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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1317-0.txt b/1317-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8cccdf6 --- /dev/null +++ b/1317-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3316 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1317 *** + +SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + +By A. B. Paterson + +[Andrew Barton (“Banjo”) Paterson, +Australian poet & journalist. 1864-1941.] + + +Author of “The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses”, +“Rio Grande, and Other Verses”, and “An Outback Marriage”. + + +Publisher's Note: Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in +Egypt for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on +them to say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen +by him in proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the +arrangement or the title of “Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses”. + + + + +Table of Contents + + + + Song of the Pen + Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + + Song of the Wheat + We have sung the song of the droving days, + + Brumby's Run + It lies beyond the Western Pines + + Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + + The Reverend Mullineux + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + + The Wisdom of Hafiz + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + + The Riders in the Stand + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + + Waltzing Matilda + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + + An Answer to Various Bards + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + + T.Y.S.O.N. + Across the Queensland border line + + As Long as your Eyes are Blue + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + + Bottle-O! + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + + The Story of Mongrel Grey + This is the story the stockman told, + + Gilhooley's Estate + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + + The Road to Hogan's Gap + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + + A Singer of the Bush + There is waving of grass in the breeze + + “Shouting” for a Camel + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + + The Lost Drink + I had spent the night in the watch-house-- + + Mulligan's Mare + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + + The Matrimonial Stakes + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + + The Mountain Squatter + Here in my mountain home, + + Pioneers + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + + Santa Claus in the Bush + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + + “In Re a Gentleman, One” + We see it each day in the paper, + + The Melting of the Snow + There's a sunny Southern land, + + A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + + The Gundaroo Bullock + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + + Lay of the Motor-Car + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + + The Corner Man + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + + When Dacey Rode the Mule + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + + The Mylora Elopement + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + + The Pannikin Poet + There's nothing here sublime, + + Not on It + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- + + The Protest + I say 'e ISN'T Remorse! + + The Scapegoat + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + + An Evening in Dandaloo + It was while we held our races-- + + A Ballad of Ducks + The railway rattled and roared and swung + + Tommy Corrigan + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + + The Maori's Wool + Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + + The Angel's Kiss + An angel stood beside the bed + + Sunrise on the Coast + Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted + + The Reveille + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + + + + + +SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +Song of the Pen + + + + _Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + Not for the people's praise; + Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, + Claiming us all our days, + + Claiming our best endeavour--body and heart and brain + Given with no reserve-- + Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; + Still, we are proud to serve. + + Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, + Gathering grain or chaff; + One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, + One, that a child may laugh. + + Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, + Freely she doth accord + Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, + Work is its own reward!_ + + + + +Song of the Wheat + + + + We have sung the song of the droving days, + Of the march of the travelling sheep; + By silent stages and lonely ways + Thin, white battalions creep. + But the man who now by the land would thrive + Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. + Is there ever a man in the world alive + To sing the song of the Wheat! + + It's west by south of the Great Divide + The grim grey plains run out, + Where the old flock-masters lived and died + In a ceaseless fight with drought. + Weary with waiting and hope deferred + They were ready to own defeat, + Till at last they heard the master-word-- + And the master-word was Wheat. + + Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine-- + 'Twas axe and fire for all; + They scarce could tarry to blaze the line + Or wait for the trees to fall, + Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, + And the dust of the horses' feet + Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide + The wonderful march of Wheat. + + Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, + The soil is turned on the plain; + Better than silver and better than gold + Is the surface-mine of the grain; + Better than cattle and better than sheep + In the fight with drought and heat; + For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, + Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. + + When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, + Deep down in his bed of clay + The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait + For the resurrection day: + Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; + But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, + Will over the steaming paddocks spread + The first green flush of the Wheat. + + Green and amber and gold it grows + When the sun sinks late in the West; + And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows + Where the quail and the skylark nest. + Mountain or river or shining star, + There's never a sight can beat-- + Away to the sky-line stretching far-- + A sea of the ripening Wheat. + + When the burning harvest sun sinks low, + And the shadows stretch on the plain, + The roaring strippers come and go + Like ships on a sea of grain; + Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear + Their tale of the load complete. + Of the world's great work he has done his share + Who has gathered a crop of wheat. + + Princes and Potentates and Czars, + They travel in regal state, + But old King Wheat has a thousand cars + For his trip to the water-gate; + And his thousand steamships breast the tide + And plough thro' the wind and sleet + To the lands where the teeming millions bide + That say: “Thank God for Wheat!” + + + + +Brumby's Run + + Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial + a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: + “Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?” + + + + It lies beyond the Western Pines + Towards the sinking sun, + And not a survey mark defines + The bounds of “Brumby's Run”. + + On odds and ends of mountain land, + On tracks of range and rock + Where no one else can make a stand, + Old Brumby rears his stock. + + A wild, unhandled lot they are + Of every shape and breed. + They venture out 'neath moon and star + Along the flats to feed; + + But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals along the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again. + + The traveller by the mountain-track + May hear their hoof-beats pass, + And catch a glimpse of brown and black + Dim shadows on the grass. + + The eager stockhorse pricks his ears + And lifts his head on high + In wild excitement when he hears + The Brumby mob go by. + + Old Brumby asks no price or fee + O'er all his wide domains: + The man who yards his stock is free + To keep them for his pains. + + So, off to scour the mountain-side + With eager eyes aglow, + To strongholds where the wild mobs hide + The gully-rakers go. + + A rush of horses through the trees, + A red shirt making play; + A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, + They vanish far away! + + . . . . . + + Ah, me! before our day is done + We long with bitter pain + To ride once more on Brumby's Run + And yard his mob again. + + + + +Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + + + + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me + To give you some instruction like--a kind of Christmas tale-- + So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”? + + Well, whales is sheep I've never shore; I've never been to sea, + So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; + But there's a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, + About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. + + Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, + They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run-- + A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, + The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. + + Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, + And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. + You know the way that boys grow up--there's some that stick at home; + But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. + + So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track + To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; + You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, + The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. + + Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock--that's most uncommon clear-- + For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer; + He didn't ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay + To take the roan and strawberry calves--the same we'd take to-day. + + The duns and blacks and “Goulburn roans” (that's brindles), coarse and hard, + He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; + So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, + Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer. + + It's often so with overseers--I've seen the same thing done + By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. + But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, + And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. + + He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; + And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; + You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so-- + No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. + + But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, + Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. + It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, + There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. + + So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, + To battle down the homeward track along the Overland-- + It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. + I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. + + But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) + When battling through the Philistines--selectors, I suppose-- + He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; + So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. + + He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; + He couldn't hurry lambing ewes--no more you could to-day-- + And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, + He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. + + The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, + There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. + It's just a plain straightforward tale--a tale that lets you know + The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. + + It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; + You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, + The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, + And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. + + The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; + The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; + The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp-- + I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp! + + _But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know + How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago._ + + + + +The Reverend Mullineux + + + + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + And his height at five-foot-two, + With a face as plain as an eight-day clock + And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock-- + Game as a bantam, too, + Hard and wiry and full of steam, + That's the boss of the English Team, + Reverend Mullineux. + + Makes no row when the game gets rough-- + None of your “Strike me blue!” + “You's wants smacking across the snout!” + Plays like a gentleman out-and-out-- + Same as he ought to do. + “Kindly remove from off my face!” + That's the way that he states his case-- + Reverend Mullineux. + + Kick! He can kick like an army mule-- + Run like a kangaroo! + Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, + Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant-- + Fetches him over too! + _Didn't_ the public cheer and shout + Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about-- + Reverend Mullineux. + + Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, + Somehow the ball got through-- + Who was it tackled our big half-back, + Flinging him down like an empty sack, + Right on our goal-line too? + Who but the man that we thought was dead, + Down with a score of 'em on his head, + Reverend Mullineux. + + + + +The Wisdom of Hafiz + + + + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; + Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow. + + If ever an owner should tell you, “Back mine”--don't you be such a flat. + He knows his own cunning, no doubt--does he know what the others are at? + Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few dollars on that. + + Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. + His wisdom belongs to his patron--shall he give it to one and to all? + When the stable is served he may tell you--and his words + are like jewels let fall. + + Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, + He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; + And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. + + When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, + Take a pull on yourself; take a pull--it's a mighty big field + to get through. + Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about, p'raps it's you! + + Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, + For this is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. + How is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot? + + From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone, + For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, + “The very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!” + + + + +Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + Beyond Sturt's Western track, + The rolling tide of change has sent + Some strange J.P.s out back. + + And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, + And worn with want of sleep, + Received the news in camp one day + Behind the travelling sheep + + That Edward Rex, confiding in + His known integrity, + By hand and seal on parchment skin + Had made him a J.P. + + He read the news with eager face + But found no word of pay. + “I'd like to see my sister's place + And kids on Christmas day. + + “I'd like to see green grass again, + And watch clear water run, + Away from this unholy plain, + And flies, and dust, and sun.” + + At last one little clause he found + That might some hope inspire, + “A magistrate may charge a pound + For inquest on a fire.” + + A big blacks' camp was built close by, + And Saltbush Bill, says he, + “I think that camp might well supply + A job for a J.P.” + + That night, by strange coincidence, + A most disastrous fire + Destroyed the country residence + Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. + + 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; + The party most concerned + Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt + If forty such were burned. + + Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, + Who watched the leaping flame. + “The home is small,” said he, “but still + The principle's the same. + + “Midst palaces though you should roam, + Or follow pleasure's tracks, + You'll find,” he said, “no place like home, + At least like Jacky Jack's. + + “Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,' + Tell every black Maria + I give tobacco half a stick-- + Hold inquest long-a fire.” + + Each juryman received a name + Well suited to a Court. + “Long Jack” and “Stumpy Bill” became + “John Long” and “William Short”. + + While such as “Tarpot”, “Bullock Dray”, + And “Tommy Wait-a-While”, + Became, for ever and a day, + “Scott”, “Dickens”, and “Carlyle”. + + And twelve good sable men and true + Were soon engaged upon + The conflagration that o'erthrew + The home of John A. John. + + Their verdict, “Burnt by act of Fate”, + They scarcely had returned + When, just behind the magistrate, + Another humpy burned! + + The jury sat again and drew + Another stick of plug. + Said Saltbush Bill, “It's up to you + Put some one long-a Jug.” + + “I'll camp the sheep,” he said, “and sift + The evidence about.” + For quite a week he couldn't shift, + The way the fires broke out. + + The jury thought the whole concern + As good as any play. + They used to “take him oath” and earn + Three sticks of plug a day. + + At last the tribe lay down to sleep + Homeless, beneath a tree; + And onward with his travelling sheep + Went Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + The sheep delivered, safe and sound, + His horse to town he turned, + And drew some five-and-twenty pound + For fees that he had earned. + + And where Monaro's ranges hide + Their little farms away-- + His sister's children by his side-- + He spent his Christmas Day. + + The next J.P. that went out back + Was shocked, or pained, or both, + At hearing every pagan black + Repeat the juror's oath. + + No matter though he turned and fled + They followed faster still; + “You make it inkwich, boss,” they said, + “All same like Saltbush Bill.” + + They even said they'd let him see + The fires originate. + When he refused they said that he + Was “No good magistrate.” + + And out beyond Sturt's Western track, + And Leichhardt's farthest tree, + They wait till fate shall send them back + Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + +The Riders in the Stand + + + + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. + There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; + And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath. + + But all the finest horsemen out--the men to Beat the Band-- + You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. + They'll say “He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight.” + They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late. + + They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; + They'll tell how one was “livened up” and something else was “dead”-- + In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, + But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand. + + The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; + You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. + You ride a slashing race, and lose--by one and all you're banned! + Ride like a bag of flour, and win--they'll cheer you in the Stand. + + + + +Waltzing Matilda + + (Carrying a Swag.) + + + + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; + And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag-- + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + + Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, + Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; + And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, + “You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!” + + Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; + Down came Policemen--one, two, and three. + “Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? + You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, + Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; + And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?” + + + + +An Answer to Various Bards + + + + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, + With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, + How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; + And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, + But you know they're fond of writing about “corpses” and “the tomb”. + So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, + And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. + + Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson--well, of course, we almost cried + At the sorrowful description how his “little 'Arvie” died, + And we lachrymosed in silence when “His Father's Mate” was slain; + Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. + Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, + And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; + So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan + Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. + + And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, + When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; + But the shearer chaps who start it--why, he rounds on them in blame, + And he calls 'em “agitators” who are living on the game. + But I “over-write” the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt + That I always see a hero in the “man from furthest out”. + I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, + And a bushman never struck me as a subject for “the tomb”. + + If it ain't all “golden sunshine” where the “wattle branches wave”, + Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all “lonely grave”. + And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, + But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; + Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, + Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, + For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills + While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. + + Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, + And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. + For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar + And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; + And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, + To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, + When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, + And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of “Wool away!” + + Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set-- + And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. + But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back + To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, + And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, + And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. + But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, + For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. + + There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, + And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. + For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, + And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. + Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push + Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; + And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, + And we'll slip across to England--it's a nicer place than here; + + For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, + And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. + But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, + We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; + So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, + And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, + And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, + And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. + + + + +T.Y.S.O.N. + + + + Across the Queensland border line + The mobs of cattle go; + They travel down in sun and shine + On dusty stage, and slow. + The drovers, riding slowly on + To let the cattle spread, + Will say: “Here's one old landmark gone, + For old man Tyson's dead.” + + What tales there'll be in every camp + By men that Tyson knew; + The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, + Will yarn the long day through, + And tell of how he passed as “Brown”, + And fooled the local men: + “But not for me--I struck the town, + And passed the message further down; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.!” + + There stands a little country town + Beyond the border line, + Where dusty roads go up and down, + And banks with pubs combine. + A stranger came to cash a cheque-- + Few were the words he said-- + A handkerchief about his neck, + An old hat on his head. + + A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed-- + “Know me? Of course you do?” + “It's not my work,” the boss replied, + “To know such tramps as you.” + “Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,” + Replied the stranger then, + “I never care to make a splash, + I'm simple--but I've got the cash, + I'm T.Y.S.O.N.” + + But in that last great drafting-yard, + Where Peter keeps the gate, + And souls of sinners find it barred, + And go to meet their fate, + There's one who ought to enter in, + For good deeds done on earth; + Such deeds as merit ought to win, + Kind deeds of sterling worth. + + Not by the strait and narrow gate, + Reserved for wealthy men, + But through the big gate, opened wide, + The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, + Will travel through--and then + Old Peter'll say: “We pass him through; + There's many a thing he used to do, + Good-hearted things that no one knew; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.” + + + + +As Long as your Eyes are Blue + + + + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? + When the charms of youth shall have passed away, + Will your love as of old prove true? + + For the looks may change, and the heart may range, + And the love be no longer fond; + Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth + And away to the years beyond? + + Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown + And the blush on your cheek that lies-- + But I love you most for the kindly heart + That I see in your sweet blue eyes. + + For the eyes are signs of the soul within, + Of the heart that is leal and true, + And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach + May be reft of their golden hue; + But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + + + +Bottle-O! + + + + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + I drives me bottle cart around the town; + A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob-- + I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. + There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, + There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, + And little dogs what comes and barks--we take 'em off their guard + And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O! + + Chorus-- + + So it's any “Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” + You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. + And you'll see the women rushing + To take in the Monday's washing + When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!” + + I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, + A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, + An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; + I stops the cart and walks across to see. + “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;” + “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know + What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, + If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!” + + I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me + We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. + Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea + And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. + But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”, + There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: + But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap” + There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O! + + + + +The Story of Mongrel Grey + + + + This is the story the stockman told, + On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; + The moon rose up like a globe of gold + And flooded the plain with her mellow light. + We watched the cattle till dawn of day + And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. + + . . . . . + + He was a knock-about station hack, + Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; + Ridden all day with a sore on his back, + Left all night with nothing to eat. + That was a matter of every-day + Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey. + + We might have sold him, but someone heard + He was bred out back on a flooded run, + Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,-- + Midnight or midday were all as one. + In the flooded ground he could find his way, + Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. + + 'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; + When the floods are out they will splash along + In girth-deep water, and twist and turn + From hidden channel and billabong. + Never mistaking the road to go, + For a man may guess--but the horses _know_. + + I was camping out with my youngest son-- + Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak-- + In an empty hut on the lower run, + Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. + The youngster toddled about all day, + And with our horses was Mongrel Grey. + + All of a sudden the flood came down + Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, + Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, + Over the flats and across the plain. + Rising and rising--at fall of night + Nothing but water appeared in sight! + + 'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, + Even in daylight; for all around + Channels and billabongs twist about, + Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. + And to move was a hopeless thing to try + In the dark with the water just racing by. + + I had to try it. I heard a roar, + And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; + And the water rose till it reached the floor + Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain + The way the water was sweeping down + We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown. + + Off to the stable I splashed, and found + The horses shaking with cold and fright; + I led them down to the lower ground, + But never a yard would they swim that night! + They reared and snorted and turned away, + And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. + + I bound the child on the horse's back, + And we started off with a prayer to heaven, + Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, + For I knew that the instinct God has given + To guide His creatures by night and day + Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. + + He struck deep water at once and swam-- + I swam beside him and held his mane-- + Till we touched the bank of the broken dam + In shallow water--then off again, + Swimming in darkness across the flood, + Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. + + He turned and twisted across and back, + Choosing the places to wade or swim, + Picking the safest and shortest track, + The pitchy darkness was clear to him. + Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? + The Lord that led him alone could tell! + + He dodged the timber whene'er he could, + But the timber brought us to grief at last; + I was partly stunned by a log of wood, + That struck my head as it drifted past; + And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, + And in half a second he swept away. + + I reached a tree, where I had to stay, + And did a perish for two days hard; + And lived on water--but Mongrel Grey, + He walked right into the homestead yard + At dawn next morning, and grazed around, + With the child on top of him safe and sound. + + We keep him now for the wife to ride, + Nothing too good for him now, of course; + Never a whip on his fat old hide, + For she owes the child to that old grey horse. + And not Old Tyson himself could pay + The purchase money of Mongrel Grey. + + + + +Gilhooley's Estate + + (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.) + + + + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + As most of us do, soon or late; + And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, + So they took him Gilhooley's Estate. + + Gilhooley in life had been living so free + 'Twas thought his possessions were great, + So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee + For me in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + They made out a list of his property fine, + It totalled a thousand-and-eight; + But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine-- + The debts of Gilhooley's Estate. + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, my dear man, + My childer have little to ait: + Just keep the expenses as low as you can + Against poor Gilhooley's Estate.” + + But Jones says, “The will isn't clear in its terms, + I fear it will need some debate, + And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) + To appear in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, + And a brief in his hand quite elate, + Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, + Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate. + + But his Honor the Judge said, “I think that the joint + Legatees must be called to pro_bate_-- + Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point-- + The point of Gilhooley's Estate. + + “I order a suit to be brought just to try + If this is correct that I state-- + A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, + Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, you'll appear! + Thim barristers' fees is too great; + The suit is but friendly.” “Attorneys, my dear, + Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah + Arises both early and late: + It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar + Dividing Gilhooley's Estate. + + + + +The Road to Hogan's Gap + + + + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + You cross the broken bridge + And run the crick down till you strike + The second right-hand ridge. + + The track is hard to see in parts, + But still it's pretty clear; + There's been two Injin hawkers' carts + Along that road this year. + + Well, run that right-hand ridge along-- + It ain't, to say, too steep-- + There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong + Where blokes went out with sheep. + + But keep the crick upon your right, + And follow pretty straight + Along the spur, until you sight + A wire and sapling gate. + + Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare + Fell off and broke her back; + You'll see her carcase layin' there, + Jist down below the track. + + And then you drop two mile, or three, + It's pretty steep and blind; + You want to go and fall a tree + And tie it on behind. + + And then you pass a broken cart + Below a granite bluff; + And that is where you strike the part + They reckon pretty rough. + + But by the time you've got that far + It's either cure or kill, + So turn your horses round the spur + And face 'em up the hill. + + For look, if you should miss the slope + And get below the track, + You haven't got the whitest hope + Of ever gettin' back. + + An' half way up you'll see the hide + Of Hogan's brindled bull; + Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, + The left's too steep a pull. + + And both the banks is full of cracks; + An' just about at dark + You'll see the last year's bullock tracks + Where Hogan drew the bark. + + The marks is old and pretty faint + And grown with scrub and such; + Of course the track to Hogan's ain't + A road that's travelled much. + + But turn and run the tracks along + For half a mile or more, + And then, of course, you can't go wrong-- + You're right at Hogan's door. + + When first you come to Hogan's gate + He mightn't show, perhaps; + He's pretty sure to plant and wait + To see it ain't the traps. + + I wouldn't call it good enough + To let your horses out; + There's some that's pretty extra rough + Is livin' round about. + + It's likely if your horses did + Get feedin' near the track, + It's goin' to cost at least a quid + Or more to get them back. + + So, if you find they're off the place, + It's up to you to go + And flash a quid in Hogan's face-- + He'll know the blokes that know. + + But listen, if you're feelin' dry, + Just see there's no one near, + And go and wink the other eye + And ask for ginger beer. + + The blokes come in from near and far + To sample Hogan's pop; + They reckon once they breast the bar + They stay there till they drop. + + On Sundays you can see them spread + Like flies around the tap. + It's like that song “The Livin' Dead” + Up there at Hogan's Gap. + + They like to make it pretty strong + Whenever there's a charnce; + So when a stranger comes along + They always holds a darnce. + + There's recitations, songs, and fights-- + A willin' lot you'll meet. + There's one long bloke up there recites, + I tell you--he's a treat. + + They're lively blokes all right up there, + It's never dull a day. + I'd go meself if I could spare + The time to get away. + + . . . . . + + The stranger turned his horses quick. + He didn't cross the bridge; + He didn't go along the crick + To strike the second ridge; + + He didn't make the trip, because + He wasn't feeling fit. + His business up at Hogan's was + To serve him with a writ. + + He reckoned if he faced the pull + And climbed the rocky stair, + The next to come might find his hide + A land-mark on the mountain side, + Along with Hogan's brindled bull + And Hogan's old grey mare! + + + + +A Singer of the Bush + + + + There is waving of grass in the breeze + And a song in the air, + And a murmur of myriad bees + That toil everywhere. + There is scent in the blossom and bough, + And the breath of the Spring + Is as soft as a kiss on a brow-- + And Spring-time I sing. + + There is drought on the land, and the stock + Tumble down in their tracks + Or follow--a tottering flock-- + The scrub-cutter's axe. + While ever a creature survives + The axes shall swing; + We are fighting with fate for their lives-- + And the combat I sing. + + + + +“Shouting” for a Camel + + + + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, + Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, + And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. + Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. + He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking + He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. + Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking + He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by + That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, + And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; + For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, + And the miners muttered softly, “Yes, he's very dry indeed! + But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.” + + So he drank up twenty buckets--it was weird to watch him suck it, + (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) + Till the speculator stopped him, saying, “Not another bucket-- + If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. + Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town.” + He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + There's a moral to this story--in your hat you ought to paste it, + Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, + And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, + Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; + If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, + You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + + + +The Lost Drink + + + + I had spent the night in the watch-house-- + My head was the size of three-- + So I went and asked the chemist + To fix up a drink for me; + And he brewed it from various bottles + With soda and plenty of ice, + With something that smelt like lemon, + And something that seemed like spice. + + It fell on my parching palate + Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, + And my system began to flourish + Like the grass in a soft spring rain; + It wandered throughout my being, + Suffusing my soul with rest, + And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid + That life had a new-found zest. + + I have been on the razzle-dazzle + Full many a time since then + But I never could get the chemist + To brew me that drink again. + He says he's forgotten the notion-- + 'Twas only by chance it came-- + He's tried me with various liquids + But oh! they are not the same. + + We have sought, but we sought it vainly, + That one lost drink divine; + We have sampled his various bottles, + But somehow they don't combine: + Yet I know when I cross the River + And stand on the Golden Shore + I shall meet with an angel-chemist + Who'll brew me that drink once more. + + + + +Mulligan's Mare + + + + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; + The height of choice spirits from near and from far + Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar. + + There was “Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned, + “Dog-bite-me”--so called from the shape of his head-- + And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, + Designed as the “Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang”. + + Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, + A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; + Whenever they backed her you safely might swear + She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare. + + But Mulligan, having some radical views, + Neglected his business and got on the booze; + He took up with runners--a treacherous troop-- + Who gave him away and he “fell in the soup”. + + And so it turned out on a fine summer day, + A bailiff turned up with a writ of “fi. fa.”; + He walked to the bar with a manner serene, + “I levy,” said he, “in the name of the Queen.” + + Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, + To pay out the bailiff with “_one_ on the jaw”; + He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, + He changed his intentions and stood him a drink. + + A great consultation there straightway befel + 'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, + And the man with the head, who remarked “Why, you bet! + Dog-bite-me!” said he, “but we'll diddle 'em yet. + + “We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, + And put in her place the old broken-down hack; + The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear + The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare. + + “So out with the racer and in with the screw, + We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; + And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, + I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.” + + Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; + The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was “had”; + But marched to the stall with a confident air-- + “I levy,” said he, “upon Mulligan's mare.” + + He watched her by day and he watched her by night, + She was never an instant let out of his sight, + For races were coming away in the West + And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best. + + “Here's a chance,” thought the bailiff, “to serve my own ends, + I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: + Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare + And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.” + + The races came round, and a crowd on the course + Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, + And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, + They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. + + And think of the grief of the bookmaking host + At the sound of the summons to go to the post-- + For down to the start with her thorough-bred air + As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare! + + They started, and off went the boy to the front, + He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; + He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, + Then gave her her head and she smothered the field. + + The race put her owner right clear of his debts, + He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, + He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, + And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. + + So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, + Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; + For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week-- + Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. + + And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, + Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, + And fortune in season will answer your prayer + And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. + + + + +The Matrimonial Stakes + + + + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat + When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; + Well, she simply _had_ to have me after that! + + It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead + From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; + And, although she _looked_ indifferent when I landed--on my head-- + In the water, it appealed to her, of course! + + When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was “all Sir Garneo”, + For she praised the way I made my final run. + And she thought the riding did it--for how _could_ the poor girl know + That a monkey could have ridden it and won! + + Then they “weighed me in” a winner--it's not often that occurs! + So I didn't let my golden chances slip, + For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, + And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip. + + Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk + For a moment, so I took her by the head + (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work + When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red. + + She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; + I could worship every little step she takes; + And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, + Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes! + + + + +The Mountain Squatter + + + + Here in my mountain home, + On rugged hills and steep, + I sit and watch you come, + O Riverina Sheep! + + You come from fertile plains + Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, + And flats that (when it rains) + Will blossom like the rose. + + But, when the summer sun + Gleams down like burnished brass, + You have to leave your run + And hustle off for grass. + + 'Tis then that--forced to roam-- + You come to where I keep, + Here in my mountain home, + A boarding-house for sheep. + + Around me where I sit + The wary wombat goes-- + A beast of little wit, + But what he knows, he _knows_. + + The very same remark + Applies to me also; + I don't give out a spark, + But what I know, I _know_. + + My brain perhaps would show + No convolutions deep, + But anyhow I know + The way to handle sheep. + + These Riverina cracks, + They do not care to ride + The half-inch hanging tracks + Along the mountain side. + + Their horses shake with fear + When loosened boulders go, + With leaps, like startled deer, + Down to the gulfs below. + + Their very dogs will shirk, + And drop their tails in fright + When asked to go and work + A mob that's out of sight. + + My little collie pup + Works silently and wide; + You'll see her climbing up + Along the mountain side. + + As silent as a fox + You'll see her come and go, + A shadow through the rocks + Where ash and messmate grow. + + Then, lost to sight and sound + Behind some rugged steep, + She works her way around + And gathers up the sheep; + + And, working wide and shy, + She holds them rounded up. + The cash ain't coined to buy + That little collie pup. + + And so I draw a screw + For self and dog and keep + To boundary-ride for you, + O Riverina Sheep! + + And when the autumn rain + Has made the herbage grow, + You travel off again, + And glad--no doubt--to go. + + But some are left behind + Around the mountain's spread, + For those we cannot find + We put them down as dead. + + But when we say adieu + And close the boarding job, + I always find a few + Fresh ear-marks in my mob. + + So what with those I sell, + And what with those I keep, + You pay me pretty well, + O Riverina Sheep! + + It's up to me to shout + Before we say good-bye-- + “Here's to a howlin' drought + All west of Gundagai!” + + + + +Pioneers + + + + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, + We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years + As those explorers of the bush--the brave old pioneers. + + 'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; + 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; + 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, + And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. + + But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead + When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead + By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, + And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest. + + Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, + We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, + To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years-- + The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers. + + + + +Santa Claus in the Bush + + + + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + When the wheat was ripe and tall, + A stranger rode to the farmer's gate-- + A sturdy man and a small. + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + And bid the stranger stay; + And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, + For the morn is Christmas Day.” + + “Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife, + “But ye should let him be; + He's maybe only a drover chap + Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. + + “Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst + To swiggle the hail nicht through; + Or he's maybe a life assurance carle + To talk ye black and blue.” + + “Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, + For their swags are neat and thin; + And he's never a life assurance carle, + Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. + + “Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, + For the wheat stands ripe and tall, + And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, + Ewes and weaners and all. + + “There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat + Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, + And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, + So we maun ask him in. + + “Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, + And gi' him a bite tae eat; + An omelette made of a new-laid egg, + Or a tasty bit of meat.” + + “But the native cats hae taen the fowls, + They havena left a leg; + And he'll get nae omelette here at a' + Till the emu lays an egg!” + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + To whaur the emus bide, + Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, + While the auld cock sits beside. + + “But speak them fair, and speak them saft, + Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. + Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails + Or a rusty carriage bolt.” + + So little son Jack ran blithely down, + With the rusty nails in hand, + Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched + By their nest in the open sand. + + And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, + 'Twould feed three men or four, + And the emus came for the half-inch nails + Right up to the settler's door. + + “A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife, + As she took the egg, with a frown, + “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin + A paddy-melon down.” + + “Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, + Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; + Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, + Then come nae back at a'.” + + So little son Jack he raced and he ran, + And he was bare o' the feet, + And soon he captured a paddy-melon, + Was gorged with the stolen wheat. + + “Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, + To the best that the hoose can do-- + An omelette made of the emu egg + And a paddy-melon stew.” + + “'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man; + “I have eaten the wide world's meat, + And the food that is given with right good will + Is the sweetest food to eat. + + “But the night draws on to the Christmas Day + And I must rise and go, + For I have a mighty way to ride + To the land of the Esquimaux. + + “And it's there I must load my sledges up, + With reindeers four-in-hand, + That go to the North, South, East, and West, + To every Christian land.” + + “Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife, + “Ye suit my husband well! + For when he gets up on his journey horse + He's a bit of a liar himsel'.” + + Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man + To his old horse grazing nigh, + And away like a meteor flash they went + Far off to the Northern sky. + + . . . . . + + When the children woke on the Christmas morn + They chattered with might and main-- + For a sword and gun had little son Jack, + And a braw new doll had Jane, + And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; + But the dour good-wife got nane. + + + + +“In Re a Gentleman, One” + + When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer + for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name + until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers + as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”, + or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”. + + + + We see it each day in the paper, + And know that there's mischief in store; + That some unprofessional caper + Has landed a shark on the shore. + We know there'll be plenty of trouble + Before they get through with the fun, + Because he's been coming the double + On clients, has “Gentleman, One”. + + Alas! for the gallant attorney, + Intent upon cutting a dash, + Sets out on life's perilous journey + With rather more cunning than cash. + And fortune at first is inviting-- + He struts his brief hour in the sun-- + But, lo! on the wall is the writing + Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”. + + For soon he runs short of the dollars, + He fears he must go to the wall; + So Peter's trust-money he collars + To pay off his creditor, Paul; + Then robs right and left--for he goes it + In earnest when once he's begun. + Descensus Averni--he knows it; + It's easy for “Gentleman, One”. + + The crash comes as sure as the seasons; + He loses his coin in a mine, + Or booming in land, or for reasons + Connected with women and wine. + Or maybe the cards or the horses + A share of the damage have done + No matter; the end of the course is + The same: “Re a Gentleman, One”. + + He struggles awhile to keep going, + To stave off detection and shame; + But creditors, clamorous growing, + Ere long put an end to the game. + At length the poor soldier of Satan + His course to a finish has run-- + And just think of Windeyer waiting + To deal with “A Gentleman, One”! + + And some face it boldly, and brazen + The shame and the utter disgrace; + While others, more sensitive, hasten + Their names and their deeds to efface. + They snap the frail thread which the Furies + And Fates have so cruelly spun. + May the great Final Judge and His juries + Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”! + + + + +The Melting of the Snow + + + + There's a sunny Southern land, + And it's there that I would be + Where the big hills stand, + In the South Countrie! + When the wattles bloom again, + Then it's time for us to go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + To the East or to the West, + Or wherever you may be, + You will find no place + Like the South Countrie. + For the skies are blue above, + And the grass is green below, + In the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + Now the team is in the plough, + And the thrushes start to sing, + And the pigeons on the bough + Sit a-welcoming the Spring. + So come my comrades all, + Let us saddle up and go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + + + +A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + + (1886) + + + + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + And some doughy damper to make good cheer, + I must make a heavy dinner; + Heavily dine and heavily sup, + Of indigestible things fill up, + Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, + And I have to dream the winner. + + Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, + The rich ragout and the charming cham., + I've got to mix my liquor; + Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, + Hard and tough as a wooden peg, + And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, + 'Twill make me dream the quicker. + + Now I am full of fearful feed, + Now I may dream a race indeed, + In my restless, troubled slumber; + While the night-mares race through my heated brain + And their devil-riders spur amain, + The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, + And I'll spot the winning number. + + . . . . . + + Thousands and thousands and thousands more, + Like sands on the white Pacific shore, + The crowding people cluster; + For evermore it's the story old, + While races are bought and backers are sold, + Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, + In their thousands still they muster. + + And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, + “I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!” + “Five monkeys, Little John, sir!” + “Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!” + And so they shout through the livelong day, + And stick to the game that is sure to pay, + While fools put money on, sir! + + And now in my dream I seem to go + And bet with a “book” that I seem to know-- + A Hebrew money-lender; + A million to five is the price I get-- + Not bad! but before I book the bet + The horse's name I clean forget, + Its number and even gender. + + Now for the start, and here they come, + And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum + Beat by a hand unsteady; + They come like a rushing, roaring flood, + Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; + For Acme is making the pace so good + There are some of 'em done already. + + But round the back she begins to tire, + And a mighty shout goes up “Crossfire!” + The magpie jacket's leading; + And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, + And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, + But at length gives way to the black and gold, + Which away to the front is speeding. + + Carry them on and keep it up-- + A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, + You must race and stay to win it; + And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, + Now takes the lead with his raking stride, + And a mighty roar goes far and wide-- + “There's only Commotion in it!” + + But one draws out from the beaten ruck + And up on the rails by a piece of luck + He comes in a style that's clever; + “It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!” + “Go at 'em now while their courage fails;” + “Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!” + “The blue and white for ever!” + + Under the whip! with the ears flat back, + Under the whip! though the sinews crack, + No sign of the base white feather; + Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, + Stick to it now though your hearts should break, + While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, + They come down the straight together. + + Trident slowly forges ahead, + The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, + The pace is undiminished; + Now for the Panics that never fail! + But many a backer's face grows pale + As old Commotion swings his tail + And swerves--and the Cup is finished. + + . . . . . + + And now in my dream it all comes back: + I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, + A million I've won, no question! + “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! + Give me my money, bookmaking dog!” + But he disappeared in a kind of fog, + And I woke with “the indigestion”. + + + + +The Gundaroo Bullock + + + + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; + But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few + Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo. + + Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, + There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; + For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, + And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo. + + There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, + And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride, + For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo-- + He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.” + + “Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, + “I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, + And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, + With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.” + + That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, + They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. + “Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew-- + The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.” + + They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, + But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. + “What's this?” exclaimed the trooper--“an infant, I declare;” + Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. + I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, + Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo. + + “The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, + The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; + We can't afford a bullock--such expense would never do-- + So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.” + + And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, + In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, + On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, + But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo. + + + + +Lay of the Motor-Car + + + + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + In our whiskers and teeth; + And the granite-like grey of the road + Seems to slide underneath. + As an eagle might sweep through the sky, + So we sweep through the land; + And the pallid pedestrians fly + When they hear us at hand. + + We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! + Not the fast-fleeing hare, + Nor the racehorses under the whip, + Nor the birds of the air + Can compete with our swiftness sublime, + Our ease and our grace. + We annihilate chickens and time + And policemen and space. + + Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? + How he dropped down to pray + In the road when he saw he was lost; + How he melted away + Underneath, and there rang through the fog + His earsplitting squeal + As he went---- Is that he or a dog, + That stuff on the wheel? + + + + +The Corner Man + + + + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + When fancies come and go + To vex a man in his soothing sleep + With thoughts of awful woe-- + I dreamed that I was a corner-man + Of a nigger minstrel show. + + I cracked my jokes, and the building rang + With laughter loud and long; + I hushed the house as I softly sang + An old plantation song-- + A tale of the wicked slavery days + Of cruelty and wrong. + + A small boy sat on the foremost seat-- + A mirthful youngster he; + He beat the time with his restless feet + To each new melody, + And he picked me out as the brightest star + Of the black fraternity. + + “Oh father,” he said, “what _would_ we do + If the corner-man should die? + I never saw such a man--did you? + He makes the people cry, + And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.” + The old man made reply-- + + “We each of us fill a very small space + In the great creation's plan, + If a man don't keep his lead in the race + There's plenty more that can; + The world can very soon fill the place + Of even a corner-man.” + + . . . . . + + I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find + Myself at home in bed, + And I framed a moral in my mind + From the words the old man said. + The world will jog along just the same + When its corner-men are dead. + + + + +When Dacey Rode the Mule + + + + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + When we were boys at school, + There came a circus with a clown, + Likewise a bucking mule. + The clown announced a scheme they had + Spectators for to bring-- + They'd give a crown to any lad + Who'd ride him round the ring. + + And, gentle reader, do not scoff + Nor think a man a fool-- + To buck a porous-plaster off + Was pastime to that mule. + + The boys got on; he bucked like sin; + He threw them in the dirt, + What time the clown would raise a grin + By asking, “Are you hurt?” + But Johnny Dacey came one night, + The crack of all the school; + Said he, “I'll win the crown all right, + Bring in your bucking mule.” + + The elephant went off his trunk, + The monkey played the fool, + And all the band got blazing drunk + When Dacey rode the mule. + + But soon there rose a galling shout + Of laughter, for the clown + From somewhere in his pants drew out + A little paper crown. + He placed the crown on Dacey's head + While Dacey looked a fool; + “Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said, + “For riding of the mule!” + + The band struck up with “Killaloe”, + And “Rule Britannia, Rule”, + And “Young Man from the Country”, too, + When Dacey rode the mule. + + Then Dacey, in a furious rage, + For vengeance on the show + Ascended to the monkeys' cage + And let the monkeys go; + The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee + He turned abroad to roam; + Good faith! It was a sight to see + The people step for home. + + For big baboons with canine snout + Are spiteful, as a rule-- + The people didn't sit it out + When Dacey rode the mule. + + And from the beasts that made escape, + The bushmen all declare, + Were born some creatures partly ape + And partly native-bear. + They're rather few and far between, + The race is nearly spent; + But some of them may still be seen + In Sydney Parliament. + + And when those legislators fight, + And drink, and act the fool, + Just blame it on that torrid night + When Dacey rode the mule. + + + + +The Mylora Elopement + + + + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, + Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, + Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run. + + Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. + Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; + And Amelia loved him truly--but the course of love, if true, + Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do. + + Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss + Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss + That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. + Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges--off goes Jim to see his child; + + Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, + And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. + Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, + And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below. + + “I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, + One more kiss--don't think I'm greedy--good-bye, lass, before I'm seen-- + Just one more--God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, + Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.” + + . . . . . + + The daylight shines on figures twain + That ride across Mylora plain, + Laughing and talking--Jim and Jane. + “Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, + Didn't we slip the old man prime! + I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, + I reckon he'll find it too big a job. + They've beaten us all. I had a try, + But the warrigal devils seem to fly. + That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff + No doubt, but not quite good enough. + He'll have to gallop the livelong day, + To cut and come, to race and stay. + I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; + To see us going I don't think would.” + A turn in the road and, fair and square, + They meet the old man standing there. + “What's up?” “Why, running away, of course,” + Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, + His eye with wild excitement burned. + “I've raced all day through the scorching heat + After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. + But over that range I think you'll find + The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. + Will you go and leave the mob behind? + Which will you do? Take the girl away, + Or ride like a white man should to-day, + And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?” + Says Jim, “I can't throw this away, + We can bolt some other day, of course, + Amelia Jane, get off that horse. + Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. + Here goes to put old Bowneck through!” + Two distant specks on the mountain side, + Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. + Amelia Jane sat down and cried. + + . . . . . + + “Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? + Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, + And him dead beat. Where have you been? + “Bolted with Jim! What _do_ you mean?” + “Met the old man with Sambo licked + From running old Bowneck.” “Well, I'm kicked-- + Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? + What did Jim do when you were stopped? + Did you bolt from father across the plain? + Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! + And father got on, and away again + The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. + Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! + They're sure to get them now, of course, + That Tambourine is a spanking horse. + And Crazy Jane is good as gold. + And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; + Not like your father, but very fair. + Jim will have to follow the mare.” + “It never was yet in father's hide + To best my Jim on the mountain-side. + Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” + But here again Amelia cried. + + . . . . . + + The sound of a whip comes faint and far, + A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, + In all their tameless pride. + The fleet wild horses snort with fear, + And wheel and break as the yard draws near. + Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! + Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! + And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, + As under the whip the horses go + Adown the mountain side. + And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, + On a horse that never has failed him yet, + Is after them down the range. + Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel--whoa back! + And long and loud the stockwhips crack, + Their flying course they change, + “Steadily does it--let Sambo go! + Open those sliprails down below. + Smart! or you'll be too late. + They'll follow old Sambo up--look out! + Wheel that black horse--give Sam a clout. + They're in! Make fast the gate.” + + . . . . . + + The mob is safely in the yard! + The old man mounts delighted guard. + No thought has he but for his prize. + Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. + “Will you come after all? the job is done, + And Crazy Jane is fit to run + For a prince's life--now don't say no; + Slip on while the old man's down below + At the inner yard, and away we'll go. + Will you come, my girl?” “I will, you bet, + We'll manage this here elopement yet.” + + . . . . . + + By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. + And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. + He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, + There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run. + + + + +The Pannikin Poet + + + + There's nothing here sublime, + But just a roving rhyme, + Run off to pass the time, + With nought titanic in + The theme that it supports, + And, though it treats of quarts, + It's bare of golden thoughts-- + It's just a pannikin. + + I think it's rather hard + That each Australian bard-- + Each wan, poetic card-- + With thoughts galvanic in + His fiery soul alight, + In wild aerial flight, + Will sit him down and write + About a pannikin. + + He makes some new-chum fare + From out his English lair + To hunt the native bear, + That curious mannikin; + And then when times get bad + That wandering English lad + Writes out a message sad + Upon his pannikin: + + “Oh, mother, think of me + Beneath the wattle tree” + (For you may bet that he + Will drag the wattle in) + “Oh, mother, here I think + That I shall have to sink, + There ain't a single drink + The water-bottle in.” + + The dingo homeward hies, + The sooty crows uprise + And caw their fierce surprise + A tone Satanic in; + And bearded bushmen tread + Around the sleeper's head-- + “See here--the bloke is dead! + Now where's his pannikin?” + + They read his words and weep, + And lay him down to sleep + Where wattle-branches sweep, + A style mechanic in; + And, reader, that's the way + The poets of to-day + Spin out their little lay + About a pannikin. + + + + +Not on It + + + + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- + The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. + The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet + He was on it. + + The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, + The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by, + The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi! + Are you on it?” + + They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told-- + The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. + The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold + Was not on it. + + + + +The Protest + + + + I say 'e _isn't_ Remorse! + 'Ow do I know? + Saw 'im on Riccarton course + Two year ago! + Think I'd forget any 'orse? + _Course_ 'e's The Crow! + + Bumper Maginnis and I, + After a “go”, + Walkin' our 'orses to dry, + I says, “Hello! + What's that old black goin' by?” + Bumper says “Oh! + That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's-- + Runs as The Crow!” + + Now they make out 'e's Remorse. + Well, but I _know_. + Soon as I came on the course + I says “'Ello! + 'Ere's the old Crow.” + Once a man's seen any 'orse, + 'Course 'e must know. + Sure as there's wood in this table, + I say 'e's The Crow. + + (Cross-examined by the Committee.) + + 'Ow do I know the moke + After one sight? + S'posin' you met a bloke + Down town at night, + Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? + That's '_I'm_ all right! + + What was the brand on 'is 'ide? + _I_ couldn't say, + Brands can be transmogrified. + That ain't the way-- + It's the _look_ of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves + That I'd know any day. + + What was the boy on 'is back? + Why, 'e went past + All of a minute, and off down the track. + --“The 'orse went as fast?” + True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! + 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat + Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? + Lor'! What a question to ast! + + (Protest dismissed.) + + + + +The Scapegoat + + + + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, + And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put “in the soup” + When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. + The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was “had” + That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. + You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo-- + Whence comes the expression “to buck against faro”. + + For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears + In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, + The Israelite horde went roaming abroad + Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. + When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, + Was dying, he murmured “A rorty old hoss you are: + I give you command of the whole of the band”-- + And handed the Government over to Joshua. + + . . . . . + + But Moses told 'em before he died, + “Wherever you are, whatever betide, + Every year as the time draws near + By lot or by rote choose you a goat, + And let the high priest confess on the beast + The sins of the people, the worst and the least. + Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, + Because all your sins are “his troubles” in future. + Then lead him away to the wilderness black + To die with the weight of your sins on his back: + Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, + For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!” + + 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, + This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. + By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, + Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, + Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, + Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. + (Just here let us note--_DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT?