Amusements are not in harmony with the diggings. Men come there usually to work in earnest, and they have no time for play. Yet now and then a song is heard, with the notes of a flute or violin. At Bullock Creek a sick friend was charmed on the one side by Kate Kearney, and on the other by the whole range of Wesley’s hymns proceeding from a most indefatigable Burra songstress. In one tent near me there was an occasional concert of a fife, a dish-bottom drum, and a primitive sort of triangles. As a sample of a diggings song, a selection may be given. It is said to be set to the air of “Coronation.” In bush attire let each aspire By noble emulation, To gain a digger’s chief desire Gold, by wise regulation. With spades and picks we work like bricks And dig in gold formation; And stir our cradles with short sticks To break conglomeration. This golden trade doth not degrade The man of information, Who shovels nuggets with the spade Of beauteous conformation. What mother can her infant stock View with more satisfaction, Than we our golden cradles rock, Which most love to distraction. Let those who dare try thwart our care At our gold occupation; They with bewilderment will stare At golden incubation. We dig and delve from six to twelve, And then for relaxation, We wash our pans and cradles’ shelves, And turn to mastication. It is common in some places for a fellow who first rises to come out and crow like a cock; this is taken up by others, and the diggings are soon wide awake. Some amuse themselves with going out 'possuming. The shrill scream of the marsupial, flying squirrel, and the plaintive howl of the wild dog, follow the last note of the incomparable laughing jackass. There used to be fish in the creeks, but our washings must have choked them all with gold dust. A stray kangaroo once got chased through Iron Bark Gully. The poor creature took refuge in one of the holes, but was soon converted into some exquisite soup for mutton and damper diggers. A sailor lad at Golden Gully was accustomed to give us the eight bells on the frying pan. It is not usual for visits to be made after dark, as a fall down a twenty feet hole is unpleasant. The stupid custom of firing off guns, pistols, and revolvers night and morning is fast going out of fashion. A good fire, a short pipe, and a long story are the usual evening accompaniments.