Come sing us a song of the city of sand,
Silver, sin, and sixpenny ale;
Dumped in a desolate, drought-struck land,
Where the dead-beat pitches his pitiful tale.
Oh, the miners work and the miners sweat;
And doubly earn the wage they get;
On top and underground.
They toil and moil night shift and day;
And gaily they disburse their pay,
As pay day comes around.
Oh, pay day
Is a gay day,
Tho' 'tis slow in comin' round.
And Bung, he smiles a well-fed smile;
And rakes the silver in the while;
And waxes rich and stout.
The miner's stoutest friend is he,
So long's the miner's hand is free,
And miner's cash holds out.
He's a spender,
On a bender,
While his hard-earned cash holds out.
The wily Book he hooks his bet,
He toils not, neither does he sweat,
Upon the grinding mine;
But lives upon the working clods;
And lays the very shortest odds;
And wears an air benign.
To the miner,
And it pays to look benign.
The careful Cop grabs miners tight
By scores, on ev'ry "big-pay night."
A chance hell never lose.
The blessed Beak he fines a fine;
Then back the toilers go to mine;
And earn another booze.
Beak nor copper
Put a stopper
On that yearning for a booze.
Morn, night, and noon the dust blows down
Thro' ev'ry quarter of the town --
Round humpy, pub, and store.
It paints the face of all things brown;
And men drink pints to wash it down;
To keep it there drink more.
When it's dusty
Men get thusty;
And can always do one more.
And Satan sits on a distant dump;
For in his line there's nary slump.
He dreams sweet dreams of home;
As, watching with reflective eye;
He heaves a weary home-sick sigh;
And vows no more to roam.
To the heedless
And he might have waited home.
Then this is a lay of the land of lust,
And the independent Ikey Mo.;
Of Greed, and Gamble, Drink, and Dust,
And the man who slaves for Grab and Co.
First published in The Gadfly, 5 February 1908