These lusty lyrics are meant to be sort of a tongue -in -cheek
song poking fun at the coal mine operator.
As workers will do in any trade,
the coal miner with a sense of humor
looks on the operator as
the only one
who could possibly cause him to
roll his own cigarettes from sack to backer
instead of having the money
to buy a pack of ready
-made cigarettes.
So he cheerfully criticizes flickers,
or script as some people say,
issued against his company store credit.
And in fun feels secure
that the operator
can't never take his debts away from him no matter what. So he invites the rollicking,
rowdy rounders
to bring along their favorite beverage
and drink a hearty toast
to the man who operates
the mine.
Oh, bring along your homebrew,
boys, bring along your wine
We'll all get drunk in honor
of the man who operates the mines
Well, here's to the operator,
boys,
may heaven be his home
He took our tailor -made cigarettes
and he made us rule our
own
On the silver money of the government
It says in God we trust
On the flickers we draw
at the company stores
Wrote in me you bust
Well here's to the operator boys
May heaven be his home
He took our tailor -made cigarettes
And he made us roll our own
I never did like them homemade
cigarettes
He owns the scales
where the coal is weighed
He owns our house and home
But here's one thing he'll never get
Our debts are all our own
Well, here's to the operator, boys
May heaven be his home
He took our tailor -made cigarettes
And he made us roll our own
Well, a salmon grows on
a salmon tree,
the melon on the vines,
And a miner's kid grows on the credit,
her paw gets at the mines.
Well, here's to the operator,
boys,
may heaven be his home,
He took our tailor -made cigarettes
and he made us roll our own.
Hey, here's to the operator, boys,
may heaven be his home,
He took our tailor -made ci garettes
and he made us roll our own.
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