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Come gather 'round friends |
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And I'll tell you a tale |
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Of when the red iron pits ran plenty. |
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But the cardboard filled windows |
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And old men on the benches |
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Tell you now that the whole town is empty. |
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In the north end of town, |
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My own children are grown |
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But I was raised on the other. |
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In the wee hours of youth, |
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My mother took sick |
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And I was brought up by my brother. |
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The iron ore poured |
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As the years passed the door, |
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The drag lines an' the shovels they was a-humming. |
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'Til one day my brother |
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Failed to come home |
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The same as my father before him. |
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Well a long winter's wait, |
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From the window I watched. |
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My friends they couldn't have been kinder. |
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And my schooling was cut |
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As I quit in the spring |
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To marry John Thomas, a miner. |
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Oh the years passed again |
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And the givin' was good, |
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With the lunch bucket filled every season. |
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What with three babies born, |
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The work was cut down |
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To a half a day's shift with no reason. |
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Then the shaft was soon shut |
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And more work was cut, |
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And the fire in the air, it felt frozen. |
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'Til a man come to speak |
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And he said in one week |
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That number eleven was closin'. |
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They complained in the East, |
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They are paying too high. |
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They say that your ore ain't worth digging. |
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That it's much cheaper down |
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In the South American towns |
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Where the miners work almost for nothing. |
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So the mining gates locked |
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And the red iron rotted |
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And the room smelled heavy from drinking. |
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Where the sad, silent song |
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Made the hour twice as long |
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As I waited for the sun to go sinking. |
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I lived by the window |
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As he talked to himself, |
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This silence of tongues it was building. |
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Then one morning's wake, |
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The bed it was bare, |
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And I's left alone with three children. |
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The summer is gone, |
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The ground's turning cold, |
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The stores one by one they're a-foldin'. |
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My children will go |
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As soon as they grow. |
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Well, there ain't nothing here now to hold them. |
