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I'm only a bloody old shovel, and I reckon I've served my time.
I worked on a couple of gold fields and tunneled in many a mine.
I was born in a Yorkshire foundry - Sheffield they say was my name. And I flattened a couple of Aussies but I wasn't entirely to blame.
They said I'd been shoveling their nuggets and wasn't playing the game but I bet if they tested tomorrow they'd soon find my true DNA.

An apprentice pressed me called Bernard, I was ground and polished by hand. Packed in a crate with my cousins and sealed with some flat metal bands.
Then off to the docks we were trundled, New Zealand it was said we were bound
and into the hold we were lowered where the rattling of chains was the sound.

The ship was carrying migrants, English, Iris and Scotts,
and a fellow they said was from Jersey in the galley was wrestling the pots.
We sailed for three months on the ocean, battled and beat the high seas
and but for the skill of the skipper, hands together, they'd be still on their knees.

We sailed up a picturesque harbour it was tranquil, the end of the race
and in front stood a township Dunedin - so proud, so precise, so in place.
There was joy as we bumped at the quayside, there was yelling and kissing and cheers and some folks who met their relations broke down and shed happy tears.

At the wharf we were dumped rather roughly, checked and stamped by a clerk
and then we were off to a warehouse, it was great to be out of the dark.
We were fitted with hickory handles, lined up like a parade
- as I glance at myself in the window - oh what a dashing young blade.

Now I hang in a Princes Street window, on a hook in a dull winters light and a row of fine saws hang beside me so straight and so sharp and so bright.
There were Tea cups and Tea Pots and Tea squares - a hardware and anything store there were frypans and jam pans and oil cans, and gold pans stacked by the door.

It was a few tears, since gold was discovered in a gulley below the blue spur,
and as migrants arrived by the hundred, Otago became the great lure.
At the time it was called Teapeka but the miners were spreading their wings
and new fields were being prospected and the signs were for much better things.

Two months I shone from that window, like silver, during the day, but at night 'neath the light of a gas lamp I was ghostly, a china blue grey.
A chap shuffled in one spring morning he was creamy and wore strange loose clothes
and he studied us shovels for some minutes, it was finally me that he chose.
He felt me and tossed me and swung me - I felt like a child's new toy
but I sneaked a quick glance o'er his shoulder on the docket he signed - Charles Sew Hoy.

So off to the gold fields I ventured with two cobbers, a pick and a pan.
On the back of this shuffling celestial - but ah what a hell of a man.
But of the hardships and troubles and triumphs, and perhaps a touch of folklore,
another time I'll tell you that story, just for you, I'll open the door.
I was dug up from a creek in the Kyeburn - a young guy was working his claim
and he lifted me ever so gently, Hank I think was his name.
I'd lay their for nearly a century in the snow and the ice and the rain
and I'd suffered many a blizzard in this cold unforgiving terrain.

Now I'm rusty and pitted and holey - only half my original size
and but for the knowledge of Hank boy I'd never have been recognized.
My owner had thrown me in anger my hickory handle he'd broke
he'd used me instead of a crowbar - not an intelligent bloke!
Now I stand on the shelf at the Danseys, it's friendly and cozy and warm
and I feel that I'm one of the family - it's almost like being reborn.
It's good to be rid of the frostbite and great to be free of the pain
and the best advice I can give you is "Never say only Again'.

By Des Styles

Up in Upper Kyburn amoung the lizards and the rocks
where the miner works his heart out shoveling wash dirt through his box
Up among the tussocks the mountains and the sky
where his thoughts return to innocence and he only wonders why

Up onto the bedrock in the schist and in the shale
and the word that never passed his lips that he could ever fail
But he loved the simple lifestyle and the surroundings so serene
and when he lay in bed at nights that's where he set his dream

Up to the tailings so straight and firmly stacked
up into the workings where no boss could have him sacked
For the moon had not been conquered and the time-clock far away
and the children making scones with mum considered it a play

Where the hawk and the hare and the skylark and the purple butterfly
and the wind comes gently through the hills like a newborn baby's sigh
Where the briar and matagouri think the valleys are their home
and the cattle on the hillside must surely love to roam

But the miner in the mountains still rests and wonders why
and he knows that time is running out but he's not afraid to die.
For when the man with the beard and flowing gown and scythe behind his cheek
and the bended stoop and the facial droop and the sandals on his feet

says; "come yonder my good miner, come hither, take a seat
for you've served your timerock wrestling and digging in that creek.
You can leave your pick and shovel and the crow bar steel and sleek
for you've won your celestial nugget and the goldfields you have beat".

By Des Styles

"Now the winter days are over and the spring is on it's way,
And the man who was a curler - he must put his broom away.
Stow away his hat and ribbons, for the door is tightly shut,
On the crampits and the granites in the ancient curling hut.

For we've played the pride of Scotland and the Maple Leaf team too -
We were open to all comers while we wore the Royal Blue,
And we struggled with the Black Hats and the Red Hats and the White,
And we 'played' till 'we small hours' with the usual curlers' 'skite'

But you're back now tending cattle, and I'm back now shearing sheep,
In the tiring endless battle with a wife and a brood to keep.
And I wonder somewhat sadly now our ways are far apart,
Will you think, like me, of curling with an aching in your heart.

