Whispers of ancients buried by dust,   Echoes of ages in canyons of rust,   Is heaven so lonely? I'll know soon enough      Cold as the clay, dark as a mine,   Wasting away blood, sweat, and grime   Panning for gold, picking for dimes, lying in wait for better times      The tools of the trade lie shopworn and old   The skills of the master done died with his soul   And the worklike routine is so lonely and cold      Cold as the clay, dark as the mine,   Wasting away, blood, sweat and grime,   Panning for gold, picking for dimes, lying in wait for better times      The land was converted, the river was moved,   The village expanded, some say it's improved,   But the lingering feature is a grim attitude      Cold as the clay, dark as the mine,   Wasting away, blood, sweat and grime,   Panning for gold, picking for dimes, lying in wait for better times