| Come gather 'round friends
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| And I’ll tell you a tale
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| Of when the red iron ore pits ran plenty
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| But the cardboard filled windows
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| And old men on the benches
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| Tell you now that the whole town is empty
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| In the north end of town
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| My own children are grown
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| But I was raised on the other
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| In the wee hours of youth
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| My mother took sick
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| And I was brought up by my brother
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| The iron ore poured
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| As the years passed the door
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| The drag lines an' the shovels they was a-humming
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| 'Til one day my brother
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| Failed to come home
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| The same as my father before him
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| Well a long winter’s wait
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| From the window I watched
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| My friends they couldn’t have been kinder
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| And my schooling was cut
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| As I quit in the spring
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| To marry John Thomas, a miner
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| Oh the years passed again
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| And the givin' was good
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| With the lunch bucket filled every season
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| What with three babies born
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| The work was cut down
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| To a half a day’s shift with no reason
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| Then the shaft was soon shut
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| And more work was cut
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| And the fire in the air, it felt frozen
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| 'Til a man come to speak
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| And he said in one week
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| That number eleven was closin'
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| They complained in the East
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| They are paying too high
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| They say that your ore ain’t worth digging
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| That it’s much cheaper down
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| In the South American towns
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| Where the miners work almost for nothing
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| So the mining gates locked
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| And the red iron rotted
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| And the room smelled heavy from drinking
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| Where the sad, silent song
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| Made the hour twice as long
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| As I waited for the sun to go sinking
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| I lived by the window
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| As he talked to himself
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| This silence of tongues it was building
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| Then one morning’s wake
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| The bed it was bare
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| And I’s left alone with three children
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| The summer is gone
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| The ground’s turning cold
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| The stores one by one they’re a-foldin'
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| My children will go
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| As soon as they grow
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| Well, there ain’t nothing here now to hold them |