In the mirk of an autumn morning,
When most of us lay asleep,
Along the road to their daily work
In a coal-pit dark and deep,
Two hundred colliers were wending their way
A harvest for Death to reap!
And from many a home that Monday
There sallied out three or four,
In sooth from some of the cottages
Came forth, alas! Even more,
Who never again – never again
Passed under the cottage door!
The looks of some many a winter
Had dabbled with a touch of rime,
Some of them were in the flush of youth,
And some were in manhood’s prime,
And some were but little laddies yet,
And barely beyond school-time.
For the season was hard and bitter,
And sore was the collier’s need
The price of food was never so high,
And many the mouths to feed;
And brains must work to support the house,
Though the mothers heart should bleed!
Two of the pits are together linked,
The fatal pits Two and Three,
And by six around their yawning mouths
The colliers all ready be
To descend below, but they never dream
Their last glimpse of the sky they see.