When the summer sun is burning and the days are filled with heat,
Will you know a sudden yearning for black ice beneath your feet.
Will you hear the old stones roaring as your lonely job you keep,
And the shouting of the curlers and the swishing of the sweep.

With a whiskey for a good shot (and a whiskey for the bad),
And the brothers of the Bonspiel and the good times that we had.
Driving down the Ida Valley with a load of stones and gear,
When the snow was on the mountains and the frost was in the air.

Driving down the Ida Valley when the sun was hardly up,
Where the eager curlers rally for a Silver Curling Cup.
Come the last days of December ( thought he days are hot as hell),
I know you'll still remember - and I'll drink a toast as well.

The old curler stood at the head of the rink.
His broom in one hand - in his other a drink.
He looked at the stone that was nearest 'the pot' -
A black kiwi granite was holding 'the shot'.

He called to his skip "Now you know what to do
Its not one of ours for our colour is blue.
If you 'draw through the port' you will take it away
The Cup will be ours - you've the last stone to play."

He thought of the long days he spent on the ice.
The way his wife spoke - it was not very nice.
Away with the dawn and late home for sup -
All would be redeemed if they brought back the Cup.

Her eyes would light up at the silver so bright,
Her voice would calm down and not go half the night.
( How the cares of a curler's wife weigh like a tonne)
Through a few weeks of winter can she sure carry on.

For a curler drops all at the call of good ice,
His work, pay and home he forgets in a trice,
And a day or a week or a month he could be
Sweeping the stones from 'the hog' to 'tee tee'.

He positioned his broom and he asked for 'tee weight'.
"Just draw 'through the port' and we'll sweep you in mate."
But the stone went astray as some stones often do
And a black stone moved up and the Black Hats sat two.

The old curler stood there and gazed at his skip,
His broom and his drink in his woe-begone grip,
"Ask for 'draw port' and you get a 'chap and lie'
It's enough to bring tears to an old curler's eye."

Late that nigh in the bar, though, his spirits did rise,
The jubilant winners had left with their prize,
But the old curler noticed he wasn't alone
There were plenty more losers there scared to go home

By Blue Jeans

The winter snow fell on the hill, the way that snowfalls do,
When Harry missed the Switchblade Track and failed to rendezvous;
And silent, strange and deathly cold, the white world stretched away,
And dark and drear beneath the fog, though it was the break of day.

And from the fences and the trees the chilling hoar frost hung,
And to the tussocks and the scrub and to men's beards it clung.
The helicopter grounded by the fog close by did stand,
And icicles and ice were all around the frozen land.

When Jack spoke up; "We'll have to wait, let common sense prevail;
We could search a week or more and then we still might fail.
A dozen lives we'd risk for one (providing he's alive)
I don't see how a man could spend a night there and survive.

"He could be past the Breakneck Bluff or down by headlong creek;
He could be up on Devil's Spur or out near Ogre Peak.
There's not a hut for miles about, we'll have to wait I say.
The fog must clear and then we'll get the 'whirly-bird' away."

But Alan said; "He's a mate- he's out there on his own -
And if no one will come with me, I'll have to go alone;
The fog could last a week or so, we know they often do -
And Harry is a hillman -he'd do the same for you."

I guess in everybody's life there is a time of shame;
An hour or a day or night, a dawn we all could name.
I've had my share, I'll not deny - could life revolve again -
There'd be some things I'd like to change to clear away the stain.

Maybe that's why I took the steps to stand by Alan's side;
Maybe that's why just he and I, without the sun to guide,
Climbed out beyond the breakneck Bluff and under Ogre Peak,
Where, led on by a dog's bark, found the one we'd come to seek.

And he was hurt, but he had hollowed snow out to the ground;
He'd gathered his old heading dog and huntaways around.
They'd covered him and kept him warm and fought away the chill
And frostbite and exposure, through the long night on the hill.

We carried him and dragged him, we pushed and pulled and swore.
We stumbled though the snowfields, through a thousand drifts or more,
Through the gullies aqnd the basins to the welcome home and fuss
Where the weary grin he gave out was reward enough for us.

It's hot here in the bar tonight -flames lick the old fireplace,
The liquor sets my blood alight within my heart and face.
There's a woman smiling at me and my world is quite content,
Lifes a mixture - there's atonement after all for times mis-spent.

By Blue Jeans

An old mate took off and flew round the girth
Of the globe, and he saw all the sights of this earth.
He said to me why don't you leave old ,
But I said I'll stay here - let the world come to me.

So I stayed and I've seen it all here in my time.
I've met them and set them down into rhyme,
Where the snowy peaks reach to Otago's blue sky,
In the land that I love, as the years drift on by.

I've met the givers and takers and the Aussies and Yanks
Heart breakers, horse breakers and con-men and cranks.
I've met hippies who sucked in the old happy smoke,
Liars and tryers, the rich and the broke.

