Tommy-knocker



When I die (said the mining engineer) do not bury me at all; Cache me on the bottom level, with a pick beside my pall; Leave a candlestick and matches, then cave the stopes and drifts, And I'll be a tommy-knocker for a hundred thousand shifts. Yes, a jolly tommy-knock, always starting for a walk; Always pounding on the rock, scaring honest Hunkies with my little tap, tap, tap&mdash; Always listening for the blast 'till the pumps are pulled at last, And the bloody surface tenderfoots are routed from their nap; Then the depths of earth will be lighted and we can see right through, And all the lost bonanzas will be nuts for me and you. Then we'll dig, dig, dig (If we've been good engineers) Ore shot with chunks of metal, through all the happy years. We'll have angels for muckers, who'll never ask for pay, And the ore will stope itself, over&mdash;under&mdash;anyway&mdash; Anyway you say! Oh, boy! Don't wake me up And say the men are striking and the tax-collector's here, <p style="text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;">And the bottom of the metal market's gone, <p style="text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;">And how you've lost the ore-shoot, and all the other grief; <p style="text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;">Jest let me snooze 'till Gabriel blows his hawn!