Ye olde bent coppers
tarnished and spent
on spirits and in steam-shops
wherever men went;
once jingled like hope
in pockets so deep
and on plates in trust
that as we sow; so shall we reap

The sweat of our toils
soaking the hairs of our brow
slick and set like an oil
and earning these wages somehow.
Thickly crusted and darkened soot
in the skin of time upon the face
and washed away the youthful good
leaving their tired marks in place

Now we scan the murky streams
that hold our yellowed, forgotten dreams
Now we light the gaslight tree
and speak of things we no longer see
From gnarled hands worked and worn
to little fingers not far from born
we pass the torch before we face the rift
and bestow to them our copper gifts.