Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, OLD FOSSICKER JACK, by J. M. MARSHE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OLD FOSSICKER JACK, by                    
First Line: Tis a desolate picture, whose colour is dead
Last Line: Came here, and has left but—old fossicker jack.
Alternate Author Name(s): M., J.
Subject(s): Gold Mines & Miners; Memory; Nostalgia


'TIS a desolate picture, whose colour is dead
Since the red golden glow of the sunset has fled
And the fast-coming gloom spreads a mantling pall
Over tree-stumps and earth-mounds, o'er shanties and all.
There are treacherous, grass-hidden pitfalls around,
And ash heaps and charred fragments litter the ground,
Yet here was prosperity—twenty years back—
And here is its remnant, old Fossicker Jack.

Like a ghost in the gloom, from the yellow-mouthed hole
Where he wrings from the tough clay the day's meagre dole,
He moves to his tattered tent there by the creek,
Where the ruined brick chimney affords it a break;
Now a column of smoke, then the flame's ruddy light
Throws its health-apeing glow on his face thin and white,
As he bends his old body, or straightens his back,
For a three-score-and-tenner is Fossicker Jack.

Unvaried his fare though its items are three,
Shin-beef or scragged mutton, with damper and tea,
Unshackled by irksome society's gripe,
His thoughts travel back on the clouds of his pipe
Till they rest upon Quartzville, ten miles to the West,
And he pictures the bar of the gay Digger's Rest.
Then with dark retrospection his brow gathers black,
For the landlord has fattened on Fossicker Jack.

By sunrise the morrow old Jack may be found
Like a gnome in the catacombed depths of the ground—
And the sound of his pick, like a dull muffled knock,
Will be heard on the surface from pillar and block;
Or down by the red puddled waterhole's bank
Where tailing-heaps show through the reeds long and rank
The rock of his cradle but seldom grows slack,
For a constant old toiler is Fossicker Jack.

A constant old toiler, case-hardened and grim—
Iron-grey haired, round-shouldered, unsupple of limb—
From the birth of each day to its wearisome close,
To his toil, ill-requited, he steadfastly goes;
His legs cased in sackcloth, conveniently tied,
His boots a joint marvel of thongs and raw hide,
His jumper a patchwork, "Dunn's superfine" sack—
Like a harlequin mud-stained is Fossicker Jack.

He can tell where the first shaft went down on the gold,
Of the bottles that crashed as the red flag unrolled;
He can point where the pegs stood like ninepins around—
Where a thousand strong miners at windlasses wound;
He can tell of the long-booted, sashed crowd at night,
Who staggered in bar-rooms, or rushed to the fight
When he stood fifty rounds with "the Cook's River Crack"—
For an excellent "has-been" is Fossicker Jack.

He can tell of the grim law that sobered the Flat,
Of the rough court that earmarked the mate-robber Mat;
He can tell of the poker-school's nocturnal din,
Of the peace that went out, when its "guardians" came in;
How the church and the dancing-den grew side by side!
Of the buildings that sprung as prosperity died;
He can tell lengthy stories of Bendigo Mac—
For a trifle discursive is Fossicker Jack.

He may tell, as he ransacks his fertile old brain,
How the dull, mounded dirt-piles shone gold in the rain—
How he delved in the debris round each buried prop
Of the claim that was erstwhile "The Jeweller's Shop";
For he wistfully hangs round each once golden spot,
And hopefully toils, never heeding his lot—
Ever trustful that fortune may show him the track,
For an optimist scarecrow is Fossicker Jack.

He may tell how advancement came on as it should,
As the iron-bound windlass succeeded the wood,
How the horse-power derrick and pulley came in,
Then went to the past for the engine or whim,
How the red-shirted dandies collapsed to the jeers
Of the fellows berigged by the needle and shears;
How the lead duffered out, then the rush away back,
Leaving all to the puddlers and Fossicker Jack.

Thus, hunting the earth-moving metal that hides
In the headings or tailings or bottom or sides,
Old Jack's hurried on, 'mid the dull march of years,
Unheeding the crowd, or its smiles or its tears;
Though he toil but for tucker, for him it is best,
For his luck goes to fatten mine host of The Rest;
Oh, a portrait fit-framed in prosperity's wrack,
Is the case-hardened carcass of Fossicker Jack.

A good night to you, Jack, in your sack stretcher bunk.
Is your brain "on the gutter"—a fanciful drunk?
Have your pannings today made the tucker-bag right?
For 'tis only that trouble may vex you at night;
Sleep on, nor give thought to your profitless quest;
Give your aged limbs ease in the true Digger's Rest,
For time soon shall pass you from toil and its rack,
To your great Mother's bosom, old Fossicker Jack.

'Tis a desolate picture, whose colour is dead,
Since the red golden hue of the sunset has sped
And the fast-coming gloom drops its mantling pall
O'er tree-stumps and earth-mounds, charred ruins and all.
There are treacherous, grass-hidden pitfalls around,
And ashes and broken glass cumber the ground;
Yet golden prosperity, twenty years back,
Came here, and has left but—old Fossicker Jack.





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