(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
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