Down, Down, Down

With your kind attention a song I will trill
for ye who must toil with the pick and the drill,
and sweat for your bread in that hole at Oak Hill
that goes down, down, down.

When I was a boy, said my daddy to me
“Stay out of Oak Hill, take my warnin’” said he,
“or with dust you’ll be choked and a pauper you’ll be,
broken down, down, down.”

But I went to Oak Hill and I asked for a job,
a mule for to drive or a gangway to rob.
So the boss said “Come out, Bill and follow the mob
that goes down, down, down.”

“All aboard for the bottom” the topman did yell.
We stepped on the cage and he gave her the bell.
Then from under our feet like a bat out of, well…
we went down, down, down.

You could look at the rib or the face or the top.
Ne’er a sign of a laggin’ or slab or of prop.
Some day I expect this old mountain to drop…
and come down, down, down.