Tune: “Standard o’ the Braes o’ Mar.”
The miners in the mines of Butte
Are in rebellion fairly.
The gath’ring clouds of discontent
Are spreading fast and surely.
The miner’s life is full of strife
In stopes and drifts and raises.
Don’t judge him hard; give him his due.
He needs our loudest praises.
Down in these holes, each shift he goes
And works mid dangers many
And gets the “miner’s con” to boot,
The worst disease of any.
In hot-boxes, he drills his rounds,
Midst floods of perspiration,
And clogs his lungs with copper dust:
A hellish occupation.
The merry breezes never blow
Down in these awful places.
The sun’s rays are one-candle pow’r
That shines on pallid faces.
The only birds that warble there
Are “buzzies” and “jack hammers.”
Their song is death in ev’ry note.
For human life, they clamor.
Conditions such as these, my friends,
Have made the miners rebels.
The under-current is gaining strength;
The mighty system trembles.
The revolution’s coming fast;
Old institutions vanish.
The tyrant-rule from off the earth
For evermore ’twill banish.