Oh, I like to list to the wielded pick As it strikes against the stone, For the rhythm of song is in every click And sweet is its metal tone, And sweet is its metal tone. Oh, it sings a song of labor and toil, Of sinew and sturdy brawn, Of the human ants who struggle and moil Like slaves from the early dawn, Like slaves from the early dawn. Oh, it tells of things that are soon to be, Of conflicts great and small, Oh it tells of life and its dignity And the future for us all, And the future for us all. Oh, it's two sharp tines rend the earth in twain, And they point the way to gold, Were everything lost then the pick again Would restore a hundred fold, Would restore a hundred fold. Oh, I like to list to the wielded pick As it strikes against the stone, For the rhythm of song is in every click And sweet is its metal tone, And sweet is its metal tone. |