I am a digger at Mulgabbie and I’d like to rise and say
Dryblowing is a swearful game to most diggers anyway.
You work for days without a color, then have a lengthy swear
that takes two solid windy days to cleanse the atmosphere.
If an angel down from heaven had to dryblow for a crust
got his halo discolored and his white wings red with dust
and panning off his prospect found he had not raised a grain
no doubt he’d proved a failure, but he’d try to be profane.
When you haven’t a color and your mouth is full of dust
and with dirt in you turned the color of a terracotta bust
and your boots are full of pebbles, like a pilgrim to a shrine
then it is not for resignations, but for eloquence you pine!
But you have your compensations if you barely make a crust
If of food your belly is empty, it is always full of dust.
If your luck is hard and rocky, let this thought your spirits cheer
you are opening up the country, you are a bally pioneer.
I guess the recording angel, when he draws my balance sheet.
Will grin, and put my swear words down to damper and tinned meat.
Hard luck, and flies, and dust, and things,and say, things were rather tough,
and reckon that language had failed me and hadn’t sworn enough.
I am full up of pioneering for my hat is full of holes,
and the upper of my boots are sadly parting from the soles,
For really it’s no wonder that at times your spirits flag,
when your pant’s a piebald garment that is mended with bag.
So I am giving up prospecting, going give dryblowing best,
give my system and my swear words both a long much needed rest.
going where there’s decent tucker, tender streak and juicy chop.
Going where there’s beer in plenty – and I am going to drink a drop
By A Galthrop Mulgabbie W.A March 31, 1898
Moya Sharp
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