Silent I stand and look around, the gentle slopes are green.
Deep within my mind I see where the coal mine once had been.
The years roll back I hear the sound of winding engine’s steam.
I see the pulleys turning on the headgear in my dream.

Flat cap men, oil lamps in hand, ride crouched in every cage.
From fourteen years to sixty-five, men of every age.
There are sons and fathers, granddads too, like sheep within a fold.
They spend their lives in darkness to dig for coal; black gold.

The pit means more to these brave men than just a place of strife.
This is their very being and mining is their life.
As if they are God’s chosen ones destined to bick and toil.
To turn the wheel of industry, from deep within the soil.

The times were hard but happy, the character shone through.
The mine is one big family, with disagreements few.
Accidents were commonplace, whenever a miner died,
The sorrow spread throughout the town and everybody cried.

Those days are gone and men forget the sacrifices made.
The debt we owe to each of them, as some their lives they laid.
Broken bones, shattered limbs, lungs solid with the dust.
As if the earth took its revenge for digging up its crust.

But as I sit hear some may say “thank God those days are gone”.
I say God bless the miners. I’m proud that I was one.
Let’s not forget them on these fields where children play and laugh.

Erect a monument to them. Enscribe an epitaph.
Beneath this ground toiled human worms, gave all they had to give.
To help to make this country great and improve the way we live.

Greatest treat when we wus kids was fer’t go ter’t Sutton Bug,
When’t cares of lyfe was cast aside an’ everthin’ seemed good,
Each wik we was treated ter spectacles as ‘uman eyes n’er saw,
Of romance, luv an’ adventure, of ‘eroes an’ villuns annor.

There wus Tom Mix, Bill Cody, Ken Maynard, Biggles an’ Tarzan as well,
An girls wi’ eyes lyke saucers, who knew aht treat their men well.
Er course it wusn’t aw serious, tho every wik saw a narrer escape,
As somebody geet tyde ter’t railway lyne, er a sailing ship tugglin rahnt Cape!

There wus plenty er funny’s too, ah recall, lyke Ben Turpin’ an’ Chaplin er ‘Ope,
Not fert mention Bing Crosby an’ Lamour; an’ Charlie Chan, chasin’ smugglers wi’t dope!
But even them wusn’t aw’t pictures we saw as wi paid ower pennies thro’t grill.

Fer sometymes we geet edukated abaht religion, lyke battles wi’t Christian fot Pope!
Nah one such occasion was Crucifixion, which most of us knew fer’t be true.
As Jesus, wi ‘is cross on is showders, staggered as he climbed a steep brew.
One Saturday owd Mrs. Dyas, ooh alus went ter’t kids’ matinee
Tuk er seat in’t front row as usual, wi’ a jug er staht on ‘er knee.

Nah, whether it wus faith or ‘er bottle, wi couldn’t quyte make aht,
But sight of Our Lord bein’ ill-treated, compelled poor woman fer’t shaht aht,
An lurchin’ unsteady to ‘er feet, ahf chocked it seemed wi despair,
She chucked er beer mug at Pilate, near causin’ screen fer’t tear!

“Leave lad alone.” she cried, wi awt thinstinks of a lovin mother,
“Tha wouldn’t der tha if I wus theer, tha rotten little b-----!”
Picture awse wus in uproar, as they tried fert quihten ‘er dayhn,
Tears rowlin dahn ‘er oller cheeks at sight of er Master in payn.
Burr at last they managed fert cahm ‘er, wi thay’d of a bottle er staht,
An she sat theer singin awt hymns to ‘ersell, till at last it were tyme fert go aht!

A story I will tell you of the folks of Pudding Bag,
They were not folks to grumble, nor were they folks to brag,
They were railwaymen and women, borne to serve the iron-road,
They worked both long and cheerfully whilst bearing life's hard load,
They lived close by the railways which enclosed their village space,
Sounds of shunting and of whistles were a feature of the place,
The gradient of the railway on the Wigan - Widnes run,
Was hard for locomotives and for drivers was no fun.

At Sutton Oak, long coal trains were by a second engine pushed,
But still the haul was long and slow, it never could be rushed,
In the dark, when trains were toiling up the long, long weary hill,
The bonny lads of Pudding Bag would board it at their will,
Then from the loaded wagons, to the side of the metal road,
The lads would throw some of the coal, just a fraction of the load,
Other trains would pass beside, the lads would take enough,
To keep the village well supplied with tea and flour and such-like stuff.

