Song of Labor; the Miner

THE EASTERN sky is blushing red,

The distant hill-top glowing;

The brook is murmuring in its bed,

In idle frolics flowing;

’Tis time the pickaxe and the spade,

And iron “tom” were ringing,

And with ourselves, the mountain stream,

A song of labor singing.

The mountain air is cool and fresh,

Unclouded skies bend o’er us,

Broad placers, rich in hidden gold,

Lie temptingly before us;

We ask no magic Midas’ wand,

Nor wizard rod divining,

The pickaxe, spade and brawny hand

Are sorcerers in mining.

When labor ceases with the day,

To simple fare returning,

We gather in a merry group

Around the camp-fires burning;

The mountain sod our couch at night,

The stars shine bright above us,

We think of home and fall asleep,

To dream of those who love us.