Daz Beattie's Poems.
Towers of Two Saints.
The tower of Saint Kevin built beside the two Loughs
Is it more precious than some later rocks?
Built skyward of industry in a more populous vale
The towers of power with a different tale
Built for another God of an alternate race
Purely to perform at a much greater pace?
Saint Kevin's to nurture and protect all mankind
Those of Saint Patrick to pump and to wind
To rob the riches of the valley's earth
Whilst playing a part in creating its dearth
Both to remain to the present day
As symbols of what? Can one really say?
Life and death belong to all of these towers
Which of them directed by the cruellest powers?
Where was the profit in Kevin's domain?
Who did Avoca's metals sustain?
Where was the love and true affection?
Do the graves of Macadam show a true reflection?
These towers all play a part in Wicklow fame
The holy one to the memory, the others the same
One viewed by many, Ballymurtagh's by few
A sharing of feelings may be long overdue
All have the beauty of ancient toilings
Only Avoca is left with the tailings and spoilings
The memory of miners now long since gone
Their smiles and goodwill still lingers with some
But many forgotten lay beneath the ground
Where their living and ending was to be found
God bless all the martyrs of Avoca and Crombane
Ballymurtagh and Tigrony I wish you the same
Daz Beattie
20th Sept 2002
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A TRIBUTE TO AVOCA MINERS
By Jimmy Smullen
Beneath this soil brave men did toil
Each day, each night, each year
Mid rocks and mud they sweated blood
Through stress and strain and fear.
The miners here had much to fear
Their families knew the strain
The stress was like a gamblers wage
With life at stake for gain.
Those women too so well we knew
Worked through the cold and rain
Their hands so sore from picking ore
No gloves to ease the pain.
There comes a time in every mine
Sad grief comes into view
Mick Crane was one who lost his life
Thank God there was but few
Terry McNamara from Arklow Town
Laid low whilst in his prime
And Andy Beattie from far off land
Was killed across the line
We lost Joe Scott beneath this spot
So young to leave this vale
Mose Hatton too so brave and true
Their memories here we hail
With trust and prayer in "Our Lady's" care
Many lives were spared each day
Her watchful eyes forever gaze
On us here, at home and away
As we reminiss of bygone years
And pray for those now gone
We know these days are passing fast
But memories still live on.
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Colours of Copper
On the edge of Tigrony an open wound now lies
A once hidden heart exposed to the skies
The veins once enclosed now opened wide
Left torn and bleeding until this mountain died
With a final gasp its secrets are gone
Its final treasures were stolen not won
What really was taken will never be known
From desperate greed desolation has grown
The leaf of the Maple left the craters behind
Long since gone but still in the mind
Of miner's widows and others who cared
A generation of thoughts that are rarely shared
Bridge of white amidst the ochre stained land
In a valley of green like an emblem so grand
The profits have gone but riches remain
Colours still with us now claiming the fame
From the depths of the valley the treasure is gone
But Avoca's true beauty will ever go on
Soaring falcons replace the circling vulture
Birds of prey but of a far higher culture
The noise and dust now so long since left
The blasting and hammering within the cleft
All gone but for the holes in rocks and hearts
Lifetimes of toil exchanged for far easier starts
A wooden symbol now guards over with care
The two mountainsides laid waste and left bare
Nothing to give at the cost of more lives
No worn out miners and no worried wives
The valley lies tranquil now fully at ease
Just as its waters are mingled in peace
Daz Beattie
3rd October 2002
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Mining Circles
Started in the pit when just a lad
Followed the clogs of my old dad
Loading timber up on top
Ear hole clipped if we tried to stop
When I get coaling in the stalls
Coming back to kick his balls
I didn’t know then about his time
Worked forever at the mine
Buried twice nearly burnt alive
Now teaching skills needed to survive
When as a collier I faced the coal
I realised it had been his only goal
Toughened us up to brave the pain
He knew we’d suffer again and again
Went underground to learn the ropes
That pulled tubs up and darn slopes
Learnt to locker and how to lash
Months dragged by, wish they’d dash
Needed to get to work the coal
To earn the money off a yard high hole
Bored with waiting to use the drill
To stem the holes with Penobel pills
To feel the blast and then taste the dust
To wait for the deputy if I must
Check for misfires and dangerous ground
Shouts us in when nothing found
Set some props and start to slush
Youthful effort won’t control the rush
Worked with men both young and old
Listened to stories as they were told
Heard of days before the electric lamp
Of the butty system and the mottie stamp
When times were hard and the work was rough
But men were made of sterner stuff
Had to listen to youthful bragging
Never praising always slagging
Pints being supped and women loved
How into marriage all were shoved
Over time I slowly knew
That some of these came from me too
Growing old within this hole
Just like a fossil embedded in coal
Fifteen years of resented alteration
Sees us now with mechanisation
Cutter loaders exchanged for muscle
Reduced the effort of a collier’s tussle
Increased production quickly climbing
But the number of pits is now declining
Men who once toiled in sweat and blood
Told it’s now never been so good
Not knowing futures were on hold
Believed just what they were being told
A plot was hatching behind the scenes
Driven by gas and nuclear schemes
An industry doomed by a new beginning
A victim of it’s own upbringing
For a few more years I plodded on
Nice and steady couldn’t go wrong
When lump of stone chose its time to slip
As I went under the ripping lip
Smashed my shoulder and knocked me flat
No hope of face work after that
Eight months later and back to work
Interviewed by the manger and his clerk
You can’t go back to face work lad
Suppose that really I should’ve been glad
But for twenty-five years it’s all I’d known
As a part of me it had slowly grown
The manager suggested a job in the baths
I prayed that there’d be alternate paths
Not quite a cripple but not grade one
I needed a proper job to carry on
The clerk suggested an alternate way
Seemed a good idea and saved the day
The manager agreed and signed me on
Saying try it lad and good luck son
Called me son and called me lad
Did he think he was my dad?
