I planted Dave at Bummer’s Creek
Somewhere in ’Ninety-five,
When all the country round about
Was like a busy hive—
And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep,
And wasters stopped alive.
And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ still
Beside the same old soak
Where we pitched camp twelve years agone,
Played out and stony broke;
And after work I think right back,
And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.
We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int,
And toiled and starved and spreed;
But one ’ud watch around the stump
When t’other one was treed;
The same when Luck was in full bloom,
As when she run to seed.
But now I’m getting old and hipped,
And kick against the ruts,
I often think I’ll have a pray,
But can’t sit down fer nuts—
And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea,
He’s never got no guts!”
D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere report
That parson blokes kin tell
As who is bound fer parrydise,
And who is booked fer ’ell?
Fer I’ve got dust enough to pay
If they’ve the noos to sell.
Y’ see, us partners never ’ad
Religion much in mind,
And didn’t think to make no plan
Fer ’im who stopped behind—
But ’course you tumble to my graft:
I’ve got an axe to grind.
D’ye think now if I went to town,
Got up all smart and sleek,
A short-necked shammy, just like that,
’Ud make them pilots speak
And say which track the battlers took
Who pegged on Bummer’s Creek!
[Illustration: AT BUMMER’S CREEK.]
Fer Dave an’ me, we never knoo
The rights of any sect,
Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed,
And things in that respect;
Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore,
We didn’t ricollect.
I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at,
And cringe, and beg, and crave,
Nor don’t want them to speechify
About no soul ter save;
But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint out
Which track was took by Dave.
[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]