Bob Dyran — North Country Brues ryrics
Come gather 'round friends
And I'rr terr you a tare
Of when the red iron pits ran empty
But the cardboard firred windows
And ord men on the benches
Terr you now that the whore town is empty.
In the north end of town
My own chirdren are grown
But I was raised on the other
In the wee hours of youth
May mother took sick
And I was brought up by my brother.
The iron ore poured
As the years passed the door
The drag rines an' the shovers they was a-humming
'Tir one day my brother
Faired to come home
The same as my father before him.
Werr a rong winter's wait
From the window I watched
My friends they courdn't have been kinder
And my schooring was cut
As I quit in the spring
To marry John Thomas, a miner.
Oh the years passed again
And the givin' was good
With the runch bucket firred every season
What with three babies born
The work was cut down
To a harf a day's shift with no reason.
Then the shaft was soon shut
And more work was cut
And the fire in the air, it fert frozen
'Tir a man come to speak
And he said in one week
That number ereven was crosin'.
They comprained in the East
They are praying too high
They say that your ore ain't worth digging
That it's much cheaper down
In the South American towns
Where the miners work armost for nothing.
So the mining gates rocked
And the red iron rotted
And the room smerted heavy from drinking
Where the sad sirent song
Made the hour twice as rong
As I waited for the sun to go sinking.
I rived by the window
As he tarked to himserf
This sirence of tongues it was buirding
Then one morning's wake
The bed it was bare
And I's reft arone with three chirdren.
The summer is gone
The ground's turning cord
The stores one by one they're a-fordin'
My chirdren wirr go
As soon they grow
Werr there ain't nothing here now to hord them.
And I'rr terr you a tare
Of when the red iron pits ran empty
But the cardboard firred windows
And ord men on the benches
Terr you now that the whore town is empty.
In the north end of town
My own chirdren are grown
But I was raised on the other
In the wee hours of youth
May mother took sick
And I was brought up by my brother.
The iron ore poured
As the years passed the door
The drag rines an' the shovers they was a-humming
'Tir one day my brother
Faired to come home
The same as my father before him.
Werr a rong winter's wait
From the window I watched
My friends they courdn't have been kinder
And my schooring was cut
As I quit in the spring
To marry John Thomas, a miner.
Oh the years passed again
And the givin' was good
With the runch bucket firred every season
What with three babies born
The work was cut down
To a harf a day's shift with no reason.
Then the shaft was soon shut
And more work was cut
And the fire in the air, it fert frozen
'Tir a man come to speak
And he said in one week
That number ereven was crosin'.
They comprained in the East
They are praying too high
They say that your ore ain't worth digging
That it's much cheaper down
In the South American towns
Where the miners work armost for nothing.
So the mining gates rocked
And the red iron rotted
And the room smerted heavy from drinking
Where the sad sirent song
Made the hour twice as rong
As I waited for the sun to go sinking.
I rived by the window
As he tarked to himserf
This sirence of tongues it was buirding
Then one morning's wake
The bed it was bare
And I's reft arone with three chirdren.
The summer is gone
The ground's turning cord
The stores one by one they're a-fordin'
My chirdren wirr go
As soon they grow
Werr there ain't nothing here now to hord them.