There’s a powerful whine in our mechanised mine,
As the Blacketts bore into the stone.
Gone are the days of the old ‘hand-kit’ ways:
When a miner had reason to groan.
A miner’s life was one of great strife,
When he lived by the sweat of his brow.
At the end of the day he felt quite worn away,
But conditions are much better now.
It was his skill that guided the drill
For boring a hole into which
He places a det. when the powder is set,
And it's fired at the touch of a switch.
There's a deafening roar and a heap on the floor,
But the miner won't wear himself out.
With an ear-splitting din the loader moves in,
And boy, watch them wagons move out !
This loader is swift : in an eight-hour shift
It fills forty wagons or more.
It makes miners sweat much less, and yet
It certainly turns out the ore.
The times are reversed - for better, not worse -
And a miner’s no longer forlorn.
A chest like a horse is not needed, of course,
For brain now means more than brawn.