All in all, in Pudding Bag, folks lived quite middling fair,
It was a place of peace and plenty, folks were happy there.
They were sort of modern Robin Hoods, though in motive not so pure,
They robbed the rich, one may well say, to stop themselves being poor.

But now that railway is not used; the houses are knocked down,
The folks who lived in Pudding Bag are spread throughout the town,
But the story of their exploits is a classic of our age,
It tells how people used their wits, to help out their meagre wage.

Greetings to you Old Sutton Town
The place where I was born,
Where first of all my childish eyes
First saw the golden dawn.

Changes I have seen in Old Sutton Town
Since that fair September day
And heads that once were black and brown
Have meanwhile turned to grey.

Many happy years I did enjoy
At old Sutton National School
Masters have gone I knew as a boy,
Who taught us the Golden Rule.

Courtesy, discipline held firm in daily life
Vulgarity, ignorance is the latter day phase
Trampled with Jack Boot and present day strife
To crush finer feelings of bygone days.

Looking down the years, lives are only short stays
It seems our days are only lent
Both happy and content I am to end all my days
Where my old boyhood in Sutton were spent.

Perchance someone, someday in later years
Is reading these lines with a smile not a frown
Do not dwell on my absence and shed any tears
But think of me, content in Old Sutton Town.

They went to work and spent their time
Working hard deep down the mine
In parts of Sutton where I used to play.

I’d see them walking down our street
With caps on their head and clogs on their feet
The clothes they wore had all seen better days

Now they said these men are some of those
Who walk around in ragged clothes
But mine folk didn’t care much anyway
These men just walked in caps and clogs
With a smile on their face and worn out togs
And that, my friend, was just the way they’d stay

They were mining men with their matching caps and clogs
They passed us kids on the corner of the street
With our cats and dogs
They would take their snap and wait, outside the colliery gate
With other mining men with matching caps and clogs.

The end of the day with coal black skin
We’d follow and call after him
To come on down and show your old flat cap
We said tell us about your ways
And all about your mining days
Is it true you’re just an ordinary chap

And they were mining men with matching caps and clogs
They passed kids on the corner of the street with their cats and dogs
Now he takes his snap and waits
Outside the colliery gates
For other mining men with matching caps and clogs.

Now his lamp is hung up on the wall
Amongst the greatest of them all
And even Mona Lisa takes a bow

This tired old man with hair like snow
Told mining friends ‘It’s time to go’
The pneumo came and the good Lord mopped his brow

And they were mining men with matching caps and clogs
They passed kids on the corner of the street with their cats and dogs
Now he takes his snap and waits
Outside the colliery gates
For other mining men with matching caps and clogs.

And he left the mining men with matching caps and clogs
He left us kids on the corner of the street
With our cats and dogs

Then he took his lamp and waits
Outside the pearly gates
With mining men in matching caps and clogs.

And he left the mining men with matching caps and clogs
He left us kids on the corner of the street
With our cats and dogs

Then he took his lamp and waits
Outside the pearly gates
For mining men in matching caps and clogs.

And he left the mining men with matching caps and clogs
He left us kids on the corner of the street
With our cats and dogs

Then he took his lamp and waits
Outside the pearly gates
For mining men in matching caps and clogs.

These men just walked in caps and clogs
With a smile on their face
And worn out togs
And that was just the way they’d always stay.

Like the bell of St. Anne’s ringing out good and true,
So the contents of my poem may interest you.
True facts from the past I bring you forthwith
About a true man of Sutton, his name, John Smith.

1792 in Viterbo to Sutton, St. Anne’s great delight,
Dominic Barberi was born and saw his first light.
1794, two years later was John Smith’s year of birth,
Two wonderful men, both of outstanding worth.

Now these two great men, born of older times,
The one saviour of souls, the other builder of railway lines.
They were chosen by fate each other to meet,
To create church and monastery called St. Anne’s retreat.

With generosity abounding on a scale ever so grand,
1850 John Smith built church and gave of his land.
A benefactor of Sutton, held in most high esteem,
A man of true religion, of railway and power of steam.

St. Anne’s Villa to live, he built on this ground,
No trace of it left, can now not be found.
It was followed by Glynns, who farmed the land,
But in 1950, St. Anne’s Junior School was built and planned.

So now Sutton’s young ones come to enjoy this lovely school,
And partake of education with pen, pencil and rule.
And to read my poem, tis all truth, not a myth,
About St. Anne’s Dominic Barberi and benefactor John Smith.

