Come gather round you diggers who work the goldfields rare,
It’s of a trick was played on me which caused me to despair,
I came to town the other day my hard earned gold to trade,
‘Twas there I met a pretty maid, who did my heart betray.
Her lips were red as roses, her eyes a deep sky blue,
Her hair as yellow as the gold, she stole from me and you.
She took me to a public house and there we did imbibe,
In whiskey and strong porter, and dreadful stuff besides,
It’s then she asked me up to bed, to which I did agree,
But truth to tell I fell asleep, before she earned her fee.
When I awoke next morning, no trousers could I find,
But scattered all around me were women’s clothes so fine.
My jacket, shoes and gold had gone, and all that’s left behind,
Is a woman’s dress, a yellow wig and a shaving kit, not mine.
Why did she need the wig? Why did she need to shave?
It’s then the truth it struck me, in a fit of blinding rage.
My pretty maid’s a man I cried, be thanks I fell asleep,
I’d rather lose a bag of gold, than face that dirty creep.
To venture in the street again, I cautiously inclined,
I had a shave, put on the wig, and wore the dress so fine,
And as I walked along the road, a digger gave a wink.
I thought of all the gold he had, so I offered him a drink.
Now you might think it sinful, oh you might think it bold,
To take advantage of the lads who struggle for the gold.
It’s easy putting on a dress and drinking whiskey neat,
But leave your shaving kit behind when they are fast asleep
Traditional – New Words by Bob Bickerton
A variant of the song “Patrick Street” which Bickerton considered a little mild “…that kinda stuff happens all the time in New Zealand”.