Poem: Song by "Young Fiffey"

"To any tune you like."

   All the times now are chang'd,
   All men's minds are derang'd,
They're turning hunters of gold. 'Tis too bad,
   Some leaving a station,
   Some pre-occupation;
By Jove, tbey are all California mad.

   Our great Poet's going,
   For gold he'll be hoeing,
Or maybe he'll wash the dust out of the sand.
   He's leaving a gold mine,
   That in his verse does shine,
Our own mighty Poet, the pride of our land.

   And when that he is gone,
   Oh! where will we find one
To write 'bout thie Bulls and the trials in town.
   There is not one fit, sir,
   With him to compete, sir,
From the great Aristocrat down to the Clown.

   Ye nine lovely beauties,
   (Oh teach him his duties,)
I pray you prevent him from going away.
   Pray keep him contended,
   With rhymes to be "prented,"

   For I certainly think he'll never say nay.
   For the rest of the chaps, What e'er their mishaps,
I care not a toss, what their fortune may be,
   For I am quite callous,
   To prose making fellows,
A rattling young rhymer's the fellow for me.

First published in The Argus, 9 July 1849

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on September 5, 2009 8:05 AM.

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