SONGS FROM THE DIGGINGS!
Air - "Oh !what a row," &c.
Oh ! what a row, what a rumpus, and a rioting
We all endure, you may be sure, who live up
For the "Diggings" is a place that you never can
get quiet in,
From tipsy brawls, and pistol balls, both far
Dogs biting - men fighting - hitting hard and wal-
Then on Sunday, that for one day is the time for
Bullock teams go by in streams, 'mong carts and
As down they pour in many a score, with golden
earth for washing
And they make such a row, such a rumpus and a
We must eudure, you may be sure, who live up
With spade and pick through thin and thick, the
surface they uncover,
Unmindful of the labour, or the sun's fierce
Deeper diving, each is striving, nuggets to dis-
Until at last, in clay stuck fast, they meet their
Then the watching-shooting-catching 'Fossickers'
Who drink and fight, and then at night by robbery
live well on us -
Or, round our tent with ill intent, at midnight they
are sneaking ;
But soon they beat a quick retreat, when they hear
the pistols clicking.
So it's always a row, &c.
Now and then a shift of scene disturbs our grave
When armed police come in a trlce to seize sly
What poking turning, breaking, burning, swearing
In words hot and high
And every one must see the fun, and all is
Men with kegs take to their legs and shin away up
While staggering off, 'mid jeer and scoff come forth
the drunken bullies:
Then flames ascend, and there's an end to tent, and
grog and crockery
And so concludes the interlude, "Death of the sly
And such are the rows, and the rumpuses, and
We must endure, you may be sure, who live up
here. A. R.
Friar's Creek Diggings,