Oh, they're coming down to Williamstown,

with their faces full of worry,

and so we're told, they want miners bold

and they want them in a hurry.

They need coal again and they need men

to go down a hole and cut it,

but the miners' lads have asked their dads,

and they've told them where they can put it.

Our English friends are at their wits ends ,

for fuel they are in trouble.

For they sank their brass in North Sea gas,

and that was a North Sea bubble.

Now the lands of oil are on the boil,

and the tankers they have stopped sailing,

and the stupid swines that closed the mines

are wringing their hands and wailing.

From underground, there comes no sound

in seams that have been forgotted,

and the pithead gear looms gaunt and drear

over towns that were left to go rotten.

There's many a louse up in Hobart House

who's wishing that he'd heeded

the men who said, "Before you're dead,

the pits are going to be needed.

But they treated with scorn the best men born,

no land ever bred men finer.

So serve their right in their sorry plight,

for doing the dirt on the mner.