“If you want to visit Hell,
To Cornwall you must go.
Up to where they quarry clay,
St. Austell way, you know.

It’s not the pits nor drags and all,
That burn like Satan’s pyre,
But step inside the Pan Kiln,
To taste the lake of fire.

The china clay of Cornwall,
Is the finest in the land.
To quarry is the hardest job,
You’ll ever turn your hand.

From chilly blast of monitor,
To drags and pits forlorn.
You’ll think you’re working on the Moon,
And curse the day you’re born.

Of all the jobs there are to do,
To quarry china clay,
The worst in working in the kiln,
That burns both night and day.

The clay has settled through the night,
To slurry grey as death,
In the kiln it cakes and dries,
And steals your very breath.

The shoes we wore down in the kiln,
Were wooden, metal-clad.
A leather-shod foot in that place,
Would soon be burnt some bad.

The heat it comes up from below,
From fire beneath the floor.
You’ll think that you’re in Hades when,
You hear the furnace roar.

One morning in the winter,
We’d shivered on our way.
Up the pub last evening,
We’d had a lengthy stay.

From singing in the kiddlywink,
Our throats were dry as chalk.
We felt some sick and shaky,
As to the kiln we walked.

As we came in, the Fireman,
Frank Wearne he was by name,
Gave us all the evil eye,
And told us all for shame.

For Frank he was a Methodee,
And hated drink and fun.
I could tell he’d have us all,
Before the day was done.

Even in that burning kiln,
We shivered from the chill.
Trudging up the icy path,
Had made us cold and ill.

Frank, we said, for Heaven’s sake,
Shovel on more coal
What with brandy and the snow,
We’re frozen to our souls.

Before too long we felt it warm,
Which cheered us quite a bit.
It quieted our shaking,
We began to feel quite fit.

But as the day wore on we felt,
Some fevered and oppressed.
It’s got to be the drink, we thought,
Oh, how we missed our guess.

Old Sonny Hale said he smelled smoke,
That smelled like burning gorse.
Geoff Roberts said don’t be an ass,
Frank’s burning trash of course.

But soon we saw some puffs and fumes,
Did waft up from below.
We wondered what the Hell was up,
And which way we should go.

Pascoe looked down at his feet,
And cried “We’ll soon be dead!”
All of us looked down and saw,
Our metal soles glawwed red.

The smoke was from the wooden clogs,
We wore upon our feet.
The floor was glowing from below,
That seared with hellish heat.

We made our way most carefully,
Toward the door outside.
One slip and we would fall and burn
Off all our hair and hide.

Outside the door we steamed and coughed,
Now safe but nearly dead.
There stood Frank Wearne the Fireman,
A-shaking of his head.

He said “I gave you lot a taste,
Of what you’ve got in store.
If you keep drinking down the pub,
You’ll burn forevermore.

The Chapel is the place for you,
I’ll see you Sunday next.
You’ll do your singing in the choir,
And I will read the text.”

Never did we ask again,
For Frank to add more heat.
We were lucky to get off,
With only scalded feet.

And every Sunday morning,
heed the chapel bell,
Since old Frank Wearne the Fireman,
Gave me a taste of Hell.”