This is an original. Enjoy!

Miners, diggin out the graves
Home of the golden bodies, might be saints
cause even saints die too
yeah even saints die too

Pick axe in hand, pick at the dirt
searching for a meaning in this clump of earth
cause even beggars search
yeah even beggars search

come summer breeze, come winter chill
Bury me at Butcher Hill

Native Tribe hold up the wagon train
Brown man try to stop the white man gain
but the ground is red
yeah the ground is red

Lines are crossed, and so is trust
for speckles of gold, for pieces of rust
ere we turn to dust
before we turn to dust

come summer breeze, come winter chill
Bury me at Butcher Hill

[bridge break]
Lighting and thunder shake the earth tonight
gravediggers and assailants flee at the sight
rain wash the graves towards the light
there's no sinning here tonight
Static charge, spark the flame of Hell
Burn the crops and burning us farewell
ring the crisis call, the fire bell
before God's spark sends us all to hell

Not all is lost, not all is for gone
There sits a little boy, pale and wan
he remembers the day, the world went gone
he remembers when his world became gone

come summer breeze, come winter chill
Bury me at Butcher Hill (less info)