My daddy got killed when I was only nine,
I picked up his pick, took his place in the mine.
My world became that damp dark hole.
Trying to beat out a living digging that black coal.
He died leaving mother and five kids alone.
Without any income, in that company home.
There were no laws to protect kids so young,
I went to work and got paid for each and every ton.
They said Daddy helped everyone until the day he died,
And many miners that day stood and cried.
Even back then they had a pension plan.
It was supported by every mining man.
Each one of these hard men did their part.
By filling a few extra coal carts.
For injured miners or a dead ones wife.
So their families could survive and have a life.
I saw this happen time and time again.
Treating each other like they all were kin.
Many times out of the corner of my eye.
I saw them slipping extra coal in my cart on the sly.
We all heard it every now and then.
A whistle would tell of a cave in.
Everyone would rush from every house.
And support each other in front of the mines mouth.
There was not enough money to make them leave.
You never leave friends or family that grieve.
Now that I'm old I seem to find.
These old memories running through my mind.
Of my family and friends who have passed away.
That were carried and buried on this hill of clay.
Each grave marked by a chunk of coal or rough cut stone.
They are sleeping among friends and never alone.
When at last I'm buried in that hill of clay.
I'm sleeping with friends until judgment day.
Born To The Mine
