By A Kopi Hill

He rests at the foot of a kopi hill By the old Coolgardie track; But whether his name was Claude, or Bill, Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,” There isn’t a legend at all to say— And what does it signify, anyway?

There’s nought of funereal pomp or show— Just a rough-hewn slab that states, The leisurely chap that lies below Had honestly paid his rates Somewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four; And then he came hither—to pay no more.

So he wearied soon of the storm and strife, And he cast his swag aside, When men were strong with the lust of life And the world seemed opened wide. Were the castles fair, that he built that day, Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?

Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill, Now the tale of his life is told? Does a fear disturb his dreaming still, Or a sigh strike through the mould? Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait, Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?

However it be, by the wind-swept hills Of leisure he nothing lacks; And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fills For ever his earthly tracks. —Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayer In the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.

AT BUMMER’S CREEK.

I planted Dave at Bummer’s Creek Somewhere in ’Ninety-five, When all the country round about Was like a busy hive— And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep, And wasters stopped alive.

And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ still Beside the same old soak Where we pitched camp twelve years agone, Played out and stony broke; And after work I think right back, And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.

We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int, And toiled and starved and spreed; But one ’ud watch around the stump When t’other one was treed; The same when Luck was in full bloom, As when she run to seed.

But now I’m getting old and hipped, And kick against the ruts, I often think I’ll have a pray, But can’t sit down fer nuts— And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea, He’s never got no guts!”

D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere report That parson blokes kin tell As who is bound fer parrydise, And who is booked fer ’ell? Fer I’ve got dust enough to pay If they’ve the noos to sell.

Y’ see, us partners never ’ad Religion much in mind, And didn’t think to make no plan Fer ’im who stopped behind— But ’course you tumble to my graft: I’ve got an axe to grind.

D’ye think now if I went to town, Got up all smart and sleek, A short-necked shammy, just like that, ’Ud make them pilots speak And say which track the battlers took Who pegged on Bummer’s Creek!

Fer Dave an’ me, we never knoo The rights of any sect, Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed, And things in that respect; Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore, We didn’t ricollect.

I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at, And cringe, and beg, and crave, Nor don’t want them to speechify About no soul ter save; But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint out Which track was took by Dave.

[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]

AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT.

“Do you have any luck at the diggins?” I said To a dryblower grizzled and grey— “Does the nebulous fossicker’s star ever shed On your shaker, one flickering ray? Does Dame Fortune e’er toddle your way?”

But he deigned not a look nor an answer—not then— And I felt most decidedly hurt, And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again, To examine the rubble and dirt, He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.

Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string, And his beard swept his chest like a mat, And I noted his eyes were as clear as the Spring— (That is, Springtime at Pennyweight Flat)— He had corks, also, strung to his hat.

But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his hand A large slug, from the gravel he mined, And a midwinter smile I did not understand Lit his weatherworn dial and lined, As he carelessly toyed with his find.

Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad, (Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!) And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had, When he wakened that sprite from its bed— “Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.

And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp (Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!) “I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp, And because you’re true grit to the core You may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”

Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin, Ere I greedily gathered my prize— Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they join And our eyes met as brotherly eyes— Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!

“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried, As I came through the door at a run, And I brushed seven customers waiting aside, And the banker chap calmly begun, “I should say about nine pounds a ton.”