To the brain of the miner man—
Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!
Not a cramp in the open hand!
As they play and pay—and they drift and drift
To the ranks where the grey-heads stand.
But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,
And the prospect is bleak and brown,
And the missus has never a hat to wear
That’s fit to be seen in the town;
And the spectres flock—that were held last year,