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Adam Lindsay Gordon - The Patrol And The Gold-DiggerAdam Lindsay Gordon - The Patrol And The Gold-Digger
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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.
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