The Hartley Calamity
THE Hartley men are noble, and
Ye’ll hear a tale of woe;
I’ll tell the doom of the Hartley men—
The year of sixty-two.
’Twas on a Thursday morning, on
The first month of the year,
When there befell the thing that well
May rend the heart to hear.
Ere chanticleer with music rare
Awakes the old homestead,
The Hartley men are up and off
To earn their daily bread.
On, on they toil; with heat they broil,
And streams of sweat still glue
The stour unto their skins, till they
Are black as that they hew.
Now to and fro, the putters go
The waggons to and fro,
And echoes clang of wheel and hoof
Within the mine below.
The din and strife of human life
Awake in “wall” and “borde,”
When, lo! a shock is felt which makes
Each human heart-beat heard.
Each bosom thuds, as each his duds
He snatches and away,
And to the shaft in terror flees
With all the speed he may.
Each, all, they flee—by two—by three
They seek the shaft, to seek
An answer in each other’s face,
To what they may not speak.
“Are we entombed?” they seem to ask,
“The shaft is closed, and no
Escape have we to God’s bright day
From out the night below.”
So stand in pain the Hartley men,
And o’er them swiftly comes
The memory of home and all
That links us to our homes.
Despair at length renews their strength,
And they the shaft must clear;
And soon the sound of mall and pick
Half drowns the voice of fear.
And hark! to the blow of the mall below
Do sounds above reply?
Hurra, hurra, for the Hartley men,
For now their rescue’s nigh.
Their rescue nigh? The sounds of joy
And hope have ceased, and ere
A breath is drawn a rumble’s heard
Re-drives them to despair.
Together, now behold them bow;
Their burden’d souls unload
In cries that never rise in vain
Unto the living God.
Whilst yet they kneel, again they feel
Their strength renew’d—again
The swing and the ring of the mall attests
The might of the Hartley men.
And hark! to the blow of the mall below
Do sounds above reply?
Hurra, hurra, for the Hartley men
For now their rescue’s nigh.
But lo! yon light, erewhile so bright
No longer lights the scene;
A cloud of mist yon light hath kiss’d,
And shorn it of its sheen.
A cloud of mist yon light hath kiss’d,
See! how along it steals,
Till one by one the lights are smote,
And deep the gloom prevails.
“O, father, till the shaft is rid
Close, close beside me keep;
My eye-lids are together glued,
And I—and I—must sleep.”
“Sleep, darling, sleep, and I will keep
Close by—heigh-ho!”—To keep
Himself awake the father strives;
But he—he too—must sleep.
“O, brother, till the shaft is rid
Close, close beside me keep;
My eye-lids are together glued,
And I—and I—must sleep.”
“Sleep, brother, sleep, and I will keep
Close by—heigh-ho!”—To keep
Himself awake the brother strives;
But he—he too—must sleep.
“O, mother dear! wert, wert then near
Whilst—sleep!”—The orphan slept;
And all night long by the black pit-heap
The mother a dumb watch kept.
And fathers and mothers, and sisters
and brothers;
The lover and the new-made bride;
A vigil kept for those who slept,
From eve to morning tide.
But they slept—still sleep—in silence
dread,
Two hundred old and young,
To awake when heaven and earth have
sped,
And the last dread trumpet rung!
Autres oeuvres par Joseph Skipsey...
