" The clay was on his boots, my friends,
And moleskins patched and old,
From the last shaft he sank by night
For water or for gold.

" The dust was on his shirt, my friends,
And in his beard and hair,
From the hot white road he tramped to town
To work for wages there.

" His miner's right was on the shelf,
The mortgage in the bank;
His man's Right with the Sons of God! —
His rating and his rank.

" The glaze was in his eyes, my friends,
And the death dew on his brow;
And the life was choking in his throat —
I think I hear it now!

" Slow death was at his heart long years
Before his eyes grew dim;
And the Red Tape round his neck, my friends,
That helped to strangle him. "