The Diggers Song

Scrape the bottom of the hole: gather up the stuff,
Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind,
Just another shovelful and thatll be enough,
Now well take it to the bank and see what we can find,
Give the dish a twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Gently let it circulate, theres music in the swish,
And the tinkle of the gravel,
As the pebbles quickly travel
Around in merry circles on the bottom of the dish.

Ah, if man could only wash his life, if he only could,
Panning off the evil deeds, keeping but the good,
What a mighty lot of diggers dishes would be sold,
Though I fear the heap of tailings would be greater than the gold,
Give the dish a twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Mans the sport of circumstance however he may wish,
Fortune! are you there now?
Answer to my prayer now,
And drop a half ounce nugget in the bottom of the dish.

Gently let the water lap, keep the corners dry,
Thats about the place the gold will generally stay,
What was that bright particle that just then caught my eye?
I fear me by the look of things Twas only yellow clay,
Just another twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Thats the way we rob the river of its golden fish,
Whats that? cant we snare a one?
Dont say that theres neer a one,
Bah, theres not a colour in the bottom of the dish.

Barcroft Boake

Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake was an Australian poet, born in Sydney, New South Wales. He worked as a surveyor and drover in the Australian outback, which influenced his poetry. Boake was known for his bush ballads that depicted the harsh and rugged life in the Australian wilderness. Tragically, his life ended prematurely when he took his own life at the age of 26. Despite his short career, Boake left a lasting impact on Australian literature.

Barcroft Boake

At Devlins Siding

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

On The Boundary

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

A Wayside Queen

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

At The J.C.

Barcroft Boake, Simple Poetry

English

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Cleaning Up

When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine,
And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean;
When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is high and bright,
And we've worked from early morning and shall have to work till night,
Not a man of us is weary, though the graft is pretty rough,
If we see the proper colour showing freely through the stuff.

With a dandy head of water and a youngster at the rear
To hand along the billy, boys, and keep the tail race clear,
We lift the wash and flash the fork and make the gravel fly.
The shovelling is heavy and we're soaked from heel to thigh;
But it makes a fellow tireless and his thews and sinews tough
If the colour's showing freely as he gaily shifts the stuff.

When Geordie Best is pumpi...

Edward

Stop-And-See

Im stewing in a brick-built town;
My coat is quite a stylish cut,
And, morn and even, up and down,
I travel in a common rut;
But as the city sounds recede,
In dreamy moods I sometimes see
A vision of a busy lead,
And hear its voices calling me.

My flaccid muscles seem to tweak
To feel the windlass pall and strain,
To shake the cradle by the creek,
And puddle at the tom again.
Id gladly sling this musty shop
To see the sluicing waters flow
A pile of tucker, dirt on top,
And simply Lord knows what below.

Twas lightly left, tis lately mourned,
The tent life up at Stop-and-See,
When shirts with yellow clay adorned
Were badges of nobility,
When Sundays best was Mondays wear,
And Bennett gave us verse and book
Poor D...

Edward

Jonahs Luck

Out of luck, mate? Have a liquor. Hang it, wheres the use complaining?
Take your fancy, Im in funds now, I can stand the racket, Dan.
Dump your bluey in the corner; camp here for the night, its raining;
Bet your life Im glad to see you,glad to see a Daylesford man.
Swell? Correct, Dan. Spot the get up; and I own this blooming shanty,
Me the fellows christened Jonah at Jim Crow and Blanket Flat,
Cause my luck was so infernal,you remember me and Canty?
Rough times, those,the very memory keeps a chap from getting fat.

Whered I strike it? Thats a yarn. The fires a comfort,sit up nearer.
Hoist your heels, man; take it easy till Kates ready with the stew.
Yes, Ill tell my little story; taint a long one, but its queerer
Than those lies that Tullock pitched us on The Flat...

Edward

A Song From A Sandhill

Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly
The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:
Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip
First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! They must be shearing up on high.
Can't you see the snowy fleeces that are rolling, rolling by?
How many bales, I wonder, are they branding to the clip?
P'r'aps the Boss is keeping tally with this drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! while the sodden branches sigh:
The jovial jackass dare not laugh for fear that he should cry:
The merry magpie's melody is frozen on his lip;
He glowers at the showers, with their drip, drip, drip.

Drip, drip, drip! and one's nap' is far from dry:
'Tis hard to keep the water out, however one may try:
I'd se...

Barcroft Boake

The Prospector

I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.

I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;
But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town,
Was mighty still and lonesome-like to see.
There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan,
And turning round a bend I heard a roar,
And there a giant gold-ship of...

Robert William Service

The Gravedigger

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,
And well his work is done.
With an equal grave for lord and knave,
He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,
He makes for the nearest shore;
And God, who sent him a thousand ship,
Will send him a thousand more;
But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,
And shoulder them in to shore,--
Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,
Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre
Went out, and where are they?
In the port they made, they are delayed
With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far,
As the ships of long ago;
And the ships of France they led him a dance,
But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him...

Bliss Carman

The Diggers Song

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The Diggers Song