The morning star doth purple grow . . .
The morning star doth pallid grow . . .
—Misery! oh, misery!
The hills are bare, the frost below,
And stiff as bronze the frost below!
—Misery! oh, misery!
How grimly bends he o er his hoe,
And tears and trenches with his hoe,
That digger, a dark phantom he!
He digs and digs from dawn of day
Until the stroke of middle day . . .
—Misery! oh, misery!
Then standing, sadly sets to pray,
Upon the lonely slope to pray,
—Misery! oh, misery!
And putting down his hoe to say
"Hail Mary!" silently to say,
That digger, a dark phantom he!
He digs the savage mountainside,
From dawn to even, the mountainside . . .
—Misery! oh, misery!
And with some broth Thou dost requite
Him, God! and with six bairns requite,
—Misery! oh, misery!
The Angelus rings through the night,
"Blessed be Thou, Heavenly Sire, this night!"
The digger cries, a phantom he!
