  Here lies a digger, all his chips departed— A splint of nature, bright, and ne’er down-hearted: He worked in many claims, but now (though stumped) He’s got a claim above that can’t be jumped. May he turn out a pure and spotless “wight,” When the Great Judge shall sift the wrong from right, And may his soul, released from this low Babel, Be found a gem on God’s great sorting table. A. Brodrick. Kimberley, 1875. |
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