Coolgardie Miner 16 June 1938, page 8
The Old Prospector:
He fossicks around from year to year
Away in the country’s outback,
A little bit there, a little bit here
With a sample or two in his pack.
Away from the tracks of his fellows,
The places that other men know,
To the land of the brown tints and yellows,
And blistering sunshine he’li go.
Where wild nomad natives are roaming
Who never a white man have seen,
‘Tis a wild stretch of country he’s combing”
Where no other’white man has been.
Over high’burning sandhills unfolding
To get to the far distant peaks,
Till ironstone ridges beholding
Where maybe he’ll find what he seeks.
The fever of gold is upon him,
A mite eating into bis brain,
Makes him heedless of hardship and dangers
that face him again and again.
His dolly pot often is ringing
The samples he’s gathered to test,
Which he hopes a small fortune are bringing
To buy him his hard’fought for rest.
To rest from his prospecting labour
When his trials are over and done
To anchor his barque in the harbour
And rest with the victory won.
‘What’s this? Why I do think he’s found it,
See him eagerly searching his pan,
Pokes his trembling fingers around it
And scrapes it all into his can.
Yes he’s struck it, there’s no doubt about it,
The stuff he’s been seeking so long,
Soon the country will echo and shout it
Rewarding a brave man and strong.
So he washes or dry-blows a “packet’
All sewn up in dungaree bags,
That he’s made from an old Worn out jacket
And trousers he’s worn ’till they’re rags.
Now he’s home again, Oh what rejoicing
His family all clusters about,
Loving words and endearments they’re voicing
Yet hovers the Reaper about.
For alas, now he’s weary and broken,
And gladly he goes to his rest,
In heavenly peace, ’tis a token
that god in his wisdom, knows best.
The above verse was been contributed by an unnamed Norseman resident, and it reveals a close knowledge of that which he writes.
Moya Sharp
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