A LETTER FROM THE GOLDFIELDS. – by Pluck Marriot
You needn’t expect me for some time yet
To see me come home, Imogene;
Nor need you frown and think I forget,
Nor turn to your sister, Jane and say
“How Pluck has changed since he went away
From his ‘sweet little Imogene.
You know I promised, when last we met
At the parlour door, Imogene,
I’d stay here a year, perhaps, and get,
What gold I could pack with a dozen men,
And come with it all back home again
To live with and wed Imogene.
But the fields are not all great lumps of gold,
As we pictured them, Imogene,
Nor do I find as we thought of old,
That all the sand in the desert is bright,
Nor all men happy as once they might
Have lived with their dear Imogene.
My hand’s so stiff I can scarcely write
A letter to you, Imogene
For I work these days with all my might,
Yet I cannot tell as the months glide on,
How many more years I shall be gone
From my sweet little Imogene.
For the times are hard, and the sand is deep,
Over here in the mines, Imogene,
And I’m often tempted to stop and weep,
For thinking how blind the future is —
But then my labour becomes a bliss
When I think of my Imogene.
Tell my mother my health is very fair,
And kiss her for me, Imogene;
Don’t tell how hard summers are —
You know she’ll fret, it’s always her way —
But tell her I’ll surely come someday,
To live with you both, Imogene.
Moya Sharp
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