Wot ‘appened to thee owd aincient Moss,
Tha’ wert warm and covered wi flowers so gay,
Wen’t slag covered thee, wi all felt thi loss,
Tha wert brown an now thar left drab and grey.

Gone was the white and purple heather,
Gone was the birds of every feather,
And paths caressed with thousands of feet,
A crime agen nature, it was owt but reet.

We know that scars weer turf was took,
They run from Bold to thowd Moss Nook,
But many a wom tha kept reet warm,
From wintry blasts that spelt us harm.

Us childer, owd Moss, thad welcome us there,
To jump thi wide ditches for croddy, or dare,
An run carefree across thi ample breast,
An lie close on’t thowd mound for grateful rest.

An in’t far corner reet opposite Moss Farm,
Hives nestled there we’at bees did swarm,
Busy they were, working all’t hours,
To and fro o’ert Moss visiting thowd Moss flowers.

Tha luct lifeless an cowd and grey was landscape,
National Coal Board was responsible for this sad rape.
Tha lay lark this for nigh on twenty years,
Wot could one do, only shed silent tears.

But then came two lasses, environmental rich,
One named Janet Sparrow, thi other Olive Romich,
And behind these two giving of its utmost
Was the grand operation of Ground Work Trust.

So awaken owd Moss from a score years of sleep,
A full circle as turned, now new flowers will peep,
And thi paths will appear where grasses brush thi knee,
And bird song will be heard and the humming of the bee.

So now aincient Moss, tha con live once again,
Wi seeds sown to grow, under sunshine an rain,
Thar’t grateful to all who took such a measure,
Thal bring forth to young and old most wonderful pleasure.

I was not born with a silver spoon,
When I was but a Sutton lad,
But my heart was warm as a day in June,
And so wealth untold I had.

We had the wonders of our street,
What wonders, the pavement did hold,
Top and whip and hopscotch at our feet,
And gutters where our marbles rolled.

Our tastes so simple and happy our play,
Belt horses and trundles we enjoyed to the full,
Ducky stones an piggy they all made our day,
Boredom was unheard of, our childhood never dull.

When daylight was chased by oncoming night,
The guessing game was ours, at the old corner shop,
Shop window and kind gas lamp provided our light,
Till bedtime beckoned and our games had to stop.

T’was Friday bath night, alas! One remembers,
From yard walls and nails came faithful old bath tins,
At front of coal fire and its cleansing embers
Lifebouy and loofah cleansed us like new pins.

And donkey stoned steps at every front door,
Our mothers did toil to make street look best,
Spars from our clogs as they met flagstone floor,
And Clogger Rothwells Irons were put to the test.

Time marches on but nostalgia returns,
The bobby on beat that someone called a clop,
At Ashtons, the Smith, smell of horse shoes that burns,
Smell of leather and tanning at old Cloggers shop.

I hear the street vendors and voices from the past,
Line props, rag bone and tubs to be mend,
Bring jugs for your milk, shrills the milk whistle blast,
“Scissors and knives to grind” was that long ago trend.

The Show Field is deserted and stands so forlorn,
For wild beast show and circus in vain you may look,
The roar of lion and tiger at the coming of dawn,
The walk of the elephant to our Sutton Brook.

The appetising smell of home baked fresh bread,
Jack Sharps in a jam jar we caught in the stream,
Remember Jinny Green Teeth that filled us with dread?
That’s just as it was, not just a dream.

When I was just a lad
Of 16 years old
I’d leave for work at six
And cycle off to Bold.

With six rounds of bread and butter
And tomato cut quite thin
Wrapped up in grease proof paper
And placed within a tin.

Bold was a thriving colliery
In the fifties way back then
Producing lots of coal
With fifteen hundred men.

I would don my belt and helmet
Tie my safety boots to fit
Get my lamp and tally
And head off to the pit.

Going half a mile straight down
In the cage, that was not all
A mile and half to ride
Another mile to walk and crawl.

No time to get my breath back
No time to sit and shirk
We ha got our orders
And so straight down to work.

Another two hour travel
At the end of the shift
We then had to wait our turn
For the ride up in the lift.

A rapid shower, a change of clothes
Then the part that I dislike
Push my weary body
To pedal home by bike.

To Government and councillors
I’ve one thing to make clear
The recycling of waste
Is not a new idea.

Brought up in the fifties
No need to separate tins
Sort newspapers and cardboard
In to multi-coloured bins.

