gold

A good many times, when I am making rhymes
About one thing or another.
My mind goes back, to a little ‘clapboard’ shack,
Where I used to batch with my brother.

The roof was flat, you could throw a cat
Throrugh cracks in the floor and siding.
The windows were out, mice played about,
Under the floor, skunks were abiding.

I hope you understand, from the facts at hand,
We were very poor, but usually happy.
Though once in a while, we forgot to smile,
And our voices got loud and snappy.

Those days of yore, as I’ve said before,
Were full of trials and tribulations.
We just did our best, would joke and jest,
And laugh at our privations.

The good Lord knows, we didn’t see picture shows,
We ate cornmeal mush and dodgers.
We didn’t care, couldn’t afford to stare,
At the antics of ‘Roy Rogers’.

We didn’t drive fast cars, nor sit in bars,
Never got far from our humble quarters.
We didn’t use, socks in our shoes,
So we needed no fancy garters.

Our clothes were patched, our heads were thatched,
With hair both long and tangled.
We used worn out tools, had no use for schools,
We were wary of things newfangled.

We were afraid of girls, with their shining curls,
Their coy ways and fragrant powder
It seemed to us, they thought they must,
Talk loud, or a little louder.

I guess they weren’t too bad, if we had had,
Good clothes and lots of money.
They would have smiled ‘by heck’, and hugged our neck,
And fondly called us ‘honey’.

Now the years roll on, my brother is gone,
I am alone and lonely.
I look back now, and can see as how,
Things would be much different, ‘if only’.

Copyright KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

On a hill in Montana
Stands a weatherbeaten house.
In it there lives an old miner
With no kids and no spouse.

He never got married
And he never will.
For he is content as he is
Up there on his hill.

He has a few horses
And a faithful old dog.
He has no use whatever
For a chicken or a hog.

He works for his neighbor
To buy bacon and beans.
He is never without
A few bucks in his jeans.

He spends most of his time,
With fencin’ and such.
He is stiff with arthritis,
Doesn’t accomplish very much.

He gets tired of fencin’
And stackin” the hay.
He would rather go mining,
Though it mostly don’t pay.

It is interesting work
And gets in the blood.
He is happy when digging
In hardrock, or mud.

While he’s mining he works
Like a man half his age.
At other jobs he worries
Like a bird in a cage.

Though he never made a dime
While looking for ore.
He is always ready
To try it once more.

It isn’t likely at mining
He will ever get rich.
But it is a lot more fun
Than shoveling a ditch.

While sinking a shaft
In rock harder than hell.
He doesn’t get half as tired
As when he’s digging a well.

He is always hoping
Some highrade to find.
But you wouldn’t understand,
If you never have mined.

Though it is the searching and working
That makes him look old.
He is never so happy,
As when digging for gold.

For there is always a chance
That the very next round,
Will uncover great riches
In that old stubborn ground.

At last when he’s dead
And prayed over in church.
If he didn’t get rich,
He had the fun of the search.

Copyright KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen

If you think of going mining,

 

Better stop and think some more.

For if you do, you’ll be worse off

Than you ever were before.

 

Every cent you can beg or borrow,

Will go into the ground.

You never will be satisfied,

‘Till you have drilled another ‘round’.

 

You will work like a fool

From daylight ‘till dark,

You will find that mining

Isn’t muck of a lark.

 

What little rest you get

Won’t do you much good.

When you should be sleeping,

You’ll be out rustling wood.

 

The wind will come down the pipe,

Fill the cabin with smoke.

You can’t get your breath,

And will finally choke.

 

In the summer you’ll roast.

In the winter you’re cold.

You won’t find any lead,

Much less any gold.

 

If you do find a paystreak,

The market will drop.

It will keep going down,

It never will stop.

 

Your powder will freeze

Your fuse won’t burn.

You will be so disgusted

You won’t give a durn.

 

The drills won’t cut,

The rock won’t break.

You’ll wish you could die

When you get a ‘powder headache’.

 

If you have a compressor,

The motor won’t run.

You will find that mining

Sure isn’t much fun.

 

Your grub will be mostly,

Spuds, rabbits and beans.

You will ruin your shoes,

And wear out your jeans.

 

When you’re drilling, or mucking

Your light will go out.

You will mutter and cuss,

As you stumble about.

 

You will long for the sunshine

As you shovel and dig.

When you get out of the tunnel

You feel like dancing a jib.

 

The snow will start falling

And piling up high.

If a slide catches you, they will sing

“In the Sweet Bye and Bye”.

 

The drifts will get deeper,

And as deeper they get,

The more you will worry,

The more you will fret.

 

As you wallow in snow

Clear up to your neck.

You’re blue with the cold

And a glibbering wreck.

 

As you slip and fall

And flounder and curse.

You wonder if ‘hell’

Could be any worse?

 

The ‘porkies’ and rats

Will drive you insane.

You vow you will never

Go mining again.

 

The rats chew your blankets

They ruin your grub.

You chase ‘porkies’ all night

With flashlight and club.

 

I’ll tell you this, for whatever it’s worth,

Before you tackle that tough old earth.

Don’t start to mine, ‘less you know what you’re about,

More money has been sunk, than has been taken out.

 

It’s a slow tough job, takes lots of sweat

And elbow grease, you can safely bet,

You’ll be older, and wiser, and poorer too,

And wore to a frazzle, before you’re thru.

 

Your gas will be half water,

Your airline will part.

I tell you you’re licked

Before you can start.

 

Your partners will quit,

Leave you holding the sack.

Creditors will take the shirt,

Off your poor aching back.

 

Your hair will be gray, if you have any left?

The old money poke, won’t have any heft.

Your back will be bent, creaking and sore,

You used to be strong, but not anymore.

 

Your joints are stiff, your teeth are no good.

If you talk about mining, you’re not understood.

When you smell good vittles, you slobber and drool,

People call you “that crazy old fool”.

 

Your time is about up, you can’t stand the cold

You’ll be sent to the poor house, will do as you’re told.

When your time comes to die, you’ll die all alone,

Too late to do different, you had to be shown.

 

No one to care for, nor to care in return.

Heaven is off limits, you’ll just have to burn.

So think once again, before mining you go,

I know from experience, it’s a hard row to hoe.

 

KB, 1968, Scribblings from a Hermits Pen