_ + It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture + By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a + Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose + Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. + In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; + 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, + When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; + Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers + Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, + That a “stag” makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) + Be that as it may, as each year passed away, + A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted + With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) + And left there--to die as his fancy dictated. + + . . . . . + + The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, + With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, + They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: + On every hand a reverend band, + Prophets and preachers and elders stand + And the oldest rab_bi_, with a tear in his eye, + Delivers a sermon to all standing by. + (We haven't his name--whether Cohen or Harris, he + No doubt was the “poisonest” kind of a Pharisee.) + The sermon was marked by a deal of humility + And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, + That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, + And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. + Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat + And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, + Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. + With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst-- + “Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, + The sins of the people are whiter than snow!” + Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. + + The animal, freed from all restraint + Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, + And charged straight at that elderly saint. + So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it + Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, + Was rammed on the--no, not the back--but just near it. + The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, + A light-hearted antelope “out on the ramp”, + Then stopped, looked around, got the “lay of the ground”, + And made a bee-line back again to the camp. + The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast + So gallantly making his way to the East, + Says he: “From the tents may I never more roam again + If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. + He's hurrying, too! This never will do. + Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. + After all our confessions, so openly granted, + He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. + We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, + If he takes home our sins--it'll burst up the Synagogue!” + + He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, + A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. + “Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, + And drive back the brute to the desert again. + The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, + From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you-- + Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” + So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, + But the goat made it clear each time he drew near + That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him. + + The crowd with great eagerness studied the race-- + “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace-- + And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, + The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. + The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, + And Abraham's tiring--I'll lay six to four! + He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!” + But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. + ['Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), + “It's a hard race,” said he, “and I think it would be + A good thing for someone to take up the running.” + As soon said as done, they started to run-- + The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns + All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, + And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. + And then it came out, as the rabble and rout + Streamed over the desert with many a shout-- + The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, + Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, + And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, + “Any price Abraham! Evens the field!” + Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, + And Abraham proved him an “even-time” man, + But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, + Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' + And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. + + Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp + Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, + And paling and wall he plasters them all, + “I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat,” he says, + Then pulls out his bills, “Use Solomon's Pills”: + “Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all + Must each bring a stone--Great sport will be shown; + Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! + Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, + For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!” + Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side + Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! + One shriek from him burst--“You creature accurst!” + And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. + His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, + But the goat stayed behind him--and “scoffed up” the paste. + + With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, + The people came back from the desert in dread. + “The goat--was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?” + In very short order they got plenty word of him, + In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, + “The trail of the serpent was over them all.” + A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter + Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a “butter”. + The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, + The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; + He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, + But his latest achievement most anger arouses, + For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, + One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, + Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums. + + + Moral: + + The moral is patent to all the beholders-- + Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; + Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, + Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; + Take their lives if needs must--when it comes to the worst, + But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. + Remember, no matter how far you may roam, + That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens + Their talent stupendous for “getting back home”. + Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, + And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it-- + But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it! + + + + +An Evening in Dandaloo + + + + It was while we held our races-- + Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases-- + Up in Dandaloo, + That a crowd of Sydney stealers, + Jockeys, pugilists and spielers + Brought some horses, real heelers, + Came and put us through. + + Beat our nags and won our money, + Made the game by no means funny, + Made us rather blue; + When the racing was concluded, + Of our hard-earned coin denuded + Dandaloonies sat and brooded + There in Dandaloo. + + . . . . . + + Night came down on Johnson's shanty + Where the grog was no means scanty, + And a tumult grew + Till some wild, excited person + Galloped down the township cursing, + “Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, + Roll up, Dandaloo!” + + Great St. Denis! what commotion! + Like the rush of stormy ocean + Fiery horsemen flew. + Dust and smoke and din and rattle, + Down the street they spurred their cattle + To the war-cry of the battle, + “Wade in, Dandaloo!” + + So the boys might have their fight out, + Johnson blew the bar-room light out, + Then, in haste, withdrew. + And in darkness and in doubting + Raged the conflict and the shouting, + “Give the Sydney push a clouting, + Go it, Dandaloo!” + + Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, + Every head he saw he struck it-- + Struck in earnest, too; + And a man from Lower Wattle, + Whom a shearer tried to throttle, + Hit out freely with a bottle, + There in Dandaloo. + + Skin and hair were flying thickly, + When a light was fetched, and quickly + Brought a fact to view-- + On the scene of the diversion + Every single, solid person + Come along to help Macpherson-- + _All_ were Dandaloo!” + + When the list of slain was tabled, + Some were drunk and some disabled, + Still we found it true. + In the darkness and the smother + We'd been belting one another; + Jack Macpherson bashed his brother + There in Dandaloo. + + So we drank, and all departed-- + How the “mobbing” yarn was started + No one ever knew-- + And the stockmen tell the story + Of that conflict fierce and gory, + How we fought for love and glory + Up in Dandaloo. + + It's a proverb now, or near it-- + At the races you can hear it, + At the dog-fights, too! + Every shrieking, dancing drover + As the canines topple over + Yells applause to Grip or Rover, + “Give him 'Dandaloo'!” + + And the teamster slowly toiling + Through the deep black country, soiling + Wheels and axles, too, + Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, + Rouses Tarboy with a flanker-- + “Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! + Wade in, Dandaloo!” + + + + +A Ballad of Ducks + + + + The railway rattled and roared and swung + With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. + The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung + In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue + Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told + This terrible tale of the days of old, + And the party that ought to have kept the ducks. + + “Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land + With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; + And the rabbits have pretty well took command; + But the hardest thing for a man to stand + Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so! + You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'-- + I could lay a bait for a man like that. + + “The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one + And what they leave--well, it ain't 'de luxe'. + But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun + Who'd lent some money to stock our run-- + I said they'd eaten what grass we had-- + Says he, 'Your management's very bad, + You had a right to have kept some ducks!' + + “To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! + Wherever you went you had to tread + On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; + And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, + If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly + Like bullets into your open eye + And knock it out of the back of your head. + + “There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, + Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, + Can make a difference on a run + When a grasshopper plague has once begun; + 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy + Ten thousand emus and have a try; + The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! + + “'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; + A great big duck--a Muscovy toff-- + Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; + And if the grasshoppers come our way + You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, + And I'd be ready to make a match + That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!' + + “He came to visit us by and by, + And it just so happened one day in Spring + A kind of a cloud came over the sky-- + A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, + And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, + Flyin' in regiments, side by side, + And eatin' up every living thing. + + “All day long, like a shower of rain, + You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, + Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, + And they'd rise and jump at the house again + Till their crippled carcases piled outside. + But what did it matter if thousands died-- + A million wouldn't be missed at all. + + “We were drinkin' grasshoppers--so to speak-- + Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; + And they fell so thick in the station creek + They choked the waterholes all the week. + There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, + And they'd only take artificial flies-- + They got so sick of the real thing. + + “An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags + When the hoppers rose for their morning flight + With a flapping noise like a million flags: + And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags + For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry + Till the cook sat down and began to cry-- + And never a duck or a fowl in sight! + + “We strolled across to the railroad track-- + Under a cover, beneath some trucks, + I sees a feather and hears a quack; + I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back-- + Every duck in the place was there, + No good to them was the open air. + 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'” + + + + +Tommy Corrigan + + (Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.) + + + + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. + It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, + To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; + But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat-- + When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? + + When any slip means sudden death--with wife and child to keep-- + It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap-- + But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, + He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; + With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, + He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. + + He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, + He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; + He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all-- + But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. + But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand + Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. + + They were, indeed, a glorious pair--the great upstanding horse, + The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. + Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, + “You follow Tommy Corrigan” was passed to one and all. + And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command + To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. + + But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, + We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. + We'll drink to him in silence, boys--he's followed down the track + Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. + And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, + That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. + + + + +The Maori's Wool + + + + _Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au._ + + . . . . . + + The Maoris are a mighty race--the finest ever known; + Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; + They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done + They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. + But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, + Prepared to smoke or drink or talk--or anything but work. + The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow + Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. + + 'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, + A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name-- + (The word Rerenga means a “snag”--but until he was gone + This didn't strike the folk he met--it struck them later on). + He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”, + And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. + The Bold Bank Manager looked grave--the price of wool was high. + He said, “We'll lend you what you need--we're not disposed to buy. + You ship the wool to England, Chief!--You'll find it's good advice, + And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.” + The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state + In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, + But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand + This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. + So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, + To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. + + They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, + With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. + They called themselves poetic names--“lost children in a wood”; + They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai--extra good! + And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, + To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; + And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow, + A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. + + It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; + Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; + A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark-- + You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark-- + But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, + “I'll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!” + The haka is a striking dance--the sort they don't allow + In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. + + He “haka'd” most effectively--then, with an airy grace + Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. + But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! + For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! + Yes--thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; + On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. + And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, + Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. + + + + +The Angel's Kiss + + + + An angel stood beside the bed + Where lay the living and the dead. + + He gave the mother--her who died-- + A kiss that Christ the Crucified + + Had sent to greet the weary soul + When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. + + He gave the infant kisses twain, + One on the breast, one on the brain. + + “Go forth into the world,” he said, + “With blessings on your heart and head, + + “For God, who ruleth righteously, + Hath ordered that to such as be + + “From birth deprived of mother's love, + I bring His blessing from above; + + “But if the mother's life He spare + Then she is made God's messenger + + “To kiss and pray that heart and brain + May go through life without a stain.” + + The infant moved towards the light, + The angel spread his wings in flight. + + But each man carries to his grave + The kisses that in hopes to save + The angel or his mother gave. + + + + +Sunrise on the Coast + + + + Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted + All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; + With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, + At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. + + Like mariners calling the roll of their number + The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. + And far over-head--sinking softly to slumber-- + Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. + + To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on + The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; + And far from behind the enshrouded horizon + Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.” + + And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, + It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; + And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour-- + Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! + + + + +The Reveille + + + + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + Sound a loud reveille; + Sound it over Sydney shore, + Send the message far and wide + Down the Richmond River side-- + Boot and saddle, mount and ride, + Sound a loud reveille. + + Whither go ye, Lancers gay, + With your bold reveille? + O'er the ocean far away + From your sunny southern home, + Over leagues of trackless foam, + In a foreign land to roam + With your bold reveille. + + When we hear our brethren call, + Sound a clear reveille. + Then we answer, one and all, + Answer that the world may see, + “Of the English stock are we, + At their side we still will be”-- + That's our bold reveille. + + [End of original text.] + + + + +[Original Advertisement] + +Pocket Editions for the Trenches + +Price, 4/--each (postage, per volume: within the Commonwealth, 1d.; +to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. By Major A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) + The Moods of Ginger Mick. By C. J. Dennis + The Australian, and other Verses. By Will H. Ogilvie + Songs of a Sentimental Bloke. By C. J. Dennis + The Man from Snowy River. By Major A. B. Paterson + Rio Grande, and other Verses. By Major A. B. Paterson + +Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold +during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour by Norman +Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable from all +Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. + +[End Original Advertisement] + + + + + +About the author: + +Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, New +South Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, when he +went to Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor (a type of +lawyer) but also contributed some verse to the Sydney “Bulletin” under +the pseudonym of “The Banjo”, taken from the name of a horse. His first +book, “The Man from Snowy River”, was published in 1895, and has sold +more copies than any other book of Australian poetry. He later gave up +law to become a journalist, and went to South Africa to report on the +Boer War. When World War I broke out he sought work as a war +correspondent, but failed to get it. He then went to work driving an +ambulance in France, and later became a Remount Officer with the +Australian forces then in Egypt. After returning to Australia in 1919 he +continued as a writer, and died in Sydney on 5 February 1941. + +Paterson's most famous work is “Waltzing Matilda”, written in 1895, and +now an unofficial anthem of Australia. “The Man from Snowy River” has +since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, +and even a series on a cable television network. “Clancy of the +Overflow” is similarly well known. + + + + +An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: + + +Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. + +Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for +tea. + +Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and +shrubs, especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. + +Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. + +Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. The leaves of +the Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, as an +adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. + +Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United +Kingdom (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to +1910. + +Fi. fa.: fieri facias--a legal paper authorising the seizure of a +debtor's goods. + +Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. + +Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). + +Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, +especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, +wurley, or mia-mia. + +Jumbuck: A sheep. + +Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. + +Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, his +last expedition (in 1848) never returned. + +Matilda: A swag. See “Waltz Matilda”. + +Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. + +Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; any of several +types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). + +Native bear: A koala. + +Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, +and especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; to drive +stock by land, especially on this route. + +Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. + +Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, +of the genus Thylogalefound. + +Pah/Pa: A Maori village. + +Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. + +Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. + +Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. + +Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the +group. + +Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, +especially of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which +is limited to Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, +saltbush can grow in arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; the region +where saltbush grows. + +Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by +lease or license from the government. + +Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + +Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government +permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise +stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, explored +eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery of the river +system in southeastern Australia. + +Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for +work, but looking for food and/or shelter. + +Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. + +Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, e.g. +carrying a swag. + +Tucker: Food. + +Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, +etc., related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) “on the wallaby +(track)”, on the move, on the road. + +Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. “Waltz”, to travel in circles. + +Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; by +association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). + +Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. + +Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, having +off-white or yellow flowers. So named because the branches were used to +weave wattle, a type of construction made of interwoven branches and the +like. + +Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family +Vombatidae, which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant +person. + +Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, A. +glaucescens. + + + + +Notes on the text: + + +“An Answer to Various Bards” appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of +poems in the Sydney 'Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, +or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), +primarily between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], who may +have staged the debate as a way of selling more poems. + +Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], +who, despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush in +at least one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie +[1869-1963] who was in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, +returned in 1901, and was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). + +Other verses from the debate maybe found in “The Man from Snowy River” + by Paterson and “In the Days When the World was Wide” by Henry Lawson. + +The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts in the +original edition. + + +“'Shouting' for a Camel”: A number of camels were brought to Australia, +with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden +in the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. (A +similar scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, but no camels +remain.) + + + “The Gundaroo Bullock”: + + [ Said Morgan, “Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + changed to: + [ Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + + +“Lay of the Motor-Car”: To put this poem in perspective, it must be +remembered that this book was published in 1917, and the poem written +earlier. It may be helpful to compare Paterson's short story, “Three +Elephant Power”, in the book of the same name that was published in the +same year. The plot centres around a speed demon who would drive at +unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) + + + “The Mylora Elopement”: + + [ No thought has be but for his prize. ] + changed to: + [ No thought has he but for his prize. ] + + + “The Protest”: + + [ W ll, but I KNOW. ] + changed to: + [ Well, but I KNOW. ] + + + “The Maori's Wool”: + + [ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] + changed to: + [ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] + + +“The Lost Drink”, “The Matrimonial Stakes”, “Not on It”, “The +Scapegoat”, “The Angel's Kiss”, and “The Reveille” were all dropped from +“Saltbush Bill” when it was included in Paterson's “Collected Verse” + (first issued in 1921). No poems were added, though “The Song of the +Pen” moved from the front of the book to the back, and several titles +were slightly changed. No effort has been made to compare the texts. + +There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was +added. + +Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) +and the “frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay”, the first of +which was set above the lines: + + “But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals across the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again.” + +which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of “Brumby's Run” (should be +“steals along the plain”). + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses, by +A. B. Paterson + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1317 *** diff --git a/1317-h/1317-h.htm b/1317-h/1317-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7729630 --- /dev/null +++ b/1317-h/1317-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3632 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Saltbush Bill, J.p., and Other Verses, by A. B. Paterson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1317 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By A. B. Paterson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + [Andrew Barton (“Banjo”) Paterson, Australian poet & journalist. + 1864-1941.] + </p> + <p> + Author of “The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses”, “Rio Grande, and + Other Verses”, and “An Outback Marriage”. + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + Publisher's Note: Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in Egypt + for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on them to + say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen by him in + proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the arrangement + or the title of “Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses”. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES</b> + </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Song of the Pen </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Song of the Wheat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Brumby's Run </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Reverend Mullineux </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Wisdom of Hafiz </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Saltbush Bill, J.P. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> The Riders in the Stand </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Waltzing Matilda </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> An Answer to Various Bards </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> T.Y.S.O.N. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> As Long as your Eyes are Blue </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Bottle-O! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> The Story of Mongrel Grey </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Gilhooley's Estate </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Road to Hogan's Gap </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A Singer of the Bush </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> “Shouting” for a Camel </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Lost Drink </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Mulligan's Mare </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> The Matrimonial Stakes </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> The Mountain Squatter </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Pioneers </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Santa Claus in the Bush </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> “In Re a Gentleman, One” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Melting of the Snow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> A Dream of the Melbourne Cup </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The Gundaroo Bullock </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Lay of the Motor-Car </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The Corner Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> When Dacey Rode the Mule </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> The Mylora Elopement </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> The Pannikin Poet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Not on It </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Protest </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Scapegoat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> An Evening in Dandaloo </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> A Ballad of Ducks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> Tommy Corrigan </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> The Maori's Wool </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> The Angel's Kiss </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Sunrise on the Coast </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> The Reveille </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Song of the Pen + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + <i>Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + Not for the people's praise; + Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, + Claiming us all our days, + + Claiming our best endeavour—body and heart and brain + Given with no reserve— + Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; + Still, we are proud to serve. + + Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, + Gathering grain or chaff; + One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, + One, that a child may laugh. + + Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, + Freely she doth accord + Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, + Work is its own reward!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Song of the Wheat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have sung the song of the droving days, + Of the march of the travelling sheep; + By silent stages and lonely ways + Thin, white battalions creep. + But the man who now by the land would thrive + Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. + Is there ever a man in the world alive + To sing the song of the Wheat! + + It's west by south of the Great Divide + The grim grey plains run out, + Where the old flock-masters lived and died + In a ceaseless fight with drought. + Weary with waiting and hope deferred + They were ready to own defeat, + Till at last they heard the master-word— + And the master-word was Wheat. + + Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine— + 'Twas axe and fire for all; + They scarce could tarry to blaze the line + Or wait for the trees to fall, + Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, + And the dust of the horses' feet + Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide + The wonderful march of Wheat. + + Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, + The soil is turned on the plain; + Better than silver and better than gold + Is the surface-mine of the grain; + Better than cattle and better than sheep + In the fight with drought and heat; + For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, + Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. + + When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, + Deep down in his bed of clay + The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait + For the resurrection day: + Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; + But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, + Will over the steaming paddocks spread + The first green flush of the Wheat. + + Green and amber and gold it grows + When the sun sinks late in the West; + And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows + Where the quail and the skylark nest. + Mountain or river or shining star, + There's never a sight can beat— + Away to the sky-line stretching far— + A sea of the ripening Wheat. + + When the burning harvest sun sinks low, + And the shadows stretch on the plain, + The roaring strippers come and go + Like ships on a sea of grain; + Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear + Their tale of the load complete. + Of the world's great work he has done his share + Who has gathered a crop of wheat. + + Princes and Potentates and Czars, + They travel in regal state, + But old King Wheat has a thousand cars + For his trip to the water-gate; + And his thousand steamships breast the tide + And plough thro' the wind and sleet + To the lands where the teeming millions bide + That say: “Thank God for Wheat!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Brumby's Run + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial + a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: + “Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It lies beyond the Western Pines + Towards the sinking sun, + And not a survey mark defines + The bounds of “Brumby's Run”. + + On odds and ends of mountain land, + On tracks of range and rock + Where no one else can make a stand, + Old Brumby rears his stock. + + A wild, unhandled lot they are + Of every shape and breed. + They venture out 'neath moon and star + Along the flats to feed; + + But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals along the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again. + + The traveller by the mountain-track + May hear their hoof-beats pass, + And catch a glimpse of brown and black + Dim shadows on the grass. + + The eager stockhorse pricks his ears + And lifts his head on high + In wild excitement when he hears + The Brumby mob go by. + + Old Brumby asks no price or fee + O'er all his wide domains: + The man who yards his stock is free + To keep them for his pains. + + So, off to scour the mountain-side + With eager eyes aglow, + To strongholds where the wild mobs hide + The gully-rakers go. + + A rush of horses through the trees, + A red shirt making play; + A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, + They vanish far away! + + . . . . . + + Ah, me! before our day is done + We long with bitter pain + To ride once more on Brumby's Run + And yard his mob again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me + To give you some instruction like—a kind of Christmas tale— + So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”? + + Well, whales is sheep I've never shore; I've never been to sea, + So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; + But there's a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, + About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. + + Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, + They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run— + A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, + The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. + + Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, + And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. + You know the way that boys grow up—there's some that stick at home; + But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. + + So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track + To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; + You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, + The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. + + Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock—that's most uncommon clear— + For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer; + He didn't ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay + To take the roan and strawberry calves—the same we'd take to-day. + + The duns and blacks and “Goulburn roans” (that's brindles), coarse and hard, + He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; + So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, + Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer. + + It's often so with overseers—I've seen the same thing done + By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. + But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, + And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. + + He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; + And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; + You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so— + No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. + + But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, + Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. + It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, + There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. + + So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, + To battle down the homeward track along the Overland— + It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. + I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. + + But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) + When battling through the Philistines—selectors, I suppose— + He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; + So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. + + He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; + He couldn't hurry lambing ewes—no more you could to-day— + And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, + He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. + + The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, + There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. + It's just a plain straightforward tale—a tale that lets you know + The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. + + It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; + You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, + The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, + And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. + + The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; + The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; + The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp— + I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp! + + <i>But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know + How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Reverend Mullineux + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + And his height at five-foot-two, + With a face as plain as an eight-day clock + And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock— + Game as a bantam, too, + Hard and wiry and full of steam, + That's the boss of the English Team, + Reverend Mullineux. + + Makes no row when the game gets rough— + None of your “Strike me blue!” + “You's wants smacking across the snout!” + Plays like a gentleman out-and-out— + Same as he ought to do. + “Kindly remove from off my face!” + That's the way that he states his case— + Reverend Mullineux. + + Kick! He can kick like an army mule— + Run like a kangaroo! + Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, + Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant— + Fetches him over too! + <i>Didn't</i> the public cheer and shout + Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about— + Reverend Mullineux. + + Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, + Somehow the ball got through— + Who was it tackled our big half-back, + Flinging him down like an empty sack, + Right on our goal-line too? + Who but the man that we thought was dead, + Down with a score of 'em on his head, + Reverend Mullineux. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Wisdom of Hafiz + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; + Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow. + + If ever an owner should tell you, “Back mine”—don't you be such a flat. + He knows his own cunning, no doubt—does he know what the others are at? + Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few dollars on that. + + Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. + His wisdom belongs to his patron—shall he give it to one and to all? + When the stable is served he may tell you—and his words + are like jewels let fall. + + Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, + He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; + And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. + + When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, + Take a pull on yourself; take a pull—it's a mighty big field + to get through. + Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about, p'raps it's you! + + Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, + For this is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. + How is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot? + + From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone, + For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, + “The very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Saltbush Bill, J.P. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + Beyond Sturt's Western track, + The rolling tide of change has sent + Some strange J.P.s out back. + + And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, + And worn with want of sleep, + Received the news in camp one day + Behind the travelling sheep + + That Edward Rex, confiding in + His known integrity, + By hand and seal on parchment skin + Had made him a J.P. + + He read the news with eager face + But found no word of pay. + “I'd like to see my sister's place + And kids on Christmas day. + + “I'd like to see green grass again, + And watch clear water run, + Away from this unholy plain, + And flies, and dust, and sun.” + + At last one little clause he found + That might some hope inspire, + “A magistrate may charge a pound + For inquest on a fire.” + + A big blacks' camp was built close by, + And Saltbush Bill, says he, + “I think that camp might well supply + A job for a J.P.” + + That night, by strange coincidence, + A most disastrous fire + Destroyed the country residence + Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. + + 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; + The party most concerned + Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt + If forty such were burned. + + Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, + Who watched the leaping flame. + “The home is small,” said he, “but still + The principle's the same. + + “Midst palaces though you should roam, + Or follow pleasure's tracks, + You'll find,” he said, “no place like home, + At least like Jacky Jack's. + + “Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,' + Tell every black Maria + I give tobacco half a stick— + Hold inquest long-a fire.” + + Each juryman received a name + Well suited to a Court. + “Long Jack” and “Stumpy Bill” became + “John Long” and “William Short”. + + While such as “Tarpot”, “Bullock Dray”, + And “Tommy Wait-a-While”, + Became, for ever and a day, + “Scott”, “Dickens”, and “Carlyle”. + + And twelve good sable men and true + Were soon engaged upon + The conflagration that o'erthrew + The home of John A. John. + + Their verdict, “Burnt by act of Fate”, + They scarcely had returned + When, just behind the magistrate, + Another humpy burned! + + The jury sat again and drew + Another stick of plug. + Said Saltbush Bill, “It's up to you + Put some one long-a Jug.” + + “I'll camp the sheep,” he said, “and sift + The evidence about.” + For quite a week he couldn't shift, + The way the fires broke out. + + The jury thought the whole concern + As good as any play. + They used to “take him oath” and earn + Three sticks of plug a day. + + At last the tribe lay down to sleep + Homeless, beneath a tree; + And onward with his travelling sheep + Went Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + The sheep delivered, safe and sound, + His horse to town he turned, + And drew some five-and-twenty pound + For fees that he had earned. + + And where Monaro's ranges hide + Their little farms away— + His sister's children by his side— + He spent his Christmas Day. + + The next J.P. that went out back + Was shocked, or pained, or both, + At hearing every pagan black + Repeat the juror's oath. + + No matter though he turned and fled + They followed faster still; + “You make it inkwich, boss,” they said, + “All same like Saltbush Bill.” + + They even said they'd let him see + The fires originate. + When he refused they said that he + Was “No good magistrate.” + + And out beyond Sturt's Western track, + And Leichhardt's farthest tree, + They wait till fate shall send them back + Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Riders in the Stand + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. + There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; + And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath. + + But all the finest horsemen out—the men to Beat the Band— + You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. + They'll say “He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight.” + They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late. + + They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; + They'll tell how one was “livened up” and something else was “dead”— + In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, + But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand. + + The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; + You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. + You ride a slashing race, and lose—by one and all you're banned! + Ride like a bag of flour, and win—they'll cheer you in the Stand. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Waltzing Matilda + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Carrying a Swag.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; + And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag— + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + + Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, + Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; + And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, + “You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!” + + Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; + Down came Policemen—one, two, and three. + “Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? + You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, + Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; + And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Answer to Various Bards + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, + With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, + How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; + And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, + But you know they're fond of writing about “corpses” and “the tomb”. + So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, + And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. + + Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson—well, of course, we almost cried + At the sorrowful description how his “little 'Arvie” died, + And we lachrymosed in silence when “His Father's Mate” was slain; + Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. + Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, + And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; + So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan + Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. + + And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, + When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; + But the shearer chaps who start it—why, he rounds on them in blame, + And he calls 'em “agitators” who are living on the game. + But I “over-write” the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt + That I always see a hero in the “man from furthest out”. + I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, + And a bushman never struck me as a subject for “the tomb”. + + If it ain't all “golden sunshine” where the “wattle branches wave”, + Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all “lonely grave”. + And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, + But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; + Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, + Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, + For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills + While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. + + Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, + And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. + For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar + And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; + And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, + To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, + When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, + And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of “Wool away!” + + Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set— + And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. + But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back + To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, + And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, + And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. + But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, + For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. + + There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, + And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. + For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, + And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. + Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push + Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; + And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, + And we'll slip across to England—it's a nicer place than here; + + For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, + And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. + But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, + We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; + So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, + And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, + And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, + And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + T.Y.S.O.N. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Across the Queensland border line + The mobs of cattle go; + They travel down in sun and shine + On dusty stage, and slow. + The drovers, riding slowly on + To let the cattle spread, + Will say: “Here's one old landmark gone, + For old man Tyson's dead.” + + What tales there'll be in every camp + By men that Tyson knew; + The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, + Will yarn the long day through, + And tell of how he passed as “Brown”, + And fooled the local men: + “But not for me—I struck the town, + And passed the message further down; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.!” + + There stands a little country town + Beyond the border line, + Where dusty roads go up and down, + And banks with pubs combine. + A stranger came to cash a cheque— + Few were the words he said— + A handkerchief about his neck, + An old hat on his head. + + A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed— + “Know me? Of course you do?” + “It's not my work,” the boss replied, + “To know such tramps as you.” + “Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,” + Replied the stranger then, + “I never care to make a splash, + I'm simple—but I've got the cash, + I'm T.Y.S.O.N.” + + But in that last great drafting-yard, + Where Peter keeps the gate, + And souls of sinners find it barred, + And go to meet their fate, + There's one who ought to enter in, + For good deeds done on earth; + Such deeds as merit ought to win, + Kind deeds of sterling worth. + + Not by the strait and narrow gate, + Reserved for wealthy men, + But through the big gate, opened wide, + The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, + Will travel through—and then + Old Peter'll say: “We pass him through; + There's many a thing he used to do, + Good-hearted things that no one knew; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + As Long as your Eyes are Blue + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? + When the charms of youth shall have passed away, + Will your love as of old prove true? + + For the looks may change, and the heart may range, + And the love be no longer fond; + Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth + And away to the years beyond? + + Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown + And the blush on your cheek that lies— + But I love you most for the kindly heart + That I see in your sweet blue eyes. + + For the eyes are signs of the soul within, + Of the heart that is leal and true, + And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach + May be reft of their golden hue; + But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bottle-O! