The Miner

The miner he goes and changes his clothes,

And then makes his way to the shaft,

For each man well knows he's going below,

To put in eight hours of graft.


With his calico cap and his old flannel shirt,

His pants with the strap 'round the knee,

His boots watertight, and his candle alight,

His crib and his billy of tea.


The tapman to the driver will knock four and one,

The ropes to the windlass will strain,

As one shift comes up, another goes down,

And working commences again.


He works hard for his pay at six bob a day,

He toils for his missus and kids;

He gets what's left over and thinks he's in clover,

To cut off his baccy from quids.


And thus he goes on, week in and week out,

To toil for his life's daily bread,

He's off to the mine, come hail rain or shine,

That his dear ones at home may be fed.


Diggin' holes in the ground where there's gold to be found,

And most times where gold it is not,

A man's like a rabbit with this diggin' habit,

And like one he ought to be shot.