Oh brother man, let your thoughts wander round,
Think of the men underground,
Eating black dust, while earning a crust,
No hope but a graveyard mound.

Look, brother man, look at the men you meet,
Listlessly walking the street;
Men who go down to delve underground,
Wearily dragging their feet.

Hearken well, my brother, list to the sound
Of the rock drill underground;
Ev’ry throb and beat, in smoke and heat,
A stride to the graveyard mound.

Come brother, with me to the main shaft brace,
Take a cage to an underground place,
And see how men toil mid grease and oil
For leave to work in the face.

Hark! Brother, to its terrible deaf’ning roar,
Forcing the steel in the bore,
Sounding like thunder, cleaving asunder
Veins of rich mineral ore.

See how terrific the force of the shock,
As the drill strikes into the rock,
Twisting and churning, rebounding and turning,
Man’s power it seems to mock.

Can you see through the smoke, the dust and mist,
The miner with face grime kissed,
Turning the handle by light of candle,
Breathing in air compressed?

Sweat sodden they work in the end of a drive,
A chamber seven by five;
Standing on muck, one watches the chuck,
At times more dead than alive.

Grime-kissed and death-kissed, they go below ground,
Where germs in myriads abound;
Gripped with the taint of miner’s complaint,
The end but a graveyard mound.

Is the golden treasure worth the great price
Of the miner’s deathly tryst?
Is not the gain from every deep claim
A toll of blood sacrifice?

Go, brother, to God’s acre, step with light tread
As you walk near graves of the dead
Of those who died ere reaching man’s pride
From the death that miners dread.