By a Paint Creek Miner
(Written during the terrible strike of 1911-12)
The hills are very bare and cold and lonely;
I wonder what the future months will bring.
The strike is on—our strength would win, if only—
O, Buddy, how I’m longing for the spring!
They’ve got us down—their martial lines enfold us;
They’ve thrown us out to feel the winter’s sting,
And yet, by God, those curs can never hold us,
Nor could the dogs of hell do such a thing!