The Miner’s Hut
Bathurst, New South Wales
It was the year of federation in 1901,
The house was built with love and care, to last for years to come.
He would make it such a lovely home for his wife and little son,
And so it was, until the year, the year of World War One.
His beloved son in the Light Brigade was killed when overseas
And his wife with grief she passed away, his heart began to freeze.
He hit the grog and as he aged, his home was his retreat,
He couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t work and soon refused to eat.
He’d lost all that had mattered most, his life it seemed to wilt,
The only thing that he had left, was the home that he had built.
The house contained his memories of those gentle days of yore,
When his wife and son had graced the rooms
If he could see them just once more.
But grog will always take its toll and one night in his sleep
He passed away from this mortal coil, but his ghost God couldn’t keep,
And the house it just grew older and no one gave a care.
The roof it leaked, the boards they creaked,
And there were spider webs here and there.
After many years of this neglect the council had a plan
To sell the house to someone, to come and pull it down.
The old man’s ghost was so upset; he walked from room to room,
He saw the way it used to be, not all the grime and gloom.
He prayed for someone caring, to come and see his place
And see it for its beauty, but blind to its disgrace.
Perhaps someone who would love it too, from somewhere on this earth
Who would value all the workmanship and finally see its worth.
A young man had been coming past in daylight and at night,
He often would imagine how, he’d buy it and make it right.
He could fix up this and fix up that and then to his surprise
A FOR SALE sign upon the gate, and he went to see inside.
Oh the joy to see the craftsmanship that he saw everywhere,
The open fire, the old wood stove, not all the wear and tear.
He’d clean it up; he’d paint and wash, the windows they would glow,
Pull up the weeds in the garden bed and the front lawns he would mow.
The young man bought the old man’s house,
And when it was complete, the neighbours looked in awe at it
When they past by in the street.
The old man smiled when he saw the change,
He thought it looked just grand,
The birds were back and even fed, their seed from the young man’s hand.
There was coffee brewing on the stove; the aroma filled the air,
There were eggs from the chickens and fruit from the trees
And contentment, love and care.
In the fire grate the lovely warmth, of embers glowing red
And near the hearth, two puppies slept in their cozy little bed.
The old man tiptoed through the rooms; he felt that he’d been blessed,
And he turned and quietly walked away,
It was time to take his rest.
Bio: A story about an old miner’s hut in the Blue Mountains.