He lies here. See the bush
All grey through grief for him
Hoar scrub-like ashes cast
Sprinkles the valley grim
The saltbush is his shroud
Wide skies his only pall
And’in-memoriam’
A thousand stamp-heads fall
Gold-lured to death- and yet
he would have had it so
Say mass, sing requiem
With the grey bush and go
Quietly he has found
Here in the Golden West
The long-sought- for at last
An El Dorado blest
What have we gained?
We have gained romance,
and the tales will be told anew
In the tents of the far Goldfields
when the far dim days fall due
But of all the tales of the roaring days
the wealth and the power of gold
The tale of a mate who would die for a mate
Will be the oftenest told.
by Frederick Ophel – ‘Prospect Good’
Moya Sharp
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