| Ten thousand men,
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| they are bleeding once again,
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| on the coalfields of Rothbury Town
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| For the Government to say,
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| a reduction in your pay,
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| or we shall bring in a hand
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| from abroad O' Norman Brown,
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| how the coppers shot him down,
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| while the battle for old town had raged
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| And the saddest day of all is a miner’s burial,
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| when the earth that is harvested is home
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| Even when the war is won,
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| and when union flags are flown
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| Even when the years have gone,
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| the government still killed the miner’s son.
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| There were riots in the street,
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| and the sounds of marching feet,
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| the protest of violence and greed
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| And the newspaper ran
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| a story that began,
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| of the treason for the public to read
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| While the years they have passed,
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| it will never be the last,
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| of a working man’s blood on the ground
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| And for O' Norman Brown,
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| how the coppers shot him down,
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| on the coalfields of Rothbury Town
|
| Even when the war is won,
|
| and when union flags are flown
|
| Even when the years have gone,
|
| the government still killed the miner’s son. |