We used the daily paper
Beneath the carpet on the floor
For the lighting of the fire
Or behind the toilet door.

We would give them to the chip shop
To wrap the chips up tight
If we some string and canes
We would build ourselves a kite.

We had no plastic bottles
No bags of polythene
We did as we thought right
Not just because it was green.

All bottles were returned
To the pop man or local inn
Or recycled by the milkman
Not thrown into a bin.

Mothers went out shopping
Almost every day
Food was always fresh
None was thrown away.

The main meal of the week
Was eaten on a Sunday
Any food left over
Was re-heated on the Monday.

Clothes made into rugs
If they couldn’t be repaired
Not new clothes every year
That would be absurd.

No sell by dates, no best before
No foodstuffs packed with ‘E’s’
All food was eaten while still fresh
We had no place to freeze.

Old shoes went on the fire
To keep the family warm
Peelings kept for animals
Went to the local farm.

We were conscientious
And acted with sobriety
As we were not brought up
In a throw away society.

I remember old St Helens
I often look back through the years
To a town centre smelling of hops
When Greenall’s were brewing their beer.

To Lionel Swift and Pimbletts
Making pies to feed a nation
In town the home of Beechams Pills
For relieving constipation

Within the throng of workers
Black faces could be seen
From Ravenhead and Bold
Sutton Manor or Lea Green

Though industries spread throughout the town
One stood out with class
It had the name of Pilkington
World leader making glass

St Helens was well known
World famous for it’s glass
UG, Rockware and the rest
One by one I’ve seen them pass

Workers in their thousands
Would be seen without a fuss
Riding home from work on bikes
Or on a trolley bus.

When dads and sons went off to war
To keep the home fires burning
Wives and mothers worked at Pilks
To keep wheels a turning.

People didn’t have much money
But what they had was pride.
If you went round a calling
They would welcome you inside.

The local shops were thriving
The Co-op is where they’d spend
Then queue up every quarter
To collect their dividend.

When I was very small
Awakened from my slumber
The first thing I was taught
Was my Mother’s ‘divi’ number

I remember many cinemas
Like the Riv, Savoy and hippodrome
Oxford, Scala, Sutton Empire
Parr Dog and Haydock Picturedrome

I return back in the present
Is this our proud town’s fate?
Whatever happened here?
I fear we are too late.

I fear for what I’m seeing
What became of my old town?
Pits and factories gone
Pubs and shops shut down.

We shut our market down
While other markets thrive
They make a place exciting
And bring their town alive

Where have all the big shops gone
They are nowhere around
Where in St Helens is there
To spend more than a pound?

As the town entered slow decline
Went with it the local wealth
Athough the town still exists
It’s a shadow of itself.

He fought for his country, he answered duty’s call;
His friends, his home, his comforts, he sacrificed them all.
We would not call him back again to warfare and to strife;
God called him, and to him He gives a glorious crown of life.
Some day we hope to meet him,
Some day, we know not when;
To clasp his hand in the Better Land,
Never to part again.

By the stream’s bank I sat on a stone,
Somehow dreams come more easily when you are alone.
As I pondered, into the water I tossed a pebble,
Watched the ripple of rings grow bigger from the middle.

And as they grew, the fainter they became,
The water then undisturbed went placid again.
I thought of days of long long ago, at this spot,
Twas the same, yet somehow had changed a lot.

It did not seem as large or even as deep,
As when as kids, we’d fished for tiddlers in bare feet.
And I could see every face in my mind’s eye pass,
So carefree, laughing, rolling in the wild lush grass.

The capers and games we used to play and do,
It’s so long ago now, did I imagine it or was it true?
Then I thought, where are they now, and so,
I murmured names. Dick, Tom, Walter, George and Joe.

With some nick names. Nert, Bobbin, Chalky, Nobbie and Moe,
As we had grown older we had drifted further away.
Some never again to meet, returned to clay,
And a sense of sadness on me seemed to descend.

My life is short, am I near the end?
Yet I felt no fear or dread of what was to come.
Life goes on till the race is run.
Rising, I climbed the bank and strolled along.

And found myself humming an old sweet song.
Across the field to the gate, up that wooded lane.
Would this live forever, would it always be the same?
This beauty, this panorama of loveliness which God created and did bless.

