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