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + I drives me bottle cart around the town; + A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob— + I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. + There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, + There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, + And little dogs what comes and barks—we take 'em off their guard + And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O! + + Chorus— + + So it's any “Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” + You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. + And you'll see the women rushing + To take in the Monday's washing + When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!” + + I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, + A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, + An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; + I stops the cart and walks across to see. + “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;” + “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know + What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, + If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!” + + I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me + We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. + Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea + And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. + But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”, + There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: + But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap” + There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Story of Mongrel Grey + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This is the story the stockman told, + On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; + The moon rose up like a globe of gold + And flooded the plain with her mellow light. + We watched the cattle till dawn of day + And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. + + . . . . . + + He was a knock-about station hack, + Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; + Ridden all day with a sore on his back, + Left all night with nothing to eat. + That was a matter of every-day + Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey. + + We might have sold him, but someone heard + He was bred out back on a flooded run, + Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,— + Midnight or midday were all as one. + In the flooded ground he could find his way, + Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. + + 'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; + When the floods are out they will splash along + In girth-deep water, and twist and turn + From hidden channel and billabong. + Never mistaking the road to go, + For a man may guess—but the horses <i>know</i>. + + I was camping out with my youngest son— + Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak— + In an empty hut on the lower run, + Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. + The youngster toddled about all day, + And with our horses was Mongrel Grey. + + All of a sudden the flood came down + Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, + Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, + Over the flats and across the plain. + Rising and rising—at fall of night + Nothing but water appeared in sight! + + 'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, + Even in daylight; for all around + Channels and billabongs twist about, + Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. + And to move was a hopeless thing to try + In the dark with the water just racing by. + + I had to try it. I heard a roar, + And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; + And the water rose till it reached the floor + Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain + The way the water was sweeping down + We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown. + + Off to the stable I splashed, and found + The horses shaking with cold and fright; + I led them down to the lower ground, + But never a yard would they swim that night! + They reared and snorted and turned away, + And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. + + I bound the child on the horse's back, + And we started off with a prayer to heaven, + Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, + For I knew that the instinct God has given + To guide His creatures by night and day + Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. + + He struck deep water at once and swam— + I swam beside him and held his mane— + Till we touched the bank of the broken dam + In shallow water—then off again, + Swimming in darkness across the flood, + Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. + + He turned and twisted across and back, + Choosing the places to wade or swim, + Picking the safest and shortest track, + The pitchy darkness was clear to him. + Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? + The Lord that led him alone could tell! + + He dodged the timber whene'er he could, + But the timber brought us to grief at last; + I was partly stunned by a log of wood, + That struck my head as it drifted past; + And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, + And in half a second he swept away. + + I reached a tree, where I had to stay, + And did a perish for two days hard; + And lived on water—but Mongrel Grey, + He walked right into the homestead yard + At dawn next morning, and grazed around, + With the child on top of him safe and sound. + + We keep him now for the wife to ride, + Nothing too good for him now, of course; + Never a whip on his fat old hide, + For she owes the child to that old grey horse. + And not Old Tyson himself could pay + The purchase money of Mongrel Grey. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Gilhooley's Estate + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + As most of us do, soon or late; + And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, + So they took him Gilhooley's Estate. + + Gilhooley in life had been living so free + 'Twas thought his possessions were great, + So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee + For me in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + They made out a list of his property fine, + It totalled a thousand-and-eight; + But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine— + The debts of Gilhooley's Estate. + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, my dear man, + My childer have little to ait: + Just keep the expenses as low as you can + Against poor Gilhooley's Estate.” + + But Jones says, “The will isn't clear in its terms, + I fear it will need some debate, + And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) + To appear in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, + And a brief in his hand quite elate, + Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, + Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate. + + But his Honor the Judge said, “I think that the joint + Legatees must be called to pro<i>bate</i>— + Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point— + The point of Gilhooley's Estate. + + “I order a suit to be brought just to try + If this is correct that I state— + A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, + Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, you'll appear! + Thim barristers' fees is too great; + The suit is but friendly.” “Attorneys, my dear, + Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah + Arises both early and late: + It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar + Dividing Gilhooley's Estate. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Road to Hogan's Gap + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + You cross the broken bridge + And run the crick down till you strike + The second right-hand ridge. + + The track is hard to see in parts, + But still it's pretty clear; + There's been two Injin hawkers' carts + Along that road this year. + + Well, run that right-hand ridge along— + It ain't, to say, too steep— + There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong + Where blokes went out with sheep. + + But keep the crick upon your right, + And follow pretty straight + Along the spur, until you sight + A wire and sapling gate. + + Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare + Fell off and broke her back; + You'll see her carcase layin' there, + Jist down below the track. + + And then you drop two mile, or three, + It's pretty steep and blind; + You want to go and fall a tree + And tie it on behind. + + And then you pass a broken cart + Below a granite bluff; + And that is where you strike the part + They reckon pretty rough. + + But by the time you've got that far + It's either cure or kill, + So turn your horses round the spur + And face 'em up the hill. + + For look, if you should miss the slope + And get below the track, + You haven't got the whitest hope + Of ever gettin' back. + + An' half way up you'll see the hide + Of Hogan's brindled bull; + Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, + The left's too steep a pull. + + And both the banks is full of cracks; + An' just about at dark + You'll see the last year's bullock tracks + Where Hogan drew the bark. + + The marks is old and pretty faint + And grown with scrub and such; + Of course the track to Hogan's ain't + A road that's travelled much. + + But turn and run the tracks along + For half a mile or more, + And then, of course, you can't go wrong— + You're right at Hogan's door. + + When first you come to Hogan's gate + He mightn't show, perhaps; + He's pretty sure to plant and wait + To see it ain't the traps. + + I wouldn't call it good enough + To let your horses out; + There's some that's pretty extra rough + Is livin' round about. + + It's likely if your horses did + Get feedin' near the track, + It's goin' to cost at least a quid + Or more to get them back. + + So, if you find they're off the place, + It's up to you to go + And flash a quid in Hogan's face— + He'll know the blokes that know. + + But listen, if you're feelin' dry, + Just see there's no one near, + And go and wink the other eye + And ask for ginger beer. + + The blokes come in from near and far + To sample Hogan's pop; + They reckon once they breast the bar + They stay there till they drop. + + On Sundays you can see them spread + Like flies around the tap. + It's like that song “The Livin' Dead” + Up there at Hogan's Gap. + + They like to make it pretty strong + Whenever there's a charnce; + So when a stranger comes along + They always holds a darnce. + + There's recitations, songs, and fights— + A willin' lot you'll meet. + There's one long bloke up there recites, + I tell you—he's a treat. + + They're lively blokes all right up there, + It's never dull a day. + I'd go meself if I could spare + The time to get away. + + . . . . . + + The stranger turned his horses quick. + He didn't cross the bridge; + He didn't go along the crick + To strike the second ridge; + + He didn't make the trip, because + He wasn't feeling fit. + His business up at Hogan's was + To serve him with a writ. + + He reckoned if he faced the pull + And climbed the rocky stair, + The next to come might find his hide + A land-mark on the mountain side, + Along with Hogan's brindled bull + And Hogan's old grey mare! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Singer of the Bush + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is waving of grass in the breeze + And a song in the air, + And a murmur of myriad bees + That toil everywhere. + There is scent in the blossom and bough, + And the breath of the Spring + Is as soft as a kiss on a brow— + And Spring-time I sing. + + There is drought on the land, and the stock + Tumble down in their tracks + Or follow—a tottering flock— + The scrub-cutter's axe. + While ever a creature survives + The axes shall swing; + We are fighting with fate for their lives— + And the combat I sing. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “Shouting” for a Camel + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, + Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, + And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. + Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. + He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking + He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. + Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking + He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by + That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, + And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; + For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, + And the miners muttered softly, “Yes, he's very dry indeed! + But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.” + + So he drank up twenty buckets—it was weird to watch him suck it, + (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) + Till the speculator stopped him, saying, “Not another bucket— + If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. + Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town.” + He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + There's a moral to this story—in your hat you ought to paste it, + Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, + And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, + Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; + If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, + You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Lost Drink + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I had spent the night in the watch-house— + My head was the size of three— + So I went and asked the chemist + To fix up a drink for me; + And he brewed it from various bottles + With soda and plenty of ice, + With something that smelt like lemon, + And something that seemed like spice. + + It fell on my parching palate + Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, + And my system began to flourish + Like the grass in a soft spring rain; + It wandered throughout my being, + Suffusing my soul with rest, + And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid + That life had a new-found zest. + + I have been on the razzle-dazzle + Full many a time since then + But I never could get the chemist + To brew me that drink again. + He says he's forgotten the notion— + 'Twas only by chance it came— + He's tried me with various liquids + But oh! they are not the same. + + We have sought, but we sought it vainly, + That one lost drink divine; + We have sampled his various bottles, + But somehow they don't combine: + Yet I know when I cross the River + And stand on the Golden Shore + I shall meet with an angel-chemist + Who'll brew me that drink once more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mulligan's Mare + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; + The height of choice spirits from near and from far + Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar. + + There was “Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned, + “Dog-bite-me”—so called from the shape of his head— + And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, + Designed as the “Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang”. + + Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, + A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; + Whenever they backed her you safely might swear + She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare. + + But Mulligan, having some radical views, + Neglected his business and got on the booze; + He took up with runners—a treacherous troop— + Who gave him away and he “fell in the soup”. + + And so it turned out on a fine summer day, + A bailiff turned up with a writ of “fi. fa.”; + He walked to the bar with a manner serene, + “I levy,” said he, “in the name of the Queen.” + + Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, + To pay out the bailiff with “<i>one</i> on the jaw”; + He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, + He changed his intentions and stood him a drink. + + A great consultation there straightway befel + 'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, + And the man with the head, who remarked “Why, you bet! + Dog-bite-me!” said he, “but we'll diddle 'em yet. + + “We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, + And put in her place the old broken-down hack; + The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear + The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare. + + “So out with the racer and in with the screw, + We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; + And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, + I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.” + + Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; + The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was “had”; + But marched to the stall with a confident air— + “I levy,” said he, “upon Mulligan's mare.” + + He watched her by day and he watched her by night, + She was never an instant let out of his sight, + For races were coming away in the West + And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best. + + “Here's a chance,” thought the bailiff, “to serve my own ends, + I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: + Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare + And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.” + + The races came round, and a crowd on the course + Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, + And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, + They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. + + And think of the grief of the bookmaking host + At the sound of the summons to go to the post— + For down to the start with her thorough-bred air + As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare! + + They started, and off went the boy to the front, + He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; + He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, + Then gave her her head and she smothered the field. + + The race put her owner right clear of his debts, + He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, + He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, + And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. + + So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, + Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; + For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week— + Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. + + And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, + Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, + And fortune in season will answer your prayer + And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Matrimonial Stakes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat + When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; + Well, she simply <i>had</i> to have me after that! + + It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead + From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; + And, although she <i>looked</i> indifferent when I landed—on my head— + In the water, it appealed to her, of course! + + When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was “all Sir Garneo”, + For she praised the way I made my final run. + And she thought the riding did it—for how <i>could</i> the poor girl know + That a monkey could have ridden it and won! + + Then they “weighed me in” a winner—it's not often that occurs! + So I didn't let my golden chances slip, + For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, + And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip. + + Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk + For a moment, so I took her by the head + (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work + When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red. + + She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; + I could worship every little step she takes; + And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, + Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mountain Squatter + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here in my mountain home, + On rugged hills and steep, + I sit and watch you come, + O Riverina Sheep! + + You come from fertile plains + Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, + And flats that (when it rains) + Will blossom like the rose. + + But, when the summer sun + Gleams down like burnished brass, + You have to leave your run + And hustle off for grass. + + 'Tis then that—forced to roam— + You come to where I keep, + Here in my mountain home, + A boarding-house for sheep. + + Around me where I sit + The wary wombat goes— + A beast of little wit, + But what he knows, he <i>knows</i>. + + The very same remark + Applies to me also; + I don't give out a spark, + But what I know, I <i>know</i>. + + My brain perhaps would show + No convolutions deep, + But anyhow I know + The way to handle sheep. + + These Riverina cracks, + They do not care to ride + The half-inch hanging tracks + Along the mountain side. + + Their horses shake with fear + When loosened boulders go, + With leaps, like startled deer, + Down to the gulfs below. + + Their very dogs will shirk, + And drop their tails in fright + When asked to go and work + A mob that's out of sight. + + My little collie pup + Works silently and wide; + You'll see her climbing up + Along the mountain side. + + As silent as a fox + You'll see her come and go, + A shadow through the rocks + Where ash and messmate grow. + + Then, lost to sight and sound + Behind some rugged steep, + She works her way around + And gathers up the sheep; + + And, working wide and shy, + She holds them rounded up. + The cash ain't coined to buy + That little collie pup. + + And so I draw a screw + For self and dog and keep + To boundary-ride for you, + O Riverina Sheep! + + And when the autumn rain + Has made the herbage grow, + You travel off again, + And glad—no doubt—to go. + + But some are left behind + Around the mountain's spread, + For those we cannot find + We put them down as dead. + + But when we say adieu + And close the boarding job, + I always find a few + Fresh ear-marks in my mob. + + So what with those I sell, + And what with those I keep, + You pay me pretty well, + O Riverina Sheep! + + It's up to me to shout + Before we say good-bye— + “Here's to a howlin' drought + All west of Gundagai!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Pioneers + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, + We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years + As those explorers of the bush—the brave old pioneers. + + 'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; + 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; + 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, + And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. + + But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead + When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead + By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, + And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest. + + Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, + We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, + To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years— + The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Santa Claus in the Bush + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + When the wheat was ripe and tall, + A stranger rode to the farmer's gate— + A sturdy man and a small. + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + And bid the stranger stay; + And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, + For the morn is Christmas Day.” + + “Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife, + “But ye should let him be; + He's maybe only a drover chap + Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. + + “Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst + To swiggle the hail nicht through; + Or he's maybe a life assurance carle + To talk ye black and blue.” + + “Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, + For their swags are neat and thin; + And he's never a life assurance carle, + Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. + + “Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, + For the wheat stands ripe and tall, + And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, + Ewes and weaners and all. + + “There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat + Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, + And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, + So we maun ask him in. + + “Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, + And gi' him a bite tae eat; + An omelette made of a new-laid egg, + Or a tasty bit of meat.” + + “But the native cats hae taen the fowls, + They havena left a leg; + And he'll get nae omelette here at a' + Till the emu lays an egg!” + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + To whaur the emus bide, + Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, + While the auld cock sits beside. + + “But speak them fair, and speak them saft, + Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. + Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails + Or a rusty carriage bolt.” + + So little son Jack ran blithely down, + With the rusty nails in hand, + Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched + By their nest in the open sand. + + And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, + 'Twould feed three men or four, + And the emus came for the half-inch nails + Right up to the settler's door. + + “A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife, + As she took the egg, with a frown, + “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin + A paddy-melon down.” + + “Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, + Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; + Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, + Then come nae back at a'.” + + So little son Jack he raced and he ran, + And he was bare o' the feet, + And soon he captured a paddy-melon, + Was gorged with the stolen wheat. + + “Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, + To the best that the hoose can do— + An omelette made of the emu egg + And a paddy-melon stew.” + + “'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man; + “I have eaten the wide world's meat, + And the food that is given with right good will + Is the sweetest food to eat. + + “But the night draws on to the Christmas Day + And I must rise and go, + For I have a mighty way to ride + To the land of the Esquimaux. + + “And it's there I must load my sledges up, + With reindeers four-in-hand, + That go to the North, South, East, and West, + To every Christian land.” + + “Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife, + “Ye suit my husband well! + For when he gets up on his journey horse + He's a bit of a liar himsel'.” + + Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man + To his old horse grazing nigh, + And away like a meteor flash they went + Far off to the Northern sky. + + . . . . . + + When the children woke on the Christmas morn + They chattered with might and main— + For a sword and gun had little son Jack, + And a braw new doll had Jane, + And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; + But the dour good-wife got nane. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “In Re a Gentleman, One” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer + for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name + until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers + as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”, + or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We see it each day in the paper, + And know that there's mischief in store; + That some unprofessional caper + Has landed a shark on the shore. + We know there'll be plenty of trouble + Before they get through with the fun, + Because he's been coming the double + On clients, has “Gentleman, One”. + + Alas! for the gallant attorney, + Intent upon cutting a dash, + Sets out on life's perilous journey + With rather more cunning than cash. + And fortune at first is inviting— + He struts his brief hour in the sun— + But, lo! on the wall is the writing + Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”. + + For soon he runs short of the dollars, + He fears he must go to the wall; + So Peter's trust-money he collars + To pay off his creditor, Paul; + Then robs right and left—for he goes it + In earnest when once he's begun. + Descensus Averni—he knows it; + It's easy for “Gentleman, One”. + + The crash comes as sure as the seasons; + He loses his coin in a mine, + Or booming in land, or for reasons + Connected with women and wine. + Or maybe the cards or the horses + A share of the damage have done + No matter; the end of the course is + The same: “Re a Gentleman, One”. + + He struggles awhile to keep going, + To stave off detection and shame; + But creditors, clamorous growing, + Ere long put an end to the game. + At length the poor soldier of Satan + His course to a finish has run— + And just think of Windeyer waiting + To deal with “A Gentleman, One”! + + And some face it boldly, and brazen + The shame and the utter disgrace; + While others, more sensitive, hasten + Their names and their deeds to efface. + They snap the frail thread which the Furies + And Fates have so cruelly spun. + May the great Final Judge and His juries + Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Melting of the Snow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a sunny Southern land, + And it's there that I would be + Where the big hills stand, + In the South Countrie! + When the wattles bloom again, + Then it's time for us to go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + To the East or to the West, + Or wherever you may be, + You will find no place + Like the South Countrie. + For the skies are blue above, + And the grass is green below, + In the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + Now the team is in the plough, + And the thrushes start to sing, + And the pigeons on the bough + Sit a-welcoming the Spring. + So come my comrades all, + Let us saddle up and go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (1886) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + And some doughy damper to make good cheer, + I must make a heavy dinner; + Heavily dine and heavily sup, + Of indigestible things fill up, + Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, + And I have to dream the winner. + + Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, + The rich ragout and the charming cham., + I've got to mix my liquor; + Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, + Hard and tough as a wooden peg, + And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, + 'Twill make me dream the quicker. + + Now I am full of fearful feed, + Now I may dream a race indeed, + In my restless, troubled slumber; + While the night-mares race through my heated brain + And their devil-riders spur amain, + The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, + And I'll spot the winning number. + + . . . . . + + Thousands and thousands and thousands more, + Like sands on the white Pacific shore, + The crowding people cluster; + For evermore it's the story old, + While races are bought and backers are sold, + Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, + In their thousands still they muster. + + And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, + “I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!” + “Five monkeys, Little John, sir!” + “Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!” + And so they shout through the livelong day, + And stick to the game that is sure to pay, + While fools put money on, sir! + + And now in my dream I seem to go + And bet with a “book” that I seem to know— + A Hebrew money-lender; + A million to five is the price I get— + Not bad! but before I book the bet + The horse's name I clean forget, + Its number and even gender. + + Now for the start, and here they come, + And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum + Beat by a hand unsteady; + They come like a rushing, roaring flood, + Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; + For Acme is making the pace so good + There are some of 'em done already. + + But round the back she begins to tire, + And a mighty shout goes up “Crossfire!” + The magpie jacket's leading; + And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, + And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, + But at length gives way to the black and gold, + Which away to the front is speeding. + + Carry them on and keep it up— + A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, + You must race and stay to win it; + And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, + Now takes the lead with his raking stride, + And a mighty roar goes far and wide— + “There's only Commotion in it!” + + But one draws out from the beaten ruck + And up on the rails by a piece of luck + He comes in a style that's clever; + “It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!” + “Go at 'em now while their courage fails;” + “Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!” + “The blue and white for ever!” + + Under the whip! with the ears flat back, + Under the whip! though the sinews crack, + No sign of the base white feather; + Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, + Stick to it now though your hearts should break, + While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, + They come down the straight together. + + Trident slowly forges ahead, + The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, + The pace is undiminished; + Now for the Panics that never fail! + But many a backer's face grows pale + As old Commotion swings his tail + And swerves—and the Cup is finished. + + . . . . . + + And now in my dream it all comes back: + I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, + A million I've won, no question! + “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! + Give me my money, bookmaking dog!” + But he disappeared in a kind of fog, + And I woke with “the indigestion”. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Gundaroo Bullock + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; + But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few + Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo. + + Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, + There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; + For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, + And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo. + + There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, + And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride, + For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo— + He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.” + + “Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, + “I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, + And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, + With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.” + + That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, + They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. + “Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew— + The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.” + + They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, + But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. + “What's this?” exclaimed the trooper—“an infant, I declare;” + Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. + I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, + Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo. + + “The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, + The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; + We can't afford a bullock—such expense would never do— + So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.” + + And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, + In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, + On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, + But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Lay of the Motor-Car + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + In our whiskers and teeth; + And the granite-like grey of the road + Seems to slide underneath. + As an eagle might sweep through the sky, + So we sweep through the land; + And the pallid pedestrians fly + When they hear us at hand. + + We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! + Not the fast-fleeing hare, + Nor the racehorses under the whip, + Nor the birds of the air + Can compete with our swiftness sublime, + Our ease and our grace. + We annihilate chickens and time + And policemen and space. + + Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? + How he dropped down to pray + In the road when he saw he was lost; + How he melted away + Underneath, and there rang through the fog + His earsplitting squeal + As he went—— Is that he or a dog, + That stuff on the wheel? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Corner Man + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + When fancies come and go + To vex a man in his soothing sleep + With thoughts of awful woe— + I dreamed that I was a corner-man + Of a nigger minstrel show. + + I cracked my jokes, and the building rang + With laughter loud and long; + I hushed the house as I softly sang + An old plantation song— + A tale of the wicked slavery days + Of cruelty and wrong. + + A small boy sat on the foremost seat— + A mirthful youngster he; + He beat the time with his restless feet + To each new melody, + And he picked me out as the brightest star + Of the black fraternity. + + “Oh father,” he said, “what <i>would</i> we do + If the corner-man should die? + I never saw such a man—did you? + He makes the people cry, + And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.” + The old man made reply— + + “We each of us fill a very small space + In the great creation's plan, + If a man don't keep his lead in the race + There's plenty more that can; + The world can very soon fill the place + Of even a corner-man.” + + . . . . . + + I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find + Myself at home in bed, + And I framed a moral in my mind + From the words the old man said. + The world will jog along just the same + When its corner-men are dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Dacey Rode the Mule + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + When we were boys at school, + There came a circus with a clown, + Likewise a bucking mule. + The clown announced a scheme they had + Spectators for to bring— + They'd give a crown to any lad + Who'd ride him round the ring. + + And, gentle reader, do not scoff + Nor think a man a fool— + To buck a porous-plaster off + Was pastime to that mule. + + The boys got on; he bucked like sin; + He threw them in the dirt, + What time the clown would raise a grin + By asking, “Are you hurt?” + But Johnny Dacey came one night, + The crack of all the school; + Said he, “I'll win the crown all right, + Bring in your bucking mule.” + + The elephant went off his trunk, + The monkey played the fool, + And all the band got blazing drunk + When Dacey rode the mule. + + But soon there rose a galling shout + Of laughter, for the clown + From somewhere in his pants drew out + A little paper crown. + He placed the crown on Dacey's head + While Dacey looked a fool; + “Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said, + “For riding of the mule!” + + The band struck up with “Killaloe”, + And “Rule Britannia, Rule”, + And “Young Man from the Country”, too, + When Dacey rode the mule. + + Then Dacey, in a furious rage, + For vengeance on the show + Ascended to the monkeys' cage + And let the monkeys go; + The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee + He turned abroad to roam; + Good faith! It was a sight to see + The people step for home. + + For big baboons with canine snout + Are spiteful, as a rule— + The people didn't sit it out + When Dacey rode the mule. + + And from the beasts that made escape, + The bushmen all declare, + Were born some creatures partly ape + And partly native-bear. + They're rather few and far between, + The race is nearly spent; + But some of them may still be seen + In Sydney Parliament. + + And when those legislators fight, + And drink, and act the fool, + Just blame it on that torrid night + When Dacey rode the mule. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mylora Elopement + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, + Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, + Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run. + + Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. + Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; + And Amelia loved him truly—but the course of love, if true, + Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do. + + Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss + Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss + That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. + Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges—off goes Jim to see his child; + + Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, + And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. + Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, + And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below. + + “I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, + One more kiss—don't think I'm greedy—good-bye, lass, before I'm seen— + Just one more—God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, + Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.” + + . . . . . + + The daylight shines on figures twain + That ride across Mylora plain, + Laughing and talking—Jim and Jane. + “Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, + Didn't we slip the old man prime! + I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, + I reckon he'll find it too big a job. + They've beaten us all. I had a try, + But the warrigal devils seem to fly. + That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff + No doubt, but not quite good enough. + He'll have to gallop the livelong day, + To cut and come, to race and stay. + I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; + To see us going I don't think would.” + A turn in the road and, fair and square, + They meet the old man standing there. + “What's up?” “Why, running away, of course,” + Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, + His eye with wild excitement burned. + “I've raced all day through the scorching heat + After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. + But over that range I think you'll find + The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. + Will you go and leave the mob behind? + Which will you do? Take the girl away, + Or ride like a white man should to-day, + And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?” + Says Jim, “I can't throw this away, + We can bolt some other day, of course, + Amelia Jane, get off that horse. + Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. + Here goes to put old Bowneck through!” + Two distant specks on the mountain side, + Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. + Amelia Jane sat down and cried. + + . . . . . + + “Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? + Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, + And him dead beat. Where have you been? + “Bolted with Jim! What <i>do</i> you mean?” + “Met the old man with Sambo licked + From running old Bowneck.” “Well, I'm kicked— + Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? + What did Jim do when you were stopped? + Did you bolt from father across the plain? + Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! + And father got on, and away again + The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. + Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! + They're sure to get them now, of course, + That Tambourine is a spanking horse. + And Crazy Jane is good as gold. + And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; + Not like your father, but very fair. + Jim will have to follow the mare.” + “It never was yet in father's hide + To best my Jim on the mountain-side. + Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” + But here again Amelia cried. + + . . . . . + + The sound of a whip comes faint and far, + A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, + In all their tameless pride. + The fleet wild horses snort with fear, + And wheel and break as the yard draws near. + Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! + Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! + And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, + As under the whip the horses go + Adown the mountain side. + And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, + On a horse that never has failed him yet, + Is after them down the range. + Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel—whoa back! + And long and loud the stockwhips crack, + Their flying course they change, + “Steadily does it—let Sambo go! + Open those sliprails down below. + Smart! or you'll be too late. + They'll follow old Sambo up—look out! + Wheel that black horse—give Sam a clout. + They're in! Make fast the gate.” + + . . . . . + + The mob is safely in the yard! + The old man mounts delighted guard. + No thought has he but for his prize. + Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. + “Will you come after all? the job is done, + And Crazy Jane is fit to run + For a prince's life—now don't say no; + Slip on while the old man's down below + At the inner yard, and away we'll go. + Will you come, my girl?” “I will, you bet, + We'll manage this here elopement yet.” + + . . . . . + + By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. + And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. + He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, + There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pannikin Poet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's nothing here sublime, + But just a roving rhyme, + Run off to pass the time, + With nought titanic in + The theme that it supports, + And, though it treats of quarts, + It's bare of golden thoughts— + It's just a pannikin. + + I think it's rather hard + That each Australian bard— + Each wan, poetic card— + With thoughts galvanic in + His fiery soul alight, + In wild aerial flight, + Will sit him down and write + About a pannikin. + + He makes some new-chum fare + From out his English lair + To hunt the native bear, + That curious mannikin; + And then when times get bad + That wandering English lad + Writes out a message sad + Upon his pannikin: + + “Oh, mother, think of me + Beneath the wattle tree” + (For you may bet that he + Will drag the wattle in) + “Oh, mother, here I think + That I shall have to sink, + There ain't a single drink + The water-bottle in.” + + The dingo homeward hies, + The sooty crows uprise + And caw their fierce surprise + A tone Satanic in; + And bearded bushmen tread + Around the sleeper's head— + “See here—the bloke is dead! + Now where's his pannikin?” + + They read his words and weep, + And lay him down to sleep + Where wattle-branches sweep, + A style mechanic in; + And, reader, that's the way + The poets of to-day + Spin out their little lay + About a pannikin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Not on It + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet— + The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. + The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet + He was on it. + + The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, + The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by, + The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi! + Are you on it?” + + They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told— + The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. + The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold + Was not on it. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Protest + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I say 'e <i>isn't</i> Remorse! + 'Ow do I know? + Saw 'im on Riccarton course + Two year ago! + Think I'd forget any 'orse? + <i>Course</i> 'e's The Crow! + + Bumper Maginnis and I, + After a “go”, + Walkin' our 'orses to dry, + I says, “Hello! + What's that old black goin' by?” + Bumper says “Oh! + That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's— + Runs as The Crow!” + + Now they make out 'e's Remorse. + Well, but I <i>know</i>. + Soon as I came on the course + I says “'Ello! + 'Ere's the old Crow.” + Once a man's seen any 'orse, + 'Course 'e must know. + Sure as there's wood in this table, + I say 'e's The Crow. + + (Cross-examined by the Committee.) + + 'Ow do I know the moke + After one sight? + S'posin' you met a bloke + Down town at night, + Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? + That's '<i>I'm</i> all right! + + What was the brand on 'is 'ide? + <i>I</i> couldn't say, + Brands can be transmogrified. + That ain't the way— + It's the <i>look</i> of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves + That I'd know any day. + + What was the boy on 'is back? + Why, 'e went past + All of a minute, and off down the track. + —“The 'orse went as fast?” + True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! + 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat + Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? + Lor'! What a question to ast! + + (Protest dismissed.) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Scapegoat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, + And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put “in the soup” + When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. + The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was “had” + That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. + You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo— + Whence comes the expression “to buck against faro”. + + For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears + In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, + The Israelite horde went roaming abroad + Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. + When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, + Was dying, he murmured “A rorty old hoss you are: + I give you command of the whole of the band”— + And handed the Government over to Joshua. + + . . . . . + + But Moses told 'em before he died, + “Wherever you are, whatever betide, + Every year as the time draws near + By lot or by rote choose you a goat, + And let the high priest confess on the beast + The sins of the people, the worst and the least. + Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, + Because all your sins are “his troubles” in future. + Then lead him away to the wilderness black + To die with the weight of your sins on his back: + Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, + For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!” + + 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, + This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. + By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, + Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, + Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, + Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. + (Just here let us note—<i>DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT?</i> + It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture + By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a + Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose + Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. + In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; + 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, + When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; + Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers + Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, + That a “stag” makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) + Be that as it may, as each year passed away, + A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted + With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) + And left there—to die as his fancy dictated. + + . . . . . + + The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, + With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, + They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: + On every hand a reverend band, + Prophets and preachers and elders stand + And the oldest rab<i>bi</i>, with a tear in his eye, + Delivers a sermon to all standing by. + (We haven't his name—whether Cohen or Harris, he + No doubt was the “poisonest” kind of a Pharisee.) + The sermon was marked by a deal of humility + And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, + That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, + And, according to Samuel, would certainly d—n you well. + Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat + And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, + Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. + With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst— + “Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, + The sins of the people are whiter than snow!” + Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. + + The animal, freed from all restraint + Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, + And charged straight at that elderly saint. + So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it + Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, + Was rammed on the—no, not the back—but just near it. + The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, + A light-hearted antelope “out on the ramp”, + Then stopped, looked around, got the “lay of the ground”, + And made a bee-line back again to the camp. + The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast + So gallantly making his way to the East, + Says he: “From the tents may I never more roam again + If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. + He's hurrying, too! This never will do. + Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. + After all our confessions, so openly granted, + He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. + We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, + If he takes home our sins—it'll burst up the Synagogue!” + + He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, + A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. + “Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, + And drive back the brute to the desert again. + The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, + From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you— + Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” + So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, + But the goat made it clear each time he drew near + That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him. + + The crowd with great eagerness studied the race— + “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace— + And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, + The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. + The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, + And Abraham's tiring—I'll lay six to four! + He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!” + But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. + ('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), + “It's a hard race,” said he, “and I think it would be + A good thing for someone to take up the running.” + As soon said as done, they started to run— + The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns + All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, + And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. + And then it came out, as the rabble and rout + Streamed over the desert with many a shout— + The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, + Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, + And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, + “Any price Abraham! Evens the field!” + Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, + And Abraham proved him an “even-time” man, + But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, + Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' + And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. + + Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp + Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, + And paling and wall he plasters them all, + “I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat,” he says, + Then pulls out his bills, “Use Solomon's Pills”: + “Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all + Must each bring a stone—Great sport will be shown; + Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! + Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, + For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!” + Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side + Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! + One shriek from him burst—“You creature accurst!” + And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. + His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, + But the goat stayed behind him—and “scoffed up” the paste. + + With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, + The people came back from the desert in dread. + “The goat—was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?” + In very short order they got plenty word of him, + In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, + “The trail of the serpent was over them all.” + A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter + Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a “butter”. + The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, + The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; + He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, + But his latest achievement most anger arouses, + For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, + One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, + Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Moral: + + The moral is patent to all the beholders— + Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; + Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, + Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; + Take their lives if needs must—when it comes to the worst, + But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. + Remember, no matter how far you may roam, + That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens + Their talent stupendous for “getting back home”. + Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, + And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it— + But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Evening in Dandaloo + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was while we held our races— + Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases— + Up in Dandaloo, + That a crowd of Sydney stealers, + Jockeys, pugilists and spielers + Brought some horses, real heelers, + Came and put us through. + + Beat our nags and won our money, + Made the game by no means funny, + Made us rather blue; + When the racing was concluded, + Of our hard-earned coin denuded + Dandaloonies sat and brooded + There in Dandaloo. + + . . . . . + + Night came down on Johnson's shanty + Where the grog was no means scanty, + And a tumult grew + Till some wild, excited person + Galloped down the township cursing, + “Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, + Roll up, Dandaloo!” + + Great St. Denis! what commotion! + Like the rush of stormy ocean + Fiery horsemen flew. + Dust and smoke and din and rattle, + Down the street they spurred their cattle + To the war-cry of the battle, + “Wade in, Dandaloo!” + + So the boys might have their fight out, + Johnson blew the bar-room light out, + Then, in haste, withdrew. + And in darkness and in doubting + Raged the conflict and the shouting, + “Give the Sydney push a clouting, + Go it, Dandaloo!” + + Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, + Every head he saw he struck it— + Struck in earnest, too; + And a man from Lower Wattle, + Whom a shearer tried to throttle, + Hit out freely with a bottle, + There in Dandaloo. + + Skin and hair were flying thickly, + When a light was fetched, and quickly + Brought a fact to view— + On the scene of the diversion + Every single, solid person + Come along to help Macpherson— + <i>All</i> were Dandaloo!” + + When the list of slain was tabled, + Some were drunk and some disabled, + Still we found it true. + In the darkness and the smother + We'd been belting one another; + Jack Macpherson bashed his brother + There in Dandaloo. + + So we drank, and all departed— + How the “mobbing” yarn was started + No one ever knew— + And the stockmen tell the story + Of that conflict fierce and gory, + How we fought for love and glory + Up in Dandaloo. + + It's a proverb now, or near it— + At the races you can hear it, + At the dog-fights, too! + Every shrieking, dancing drover + As the canines topple over + Yells applause to Grip or Rover, + “Give him 'Dandaloo'!” + + And the teamster slowly toiling + Through the deep black country, soiling + Wheels and axles, too, + Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, + Rouses Tarboy with a flanker— + “Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! + Wade in, Dandaloo!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Ballad of Ducks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The railway rattled and roared and swung + With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. + The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung + In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue + Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told + This terrible tale of the days of old, + And the party that ought to have kept the ducks. + + “Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land + With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; + And the rabbits have pretty well took command; + But the hardest thing for a man to stand + Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so! + You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'— + I could lay a bait for a man like that. + + “The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one + And what they leave—well, it ain't 'de luxe'. + But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun + Who'd lent some money to stock our run— + I said they'd eaten what grass we had— + Says he, 'Your management's very bad, + You had a right to have kept some ducks!' + + “To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! + Wherever you went you had to tread + On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; + And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, + If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly + Like bullets into your open eye + And knock it out of the back of your head. + + “There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, + Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, + Can make a difference on a run + When a grasshopper plague has once begun; + 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy + Ten thousand emus and have a try; + The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! + + “'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; + A great big duck—a Muscovy toff— + Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; + And if the grasshoppers come our way + You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, + And I'd be ready to make a match + That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!' + + “He came to visit us by and by, + And it just so happened one day in Spring + A kind of a cloud came over the sky— + A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, + And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, + Flyin' in regiments, side by side, + And eatin' up every living thing. + + “All day long, like a shower of rain, + You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, + Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, + And they'd rise and jump at the house again + Till their crippled carcases piled outside. + But what did it matter if thousands died— + A million wouldn't be missed at all. + + “We were drinkin' grasshoppers—so to speak— + Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; + And they fell so thick in the station creek + They choked the waterholes all the week. + There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, + And they'd only take artificial flies— + They got so sick of the real thing. + + “An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags + When the hoppers rose for their morning flight + With a flapping noise like a million flags: + And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags + For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry + Till the cook sat down and began to cry— + And never a duck or a fowl in sight! + + “We strolled across to the railroad track— + Under a cover, beneath some trucks, + I sees a feather and hears a quack; + I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back— + Every duck in the place was there, + No good to them was the open air. + 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Tommy Corrigan + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. + It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, + To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; + But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat— + When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? + + When any slip means sudden death—with wife and child to keep— + It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap— + But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, + He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; + With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, + He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. + + He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, + He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; + He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all— + But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. + But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand + Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. + + They were, indeed, a glorious pair—the great upstanding horse, + The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. + Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, + “You follow Tommy Corrigan” was passed to one and all. + And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command + To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. + + But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, + We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. + We'll drink to him in silence, boys—he's followed down the track + Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. + And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, + That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Maori's Wool + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au.</i> + + . . . . . + + The Maoris are a mighty race—the finest ever known; + Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; + They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done + They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. + But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, + Prepared to smoke or drink or talk—or anything but work. + The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow + Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. + + 'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, + A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name— + (The word Rerenga means a “snag”—but until he was gone + This didn't strike the folk he met—it struck them later on). + He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”, + And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. + The Bold Bank Manager looked grave—the price of wool was high. + He said, “We'll lend you what you need—we're not disposed to buy. + You ship the wool to England, Chief!