To The Men Of The Mines

WE SPECKED as boys o’er worked-out ground

    By littered fiat and muddy stream,

We watched the whim horse trudging round,

    And rode upon the circling beam,

Within the old uproarious mill

    Fed mad, insatiable stamps,

Mined peaceful gorge and gusty hill

With pan, and pick, and gad, and drill,

    And knew the stir of sudden camps.

By yellow dams in summer days

    We puddled at the tom; for weeks

Went seeking up the tortuous ways

    Of gullies deep and hidden creeks.

We worked the shallow leads in style,

    And hunted fortune down the drives,

And missed her, mostly by a mile—

Once by a yard or so. The while

    We lived untrammelled, easy lives.

Through blazing days upon the brace

    We laboured, and when night had passed

Beheld the glory and the grace

    Of wondrous dawns in bushlands vast.

We heard the burdened timbers groan

    In deep mines murmurous as the seas

On long, lone shores by drear winds blown.

We’ve seen heroic deeds, and known

    The digger’s joys and tragedies.

I write in rhyme of all these things,

    With little skill, perhaps, but you,

To whom each tale a memory brings

    Of bygone days, will know them true.

Should mates who’ve worked in stope and face,

    Who’ve trenched the hill and swirled the dish,

Or toiled upon the plat and brace,

Find pleasure in the lines I trace,

    No better welcome could I wish.