An Oft-Told Tale
Air:
Put's Original California Songster
Sacramento: Gardiner & Kirk, 1854
Up in the mountain solitudes,
Beside a "pile" of clay,
A wight with shovel, pick and pan,
Stood at the close of day;
His shirt and sash were very red,
His nose was very blue,
And though the scene around was grand,
The prospect wouldn't do.
His hat—enough—'twas shocking bad,
His sunburnt neck was bare;
One eye looked droll, the other sad,
Beneath his unkempt hair;
His muddy jackboots, all of jet,
Were long ago bereft;
And unto them, like unto him,
But little sole was left.
From out his pale unsmiling lips,
With rank beard overgrown,
Outspake this lonely mining man,
In semi-growling tone,
Whilst restlessly his jackboot kept
The devil's tattoo drumming:
"I had no sense in coming here,
I've gained no cents by coming."
Fortune, 'tis written, smiles on fools
Wherever they may labor,
And surely I've been fool enough
To win her choicest favor;
But ever she eludes my grasp,
Despite the proofs I gave her;
That I'm an ass she turns from me
To wanton with my neighbor.
I have not sinned as some folks do;
I pick but not to steal,
And though my ways of life are hard,
My heart is soft to feel.
My neighbors' failings I let pass;
I covet not a shade
Of all his goods, nor ox, nor ass,
Nor man, nor servant-maid.
But for this last I claim no grace,
Though some may not approve it,
Because, in this infernal place
There are no maids to covet,
Nor sparkling eyes, nor beaming smiles,
That filled my dreams of yore:
Alas, alas! those days are past,
My day-dreams now are ore!
Oh, for one hour where early life
Flowed passing merrily,
Where youth still hung on low-toned words,
And not upon—a tree;
Where friends could wrangle and debate
About each passing trifle,
And meet a flash of wit, instead
Of bowie knife or rifle."
He paused, he sighed, he gazed about,
Then spake,—"'Tis all cursed fine!
Oh, for a pull of 'Double Stout,'
To cool this thirst of mine;
But never more I'll taste a pot
Of glorious 'Lager Beer.'"
N.B. The miner "turned and left the spot,
And wiped away a tear.
Published as a Poem in Irish Poets and Novelists by Denis Oliver Crowley, (P. J. Thomas Printing, San Francisco, 1892)