—You'll find it's good advice, + And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.” + The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state + In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, + But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand + This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. + So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, + To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. + + They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, + With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. + They called themselves poetic names—“lost children in a wood”; + They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai—extra good! + And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, + To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; + And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow, + A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. + + It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; + Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; + A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark— + You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark— + But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, + “I'll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!” + The haka is a striking dance—the sort they don't allow + In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. + + He “haka'd” most effectively—then, with an airy grace + Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. + But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! + For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! + Yes—thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; + On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. + And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, + Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Angel's Kiss + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An angel stood beside the bed + Where lay the living and the dead. + + He gave the mother—her who died— + A kiss that Christ the Crucified + + Had sent to greet the weary soul + When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. + + He gave the infant kisses twain, + One on the breast, one on the brain. + + “Go forth into the world,” he said, + “With blessings on your heart and head, + + “For God, who ruleth righteously, + Hath ordered that to such as be + + “From birth deprived of mother's love, + I bring His blessing from above; + + “But if the mother's life He spare + Then she is made God's messenger + + “To kiss and pray that heart and brain + May go through life without a stain.” + + The infant moved towards the light, + The angel spread his wings in flight. + + But each man carries to his grave + The kisses that in hopes to save + The angel or his mother gave. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sunrise on the Coast + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Grey dawn on the sand-hills—the night wind has drifted + All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; + With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, + At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. + + Like mariners calling the roll of their number + The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. + And far over-head—sinking softly to slumber— + Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. + + To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on + The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; + And far from behind the enshrouded horizon + Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.” + + And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, + It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; + And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour— + Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Reveille + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + Sound a loud reveille; + Sound it over Sydney shore, + Send the message far and wide + Down the Richmond River side— + Boot and saddle, mount and ride, + Sound a loud reveille. + + Whither go ye, Lancers gay, + With your bold reveille? + O'er the ocean far away + From your sunny southern home, + Over leagues of trackless foam, + In a foreign land to roam + With your bold reveille. + + When we hear our brethren call, + Sound a clear reveille. + Then we answer, one and all, + Answer that the world may see, + “Of the English stock are we, + At their side we still will be”— + That's our bold reveille. + + [End of original text.] +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + [Original Advertisement] + </h2> + <h3> + Pocket Editions for the Trenches + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Price, 4/—each (postage, per volume: within the Commonwealth, 1d.; +to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. By Major A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) + The Moods of Ginger Mick. By C. J. Dennis + The Australian, and other Verses. By Will H. Ogilvie + Songs of a Sentimental Bloke. By C. J. Dennis + The Man from Snowy River. By Major A. B. Paterson + Rio Grande, and other Verses. By Major A. B. Paterson +</pre> + <p> + Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold + during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour by Norman + Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable from all + Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. + </p> + <p> + [End Original Advertisement] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + About the author: + </h2> + <p> + Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, New South + Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, when he went to + Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor (a type of lawyer) but + also contributed some verse to the Sydney “Bulletin” under the pseudonym + of “The Banjo”, taken from the name of a horse. His first book, “The Man + from Snowy River”, was published in 1895, and has sold more copies than + any other book of Australian poetry. He later gave up law to become a + journalist, and went to South Africa to report on the Boer War. When World + War I broke out he sought work as a war correspondent, but failed to get + it. He then went to work driving an ambulance in France, and later became + a Remount Officer with the Australian forces then in Egypt. After + returning to Australia in 1919 he continued as a writer, and died in + Sydney on 5 February 1941. + </p> + <p> + Paterson's most famous work is “Waltzing Matilda”, written in 1895, and + now an unofficial anthem of Australia. “The Man from Snowy River” has + since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, and + even a series on a cable television network. “Clancy of the Overflow” is + similarly well known. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: + </h2> + <p> + Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. + </p> + <p> + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for tea. + </p> + <p> + Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and + shrubs, especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. + </p> + <p> + Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. + </p> + <p> + Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. The leaves of the + Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, as an + adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. + </p> + <p> + Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United Kingdom + (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to 1910. + </p> + <p> + Fi. fa.: fieri facias—a legal paper authorising the seizure of a + debtor's goods. + </p> + <p> + Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. + </p> + <p> + Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). + </p> + <p> + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, wurley, + or mia-mia. + </p> + <p> + Jumbuck: A sheep. + </p> + <p> + Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. + </p> + <p> + Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, his + last expedition (in 1848) never returned. + </p> + <p> + Matilda: A swag. See “Waltz Matilda”. + </p> + <p> + Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. + </p> + <p> + Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; any of several + types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). + </p> + <p> + Native bear: A koala. + </p> + <p> + Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, and + especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; to drive stock + by land, especially on this route. + </p> + <p> + Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. + </p> + <p> + Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, of + the genus Thylogalefound. + </p> + <p> + Pah/Pa: A Maori village. + </p> + <p> + Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. + </p> + <p> + Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. + </p> + <p> + Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. + </p> + <p> + Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the group. + </p> + <p> + Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, especially + of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which is limited to + Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, saltbush can grow in + arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; the region where saltbush grows. + </p> + <p> + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by lease + or license from the government. + </p> + <p> + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + </p> + <p> + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise + stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + </p> + <p> + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + </p> + <p> + Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, explored + eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery of the river + system in southeastern Australia. + </p> + <p> + Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for + work, but looking for food and/or shelter. + </p> + <p> + Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. + </p> + <p> + Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, e.g. + carrying a swag. + </p> + <p> + Tucker: Food. + </p> + <p> + Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, etc., + related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) “on the wallaby + (track)”, on the move, on the road. + </p> + <p> + Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. “Waltz”, to travel in circles. + </p> + <p> + Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; by + association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). + </p> + <p> + Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. + </p> + <p> + Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, having + off-white or yellow flowers. So named because the branches were used to + weave wattle, a type of construction made of interwoven branches and the + like. + </p> + <p> + Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family Vombatidae, + which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant person. + </p> + <p> + Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, A. + glaucescens. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes on the text: + </h2> + <p> + “An Answer to Various Bards” appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of + poems in the Sydney 'Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, + or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), primarily + between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], who may have staged + the debate as a way of selling more poems. + </p> + <p> + Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], who, + despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush in at least + one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie [1869-1963] who was + in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, returned in 1901, and + was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). + </p> + <p> + Other verses from the debate maybe found in “The Man from Snowy River” by + Paterson and “In the Days When the World was Wide” by Henry Lawson. + </p> + <p> + The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts in the + original edition. + </p> + <p> + “'Shouting' for a Camel”: A number of camels were brought to Australia, + with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden in + the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. (A similar + scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, but no camels remain.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + “The Gundaroo Bullock”: + + [ Said Morgan, “Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + changed to: + [ Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] +</pre> + <p> + “Lay of the Motor-Car”: To put this poem in perspective, it must be + remembered that this book was published in 1917, and the poem written + earlier. It may be helpful to compare Paterson's short story, “Three + Elephant Power”, in the book of the same name that was published in the + same year. The plot centres around a speed demon who would drive at + unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Mylora Elopement”: + + [ No thought has be but for his prize. ] + changed to: + [ No thought has he but for his prize. ] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Protest”: + + [ W ll, but I KNOW. ] + changed to: + [ Well, but I KNOW. ] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Maori's Wool”: + + [ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] + changed to: + [ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] +</pre> + <p> + “The Lost Drink”, “The Matrimonial Stakes”, “Not on It”, “The Scapegoat”, + “The Angel's Kiss”, and “The Reveille” were all dropped from “Saltbush + Bill” when it was included in Paterson's “Collected Verse” (first issued + in 1921). No poems were added, though “The Song of the Pen” moved from the + front of the book to the back, and several titles were slightly changed. + No effort has been made to compare the texts. + </p> + <p> + There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was + added. + </p> + <p> + Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) and + the “frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay”, the first of which was + set above the lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals across the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again.” + </pre> + <p> + which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of “Brumby's Run” (should be + “steals along the plain”). + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1317 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1b569b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1317 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1317) diff --git a/old/1317-0.txt b/old/1317-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e71c3ed --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1317-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3703 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses, by A. B. Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses + +Author: A. B. Paterson + +Posting Date: August 15, 2008 [EBook #1317] +Release Date: April, 1998 +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTBUSH BILL *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + +By A. B. Paterson + +[Andrew Barton (“Banjo”) Paterson, +Australian poet & journalist. 1864-1941.] + + +Author of “The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses”, +“Rio Grande, and Other Verses”, and “An Outback Marriage”. + + +Publisher's Note: Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in +Egypt for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on +them to say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen +by him in proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the +arrangement or the title of “Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses”. + + + + +Table of Contents + + + + Song of the Pen + Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + + Song of the Wheat + We have sung the song of the droving days, + + Brumby's Run + It lies beyond the Western Pines + + Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + + The Reverend Mullineux + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + + The Wisdom of Hafiz + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + + The Riders in the Stand + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + + Waltzing Matilda + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + + An Answer to Various Bards + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + + T.Y.S.O.N. + Across the Queensland border line + + As Long as your Eyes are Blue + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + + Bottle-O! + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + + The Story of Mongrel Grey + This is the story the stockman told, + + Gilhooley's Estate + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + + The Road to Hogan's Gap + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + + A Singer of the Bush + There is waving of grass in the breeze + + “Shouting” for a Camel + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + + The Lost Drink + I had spent the night in the watch-house-- + + Mulligan's Mare + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + + The Matrimonial Stakes + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + + The Mountain Squatter + Here in my mountain home, + + Pioneers + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + + Santa Claus in the Bush + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + + “In Re a Gentleman, One” + We see it each day in the paper, + + The Melting of the Snow + There's a sunny Southern land, + + A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + + The Gundaroo Bullock + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + + Lay of the Motor-Car + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + + The Corner Man + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + + When Dacey Rode the Mule + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + + The Mylora Elopement + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + + The Pannikin Poet + There's nothing here sublime, + + Not on It + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- + + The Protest + I say 'e ISN'T Remorse! + + The Scapegoat + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + + An Evening in Dandaloo + It was while we held our races-- + + A Ballad of Ducks + The railway rattled and roared and swung + + Tommy Corrigan + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + + The Maori's Wool + Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + + The Angel's Kiss + An angel stood beside the bed + + Sunrise on the Coast + Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted + + The Reveille + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + + + + + +SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +Song of the Pen + + + + _Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + Not for the people's praise; + Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, + Claiming us all our days, + + Claiming our best endeavour--body and heart and brain + Given with no reserve-- + Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; + Still, we are proud to serve. + + Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, + Gathering grain or chaff; + One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, + One, that a child may laugh. + + Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, + Freely she doth accord + Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, + Work is its own reward!_ + + + + +Song of the Wheat + + + + We have sung the song of the droving days, + Of the march of the travelling sheep; + By silent stages and lonely ways + Thin, white battalions creep. + But the man who now by the land would thrive + Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. + Is there ever a man in the world alive + To sing the song of the Wheat! + + It's west by south of the Great Divide + The grim grey plains run out, + Where the old flock-masters lived and died + In a ceaseless fight with drought. + Weary with waiting and hope deferred + They were ready to own defeat, + Till at last they heard the master-word-- + And the master-word was Wheat. + + Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine-- + 'Twas axe and fire for all; + They scarce could tarry to blaze the line + Or wait for the trees to fall, + Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, + And the dust of the horses' feet + Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide + The wonderful march of Wheat. + + Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, + The soil is turned on the plain; + Better than silver and better than gold + Is the surface-mine of the grain; + Better than cattle and better than sheep + In the fight with drought and heat; + For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, + Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. + + When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, + Deep down in his bed of clay + The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait + For the resurrection day: + Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; + But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, + Will over the steaming paddocks spread + The first green flush of the Wheat. + + Green and amber and gold it grows + When the sun sinks late in the West; + And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows + Where the quail and the skylark nest. + Mountain or river or shining star, + There's never a sight can beat-- + Away to the sky-line stretching far-- + A sea of the ripening Wheat. + + When the burning harvest sun sinks low, + And the shadows stretch on the plain, + The roaring strippers come and go + Like ships on a sea of grain; + Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear + Their tale of the load complete. + Of the world's great work he has done his share + Who has gathered a crop of wheat. + + Princes and Potentates and Czars, + They travel in regal state, + But old King Wheat has a thousand cars + For his trip to the water-gate; + And his thousand steamships breast the tide + And plough thro' the wind and sleet + To the lands where the teeming millions bide + That say: “Thank God for Wheat!” + + + + +Brumby's Run + + Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial + a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: + “Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?” + + + + It lies beyond the Western Pines + Towards the sinking sun, + And not a survey mark defines + The bounds of “Brumby's Run”. + + On odds and ends of mountain land, + On tracks of range and rock + Where no one else can make a stand, + Old Brumby rears his stock. + + A wild, unhandled lot they are + Of every shape and breed. + They venture out 'neath moon and star + Along the flats to feed; + + But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals along the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again. + + The traveller by the mountain-track + May hear their hoof-beats pass, + And catch a glimpse of brown and black + Dim shadows on the grass. + + The eager stockhorse pricks his ears + And lifts his head on high + In wild excitement when he hears + The Brumby mob go by. + + Old Brumby asks no price or fee + O'er all his wide domains: + The man who yards his stock is free + To keep them for his pains. + + So, off to scour the mountain-side + With eager eyes aglow, + To strongholds where the wild mobs hide + The gully-rakers go. + + A rush of horses through the trees, + A red shirt making play; + A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, + They vanish far away! + + . . . . . + + Ah, me! before our day is done + We long with bitter pain + To ride once more on Brumby's Run + And yard his mob again. + + + + +Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + + + + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me + To give you some instruction like--a kind of Christmas tale-- + So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”? + + Well, whales is sheep I've never shore; I've never been to sea, + So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; + But there's a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, + About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. + + Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, + They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run-- + A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, + The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. + + Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, + And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. + You know the way that boys grow up--there's some that stick at home; + But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. + + So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track + To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; + You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, + The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. + + Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock--that's most uncommon clear-- + For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer; + He didn't ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay + To take the roan and strawberry calves--the same we'd take to-day. + + The duns and blacks and “Goulburn roans” (that's brindles), coarse and hard, + He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; + So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, + Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer. + + It's often so with overseers--I've seen the same thing done + By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. + But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, + And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. + + He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; + And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; + You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so-- + No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. + + But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, + Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. + It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, + There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. + + So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, + To battle down the homeward track along the Overland-- + It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. + I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. + + But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) + When battling through the Philistines--selectors, I suppose-- + He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; + So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. + + He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; + He couldn't hurry lambing ewes--no more you could to-day-- + And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, + He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. + + The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, + There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. + It's just a plain straightforward tale--a tale that lets you know + The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. + + It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; + You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, + The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, + And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. + + The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; + The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; + The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp-- + I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp! + + _But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know + How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago._ + + + + +The Reverend Mullineux + + + + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + And his height at five-foot-two, + With a face as plain as an eight-day clock + And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock-- + Game as a bantam, too, + Hard and wiry and full of steam, + That's the boss of the English Team, + Reverend Mullineux. + + Makes no row when the game gets rough-- + None of your “Strike me blue!” + “You's wants smacking across the snout!” + Plays like a gentleman out-and-out-- + Same as he ought to do. + “Kindly remove from off my face!” + That's the way that he states his case-- + Reverend Mullineux. + + Kick! He can kick like an army mule-- + Run like a kangaroo! + Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, + Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant-- + Fetches him over too! + _Didn't_ the public cheer and shout + Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about-- + Reverend Mullineux. + + Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, + Somehow the ball got through-- + Who was it tackled our big half-back, + Flinging him down like an empty sack, + Right on our goal-line too? + Who but the man that we thought was dead, + Down with a score of 'em on his head, + Reverend Mullineux. + + + + +The Wisdom of Hafiz + + + + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; + Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow. + + If ever an owner should tell you, “Back mine”--don't you be such a flat. + He knows his own cunning, no doubt--does he know what the others are at? + Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few dollars on that. + + Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. + His wisdom belongs to his patron--shall he give it to one and to all? + When the stable is served he may tell you--and his words + are like jewels let fall. + + Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, + He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; + And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. + + When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, + Take a pull on yourself; take a pull--it's a mighty big field + to get through. + Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about, p'raps it's you! + + Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, + For this is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. + How is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot? + + From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone, + For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, + “The very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!” + + + + +Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + Beyond Sturt's Western track, + The rolling tide of change has sent + Some strange J.P.s out back. + + And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, + And worn with want of sleep, + Received the news in camp one day + Behind the travelling sheep + + That Edward Rex, confiding in + His known integrity, + By hand and seal on parchment skin + Had made him a J.P. + + He read the news with eager face + But found no word of pay. + “I'd like to see my sister's place + And kids on Christmas day. + + “I'd like to see green grass again, + And watch clear water run, + Away from this unholy plain, + And flies, and dust, and sun.” + + At last one little clause he found + That might some hope inspire, + “A magistrate may charge a pound + For inquest on a fire.” + + A big blacks' camp was built close by, + And Saltbush Bill, says he, + “I think that camp might well supply + A job for a J.P.” + + That night, by strange coincidence, + A most disastrous fire + Destroyed the country residence + Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. + + 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; + The party most concerned + Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt + If forty such were burned. + + Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, + Who watched the leaping flame. + “The home is small,” said he, “but still + The principle's the same. + + “Midst palaces though you should roam, + Or follow pleasure's tracks, + You'll find,” he said, “no place like home, + At least like Jacky Jack's. + + “Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,' + Tell every black Maria + I give tobacco half a stick-- + Hold inquest long-a fire.” + + Each juryman received a name + Well suited to a Court. + “Long Jack” and “Stumpy Bill” became + “John Long” and “William Short”. + + While such as “Tarpot”, “Bullock Dray”, + And “Tommy Wait-a-While”, + Became, for ever and a day, + “Scott”, “Dickens”, and “Carlyle”. + + And twelve good sable men and true + Were soon engaged upon + The conflagration that o'erthrew + The home of John A. John. + + Their verdict, “Burnt by act of Fate”, + They scarcely had returned + When, just behind the magistrate, + Another humpy burned! + + The jury sat again and drew + Another stick of plug. + Said Saltbush Bill, “It's up to you + Put some one long-a Jug.” + + “I'll camp the sheep,” he said, “and sift + The evidence about.” + For quite a week he couldn't shift, + The way the fires broke out. + + The jury thought the whole concern + As good as any play. + They used to “take him oath” and earn + Three sticks of plug a day. + + At last the tribe lay down to sleep + Homeless, beneath a tree; + And onward with his travelling sheep + Went Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + The sheep delivered, safe and sound, + His horse to town he turned, + And drew some five-and-twenty pound + For fees that he had earned. + + And where Monaro's ranges hide + Their little farms away-- + His sister's children by his side-- + He spent his Christmas Day. + + The next J.P. that went out back + Was shocked, or pained, or both, + At hearing every pagan black + Repeat the juror's oath. + + No matter though he turned and fled + They followed faster still; + “You make it inkwich, boss,” they said, + “All same like Saltbush Bill.” + + They even said they'd let him see + The fires originate. + When he refused they said that he + Was “No good magistrate.” + + And out beyond Sturt's Western track, + And Leichhardt's farthest tree, + They wait till fate shall send them back + Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + +The Riders in the Stand + + + + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. + There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; + And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath. + + But all the finest horsemen out--the men to Beat the Band-- + You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. + They'll say “He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight.” + They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late. + + They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; + They'll tell how one was “livened up” and something else was “dead”-- + In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, + But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand. + + The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; + You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. + You ride a slashing race, and lose--by one and all you're banned! + Ride like a bag of flour, and win--they'll cheer you in the Stand. + + + + +Waltzing Matilda + + (Carrying a Swag.) + + + + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; + And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag-- + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + + Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, + Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; + And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, + “You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!” + + Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; + Down came Policemen--one, two, and three. + “Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? + You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, + Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; + And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?” + + + + +An Answer to Various Bards + + + + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, + With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, + How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; + And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, + But you know they're fond of writing about “corpses” and “the tomb”. + So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, + And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. + + Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson--well, of course, we almost cried + At the sorrowful description how his “little 'Arvie” died, + And we lachrymosed in silence when “His Father's Mate” was slain; + Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. + Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, + And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; + So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan + Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. + + And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, + When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; + But the shearer chaps who start it--why, he rounds on them in blame, + And he calls 'em “agitators” who are living on the game. + But I “over-write” the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt + That I always see a hero in the “man from furthest out”. + I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, + And a bushman never struck me as a subject for “the tomb”. + + If it ain't all “golden sunshine” where the “wattle branches wave”, + Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all “lonely grave”. + And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, + But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; + Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, + Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, + For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills + While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. + + Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, + And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. + For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar + And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; + And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, + To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, + When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, + And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of “Wool away!” + + Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set-- + And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. + But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back + To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, + And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, + And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. + But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, + For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. + + There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, + And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. + For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, + And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. + Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push + Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; + And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, + And we'll slip across to England--it's a nicer place than here; + + For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, + And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. + But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, + We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; + So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, + And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, + And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, + And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. + + + + +T.Y.S.O.N. + + + + Across the Queensland border line + The mobs of cattle go; + They travel down in sun and shine + On dusty stage, and slow. + The drovers, riding slowly on + To let the cattle spread, + Will say: “Here's one old landmark gone, + For old man Tyson's dead.” + + What tales there'll be in every camp + By men that Tyson knew; + The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, + Will yarn the long day through, + And tell of how he passed as “Brown”, + And fooled the local men: + “But not for me--I struck the town, + And passed the message further down; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.!” + + There stands a little country town + Beyond the border line, + Where dusty roads go up and down, + And banks with pubs combine. + A stranger came to cash a cheque-- + Few were the words he said-- + A handkerchief about his neck, + An old hat on his head. + + A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed-- + “Know me? Of course you do?” + “It's not my work,” the boss replied, + “To know such tramps as you.” + “Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,” + Replied the stranger then, + “I never care to make a splash, + I'm simple--but I've got the cash, + I'm T.Y.S.O.N.” + + But in that last great drafting-yard, + Where Peter keeps the gate, + And souls of sinners find it barred, + And go to meet their fate, + There's one who ought to enter in, + For good deeds done on earth; + Such deeds as merit ought to win, + Kind deeds of sterling worth. + + Not by the strait and narrow gate, + Reserved for wealthy men, + But through the big gate, opened wide, + The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, + Will travel through--and then + Old Peter'll say: “We pass him through; + There's many a thing he used to do, + Good-hearted things that no one knew; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.” + + + + +As Long as your Eyes are Blue + + + + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? + When the charms of youth shall have passed away, + Will your love as of old prove true? + + For the looks may change, and the heart may range, + And the love be no longer fond; + Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth + And away to the years beyond? + + Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown + And the blush on your cheek that lies-- + But I love you most for the kindly heart + That I see in your sweet blue eyes. + + For the eyes are signs of the soul within, + Of the heart that is leal and true, + And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach + May be reft of their golden hue; + But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + + + +Bottle-O! + + + + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + I drives me bottle cart around the town; + A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob-- + I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. + There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, + There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, + And little dogs what comes and barks--we take 'em off their guard + And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O! + + Chorus-- + + So it's any “Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” + You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. + And you'll see the women rushing + To take in the Monday's washing + When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!” + + I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, + A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, + An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; + I stops the cart and walks across to see. + “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;” + “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know + What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, + If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!” + + I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me + We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. + Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea + And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. + But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”, + There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: + But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap” + There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O! + + + + +The Story of Mongrel Grey + + + + This is the story the stockman told, + On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; + The moon rose up like a globe of gold + And flooded the plain with her mellow light. + We watched the cattle till dawn of day + And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. + + . . . . . + + He was a knock-about station hack, + Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; + Ridden all day with a sore on his back, + Left all night with nothing to eat. + That was a matter of every-day + Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey. + + We might have sold him, but someone heard + He was bred out back on a flooded run, + Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,-- + Midnight or midday were all as one. + In the flooded ground he could find his way, + Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. + + 'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; + When the floods are out they will splash along + In girth-deep water, and twist and turn + From hidden channel and billabong. + Never mistaking the road to go, + For a man may guess--but the horses _know_. + + I was camping out with my youngest son-- + Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak-- + In an empty hut on the lower run, + Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. + The youngster toddled about all day, + And with our horses was Mongrel Grey. + + All of a sudden the flood came down + Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, + Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, + Over the flats and across the plain. + Rising and rising--at fall of night + Nothing but water appeared in sight! + + 'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, + Even in daylight; for all around + Channels and billabongs twist about, + Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. + And to move was a hopeless thing to try + In the dark with the water just racing by. + + I had to try it. I heard a roar, + And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; + And the water rose till it reached the floor + Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain + The way the water was sweeping down + We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown. + + Off to the stable I splashed, and found + The horses shaking with cold and fright; + I led them down to the lower ground, + But never a yard would they swim that night! + They reared and snorted and turned away, + And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. + + I bound the child on the horse's back, + And we started off with a prayer to heaven, + Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, + For I knew that the instinct God has given + To guide His creatures by night and day + Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. + + He struck deep water at once and swam-- + I swam beside him and held his mane-- + Till we touched the bank of the broken dam + In shallow water--then off again, + Swimming in darkness across the flood, + Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. + + He turned and twisted across and back, + Choosing the places to wade or swim, + Picking the safest and shortest track, + The pitchy darkness was clear to him. + Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? + The Lord that led him alone could tell! + + He dodged the timber whene'er he could, + But the timber brought us to grief at last; + I was partly stunned by a log of wood, + That struck my head as it drifted past; + And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, + And in half a second he swept away. + + I reached a tree, where I had to stay, + And did a perish for two days hard; + And lived on water--but Mongrel Grey, + He walked right into the homestead yard + At dawn next morning, and grazed around, + With the child on top of him safe and sound. + + We keep him now for the wife to ride, + Nothing too good for him now, of course; + Never a whip on his fat old hide, + For she owes the child to that old grey horse. + And not Old Tyson himself could pay + The purchase money of Mongrel Grey. + + + + +Gilhooley's Estate + + (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.) + + + + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + As most of us do, soon or late; + And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, + So they took him Gilhooley's Estate. + + Gilhooley in life had been living so free + 'Twas thought his possessions were great, + So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee + For me in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + They made out a list of his property fine, + It totalled a thousand-and-eight; + But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine-- + The debts of Gilhooley's Estate. + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, my dear man, + My childer have little to ait: + Just keep the expenses as low as you can + Against poor Gilhooley's Estate.” + + But Jones says, “The will isn't clear in its terms, + I fear it will need some debate, + And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) + To appear in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, + And a brief in his hand quite elate, + Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, + Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate. + + But his Honor the Judge said, “I think that the joint + Legatees must be called to pro_bate_-- + Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point-- + The point of Gilhooley's Estate. + + “I order a suit to be brought just to try + If this is correct that I state-- + A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, + Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, you'll appear! + Thim barristers' fees is too great; + The suit is but friendly.” “Attorneys, my dear, + Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah + Arises both early and late: + It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar + Dividing Gilhooley's Estate. + + + + +The Road to Hogan's Gap + + + + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + You cross the broken bridge + And run the crick down till you strike + The second right-hand ridge. + + The track is hard to see in parts, + But still it's pretty clear; + There's been two Injin hawkers' carts + Along that road this year. + + Well, run that right-hand ridge along-- + It ain't, to say, too steep-- + There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong + Where blokes went out with sheep. + + But keep the crick upon your right, + And follow pretty straight + Along the spur, until you sight + A wire and sapling gate. + + Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare + Fell off and broke her back; + You'll see her carcase layin' there, + Jist down below the track. + + And then you drop two mile, or three, + It's pretty steep and blind; + You want to go and fall a tree + And tie it on behind. + + And then you pass a broken cart + Below a granite bluff; + And that is where you strike the part + They reckon pretty rough. + + But by the time you've got that far + It's either cure or kill, + So turn your horses round the spur + And face 'em up the hill. + + For look, if you should miss the slope + And get below the track, + You haven't got the whitest hope + Of ever gettin' back. + + An' half way up you'll see the hide + Of Hogan's brindled bull; + Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, + The left's too steep a pull. + + And both the banks is full of cracks; + An' just about at dark + You'll see the last year's bullock tracks + Where Hogan drew the bark. + + The marks is old and pretty faint + And grown with scrub and such; + Of course the track to Hogan's ain't + A road that's travelled much. + + But turn and run the tracks along + For half a mile or more, + And then, of course, you can't go wrong-- + You're right at Hogan's door. + + When first you come to Hogan's gate + He mightn't show, perhaps; + He's pretty sure to plant and wait + To see it ain't the traps. + + I wouldn't call it good enough + To let your horses out; + There's some that's pretty extra rough + Is livin' round about. + + It's likely if your horses did + Get feedin' near the track, + It's goin' to cost at least a quid + Or more to get them back. + + So, if you find they're off the place, + It's up to you to go + And flash a quid in Hogan's face-- + He'll know the blokes that know. + + But listen, if you're feelin' dry, + Just see there's no one near, + And go and wink the other eye + And ask for ginger beer. + + The blokes come in from near and far + To sample Hogan's pop; + They reckon once they breast the bar + They stay there till they drop. + + On Sundays you can see them spread + Like flies around the tap. + It's like that song “The Livin' Dead” + Up there at Hogan's Gap. + + They like to make it pretty strong + Whenever there's a charnce; + So when a stranger comes along + They always holds a darnce. + + There's recitations, songs, and fights-- + A willin' lot you'll meet. + There's one long bloke up there recites, + I tell you--he's a treat. + + They're lively blokes all right up there, + It's never dull a day. + I'd go meself if I could spare + The time to get away. + + . . . . . + + The stranger turned his horses quick. + He didn't cross the bridge; + He didn't go along the crick + To strike the second ridge; + + He didn't make the trip, because + He wasn't feeling fit. + His business up at Hogan's was + To serve him with a writ. + + He reckoned if he faced the pull + And climbed the rocky stair, + The next to come might find his hide + A land-mark on the mountain side, + Along with Hogan's brindled bull + And Hogan's old grey mare! + + + + +A Singer of the Bush + + + + There is waving of grass in the breeze + And a song in the air, + And a murmur of myriad bees + That toil everywhere. + There is scent in the blossom and bough, + And the breath of the Spring + Is as soft as a kiss on a brow-- + And Spring-time I sing. + + There is drought on the land, and the stock + Tumble down in their tracks + Or follow--a tottering flock-- + The scrub-cutter's axe. + While ever a creature survives + The axes shall swing; + We are fighting with fate for their lives-- + And the combat I sing. + + + + +“Shouting” for a Camel + + + + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, + Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, + And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. + Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. + He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking + He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. + Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking + He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by + That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, + And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; + For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, + And the miners muttered softly, “Yes, he's very dry indeed! + But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.” + + So he drank up twenty buckets--it was weird to watch him suck it, + (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) + Till the speculator stopped him, saying, “Not another bucket-- + If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. + Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town.” + He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + There's a moral to this story--in your hat you ought to paste it, + Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, + And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, + Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; + If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, + You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + + + +The Lost Drink + + + + I had spent the night in the watch-house-- + My head was the size of three-- + So I went and asked the chemist + To fix up a drink for me; + And he brewed it from various bottles + With soda and plenty of ice, + With something that smelt like lemon, + And something that seemed like spice. + + It fell on my parching palate + Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, + And my system began to flourish + Like the grass in a soft spring rain; + It wandered throughout my being, + Suffusing my soul with rest, + And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid + That life had a new-found zest. + + I have been on the razzle-dazzle + Full many a time since then + But I never could get the chemist + To brew me that drink again. + He says he's forgotten the notion-- + 'Twas only by chance it came-- + He's tried me with various liquids + But oh! they are not the same. + + We have sought, but we sought it vainly, + That one lost drink divine; + We have sampled his various bottles, + But somehow they don't combine: + Yet I know when I cross the River + And stand on the Golden Shore + I shall meet with an angel-chemist + Who'll brew me that drink once more. + + + + +Mulligan's Mare + + + + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; + The height of choice spirits from near and from far + Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar. + + There was “Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned, + “Dog-bite-me”--so called from the shape of his head-- + And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, + Designed as the “Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang”. + + Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, + A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; + Whenever they backed her you safely might swear + She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare. + + But Mulligan, having some radical views, + Neglected his business and got on the booze; + He took up with runners--a treacherous troop-- + Who gave him away and he “fell in the soup”. + + And so it turned out on a fine summer day, + A bailiff turned up with a writ of “fi. fa.”; + He walked to the bar with a manner serene, + “I levy,” said he, “in the name of the Queen.” + + Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, + To pay out the bailiff with “_one_ on the jaw”; + He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, + He changed his intentions and stood him a drink. + + A great consultation there straightway befel + 'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, + And the man with the head, who remarked “Why, you bet! + Dog-bite-me!” said he, “but we'll diddle 'em yet. + + “We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, + And put in her place the old broken-down hack; + The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear + The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare. + + “So out with the racer and in with the screw, + We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; + And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, + I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.” + + Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; + The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was “had”; + But marched to the stall with a confident air-- + “I levy,” said he, “upon Mulligan's mare.” + + He watched her by day and he watched her by night, + She was never an instant let out of his sight, + For races were coming away in the West + And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best. + + “Here's a chance,” thought the bailiff, “to serve my own ends, + I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: + Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare + And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.” + + The races came round, and a crowd on the course + Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, + And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, + They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. + + And think of the grief of the bookmaking host + At the sound of the summons to go to the post-- + For down to the start with her thorough-bred air + As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare! + + They started, and off went the boy to the front, + He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; + He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, + Then gave her her head and she smothered the field. + + The race put her owner right clear of his debts, + He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, + He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, + And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. + + So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, + Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; + For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week-- + Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. + + And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, + Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, + And fortune in season will answer your prayer + And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. + + + + +The Matrimonial Stakes + + + + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat + When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; + Well, she simply _had_ to have me after that! + + It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead + From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; + And, although she _looked_ indifferent when I landed--on my head-- + In the water, it appealed to her, of course! + + When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was “all Sir Garneo”, + For she praised the way I made my final run. + And she thought the riding did it--for how _could_ the poor girl know + That a monkey could have ridden it and won! + + Then they “weighed me in” a winner--it's not often that occurs! + So I didn't let my golden chances slip, + For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, + And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip. + + Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk + For a moment, so I took her by the head + (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work + When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red. + + She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; + I could worship every little step she takes; + And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, + Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes! + + + + +The Mountain Squatter + + + + Here in my mountain home, + On rugged hills and steep, + I sit and watch you come, + O Riverina Sheep! + + You come from fertile plains + Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, + And flats that (when it rains) + Will blossom like the rose. + + But, when the summer sun + Gleams down like burnished brass, + You have to leave your run + And hustle off for grass. + + 'Tis then that--forced to roam-- + You come to where I keep, + Here in my mountain home, + A boarding-house for sheep. + + Around me where I sit + The wary wombat goes-- + A beast of little wit, + But what he knows, he _knows_. + + The very same remark + Applies to me also; + I don't give out a spark, + But what I know, I _know_. + + My brain perhaps would show + No convolutions deep, + But anyhow I know + The way to handle sheep. + + These Riverina cracks, + They do not care to ride + The half-inch hanging tracks + Along the mountain side. + + Their horses shake with fear + When loosened boulders go, + With leaps, like startled deer, + Down to the gulfs below. + + Their very dogs will shirk, + And drop their tails in fright + When asked to go and work + A mob that's out of sight. + + My little collie pup + Works silently and wide; + You'll see her climbing up + Along the mountain side. + + As silent as a fox + You'll see her come and go, + A shadow through the rocks + Where ash and messmate grow. + + Then, lost to sight and sound + Behind some rugged steep, + She works her way around + And gathers up the sheep; + + And, working wide and shy, + She holds them rounded up. + The cash ain't coined to buy + That little collie pup. + + And so I draw a screw + For self and dog and keep + To boundary-ride for you, + O Riverina Sheep! + + And when the autumn rain + Has made the herbage grow, + You travel off again, + And glad--no doubt--to go. + + But some are left behind + Around the mountain's spread, + For those we cannot find + We put them down as dead. + + But when we say adieu + And close the boarding job, + I always find a few + Fresh ear-marks in my mob. + + So what with those I sell, + And what with those I keep, + You pay me pretty well, + O Riverina Sheep! + + It's up to me to shout + Before we say good-bye-- + “Here's to a howlin' drought + All west of Gundagai!” + + + + +Pioneers + + + + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, + We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years + As those explorers of the bush--the brave old pioneers. + + 'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; + 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; + 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, + And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. + + But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead + When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead + By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, + And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest. + + Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, + We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, + To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years-- + The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers. + + + + +Santa Claus in the Bush + + + + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + When the wheat was ripe and tall, + A stranger rode to the farmer's gate-- + A sturdy man and a small. + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + And bid the stranger stay; + And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, + For the morn is Christmas Day.” + + “Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife, + “But ye should let him be; + He's maybe only a drover chap + Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. + + “Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst + To swiggle the hail nicht through; + Or he's maybe a life assurance carle + To talk ye black and blue.” + + “Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, + For their swags are neat and thin; + And he's never a life assurance carle, + Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. + + “Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, + For the wheat stands ripe and tall, + And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, + Ewes and weaners and all. + + “There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat + Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, + And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, + So we maun ask him in. + + “Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, + And gi' him a bite tae eat; + An omelette made of a new-laid egg, + Or a tasty bit of meat.” + + “But the native cats hae taen the fowls, + They havena left a leg; + And he'll get nae omelette here at a' + Till the emu lays an egg!” + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + To whaur the emus bide, + Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, + While the auld cock sits beside. + + “But speak them fair, and speak them saft, + Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. + Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails + Or a rusty carriage bolt.” + + So little son Jack ran blithely down, + With the rusty nails in hand, + Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched + By their nest in the open sand. + + And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, + 'Twould feed three men or four, + And the emus came for the half-inch nails + Right up to the settler's door. + + “A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife, + As she took the egg, with a frown, + “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin + A paddy-melon down.” + + “Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, + Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; + Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, + Then come nae back at a'.” + + So little son Jack he raced and he ran, + And he was bare o' the feet, + And soon he captured a paddy-melon, + Was gorged with the stolen wheat. + + “Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, + To the best that the hoose can do-- + An omelette made of the emu egg + And a paddy-melon stew.” + + “'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man; + “I have eaten the wide world's meat, + And the food that is given with right good will + Is the sweetest food to eat. + + “But the night draws on to the Christmas Day + And I must rise and go, + For I have a mighty way to ride + To the land of the Esquimaux. + + “And it's there I must load my sledges up, + With reindeers four-in-hand, + That go to the North, South, East, and West, + To every Christian land.” + + “Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife, + “Ye suit my husband well! + For when he gets up on his journey horse + He's a bit of a liar himsel'.” + + Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man + To his old horse grazing nigh, + And away like a meteor flash they went + Far off to the Northern sky. + + . . . . . + + When the children woke on the Christmas morn + They chattered with might and main-- + For a sword and gun had little son Jack, + And a braw new doll had