We specked as boys o'er worked-out ground 
   By littered flat 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.