(in brogue)
What miner sings as he swings 'is rhythmic pick?
Who can't believe his good fortune:
a vein what gets wider the deeper 'e goes?
The mudder-lode's in there somewhere, he knows.
Ten hours he's at it already:
he's tired, he's gritty, but he won' be
stopped for no supper.
Whaddya think he's my-nin'?
Can we decide on dis tagether?
Is it gold? Mala-kite? Silver?
Oh, don't go sayin' somethin' like death now--
It's cold out, it's rainin',
an this was just a little metty-for anyway...
Gerald Fleming
Contents | Mudlark No.
3
| 36 | 38 |