Jane, + And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; + But the dour good-wife got nane. + + + + +“In Re a Gentleman, One” + + When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer + for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name + until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers + as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”, + or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”. + + + + We see it each day in the paper, + And know that there's mischief in store; + That some unprofessional caper + Has landed a shark on the shore. + We know there'll be plenty of trouble + Before they get through with the fun, + Because he's been coming the double + On clients, has “Gentleman, One”. + + Alas! for the gallant attorney, + Intent upon cutting a dash, + Sets out on life's perilous journey + With rather more cunning than cash. + And fortune at first is inviting-- + He struts his brief hour in the sun-- + But, lo! on the wall is the writing + Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”. + + For soon he runs short of the dollars, + He fears he must go to the wall; + So Peter's trust-money he collars + To pay off his creditor, Paul; + Then robs right and left--for he goes it + In earnest when once he's begun. + Descensus Averni--he knows it; + It's easy for “Gentleman, One”. + + The crash comes as sure as the seasons; + He loses his coin in a mine, + Or booming in land, or for reasons + Connected with women and wine. + Or maybe the cards or the horses + A share of the damage have done + No matter; the end of the course is + The same: “Re a Gentleman, One”. + + He struggles awhile to keep going, + To stave off detection and shame; + But creditors, clamorous growing, + Ere long put an end to the game. + At length the poor soldier of Satan + His course to a finish has run-- + And just think of Windeyer waiting + To deal with “A Gentleman, One”! + + And some face it boldly, and brazen + The shame and the utter disgrace; + While others, more sensitive, hasten + Their names and their deeds to efface. + They snap the frail thread which the Furies + And Fates have so cruelly spun. + May the great Final Judge and His juries + Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”! + + + + +The Melting of the Snow + + + + There's a sunny Southern land, + And it's there that I would be + Where the big hills stand, + In the South Countrie! + When the wattles bloom again, + Then it's time for us to go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + To the East or to the West, + Or wherever you may be, + You will find no place + Like the South Countrie. + For the skies are blue above, + And the grass is green below, + In the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + Now the team is in the plough, + And the thrushes start to sing, + And the pigeons on the bough + Sit a-welcoming the Spring. + So come my comrades all, + Let us saddle up and go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + + + +A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + + (1886) + + + + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + And some doughy damper to make good cheer, + I must make a heavy dinner; + Heavily dine and heavily sup, + Of indigestible things fill up, + Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, + And I have to dream the winner. + + Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, + The rich ragout and the charming cham., + I've got to mix my liquor; + Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, + Hard and tough as a wooden peg, + And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, + 'Twill make me dream the quicker. + + Now I am full of fearful feed, + Now I may dream a race indeed, + In my restless, troubled slumber; + While the night-mares race through my heated brain + And their devil-riders spur amain, + The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, + And I'll spot the winning number. + + . . . . . + + Thousands and thousands and thousands more, + Like sands on the white Pacific shore, + The crowding people cluster; + For evermore it's the story old, + While races are bought and backers are sold, + Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, + In their thousands still they muster. + + And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, + “I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!” + “Five monkeys, Little John, sir!” + “Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!” + And so they shout through the livelong day, + And stick to the game that is sure to pay, + While fools put money on, sir! + + And now in my dream I seem to go + And bet with a “book” that I seem to know-- + A Hebrew money-lender; + A million to five is the price I get-- + Not bad! but before I book the bet + The horse's name I clean forget, + Its number and even gender. + + Now for the start, and here they come, + And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum + Beat by a hand unsteady; + They come like a rushing, roaring flood, + Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; + For Acme is making the pace so good + There are some of 'em done already. + + But round the back she begins to tire, + And a mighty shout goes up “Crossfire!” + The magpie jacket's leading; + And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, + And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, + But at length gives way to the black and gold, + Which away to the front is speeding. + + Carry them on and keep it up-- + A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, + You must race and stay to win it; + And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, + Now takes the lead with his raking stride, + And a mighty roar goes far and wide-- + “There's only Commotion in it!” + + But one draws out from the beaten ruck + And up on the rails by a piece of luck + He comes in a style that's clever; + “It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!” + “Go at 'em now while their courage fails;” + “Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!” + “The blue and white for ever!” + + Under the whip! with the ears flat back, + Under the whip! though the sinews crack, + No sign of the base white feather; + Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, + Stick to it now though your hearts should break, + While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, + They come down the straight together. + + Trident slowly forges ahead, + The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, + The pace is undiminished; + Now for the Panics that never fail! + But many a backer's face grows pale + As old Commotion swings his tail + And swerves--and the Cup is finished. + + . . . . . + + And now in my dream it all comes back: + I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, + A million I've won, no question! + “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! + Give me my money, bookmaking dog!” + But he disappeared in a kind of fog, + And I woke with “the indigestion”. + + + + +The Gundaroo Bullock + + + + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; + But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few + Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo. + + Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, + There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; + For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, + And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo. + + There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, + And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride, + For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo-- + He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.” + + “Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, + “I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, + And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, + With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.” + + That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, + They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. + “Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew-- + The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.” + + They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, + But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. + “What's this?” exclaimed the trooper--“an infant, I declare;” + Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. + I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, + Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo. + + “The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, + The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; + We can't afford a bullock--such expense would never do-- + So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.” + + And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, + In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, + On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, + But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo. + + + + +Lay of the Motor-Car + + + + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + In our whiskers and teeth; + And the granite-like grey of the road + Seems to slide underneath. + As an eagle might sweep through the sky, + So we sweep through the land; + And the pallid pedestrians fly + When they hear us at hand. + + We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! + Not the fast-fleeing hare, + Nor the racehorses under the whip, + Nor the birds of the air + Can compete with our swiftness sublime, + Our ease and our grace. + We annihilate chickens and time + And policemen and space. + + Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? + How he dropped down to pray + In the road when he saw he was lost; + How he melted away + Underneath, and there rang through the fog + His earsplitting squeal + As he went---- Is that he or a dog, + That stuff on the wheel? + + + + +The Corner Man + + + + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + When fancies come and go + To vex a man in his soothing sleep + With thoughts of awful woe-- + I dreamed that I was a corner-man + Of a nigger minstrel show. + + I cracked my jokes, and the building rang + With laughter loud and long; + I hushed the house as I softly sang + An old plantation song-- + A tale of the wicked slavery days + Of cruelty and wrong. + + A small boy sat on the foremost seat-- + A mirthful youngster he; + He beat the time with his restless feet + To each new melody, + And he picked me out as the brightest star + Of the black fraternity. + + “Oh father,” he said, “what _would_ we do + If the corner-man should die? + I never saw such a man--did you? + He makes the people cry, + And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.” + The old man made reply-- + + “We each of us fill a very small space + In the great creation's plan, + If a man don't keep his lead in the race + There's plenty more that can; + The world can very soon fill the place + Of even a corner-man.” + + . . . . . + + I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find + Myself at home in bed, + And I framed a moral in my mind + From the words the old man said. + The world will jog along just the same + When its corner-men are dead. + + + + +When Dacey Rode the Mule + + + + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + When we were boys at school, + There came a circus with a clown, + Likewise a bucking mule. + The clown announced a scheme they had + Spectators for to bring-- + They'd give a crown to any lad + Who'd ride him round the ring. + + And, gentle reader, do not scoff + Nor think a man a fool-- + To buck a porous-plaster off + Was pastime to that mule. + + The boys got on; he bucked like sin; + He threw them in the dirt, + What time the clown would raise a grin + By asking, “Are you hurt?” + But Johnny Dacey came one night, + The crack of all the school; + Said he, “I'll win the crown all right, + Bring in your bucking mule.” + + The elephant went off his trunk, + The monkey played the fool, + And all the band got blazing drunk + When Dacey rode the mule. + + But soon there rose a galling shout + Of laughter, for the clown + From somewhere in his pants drew out + A little paper crown. + He placed the crown on Dacey's head + While Dacey looked a fool; + “Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said, + “For riding of the mule!” + + The band struck up with “Killaloe”, + And “Rule Britannia, Rule”, + And “Young Man from the Country”, too, + When Dacey rode the mule. + + Then Dacey, in a furious rage, + For vengeance on the show + Ascended to the monkeys' cage + And let the monkeys go; + The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee + He turned abroad to roam; + Good faith! It was a sight to see + The people step for home. + + For big baboons with canine snout + Are spiteful, as a rule-- + The people didn't sit it out + When Dacey rode the mule. + + And from the beasts that made escape, + The bushmen all declare, + Were born some creatures partly ape + And partly native-bear. + They're rather few and far between, + The race is nearly spent; + But some of them may still be seen + In Sydney Parliament. + + And when those legislators fight, + And drink, and act the fool, + Just blame it on that torrid night + When Dacey rode the mule. + + + + +The Mylora Elopement + + + + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, + Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, + Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run. + + Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. + Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; + And Amelia loved him truly--but the course of love, if true, + Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do. + + Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss + Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss + That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. + Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges--off goes Jim to see his child; + + Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, + And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. + Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, + And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below. + + “I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, + One more kiss--don't think I'm greedy--good-bye, lass, before I'm seen-- + Just one more--God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, + Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.” + + . . . . . + + The daylight shines on figures twain + That ride across Mylora plain, + Laughing and talking--Jim and Jane. + “Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, + Didn't we slip the old man prime! + I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, + I reckon he'll find it too big a job. + They've beaten us all. I had a try, + But the warrigal devils seem to fly. + That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff + No doubt, but not quite good enough. + He'll have to gallop the livelong day, + To cut and come, to race and stay. + I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; + To see us going I don't think would.” + A turn in the road and, fair and square, + They meet the old man standing there. + “What's up?” “Why, running away, of course,” + Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, + His eye with wild excitement burned. + “I've raced all day through the scorching heat + After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. + But over that range I think you'll find + The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. + Will you go and leave the mob behind? + Which will you do? Take the girl away, + Or ride like a white man should to-day, + And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?” + Says Jim, “I can't throw this away, + We can bolt some other day, of course, + Amelia Jane, get off that horse. + Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. + Here goes to put old Bowneck through!” + Two distant specks on the mountain side, + Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. + Amelia Jane sat down and cried. + + . . . . . + + “Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? + Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, + And him dead beat. Where have you been? + “Bolted with Jim! What _do_ you mean?” + “Met the old man with Sambo licked + From running old Bowneck.” “Well, I'm kicked-- + Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? + What did Jim do when you were stopped? + Did you bolt from father across the plain? + Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! + And father got on, and away again + The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. + Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! + They're sure to get them now, of course, + That Tambourine is a spanking horse. + And Crazy Jane is good as gold. + And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; + Not like your father, but very fair. + Jim will have to follow the mare.” + “It never was yet in father's hide + To best my Jim on the mountain-side. + Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” + But here again Amelia cried. + + . . . . . + + The sound of a whip comes faint and far, + A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, + In all their tameless pride. + The fleet wild horses snort with fear, + And wheel and break as the yard draws near. + Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! + Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! + And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, + As under the whip the horses go + Adown the mountain side. + And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, + On a horse that never has failed him yet, + Is after them down the range. + Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel--whoa back! + And long and loud the stockwhips crack, + Their flying course they change, + “Steadily does it--let Sambo go! + Open those sliprails down below. + Smart! or you'll be too late. + They'll follow old Sambo up--look out! + Wheel that black horse--give Sam a clout. + They're in! Make fast the gate.” + + . . . . . + + The mob is safely in the yard! + The old man mounts delighted guard. + No thought has he but for his prize. + Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. + “Will you come after all? the job is done, + And Crazy Jane is fit to run + For a prince's life--now don't say no; + Slip on while the old man's down below + At the inner yard, and away we'll go. + Will you come, my girl?” “I will, you bet, + We'll manage this here elopement yet.” + + . . . . . + + By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. + And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. + He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, + There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run. + + + + +The Pannikin Poet + + + + There's nothing here sublime, + But just a roving rhyme, + Run off to pass the time, + With nought titanic in + The theme that it supports, + And, though it treats of quarts, + It's bare of golden thoughts-- + It's just a pannikin. + + I think it's rather hard + That each Australian bard-- + Each wan, poetic card-- + With thoughts galvanic in + His fiery soul alight, + In wild aerial flight, + Will sit him down and write + About a pannikin. + + He makes some new-chum fare + From out his English lair + To hunt the native bear, + That curious mannikin; + And then when times get bad + That wandering English lad + Writes out a message sad + Upon his pannikin: + + “Oh, mother, think of me + Beneath the wattle tree” + (For you may bet that he + Will drag the wattle in) + “Oh, mother, here I think + That I shall have to sink, + There ain't a single drink + The water-bottle in.” + + The dingo homeward hies, + The sooty crows uprise + And caw their fierce surprise + A tone Satanic in; + And bearded bushmen tread + Around the sleeper's head-- + “See here--the bloke is dead! + Now where's his pannikin?” + + They read his words and weep, + And lay him down to sleep + Where wattle-branches sweep, + A style mechanic in; + And, reader, that's the way + The poets of to-day + Spin out their little lay + About a pannikin. + + + + +Not on It + + + + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- + The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. + The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet + He was on it. + + The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, + The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by, + The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi! + Are you on it?” + + They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told-- + The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. + The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold + Was not on it. + + + + +The Protest + + + + I say 'e _isn't_ Remorse! + 'Ow do I know? + Saw 'im on Riccarton course + Two year ago! + Think I'd forget any 'orse? + _Course_ 'e's The Crow! + + Bumper Maginnis and I, + After a “go”, + Walkin' our 'orses to dry, + I says, “Hello! + What's that old black goin' by?” + Bumper says “Oh! + That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's-- + Runs as The Crow!” + + Now they make out 'e's Remorse. + Well, but I _know_. + Soon as I came on the course + I says “'Ello! + 'Ere's the old Crow.” + Once a man's seen any 'orse, + 'Course 'e must know. + Sure as there's wood in this table, + I say 'e's The Crow. + + (Cross-examined by the Committee.) + + 'Ow do I know the moke + After one sight? + S'posin' you met a bloke + Down town at night, + Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? + That's '_I'm_ all right! + + What was the brand on 'is 'ide? + _I_ couldn't say, + Brands can be transmogrified. + That ain't the way-- + It's the _look_ of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves + That I'd know any day. + + What was the boy on 'is back? + Why, 'e went past + All of a minute, and off down the track. + --“The 'orse went as fast?” + True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! + 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat + Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? + Lor'! What a question to ast! + + (Protest dismissed.) + + + + +The Scapegoat + + + + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, + And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put “in the soup” + When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. + The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was “had” + That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. + You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo-- + Whence comes the expression “to buck against faro”. + + For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears + In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, + The Israelite horde went roaming abroad + Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. + When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, + Was dying, he murmured “A rorty old hoss you are: + I give you command of the whole of the band”-- + And handed the Government over to Joshua. + + . . . . . + + But Moses told 'em before he died, + “Wherever you are, whatever betide, + Every year as the time draws near + By lot or by rote choose you a goat, + And let the high priest confess on the beast + The sins of the people, the worst and the least. + Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, + Because all your sins are “his troubles” in future. + Then lead him away to the wilderness black + To die with the weight of your sins on his back: + Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, + For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!” + + 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, + This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. + By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, + Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, + Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, + Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. + (Just here let us note--_DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT?_ + It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture + By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a + Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose + Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. + In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; + 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, + When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; + Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers + Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, + That a “stag” makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) + Be that as it may, as each year passed away, + A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted + With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) + And left there--to die as his fancy dictated. + + . . . . . + + The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, + With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, + They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: + On every hand a reverend band, + Prophets and preachers and elders stand + And the oldest rab_bi_, with a tear in his eye, + Delivers a sermon to all standing by. + (We haven't his name--whether Cohen or Harris, he + No doubt was the “poisonest” kind of a Pharisee.) + The sermon was marked by a deal of humility + And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, + That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, + And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. + Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat + And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, + Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. + With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst-- + “Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, + The sins of the people are whiter than snow!” + Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. + + The animal, freed from all restraint + Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, + And charged straight at that elderly saint. + So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it + Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, + Was rammed on the--no, not the back--but just near it. + The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, + A light-hearted antelope “out on the ramp”, + Then stopped, looked around, got the “lay of the ground”, + And made a bee-line back again to the camp. + The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast + So gallantly making his way to the East, + Says he: “From the tents may I never more roam again + If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. + He's hurrying, too! This never will do. + Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. + After all our confessions, so openly granted, + He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. + We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, + If he takes home our sins--it'll burst up the Synagogue!” + + He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, + A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. + “Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, + And drive back the brute to the desert again. + The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, + From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you-- + Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” + So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, + But the goat made it clear each time he drew near + That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him. + + The crowd with great eagerness studied the race-- + “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace-- + And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, + The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. + The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, + And Abraham's tiring--I'll lay six to four! + He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!” + But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. + ['Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), + “It's a hard race,” said he, “and I think it would be + A good thing for someone to take up the running.” + As soon said as done, they started to run-- + The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns + All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, + And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. + And then it came out, as the rabble and rout + Streamed over the desert with many a shout-- + The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, + Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, + And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, + “Any price Abraham! Evens the field!” + Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, + And Abraham proved him an “even-time” man, + But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, + Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' + And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. + + Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp + Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, + And paling and wall he plasters them all, + “I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat,” he says, + Then pulls out his bills, “Use Solomon's Pills”: + “Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all + Must each bring a stone--Great sport will be shown; + Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! + Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, + For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!” + Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side + Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! + One shriek from him burst--“You creature accurst!” + And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. + His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, + But the goat stayed behind him--and “scoffed up” the paste. + + With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, + The people came back from the desert in dread. + “The goat--was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?” + In very short order they got plenty word of him, + In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, + “The trail of the serpent was over them all.” + A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter + Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a “butter”. + The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, + The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; + He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, + But his latest achievement most anger arouses, + For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, + One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, + Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums. + + + Moral: + + The moral is patent to all the beholders-- + Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; + Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, + Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; + Take their lives if needs must--when it comes to the worst, + But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. + Remember, no matter how far you may roam, + That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens + Their talent stupendous for “getting back home”. + Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, + And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it-- + But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it! + + + + +An Evening in Dandaloo + + + + It was while we held our races-- + Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases-- + Up in Dandaloo, + That a crowd of Sydney stealers, + Jockeys, pugilists and spielers + Brought some horses, real heelers, + Came and put us through. + + Beat our nags and won our money, + Made the game by no means funny, + Made us rather blue; + When the racing was concluded, + Of our hard-earned coin denuded + Dandaloonies sat and brooded + There in Dandaloo. + + . . . . . + + Night came down on Johnson's shanty + Where the grog was no means scanty, + And a tumult grew + Till some wild, excited person + Galloped down the township cursing, + “Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, + Roll up, Dandaloo!” + + Great St. Denis! what commotion! + Like the rush of stormy ocean + Fiery horsemen flew. + Dust and smoke and din and rattle, + Down the street they spurred their cattle + To the war-cry of the battle, + “Wade in, Dandaloo!” + + So the boys might have their fight out, + Johnson blew the bar-room light out, + Then, in haste, withdrew. + And in darkness and in doubting + Raged the conflict and the shouting, + “Give the Sydney push a clouting, + Go it, Dandaloo!” + + Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, + Every head he saw he struck it-- + Struck in earnest, too; + And a man from Lower Wattle, + Whom a shearer tried to throttle, + Hit out freely with a bottle, + There in Dandaloo. + + Skin and hair were flying thickly, + When a light was fetched, and quickly + Brought a fact to view-- + On the scene of the diversion + Every single, solid person + Come along to help Macpherson-- + _All_ were Dandaloo!” + + When the list of slain was tabled, + Some were drunk and some disabled, + Still we found it true. + In the darkness and the smother + We'd been belting one another; + Jack Macpherson bashed his brother + There in Dandaloo. + + So we drank, and all departed-- + How the “mobbing” yarn was started + No one ever knew-- + And the stockmen tell the story + Of that conflict fierce and gory, + How we fought for love and glory + Up in Dandaloo. + + It's a proverb now, or near it-- + At the races you can hear it, + At the dog-fights, too! + Every shrieking, dancing drover + As the canines topple over + Yells applause to Grip or Rover, + “Give him 'Dandaloo'!” + + And the teamster slowly toiling + Through the deep black country, soiling + Wheels and axles, too, + Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, + Rouses Tarboy with a flanker-- + “Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! + Wade in, Dandaloo!” + + + + +A Ballad of Ducks + + + + The railway rattled and roared and swung + With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. + The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung + In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue + Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told + This terrible tale of the days of old, + And the party that ought to have kept the ducks. + + “Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land + With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; + And the rabbits have pretty well took command; + But the hardest thing for a man to stand + Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so! + You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'-- + I could lay a bait for a man like that. + + “The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one + And what they leave--well, it ain't 'de luxe'. + But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun + Who'd lent some money to stock our run-- + I said they'd eaten what grass we had-- + Says he, 'Your management's very bad, + You had a right to have kept some ducks!' + + “To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! + Wherever you went you had to tread + On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; + And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, + If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly + Like bullets into your open eye + And knock it out of the back of your head. + + “There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, + Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, + Can make a difference on a run + When a grasshopper plague has once begun; + 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy + Ten thousand emus and have a try; + The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! + + “'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; + A great big duck--a Muscovy toff-- + Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; + And if the grasshoppers come our way + You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, + And I'd be ready to make a match + That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!' + + “He came to visit us by and by, + And it just so happened one day in Spring + A kind of a cloud came over the sky-- + A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, + And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, + Flyin' in regiments, side by side, + And eatin' up every living thing. + + “All day long, like a shower of rain, + You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, + Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, + And they'd rise and jump at the house again + Till their crippled carcases piled outside. + But what did it matter if thousands died-- + A million wouldn't be missed at all. + + “We were drinkin' grasshoppers--so to speak-- + Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; + And they fell so thick in the station creek + They choked the waterholes all the week. + There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, + And they'd only take artificial flies-- + They got so sick of the real thing. + + “An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags + When the hoppers rose for their morning flight + With a flapping noise like a million flags: + And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags + For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry + Till the cook sat down and began to cry-- + And never a duck or a fowl in sight! + + “We strolled across to the railroad track-- + Under a cover, beneath some trucks, + I sees a feather and hears a quack; + I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back-- + Every duck in the place was there, + No good to them was the open air. + 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'” + + + + +Tommy Corrigan + + (Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.) + + + + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. + It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, + To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; + But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat-- + When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? + + When any slip means sudden death--with wife and child to keep-- + It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap-- + But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, + He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; + With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, + He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. + + He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, + He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; + He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all-- + But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. + But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand + Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. + + They were, indeed, a glorious pair--the great upstanding horse, + The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. + Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, + “You follow Tommy Corrigan” was passed to one and all. + And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command + To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. + + But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, + We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. + We'll drink to him in silence, boys--he's followed down the track + Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. + And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, + That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. + + + + +The Maori's Wool + + + + _Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au._ + + . . . . . + + The Maoris are a mighty race--the finest ever known; + Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; + They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done + They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. + But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, + Prepared to smoke or drink or talk--or anything but work. + The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow + Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. + + 'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, + A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name-- + (The word Rerenga means a “snag”--but until he was gone + This didn't strike the folk he met--it struck them later on). + He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”, + And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. + The Bold Bank Manager looked grave--the price of wool was high. + He said, “We'll lend you what you need--we're not disposed to buy. + You ship the wool to England, Chief!--You'll find it's good advice, + And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.” + The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state + In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, + But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand + This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. + So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, + To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. + + They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, + With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. + They called themselves poetic names--“lost children in a wood”; + They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai--extra good! + And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, + To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; + And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow, + A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. + + It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; + Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; + A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark-- + You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark-- + But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, + “I'll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!” + The haka is a striking dance--the sort they don't allow + In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. + + He “haka'd” most effectively--then, with an airy grace + Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. + But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! + For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! + Yes--thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; + On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. + And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, + Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. + + + + +The Angel's Kiss + + + + An angel stood beside the bed + Where lay the living and the dead. + + He gave the mother--her who died-- + A kiss that Christ the Crucified + + Had sent to greet the weary soul + When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. + + He gave the infant kisses twain, + One on the breast, one on the brain. + + “Go forth into the world,” he said, + “With blessings on your heart and head, + + “For God, who ruleth righteously, + Hath ordered that to such as be + + “From birth deprived of mother's love, + I bring His blessing from above; + + “But if the mother's life He spare + Then she is made God's messenger + + “To kiss and pray that heart and brain + May go through life without a stain.” + + The infant moved towards the light, + The angel spread his wings in flight. + + But each man carries to his grave + The kisses that in hopes to save + The angel or his mother gave. + + + + +Sunrise on the Coast + + + + Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted + All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; + With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, + At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. + + Like mariners calling the roll of their number + The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. + And far over-head--sinking softly to slumber-- + Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. + + To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on + The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; + And far from behind the enshrouded horizon + Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.” + + And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, + It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; + And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour-- + Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! + + + + +The Reveille + + + + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + Sound a loud reveille; + Sound it over Sydney shore, + Send the message far and wide + Down the Richmond River side-- + Boot and saddle, mount and ride, + Sound a loud reveille. + + Whither go ye, Lancers gay, + With your bold reveille? + O'er the ocean far away + From your sunny southern home, + Over leagues of trackless foam, + In a foreign land to roam + With your bold reveille. + + When we hear our brethren call, + Sound a clear reveille. + Then we answer, one and all, + Answer that the world may see, + “Of the English stock are we, + At their side we still will be”-- + That's our bold reveille. + + [End of original text.] + + + + +[Original Advertisement] + +Pocket Editions for the Trenches + +Price, 4/--each (postage, per volume: within the Commonwealth, 1d.; +to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. By Major A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) + The Moods of Ginger Mick. By C. J. Dennis + The Australian, and other Verses. By Will H. Ogilvie + Songs of a Sentimental Bloke. By C. J. Dennis + The Man from Snowy River. By Major A. B. Paterson + Rio Grande, and other Verses. By Major A. B. Paterson + +Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold +during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour by Norman +Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable from all +Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. + +[End Original Advertisement] + + + + + +About the author: + +Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, New +South Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, when he +went to Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor (a type of +lawyer) but also contributed some verse to the Sydney “Bulletin” under +the pseudonym of “The Banjo”, taken from the name of a horse. His first +book, “The Man from Snowy River”, was published in 1895, and has sold +more copies than any other book of Australian poetry. He later gave up +law to become a journalist, and went to South Africa to report on the +Boer War. When World War I broke out he sought work as a war +correspondent, but failed to get it. He then went to work driving an +ambulance in France, and later became a Remount Officer with the +Australian forces then in Egypt. After returning to Australia in 1919 he +continued as a writer, and died in Sydney on 5 February 1941. + +Paterson's most famous work is “Waltzing Matilda”, written in 1895, and +now an unofficial anthem of Australia. “The Man from Snowy River” has +since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, +and even a series on a cable television network. “Clancy of the +Overflow” is similarly well known. + + + + +An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: + + +Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. + +Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for +tea. + +Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and +shrubs, especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. + +Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. + +Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. The leaves of +the Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, as an +adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. + +Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United +Kingdom (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to +1910. + +Fi. fa.: fieri facias--a legal paper authorising the seizure of a +debtor's goods. + +Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. + +Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). + +Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, +especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, +wurley, or mia-mia. + +Jumbuck: A sheep. + +Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. + +Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, his +last expedition (in 1848) never returned. + +Matilda: A swag. See “Waltz Matilda”. + +Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. + +Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; any of several +types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). + +Native bear: A koala. + +Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, +and especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; to drive +stock by land, especially on this route. + +Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. + +Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, +of the genus Thylogalefound. + +Pah/Pa: A Maori village. + +Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. + +Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. + +Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. + +Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the +group. + +Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, +especially of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which +is limited to Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, +saltbush can grow in arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; the region +where saltbush grows. + +Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by +lease or license from the government. + +Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + +Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government +permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise +stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, explored +eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery of the river +system in southeastern Australia. + +Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for +work, but looking for food and/or shelter. + +Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. + +Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, e.g. +carrying a swag. + +Tucker: Food. + +Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, +etc., related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) “on the wallaby +(track)”, on the move, on the road. + +Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. “Waltz”, to travel in circles. + +Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; by +association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). + +Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. + +Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, having +off-white or yellow flowers. So named because the branches were used to +weave wattle, a type of construction made of interwoven branches and the +like. + +Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family +Vombatidae, which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant +person. + +Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, A. +glaucescens. + + + + +Notes on the text: + + +“An Answer to Various Bards” appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of +poems in the Sydney 'Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, +or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), +primarily between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], who may +have staged the debate as a way of selling more poems. + +Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], +who, despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush in +at least one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie +[1869-1963] who was in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, +returned in 1901, and was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). + +Other verses from the debate maybe found in “The Man from Snowy River” + by Paterson and “In the Days When the World was Wide” by Henry Lawson. + +The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts in the +original edition. + + +“'Shouting' for a Camel”: A number of camels were brought to Australia, +with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden +in the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. (A +similar scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, but no camels +remain.) + + + “The Gundaroo Bullock”: + + [ Said Morgan, “Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + changed to: + [ Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + + +“Lay of the Motor-Car”: To put this poem in perspective, it must be +remembered that this book was published in 1917, and the poem written +earlier. It may be helpful to compare Paterson's short story, “Three +Elephant Power”, in the book of the same name that was published in the +same year. The plot centres around a speed demon who would drive at +unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) + + + “The Mylora Elopement”: + + [ No thought has be but for his prize. ] + changed to: + [ No thought has he but for his prize. ] + + + “The Protest”: + + [ W ll, but I KNOW. ] + changed to: + [ Well, but I KNOW. ] + + + “The Maori's Wool”: + + [ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] + changed to: + [ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] + + +“The Lost Drink”, “The Matrimonial Stakes”, “Not on It”, “The +Scapegoat”, “The Angel's Kiss”, and “The Reveille” were all dropped from +“Saltbush Bill” when it was included in Paterson's “Collected Verse” + (first issued in 1921). No poems were added, though “The Song of the +Pen” moved from the front of the book to the back, and several titles +were slightly changed. No effort has been made to compare the texts. + +There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was +added. + +Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) +and the “frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay”, the first of +which was set above the lines: + + “But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals across the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again.” + +which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of “Brumby's Run” (should be +“steals along the plain”). + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses, by +A. B. Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTBUSH BILL *** + +***** This file should be named 1317-0.txt or 1317-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/1/1317/ + +Produced by Alan R. 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B. Paterson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses, by A. B. Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses + +Author: A. B. Paterson + +Release Date: August 15, 2008 [EBook #1317] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTBUSH BILL *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By A. B. Paterson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + [Andrew Barton (“Banjo”) Paterson, Australian poet & journalist. + 1864-1941.] + </p> + <p> + Author of “The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses”, “Rio Grande, and + Other Verses”, and “An Outback Marriage”. + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + Publisher's Note: Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in Egypt + for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on them to + say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen by him in + proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the arrangement + or the title of “Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses”. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES</b> + </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Song of the Pen </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Song of the Wheat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Brumby's Run </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Reverend Mullineux </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Wisdom of Hafiz </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Saltbush Bill, J.P. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> The Riders in the Stand </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Waltzing Matilda </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> An Answer to Various Bards </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> T.Y.S.O.N. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> As Long as your Eyes are Blue </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Bottle-O! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> The Story of Mongrel Grey </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Gilhooley's Estate </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Road to Hogan's Gap </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A Singer of the Bush </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> “Shouting” for a Camel </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Lost Drink </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Mulligan's Mare </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> The Matrimonial Stakes </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> The Mountain Squatter </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Pioneers </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Santa Claus in the Bush </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> “In Re a Gentleman, One” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Melting of the Snow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> A Dream of the Melbourne Cup </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The Gundaroo Bullock </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Lay of the Motor-Car </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The Corner Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> When Dacey Rode the Mule </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> The Mylora Elopement </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> The Pannikin Poet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Not on It </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Protest </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Scapegoat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> An Evening in Dandaloo </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> A Ballad of Ducks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> Tommy Corrigan </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> The Maori's Wool </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> The Angel's Kiss </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Sunrise on the Coast </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> The Reveille </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Song of the Pen + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + <i>Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + Not for the people's praise; + Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, + Claiming us all our days, + + Claiming our best endeavour—body and heart and brain + Given with no reserve— + Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; + Still, we are proud to serve. + + Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, + Gathering grain or chaff; + One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, + One, that a child may laugh. + + Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, + Freely she doth accord + Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, + Work is its own reward!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Song of the Wheat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have sung the song of the droving days, + Of the march of the travelling sheep; + By silent stages and lonely ways + Thin, white battalions creep. + But the man who now by the land would thrive + Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. + Is there ever a man in the world alive + To sing the song of the Wheat! + + It's west by south of the Great Divide + The grim grey plains run out, + Where the old flock-masters lived and died + In a ceaseless fight with drought. + Weary with waiting and hope deferred + They were ready to own defeat, + Till at last they heard the master-word— + And the master-word was Wheat. + + Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine— + 'Twas axe and fire for all; + They scarce could tarry to blaze the line + Or wait for the trees to fall, + Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, + And the dust of the horses' feet + Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide + The wonderful march of Wheat. + + Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, + The soil is turned on the plain; + Better than silver and better than gold + Is the surface-mine of the grain; + Better than cattle and better than sheep + In the fight with drought and heat; + For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, + Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. + + When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, + Deep down in his bed of clay + The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait + For the resurrection day: + Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; + But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, + Will over the steaming paddocks spread + The first green flush of the Wheat. + + Green and amber and gold it grows + When the sun sinks late in the West; + And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows + Where the quail and the skylark nest. + Mountain or river or shining star, + There's never a sight can beat— + Away to the sky-line stretching far— + A sea of the ripening Wheat. + + When the burning harvest sun sinks low, + And the shadows stretch on the plain, + The roaring strippers come and go + Like ships on a sea of grain; + Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear + Their tale of the load complete. + Of the world's great work he has done his share + Who has gathered a crop of wheat. + + Princes and Potentates and Czars, + They travel in regal state, + But old King Wheat has a thousand cars + For his trip to the water-gate; + And his thousand steamships breast the tide + And plough thro' the wind and sleet + To the lands where the teeming millions bide + That say: “Thank God for Wheat!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Brumby's Run + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial + a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: + “Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It lies beyond the Western Pines + Towards the sinking sun, + And not a survey mark defines + The bounds of “Brumby's Run”. + + On odds and ends of mountain land, + On tracks of range and rock + Where no one else can make a stand, + Old Brumby rears his stock. + + A wild, unhandled lot they are + Of every shape and breed. + They venture out 'neath moon and star + Along the flats to feed; + + But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals along the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again. + + The traveller by the mountain-track + May hear their hoof-beats pass, + And catch a glimpse of brown and black + Dim shadows on the grass. + + The eager stockhorse pricks his ears + And lifts his head on high + In wild excitement when he hears + The Brumby mob go by. + + Old Brumby asks no price or fee + O'er all his wide domains: + The man who yards his stock is free + To keep them for his pains. + + So, off to scour the mountain-side + With eager eyes aglow, + To strongholds where the wild mobs hide + The gully-rakers go. + + A rush of horses through the trees, + A red shirt making play; + A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, + They vanish far away! + + . . . . . + + Ah, me! before our day is done + We long with bitter pain + To ride once more on Brumby's Run + And yard his mob again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me + To give you some instruction like—a kind of Christmas tale— + So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”? + + Well, whales is sheep I've never shore; I've never been to sea, + So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; + But there's a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, + About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. + + Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, + They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run— + A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, + The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. + + Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, + And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. + You know the way that boys grow up—there's some that stick at home; + But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. + + So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track + To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; + You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, + The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. + + Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock—that's most uncommon clear— + For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer; + He didn't ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay + To take the roan and strawberry calves—the same we'd take to-day. + + The duns and blacks and “Goulburn roans” (that's brindles), coarse and hard, + He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; + So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, + Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer. + + It's often so with overseers—I've seen the same thing done + By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. + But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, + And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. + + He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; + And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; + You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so— + No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. + + But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, + Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. + It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, + There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. + + So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, + To battle down the homeward track along the Overland— + It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. + I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. + + But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) + When battling through the Philistines—selectors, I suppose— + He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; + So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. + + He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; + He couldn't hurry lambing ewes—no more you could to-day— + And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, + He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. + + The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, + There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. + It's just a plain straightforward tale—a tale that lets you know + The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. + + It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; + You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, + The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, + And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. + + The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; + The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; + The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp— + I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp! + + <i>But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know + How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Reverend Mullineux + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + And his height at five-foot-two, + With a face as plain as an eight-day clock + And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock— + Game as a bantam, too, + Hard and wiry and full of steam, + That's the boss of the English Team, + Reverend Mullineux. + + Makes no row when the game gets rough— + None of your “Strike me blue!” + “You's wants smacking across the snout!” + Plays like a gentleman out-and-out— + Same as he ought to do. + “Kindly remove from off my face!” + That's the way that he states his case— + Reverend Mullineux. + + Kick! He can kick like an army mule— + Run like a kangaroo! + Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, + Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant— + Fetches him over too! + <i>Didn't</i> the public cheer and shout + Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about— + Reverend Mullineux. + + Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, + Somehow the ball got through— + Who was it tackled our big half-back, + Flinging him down like an empty sack, + Right on our goal-line too? + Who but the man that we thought was dead, + Down with a score of 'em on his head, + Reverend Mullineux. