From the Newark Evening Star, December 3, 1914. By Berton Braley.
When I comes home from work at night
All tired out from minin’ coal,
An’ black an’ sweaty to the sight
I ain’t th’ gladdest kind of soul;
Th’ world don’t make no hit with me,
I’m mighty weary with my lot,
An’ every bloomin’ thing I see
Just seems to feed th’ grouch I’ve got.
I cusses at my daily work,
I damn the pitboss to the pit,
I thinks of all th’ dust an’ murk
Of minin’—an’ I cusses it;
I thinks, “Us miners ain’t no men,
We’re pore dumb beasts that’s hitched and drove;”
I starts once more to swear—an’ then
I smells th’ supper on th’ stove!
It mebbe ain’t so very much
(A miner ain’t no millionaire),
But when I scents that stew an’ such
I—well, I half forgets to swear.
From worries an’ from troubles, too,
My thoughts begin to stray an’ rove,
An’ life assumes a dif’runt hue,
When I smells supper on th’ stove!
An’ when they brings that supper in
An’ wife an’ kids an’ me sets down,
I finds a sort of pleasant grin
Has chased away my ugly frown;
I puts away all thought of strife,
My appetite I gives the call,
An’ thinks, “Oh well, this miner’s life
Ain’t nothin’ awful, after all!”
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