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
Public Service Broadcasting - Every Valley Lyrics
Public Service Broadcasting - Every Valley Lyrics
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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
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
Writer: J. Willgoose Esq.
Copyright: Lyrics © Mute Song Limited
Copyright: Lyrics © Mute Song Limited