(traditional: arranged by James Gordon)
We are miners, hard rock miners,
To the shaft house we must go;
Oil bottles on our shoulders,
We are marching to the stope.
On the line boys, on the line boys,
Drill your holes and stand in line.
Till the shift boss comes to tell you,
you must drill her out on top.
Can’t you feel the rock dust in your lungs?
It’ll cut down a miner when he is still young.
Two years and the silicosis takes hold,
and I feel like I’m dying from mining for gold.
Yes, I feel like I’m dying from mining for gold.