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Wisdom of Hafiz + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; + Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow. + + If ever an owner should tell you, “Back mine”—don't you be such a flat. + He knows his own cunning, no doubt—does he know what the others are at? + Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few dollars on that. + + Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. + His wisdom belongs to his patron—shall he give it to one and to all? + When the stable is served he may tell you—and his words + are like jewels let fall. + + Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, + He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; + And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. + + When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, + Take a pull on yourself; take a pull—it's a mighty big field + to get through. + Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about, p'raps it's you! + + Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, + For this is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. + How is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot? + + From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone, + For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, + “The very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Saltbush Bill, J.P. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + Beyond Sturt's Western track, + The rolling tide of change has sent + Some strange J.P.s out back. + + And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, + And worn with want of sleep, + Received the news in camp one day + Behind the travelling sheep + + That Edward Rex, confiding in + His known integrity, + By hand and seal on parchment skin + Had made him a J.P. + + He read the news with eager face + But found no word of pay. + “I'd like to see my sister's place + And kids on Christmas day. + + “I'd like to see green grass again, + And watch clear water run, + Away from this unholy plain, + And flies, and dust, and sun.” + + At last one little clause he found + That might some hope inspire, + “A magistrate may charge a pound + For inquest on a fire.” + + A big blacks' camp was built close by, + And Saltbush Bill, says he, + “I think that camp might well supply + A job for a J.P.” + + That night, by strange coincidence, + A most disastrous fire + Destroyed the country residence + Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. + + 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; + The party most concerned + Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt + If forty such were burned. + + Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, + Who watched the leaping flame. + “The home is small,” said he, “but still + The principle's the same. + + “Midst palaces though you should roam, + Or follow pleasure's tracks, + You'll find,” he said, “no place like home, + At least like Jacky Jack's. + + “Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,' + Tell every black Maria + I give tobacco half a stick— + Hold inquest long-a fire.” + + Each juryman received a name + Well suited to a Court. + “Long Jack” and “Stumpy Bill” became + “John Long” and “William Short”. + + While such as “Tarpot”, “Bullock Dray”, + And “Tommy Wait-a-While”, + Became, for ever and a day, + “Scott”, “Dickens”, and “Carlyle”. + + And twelve good sable men and true + Were soon engaged upon + The conflagration that o'erthrew + The home of John A. John. + + Their verdict, “Burnt by act of Fate”, + They scarcely had returned + When, just behind the magistrate, + Another humpy burned! + + The jury sat again and drew + Another stick of plug. + Said Saltbush Bill, “It's up to you + Put some one long-a Jug.” + + “I'll camp the sheep,” he said, “and sift + The evidence about.” + For quite a week he couldn't shift, + The way the fires broke out. + + The jury thought the whole concern + As good as any play. + They used to “take him oath” and earn + Three sticks of plug a day. + + At last the tribe lay down to sleep + Homeless, beneath a tree; + And onward with his travelling sheep + Went Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + The sheep delivered, safe and sound, + His horse to town he turned, + And drew some five-and-twenty pound + For fees that he had earned. + + And where Monaro's ranges hide + Their little farms away— + His sister's children by his side— + He spent his Christmas Day. + + The next J.P. that went out back + Was shocked, or pained, or both, + At hearing every pagan black + Repeat the juror's oath. + + No matter though he turned and fled + They followed faster still; + “You make it inkwich, boss,” they said, + “All same like Saltbush Bill.” + + They even said they'd let him see + The fires originate. + When he refused they said that he + Was “No good magistrate.” + + And out beyond Sturt's Western track, + And Leichhardt's farthest tree, + They wait till fate shall send them back + Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Riders in the Stand + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. + There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; + And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath. + + But all the finest horsemen out—the men to Beat the Band— + You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. + They'll say “He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight.” + They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late. + + They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; + They'll tell how one was “livened up” and something else was “dead”— + In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, + But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand. + + The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; + You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. + You ride a slashing race, and lose—by one and all you're banned! + Ride like a bag of flour, and win—they'll cheer you in the Stand. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Waltzing Matilda + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Carrying a Swag.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; + And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag— + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + + Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, + Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; + And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, + “You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!” + + Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; + Down came Policemen—one, two, and three. + “Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? + You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.” + + But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, + Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; + And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, + “Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Answer to Various Bards + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, + With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, + How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; + And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, + But you know they're fond of writing about “corpses” and “the tomb”. + So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, + And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. + + Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson—well, of course, we almost cried + At the sorrowful description how his “little 'Arvie” died, + And we lachrymosed in silence when “His Father's Mate” was slain; + Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. + Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, + And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; + So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan + Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. + + And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, + When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; + But the shearer chaps who start it—why, he rounds on them in blame, + And he calls 'em “agitators” who are living on the game. + But I “over-write” the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt + That I always see a hero in the “man from furthest out”. + I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, + And a bushman never struck me as a subject for “the tomb”. + + If it ain't all “golden sunshine” where the “wattle branches wave”, + Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all “lonely grave”. + And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, + But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; + Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, + Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, + For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills + While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. + + Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, + And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. + For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar + And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; + And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, + To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, + When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, + And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of “Wool away!” + + Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set— + And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. + But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back + To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, + And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, + And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. + But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, + For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. + + There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, + And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. + For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, + And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. + Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push + Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; + And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, + And we'll slip across to England—it's a nicer place than here; + + For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, + And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. + But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, + We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; + So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, + And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, + And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, + And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + T.Y.S.O.N. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Across the Queensland border line + The mobs of cattle go; + They travel down in sun and shine + On dusty stage, and slow. + The drovers, riding slowly on + To let the cattle spread, + Will say: “Here's one old landmark gone, + For old man Tyson's dead.” + + What tales there'll be in every camp + By men that Tyson knew; + The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, + Will yarn the long day through, + And tell of how he passed as “Brown”, + And fooled the local men: + “But not for me—I struck the town, + And passed the message further down; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.!” + + There stands a little country town + Beyond the border line, + Where dusty roads go up and down, + And banks with pubs combine. + A stranger came to cash a cheque— + Few were the words he said— + A handkerchief about his neck, + An old hat on his head. + + A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed— + “Know me? Of course you do?” + “It's not my work,” the boss replied, + “To know such tramps as you.” + “Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,” + Replied the stranger then, + “I never care to make a splash, + I'm simple—but I've got the cash, + I'm T.Y.S.O.N.” + + But in that last great drafting-yard, + Where Peter keeps the gate, + And souls of sinners find it barred, + And go to meet their fate, + There's one who ought to enter in, + For good deeds done on earth; + Such deeds as merit ought to win, + Kind deeds of sterling worth. + + Not by the strait and narrow gate, + Reserved for wealthy men, + But through the big gate, opened wide, + The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, + Will travel through—and then + Old Peter'll say: “We pass him through; + There's many a thing he used to do, + Good-hearted things that no one knew; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + As Long as your Eyes are Blue + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? + When the charms of youth shall have passed away, + Will your love as of old prove true? + + For the looks may change, and the heart may range, + And the love be no longer fond; + Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth + And away to the years beyond? + + Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown + And the blush on your cheek that lies— + But I love you most for the kindly heart + That I see in your sweet blue eyes. + + For the eyes are signs of the soul within, + Of the heart that is leal and true, + And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach + May be reft of their golden hue; + But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bottle-O! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + I drives me bottle cart around the town; + A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob— + I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. + There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, + There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, + And little dogs what comes and barks—we take 'em off their guard + And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O! + + Chorus— + + So it's any “Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” + You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. + And you'll see the women rushing + To take in the Monday's washing + When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!” + + I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, + A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, + An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; + I stops the cart and walks across to see. + “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;” + “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know + What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, + If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!” + + I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me + We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. + Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea + And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. + But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”, + There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: + But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap” + There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Story of Mongrel Grey + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This is the story the stockman told, + On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; + The moon rose up like a globe of gold + And flooded the plain with her mellow light. + We watched the cattle till dawn of day + And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. + + . . . . . + + He was a knock-about station hack, + Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; + Ridden all day with a sore on his back, + Left all night with nothing to eat. + That was a matter of every-day + Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey. + + We might have sold him, but someone heard + He was bred out back on a flooded run, + Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,— + Midnight or midday were all as one. + In the flooded ground he could find his way, + Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. + + 'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; + When the floods are out they will splash along + In girth-deep water, and twist and turn + From hidden channel and billabong. + Never mistaking the road to go, + For a man may guess—but the horses <i>know</i>. + + I was camping out with my youngest son— + Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak— + In an empty hut on the lower run, + Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. + The youngster toddled about all day, + And with our horses was Mongrel Grey. + + All of a sudden the flood came down + Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, + Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, + Over the flats and across the plain. + Rising and rising—at fall of night + Nothing but water appeared in sight! + + 'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, + Even in daylight; for all around + Channels and billabongs twist about, + Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. + And to move was a hopeless thing to try + In the dark with the water just racing by. + + I had to try it. I heard a roar, + And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; + And the water rose till it reached the floor + Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain + The way the water was sweeping down + We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown. + + Off to the stable I splashed, and found + The horses shaking with cold and fright; + I led them down to the lower ground, + But never a yard would they swim that night! + They reared and snorted and turned away, + And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. + + I bound the child on the horse's back, + And we started off with a prayer to heaven, + Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, + For I knew that the instinct God has given + To guide His creatures by night and day + Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. + + He struck deep water at once and swam— + I swam beside him and held his mane— + Till we touched the bank of the broken dam + In shallow water—then off again, + Swimming in darkness across the flood, + Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. + + He turned and twisted across and back, + Choosing the places to wade or swim, + Picking the safest and shortest track, + The pitchy darkness was clear to him. + Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? + The Lord that led him alone could tell! + + He dodged the timber whene'er he could, + But the timber brought us to grief at last; + I was partly stunned by a log of wood, + That struck my head as it drifted past; + And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, + And in half a second he swept away. + + I reached a tree, where I had to stay, + And did a perish for two days hard; + And lived on water—but Mongrel Grey, + He walked right into the homestead yard + At dawn next morning, and grazed around, + With the child on top of him safe and sound. + + We keep him now for the wife to ride, + Nothing too good for him now, of course; + Never a whip on his fat old hide, + For she owes the child to that old grey horse. + And not Old Tyson himself could pay + The purchase money of Mongrel Grey. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Gilhooley's Estate + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + As most of us do, soon or late; + And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, + So they took him Gilhooley's Estate. + + Gilhooley in life had been living so free + 'Twas thought his possessions were great, + So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee + For me in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + They made out a list of his property fine, + It totalled a thousand-and-eight; + But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine— + The debts of Gilhooley's Estate. + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, my dear man, + My childer have little to ait: + Just keep the expenses as low as you can + Against poor Gilhooley's Estate.” + + But Jones says, “The will isn't clear in its terms, + I fear it will need some debate, + And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) + To appear in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, + And a brief in his hand quite elate, + Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, + Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate. + + But his Honor the Judge said, “I think that the joint + Legatees must be called to pro<i>bate</i>— + Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point— + The point of Gilhooley's Estate. + + “I order a suit to be brought just to try + If this is correct that I state— + A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, + Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate.” + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, you'll appear! + Thim barristers' fees is too great; + The suit is but friendly.” “Attorneys, my dear, + Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate.” + + From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah + Arises both early and late: + It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar + Dividing Gilhooley's Estate. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Road to Hogan's Gap + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + You cross the broken bridge + And run the crick down till you strike + The second right-hand ridge. + + The track is hard to see in parts, + But still it's pretty clear; + There's been two Injin hawkers' carts + Along that road this year. + + Well, run that right-hand ridge along— + It ain't, to say, too steep— + There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong + Where blokes went out with sheep. + + But keep the crick upon your right, + And follow pretty straight + Along the spur, until you sight + A wire and sapling gate. + + Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare + Fell off and broke her back; + You'll see her carcase layin' there, + Jist down below the track. + + And then you drop two mile, or three, + It's pretty steep and blind; + You want to go and fall a tree + And tie it on behind. + + And then you pass a broken cart + Below a granite bluff; + And that is where you strike the part + They reckon pretty rough. + + But by the time you've got that far + It's either cure or kill, + So turn your horses round the spur + And face 'em up the hill. + + For look, if you should miss the slope + And get below the track, + You haven't got the whitest hope + Of ever gettin' back. + + An' half way up you'll see the hide + Of Hogan's brindled bull; + Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, + The left's too steep a pull. + + And both the banks is full of cracks; + An' just about at dark + You'll see the last year's bullock tracks + Where Hogan drew the bark. + + The marks is old and pretty faint + And grown with scrub and such; + Of course the track to Hogan's ain't + A road that's travelled much. + + But turn and run the tracks along + For half a mile or more, + And then, of course, you can't go wrong— + You're right at Hogan's door. + + When first you come to Hogan's gate + He mightn't show, perhaps; + He's pretty sure to plant and wait + To see it ain't the traps. + + I wouldn't call it good enough + To let your horses out; + There's some that's pretty extra rough + Is livin' round about. + + It's likely if your horses did + Get feedin' near the track, + It's goin' to cost at least a quid + Or more to get them back. + + So, if you find they're off the place, + It's up to you to go + And flash a quid in Hogan's face— + He'll know the blokes that know. + + But listen, if you're feelin' dry, + Just see there's no one near, + And go and wink the other eye + And ask for ginger beer. + + The blokes come in from near and far + To sample Hogan's pop; + They reckon once they breast the bar + They stay there till they drop. + + On Sundays you can see them spread + Like flies around the tap. + It's like that song “The Livin' Dead” + Up there at Hogan's Gap. + + They like to make it pretty strong + Whenever there's a charnce; + So when a stranger comes along + They always holds a darnce. + + There's recitations, songs, and fights— + A willin' lot you'll meet. + There's one long bloke up there recites, + I tell you—he's a treat. + + They're lively blokes all right up there, + It's never dull a day. + I'd go meself if I could spare + The time to get away. + + . . . . . + + The stranger turned his horses quick. + He didn't cross the bridge; + He didn't go along the crick + To strike the second ridge; + + He didn't make the trip, because + He wasn't feeling fit. + His business up at Hogan's was + To serve him with a writ. + + He reckoned if he faced the pull + And climbed the rocky stair, + The next to come might find his hide + A land-mark on the mountain side, + Along with Hogan's brindled bull + And Hogan's old grey mare! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Singer of the Bush + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is waving of grass in the breeze + And a song in the air, + And a murmur of myriad bees + That toil everywhere. + There is scent in the blossom and bough, + And the breath of the Spring + Is as soft as a kiss on a brow— + And Spring-time I sing. + + There is drought on the land, and the stock + Tumble down in their tracks + Or follow—a tottering flock— + The scrub-cutter's axe. + While ever a creature survives + The axes shall swing; + We are fighting with fate for their lives— + And the combat I sing. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “Shouting” for a Camel + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, + Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, + And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. + Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. + He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking + He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. + Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking + He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by + That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, + And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; + For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, + And the miners muttered softly, “Yes, he's very dry indeed! + But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.” + + So he drank up twenty buckets—it was weird to watch him suck it, + (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) + Till the speculator stopped him, saying, “Not another bucket— + If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. + Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town.” + He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + There's a moral to this story—in your hat you ought to paste it, + Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, + And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, + Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; + If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, + You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Lost Drink + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I had spent the night in the watch-house— + My head was the size of three— + So I went and asked the chemist + To fix up a drink for me; + And he brewed it from various bottles + With soda and plenty of ice, + With something that smelt like lemon, + And something that seemed like spice. + + It fell on my parching palate + Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, + And my system began to flourish + Like the grass in a soft spring rain; + It wandered throughout my being, + Suffusing my soul with rest, + And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid + That life had a new-found zest. + + I have been on the razzle-dazzle + Full many a time since then + But I never could get the chemist + To brew me that drink again. + He says he's forgotten the notion— + 'Twas only by chance it came— + He's tried me with various liquids + But oh! they are not the same. + + We have sought, but we sought it vainly, + That one lost drink divine; + We have sampled his various bottles, + But somehow they don't combine: + Yet I know when I cross the River + And stand on the Golden Shore + I shall meet with an angel-chemist + Who'll brew me that drink once more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mulligan's Mare + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; + The height of choice spirits from near and from far + Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar. + + There was “Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned, + “Dog-bite-me”—so called from the shape of his head— + And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, + Designed as the “Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang”. + + Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, + A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; + Whenever they backed her you safely might swear + She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare. + + But Mulligan, having some radical views, + Neglected his business and got on the booze; + He took up with runners—a treacherous troop— + Who gave him away and he “fell in the soup”. + + And so it turned out on a fine summer day, + A bailiff turned up with a writ of “fi. fa.”; + He walked to the bar with a manner serene, + “I levy,” said he, “in the name of the Queen.” + + Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, + To pay out the bailiff with “<i>one</i> on the jaw”; + He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, + He changed his intentions and stood him a drink. + + A great consultation there straightway befel + 'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, + And the man with the head, who remarked “Why, you bet! + Dog-bite-me!” said he, “but we'll diddle 'em yet. + + “We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, + And put in her place the old broken-down hack; + The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear + The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare. + + “So out with the racer and in with the screw, + We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; + And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, + I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.” + + Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; + The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was “had”; + But marched to the stall with a confident air— + “I levy,” said he, “upon Mulligan's mare.” + + He watched her by day and he watched her by night, + She was never an instant let out of his sight, + For races were coming away in the West + And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best. + + “Here's a chance,” thought the bailiff, “to serve my own ends, + I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: + Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare + And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.” + + The races came round, and a crowd on the course + Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, + And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, + They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. + + And think of the grief of the bookmaking host + At the sound of the summons to go to the post— + For down to the start with her thorough-bred air + As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare! + + They started, and off went the boy to the front, + He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; + He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, + Then gave her her head and she smothered the field. + + The race put her owner right clear of his debts, + He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, + He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, + And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. + + So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, + Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; + For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week— + Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. + + And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, + Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, + And fortune in season will answer your prayer + And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Matrimonial Stakes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat + When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; + Well, she simply <i>had</i> to have me after that! + + It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead + From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; + And, although she <i>looked</i> indifferent when I landed—on my head— + In the water, it appealed to her, of course! + + When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was “all Sir Garneo”, + For she praised the way I made my final run. + And she thought the riding did it—for how <i>could</i> the poor girl know + That a monkey could have ridden it and won! + + Then they “weighed me in” a winner—it's not often that occurs! + So I didn't let my golden chances slip, + For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, + And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip. + + Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk + For a moment, so I took her by the head + (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work + When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red. + + She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; + I could worship every little step she takes; + And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, + Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mountain Squatter + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here in my mountain home, + On rugged hills and steep, + I sit and watch you come, + O Riverina Sheep! + + You come from fertile plains + Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, + And flats that (when it rains) + Will blossom like the rose. + + But, when the summer sun + Gleams down like burnished brass, + You have to leave your run + And hustle off for grass. + + 'Tis then that—forced to roam— + You come to where I keep, + Here in my mountain home, + A boarding-house for sheep. + + Around me where I sit + The wary wombat goes— + A beast of little wit, + But what he knows, he <i>knows</i>. + + The very same remark + Applies to me also; + I don't give out a spark, + But what I know, I <i>know</i>. + + My brain perhaps would show + No convolutions deep, + But anyhow I know + The way to handle sheep. + + These Riverina cracks, + They do not care to ride + The half-inch hanging tracks + Along the mountain side. + + Their horses shake with fear + When loosened boulders go, + With leaps, like startled deer, + Down to the gulfs below. + + Their very dogs will shirk, + And drop their tails in fright + When asked to go and work + A mob that's out of sight. + + My little collie pup + Works silently and wide; + You'll see her climbing up + Along the mountain side. + + As silent as a fox + You'll see her come and go, + A shadow through the rocks + Where ash and messmate grow. + + Then, lost to sight and sound + Behind some rugged steep, + She works her way around + And gathers up the sheep; + + And, working wide and shy, + She holds them rounded up. + The cash ain't coined to buy + That little collie pup. + + And so I draw a screw + For self and dog and keep + To boundary-ride for you, + O Riverina Sheep! + + And when the autumn rain + Has made the herbage grow, + You travel off again, + And glad—no doubt—to go. + + But some are left behind + Around the mountain's spread, + For those we cannot find + We put them down as dead. + + But when we say adieu + And close the boarding job, + I always find a few + Fresh ear-marks in my mob. + + So what with those I sell, + And what with those I keep, + You pay me pretty well, + O Riverina Sheep! + + It's up to me to shout + Before we say good-bye— + “Here's to a howlin' drought + All west of Gundagai!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Pioneers + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, + We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years + As those explorers of the bush—the brave old pioneers. + + 'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; + 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; + 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, + And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. + + But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead + When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead + By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, + And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest. + + Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, + We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, + To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years— + The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Santa Claus in the Bush + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + When the wheat was ripe and tall, + A stranger rode to the farmer's gate— + A sturdy man and a small. + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + And bid the stranger stay; + And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, + For the morn is Christmas Day.” + + “Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife, + “But ye should let him be; + He's maybe only a drover chap + Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. + + “Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst + To swiggle the hail nicht through; + Or he's maybe a life assurance carle + To talk ye black and blue.” + + “Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, + For their swags are neat and thin; + And he's never a life assurance carle, + Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. + + “Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, + For the wheat stands ripe and tall, + And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, + Ewes and weaners and all. + + “There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat + Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, + And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, + So we maun ask him in. + + “Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, + And gi' him a bite tae eat; + An omelette made of a new-laid egg, + Or a tasty bit of meat.” + + “But the native cats hae taen the fowls, + They havena left a leg; + And he'll get nae omelette here at a' + Till the emu lays an egg!” + + “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + To whaur the emus bide, + Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, + While the auld cock sits beside. + + “But speak them fair, and speak them saft, + Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. + Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails + Or a rusty carriage bolt.” + + So little son Jack ran blithely down, + With the rusty nails in hand, + Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched + By their nest in the open sand. + + And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, + 'Twould feed three men or four, + And the emus came for the half-inch nails + Right up to the settler's door. + + “A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife, + As she took the egg, with a frown, + “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin + A paddy-melon down.” + + “Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, + Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; + Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, + Then come nae back at a'.” + + So little son Jack he raced and he ran, + And he was bare o' the feet, + And soon he captured a paddy-melon, + Was gorged with the stolen wheat. + + “Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, + To the best that the hoose can do— + An omelette made of the emu egg + And a paddy-melon stew.” + + “'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man; + “I have eaten the wide world's meat, + And the food that is given with right good will + Is the sweetest food to eat. + + “But the night draws on to the Christmas Day + And I must rise and go, + For I have a mighty way to ride + To the land of the Esquimaux. + + “And it's there I must load my sledges up, + With reindeers four-in-hand, + That go to the North, South, East, and West, + To every Christian land.” + + “Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife, + “Ye suit my husband well! + For when he gets up on his journey horse + He's a bit of a liar himsel'.” + + Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man + To his old horse grazing nigh, + And away like a meteor flash they went + Far off to the Northern sky. + + . . . . . + + When the children woke on the Christmas morn + They chattered with might and main— + For a sword and gun had little son Jack, + And a braw new doll had Jane, + And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; + But the dour good-wife got nane. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “In Re a Gentleman, One” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer + for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name + until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers + as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”, + or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We see it each day in the paper, + And know that there's mischief in store; + That some unprofessional caper + Has landed a shark on the shore. + We know there'll be plenty of trouble + Before they get through with the fun, + Because he's been coming the double + On clients, has “Gentleman, One”. + + Alas! for the gallant attorney, + Intent upon cutting a dash, + Sets out on life's perilous journey + With rather more cunning than cash. + And fortune at first is inviting— + He struts his brief hour in the sun— + But, lo! on the wall is the writing + Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”. + + For soon he runs short of the dollars, + He fears he must go to the wall; + So Peter's trust-money he collars + To pay off his creditor, Paul; + Then robs right and left—for he goes it + In earnest when once he's begun. + Descensus Averni—he knows it; + It's easy for “Gentleman, One”. + + The crash comes as sure as the seasons; + He loses his coin in a mine, + Or booming in land, or for reasons + Connected with women and wine. + Or maybe the cards or the horses + A share of the damage have done + No matter; the end of the course is + The same: “Re a Gentleman, One”. + + He struggles awhile to keep going, + To stave off detection and shame; + But creditors, clamorous growing, + Ere long put an end to the game. + At length the poor soldier of Satan + His course to a finish has run— + And just think of Windeyer waiting + To deal with “A Gentleman, One”! + + And some face it boldly, and brazen + The shame and the utter disgrace; + While others, more sensitive, hasten + Their names and their deeds to efface. + They snap the frail thread which the Furies + And Fates have so cruelly spun. + May the great Final Judge and His juries + Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Melting of the Snow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a sunny Southern land, + And it's there that I would be + Where the big hills stand, + In the South Countrie! + When the wattles bloom again, + Then it's time for us to go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + To the East or to the West, + Or wherever you may be, + You will find no place + Like the South Countrie. + For the skies are blue above, + And the grass is green below, + In the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + Now the team is in the plough, + And the thrushes start to sing, + And the pigeons on the bough + Sit a-welcoming the Spring. + So come my comrades all, + Let us saddle up and go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (1886) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + And some doughy damper to make good cheer, + I must make a heavy dinner; + Heavily dine and heavily sup, + Of indigestible things fill up, + Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, + And I have to dream the winner. + + Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, + The rich ragout and the charming cham., + I've got to mix my liquor; + Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, + Hard and tough as a wooden peg, + And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, + 'Twill make me dream the quicker. + + Now I am full of fearful feed, + Now I may dream a race indeed, + In my restless, troubled slumber; + While the night-mares race through my heated brain + And their devil-riders spur amain, + The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, + And I'll spot the winning number. + + . . . . . + + Thousands and thousands and thousands more, + Like sands on the white Pacific shore, + The crowding people cluster; + For evermore it's the story old, + While races are bought and backers are sold, + Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, + In their thousands still they muster. + + And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, + “I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!” + “Five monkeys, Little John, sir!” + “Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!” + And so they shout through the livelong day, + And stick to the game that is sure to pay, + While fools put money on, sir! + + And now in my dream I seem to go + And bet with a “book” that I seem to know— + A Hebrew money-lender; + A million to five is the price I get— + Not bad! but before I book the bet + The horse's name I clean forget, + Its number and even gender. + + Now for the start, and here they come, + And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum + Beat by a hand unsteady; + They come like a rushing, roaring flood, + Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; + For Acme is making the pace so good + There are some of 'em done already. + + But round the back she begins to tire, + And a mighty shout goes up “Crossfire!” + The magpie jacket's leading; + And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, + And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, + But at length gives way to the black and gold, + Which away to the front is speeding. + + Carry them on and keep it up— + A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, + You must race and stay to win it; + And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, + Now takes the lead with his raking stride, + And a mighty roar goes far and wide— + “There's only Commotion in it!” + + But one draws out from the beaten ruck + And up on the rails by a piece of luck + He comes in a style that's clever; + “It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!” + “Go at 'em now while their courage fails;” + “Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!” + “The blue and white for ever!” + + Under the whip! with the ears flat back, + Under the whip! though the sinews crack, + No sign of the base white feather; + Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, + Stick to it now though your hearts should break, + While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, + They come down the straight together. + + Trident slowly forges ahead, + The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, + The pace is undiminished; + Now for the Panics that never fail! + But many a backer's face grows pale + As old Commotion swings his tail + And swerves—and the Cup is finished. + + . . . . . + + And now in my dream it all comes back: + I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, + A million I've won, no question! + “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! + Give me my money, bookmaking dog!” + But he disappeared in a kind of fog, + And I woke with “the indigestion”. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Gundaroo Bullock + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; + But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few + Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo. + + Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, + There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; + For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, + And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo. + + There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, + And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride, + For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo— + He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.” + + “Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, + “I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, + And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, + With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.” + + That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, + They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. + “Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew— + The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.” + + They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, + But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. + “What's this?” exclaimed the trooper—“an infant, I declare;” + Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. + I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, + Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo. + + “The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, + The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; + We can't afford a bullock—such expense would never do— + So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.” + + And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, + In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, + On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, + But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Lay of the Motor-Car + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + In our whiskers and teeth; + And the granite-like grey of the road + Seems to slide underneath. + As an eagle might sweep through the sky, + So we sweep through the land; + And the pallid pedestrians fly + When they hear us at hand. + + We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! + Not the fast-fleeing hare, + Nor the racehorses under the whip, + Nor the birds of the air + Can compete with our swiftness sublime, + Our ease and our grace. + We annihilate chickens and time + And policemen and space. + + Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? + How he dropped down to pray + In the road when he saw he was lost; + How he melted away + Underneath, and there rang through the fog + His earsplitting squeal + As he went—— Is that he or a dog, + That stuff on the wheel? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Corner Man + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + When fancies come and go + To vex a man in his soothing sleep + With thoughts of awful woe— + I dreamed that I was a corner-man + Of a nigger minstrel show. + + I cracked my jokes, and the building rang + With laughter loud and long; + I hushed the house as I softly sang + An old plantation song— + A tale of the wicked slavery days + Of cruelty and wrong. + + A small boy sat on the foremost seat— + A mirthful youngster he; + He beat the time with his restless feet + To each new melody, + And he picked me out as the brightest star + Of the black fraternity. + + “Oh father,” he said, “what <i>would</i> we do + If the corner-man should die? + I never saw such a man—did you? + He makes the people cry, + And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.” + The old man made reply— + + “We each of us fill a very small space + In the great creation's plan, + If a man don't keep his lead in the race + There's plenty more that can; + The world can very soon fill the place + Of even a corner-man.” + + . . . . . + + I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find + Myself at home in bed, + And I framed a moral in my mind + From the words the old man said. + The world will jog along just the same + When its corner-men are dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Dacey Rode the Mule + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + When we were boys at school, + There came a circus with a clown, + Likewise a bucking mule. + The clown announced a scheme they had + Spectators for to bring— + They'd give a crown to any lad + Who'd ride him round the ring. + + And, gentle reader, do not scoff + Nor think a man a fool— + To buck a porous-plaster off + Was pastime to that mule. + + The boys got on; he bucked like sin; + He threw them in the dirt, + What time the clown would raise a grin + By asking, “Are you hurt?” + But Johnny Dacey came one night, + The crack of all the school; + Said he, “I'll win the crown all right, + Bring in your bucking mule.” + + The elephant went off his trunk, + The monkey played the fool, + And all the band got blazing drunk + When Dacey rode the mule. + + But soon there rose a galling shout + Of laughter, for the clown + From somewhere in his pants drew out + A little paper crown. + He placed the crown on Dacey's head + While Dacey looked a fool; + “Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said, + “For riding of the mule!” + + The band struck up with “Killaloe”, + And “Rule Britannia, Rule”, + And “Young Man from the Country”, too, + When Dacey rode the mule. + + Then Dacey, in a furious rage, + For vengeance on the show + Ascended to the monkeys' cage + And let the monkeys go; + The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee + He turned abroad to roam; + Good faith! It was a sight to see + The people step for home. + + For big baboons with canine snout + Are spiteful, as a rule— + The people didn't sit it out + When Dacey rode the mule. + + And from the beasts that made escape, + The bushmen all declare, + Were born some creatures partly ape + And partly native-bear. + They're rather few and far between, + The race is nearly spent; + But some of them may still be seen + In Sydney Parliament. + + And when those legislators fight, + And drink, and act the fool, + Just blame it on that torrid night + When Dacey rode the mule. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mylora Elopement + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, + Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, + Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run. + + Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. + Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; + And Amelia loved him truly—but the course of love, if true, + Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do. + + Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss + Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss + That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. + Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges—off goes Jim to see his child; + + Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, + And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. + Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, + And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below. + + “I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, + One more kiss—don't think I'm greedy—good-bye, lass, before I'm seen— + Just one more—God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, + Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.” + + . . . . . + + The daylight shines on figures twain + That ride across Mylora plain, + Laughing and talking—Jim and Jane. + “Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, + Didn't we slip the old man prime! + I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, + I reckon he'll find it too big a job. + They've beaten us all. I had a try, + But the warrigal devils seem to fly. + That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff + No doubt, but not quite good enough. + He'll have to gallop the livelong day, + To cut and come, to race and stay. + I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; + To see us going I don't think would.” + A turn in the road and, fair and square, + They meet the old man standing there. + “What's up?” “Why, running away, of course,” + Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, + His eye with wild excitement burned. + “I've raced all day through the scorching heat + After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. + But over that range I think you'll find + The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. + Will you go and leave the mob behind? + Which will you do? Take the girl away, + Or ride like a white man should to-day, + And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?” + Says Jim, “I can't throw this away, + We can bolt some other day, of course, + Amelia Jane, get off that horse. + Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. + Here goes to put old Bowneck through!” + Two distant specks on the mountain side, + Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. + Amelia Jane sat down and cried. + + . . . . . + + “Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? + Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, + And him dead beat. Where have you been? + “Bolted with Jim! What <i>do</i> you mean?” + “Met the old man with Sambo licked + From running old Bowneck.” “Well, I'm kicked— + Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? + What did Jim do when you were stopped? + Did you bolt from father across the plain? + Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! + And father got on, and away again + The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. + Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! + They're sure to get them now, of course, + That Tambourine is a spanking horse. + And Crazy Jane is good as gold. + And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; + Not like your father, but very fair. + Jim will have to follow the mare.” + “It never was yet in father's hide + To best my Jim on the mountain-side. + Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” + But here again Amelia cried. + + . . . . . + + The sound of a whip comes faint and far, + A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, + In all their tameless pride. + The fleet wild horses snort with fear, + And wheel and break as the yard draws near. + Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! + Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! + And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, + As under the whip the horses go + Adown the mountain side. + And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, + On a horse that never has failed him yet, + Is after them down the range. + Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel—whoa back! + And long and loud the stockwhips crack, + Their flying course they change, + “Steadily does it—let Sambo go! + Open those sliprails down below. + Smart! or you'll be too late. + They'll follow old Sambo up—look out! + Wheel that black horse—give Sam a clout. + They're in! Make fast the gate.” + + . . . . . + + The mob is safely in the yard! + The old man mounts delighted guard. + No thought has he but for his prize. + Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. + “Will you come after all? the job is done, + And Crazy Jane is fit to run + For a prince's life—now don't say no; + Slip on while the old man's down below + At the inner yard, and away we'll go. + Will you come, my girl?” “I will, you bet, + We'll manage this here elopement yet.” + + . . . . . + + By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. + And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. + He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, + There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pannikin Poet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's nothing here sublime, + But just a roving rhyme, + Run off to pass the time, + With nought titanic in + The theme that it supports, + And, though it treats of quarts, + It's bare of golden thoughts— + It's just a pannikin. + + I think it's rather hard + That each Australian bard— + Each wan, poetic card— + With thoughts galvanic in + His fiery soul alight, + In wild aerial flight, + Will sit him down and write + About a pannikin. + + He makes some new-chum fare + From out his English lair + To hunt the native bear, + That curious mannikin; + And then when times get bad + That wandering English lad + Writes out a message sad + Upon his pannikin: + + “Oh, mother, think of me + Beneath the wattle tree” + (For you may bet that he + Will drag the wattle in) + “Oh, mother, here I think + That I shall have to sink, + There ain't a single drink + The water-bottle in.” + + The dingo homeward hies, + The sooty crows uprise + And caw their fierce surprise + A tone Satanic in; + And bearded bushmen tread + Around the sleeper's head— + “See here—the bloke is dead! + Now where's his pannikin?” + + They read his words and weep, + And lay him down to sleep + Where wattle-branches sweep, + A style mechanic in; + And, reader, that's the way + The poets of to-day + Spin out their little lay + About a pannikin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Not on It + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet— + The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. + The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet + He was on it. + + The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, + The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by, + The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi! + Are you on it?” + + They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told— + The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. + The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold + Was not on it. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Protest + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I say 'e <i>isn't</i> Remorse! + 'Ow do I know? + Saw 'im on Riccarton course + Two year ago! + Think I'd forget any 'orse? + <i>Course</i> 'e's The Crow! + + Bumper Maginnis and I, + After a “go”, + Walkin' our 'orses to dry, + I says, “Hello! + What's that old black goin' by?” + Bumper says “Oh! + That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's— + Runs as The Crow!” + + Now they make out 'e's Remorse. + Well, but I <i>know</i>. + Soon as I came on the course + I says “'Ello! + 'Ere's the old Crow.” + Once a man's seen any 'orse, + 'Course 'e must know. + Sure as there's wood in this table, + I say 'e's The Crow. + + (Cross-examined by the Committee.) + + 'Ow do I know the moke + After one sight? + S'posin' you met a bloke + Down town at night, + Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? + That's '<i>I'm</i> all right! + + What was the brand on 'is 'ide? + <i>I</i> couldn't say, + Brands can be transmogrified. + That ain't the way— + It's the <i>look</i> of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves + That I'd know any day. + + What was the boy on 'is back? + Why, 'e went past + All of a minute, and off down the track. + —“The 'orse went as fast?” + True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! + 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat + Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? + Lor'! What a question to ast! + + (Protest dismissed.) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Scapegoat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, + And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put “in the soup” + When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. + The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was “had” + That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. + You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo— + Whence comes the expression “to buck against faro”. + + For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears + In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, + The Israelite horde went roaming abroad + Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. + When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, + Was dying, he murmured “A rorty old hoss you are: + I give you command of the whole of the band”— + And handed the Government over to Joshua. + + . . . . . + + But Moses told 'em before he died, + “Wherever you are, whatever betide, + Every year as the time draws near + By lot or by rote choose you a goat, + And let the high priest confess on the beast + The sins of the people, the worst and the least. + Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, + Because all your sins are “his troubles” in future. + Then lead him away to the wilderness black + To die with the weight of your sins on his back: + Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, + For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!” + + 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, + This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. + By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, + Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, + Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, + Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. + (Just here let us note—<i>DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT?