Why sweet slumber now disturbing,
Why break ye the midnight peace,
Why the sons of toil perturbing,
Have their hours of rest to cease ?
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The twinkling stars, through night shade peering,
Blink above with heavenly light
On the sleeping world, as a voice calls clear,
In the stilly air of the sable night.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The collier sleeps, e'en now he's dreaming
Of a pure bright world and loved ones there,
He basks in the rays of fortune beaming
In some far land, full and fair.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Dream on, thou poor and ill-used collier,
For slaves should aye have visions bright,
There's one above who deems thee holier
Than the wealthiest in his sight.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Speed, thee, old man, let him slumber
When happy thoughts are in his breast;
Why should the world his peace encumber?
Go, let the weary collier rest.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Why break ye the midnight peace,
Why the sons of toil perturbing,
Have their hours of rest to cease ?
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The twinkling stars, through night shade peering,
Blink above with heavenly light
On the sleeping world, as a voice calls clear,
In the stilly air of the sable night.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
The collier sleeps, e'en now he's dreaming
Of a pure bright world and loved ones there,
He basks in the rays of fortune beaming
In some far land, full and fair.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Dream on, thou poor and ill-used collier,
For slaves should aye have visions bright,
There's one above who deems thee holier
Than the wealthiest in his sight.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
Speed, thee, old man, let him slumber
When happy thoughts are in his breast;
Why should the world his peace encumber?
Go, let the weary collier rest.
Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.
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