"Gunmen" in West Virginia.
By A Paint Creek Miner.
The hills are very bare and cold and lonely;
I wonder what the future months will bring.
The strike is on—our strength would win, if only—
O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!
They've got us down—their martial lines enfold us;
They've thrown us out to feel the winter's sting,
And yet, by God, those curs can never hold us,
Nor could the dogs of hell do such a thing!
It isn't just to see the hills beside me
Grow fresh and green with every growing thing;
I only want the leaves to come and hide me,
To cover up my vengeful wandering.
I will not watch the floating clouds that hover
Above the birds that warble on the wing;
I want to use this GUN from under cover―
O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!
You see them there, below, the damned scab-herders!
Those puppets on the greedy Owner's String;
We'll make them pay for all their dirty murders―
We'll show them how a starveling's hate can sting!
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