Started Monday feeling out of place
Timber yard, it wasn’t the face
I walked across and inspected the lads
Looked at faces and saw their dads
Lets get one thing straight and clear
Anybody messes and I’ll clip his ear
Daz Beattie
8th October 2002
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From Light to Dark (As in Humour)
It’s so hard to see
Just who could be?
More tired than two
Electricians who
Spend all their time
Whilst down the mine
Bridging and shorting
Some times sporting
The badge of lines
Caused by Angling Times
Being slowly read
Whilst laid upon a trannie a bed
You can’t get thicker
Than a thick pit fitter
So goes the pretence of response
We have a fitter I’ve seen him once
Laid in the gate he was ready for action
It would take a fire to gain reaction
To oil the cutter
Would make him stutter
To use a spanner for eighteen bob
Hardly seems worth the sodding job
“It wain’t haul at all” a plaintiff’s scream
The fitter wakes up from a gentle dream
Working hard beneath the ground
Bonny miners not often found
But of these, rippers are the best
Most have smiles just like their vest
Missing molars often gained
Dodging threats of becoming maimed
Sometimes stone in huge great lumps
Often though from wifely thumps
Hollow packs are their best sport
For the deputy a swift retort
If he should try to once condemn
Their building of a kiddie’s den
A deputy’s job is hard to figure
Gains a helmet two sizes bigger
What he does can best be classed
As stopping us all from being gassed
Struts around and flaunts his lamp
Searching for the shadowy damp
Fires the shot and makes the bang
Thinks he’s a leader of the gang
As a filler he weren’t that good
Studied at college as best he could
The rag and bone man who gave him the start
Swapped him a ticket for rags on a cart
The winder is loved by one and all
He controls the rise and fall
Of Mondays’ start in slow intention
Friday’s release from mass detention
Lord of the manor sitting there
Almost a throne his plastic chair
Pulls the knobs and pedals the brake
So many lives are then at stake
Safety first his best intention
Loves before him the steam invention
Master of the many horses
Almost lost in mystical forces
Managers come and managers go
Some are quick yet others slow
Clever men they all must be
But in fairness all can see
These men are paid to take the blame
For falls of roof or naked flame
The Mines and Quarries has a lot to answer
Who blames the piper and not the dancer?
Some are Gods and others are teachers
Without religion they all are preachers
Not a job that I would take
Swapping morals for money to make
An onsetter is made of sterner stuff
Not in a position to take the snuff
Blown away before it reaches
From his hand to nasal breaches
In the wind he would normally stand
A tower of power controller so grand
“Get back narr it’s not time yit”
Famous words from the clever Git
These are the men you do not cross
These are the guys who are really the boss
Controllers of exit and early ride
Can choose the players for Saturday’s side
Hewer’s jobs have long since gone
But does his spirit still carry on?