</i> + It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture + By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a + Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose + Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. + In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; + 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, + When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; + Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers + Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, + That a “stag” makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) + Be that as it may, as each year passed away, + A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted + With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) + And left there—to die as his fancy dictated. + + . . . . . + + The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, + With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, + They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: + On every hand a reverend band, + Prophets and preachers and elders stand + And the oldest rab<i>bi</i>, with a tear in his eye, + Delivers a sermon to all standing by. + (We haven't his name—whether Cohen or Harris, he + No doubt was the “poisonest” kind of a Pharisee.) + The sermon was marked by a deal of humility + And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, + That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, + And, according to Samuel, would certainly d—n you well. + Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat + And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, + Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. + With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst— + “Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, + The sins of the people are whiter than snow!” + Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. + + The animal, freed from all restraint + Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, + And charged straight at that elderly saint. + So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it + Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, + Was rammed on the—no, not the back—but just near it. + The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, + A light-hearted antelope “out on the ramp”, + Then stopped, looked around, got the “lay of the ground”, + And made a bee-line back again to the camp. + The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast + So gallantly making his way to the East, + Says he: “From the tents may I never more roam again + If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. + He's hurrying, too! This never will do. + Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. + After all our confessions, so openly granted, + He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. + We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, + If he takes home our sins—it'll burst up the Synagogue!” + + He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, + A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. + “Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, + And drive back the brute to the desert again. + The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, + From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you— + Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” + So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, + But the goat made it clear each time he drew near + That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him. + + The crowd with great eagerness studied the race— + “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace— + And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, + The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. + The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, + And Abraham's tiring—I'll lay six to four! + He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!” + But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. + ('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), + “It's a hard race,” said he, “and I think it would be + A good thing for someone to take up the running.” + As soon said as done, they started to run— + The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns + All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, + And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. + And then it came out, as the rabble and rout + Streamed over the desert with many a shout— + The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, + Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, + And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, + “Any price Abraham! Evens the field!” + Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, + And Abraham proved him an “even-time” man, + But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, + Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' + And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. + + Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp + Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, + And paling and wall he plasters them all, + “I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat,” he says, + Then pulls out his bills, “Use Solomon's Pills”: + “Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all + Must each bring a stone—Great sport will be shown; + Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! + Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, + For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!” + Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side + Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! + One shriek from him burst—“You creature accurst!” + And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. + His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, + But the goat stayed behind him—and “scoffed up” the paste. + + With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, + The people came back from the desert in dread. + “The goat—was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?” + In very short order they got plenty word of him, + In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, + “The trail of the serpent was over them all.” + A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter + Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a “butter”. + The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, + The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; + He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, + But his latest achievement most anger arouses, + For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, + One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, + Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Moral: + + The moral is patent to all the beholders— + Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; + Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, + Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; + Take their lives if needs must—when it comes to the worst, + But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. + Remember, no matter how far you may roam, + That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens + Their talent stupendous for “getting back home”. + Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, + And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it— + But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An Evening in Dandaloo + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was while we held our races— + Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases— + Up in Dandaloo, + That a crowd of Sydney stealers, + Jockeys, pugilists and spielers + Brought some horses, real heelers, + Came and put us through. + + Beat our nags and won our money, + Made the game by no means funny, + Made us rather blue; + When the racing was concluded, + Of our hard-earned coin denuded + Dandaloonies sat and brooded + There in Dandaloo. + + . . . . . + + Night came down on Johnson's shanty + Where the grog was no means scanty, + And a tumult grew + Till some wild, excited person + Galloped down the township cursing, + “Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, + Roll up, Dandaloo!” + + Great St. Denis! what commotion! + Like the rush of stormy ocean + Fiery horsemen flew. + Dust and smoke and din and rattle, + Down the street they spurred their cattle + To the war-cry of the battle, + “Wade in, Dandaloo!” + + So the boys might have their fight out, + Johnson blew the bar-room light out, + Then, in haste, withdrew. + And in darkness and in doubting + Raged the conflict and the shouting, + “Give the Sydney push a clouting, + Go it, Dandaloo!” + + Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, + Every head he saw he struck it— + Struck in earnest, too; + And a man from Lower Wattle, + Whom a shearer tried to throttle, + Hit out freely with a bottle, + There in Dandaloo. + + Skin and hair were flying thickly, + When a light was fetched, and quickly + Brought a fact to view— + On the scene of the diversion + Every single, solid person + Come along to help Macpherson— + <i>All</i> were Dandaloo!” + + When the list of slain was tabled, + Some were drunk and some disabled, + Still we found it true. + In the darkness and the smother + We'd been belting one another; + Jack Macpherson bashed his brother + There in Dandaloo. + + So we drank, and all departed— + How the “mobbing” yarn was started + No one ever knew— + And the stockmen tell the story + Of that conflict fierce and gory, + How we fought for love and glory + Up in Dandaloo. + + It's a proverb now, or near it— + At the races you can hear it, + At the dog-fights, too! + Every shrieking, dancing drover + As the canines topple over + Yells applause to Grip or Rover, + “Give him 'Dandaloo'!” + + And the teamster slowly toiling + Through the deep black country, soiling + Wheels and axles, too, + Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, + Rouses Tarboy with a flanker— + “Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! + Wade in, Dandaloo!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Ballad of Ducks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The railway rattled and roared and swung + With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. + The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung + In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue + Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told + This terrible tale of the days of old, + And the party that ought to have kept the ducks. + + “Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land + With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; + And the rabbits have pretty well took command; + But the hardest thing for a man to stand + Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so! + You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'— + I could lay a bait for a man like that. + + “The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one + And what they leave—well, it ain't 'de luxe'. + But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun + Who'd lent some money to stock our run— + I said they'd eaten what grass we had— + Says he, 'Your management's very bad, + You had a right to have kept some ducks!' + + “To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! + Wherever you went you had to tread + On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; + And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, + If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly + Like bullets into your open eye + And knock it out of the back of your head. + + “There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, + Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, + Can make a difference on a run + When a grasshopper plague has once begun; + 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy + Ten thousand emus and have a try; + The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! + + “'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; + A great big duck—a Muscovy toff— + Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; + And if the grasshoppers come our way + You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, + And I'd be ready to make a match + That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!' + + “He came to visit us by and by, + And it just so happened one day in Spring + A kind of a cloud came over the sky— + A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, + And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, + Flyin' in regiments, side by side, + And eatin' up every living thing. + + “All day long, like a shower of rain, + You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, + Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, + And they'd rise and jump at the house again + Till their crippled carcases piled outside. + But what did it matter if thousands died— + A million wouldn't be missed at all. + + “We were drinkin' grasshoppers—so to speak— + Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; + And they fell so thick in the station creek + They choked the waterholes all the week. + There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, + And they'd only take artificial flies— + They got so sick of the real thing. + + “An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags + When the hoppers rose for their morning flight + With a flapping noise like a million flags: + And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags + For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry + Till the cook sat down and began to cry— + And never a duck or a fowl in sight! + + “We strolled across to the railroad track— + Under a cover, beneath some trucks, + I sees a feather and hears a quack; + I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back— + Every duck in the place was there, + No good to them was the open air. + 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Tommy Corrigan + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. + It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, + To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; + But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat— + When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? + + When any slip means sudden death—with wife and child to keep— + It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap— + But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, + He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; + With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, + He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. + + He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, + He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; + He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all— + But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. + But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand + Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. + + They were, indeed, a glorious pair—the great upstanding horse, + The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. + Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, + “You follow Tommy Corrigan” was passed to one and all. + And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command + To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. + + But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, + We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. + We'll drink to him in silence, boys—he's followed down the track + Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. + And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, + That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Maori's Wool + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au.</i> + + . . . . . + + The Maoris are a mighty race—the finest ever known; + Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; + They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done + They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. + But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, + Prepared to smoke or drink or talk—or anything but work. + The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow + Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. + + 'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, + A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name— + (The word Rerenga means a “snag”—but until he was gone + This didn't strike the folk he met—it struck them later on). + He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”, + And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. + The Bold Bank Manager looked grave—the price of wool was high. + He said, “We'll lend you what you need—we're not disposed to buy. + You ship the wool to England, Chief!—You'll find it's good advice, + And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.” + The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state + In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, + But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand + This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. + So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, + To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. + + They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, + With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. + They called themselves poetic names—“lost children in a wood”; + They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai—extra good! + And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, + To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; + And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow, + A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. + + It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; + Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; + A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark— + You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark— + But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, + “I'll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!” + The haka is a striking dance—the sort they don't allow + In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. + + He “haka'd” most effectively—then, with an airy grace + Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. + But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! + For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! + Yes—thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; + On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. + And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, + Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Angel's Kiss + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An angel stood beside the bed + Where lay the living and the dead. + + He gave the mother—her who died— + A kiss that Christ the Crucified + + Had sent to greet the weary soul + When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. + + He gave the infant kisses twain, + One on the breast, one on the brain. + + “Go forth into the world,” he said, + “With blessings on your heart and head, + + “For God, who ruleth righteously, + Hath ordered that to such as be + + “From birth deprived of mother's love, + I bring His blessing from above; + + “But if the mother's life He spare + Then she is made God's messenger + + “To kiss and pray that heart and brain + May go through life without a stain.” + + The infant moved towards the light, + The angel spread his wings in flight. + + But each man carries to his grave + The kisses that in hopes to save + The angel or his mother gave. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sunrise on the Coast + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Grey dawn on the sand-hills—the night wind has drifted + All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; + With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, + At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. + + Like mariners calling the roll of their number + The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. + And far over-head—sinking softly to slumber— + Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. + + To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on + The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; + And far from behind the enshrouded horizon + Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.” + + And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, + It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; + And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour— + Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Reveille + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + Sound a loud reveille; + Sound it over Sydney shore, + Send the message far and wide + Down the Richmond River side— + Boot and saddle, mount and ride, + Sound a loud reveille. + + Whither go ye, Lancers gay, + With your bold reveille? + O'er the ocean far away + From your sunny southern home, + Over leagues of trackless foam, + In a foreign land to roam + With your bold reveille. + + When we hear our brethren call, + Sound a clear reveille. + Then we answer, one and all, + Answer that the world may see, + “Of the English stock are we, + At their side we still will be”— + That's our bold reveille. + + [End of original text.] +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + [Original Advertisement] + </h2> + <h3> + Pocket Editions for the Trenches + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Price, 4/—each (postage, per volume: within the Commonwealth, 1d.; +to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. By Major A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) + The Moods of Ginger Mick. By C. J. Dennis + The Australian, and other Verses. By Will H. Ogilvie + Songs of a Sentimental Bloke. By C. J. Dennis + The Man from Snowy River. By Major A. B. Paterson + Rio Grande, and other Verses. By Major A. B. Paterson +</pre> + <p> + Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold + during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour by Norman + Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable from all + Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. + </p> + <p> + [End Original Advertisement] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + About the author: + </h2> + <p> + Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, New South + Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, when he went to + Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor (a type of lawyer) but + also contributed some verse to the Sydney “Bulletin” under the pseudonym + of “The Banjo”, taken from the name of a horse. His first book, “The Man + from Snowy River”, was published in 1895, and has sold more copies than + any other book of Australian poetry. He later gave up law to become a + journalist, and went to South Africa to report on the Boer War. When World + War I broke out he sought work as a war correspondent, but failed to get + it. He then went to work driving an ambulance in France, and later became + a Remount Officer with the Australian forces then in Egypt. After + returning to Australia in 1919 he continued as a writer, and died in + Sydney on 5 February 1941. + </p> + <p> + Paterson's most famous work is “Waltzing Matilda”, written in 1895, and + now an unofficial anthem of Australia. “The Man from Snowy River” has + since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, and + even a series on a cable television network. “Clancy of the Overflow” is + similarly well known. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: + </h2> + <p> + Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. + </p> + <p> + Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for tea. + </p> + <p> + Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and + shrubs, especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. + </p> + <p> + Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. + </p> + <p> + Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. The leaves of the + Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, as an + adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. + </p> + <p> + Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United Kingdom + (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to 1910. + </p> + <p> + Fi. fa.: fieri facias—a legal paper authorising the seizure of a + debtor's goods. + </p> + <p> + Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. + </p> + <p> + Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). + </p> + <p> + Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, wurley, + or mia-mia. + </p> + <p> + Jumbuck: A sheep. + </p> + <p> + Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. + </p> + <p> + Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, his + last expedition (in 1848) never returned. + </p> + <p> + Matilda: A swag. See “Waltz Matilda”. + </p> + <p> + Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. + </p> + <p> + Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; any of several + types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). + </p> + <p> + Native bear: A koala. + </p> + <p> + Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, and + especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; to drive stock + by land, especially on this route. + </p> + <p> + Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. + </p> + <p> + Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, of + the genus Thylogalefound. + </p> + <p> + Pah/Pa: A Maori village. + </p> + <p> + Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. + </p> + <p> + Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. + </p> + <p> + Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. + </p> + <p> + Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the group. + </p> + <p> + Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, especially + of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which is limited to + Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, saltbush can grow in + arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; the region where saltbush grows. + </p> + <p> + Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by lease + or license from the government. + </p> + <p> + Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + </p> + <p> + Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government + permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise + stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + </p> + <p> + Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + </p> + <p> + Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, explored + eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery of the river + system in southeastern Australia. + </p> + <p> + Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for + work, but looking for food and/or shelter. + </p> + <p> + Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. + </p> + <p> + Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, e.g. + carrying a swag. + </p> + <p> + Tucker: Food. + </p> + <p> + Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, etc., + related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) “on the wallaby + (track)”, on the move, on the road. + </p> + <p> + Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. “Waltz”, to travel in circles. + </p> + <p> + Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; by + association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). + </p> + <p> + Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. + </p> + <p> + Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, having + off-white or yellow flowers. So named because the branches were used to + weave wattle, a type of construction made of interwoven branches and the + like. + </p> + <p> + Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family Vombatidae, + which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant person. + </p> + <p> + Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, A. + glaucescens. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes on the text: + </h2> + <p> + “An Answer to Various Bards” appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of + poems in the Sydney 'Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, + or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), primarily + between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], who may have staged + the debate as a way of selling more poems. + </p> + <p> + Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], who, + despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush in at least + one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie [1869-1963] who was + in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, returned in 1901, and + was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). + </p> + <p> + Other verses from the debate maybe found in “The Man from Snowy River” by + Paterson and “In the Days When the World was Wide” by Henry Lawson. + </p> + <p> + The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts in the + original edition. + </p> + <p> + “'Shouting' for a Camel”: A number of camels were brought to Australia, + with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden in + the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. (A similar + scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, but no camels remain.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + “The Gundaroo Bullock”: + + [ Said Morgan, “Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + changed to: + [ Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] +</pre> + <p> + “Lay of the Motor-Car”: To put this poem in perspective, it must be + remembered that this book was published in 1917, and the poem written + earlier. It may be helpful to compare Paterson's short story, “Three + Elephant Power”, in the book of the same name that was published in the + same year. The plot centres around a speed demon who would drive at + unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Mylora Elopement”: + + [ No thought has be but for his prize. ] + changed to: + [ No thought has he but for his prize. ] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Protest”: + + [ W ll, but I KNOW. ] + changed to: + [ Well, but I KNOW. ] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Maori's Wool”: + + [ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] + changed to: + [ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] +</pre> + <p> + “The Lost Drink”, “The Matrimonial Stakes”, “Not on It”, “The Scapegoat”, + “The Angel's Kiss”, and “The Reveille” were all dropped from “Saltbush + Bill” when it was included in Paterson's “Collected Verse” (first issued + in 1921). No poems were added, though “The Song of the Pen” moved from the + front of the book to the back, and several titles were slightly changed. + No effort has been made to compare the texts. + </p> + <p> + There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was + added. + </p> + <p> + Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) and + the “frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay”, the first of which was + set above the lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals across the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again.” + </pre> + <p> + which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of “Brumby's Run” (should be + “steals along the plain”). + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses, by +A. B. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses + +Author: A. B. Paterson + +Posting Date: August 15, 2008 [EBook #1317] +Release Date: April, 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTBUSH BILL *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + +By A. B. Paterson + +[Andrew Barton ("Banjo") Paterson, +Australian poet & journalist. 1864-1941.] + + +Author of "The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses", +"Rio Grande, and Other Verses", and "An Outback Marriage". + + +Publisher's Note: Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in +Egypt for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on +them to say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen +by him in proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the +arrangement or the title of "Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses". + + + + +Table of Contents + + + + Song of the Pen + Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + + Song of the Wheat + We have sung the song of the droving days, + + Brumby's Run + It lies beyond the Western Pines + + Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + + The Reverend Mullineux + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + + The Wisdom of Hafiz + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + + The Riders in the Stand + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + + Waltzing Matilda + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + + An Answer to Various Bards + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + + T.Y.S.O.N. + Across the Queensland border line + + As Long as your Eyes are Blue + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + + Bottle-O! + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + + The Story of Mongrel Grey + This is the story the stockman told, + + Gilhooley's Estate + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + + The Road to Hogan's Gap + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + + A Singer of the Bush + There is waving of grass in the breeze + + "Shouting" for a Camel + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + + The Lost Drink + I had spent the night in the watch-house-- + + Mulligan's Mare + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + + The Matrimonial Stakes + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + + The Mountain Squatter + Here in my mountain home, + + Pioneers + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + + Santa Claus in the Bush + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + + "In Re a Gentleman, One" + We see it each day in the paper, + + The Melting of the Snow + There's a sunny Southern land, + + A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + + The Gundaroo Bullock + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + + Lay of the Motor-Car + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + + The Corner Man + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + + When Dacey Rode the Mule + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + + The Mylora Elopement + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + + The Pannikin Poet + There's nothing here sublime, + + Not on It + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- + + The Protest + I say 'e ISN'T Remorse! + + The Scapegoat + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + + An Evening in Dandaloo + It was while we held our races-- + + A Ballad of Ducks + The railway rattled and roared and swung + + Tommy Corrigan + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + + The Maori's Wool + Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + + The Angel's Kiss + An angel stood beside the bed + + Sunrise on the Coast + Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted + + The Reveille + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + + + + + +SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +Song of the Pen + + + + _Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + Not for the people's praise; + Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, + Claiming us all our days, + + Claiming our best endeavour--body and heart and brain + Given with no reserve-- + Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; + Still, we are proud to serve. + + Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, + Gathering grain or chaff; + One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, + One, that a child may laugh. + + Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, + Freely she doth accord + Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, + Work is its own reward!_ + + + + +Song of the Wheat + + + + We have sung the song of the droving days, + Of the march of the travelling sheep; + By silent stages and lonely ways + Thin, white battalions creep. + But the man who now by the land would thrive + Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. + Is there ever a man in the world alive + To sing the song of the Wheat! + + It's west by south of the Great Divide + The grim grey plains run out, + Where the old flock-masters lived and died + In a ceaseless fight with drought. + Weary with waiting and hope deferred + They were ready to own defeat, + Till at last they heard the master-word-- + And the master-word was Wheat. + + Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine-- + 'Twas axe and fire for all; + They scarce could tarry to blaze the line + Or wait for the trees to fall, + Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, + And the dust of the horses' feet + Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide + The wonderful march of Wheat. + + Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, + The soil is turned on the plain; + Better than silver and better than gold + Is the surface-mine of the grain; + Better than cattle and better than sheep + In the fight with drought and heat; + For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, + Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. + + When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, + Deep down in his bed of clay + The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait + For the resurrection day: + Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; + But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, + Will over the steaming paddocks spread + The first green flush of the Wheat. + + Green and amber and gold it grows + When the sun sinks late in the West; + And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows + Where the quail and the skylark nest. + Mountain or river or shining star, + There's never a sight can beat-- + Away to the sky-line stretching far-- + A sea of the ripening Wheat. + + When the burning harvest sun sinks low, + And the shadows stretch on the plain, + The roaring strippers come and go + Like ships on a sea of grain; + Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear + Their tale of the load complete. + Of the world's great work he has done his share + Who has gathered a crop of wheat. + + Princes and Potentates and Czars, + They travel in regal state, + But old King Wheat has a thousand cars + For his trip to the water-gate; + And his thousand steamships breast the tide + And plough thro' the wind and sleet + To the lands where the teeming millions bide + That say: "Thank God for Wheat!" + + + + +Brumby's Run + + Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial + a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: + "Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?" + + + + It lies beyond the Western Pines + Towards the sinking sun, + And not a survey mark defines + The bounds of "Brumby's Run". + + On odds and ends of mountain land, + On tracks of range and rock + Where no one else can make a stand, + Old Brumby rears his stock. + + A wild, unhandled lot they are + Of every shape and breed. + They venture out 'neath moon and star + Along the flats to feed; + + But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals along the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again. + + The traveller by the mountain-track + May hear their hoof-beats pass, + And catch a glimpse of brown and black + Dim shadows on the grass. + + The eager stockhorse pricks his ears + And lifts his head on high + In wild excitement when he hears + The Brumby mob go by. + + Old Brumby asks no price or fee + O'er all his wide domains: + The man who yards his stock is free + To keep them for his pains. + + So, off to scour the mountain-side + With eager eyes aglow, + To strongholds where the wild mobs hide + The gully-rakers go. + + A rush of horses through the trees, + A red shirt making play; + A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, + They vanish far away! + + . . . . . + + Ah, me! before our day is done + We long with bitter pain + To ride once more on Brumby's Run + And yard his mob again. + + + + +Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + + + + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me + To give you some instruction like--a kind of Christmas tale-- + So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, "Jonah and the Whale"? + + Well, whales is sheep I've never shore; I've never been to sea, + So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; + But there's a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, + About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. + + Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, + They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run-- + A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, + The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. + + Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, + And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. + You know the way that boys grow up--there's some that stick at home; + But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. + + So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track + To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; + You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, + The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. + + Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock--that's most uncommon clear-- + For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer; + He didn't ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay + To take the roan and strawberry calves--the same we'd take to-day. + + The duns and blacks and "Goulburn roans" (that's brindles), coarse and hard, + He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; + So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, + Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer. + + It's often so with overseers--I've seen the same thing done + By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. + But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, + And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. + + He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; + And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; + You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so-- + No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. + + But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, + Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. + It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, + There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. + + So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, + To battle down the homeward track along the Overland-- + It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. + I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. + + But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) + When battling through the Philistines--selectors, I suppose-- + He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; + So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. + + He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; + He couldn't hurry lambing ewes--no more you could to-day-- + And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, + He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. + + The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, + There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. + It's just a plain straightforward tale--a tale that lets you know + The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. + + It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; + You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, + The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, + And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. + + The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; + The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; + The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp-- + I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp! + + _But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know + How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago._ + + + + +The Reverend Mullineux + + + + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + And his height at five-foot-two, + With a face as plain as an eight-day clock + And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock-- + Game as a bantam, too, + Hard and wiry and full of steam, + That's the boss of the English Team, + Reverend Mullineux. + + Makes no row when the game gets rough-- + None of your "Strike me blue!" + "You's wants smacking across the snout!" + Plays like a gentleman out-and-out-- + Same as he ought to do. + "Kindly remove from off my face!" + That's the way that he states his case-- + Reverend Mullineux. + + Kick! He can kick like an army mule-- + Run like a kangaroo! + Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, + Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant-- + Fetches him over too! + _Didn't_ the public cheer and shout + Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about-- + Reverend Mullineux. + + Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, + Somehow the ball got through-- + Who was it tackled our big half-back, + Flinging him down like an empty sack, + Right on our goal-line too? + Who but the man that we thought was dead, + Down with a score of 'em on his head, + Reverend Mullineux. + + + + +The Wisdom of Hafiz + + + + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; + Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow. + + If ever an owner should tell you, "Back mine"--don't you be such a flat. + He knows his own cunning, no doubt--does he know what the others are at? + Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few dollars on that. + + Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. + His wisdom belongs to his patron--shall he give it to one and to all? + When the stable is served he may tell you--and his words + are like jewels let fall. + + Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, + He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; + And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. + + When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, + Take a pull on yourself; take a pull--it's a mighty big field + to get through. + Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about, p'raps it's you! + + Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, + For this is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. + How is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot? + + From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone, + For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, + "The very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!" + + + + +Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + Beyond Sturt's Western track, + The rolling tide of change has sent + Some strange J.P.s out back. + + And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, + And worn with want of sleep, + Received the news in camp one day + Behind the travelling sheep + + That Edward Rex, confiding in + His known integrity, + By hand and seal on parchment skin + Had made him a J.P. + + He read the news with eager face + But found no word of pay. + "I'd like to see my sister's place + And kids on Christmas day. + + "I'd like to see green grass again, + And watch clear water run, + Away from this unholy plain, + And flies, and dust, and sun." + + At last one little clause he found + That might some hope inspire, + "A magistrate may charge a pound + For inquest on a fire." + + A big blacks' camp was built close by, + And Saltbush Bill, says he, + "I think that camp might well supply + A job for a J.P." + + That night, by strange coincidence, + A most disastrous fire + Destroyed the country residence + Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. + + 'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; + The party most concerned + Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt + If forty such were burned. + + Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, + Who watched the leaping flame. + "The home is small," said he, "but still + The principle's the same. + + "Midst palaces though you should roam, + Or follow pleasure's tracks, + You'll find," he said, "no place like home, + At least like Jacky Jack's. + + "Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,' + Tell every black Maria + I give tobacco half a stick-- + Hold inquest long-a fire." + + Each juryman received a name + Well suited to a Court. + "Long Jack" and "Stumpy Bill" became + "John Long" and "William Short". + + While such as "Tarpot", "Bullock Dray", + And "Tommy Wait-a-While", + Became, for ever and a day, + "Scott", "Dickens", and "Carlyle". + + And twelve good sable men and true + Were soon engaged upon + The conflagration that o'erthrew + The home of John A. John. + + Their verdict, "Burnt by act of Fate", + They scarcely had returned + When, just behind the magistrate, + Another humpy burned! + + The jury sat again and drew + Another stick of plug. + Said Saltbush Bill, "It's up to you + Put some one long-a Jug." + + "I'll camp the sheep," he said, "and sift + The evidence about." + For quite a week he couldn't shift, + The way the fires broke out. + + The jury thought the whole concern + As good as any play. + They used to "take him oath" and earn + Three sticks of plug a day. + + At last the tribe lay down to sleep + Homeless, beneath a tree; + And onward with his travelling sheep + Went Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + The sheep delivered, safe and sound, + His horse to town he turned, + And drew some five-and-twenty pound + For fees that he had earned. + + And where Monaro's ranges hide + Their little farms away-- + His sister's children by his side-- + He spent his Christmas Day. + + The next J.P. that went out back + Was shocked, or pained, or both, + At hearing every pagan black + Repeat the juror's oath. + + No matter though he turned and fled + They followed faster still; + "You make it inkwich, boss," they said, + "All same like Saltbush Bill." + + They even said they'd let him see + The fires originate. + When he refused they said that he + Was "No good magistrate." + + And out beyond Sturt's Western track, + And Leichhardt's farthest tree, + They wait till fate shall send them back + Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + +The Riders in the Stand + + + + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. + There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; + And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath. + + But all the finest horsemen out--the men to Beat the Band-- + You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. + They'll say "He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight." + They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late. + + They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; + They'll tell how one was "livened up" and something else was "dead"-- + In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, + But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand. + + The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; + You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. + You ride a slashing race, and lose--by one and all you're banned! + Ride like a bag of flour, and win--they'll cheer you in the Stand. + + + + +Waltzing Matilda + + (Carrying a Swag.) + + + + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; + And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, + "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me." + + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag-- + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + + Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, + Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; + And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, + "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!" + + Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; + Down came Policemen--one, two, and three. + "Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? + You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me." + + But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, + Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; + And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, + "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?" + + + + +An Answer to Various Bards + + + + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, + With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, + How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; + And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, + But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb". + So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, + And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. + + Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson--well, of course, we almost cried + At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died, + And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's Mate" was slain; + Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. + Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, + And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; + So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan + Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. + + And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, + When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; + But the shearer chaps who start it--why, he rounds on them in blame, + And he calls 'em "agitators" who are living on the game. + But I "over-write" the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt + That I always see a hero in the "man from furthest out". + I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, + And a bushman never struck me as a subject for "the tomb". + + If it ain't all "golden sunshine" where the "wattle branches wave", + Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all "lonely grave". + And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, + But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; + Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, + Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, + For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills + While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. + + Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, + And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. + For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar + And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; + And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, + To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, + When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, + And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool away!" + + Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set-- + And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. + But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back + To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, + And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, + And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. + But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, + For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. + + There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, + And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. + For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, + And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. + Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push + Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; + And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, + And we'll slip across to England--it's a nicer place than here; + + For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, + And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. + But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, + We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; + So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, + And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, + And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, + And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. + + + + +T.Y.S.O.N. + + + + Across the Queensland border line + The mobs of cattle go; + They travel down in sun and shine + On dusty stage, and slow. + The drovers, riding slowly on + To let the cattle spread, + Will say: "Here's one old landmark gone, + For old man Tyson's dead." + + What tales there'll be in every camp + By men that Tyson knew; + The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, + Will yarn the long day through, + And tell of how he passed as "Brown", + And fooled the local men: + "But not for me--I struck the town, + And passed the message further down; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.!" + + There stands a little country town + Beyond the border line, + Where dusty roads go up and down, + And banks with pubs combine. + A stranger came to cash a cheque-- + Few were the words he said-- + A handkerchief about his neck, + An old hat on his head. + + A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed-- + "Know me? Of course you do?" + "It's not my work," the boss replied, + "To know such tramps as you." + "Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash," + Replied the stranger then, + "I never care to make a splash, + I'm simple--but I've got the cash, + I'm T.Y.S.O.N." + + But in that last great drafting-yard, + Where Peter keeps the gate, + And souls of sinners find it barred, + And go to meet their fate, + There's one who ought to enter in, + For good deeds done on earth; + Such deeds as merit ought to win, + Kind deeds of sterling worth. + + Not by the strait and narrow gate, + Reserved for wealthy men, + But through the big gate, opened wide, + The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, + Will travel through--and then + Old Peter'll say: "We pass him through; + There's many a thing he used to do, + Good-hearted things that no one knew; + That's T.Y.S.O.N." + + + + +As Long as your Eyes are Blue + + + + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? + When the charms of youth shall have passed away, + Will your love as of old prove true? + + For the looks may change, and the heart may range, + And the love be no longer fond; + Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth + And away to the years beyond? + + Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown + And the blush on your cheek that lies-- + But I love you most for the kindly heart + That I see in your sweet blue eyes. + + For the eyes are signs of the soul within, + Of the heart that is leal and true, + And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach + May be reft of their golden hue; + But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + + + +Bottle-O! + + + + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + I drives me bottle cart around the town; + A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob-- + I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. + There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, + There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, + And little dogs what comes and barks--we take 'em off their guard + And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O! + + Chorus-- + + So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!" + You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. + And you'll see the women rushing + To take in the Monday's washing + When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!" + + I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, + A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, + An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; + I stops the cart and walks across to see. + "There ain't no bottles 'ere," says she, "since father took the pledge;" + "No bottles 'ere," says I, "I'd like to know + What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, + If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!" + + I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me + We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. + Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea + And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. + But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to "scrap", + There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: + But as for me, I always says for layin' out a "trap" + There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O! + + + + +The Story of Mongrel Grey + + + + This is the story the stockman told, + On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; + The moon rose up like a globe of gold + And flooded the plain with her mellow light. + We watched the cattle till dawn of day + And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. + + . . . . . + + He was a knock-about station hack, + Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; + Ridden all day with a sore on his back, + Left all night with nothing to eat. + That was a matter of every-day + Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey. + + We might have sold him, but someone heard + He was bred out back on a flooded run, + Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,-- + Midnight or midday were all as one. + In the flooded ground he could find his way, + Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. + + 'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; + When the floods are out they will splash along + In girth-deep water, and twist and turn + From hidden channel and billabong. + Never mistaking the road to go, + For a man may guess--but the horses _know_. + + I was camping out with my youngest son-- + Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak-- + In an empty hut on the lower run, + Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. + The youngster toddled about all day, + And with our horses was Mongrel Grey. + + All of a sudden the flood came down + Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, + Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, + Over the flats and across the plain. + Rising and rising--at fall of night + Nothing but water appeared in sight! + + 'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, + Even in daylight; for all around + Channels and billabongs twist about, + Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. + And to move was a hopeless thing to try + In the dark with the water just racing by. + + I had to try it. I heard a roar, + And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; + And the water rose till it reached the floor + Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain + The way the water was sweeping down + We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown. + + Off to the stable I splashed, and found + The horses shaking with cold and fright; + I led them down to the lower ground, + But never a yard would they swim that night! + They reared and snorted and turned away, + And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. + + I bound the child on the horse's back, + And we started off with a prayer to heaven, + Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, + For I knew that the instinct God has given + To guide His creatures by night and day + Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. + + He struck deep water at once and swam-- + I swam beside him and held his mane-- + Till we touched the bank of the broken dam + In shallow water--then off again, + Swimming in darkness across the flood, + Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. + + He turned and twisted across and back, + Choosing the places to wade or swim, + Picking the safest and shortest track, + The pitchy darkness was clear to him. + Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? + The Lord that led him alone could tell! + + He dodged the timber whene'er he could, + But the timber brought us to grief at last; + I was partly stunned by a log of wood, + That struck my head as it drifted past; + And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, + And in half a second he swept away. + + I reached a tree, where I had to stay, + And did a perish for two days hard; + And lived on water--but Mongrel Grey, + He walked right into the homestead yard + At dawn next morning, and grazed around, + With the child on top of him safe and sound. + + We keep him now for the wife to ride, + Nothing too good for him now, of course; + Never a whip on his fat old hide, + For she owes the child to that old grey horse. + And not Old Tyson himself could pay + The purchase money of Mongrel Grey. + + + + +Gilhooley's Estate + + (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.) + + + + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + As most of us do, soon or late; + And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, + So they took him Gilhooley's Estate. + + Gilhooley in life had been living so free + 'Twas thought his possessions were great, + So Jones, with a smile, says, "There's many a fee + For me in Gilhooley's Estate." + + They made out a list of his property fine, + It totalled a thousand-and-eight; + But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine-- + The debts of Gilhooley's Estate. + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, "Jones, my dear man, + My childer have little to ait: + Just keep the expenses as low as you can + Against poor Gilhooley's Estate." + + But Jones says, "The will isn't clear in its terms, + I fear it will need some debate, + And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) + To appear in Gilhooley's Estate." + + So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, + And a brief in his hand quite elate, + Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, + Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate. + + But his Honor the Judge said, "I think that the joint + Legatees must be called to pro_bate_-- + Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point-- + The point of Gilhooley's Estate. + + "I order a suit to be brought just to try + If this is correct that I state-- + A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, + Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate." + + So Mrs. Gilhooley says, "Jones, you'll appear! + Thim barristers' fees is too great; + The suit is but friendly." "Attorneys, my dear, + Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate." + + From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah + Arises both early and late: + It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar + Dividing Gilhooley's Estate. + + + + +The Road to Hogan's Gap + + + + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + You cross the broken bridge + And run the crick down till you strike + The second right-hand ridge. + + The track is hard to see in parts, + But still it's pretty clear; + There's been two Injin hawkers' carts + Along that road this year. + + Well, run that right-hand ridge along-- + It ain't, to say, too steep-- + There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong + Where blokes went out with sheep. + + But keep the crick upon your right, + And follow pretty straight + Along the spur, until you sight + A wire and sapling gate. + + Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare + Fell off and broke her back; + You'll see her carcase layin' there, + Jist down below the track. + + And then you drop two mile, or three, + It's pretty steep and blind; + You want to go and fall a tree + And tie it on behind. + + And then you pass a broken cart + Below a granite bluff; + And that is where you strike the part + They reckon pretty rough. + + But by the time you've got that far + It's either cure or kill, + So turn your horses round the spur + And face 'em up the hill. + + For look, if you should miss the slope + And get below the track, + You haven't got the whitest hope + Of ever gettin' back. + + An' half way up you'll see the hide + Of Hogan's brindled bull; + Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, + The left's too steep a pull. + + And both the banks is full of cracks; + An' just about at dark + You'll see the last year's bullock tracks + Where Hogan drew the bark. + + The marks is old and pretty faint + And grown with scrub and such; + Of course the track to Hogan's ain't + A road that's travelled much. + + But turn and run the tracks along + For half a mile or more, + And then, of course, you can't go wrong-- + You're right at Hogan's door. + + When first you come to Hogan's gate + He mightn't show, perhaps; + He's pretty sure to plant and wait + To see it ain't the traps. + + I wouldn't call it good enough + To let your horses out; + There's some that's pretty extra rough + Is livin' round about. + + It's likely if your horses did + Get feedin' near the track, + It's goin' to cost at least a quid + Or more to get them back. + + So, if you find they're off the place, + It's up to you to go + And flash a quid in Hogan's face-- + He'll know the blokes that know. + + But listen, if you're feelin' dry, + Just see there's no one near, + And go and wink the other eye + And ask for ginger beer. + + The blokes come in from near and far + To sample Hogan's pop; + They reckon once they breast the bar + They stay there till they drop. + + On Sundays you can see them spread + Like flies around the tap. + It's like that song "The Livin' Dead" + Up there at Hogan's Gap. + + They like to make it pretty strong + Whenever there's a charnce; + So when a stranger comes along + They always holds a darnce. + + There's recitations, songs, and fights-- + A willin' lot you'll meet. + There's one long bloke up there recites, + I tell you--he's a treat. + + They're lively blokes all right up there, + It's never dull a day. + I'd go meself if I could spare + The time to get away. + + . . . . . + + The stranger turned his horses quick. + He didn't cross the bridge; + He didn't go along the crick + To strike the second ridge; + + He didn't make the trip, because + He wasn't feeling fit. + His business up at Hogan's was + To serve him with a writ. + + He reckoned if he faced the pull + And climbed the rocky stair, + The next to come might find his hide + A land-mark on the mountain side, + Along with Hogan's brindled bull + And Hogan's old grey mare! + + + + +A Singer of the Bush + + + + There is waving of grass in the breeze + And a song in the air, + And a murmur of myriad bees + That toil everywhere. + There is scent in the blossom and bough, + And the breath of the Spring + Is as soft as a kiss on a brow-- + And Spring-time I sing. + + There is drought on the land, and the stock + Tumble down in their tracks + Or follow--a tottering flock-- + The scrub-cutter's axe. + While ever a creature survives + The axes shall swing; + We are fighting with fate for their lives-- + And the combat I sing. + + + + +"Shouting" for a Camel + + + + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, + Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, + And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. + Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. + He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking + He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. + Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking + He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by + That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + + But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, + And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; + For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, + And the miners muttered softly, "Yes, he's very dry