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Adam Lindsay Gordon - The Patrol And The Gold-Digger
Work rating: Low

An Episode in the Life of the Poet while in the
Mounted, Police Force in Australia

Gordon, mounted, loq.
Ho ! you chap of grit and sinew,
Smoking in your pit,
Why thus labour discontinue ?
Why your forehead knit ?

Are you weary of the searching
For the Root of ill,
That you, like an idle urchin,
Play at sitting still ?

I confess it hardish lines is
Not to earn a mopus :
Galling ne`er to get a Finis
Coronare Opus.

Catch this flask of old Jamaica
In your iron paw,
While I fill a pipe and take a
Seat to have a jaw.

Let me hitch my horse`s bridle
To this stunted tree :
Now, instead of one chap idle,
We can reckon three.

They have a jaw. Presently the Patrol rises to depart, and, loq.

Well ! there `s much truth underlying
That old growl I`ve heard.
I shan`t please you by replying,
Yet I’ll have a word.

Growl away, but live and labour
Till your race be run,
Helping every feeble neighbour,
Seeking help from none.

Life is mainly froth and bubble,
Two things stand hke stone ;
KINDNESS IN A NEIGHBOUR`S TROUBLE.
COURAGE IN YOUR OWN.

Though we chafe at duty`s rigour,
All is for the best.
You will work with greater vigour,
Having had a rest.
 
Fortune`s lap has prizes in it
Yet for you in store.
Who knows ? In another minute
You may strike the ore.

Now I’m off with my old kicker,
On my daily task.
Stay ! Since you have paunched the
liquor,
Hand me back that flask.
Source
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