LYRIC

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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

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harmonica

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