K:
W:ch
W:Oh the collier lad he's a canny lad,
W:Ans he's always of good cheer,
W:And he knaas how t' work, and he knaas how t' shirk,
W:And he knaas how t' sup good beer.
W:
W:1
W:Well it's down the shaft on a Monday morn and the kavils it's the best,
W:In the Burstin' Seam wi' Thompson's team in a flat called the fourteenth west.
W:Now the face is a hundred and five yards lang when measured from nook te nook,
W:And when crawlin' o'er the scuttlin's lads, keep doon or your sure t' get stuck.
W:
W:2
W:Well the shots gan off and the shuttles they fly till the belt gets loaded full,
W:Till in half an hoor a lump gans on and the motor will not pull;
W:"Brokken belt", is the cry and we all crawled out till the mother gets it a mend,
W:Geordie Haal, he's the deppity in wor flat, says, "Ye'll drive us roond the bend".
W:
W:3
W:So we pull and we strain for t' fix it again, and when it's been put straight,
W:Tim Jones, that's the secretary of wor lodge, says, "It's time that ye had wor bait".
W:So we tyek ourselves t' a quiet spot, with a plank and a chock for a seat,
W:And the crack, at last, flies thick and fast at the do'in's at the club last meet.
W:
W:4
W:But it's very hard when you're paid by the yard for t' tek lang all your bait,
W:So we crawl back on, get some timberin' done, for the belts that can hardly wait.
W:For it's twenty-six inches high, me lads, and the work is really grand,
W:And the filler's pay, four quid a day, it's the best in all the land.