Michael Conway

Oh me name is Michael Conway, in old Ireland I was born
 Near the lake of Cloonacolly on a bright summer's morn
 But soon came cruel winter to break and scatter my poor home
 Soon came the harsh day that forced me to roam.
 Well I reached bold Philadelphia in the brave land of the free
 Where I met with my two brothers; There was Pat, James, then me
 We were destined for the rich land, fate owes us all from birth
 We were bound for Butte, Montana, the richest hill on earth
 Where their pockets they bulge heavy, when copper's running high
 Where the hill rewards her brave sons, it's fortune or die
 Where they tread on silver dollars on the crowded barroom floor
 While they strip the granite mountain of her precious copper ore.
 Well we leaped down off that steam train, and stepped out into the yellow
 mist
 With holes still in our hearts then, and a fight in either fist
 No kind face to lead us up to where the dirty smelter spat
 And it's there I took to hard labor as a Butte mining rat
 Where we trade the hours of daylight for the smell of copper ore,
 Where it's whiskey and the cow pats to cure our copper sores
 Where half the town it labors while the other half it sleeps
 Where upon the granite mountain, a mile high and deep.
 Oh they know me down in Dogtown, bare knuckle I would go
 For there's not a man could best me while standing toe to toe
 But I defied the crooked sheriff, for I wouldn't throw his fight away
 He should have laid it on at 5 to 2, and backed the bold Conway
 I was lifted in Con Peoples, with the beer and music flowing free
 Where my brothers had just left me, Oh bad fortune for me
 Dragged out by crooked cowards, their batons knocked me off my feet
 And they left me to die there, like a dog in the street.
 Far from the Anaconda, the mine with seven stacks
 Far from the ashen faces of young men with crooked backs
 Far from the granite mountain and the dusty grave in which I lie
 My spirit chases starlings 'round a clear Mayo sky.