Seven Lamps North



There are ghastly tales the miners tell
Of their buddies that are gone
To a kindly place in the outer space
At the end of the line beyond.

At the end of the line beyond, my boys,
For the unsung heroes of the deep,
But remain their souls in the inky holes
Of the mines where their spirits creep.

And they worked in the bowels of Mother earth
To collect their meagre pay
To sink in the dye and never more spy
The wonderful light of day.

Oh! don’t you remember a few years past
When seven men met their doom?
They were buried, all told, in the black, black coal
When the weight crushed the big arch boom.

Now seven lamps shine in the north, my boys,
In the place where those miners died,
And you hear the creak of the rusty wheels
As a ghostly rake they ride.

And seven men work the wall, my boys,
And seven picks dig at the stone,
And at lunch time, down in the mine,
Seven men eat alone.

And seven lamps shine in the north, my boys,
Through the din of the engine’s whine,
And seven ghosts pick up their lamps, my boys,
Down in the deep, dark mine.

Source: O’Donnell’s And Now the Fields are Green, pp177-8

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