Every Valley

The sun rose first on the dead and on the sleeping On the ruins of Victorian iron works On the terraced roofs of the miners On the weekday pubs, and the Sunday chapels And on the grimy, frowny hills Every little boy's ambition in my valley was to become a miner There was the arrogant strut of the lords of the coal face One could stand on street corners and look at the posh people pass with hostile eyes Insulting were these cold looks, because they were the kings of the underworld --- Every Valley - Public Service Broadcasting