Drift Dreamboat Drift, down this river of delight, recalling pleasures, scenes of delight.
Banks covered with grass and clover, beneath trees’ boughs that leaned over.
Stones washed and polished by its water, as it rippled past like the echo of children’s laughter.
Time has changed not your beauty, will it always be, as you sing your song on your way down to the sea.
Many are the steps that have trod your way and followed you as you wound through dale and glen.
To reach that far off shore the end, the beach past the mill I recall, to the wheel below the waterfall.
On towards Mill House Farm by the orchard there, listens to the lovebirds call.
The great delight reflected on your face from above, made each thought a blessing, a message of love.
But time makes mortals grow old, to fade and die so it be.
But you go on forever, making your way down to the sea.

In a little old churchyard together there they lie.
I sometimes make a visit, yet I do not cry.
On the headstone I read when they were laid to rest.
It seems a dream of long ago, then I feel within my breast,
A blessing that they were my parents to whom I owe all.
Feeling a sense of humility, their goodness I recall.

In memories I strolled down the lane of long ago,
Then, to bring dreams to reality, I walked one day, and so,
Towards the places so vivid and real in my youth.
The landmarks I knew and loved that everyone accepted,
That would remain forever in one even so uncouth.

So my footsteps were directed up the road, and down a lane.
Through a path then over a stile, that somehow, was not the same,
The road had been made so much wider, pathway all ploughed up.
Battery cob had been levelled, the old shooting butt.

Retracing my footsteps further, up Strappers we used to say,
Where we climbed the trees like Tarzan, and lovers made their way.
Then onto Seed’s Wood, past Kennel’s, up to Redhead’s Gate,
Through which we would pass quickly, ah yes at a much faster pace.

Pasture land’s edged by monstrous beech trees and oak,
Making silence beautiful, broken only by a songbird’s sweet note.
Here it was possible, not long after leaving home,
The freedom was ours to love, to breathe, and to roam.

Towards the moat house, that elegant sandstone structure,
So baronial in its outlook, it was so easy to recapture.
Feasts being held, on the host’s return from war.
Singing and dancing accompanied by flute and guitar.
Exquisite ladies being escorted by men in military dress,
Perched like peacocks, bearing the manorial crest.

On thro the moat bridge and down by, (“lady’s walk”).
Where swains pledged their troth, besides the “ladies lake”.
Then onward thro the fold, my footsteps seemed to slow,
It was here that legend has it, of long, long, ago.
That “Bold Houghton slew the griffin”, forever was his fame.

It was always called thereafter Bold, that’s how it got its name.
As the sun was setting, behind high tree tops golden gleam,
I felt a hurt inside me, an unfinished dream.
Wending my way homeward, I felt in my throat a sigh.
Does everyone of age say to youth, “goodbye”?

What was it like down’t pit Grandad?
Was it always night?
Did you have to grope around
Or did you have a light?

We always had a light son
To guide us on our way
It always gave us confidence
To see us through the day

Everywhere was not dark
As you travelled around the pit
While most of it was black
Other parts were lit.

But sometimes in the winter
I could spend my life in night
From Monday Morn to Friday
I could never see daylight.

Can you tell me Grandad
Is it true what I’ve been told
That some places were very warm
While others were quite cold?

The men working at pit bottom,
Would be absolutely froze
If they hadn’t balaclavas,
Gloves and thermal underclothes.

And sometimes deep in winter
Though it may sound rather daft
They could hear the sound of icicles
Dropping half a mile down’t shaft.

And yet in that same mine
Others worked and toiled
Soaking up the heat
As if their blood had boiled

And tell me Grandad,
When you were underground
Was it very noisy
Or did you not hear a sound?

The noise down there could deafen
So that later, home in bed.
I could still hear drilling
Deep inside my head

And yet it could be so silent
You could hear the earth creak
You could feel a gentle breeze
Or hear a little mouse squeak.

What about the roof, Grandad
Was it high or low?
When walking down the pit
Was it hard to go?

Sometimes it was so low
You had to squeeze and squirm
Lie upon your stomach
And wriggle like a worm.

While other parts so tall
Travelling was no fuss
The tunnel there was tall enough
For a double decker bus.

I try to imagine the shaft
And going down the pit
But when you got into the cage
Just how deep was it?

It is hard for you to grasp
But each day we spent eight hours
At the bottom of a shaft
That could fit five Blackpool towers.

And now that it’s all over
Was it really worth?
Spending half your life
Deep below the earth

Were you glad when it was over?
And you could have some fun
Spending time in daylight
And soaking up the sun.

We were sad when it was over
So sorry it had to end
Mining was our life
The pit was our best friend