Struck it at Last by Edward Dyson

He was almost blind, and wasted / With the wear of many years; / He had laboured, and had tasted / Bitter troubles, many cares; / But his laugh was loud and ringing, / And his flag was on the mast -- / Every day they heard him singing: / 'Bound to strike it rich at last.'

Here he brandished axe and maul ere / Buninyong, and after that / Fought and bled with Peter Lalor / And the boys at Ballarat. / East and west and northward, striving, / As the tides set fresh and fast -- / Ever trying, rarely thriving -- / Yes, he'd strike it rich at last.

Now and then she'd pan out snugly, / Mostly all the other way, / But he never cut up ugly / When he bottomed on the clay; / Never cursed, or got disgusted, / Mourned the days and chances past -- / Geordie always hoped and trusted / He would strike it rich at last.

If the days were very dull, or / When the store-men cut up rough / And he couldn't raise a colour / From a cart-load of the stuff, / No man found him chicken-hearted, / He'd no time to bang and blast; / Pegged her out again and started -- / Bound to strike it rich at last.

Blinded by a shot in Eighty, / Sinking for the Pegleg Reef, / If he sorrowed o'er his fate, he / Let no mortal see his grief. / In the Home there in the city / Geordie won their favor fast, / All the inmates learned his ditty -- / 'Bound to strike it rich at last.'

When brought low, and bowed, and hoary, / Still his eyes alone were blind, / Fortune left undimmed the glory / Of his happy, tranquil mind; / In his heart a flame was glowing / That defied the roughest blast, / And he sang: 'There is no knowing, / Mates, I'll strike it rich at last.'

As the end approached he prattled / Of old days at Ballarat, / And again the windlass rattled / At Jim Crow and Blanket Flat; / And the nurses heard him mutter / As his dauntless spirit passed: / 'Streak of luck, boys! On the gutter! ' / Geordie struck it rich at last.