[bad word] gather ’round friends 
And I’ll tell you a tale 
Of when the red iron pits ran plenty. 
But the cardboard filled windows 
And old men on the benches 
Tell you now that the whole town is empty. 

In the north end of town, 
My own children are grown 
But I was raised on the other. 
In the wee hours of youth, 
My mother took sick 
And I was brought up by my brother. 

The iron ore poured 
As the years passed the door, 
The drag lines an’ the shovels they was a-humming. 
’Til one day my brother 
Failed [bad word] home 
The same as my father before him. 

Well a long winter’s wait, 
From the window I watched. 
My friends they couldn’t have been kinder. 
And my schooling was cut 
As I quit in the spring 
To marry John Thomas, a miner. 

Oh the years passed again 
And the givin’ was good, 
With the lunch bucket filled every season. 
What with three babies born, 
The work was cut down 
To a half a day’s shift with no reason. 

Then the shaft was soon shut 
And more work was cut, 
And the fire in the air, it felt frozen. 
’Til a [bad word] to speak 
And he said in one week 
That number eleven was closin.’ 
 [bad word] in the East, 
They are paying too high. 
They say that your ore ain’t worth digging. 
That it’s much cheaper down 
In the South American towns 
Where the miners work almost for nothing. 

So the mining gates locked 
And the red iron rotted 
And the room smelled heavy from drinking. 
Where the sad, silent song 
Made the hour twice as long 
As I waited for the sun to go sinking. 

I lived by the window 
As he talked to himself, 
This silence of tongues it was building. 
Then one morning’s wake, 
The bed it was bare, 
And I’s left alone with three children. 

The summer is gone, 
The ground’s turning cold, 
The stores one by one they’re a-foldin’. 
My children will go 
As soon as they grow. 
Well, there ain’t nothing here now to hold them.