The Ruination of Botallack

In Cornwall fair there lies some lonely stacks Of rocks and bricks and mortar out at sea. An engine house pow'ring the tin mine lacks In completeness. The earth holding its scree Dives from the land of tin and pasty fame And into sea a darkest shade of blue. Rocks of Botallack look to us in shame. I turn my back and bid the mine adieu But only to obtain my camera And capture the ruins of despair. My brain drinks this mine's old ephemera And breathes the antique salty Cornish air. Apollo's light then turns great hues of red As I leave the old mine's ruins for dead.