Ann: THICK, HIGH-GRADE GOLD INTERSECTED AT EAGLEHAWK, page-15

Now this is the tale of a managing man,
Who charts his course with a gold-rich plan,
From the Great Boulder camp where the drill rigs roar,
He dreams of fortunes and plenty more.

With a nod to Banjo, he names with flair,
His finds from the earth both rich and rare,
Ironbark first, then Mulga Bill,
But he’s holding his fire – sitting still.

Oh, the Man from Ironbark, he’d shake his head,
"You’re missing the gold while you wait," he said,
"Strike while the iron’s hot, my friend,
Or the raising round will never end."

But the Man from Eaglehawk’s caution-bound,
"Wait for the bigger score underground!
Mulga Bill’s a prize worth all this fuss,
Let’s wait, no rush – no sweat for us."

Yet markets, my lad, are a fickle breed,
They feast on action, they starve on need,
While Ironbark’s ready and cash could flow,
You sit on your hands – profits run slow.

For the eagle might soar, but it takes its time,
While the bark of iron is rich with rhyme,
A bird in hand – or ore in mill –
Is better than waiting for Mulga Bill.

Now Mulga Bill was a reckless chap,
With schemes that sent him headlong – snap!
A penny short and a day too late,
Is the fate of those who hesitate.

"So fire the diggers!" the old hands shout,
"Get that cash while the gold’s about,
Or when funding dries and shares go cheap,
You’ll lose your stake – and your nerve won’t keep."

For the Man from Ironbark, he knew the game,
The ones who win strike fast for fame,
And while Eaglehawk dreams of distant scores,
Ironbark’s waiting with open doors.

So heed the lesson from Paterson’s pen,
Strike when you can – like the boldest men,
Or the market’s bite will cut too deep,
And leave you counting the gold in sleep.