 | Poems And Songs |  |
1
A MINER'S MORNING SONG.
Awake, brother miner! The stars have grown dim,
'Tis time to be stirring the sleep-strengthened limb;
The lark is saluting the regions of love,
And soon will the sun flash the grey mists above:
Prepare thee to sink, though the fancy should soar;
We must to the dark scenes of labour once more.
'Tis time to be stirring the sleep-strengthened limb;
The lark is saluting the regions of love,
And soon will the sun flash the grey mists above:
Prepare thee to sink, though the fancy should soar;
We must to the dark scenes of labour once more.
Come! rise, brother, rise! and from grumbling refrain;
He who murmurs in idleness, murmurs in vain:
A sweet slumber hangs on thy little ones' brows,
A love-hallowed prayer's in the heart of thy spouse:
She pleads where thou knowst she has pled well before,
That angels may guard thee to safety once more.
He who murmurs in idleness, murmurs in vain:
A sweet slumber hangs on thy little ones' brows,
A love-hallowed prayer's in the heart of thy spouse:
2
That angels may guard thee to safety once more.
Arise! brother miner! 'Twas only a dream,
That hum of green woodlands, that stroll by the stream;
Some joy-loving fairy, in portraiture gay,
Hath shown thee by night what thou seest not by day.
Yet, brother, despair not; the hours will pass o'er:
We'll rise, as the day wanes, to gladness once more.
That hum of green woodlands, that stroll by the stream;
Some joy-loving fairy, in portraiture gay,
Hath shown thee by night what thou seest not by day.
Yet, brother, despair not; the hours will pass o'er:
We'll rise, as the day wanes, to gladness once more.
Suppress those deep sighs, brother, though it may be
The fate of thy kinsman is waiting for thee:
O'er sorrows untasted 'tis folly to brood;
We must, like that kinsman, brave danger for food.
Then up and be stirring; like serf-men of yore,
We'll rest when we've plodded our portion once more.
The fate of thy kinsman is waiting for thee:
O'er sorrows untasted 'tis folly to brood;
We must, like that kinsman, brave danger for food.
Then up and be stirring; like serf-men of yore,
We'll rest when we've plodded our portion once more.
Be cheerful, poor brother! I've heard of a land
Where no over-labour e'er blisters the hand—
A land where no fetters of slavery are seen,
Where the grindstone of tyranny never hath been.
Perhaps we'll go there when our ploddings are o'er,
And then we'll be weary-boned miners no more.
Where no over-labour e'er blisters the hand—
A land where no fetters of slavery are seen,
Where the grindstone of tyranny never hath been.
Perhaps we'll go there when our ploddings are o'er,
And then we'll be weary-boned miners no more.
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