I've met curlers and brawlers with stories to tell
Boozers and losers all heading for hell.
Ramblers and gamblers in search of first prize,
Islanders, Highlanders, follish and wise.

I've met winners and sinners, the Irish and Jews
Fellows with earrings, and girls with tattoos.
Fellows with handbags and strippers and saints
Badmen and madmen and artists with paints.

The shearers and drovers have all been my mates,
And musterers into a tanker of Speights.
Singers and writers who sought to be stars
Fiddlers and pickers of country guitars.

And once I met someone who entered my heart
Her wide magic eyes made me hers from the start.
To wake in her arms was like Heaven must be -
I wonder tonight is she thinking of me.

But dreamers and schemers, they've all had my ear,
You can go to the moon on a belly of beer.
And sometimes I think was it right to stay home
'Might have been much more restful if I'd gone on the roam.

By Blue Jeans

Once it was a good word
You could use it every day
If you sang the Swanee River
Then your heart was young and gay

The cowboy on the prairie
He was wild, carefree and gay
If the band played Gay Gordons
You could dance the night away

I think it somewhat awful
That a funny bloke or two
Could take a happy, laughing word
And turn it all askew

If they ever come down our way
They had better bring their skates
There'll be no Hero Parade in
Where the hill men all drink Speights

by Blue Jeans

They're changing the style of the pubs in the land,
They're trying to make each one look like the Grand.
From Queenstown to Kyeburn it's modern décor,
With wall to wall carpet across the bar floor.

There's wining and dining and neon and chrome,
And the comforts are better than those back at home.
And oysters and cray are the counter lunch grub,
To a band or the TV in an old country pub.

The high country musterer now takes off his boots
And spurs, and refrains from language that pollutes.
While the tired greasy shearer must shower and scrub,
Before he can drink in the old country pub.

Old Jackie the rabbiter came for a drink,
His clothes - blood and guts - bore a terrible stink.
As an escort for blow flies he was the main hub
And a dog or two followed him into the pub.

But Freddie the publican dropped in a faint,
And a tourist from Sydney turned green with the taint.
So Jack jumped in his jeep and took off for the scrub-
Now he's making home brew in an old copper tub.

Mixed drinking means changes a man cannot flout
For swilling and swearing and fighting are out,
While spitting or throwing a cigarette stub,
On the floor is taboo in an old country pub.

The top dressing pilot, the plumber and "Chips"
The pensioner, in for a couple of nips,
Will soon need a reference like some high-toned club,
Before they can drink at the old country pub.

By Blue Jeans

When dusk starts to climb up the ridges at night,
To massage the mountains to sleep,
It's often I think of time and the days,
When we mustered the back runs for sheep.
And tonight around the Tailings and Blue Duck, I know
That another ghost walks the hillside
To join in that last phantom muster of all,
The last of the mule train has died.

They called him Old Nero - among other things -
Though nothing offended his ears.
One of the famed Kyeburn Station mule train
That carried the hill gear for years.
He packed in the tucker, the blankets and the beer,
With his kind, to the huts further out,
But only the men who depended on them will know what I'm talking about.

They'll remember with pleasure those hardy old mules,
With affection, the tricks that they tried.
They'll remember them slogging through snow and through heat,
With sweat and dust caked to each hide.
They'll all have some memory deep in their hearts,
That I couldn't hope ever explain.
But I'd like to pay tribute and hope they agree
How I still see the Kyeburn mule train.

Then the sky was as clear as the eyes of a child -
Then the sunsets were salmon and jade,
Then the hills rolled away in a dreamtime of peace,
In a contrast of sunlight and shade,
On a track through the tussock, the scrub and the fern,
Where the air was keen as a blade.
With a back drop of Shingle and snowdrift and sky:
Oh what a brave picture they made

By Blue Jeans

In the midst of break up parties, end of year and Christmas 'do's
In the jovial social drinking, wine and cheese' and barbecues
Mid the laughing and the flirting - eys of brown and eyes of blue
Lips that meet with mine and linger - don't think I don't think of you.

Ah, the glances and the whispers as the festive functions flow,
And the promise and the pleasure and the sinfulness we know.
As the old year, worn and wearied, hands its burden to the new,
And the new year takes it bravely - don't think I've forgotten you.

For I see you, in your beauty, with a rainbow as your crest,
With a crown of virgin snowfall, and the sunshine on your breast,
In your gown - the greens of nature interlaced with grey and blue,
As you breath a thousand perfumes - that's how I remember you.

In the dreamy hush of twilight, there is peace across your face,
At your foot the fir trees slumber, while , like see-through wisps of lace,
Wreaths of cloud across your shoulder come and go - as day is through -
The first shining stars to muster make a wonderland of you.

Man may love a woman dearly, man may love God's lasting grace,
But the man who loves a mountain most would find him out of place.
Yet when social prides and pleasures turn to ash as such things do,
Within your heart my heart finds solace - don't think I've forgotten you.

By Blue Jeans