I worked at Pyehill Colliery,

For nearly twenty years.

Swallowed my share of coal dust,

And also have known many fears.

The type of men who work in a mine,

Are loyal, steadfast and true…

For you come to rely on each other,

In most of the jobs that you do.

I worked in the ripping for quite a while,

And shovelled to build up the pack.

The sweat was pouring from my brow,

As well as down my back.

But this was my chosen profession,

While I strived to reach my goal.

I did it because I wanted to…

For the money, and the coal.

Then in the year of Nineteen Eighty,

I had to finish with the pit.

My health had let me down,

And my lungs were full of grit.

The headstocks that were Pyehill Pit,

Are gone forever now.

No more will working miners,

Wipe the sweat from off their brow.

I pay tribute to these miners,

Who worked there ‘till the end…

And most who are retired,

As they, their pensions spend.

So I pay my final tribute,

Now they take a well earned rest,

And truly thank these mates of mine,

For they were the very best.

Though many now are past and gone,

I thought the world of every one.

By  Bill Kitson