The Miner.
In the depths of the mine the miner toils,
Far from the light of the day;
To earn a crust for those he loves
He works while work he may;
For the years roll on and vitality wanes,
Ere the need of his labour be gone,
So he wills to work while his strength holds out,
For he thinks not of self alone.
The thought of danger or death in the mine
Never daunts his mind or his heart,
And strong is the swing of his brawny arms
As he nobly plays his part.
He holds at his task with a firm resolve,
For he’s one of a sterling breed,
To provide the nation with what she requires
In the darkest hour of her need.
When invasion threatens Britannia’s shores
He is ready to do or to die,
And Britannia knows that in times of stress
She can on the miner rely
To uphold the honour of Right and Truth,
To defend his country and hearth;
Thank God for men with a heart like his,
They are surely the salt of the earth.
Our country is rich by the sweat of his brow,
And it’s needless saying we can’t
Provide for the miner and see that his days
Are free from the shadow of want;
And when old age comes with palsied hand
He may rest from his labour until
The angels bear him away to the land
Where he’ll work to his Father’s will.
Love! O sacred sentiment,
To bless mankind thou’rt surely meant,
Hope and joy and comfort giving;
Love alone makes life worth living.
Brave men fight and brave men die
For kindred, home, and country;
They count no sacrifice too great
To make for thee and liberty.
In times of peace, in times of war,
Thy influence outspreading far
Doth teach to play the Christian part,
To soothe and heal the wounded heart.
Thro’ life with all its ups and downs,
When fortune smiles or when it frowns,
Thou dost thy kindly vigil keep
To laugh or comfort those that weep.
No tongue can ever tell thy worth;
Thou art the grandest power on earth,
The greatest blessing ever given;
For thee our thanks ascend to heaven.
When cronies meet aroon the tee,
The roarin’ game’s the game for me,
Owre ither games it bears the gree;
Then leeze me on the Curlin’.
It brings the red bluid tae the broo,
Ye canna weel be doon o’ moo,
When bluid yer veins gangs coorsin’ thro’,
When at the game o’ Curlin’.
Gin ye wad please yer worthy skip,
Stan’ firm in natch an’ dinna slip,
Direct yer stane straucht frae the hip,
When ye are at the Curlin’.
An’ if he wants’t a wee bit looder,
Jist draw yer stane richt tae the shooder,
Or he will say ye hae’na pooder,
For the manly game o’ Curlin’.
Gin ye expect tae win the cup,
On besoms ye maun haud the grup,
An’ aye be there tae soop it up,
When ye are at the Curlin’.
An’ when ye’re at the soopin’ game
Min’ an’ soop afore the stane,
Or ye’ve nae yin but yersel’ tae blame
If shots ye lose at Curlin’.
Here, Lords an’ Dukes wi’ Rab an’ Tam
Meet as equals, man tae man;
A heazer tae the social plan
Is the guid auld game o’ Curlin’.