Idris Davies
My fathers in the mining valleys were slaves who bled for beer,
Who had no Saviour to acclaim
And whose god was fear.
And they sold the fern and flower
And the groves of pine
For a hovel and a tankard, and the dregs were mine.
So in these rain-swept graveyards
Where my fathers sleep,
Shall I sulk, and curse them,
Who made their lives so cheap?
Or shall I pause, and pity
Those luckless lad of old,
Those sullen slaves whipped onwards
To load my lords with gold?