Bulolo Gold

Frank Pryke, one of the best known of the “Big Six” (discoverers of the rich New Guinea mining field) finds his golden idleness heavy upon his hands. So—and we apologise for the shock we are giving to all old-timers—he has taken to writing poetry. The shameful fact might have been hid den; only, unfortunately, it is good poetry, and some of it must be published. He has kindly per mitted us to make selections from his work, and the following poem is the first of them. Others will be published in later issues—“ Old Samarai,”

“Matt Crowe,” “Little George,” and “Old Jew.”

The titles alone will have a definite meaning for old hands in Papua and New Guinea.

IN town a quiet whisper once more is running round: Away in far New Guinea, good gold is being found.

We’ve heard this whisper often in the days that have gone by, And we’ve sailed on leaky luggers for dis tant Samarai.

We climbed the broken ranges, and swam the flooded streams; Our days were filled with dangers, our nights with fevered dreams.

But again the whisper stirs us, as it did in days of old, And waiting only frets us —for Sharkeye’s on good gold!

Perhaps you will remember the days of which I speak; The days of German Harry and Nicholas the Greek; When B.P.’s islands schooners went sail ing to and fro.

When Inman sailed the Myrtle, and Steele the Ivanhoe.

Men came from far Coolgardie, and Mur chison and Cue — Old-timers tough and hardy, who’d heard the rumour, too.

And now in quiet Cooktown Street the story is retold, That up on the Bulolo old Sharkeye’s getting gold.

We’ve seen them inland marching, a gal lant band: and then We’ve seen them drifting back again, dis heartened, broken men.

Malaria took its toll of them, the natives killed a few — Some lie in rotten jungle swamp; the toughest battled through.

And disappointed, limping, their bodies wracked with pain, They drag their weary limbs along and straggle back again.

We dare not let this chance go—though getting grey and old, We swing our swags aboard the ship—Old Sharkeye’s getting gold!

We’ve packed the battered swag once more, the bag’s filled to the brim; Again we’ll seek that far-off shore, let it be sink or swim; Though disillusion greeted us on many a previous trip, This is the final, lucky chance —we dare not let it slip.

We’ll leave a crowded ship again, and on that lonely shore, We’ll load the carriers up with goods, at Burleigh Gorman’s store.

We’ll chase the yellow gleam again, as oft in days of old — Our sight is growing dimmer, but —Old Sharkeye’s on good gold!

Frank Pryke.