The following stanzas are taken from
Rhymes from Cornwall, by the author of
The Yale of Lanherne, recently published in London :--
'Tis his to find the glittering ore,
For ages hid in earth's dark womb ;
To creep and climb, and dig and bore,
And build himself a living tomb,
Some six feet high, some four feet wide,
And reached o'er depths that few would stride.
If England's Church is for the poor,
The miner scarcely knows the way ;
His chapel seen on every moor
From Hingston Down to far Cairn Brea ;
Built by his own and comrades' hands,
The plain and lowly temple stands.
What's more, he both can pray and preach ;
It was Saint Wesley told him how ;
His voice is strong, and plain his speech,
His style not graceful, I allow ;
Much like the manner it may be
Of the poor folk at Galilee.
He takes his text from the same book
As the great lawn sleeved doctors read ;
A shepherd, but without the crook,
His sheep are sometimes wild indeed ;
The outcast often of the poor,
Too shabby for a Gothic door.
When his work's ended, and he dies.
Much short of three score years and ten,
Hundreds, with honest tears and sighs,
Will gather-- maidens, mothers, men ;
And as his toil-worn limbs they bring,
They sing the hymns he loved to sing.
But I've not done with him as yet ;
He or his seed is in all lands ;
His hand the Chilian ores must get ;
On Chimborano's range he stands ;
Tells where a Cornishman takes hold.
His arm is strong, though spare his form.
His eye is clear, though pale his cheek ;
If cold his hand, his heart is warm--
To find like his you far must seek ;
Should he get rich in other zones,
To Cornwall he brings back his bones.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Newcastle Chronicle 29 Jun 1871 p. 4.
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