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From the mining towns of Lancashire
And the valleys of South Wales.
There comes a race of heroes
Who have lived their torrid tales.
On roadways running red with blood,
In the cauldron of the mines.
They fight against the torrent,
And drink the dead men's wine. |
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He sits in torture from the past,
Gasping for his air.
The remnant of a hero,
In chains, sat in the chair.
His vision full of broken limbs
And gaping wounds that steam.
With the smell of death around him,
From the dead men in his dreams. |
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Now he prowls the village,
With a sad and tortured soul.
Lost inside the labyrinth
From where he dug the coal.
A hero from the coalfields
Pining for his mate
Who has fallen in the battle,
Where too many met their fate. |
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Still almost indispensable
A low paid working slave.
Men without ambition
Yet the bravest of the brave.
He gives his country everything
From youth to his old age.
Now he's waiting for the winder,
As slowly, lifts the cage. |
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