‘Say, what saw you on the hill,

         Campesino Garcia?’

      ‘I saw my brindled heifer there,

      A trail of bowmen, spent and bare,

      And a little man on a sorrel mare

         Riding slow before them.’

      ‘Say, what saw you in the vale,

         Campesino Garcia?’

      ‘There I saw my lambing ewe

      And an army riding through,

      Thick and brave the pennons flew

         From the lances o’er them.’

      ‘Then what saw you on the hill,

         Campesino Garcia?’

      ‘I saw beside the milking byre,

      White with want and black with mire,

      The little man with eyes afire

         Marshalling his bowmen.’

      ‘Then what saw you in the vale,

         Campesino Garcia?’

      ‘There I saw my bullocks twain,

      And amid my uncut grain

      All the hardy men of Spain

         Spurring for their foemen.’

      ‘Nay, but there is more to tell,

         Campesino Garcia!’

      ‘I could not bide the end to view;

      I had graver things to do

      Tending on the lambing ewe

         Down among the clover.’

      ‘Ah, but tell me what you heard,

         Campesino Garcia!’

      ‘Shouting from the mountain-side,

      Shouting until eventide;

      But it dwindled and it died

         Ere milking time was over.’

      ‘Nay, but saw you nothing more,

         Campesino Garcia?’

      ‘Yes, I saw them lying there,

      The little man and sorrel mare;

      And in their ranks the bowmen fair,

         With their staves before them.’

      ‘And the hardy men of Spain,

         Campesino Garcia?’

      ‘Hush! but we are Spanish too;

      More I may not say to you:

      May God’s benison, like dew,

         Gently settle o’er them.’

      Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,

      Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.

      Stout the bucket and tough the cord,

      Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.

         ‘Never look down!

         Stick to the line!’

      That was the saying at Pennarby mine.

      A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.

      Lord, to see how the miners laughed!

      White in the collar and stiff in the hat,

      With his patent boots and his silk cravat,

         Picking his way,

         Dainty and fine,

      Stepping on tiptoe to Pennarby mine.

      Touring from London, so he said.

      Was it copper they dug for? or gold? or lead?

      Where did they find it?  How did it come?

      If he tried with a shovel might he get some?

         Stooping so much

         Was bad for the spine;

      And wasn’t it warmish in Pennarby mine?

      ’Twas like two worlds that met that day —

      The world of work and the world of play;

      And the grimy lads from the reeking shaft

      Nudged each other and grinned and chaffed.

         ‘Got ’em all out!’

         ‘A cousin of mine!’

      So ran the banter at Pennarby mine.

      And Carnbrae Bob, the Pennarby wit,

      Told him the facts about the pit:

      How they bored the shaft till the brimstone smell

      Warned them off from tapping – well,

         He wouldn’t say what,

         But they took it as sign

      To dig no deeper in Pennarby mine.