The Caller

Why sweet slumber now disturbing,
Why break ya the midnight peace,
Why the sons of toil perturbing
Have their hours of rest to ceease?

Chorus-
Ho! Marrows 'tis the Caller cries,
And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.

The twinkling starts, thro' 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.

The collier sleeps e'en now he's dreaming
Of a pure, birght world, and lov'd ones there;
He basks in the rays of fortune beaming.
In some far land full and fair,

Dream on thou poor and ill-used collier,
For slaves may have visions bright;
There's One above who deems the holier
Than the wealthiest, in His sight.

Spped 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!