Come sing us a song of the city of sand, Silver, sin, and sixpenny ale; Dumped in a desolate, drought-struck land, Where the dead-beat pitches his pitiful tale. Oh, the miners work and the mines sweat; And doubly earn the wage they get; On top and underground. They toil and moil night shift and day; And gaily they disburse their pay, As pay day comes around. Oh, pay day Is a gay day, Tho' 'tis slow in comin' round. And Bung, he smiles a well-fed smile; And rakes the silver in the while; And waxes rich and stout. The miner's stoutest friend is he, So long's the miner's hand is free, And miner's cash holds out. He's a spender, On a bender, While his hard-earned cash holds out. The wily Book he hooks his bet, He toils not, neither does he sweat, Upon the grinding mine; But lives upon the working clods; And lays the very shortest odds; And wears an air benign. To the miner, None benigner; And it pays to look benign. The careful Cop grabs miners tight By scores, on ev'ry "big-pay night." A chance hell never lose. The blessed Beak he fines a fine; Then back the toilers go to mine; And earn another booze. Beak nor copper Put a stopper On that yearning for a booze. Morn, night, and noon the dust blows down Thro' ev'ry quarter of the town -- Round humpy, pub, and store. It paints the face of all things brown; And men drink pints to wash it down; To keep it there drink more. When it's dusty Men get thusty; And can always do one more. And Satan sits on a distant dump; For in his line there's nary slump. He dreams sweet dreams of home; As, watching with reflective eye; He heaves a weary home-sick sigh; And vows no more to roam. To the heedless Temptin's needless; And he might have waited home. Then this is a lay of the land of lust, And the independent Ikey Mo.; Of Greed, and Gamble, Drink, and Dust, And the man who slaves for Grab and Co.
"Den"
The Gadfly, 5 February 1908