Close and closer, more and more.
Then he rose in great elation, no swell owner of a station
Could wear a more triumphant air than now our miner wore,
For while he had been dissecting he’d been curiously prospecting,
And Cocky’s crop had yielded yellow grains of golden ore.
“No bad prospect,” quoth our miner, “a good show of golden ore,
And around there must be more.”
When the morrow’s sun had lighted up the heavens, our miner dighted
In his clay-stained looking raiment sought the ground the fowls pecked o’er,
And with them he went a picking, and by dint of closely sticking