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It’s Christmas on the mountain,
It’s getting very cold
I often wonder what it was like,
In the days of old
The jingle bells that were heard
Belonged to the mules
Gee haw, was the loud cry
The crack of the whip, the muleskinners controlling tool
Up and down the Yellow Grade
The dust would most oft fly
The wagons left with silver and lead ore
Back with rum and rye
Produce from the farms down south
Also brought to town
Miners happy and full
Smelter fires kept burning, blue skies turning smoky brown
Belshaw, Beaudry, Nadeau too
Took in the most wealth
Hard working the miner made enough
Barely kept his health
The money that was not lost
In the old saloon
Squandered on Lola’s girls
Short moments of pleasure, dingy cribs lit by the moon
The hotels had beds to rent
Twelve hours at a time
No wonder the newspapers oft said
It’s Man for breakfast crime
Violence ruled the old Fat Hill
Bold headlines out cried
Tired lone miner men
Playing hard after their mine shift, tempers flared some of them
died
From this desert mountain town
A quiet pueblo grew
Metropolis got bigger than life
Few men from then knew
Big city Christmas glistens
To spill over with excess
Cerro Gordo mountaintop
Spirits blowing with the wind, a ghost town in distress.
I long for this mountain top
Its quiet solitude
To linger with the spirits
Please don’t think me rude
Christmas on the mountaintop
Miner’s ghosts from days of yore
I hear their voices singing
Peace on earth, good will, Merry Christmas and so much more…
Historic black and white
photos of Cerro Gordo from the L. D. Gordon Collection, courtesy
Doug Gordon. |
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