Shovels today are rarely found
Used in anger underground
A bit of cleaning now and again
Housework really, no need for men
Blokes of thirty who used to fill
Sixteen ton with magical skill
By clattering monsters were replaced
Now sit on benches as if disgraced
Proud men once with arms of steel
Cast off victims of politician’s zeal
All these were roles now rarely played
Not many coalmines could be saved
A vicious lady in a witch’s hat
Conniving and plotting saw to that
The way it happened didn’t leave a doubt
The sword was swung with a vengeful clout
A woman scorned as if from hell
Had a foreign henchmen toll the bell
Gentler ways should have been applied
A slow contraction was never tried
With throat slashed open in the final throe
They died in agony no one else could know
Daz Beattie
7th October 2002
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A Miner's Worth
The cold light of day or the glow of the moon
A change of season be it April or June
Thunder and lightening or blowing a gale
A flickering fireside relating a tale
Sunlight and starlight, a sunset's glow
Don't mean a lot when you're far below
The dark is forever far under the ground
Nature's lights will never be found
A mine is a mine wherever you are
In the homeland of England or distant and far
And miners are miners whatever their race
In the pit bottom or up at the face
The jobs are related the dangers alike
Just waiting for nature to take the strike
Women at home not knowing when
The mines would steal a husband from them
Languages alter but the toil's the same
Plenty of heartache and little fame
When miners are killed there's many a sigh
From government leaders sat up high
Ask for fair pay or threaten action
Against closures or other vindictive reactions
Watch now their faces full of disgust
Two faces of politics we have paid to trust
The true cost of coal, copper, lead, silver and gold
Has never been written, will never be told
Lives, bodies and hearts have all been broken
Not even listed or given a token
Taken for granted that fuel and glamour
Are presented to them without even a stammer
The sweat and the blood shed in lifting these things
Mean nothing but comfort and vane beauty gold brings
Did greed bring mining or mining the greed?
It did create miners as a different breed
Be they Polish or German or in colonial lands
Miners are brothers with one show of hands
Suffering the blows of politics and wealth
As well as nature with its cruel stealth
Seemingly devised to cause hardship and suffering
The miner between used as human buffering
Daz Beattie
5th October 2002
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Tempus Bloody Fugits
Monday bloody morning, shaft side again
Setday and Sunday weer hev they gone
Happy as Larry on Setday neet
Same team here but not fit to meet
In the club all smiles and clean
Here on Monday all scowls and mean
Five sodding shifts left
Stood here like lemmings abart to jump
Nine hundred yards straight darnn ter sump
Hope that winder feels better than us
Not like the t**t that drove the bus
Ice and snow he just dint care
As long as he got arr tanner fare
I hate chuffing Mondays
Darn the shaft Mondays stink the same
Start of grafting, end of a game
Stale and wet like a cellar stinking
Friday's different, sets yer thinking
Glad to breath it Friday mornin
Last shifts here and pay queues forming
What happened to Friday?
Daz Beattie
5th October 2002
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THE CELEBRATED WORKINGMAN
(Ed Foley)
I'm a celebrated workingman, my duties I don't shirk
I can cut more coal than any man from Pittsburgh to New York
It's a holy terrogation, boys, how I get through my work
While I'm seated at my glory in the barroom.
I can stand a set of timber, post, and bar or single prop.
I can throw a chain on the bottom or I can throw it up on top.
Oh, give me a pair of engines and be jeepers I'II not stop,
Till I land me triple wagons through the barroom.
I'II go down and work upon the platform or go out and run the dump.
I can put in pulleys on the slope or go down and clean the sump,
I can run a 20,000 horsepower steam engine pump-
That's providing that I have it in the barroom.
I'll go down and work the flat vein; I'II go up and work the pitch
I can work at the Potts or Newside I don't care the devil which
I can show the old track layer how to decorate the ditch
Now haven't I often proved it in the barroom?
Now at driving I'm a daisy; just give me a balky team,
When I'II beat the spots off an evening run, be it water, wind or steam,
With your balance plates, and endless chains; they're nowhere to be seen,
When I pull me trip of wagons through the barroom.
Now at bossing I'm a daisy, and I know I'm no disgrace,
For I could raise your wages, boys, just twelve cents up the last
Now didn't the Reading Company miss me when they didn't make their haste, 0
And capture me, before I struck the barroom.
I can show the boss or super how the air should circulate,
I can show the boss fireman how the steam should generate;
Now the trouble at the Pottsville shaft, sure I could elucidate
Now haven't I often proved it in the barroom?
And now my song is o'er and I haven't any other,
For heaven's sake don't fire no more or else we'll surely smother
The landlord would rather throw us out than go to the bother
Of putting up a ventilator in the barroom.
And now my song is ended and I hope you'll all agree,
That if you want any pointers you'd better send for me,
But I'm not worth a good gol darn till I empty two or three
Of the very biggest schooners in the barroom.
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Read the Poems of the Late Harry Fokinther on Neil Bridgewaters wonderful web site.
Harry Fokinther Poems.
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