So, spite of famine’s half-looked-for shock,
The work still prospered in Dungeon Rock.
Strong hands kept picking the stone chips out,
And forcing the long, circuitous route;
Strong hearts were waiting, for well they knew
That the summer would bring them enough to do.
With curious eyes, and a curious name,
Or open purses and open fame.
But the stranger’s scorn and the stranger’s love
Were never valued true friends above.