The Miner.

    Clink! Clink! Clink!
    The song of the hammer and drill!
At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear,
He must leave the wife and the children dear,
    In his cabin upon the hill.
    Clink! Clink! Clink!
But the arms that deliver the sturdy stroke,
Ere the shift is done, may be crushed or broke,
Or the life may succumb to the gas and smoke,
    Which the underground caverns fill.

    Clink! Clink! Clink!
    The song of the hammer and drill!
As he toils in the shaft, in the stope or raise,
'Mid dangers which lurk, but elude the gaze,
    His nerves with no terrors thrill.
    Clink! Clink! Clink!
For the heart of the miner is strong and brave;
Though the rocks may fall, and the shaft may cave
And become his dungeon, if not his grave,
    He braves every thought of ill.

    Clink! Clink! Clink!
    The song of the hammer and drill!
But the heart which is beating in unison
With the steady stroke, e'er the shift is done,
    May be cold and forever still.
    Clink! Clink! Clink!
He may reap the harvest of danger sowed,
The hole which he drills he may never load,
For the powder may e'en in his hand explode,
    To mangle, if not to kill.

    Clink! Clink! Clink!
    The song of the hammer and drill!
Facing dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth;
Breathing poisons more foul than the swamps of the south
    In their tropical fens distill.
    Clink! Clink! Clink!
Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread;
Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead,
Cost us lives, as true as our blood is red,
    And probably always will.

Alfred Castner King

Alfred Castner King was an American poet. He is recognized for his significant contributions to American poetry. Despite battling with blindness, his disability did not deter him from crafting poetry that captivated many readers. King often wrote about nature and personal experiences, reflecting a deep appreciation for the world around him and the nuances of human emotion.

Alfred Castner King

As The Indian.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Nature's Child.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

The Nations Peril.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

In Mortem Meditare.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

English

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The Worked-Out Mine

On summer nights when moonbeams flow
And glisten oer the high, white tips,
And winds make lamentation low,
As through the ribs of shattered ships,
And steal about the broken brace
Where pendant timbers swing and moan,
And flitting bats give aimless chase,
Who dares to seek the mine alone?

The shrinking bush with sable rims
A skeleton forlorn and bowed,
With pipe-clay white about its limbs
And at its feet a tattered shroud;
And ghostly figures lurk and groan,
Shrill whispers sound from ghostly lips,
And ghostly footsteps start the stone
That clatters sharply down the tips.

The engine-house is dark and still,
The life that raged within has fled;
Like open graves the boilers chill
That once with glowing fires were red;
Above the s...

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To The Men Of The Mines

We specked as boys o'er worked-out ground
By littered fiat and muddy stream,
We watched the whim horse trudging round,
And rode upon the circling beam,
Within the old uproarious mill
Fed mad, insatiable stamps,
Mined peaceful gorge and gusty hill
With pan, and pick, and gad, and drill,
And knew the stir of sudden camps.

By yellow dams in summer days
We puddled at the tom; for weeks
Went seeking up the tortuous ways
Of gullies deep and hidden creeks.
We worked the shallow leads in style,
And hunted fortune down the drives,
And missed her, mostly by a mile,
Once by a yard or so. The while
We lived untrammelled, easy lives.

Through blazing days upon the brace
We laboured, and when night had passed
Beheld the glory and the grace

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The Rescue

There's a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then the sound of a voice in the shaft,
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft:
Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call,
Run, you fool! Number Twos gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below,any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?
Heave away! says the knocker. Theyve started. God be praised, hes no youngsters or wife!

Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the wild echo raves on the spur,
And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague frightened murmur of birds,
With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticu...

Edward

The Prospector

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.

I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;
But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town,
Was mighty still and lonesome-like to see.
There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan,
And turning round a bend I heard a roar,
And there a giant gold-ship of...

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Cleaning Up

When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine,
And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean;
When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is high and bright,
And we've worked from early morning and shall have to work till night,
Not a man of us is weary, though the graft is pretty rough,
If we see the proper colour showing freely through the stuff.

With a dandy head of water and a youngster at the rear
To hand along the billy, boys, and keep the tail race clear,
We lift the wash and flash the fork and make the gravel fly.
The shovelling is heavy and we're soaked from heel to thigh;
But it makes a fellow tireless and his thews and sinews tough
If the colour's showing freely as he gaily shifts the stuff.

When Geordie Best is pumpi...

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Pennarby Mine

Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
'Never look down!
Stick to the line!'
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.

A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,
Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.

Touring from London, so he said.
Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?
Where did they find it? How did it come?
If he tried with a shovel might HE get some?
Stooping so much
Was bad for the spine;
And wasn't it warmish in Pennarby mine?

'Twas like two worlds that met tha...

Arthur Conan Doyle