As the morning mist rolls over cape chapeau rouge,
Young miners with lunch tins go down with the crews,
To a damp, dusty dungeon to earn a day's pay,
They're the men who die for a living.
Well, they follow the iron springs to the bowels of the mine,
With their oilskins and hammers where the sun never shines;
With stone all around them and death in the air,
They're the men who die for a living.
Well, abraham pike was the first one to go,
Then davey and rennie, augustin and joe;
Like the leaves they are falling, but the others still go,
They're the men who die for a living.
Well, the mines they are gone, but the sadness remains,
For the widows and children who must bear the pain;
And their names they are written in stone on the hill,
All the men who die for a living.
All the men who die for a living.
