Spade and shovel, mattock and pick,
Ply them with eager haste;
For my golden shower is sold by the hour,
And the drops are too dear to waste.
Lift me aloft to the mountain’s brow,
Fathom the deep “blue vein,”
And I’ll sift the soil for the shining spoil,
As I sink to the valley again.
The swell of my swarthy breast shall bear
Pebble and rock away,