The Knockshinnoch Mine Disaster
7th September 1950
We sit at home on wintry nights, our work and worries cease,
We settle down to read a book, in comfort and in peace.
We have our home, we have our wife, we have our heart desire,
Except for just one other thing, a comfortable fire.
Now when we put a fire on that would roast our very soul,
Do we ever wonder how they get that precious thing called coal?
Do we buy it in the shops, just like we buy a pound of cheese?
Do we find it in the streets, or does it grow upon the trees?
No my friends the stuff we’re burning, as we sit down by our hearth,
Is the stuff that’s dug by heroes from the bowels of the earth.
We see a miner in the street, his face and hands are black.
He’s dirty and bedraggled, so on him we turn our back.
Yes he’s dirty, but his heart and soul are spotless just the same.
If we only knew what he’d been through, we’d hang our heads in shame.
For a miner’s life’s a risky life, and of hardships and of pain,
He hopes and prays while at work to see his home again.
That they some time ago, a bunch of miners, healthy, fresh and fit
Went down the cage that took them to the bottom of the pit.
With their piece box and their tally, and their lamp upon their cap,
But they don’t know that they were walking right into a trap.
For they were struck that fateful day by poison gas and sludge.
They couldn’t raise a finger, they were trapped, they couldn’t budge.
They couldn’t move about down there, there wasn’t any room.
The air was bad, the roof was low, down in that living tomb.
But did they go hysterical, did they raise their voice and yell,
And bring down curses on this place that was their prison cell?
No, they just sat down and waited, said a prayer and sang a song,
And hoped the rescue party wouldn’t be so very long.
Well their patience was rewarded, for the rescue work was great,
And once again they saw their people standing by the gate.
With anxious faces and tear dimmed eyes, the women gathered round
To meet their sons and husbands who were lost and now were found.
More tears were shed that happy day, but they were tears of joy,
For a woman has her husband back and a mother has her boy.
But their happiness was not complete, their men were home it’s true,
But there were thirteen others who hadn’t broken through.
They were thirteen silent heroes, yes, they were heroes every one,
And although they were all known to us they were some poor mothers’ sons.
So let us not forget these thirteen silent men and brave,
Let’s say a little prayer for them as they lie in their graves.
God Bless Knockshinnoch’s Miner, though he be big or small in fact.
God Bless all miners – they are heroes one and all.
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