For I love the hand of honest toil, its firm and heartfelt grasp;
And I know, O miners brave and true, that not alone for self
Have ye heaped, through many wearying months, your glittering pile of pelf.
Ye of the dark and thoughtful eyes beneath the bronzèd brow,
Ye on whose smooth and rounded cheeks still gleams youth's purple glow,
Ye of the reckless, daring life, ye of the timid glance;
Ho! young and old; ho! grave and gay,—to our nation's fête advance.
Ho! sun-kissed brother from the South, where radiant skies are glowing;
Ho! toiler from the stormy North, where snowy winds are blowing;
Ho! Buckeye, Hoosier, from the West, sons of the river great,—