THE SONG OF THE DRIED UP DIGGER.

Westport Times, Volume V, Issue 790, 18 March 1871, Page 3

THE SONG OF THE DRIED UP DIGGER.

A CHARLESTON LAY.

[ ! watched a digger as lie sat, And gazed with mournful visiou at The sandy bed of Darkie's Creek. jji3 sunken eye and hollow cheek Seemed never to have known a smile, And many a, bitter sigh the while, That plainly show'd a mind distressed, Came heaving from his troubled breast. His careworn look seem'd never lit Withjoyous rays of hope, that flit Like sunbeams o'er the happy face, Where sorrow has not left a trace. Ko, no, the gnawing hand of caro Kept carving deep, grim furrows there ! For ever, as he turned his eye rjp to the blue unclouded sky, Came forth a most heartrending sigh, That wakened all my sympathy. I listened, curious to know The cause of such deep seated woe, And heard him breathe the name of Haines, And then in piteous, dismal strains, That scattered gloom the creek along, ■He croned this melancholy song : Alas! the reservoir is dry, And luck, that once on mo did beam, Shall bless no move, with kindly eye, A victim of that water scheme. For never can my eyes behold. While Billy Muggins is my name, The pile of precious yellow gold That lies unearth'd within my claim. What devil ever could bewitch .My brain to toil sis months and more ? To root out Haines's horrid ditch, And run a heavy tucker score ? When now my hose hangs idly there, Atlown from sun-crack'd rotten flume, And adds new p&sgs to my despair, For oh! it tells the water's doom, Alas i is there no other hope To cheer me in my hour of need ? Is nothing left me but to slope From trusting men who stood the feed ? Will no kind deluge come, and swamp Me out of this infernal woe ; And save- me from the dismal Camp, By letting Haines's water flow ? The woes of thirsty Tantalus, Who, doom'd to fire for his misdeeds, •Sees fruits, and drinks delicious, Which ever from his grasp recede, Are such as madden now my breast, And set my very soul aflame, Whene'er I gasre with eye distress'd, Upon my golden sluicing claim. No more these parched flats along. The splashing music greets my ear, No more the stampers cheerful song, Ee-echoing through the woods, I hear ! No longer by the sandy creek, The tailing washer's form I see ! lie's left his " fly catchers," to seek For moistening comfort in a spree. How blest are they, who still can get Wherewith to cool the burning throat, Who sink their cares in heavy wet, And keep then- jolly souls afloat. On mo a sudden blight has dropp'd, For I can raise no tick in town'; They all know well my water's stop p'd, And greet me with a sullen frown. He ceased his sad and mournful lay, Then rose and slowly took his way, But still that digger's look of care Is fixed upon me everywhere, And often comes to me in dreams And speaks of woe and water schemes.