The quarry men of long ago <br />Within the mines of Portland isle, <br />Who split the rock with wedge and scale <br />And swung their hammers down, <br />Time again with all their might <br />Until the stone was cut in two, <br />Then whisked away to build the world <br />When shipped from this old town. <br /> <br />Chink a chink the quarry sound <br />The ringing echoed through the air, <br />The toil of men so greatly skilled <br />Who grafted every day, <br />With honest sweat upon each brow <br />Their brawny arms and calloused hands, <br />Were hardened from their labours yet <br />They earned so little pay. <br /> <br />Chink a chink from dawn till dusk <br />They chiseled through the limey seam, <br />A band of brothers side by side <br />Each one a trusted friend, <br />Their skills were passed on down the line <br />For fathers taught their sons the trade, <br />Their sons did teach their sons the same <br />Until the work did end. <br /> <br />For times have changed in Portland now <br />So few survived to show the way, <br />How things were done before machines <br />Replaced the workers there, <br />The fruits of which adorn the lands <br />And grace the towns and cities far, <br />Across the seas this stone be found <br />Those epitaphs we share. <br /> <br />24/07/08<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/portland-stone/
