THE SONG OF THE PICK.

Tuapeka Times, Volume VIII, Issue 477, 14 July 1875, Page 3

THE SONG OF THE PICK.

Ob the Wail op the Dig&ee.

With hands that were horny and hard, And finger naik 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 water and gravel ran by, He sang the song oi the pick. Sand and gravel and stones — Stones and gravel and clay ; 'Twas surely a great mistake, when his home He left so far away. Dig, dig, dig — from morning's dawning light ; And dig, dig, dig, till the stars appear at night. The specks are floaters and few, And they shine on the reef when bare ; And they make one think of an ounce or two, ! When a penny weight's all that's there. Dig, dig, dig, in rags and rough attire ; With chilblains wrapt in a leaky boot, Like patches of latent fire. O, shanties with whiskey and rum ; O, butcher's with bullocks and meat : — From whence do you think the moneys to ; come, , To pay for the tilings we eat ? Spade and shovel and pick — < Pick and shovel and spade ; Till the brain, confused by the arm so quick, Oft lags to leud its aid. * The house that I live hi, Is of sods and mud and thatch ; The hearth is cold — the blankets thin, And the door has got no latch. ' Cold and frost and snow — Sunshine, wind, and rain ; I take them just as they come or go, And grin when they give mo pain. Dig, dig, dig — deep in the bowels of Earth ; Till one may unconsciouslydig his own grave, . Unwept in the land of his birth. Barrowß and boxes and hose — Tailings and forkings and waah ; Oh, for a nugget as big as a goose, Made into convertible cash ! Oh ! this digging is lone and drear, And there's nothing to love that I see ; But what's harder by far to bear, There's nothing that loveth me. My neighbors are good in a way ; But what do they know of me, More than I am red, or black, orgray, Just as the case may be. Dig, dig, dig ! O, when vjill this digging end, Aiid I see life with a lighter heart, 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 me, Shall record some good that I do ! i The links of young friendship are broke, \ And a gulph seems yawuing between ; And the shndei of the past but glimmer and ' mock, As they conjure up things that have been. No companion who's loving and fair j ] No voice that is tender and sweet ; No whispered encouragement falls ou my ear ; < Nor pattering of little feet. Dig, dig, dig. in poverty, pride, and debt, Till lingering hope, so long deferred, Lies crushed by the ban of fate ; Till day by day Ihe world recedes, And life se6ms like a dream, ( Where I stand alone iv a garden of weeds, And not a sweet flower to be soon. ' Rush water, and tumble and roar, You are turbid and dirty I ween ; . But soon you'll reach some shingly shore, That will filter and make you clean. ' E'er the pick and shovel came near ( You were clear and limpid then, And nothing disturbed your peaceful career, But the rat and the Maori hen. Dig, dig, dig — in gully and terrace and hill j And dig every where for a little gold ( To exchange for a " tucker bill." . For gold that is hard to find, ; And when found is as hard to keep : A curse to many in morals and mind, Who sow what they bitterly reap ! Dig, dig, dig ! Sure the devil a digger must < be, Or why should so few be better'd thereby, And so many be curs'd like me. But 'tis folly to grumble at fate ; i I'm but one of the human race, Who knows that my pick and shovel yet May not brighter prospects tnae. Brackens, June, 1875.