SELECT POETRY.

Mount Ida Chronicle, Volume II, Issue 141, 10 November 1871, Page 6

SELECT POETRY.

THE SONG OF THE PICK. * With hands that were horny and hard, And finger-nails worn to the quick, A digger stood up to his ankles in wet Plying his shovel and pick. Dig, dig, dig- - Till arms and shoulders ache ; And still as the gravel and water ran by He sang the "Song of the Pick." . Sand and gravel and stones— Stones and gravel and sand—'Twas surely a sad mistake that he mad* When he left his native land. Dig, dig, digBy morning's dawning light; And dig, dig, dig, Till the stars appear at night. v The speck are floaters and few, And they shine on the reef that's bare ; And they make one think of an ounce or two When a pennyweight's all that's there. Dig, dig, digIn rags and rough attire ; With chilblains wrapp'd in a leaky boot. Like patches of latent fire. J Oh ! shanties with whisky and rum ; Oh ! butchers with bullocks and meat j From whence do you think the money's to come To pay for the things we eat ? Spade and shovel And pick, Pick and shovel and spade, Till the brain, confused by the arm so quick* Oft lags to lend its aid. Cold and frost and snow, Sunshine, wind and rain— I take them just as they come or go, And grin if they give me pain. The hut that I live in Is of sod and mud and thatch, The hearth is cold and the blankets thin,. An the door has got no latch. * Dig, dig, dig, Deep in the bowels of earth, Uutil one be unconsciously digging hit grave, Unwept in the land of his birth. Barrows and boxes and hose, Tailings and forking and wash ; Oh ! for a nugget as big as a goose Made into convertible cash. This digging is lonely and drear, And there's nothing to love that I see, But what is harder by far to bear — | There's nothing that loveth me. 'Tis said that I am fond of drink— But why this truth reveal ? For what care I what others may think. When they know not what I feel. Dig, dig, dig— Oh ! when will this digging end, And I see life with a lighter hsart, And feel more one of mankind ? Where something like pleasure shall be, With the beautiful, good and true ; And the days and years that pass over ma Shall record some good that I do. The links of young friendship are broke, And a gulf seems yawning between ; And the shades of the past but glimmer and mock As they conjure up things that have been. My neighbors are good in a way, But what do they know of me More than that I am red, or black or grey, Just as the case may be. Dig, dig, digIn poverty, pride, and debt, Till lingering hope, so long deferred, Lies crushed by the ban of fate. Till day by day the world recedes, And my life seems like a dream—Where I stand alone in a garden of weeds And not a sweet flower to be seen. Rush water, and tumble and roar, You are dirty and turbid I ween, But soon you may reach some shingly shore. That will filter and make you clean. E'er the shovel and pick came near You were clear and limpid then, And nothing disturbed thy peaceful career But the rat and the Maori hen. Dig, dig. digIn gully, and terrace, and hill; And dig everywhere for a little gold, Out of novelty, need or will. For gold that so few can find— And when found that so few can keep— A curse to the many in morals in mind, Who sow what they bitterly reap. Dig, dig, digSure the Devil a digger must be, Or why should so few be bettered thereby, And so many be cursed like me ? But 'tis folly to grumble at fate— I'm but one of the human race— Who knows but the pick and shovel yet May some blighter prospects trace ?