Wilma Bolton. 2005. Hamilton Advertiser. 15/11/1930. Page 3.
IN MEMORY OF PTE, HUGH WATSON, (BEN) K.O.S.B. of Larkhall.
Who died in Prisoners’ Camp in Germany, on 27th October. 1915 from wounds received in action at Loos, 25th September. 1915.
I kenned a lad in Larkie toon,
Respected by the folks a’ roon,
For no’ a yin could rin him doon,
Straightforward Hughie Watson.
Tho’ humbly reared a miner lad
“Ben” kept awa frae a’ things bad,
At work or p[lay we always’s had
A man in Hughie Watson.
Fu weel I min’ the happy days
When by the Clyde we doffed oor claes,
And neath the sun’s bricht warmin’ rays,
I swam wi’ Hughie Watson.
Or at the games we lo’ed sae weel,
Before “Ben’s” skill we had tae kneel,
But malice we could never feel,
Against oor pal, “Ben Watson.
But soon these happy days had passed,
As war sent forth it’s angry blast.
Recruits were wanted thick and fast,
So aff went Hughie Watson.
He jined the brave K.O.S.B.
Alang wi’ ither twa or three,
Resolved to fichtin he would see,
As Pte. Hughie Watson.
His time of trainin’ wis weel spent,
As soon tae France he had been sent,
Wi lichtsome heart awa’ he went,
Did Gallant Hughie Watson.
Ere long he reached the battle plain
Whaur he saw mony heroes slain,
An in a trench a he ta’en,
Oor hero, Hughie Watson.
Soon orders cam’ tae capture Loos,
An’ a were pleased tae hear this news,
John French decided for tae choose
Sic men as Hughie Watson.
The battle soon wis raging sair,
And men were drapping everywhere,
But “Ben” went on without a care,
A hero bold “Ben” Watson.
The vict’ry won; the roll was cried,
The men were mustered side by side,
To private Watson nane replied,
So whaur wis Hughie Watson.
Some said they’d seen him lying slain
As they rushed on, the trench tae gain,
An to these tales much heed wis ta’en
For a’ mourned Hughie Watson.
Official word then cam tae say,
That “Ben” had died in Germany,
Frae wounds received that fateful day,
When last wiz seen “Ben Watson.
So now his life’s short day is o’er,
And on this earth we’ll no more,
But still I’ll mourn wi’ heart that’s sore
My dearest pal, “Ben Watson”.
HARRY DALZIEL.
Budhill,
Shettleston.
Ref Hamilton Advertiser. 5/2/1916. Page 3.
Wilma Bolton 2005.
IN MEMORY OF FRANK MARSHALL.
Who was killed in action abroad with the British Expeditionary Force, betwixt 4th and 12th November. 1914.
He was the first Larkie man to fall,
Poor Frank we'll ne’er see again;
He answered his King and Country’s call,
This brave soldier is slain.
I see him in thought, as I really could,
A comrade both true and brave;
He fought and fell for all that is good.
He earned a brave soldier’s grave.
When I think o’ the past, his smile I can see,
In the mine at our piece we did sit;
It’s only three years since he worked beside me,
In number 2 Cornsilloch Pit.
For King and Country he breathed his last,
A soldier true and brave;
Tho’ his spirit’s departed through war’s cold blast,
He earned a brave soldier’s grave.
With his wife and children I now sympathise,
She knows her husband in a foreign land lies,
On earth she will see him no more.
She’ll see him no more on this side of the tomb,
Her husband in battle was slain;
She’ll hope and pray when her own time comes,
To see him and meet him again.
W.H.SMITH. Larkhall.
Wilma Bolton. 2005. Hamilton Advertiser. 29/1/1916. Page. 3.
JUST ONE MORE COALMINERS DAUGHTER
Another Coalminer’s Daughter (and Son)
Has Heart and Soul beneath the Ground
With Tears and Hopes and Prayers
That their lost Daddies will be Found.
Hoping for some great Miracle
Not only Found, but Safe and Well
One more Escape from the Hazards
That Stories and the Folklore tell.
A Dangerous Job at its best
And for some the only one
To take care of their Family
It’s one Chore that Must be Done.
We all know the Historical
Of the company town and store
Some say those days are gone??
But, it’s known they could do More.
The wages for the "Muckers" (look it up)
And those Men who run the Drills
May be Paid a little More
But, the Lack of Safety still Kills.
The Bureau of Mines (and Safety)
Although they have done much good
Like most all federal agencies
Not Half, nearly what they should.
So the Money, buying favors
Flows much faster than the Ore
To protect the mining companies
From the Pimp, to the real Whore.
The preceding written Tuesday
before the erroneous news and sad truth
After the news they were found alive
I'm adding this this morning
From joyful, happy, jubilation
To the pain and tears and mourning.
How could this have happened?
Why was the good news so wrong?
And though some knew about it
Why did the truth take so long?
Then there is the rage and anger
That has come a bit too late
About all the safety violations
That have sealed those Miners Fate.
