How well I can remember when
I heard those sturdy Cornishmen
shuffle from that squeaky lift
to start another daily shift.
Drilling for those precious seams
setting all that metal free
dusty voices coughing spitting
rock against the pick was splitting.
Saw the father teach the son
way of life is surely gone
heavy boots that trod the floor
sounds like these I’ll hear no more.
Again the wheel will never turn
helmet lights no longer burn
lift shaft swings an empty frame
divested of the men who came.
So much tin could yet be found
buried there beneath the ground
money is the rich man’s slave
Crofty mine he would not save.
Silence, noisy as the grave
Greets me in my lonely cave
No reason now for me to stay
I’ll cut my loss and fly away.