The Diggers
© Ric Raftis - June 2001
The bush is strangely silent now
As the mist rolls through the trees
Not a murmer from a soul
Not a whisper in the leaves
The pre dawn hush of eerie light
That heralds each new day
As the dawn appears and a ray of sun
Washes the last of the darkness away
A bird calls and a fire is stirred
From the embers of the night
The sound of water poured into a billy
As the fire crackles and comes alight
More camps arise in the goldfields
The performance repeated all round
Diggers arise from their swags by the hundred
Another day of toiling the ground
For the rush is on and men have come
To try their luck, their skill, their hand
For some it will be rags to riches
And others the clothes that they stand
The gullies are named like the last rush
Nuggety, Poverty, Sandy and more
And as long as the nuggets are won from these
More men just arrive by the score
Now the bush is alive with the sounds of the rush
With the echoes of shovel and pick
Keen eyes search each pile for the colour of gold
And the nugget that will make them rich
The spoils are piled to be washed in time
That's if the rains ever come
For each small nugget reclaimed will add to the cache
Or perhaps fund a long night on the rum
So will this be the day after all these weeks
The day when the big one is won
Or will it be the day the decision is made
To roll the swag and the billy and move on
Will the word come around of a new rush
Across the hill or just down the track
At the end of the day will this camp be deserted
All gone, never to look back
Now today the bush is stangely silent again
With the scene from long ago in my mind
I stand and survey the old diggings around me
And dream of a life in that time
Then collecting my modern detector and pick
And giving the lucky charm a gentle rub
With visions of finding my own big one today
I wander off into the scrub

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