The worked beneath our furtile land
With pick and shovel and bare hand
To harvest coal by day and night
With dusty eyes and little light

They worked their bodes till they ache
With little wages and tonnage to make
When days are long and lke the night
They dig the coal with all their might

Shifts were done then homeward bound
The sound of clog irons was all around
Down cobbled roads and terraced streets
Gas lamps flicker no one to meet

At last the garden, the wooden gate
The tin bath steaming near the grate
Their faces tired, cold and black
They eat and sleep and then, go back