, The Image O’ God and other Poems, The Forward PuUse of uninitialized value in concatenation (.) or string at E:\listplex\SYSTEM\SCRIPTS\filearea.cgi line 455,  line 274.
blishing Co.,
Lote., 26 Brown Street, Port-Dundas, Glasgow 188-?

A poem written by one of the list members whilst working in the English coal industry.

The Park Hall Paddy Train 

(Park Hall Colliery, Longton, Staffordshire, lay near the edge of the 
coalfield, where the seams were quite steeply inclined. We were driving a 
cross-measure transfer raise at an angle of sixty degrees. This is how we got 
to our place of work.) 

First, down the shaft, through the inset gate, 
Now down a dip at one-in-eight, 
Left round the corner, through the door - 
Whatever next can be in store? 
Why yes, we must go down still more - 
A thousand yards at one-in four! 

The best of men would surely balk 
If he down such a dip must walk, 
But we need not to walk decide 
For fortunately we can ride - 
We can ride down (and up again!) 
In a rumbling, trundling Paddy Train. 

Eight wagons, each four men to hold 
(Eight fours, that's thirty-two all told), 
Eight wagons, simple in design - 
The crack express of the West Dip line! 
The wagons just have ends and floor, 
And really there's no need for more. 

All ready now? Then let's jump on - 
We'll soon to our place of work be gone. 
No seats adorn the wagons, so 
We must lie down, as the roof is low. 
Now everybody's safe aboard, 
Reach up and pull the signal cord - 
Pull at it hard, and pull it well, 
Or it won't actuate the bell. 
 The signal? Sorry, thought you knew - 
Pull first an eight and then a two. 
The engineman has heard the sound, 
Takes off his brakes and the drum goes round
Steadily paying out the rope 
In which we put our trust and hope. 

Down dip we rattle, and our lights 
Show to our eyes some wondrous sights. 
This roof has no support at all, 
The next is arched to save a fall. 
Here, twisted arches, broken boards 
Good evidence of "weight" affords 
And shows there's pressure here about - 
Hey! Mind that jutting board! Look out! 

The pressure here has raised the floor - 
It has disturbed the track, what's more: 
At first a bit to the left we cant 
And then we twist to a right-hand slant, 
But ever and always depth we gain 
By rattling down in the Paddy Train. 

The grade will sometimes play strange tricks - 
Slacken a while to one in six, 
Then o'er the brink we go, and we 
Plunge on down at one-in-three, 
Until we slacken off once more 
To the gentler grade of one-in-four. 
(The coal, of course, determined grade, 
As this road in the seam was made). 

The driver our position knows 
(An indicator arrow goes 
Around, and our location shows). 
He clamps the brakes, the train now slows 
Until, its journey done, we stop 
And quickly from the wagons hop 
For, though our ride is at an end 
We must still more on foot descend.  -- Tony Brewis, 1955