I was four when I started, my life underground,
stabled below, coal dust would abound.
Miners my friends, they treated me well,
for one, oh so young, the face was like hell.
The dust and the gas, the air putrified,
the miners would crawl on their bellies and sides.
After pulling the journeys for eight hours a day,
I lay in my stable, on soft and warm hay.
Fifty weeks of the year we'd work together,
think what I'd give for fresh air, fine weather.
Then it would come, two weeks on top,
roaming the fields, a nice gentle trot.
The air I took in, so fresh and clean,
the weeks would fly by, then back to the seam.
Ten years I would work, with the brave men below,
but my time it did come, up top I would go.
Up in the cage, to the top of the pit,
they patted my head, you deserve it.
Checked by the vet, then down to the field,
where for two weeks a year, always spring heeled.
A pit ponys life was hard and so tough,
I made many friends, took the smooth with the rough.
Life in the field, is the way it should be,
for ponies who started out young, just like me.