If the officials with the power
From Fed, State, or Company
Had fulfilled their obligations
They could have stopped this tragedy.
If the men themselves had complained
They probably would have been let go
But what could those violations cost?
Well sadly now, we all know.
Just another of those lessons learned
(Though we all know that isn't so)
Soon it will be the same ol' same
To guarantee the money flow.
Lives are cheap and expendable
When it comes to the bottom line
Seems it's always been and will be
For those folks down in the Mine.
Del "Abe" Jones
White Bluff, TN
01-04-2006
My Grandfather worked underground, owning a coal mine in Colorado for awhile, as a superintendent on the Aqueduct, Hoover, Coulee and other dams and diversion tunnels and tunneling and Reclamation projects. He worked most the time for our Government but I feel his heart was always with those doing the dirty work and was never above getting into the “muck” himself. He was also a poet and here are some of his miner's poems from his book, “THE AQUEDUCT”.
Poems Below Courtesy of Del"Abe"Jones
THE WIDE CANYON TUNNEL CAVE-IN
(The story of an actual occurrence at Wide Canyon)
Standing grimly, dark mouth yawning;
Stretching far 'neath mountain's crest;
Days are marked by no bright dawning
Where the tunnel hides its breast.
Timbers large, great rocks upholding,
Steel and crown bars keyed and blocked;
Wedge and foot blocks hold unfolding,
Myst'ries Mother Earth has locked.
But as Nature, in great fury
At the secrets from her torn,
Manmade structures break and crumble;
Of their strength she shows her scorn.
Creak! Snap! Shouts! A roar! A grinding!
Dust and ground stench fill the air!
Strong men flee! A safe place finding,
From the dangers hidden there!
Lights are gone! The darkness smothers!
Matches flicker through the haze!
Names are called! Each thinks of others
As they stagger from the maze!
One man missing? Tom McColgan
Is he caught beneath that fall?
Was poor Tom buried as he ran?
Surely they could hear him call!
But at last there comes faint tapping,
From that fallen mass of ground!
Listen closely! Hear that rapping?
That's old Tom a moving 'round!
For Dame Nature, through some error,
Left a place for Tom to hide!
And though he was weak with terror,
Soon he crawled to the outside.
But this story has an ending,
Different far from one you've read,
With a cheerful color lending
To a tale of fearsome dread.
Tom lay dreaming of a cave-in,
In the quiet of his room,
When into his mind sub-conscious,
Came the rending crack of doom!
Slipped to floor from bedclothes, groaning;
Crawling there on hands and knees;
Frightened! Searching! Feeling! Moaning!
Lost in dreamland's mysteries.
Craw led three times 'tween chairs and table,
Bumped his head against the trunk!
Blindly searched for light or cable;
Even crawled beneath the bunk!
Found a hammer near the doorway,
Crashed his way through plaster wall!
And at last emerged in safety
In the dormitory hall!
THE HONOR ROLL
Here’s a toast to the army that built it,
To workers from river to town,
To the men and even the women
Who toiled, caring naught for renown.
To the men who were called foolish dreamers,
Or men who climbed mountains and vales
And traveled the drear, desert spaces,
0’er lonely and seldom trod trails.
To the supers, the walkers and shifters
Who urged as the battle was fought.
To the men who toiled in the headings,
To danger ne’er giving a thought.
To the draftsmen who just drew the pictures,
Or totaled the costs day by day;
To the men who planned and directed
The job as it moved on its way.
To the boys who pushed only the mucksticks;
To the crews who dished out the chuck;
To the men who kept the wheels rolling
In tunnels, in power house and truck.
To the men suff’ring pain, hurt or maiming;
Long hours behind hospital walls.
To the whiteclad doctors and nurses
Who eased other’s pain in their calls.
And a pause in the toast we are drinking,
With a prayer for pals who are gone,
That The Great Master Workman in Heav’n
Pays well for the job they have done!
SONG OF THE SHIFTER
Hustle the mucking! Come on with those cars!
Bar down! Lay the track! Get up the crownbars!
Bring in the jumbo! Set timbers and lag!
Airhose and water! Don’t let the job drag!
Machines on the crossbars! Tighten the clamps!
Get started drilling or we will be tramps!
Pull in that machine! Don’t break out too far!
Hurry up, Johnny! Who’s first off the bar?
Get hold of that blowpipe! Look out for the muck!
Move those lights back! Load dull steel on the truck!
Bring in the powder and tamp sticks and load!
Tie on the bus wires! Get out of the road!
Roll out with the jumbo! Lower the wings!
Not much to do—just a million odd things!
Plug in the cable and turn on the juice!
Hold tight a second until she cuts loose!
How goes the hour? Just a quarter past ten?
Get going, boys! Do it over again!
Back to the heading through smoke and the muck;
The best crew of men to drill and tend chuck!
I’ll push you and cuss, but you know the game!
Hurry and hustle! Each shift it’s the same!
We’ll show those Hoosiers and dumb scissor bills
How to drive tunnels ‘neath mountains and hills!
