It is durned hard lines, when a man grows sere
And his whiskers are flecked with grey,
And he wears the boots that he wore last year
When he worked for a miner’s pay,
To be brushed aside, with a callous word,
By the arms of sturdier men,
As they rush and crush, with a hope deferred,
For the coveted three-pound-ten!
Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health,
And he bartered his manhood’s prime
As he toiled and moiled, in the stores of wealth—
Where they banter the whole crib-time;
And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokes
To the tune that the “banjos” play;
For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokes
While they work for a miner’s pay!
And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s self
To provide for as best it can;
For there comes no dream of a workless shelf
To the brain of the miner man—
Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!
Not a cramp in the open hand!
As they play and pay—and they drift and drift
To the ranks where the grey-heads stand.
But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,
And the prospect is bleak and brown,
And the missus has never a hat to wear
That’s fit to be seen in the town;
And the spectres flock—that were held last year,
With the rattle of coin, at bay:
When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fear
While he worked for a miner’s pay.
There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blame
But the curse of a gambler’s quest!
And the men pass out, as they lose the game
That we play in the Golden West:
But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late.
In a dream, to some “cocky” patch
Where the old folk stand at their homestead gate,
And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.
[Illustration: An old gold miner with equipment]