TEAMWORK ON THE AQUEDUCT
(The Miner’s Viewpoint.)
“Say, there ain’t much use in talkin’,”
Said the Gunner to the boss,
“Them engineers is nu’sances
An’ they sure would be a loss
If they had to drive a headin’
With a transit an’ a rod.”
“Guess we know which way we’re goin’,
Jest a candle an’ a sight;
We know when track ain’t level,
When the tunnel, it is tight
Without no guy in fancy pants
A measurin’ with a rod.”
“They jest stand around in bunches
With their pencils an’ it’s great,
How they tells us guys that knows how
How to drive the tunnels straight,
When they peek an’ point their fingers
Through a transit at a rod,”
(The Engineer’s Idea.)
“There are sometimes when I wonder ,”
Said the lanky engineer,
“Why those guys up in the headings
Have a job and labor here.
For they sure have missed their calling
Driving tunnel on a line.”
“If it wasn’t for my transit,
And me shooting line and grade,
They would wander through the mountains
Here and there without my aid,
And they’d pass the other heading
Somewhere east or west of here.”
“But with level and with transit
And a backsight and a rod,
I strive to keep the tunnel straight
I’m a sort of human god.
But it keeps our pencils busy
Helping miners hold their jobs.”
MONUMENTS
His monument stands in a city’s square,
Where the thousands who pass may read
Of a fortune made in the marts of trade
Or of wartimes’ valorous deed.
And the world is told of the great man’s worth,
As on brass is his graven name;
While the marble, fair, will long years stand there
As a mark of a great man’s fame.
My monument stands in the hills, away
From the rush of the speeding throng.
There are few who care as they wander there,
Of years that were weary and long.
But with pride I toiled in the tunnels, where
Hidden deep from the sight of man,
A battle was fought, a victory bought”
By those of that laboring clan.
And what has been cast through decades will last,
And I’ll know when my day is done,
My work there will tell that I builded well,
Though my name is not in its stone.
And monument fair, in the city’s square
Is worthless by mine it does seem,
While God’s blessings pour through the mountain’s bore
Each day in a thirst quenching stream.
EASY MONEY!
(Jack Hill’s Rule For Digging Holes.)
Here’s a tale for the sons of old Erin,
Who have made the world brighter by far,
With the bits of their wit an’ their darin’
Than it could be from moonlight an’ star.
‘Twas a brave broth o’ man with the riggin’
Of a lineman with irons an’ straps,
By a bit of a hole he was diggin’
With a groundman’s mucksticks an’ his traps.
With a quirk of a smile said old “Top Deck,”
As he turned with a query to Jack,
“I’ll wager two bucks from my paycheck
I’ve a nut here that you cannot crack! “
“You’ve traveled the world! Learned the lineman’s game!
And you’ve clambered up many a pole;
But here is the bet! That you cannot name
The easy foot to dig of a hole! “
Just a split second Jack scratched at his pate,
Then he grinned with an Irishman’s might.
“Be Jabers! I’m thinkin’ ye’re badly bate!
If ye’ve dug holes ye’ll .know I’m dead right! “
“The top six inches av a hole is play
An’ I stop when the diggin’ gets tough;
Look down at the last six inches an’ say
‘Hell! Let ‘er go! She’s down dape enough!’ “
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEM
Two men came out to the job one day,
Both signed on at the same rate of pay;
Each was started at similar work,
Not hard enough for either to shirk.
Dick was a husky chap, so was Tim;
Able to work with vigor and vim.
Tim dug in with a swing and a lift,
Hustled his work throughout the whole shift,
Whistled a tune as the hours crawled by,
No task was set that he would not try.
Always took pride in a job well done,
Even worked harder if left alone.
Dick was a loafer; hated to toil;
Dodged any task where fingers could soil.
Spent half his time watching the boss.
Moved so slowly they thought he’d grow moss.
Ev’ry ten minutes looked at his watch,
Stalled along making good work a botch.
First in the mess hall; loudest to grieve;
Last on the job but first one to leave.
Talked of everything under the sun;
T old the world how the job should be run.
Strong to complain and wail at his plight;
Criticized men who tried to do right.
Tim climbed the ladder, earning more pay.
Dick drew a timecheck, went on his way.
These chaps you’ve seen, rubbed elbows with them;
With lessons taught by each of these men.
Work and hustle throughout the whole day;
It’s pluck, not luck, that gauges your pay!
From "THE AQUEDUCT"
Copyright 1936 by
Charles Francis Thomas, Jr. 1885 - 1973
Berdoo Camp, California
My Grandfather worked underground, owning a coal mine in Colorado for awhile, as a superintendent on the Aqueduct, Hoover, Coulee and other dams and diversion tunnels and tunneling and Reclamation projects. He worked most the time for our Government but I feel his heart was always with those doing the dirty work and was never above getting into the “muck” himself. He was also a poet and here are some of his miner's poems from his book, “THE AQUEDUCT”.