indeed! + But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go." + + So he drank up twenty buckets--it was weird to watch him suck it, + (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) + Till the speculator stopped him, saying, "Not another bucket-- + If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. + Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town." + He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + There's a moral to this story--in your hat you ought to paste it, + Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, + And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, + Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; + If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, + You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + + + +The Lost Drink + + + + I had spent the night in the watch-house-- + My head was the size of three-- + So I went and asked the chemist + To fix up a drink for me; + And he brewed it from various bottles + With soda and plenty of ice, + With something that smelt like lemon, + And something that seemed like spice. + + It fell on my parching palate + Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, + And my system began to flourish + Like the grass in a soft spring rain; + It wandered throughout my being, + Suffusing my soul with rest, + And I felt as I "scoffed" that liquid + That life had a new-found zest. + + I have been on the razzle-dazzle + Full many a time since then + But I never could get the chemist + To brew me that drink again. + He says he's forgotten the notion-- + 'Twas only by chance it came-- + He's tried me with various liquids + But oh! they are not the same. + + We have sought, but we sought it vainly, + That one lost drink divine; + We have sampled his various bottles, + But somehow they don't combine: + Yet I know when I cross the River + And stand on the Golden Shore + I shall meet with an angel-chemist + Who'll brew me that drink once more. + + + + +Mulligan's Mare + + + + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; + The height of choice spirits from near and from far + Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar. + + There was "Jerry the Swell", and the jockey-boy Ned, + "Dog-bite-me"--so called from the shape of his head-- + And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, + Designed as the "Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang". + + Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, + A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; + Whenever they backed her you safely might swear + She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare. + + But Mulligan, having some radical views, + Neglected his business and got on the booze; + He took up with runners--a treacherous troop-- + Who gave him away and he "fell in the soup". + + And so it turned out on a fine summer day, + A bailiff turned up with a writ of "fi. fa."; + He walked to the bar with a manner serene, + "I levy," said he, "in the name of the Queen." + + Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, + To pay out the bailiff with "_one_ on the jaw"; + He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, + He changed his intentions and stood him a drink. + + A great consultation there straightway befel + 'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, + And the man with the head, who remarked "Why, you bet! + Dog-bite-me!" said he, "but we'll diddle 'em yet. + + "We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, + And put in her place the old broken-down hack; + The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear + The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare. + + "So out with the racer and in with the screw, + We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; + And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, + I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch." + + Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; + The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was "had"; + But marched to the stall with a confident air-- + "I levy," said he, "upon Mulligan's mare." + + He watched her by day and he watched her by night, + She was never an instant let out of his sight, + For races were coming away in the West + And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best. + + "Here's a chance," thought the bailiff, "to serve my own ends, + I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: + Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare + And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare." + + The races came round, and a crowd on the course + Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, + And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, + They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. + + And think of the grief of the bookmaking host + At the sound of the summons to go to the post-- + For down to the start with her thorough-bred air + As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare! + + They started, and off went the boy to the front, + He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; + He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, + Then gave her her head and she smothered the field. + + The race put her owner right clear of his debts, + He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, + He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, + And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. + + So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, + Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; + For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week-- + Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. + + And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, + Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, + And fortune in season will answer your prayer + And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. + + + + +The Matrimonial Stakes + + + + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat + When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; + Well, she simply _had_ to have me after that! + + It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead + From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; + And, although she _looked_ indifferent when I landed--on my head-- + In the water, it appealed to her, of course! + + When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was "all Sir Garneo", + For she praised the way I made my final run. + And she thought the riding did it--for how _could_ the poor girl know + That a monkey could have ridden it and won! + + Then they "weighed me in" a winner--it's not often that occurs! + So I didn't let my golden chances slip, + For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, + And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip. + + Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk + For a moment, so I took her by the head + (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work + When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red. + + She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; + I could worship every little step she takes; + And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, + Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes! + + + + +The Mountain Squatter + + + + Here in my mountain home, + On rugged hills and steep, + I sit and watch you come, + O Riverina Sheep! + + You come from fertile plains + Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, + And flats that (when it rains) + Will blossom like the rose. + + But, when the summer sun + Gleams down like burnished brass, + You have to leave your run + And hustle off for grass. + + 'Tis then that--forced to roam-- + You come to where I keep, + Here in my mountain home, + A boarding-house for sheep. + + Around me where I sit + The wary wombat goes-- + A beast of little wit, + But what he knows, he _knows_. + + The very same remark + Applies to me also; + I don't give out a spark, + But what I know, I _know_. + + My brain perhaps would show + No convolutions deep, + But anyhow I know + The way to handle sheep. + + These Riverina cracks, + They do not care to ride + The half-inch hanging tracks + Along the mountain side. + + Their horses shake with fear + When loosened boulders go, + With leaps, like startled deer, + Down to the gulfs below. + + Their very dogs will shirk, + And drop their tails in fright + When asked to go and work + A mob that's out of sight. + + My little collie pup + Works silently and wide; + You'll see her climbing up + Along the mountain side. + + As silent as a fox + You'll see her come and go, + A shadow through the rocks + Where ash and messmate grow. + + Then, lost to sight and sound + Behind some rugged steep, + She works her way around + And gathers up the sheep; + + And, working wide and shy, + She holds them rounded up. + The cash ain't coined to buy + That little collie pup. + + And so I draw a screw + For self and dog and keep + To boundary-ride for you, + O Riverina Sheep! + + And when the autumn rain + Has made the herbage grow, + You travel off again, + And glad--no doubt--to go. + + But some are left behind + Around the mountain's spread, + For those we cannot find + We put them down as dead. + + But when we say adieu + And close the boarding job, + I always find a few + Fresh ear-marks in my mob. + + So what with those I sell, + And what with those I keep, + You pay me pretty well, + O Riverina Sheep! + + It's up to me to shout + Before we say good-bye-- + "Here's to a howlin' drought + All west of Gundagai!" + + + + +Pioneers + + + + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, + We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years + As those explorers of the bush--the brave old pioneers. + + 'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; + 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; + 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, + And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. + + But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead + When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead + By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, + And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest. + + Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, + We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, + To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years-- + The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers. + + + + +Santa Claus in the Bush + + + + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + When the wheat was ripe and tall, + A stranger rode to the farmer's gate-- + A sturdy man and a small. + + "Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + And bid the stranger stay; + And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, + For the morn is Christmas Day." + + "Nay now, nay now," said the dour good-wife, + "But ye should let him be; + He's maybe only a drover chap + Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. + + "Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst + To swiggle the hail nicht through; + Or he's maybe a life assurance carle + To talk ye black and blue." + + "Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, + For their swags are neat and thin; + And he's never a life assurance carle, + Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. + + "Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, + For the wheat stands ripe and tall, + And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, + Ewes and weaners and all. + + "There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat + Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, + And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, + So we maun ask him in. + + "Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, + And gi' him a bite tae eat; + An omelette made of a new-laid egg, + Or a tasty bit of meat." + + "But the native cats hae taen the fowls, + They havena left a leg; + And he'll get nae omelette here at a' + Till the emu lays an egg!" + + "Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + To whaur the emus bide, + Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, + While the auld cock sits beside. + + "But speak them fair, and speak them saft, + Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. + Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails + Or a rusty carriage bolt." + + So little son Jack ran blithely down, + With the rusty nails in hand, + Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched + By their nest in the open sand. + + And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, + 'Twould feed three men or four, + And the emus came for the half-inch nails + Right up to the settler's door. + + "A waste o' food," said the dour good-wife, + As she took the egg, with a frown, + "But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin + A paddy-melon down." + + "Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, + Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; + Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, + Then come nae back at a'." + + So little son Jack he raced and he ran, + And he was bare o' the feet, + And soon he captured a paddy-melon, + Was gorged with the stolen wheat. + + "Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, + To the best that the hoose can do-- + An omelette made of the emu egg + And a paddy-melon stew." + + "'Tis well, 'tis well," said the bonny wee man; + "I have eaten the wide world's meat, + And the food that is given with right good will + Is the sweetest food to eat. + + "But the night draws on to the Christmas Day + And I must rise and go, + For I have a mighty way to ride + To the land of the Esquimaux. + + "And it's there I must load my sledges up, + With reindeers four-in-hand, + That go to the North, South, East, and West, + To every Christian land." + + "Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour good-wife, + "Ye suit my husband well! + For when he gets up on his journey horse + He's a bit of a liar himsel'." + + Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man + To his old horse grazing nigh, + And away like a meteor flash they went + Far off to the Northern sky. + + . . . . . + + When the children woke on the Christmas morn + They chattered with might and main-- + For a sword and gun had little son Jack, + And a braw new doll had Jane, + And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; + But the dour good-wife got nane. + + + + +"In Re a Gentleman, One" + + When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer + for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name + until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers + as "In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court", + or, more shortly, "In re a Gentleman, One". + + + + We see it each day in the paper, + And know that there's mischief in store; + That some unprofessional caper + Has landed a shark on the shore. + We know there'll be plenty of trouble + Before they get through with the fun, + Because he's been coming the double + On clients, has "Gentleman, One". + + Alas! for the gallant attorney, + Intent upon cutting a dash, + Sets out on life's perilous journey + With rather more cunning than cash. + And fortune at first is inviting-- + He struts his brief hour in the sun-- + But, lo! on the wall is the writing + Of Nemesis, "Gentleman, One". + + For soon he runs short of the dollars, + He fears he must go to the wall; + So Peter's trust-money he collars + To pay off his creditor, Paul; + Then robs right and left--for he goes it + In earnest when once he's begun. + Descensus Averni--he knows it; + It's easy for "Gentleman, One". + + The crash comes as sure as the seasons; + He loses his coin in a mine, + Or booming in land, or for reasons + Connected with women and wine. + Or maybe the cards or the horses + A share of the damage have done + No matter; the end of the course is + The same: "Re a Gentleman, One". + + He struggles awhile to keep going, + To stave off detection and shame; + But creditors, clamorous growing, + Ere long put an end to the game. + At length the poor soldier of Satan + His course to a finish has run-- + And just think of Windeyer waiting + To deal with "A Gentleman, One"! + + And some face it boldly, and brazen + The shame and the utter disgrace; + While others, more sensitive, hasten + Their names and their deeds to efface. + They snap the frail thread which the Furies + And Fates have so cruelly spun. + May the great Final Judge and His juries + Have mercy on "Gentleman, One"! + + + + +The Melting of the Snow + + + + There's a sunny Southern land, + And it's there that I would be + Where the big hills stand, + In the South Countrie! + When the wattles bloom again, + Then it's time for us to go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + To the East or to the West, + Or wherever you may be, + You will find no place + Like the South Countrie. + For the skies are blue above, + And the grass is green below, + In the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + Now the team is in the plough, + And the thrushes start to sing, + And the pigeons on the bough + Sit a-welcoming the Spring. + So come my comrades all, + Let us saddle up and go + To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + + + +A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + + (1886) + + + + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + And some doughy damper to make good cheer, + I must make a heavy dinner; + Heavily dine and heavily sup, + Of indigestible things fill up, + Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, + And I have to dream the winner. + + Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, + The rich ragout and the charming cham., + I've got to mix my liquor; + Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, + Hard and tough as a wooden peg, + And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, + 'Twill make me dream the quicker. + + Now I am full of fearful feed, + Now I may dream a race indeed, + In my restless, troubled slumber; + While the night-mares race through my heated brain + And their devil-riders spur amain, + The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, + And I'll spot the winning number. + + . . . . . + + Thousands and thousands and thousands more, + Like sands on the white Pacific shore, + The crowding people cluster; + For evermore it's the story old, + While races are bought and backers are sold, + Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, + In their thousands still they muster. + + And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, + "I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!" + "Five monkeys, Little John, sir!" + "Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!" + And so they shout through the livelong day, + And stick to the game that is sure to pay, + While fools put money on, sir! + + And now in my dream I seem to go + And bet with a "book" that I seem to know-- + A Hebrew money-lender; + A million to five is the price I get-- + Not bad! but before I book the bet + The horse's name I clean forget, + Its number and even gender. + + Now for the start, and here they come, + And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum + Beat by a hand unsteady; + They come like a rushing, roaring flood, + Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; + For Acme is making the pace so good + There are some of 'em done already. + + But round the back she begins to tire, + And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!" + The magpie jacket's leading; + And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, + And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, + But at length gives way to the black and gold, + Which away to the front is speeding. + + Carry them on and keep it up-- + A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, + You must race and stay to win it; + And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, + Now takes the lead with his raking stride, + And a mighty roar goes far and wide-- + "There's only Commotion in it!" + + But one draws out from the beaten ruck + And up on the rails by a piece of luck + He comes in a style that's clever; + "It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!" + "Go at 'em now while their courage fails;" + "Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!" + "The blue and white for ever!" + + Under the whip! with the ears flat back, + Under the whip! though the sinews crack, + No sign of the base white feather; + Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, + Stick to it now though your hearts should break, + While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, + They come down the straight together. + + Trident slowly forges ahead, + The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, + The pace is undiminished; + Now for the Panics that never fail! + But many a backer's face grows pale + As old Commotion swings his tail + And swerves--and the Cup is finished. + + . . . . . + + And now in my dream it all comes back: + I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, + A million I've won, no question! + "Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! + Give me my money, bookmaking dog!" + But he disappeared in a kind of fog, + And I woke with "the indigestion". + + + + +The Gundaroo Bullock + + + + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the "Goulburn Roan"; + But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few + Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo. + + Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, + There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; + For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, + And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo. + + There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, + And he said to Smith the squatter, "You must saddle up and ride, + For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo-- + He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo." + + "Oh, ho!" said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, + "I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, + And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, + With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide." + + That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, + They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. + "Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew-- + The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo." + + They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, + But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. + "What's this?" exclaimed the trooper--"an infant, I declare;" + Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. + I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, + Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo. + + "The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, + The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; + We can't afford a bullock--such expense would never do-- + So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo." + + And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, + In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, + On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, + But you mustn't ask for "bullock" when you go to Gundaroo. + + + + +Lay of the Motor-Car + + + + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + In our whiskers and teeth; + And the granite-like grey of the road + Seems to slide underneath. + As an eagle might sweep through the sky, + So we sweep through the land; + And the pallid pedestrians fly + When they hear us at hand. + + We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! + Not the fast-fleeing hare, + Nor the racehorses under the whip, + Nor the birds of the air + Can compete with our swiftness sublime, + Our ease and our grace. + We annihilate chickens and time + And policemen and space. + + Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? + How he dropped down to pray + In the road when he saw he was lost; + How he melted away + Underneath, and there rang through the fog + His earsplitting squeal + As he went---- Is that he or a dog, + That stuff on the wheel? + + + + +The Corner Man + + + + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + When fancies come and go + To vex a man in his soothing sleep + With thoughts of awful woe-- + I dreamed that I was a corner-man + Of a nigger minstrel show. + + I cracked my jokes, and the building rang + With laughter loud and long; + I hushed the house as I softly sang + An old plantation song-- + A tale of the wicked slavery days + Of cruelty and wrong. + + A small boy sat on the foremost seat-- + A mirthful youngster he; + He beat the time with his restless feet + To each new melody, + And he picked me out as the brightest star + Of the black fraternity. + + "Oh father," he said, "what _would_ we do + If the corner-man should die? + I never saw such a man--did you? + He makes the people cry, + And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh." + The old man made reply-- + + "We each of us fill a very small space + In the great creation's plan, + If a man don't keep his lead in the race + There's plenty more that can; + The world can very soon fill the place + Of even a corner-man." + + . . . . . + + I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find + Myself at home in bed, + And I framed a moral in my mind + From the words the old man said. + The world will jog along just the same + When its corner-men are dead. + + + + +When Dacey Rode the Mule + + + + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + When we were boys at school, + There came a circus with a clown, + Likewise a bucking mule. + The clown announced a scheme they had + Spectators for to bring-- + They'd give a crown to any lad + Who'd ride him round the ring. + + And, gentle reader, do not scoff + Nor think a man a fool-- + To buck a porous-plaster off + Was pastime to that mule. + + The boys got on; he bucked like sin; + He threw them in the dirt, + What time the clown would raise a grin + By asking, "Are you hurt?" + But Johnny Dacey came one night, + The crack of all the school; + Said he, "I'll win the crown all right, + Bring in your bucking mule." + + The elephant went off his trunk, + The monkey played the fool, + And all the band got blazing drunk + When Dacey rode the mule. + + But soon there rose a galling shout + Of laughter, for the clown + From somewhere in his pants drew out + A little paper crown. + He placed the crown on Dacey's head + While Dacey looked a fool; + "Now, there's your crown, my lad," he said, + "For riding of the mule!" + + The band struck up with "Killaloe", + And "Rule Britannia, Rule", + And "Young Man from the Country", too, + When Dacey rode the mule. + + Then Dacey, in a furious rage, + For vengeance on the show + Ascended to the monkeys' cage + And let the monkeys go; + The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee + He turned abroad to roam; + Good faith! It was a sight to see + The people step for home. + + For big baboons with canine snout + Are spiteful, as a rule-- + The people didn't sit it out + When Dacey rode the mule. + + And from the beasts that made escape, + The bushmen all declare, + Were born some creatures partly ape + And partly native-bear. + They're rather few and far between, + The race is nearly spent; + But some of them may still be seen + In Sydney Parliament. + + And when those legislators fight, + And drink, and act the fool, + Just blame it on that torrid night + When Dacey rode the mule. + + + + +The Mylora Elopement + + + + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, + Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, + Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, "cocky" on Mylora Run. + + Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. + Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; + And Amelia loved him truly--but the course of love, if true, + Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do. + + Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss + Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss + That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. + Old McGrath "Good day" exchanges--off goes Jim to see his child; + + Says, "The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, + And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. + Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, + And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below. + + "I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, + One more kiss--don't think I'm greedy--good-bye, lass, before I'm seen-- + Just one more--God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, + Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear." + + . . . . . + + The daylight shines on figures twain + That ride across Mylora plain, + Laughing and talking--Jim and Jane. + "Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, + Didn't we slip the old man prime! + I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, + I reckon he'll find it too big a job. + They've beaten us all. I had a try, + But the warrigal devils seem to fly. + That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff + No doubt, but not quite good enough. + He'll have to gallop the livelong day, + To cut and come, to race and stay. + I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; + To see us going I don't think would." + A turn in the road and, fair and square, + They meet the old man standing there. + "What's up?" "Why, running away, of course," + Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, + His eye with wild excitement burned. + "I've raced all day through the scorching heat + After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. + But over that range I think you'll find + The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. + Will you go and leave the mob behind? + Which will you do? Take the girl away, + Or ride like a white man should to-day, + And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?" + Says Jim, "I can't throw this away, + We can bolt some other day, of course, + Amelia Jane, get off that horse. + Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. + Here goes to put old Bowneck through!" + Two distant specks on the mountain side, + Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. + Amelia Jane sat down and cried. + + . . . . . + + "Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? + Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, + And him dead beat. Where have you been? + "Bolted with Jim! What _do_ you mean?" + "Met the old man with Sambo licked + From running old Bowneck." "Well, I'm kicked-- + Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? + What did Jim do when you were stopped? + Did you bolt from father across the plain? + Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! + And father got on, and away again + The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. + Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! + They're sure to get them now, of course, + That Tambourine is a spanking horse. + And Crazy Jane is good as gold. + And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; + Not like your father, but very fair. + Jim will have to follow the mare." + "It never was yet in father's hide + To best my Jim on the mountain-side. + Jim can rally, and Jim can ride." + But here again Amelia cried. + + . . . . . + + The sound of a whip comes faint and far, + A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, + In all their tameless pride. + The fleet wild horses snort with fear, + And wheel and break as the yard draws near. + Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! + Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! + And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, + As under the whip the horses go + Adown the mountain side. + And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, + On a horse that never has failed him yet, + Is after them down the range. + Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel--whoa back! + And long and loud the stockwhips crack, + Their flying course they change, + "Steadily does it--let Sambo go! + Open those sliprails down below. + Smart! or you'll be too late. + They'll follow old Sambo up--look out! + Wheel that black horse--give Sam a clout. + They're in! Make fast the gate." + + . . . . . + + The mob is safely in the yard! + The old man mounts delighted guard. + No thought has he but for his prize. + Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. + "Will you come after all? the job is done, + And Crazy Jane is fit to run + For a prince's life--now don't say no; + Slip on while the old man's down below + At the inner yard, and away we'll go. + Will you come, my girl?" "I will, you bet, + We'll manage this here elopement yet." + + . . . . . + + By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. + And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. + He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, + There'll be numerous "Six-fortys" taken on Mylora run. + + + + +The Pannikin Poet + + + + There's nothing here sublime, + But just a roving rhyme, + Run off to pass the time, + With nought titanic in + The theme that it supports, + And, though it treats of quarts, + It's bare of golden thoughts-- + It's just a pannikin. + + I think it's rather hard + That each Australian bard-- + Each wan, poetic card-- + With thoughts galvanic in + His fiery soul alight, + In wild aerial flight, + Will sit him down and write + About a pannikin. + + He makes some new-chum fare + From out his English lair + To hunt the native bear, + That curious mannikin; + And then when times get bad + That wandering English lad + Writes out a message sad + Upon his pannikin: + + "Oh, mother, think of me + Beneath the wattle tree" + (For you may bet that he + Will drag the wattle in) + "Oh, mother, here I think + That I shall have to sink, + There ain't a single drink + The water-bottle in." + + The dingo homeward hies, + The sooty crows uprise + And caw their fierce surprise + A tone Satanic in; + And bearded bushmen tread + Around the sleeper's head-- + "See here--the bloke is dead! + Now where's his pannikin?" + + They read his words and weep, + And lay him down to sleep + Where wattle-branches sweep, + A style mechanic in; + And, reader, that's the way + The poets of to-day + Spin out their little lay + About a pannikin. + + + + +Not on It + + + + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- + The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. + The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet + He was on it. + + The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, + The band played "What Ho! Robbo!" as our hero cantered by, + The people in the Leger Stand cried out, "Hi, Mister, Hi! + Are you on it?" + + They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told-- + The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. + The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold + Was not on it. + + + + +The Protest + + + + I say 'e _isn't_ Remorse! + 'Ow do I know? + Saw 'im on Riccarton course + Two year ago! + Think I'd forget any 'orse? + _Course_ 'e's The Crow! + + Bumper Maginnis and I, + After a "go", + Walkin' our 'orses to dry, + I says, "Hello! + What's that old black goin' by?" + Bumper says "Oh! + That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's-- + Runs as The Crow!" + + Now they make out 'e's Remorse. + Well, but I _know_. + Soon as I came on the course + I says "'Ello! + 'Ere's the old Crow." + Once a man's seen any 'orse, + 'Course 'e must know. + Sure as there's wood in this table, + I say 'e's The Crow. + + (Cross-examined by the Committee.) + + 'Ow do I know the moke + After one sight? + S'posin' you met a bloke + Down town at night, + Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? + That's '_I'm_ all right! + + What was the brand on 'is 'ide? + _I_ couldn't say, + Brands can be transmogrified. + That ain't the way-- + It's the _look_ of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves + That I'd know any day. + + What was the boy on 'is back? + Why, 'e went past + All of a minute, and off down the track. + --"The 'orse went as fast?" + True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! + 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat + Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? + Lor'! What a question to ast! + + (Protest dismissed.) + + + + +The Scapegoat + + + + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, + And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" + When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. + The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" + That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. + You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo-- + Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". + + For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears + In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, + The Israelite horde went roaming abroad + Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. + When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, + Was dying, he murmured "A rorty old hoss you are: + I give you command of the whole of the band"-- + And handed the Government over to Joshua. + + . . . . . + + But Moses told 'em before he died, + "Wherever you are, whatever betide, + Every year as the time draws near + By lot or by rote choose you a goat, + And let the high priest confess on the beast + The sins of the people, the worst and the least. + Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, + Because all your sins are "his troubles" in future. + Then lead him away to the wilderness black + To die with the weight of your sins on his back: + Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, + For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" + + 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, + This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. + By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, + Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, + Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, + Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. + (Just here let us note--_DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT?_ + It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture + By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a + Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose + Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. + In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; + 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, + When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; + Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers + Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, + That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) + Be that as it may, as each year passed away, + A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted + With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) + And left there--to die as his fancy dictated. + + . . . . . + + The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, + With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, + They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: + On every hand a reverend band, + Prophets and preachers and elders stand + And the oldest rab_bi_, with a tear in his eye, + Delivers a sermon to all standing by. + (We haven't his name--whether Cohen or Harris, he + No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of a Pharisee.) + The sermon was marked by a deal of humility + And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, + That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, + And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. + Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat + And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, + Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. + With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst-- + "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, + The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" + Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. + + The animal, freed from all restraint + Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, + And charged straight at that elderly saint. + So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it + Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, + Was rammed on the--no, not the back--but just near it. + The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, + A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", + Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", + And made a bee-line back again to the camp. + The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast + So gallantly making his way to the East, + Says he: "From the tents may I never more roam again + If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. + He's hurrying, too! This never will do. + Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. + After all our confessions, so openly granted, + He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. + We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, + If he takes home our sins--it'll burst up the Synagogue!" + + He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, + A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. + "Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, + And drive back the brute to the desert again. + The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, + From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you-- + Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you." + So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, + But the goat made it clear each time he drew near + That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. + + The crowd with great eagerness studied the race-- + "Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace-- + And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, + The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. + The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, + And Abraham's tiring--I'll lay six to four! + He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" + But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. + ('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), + "It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be + A good thing for someone to take up the running." + As soon said as done, they started to run-- + The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns + All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, + And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. + And then it came out, as the rabble and rout + Streamed over the desert with many a shout-- + The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, + Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, + And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, + "Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" + Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, + And Abraham proved him an "even-time" man, + But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, + Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' + And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. + + Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp + Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, + And paling and wall he plasters them all, + "I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, + Then pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills": + "Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all + Must each bring a stone--Great sport will be shown; + Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! + Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, + For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!" + Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side + Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! + One shriek from him burst--"You creature accurst!" + And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. + His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, + But the goat stayed behind him--and "scoffed up" the paste. + + With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, + The people came back from the desert in dread. + "The goat--was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" + In very short order they got plenty word of him, + In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, + "The trail of the serpent was over them all." + A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter + Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". + The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, + The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; + He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, + But his latest achievement most anger arouses, + For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, + One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, + Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums. + + + Moral: + + The moral is patent to all the beholders-- + Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; + Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, + Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; + Take their lives if needs must--when it comes to the worst, + But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. + Remember, no matter how far you may roam, + That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens + Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". + Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, + And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it-- + But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it! + + + + +An Evening in Dandaloo + + + + It was while we held our races-- + Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases-- + Up in Dandaloo, + That a crowd of Sydney stealers, + Jockeys, pugilists and spielers + Brought some horses, real heelers, + Came and put us through. + + Beat our nags and won our money, + Made the game by no means funny, + Made us rather blue; + When the racing was concluded, + Of our hard-earned coin denuded + Dandaloonies sat and brooded + There in Dandaloo. + + . . . . . + + Night came down on Johnson's shanty + Where the grog was no means scanty, + And a tumult grew + Till some wild, excited person + Galloped down the township cursing, + "Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, + Roll up, Dandaloo!" + + Great St. Denis! what commotion! + Like the rush of stormy ocean + Fiery horsemen flew. + Dust and smoke and din and rattle, + Down the street they spurred their cattle + To the war-cry of the battle, + "Wade in, Dandaloo!" + + So the boys might have their fight out, + Johnson blew the bar-room light out, + Then, in haste, withdrew. + And in darkness and in doubting + Raged the conflict and the shouting, + "Give the Sydney push a clouting, + Go it, Dandaloo!" + + Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, + Every head he saw he struck it-- + Struck in earnest, too; + And a man from Lower Wattle, + Whom a shearer tried to throttle, + Hit out freely with a bottle, + There in Dandaloo. + + Skin and hair were flying thickly, + When a light was fetched, and quickly + Brought a fact to view-- + On the scene of the diversion + Every single, solid person + Come along to help Macpherson-- + _All_ were Dandaloo!" + + When the list of slain was tabled, + Some were drunk and some disabled, + Still we found it true. + In the darkness and the smother + We'd been belting one another; + Jack Macpherson bashed his brother + There in Dandaloo. + + So we drank, and all departed-- + How the "mobbing" yarn was started + No one ever knew-- + And the stockmen tell the story + Of that conflict fierce and gory, + How we fought for love and glory + Up in Dandaloo. + + It's a proverb now, or near it-- + At the races you can hear it, + At the dog-fights, too! + Every shrieking, dancing drover + As the canines topple over + Yells applause to Grip or Rover, + "Give him 'Dandaloo'!" + + And the teamster slowly toiling + Through the deep black country, soiling + Wheels and axles, too, + Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, + Rouses Tarboy with a flanker-- + "Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! + Wade in, Dandaloo!" + + + + +A Ballad of Ducks + + + + The railway rattled and roared and swung + With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. + The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung + In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue + Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told + This terrible tale of the days of old, + And the party that ought to have kept the ducks. + + "Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land + With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; + And the rabbits have pretty well took command; + But the hardest thing for a man to stand + Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so! + You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'-- + I could lay a bait for a man like that. + + "The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one + And what they leave--well, it ain't 'de luxe'. + But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun + Who'd lent some money to stock our run-- + I said they'd eaten what grass we had-- + Says he, 'Your management's very bad, + You had a right to have kept some ducks!' + + "To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! + Wherever you went you had to tread + On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; + And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, + If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly + Like bullets into your open eye + And knock it out of the back of your head. + + "There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, + Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, + Can make a difference on a run + When a grasshopper plague has once begun; + 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy + Ten thousand emus and have a try; + The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks! + + "'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; + A great big duck--a Muscovy toff-- + Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; + And if the grasshoppers come our way + You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, + And I'd be ready to make a match + That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!' + + "He came to visit us by and by, + And it just so happened one day in Spring + A kind of a cloud came over the sky-- + A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, + And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, + Flyin' in regiments, side by side, + And eatin' up every living thing. + + "All day long, like a shower of rain, + You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, + Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, + And they'd rise and jump at the house again + Till their crippled carcases piled outside. + But what did it matter if thousands died-- + A million wouldn't be missed at all. + + "We were drinkin' grasshoppers--so to speak-- + Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; + And they fell so thick in the station creek + They choked the waterholes all the week. + There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, + And they'd only take artificial flies-- + They got so sick of the real thing. + + "An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags + When the hoppers rose for their morning flight + With a flapping noise like a million flags: + And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags + For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry + Till the cook sat down and began to cry-- + And never a duck or a fowl in sight! + + "We strolled across to the railroad track-- + Under a cover, beneath some trucks, + I sees a feather and hears a quack; + I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back-- + Every duck in the place was there, + No good to them was the open air. + 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'" + + + + +Tommy Corrigan + + (Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.) + + + + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. + It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, + To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; + But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat-- + When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? + + When any slip means sudden death--with wife and child to keep-- + It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap-- + But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, + He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; + With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, + He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. + + He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, + He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; + He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all-- + But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. + But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand + Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. + + They were, indeed, a glorious pair--the great upstanding horse, + The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. + Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, + "You follow Tommy Corrigan" was passed to one and all. + And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command + To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. + + But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, + We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. + We'll drink to him in silence, boys--he's followed down the track + Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. + And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, + That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. + + + + +The Maori's Wool + + + + _Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au._ + + . . . . . + + The Maoris are a mighty race--the finest ever known; + Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; + They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done + They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. + But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, + Prepared to smoke or drink or talk--or anything but work. + The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow + Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. + + 'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, + A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name-- + (The word Rerenga means a "snag"--but until he was gone + This didn't strike the folk he met--it struck them later on). + He stalked into the Bank they call the "Great Financial Hell", + And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. + The Bold Bank Manager looked grave--the price of wool was high. + He said, "We'll lend you what you need--we're not disposed to buy. + You ship the wool to England, Chief!--You'll find it's good advice, + And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price." + The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state + In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, + But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand + This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. + So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, + To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. + + They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, + With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. + They called themselves poetic names--"lost children in a wood"; + They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai--extra good! + And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, + To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; + And wedged into a "Cargo Tank", full up from stern to bow, + A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. + + It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; + Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; + A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark-- + You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark-- + But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, + "I'll haka for you, sir," he said, "in honour of yourself!" + The haka is a striking dance--the sort they don't allow + In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. + + He "haka'd" most effectively--then, with an airy grace + Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. + But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! + For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! + Yes--thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; + On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. + And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, + Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. + + + + +The Angel's Kiss + + + + An angel stood beside the bed + Where lay the living and the dead. + + He gave the mother--her who died-- + A kiss that Christ the Crucified + + Had sent to greet the weary soul + When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. + + He gave the infant kisses twain, + One on the breast, one on the brain. + + "Go forth into the world," he said, + "With blessings on your heart and head, + + "For God, who ruleth righteously, + Hath ordered that to such as be + + "From birth deprived of mother's love, + I bring His blessing from above; + + "But if the mother's life He spare + Then she is made God's messenger + + "To kiss and pray that heart and brain + May go through life without a stain." + + The infant moved towards the light, + The angel spread his wings in flight. + + But each man carries to his grave + The kisses that in hopes to save + The angel or his mother gave. + + + + +Sunrise on the Coast + + + + Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted + All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; + With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, + At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. + + Like mariners calling the roll of their number + The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. + And far over-head--sinking softly to slumber-- + Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. + + To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on + The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; + And far from behind the enshrouded horizon + Comes the voice of a God saying "Let there be light." + + And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, + It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; + And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour-- + Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! + + + + +The Reveille + + + + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + Sound a loud reveille; + Sound it over Sydney shore, + Send the message far and wide + Down the Richmond River side-- + Boot and saddle, mount and ride, + Sound a loud reveille. + + Whither go ye, Lancers gay, + With your bold reveille? + O'er the ocean far away + From your sunny southern home, + Over leagues of trackless foam, + In a foreign land to roam + With your bold reveille. + + When we hear our brethren call, + Sound a clear reveille. + Then we answer, one and all, + Answer that the world may see, + "Of the English stock are we, + At their side we still will be"-- + That's our bold reveille. + + [End of original text.] + + + + +[Original Advertisement] + +Pocket Editions for the Trenches + +Price, 4/--each (postage, per volume: within the Commonwealth, 1d.; +to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) + + Saltbush Bill, J.P. By Major A. B. Paterson ("The Banjo") + The Moods of Ginger Mick. By C. J. Dennis + The Australian, and other Verses. By Will H. Ogilvie + Songs of a Sentimental Bloke. By C. J. Dennis + The Man from Snowy River. By Major A. B. Paterson + Rio Grande, and other Verses. By Major A. B. Paterson + +Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold +during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour by Norman +Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable from all +Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. + +[End Original Advertisement] + + + + + +About the author: + +Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, New +South Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, when he +went to Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor (a type of +lawyer) but also contributed some verse to the Sydney "Bulletin" under +the pseudonym of "The Banjo", taken from the name of a horse. His first +book, "The Man from Snowy River", was published in 1895, and has sold +more copies than any other book of Australian poetry. He later gave up +law to become a journalist, and went to South Africa to report on the +Boer War. When World War I broke out he sought work as a war +correspondent, but failed to get it. He then went to work driving an +ambulance in France, and later became a Remount Officer with the +Australian forces then in Egypt. After returning to Australia in 1919 he +continued as a writer, and died in Sydney on 5 February 1941. + +Paterson's most famous work is "Waltzing Matilda", written in 1895, and +now an unofficial anthem of Australia. "The Man from Snowy River" has +since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, +and even a series on a cable television network. "Clancy of the +Overflow" is similarly well known. + + + + +An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: + + +Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. + +Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for +tea. + +Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and +shrubs, especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. + +Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. + +Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. The leaves of +the Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, as an +adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. + +Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United +Kingdom (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to +1910. + +Fi. fa.: fieri facias--a legal paper authorising the seizure of a +debtor's goods. + +Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. + +Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). + +Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, +especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, +wurley, or mia-mia. + +Jumbuck: A sheep. + +Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. + +Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, his +last expedition (in 1848) never returned. + +Matilda: A swag. See "Waltz Matilda". + +Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. + +Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; any of several +types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). + +Native bear: A koala. + +Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, +and especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; to drive +stock by land, especially on this route. + +Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. + +Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, +of the genus Thylogalefound. + +Pah/Pa: A Maori village. + +Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. + +Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. + +Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. + +Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the +group. + +Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, +especially of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which +is limited to Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, +saltbush can grow in arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; the region +where saltbush grows. + +Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by +lease or license from the government. + +Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + +Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government +permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise +stock; a wealthy rural landowner. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, explored +eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery of the river +system in southeastern Australia. + +Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for +work, but looking for food and/or shelter. + +Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. + +Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, e.g. +carrying a swag. + +Tucker: Food. + +Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, +etc., related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) "on the wallaby +(track)", on the move, on the road. + +Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. "Waltz", to travel in circles. + +Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; by +association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). + +Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. + +Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, having +off-white or yellow flowers. So named because the branches were used to +weave wattle, a type of construction made of interwoven branches and the +like. + +Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family +Vombatidae, which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant +person. + +Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, A. +glaucescens. + + + + +Notes on the text: + + +"An Answer to Various Bards" appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of +poems in the Sydney 'Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, +or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), +primarily between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], who may +have staged the debate as a way of selling more poems. + +Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], +who, despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush in +at least one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie +[1869-1963] who was in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, +returned in 1901, and was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). + +Other verses from the debate maybe found in "The Man from Snowy River" +by Paterson and "In the Days When the World was Wide" by Henry Lawson. + +The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts in the +original edition. + + +"'Shouting' for a Camel": A number of camels were brought to Australia, +with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden +in the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. (A +similar scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, but no camels +remain.) + + + "The Gundaroo Bullock": + + [ Said Morgan, "Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + changed to: + [ Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + + +"Lay of the Motor-Car": To put this poem in perspective, it must be +remembered that this book was published in 1917, and the poem written +earlier. It may be helpful to compare Paterson's short story, "Three +Elephant Power", in the book of the same name that was published in the +same year. The plot centres around a speed demon who would drive at +unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) + + + "The Mylora Elopement": + + [ No thought has be but for his prize. ] + changed to: + [ No thought has he but for his prize. ] + + + "The Protest": + + [ W ll, but I KNOW. ] + changed to: + [ Well, but I KNOW. ] + + + "The Maori's Wool": + + [ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] + changed to: + [ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] + + +"The Lost Drink", "The Matrimonial Stakes", "Not on It", "The +Scapegoat", "The Angel's Kiss", and "The Reveille" were all dropped from +"Saltbush Bill" when it was included in Paterson's "Collected Verse" +(first issued in 1921). No poems were added, though "The Song of the +Pen" moved from the front of the book to the back, and several titles +were slightly changed. No effort has been made to compare the texts. + +There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was +added. + +Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) +and the "frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay", the first of +which was set above the lines: + + "But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals across the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again." + +which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of "Brumby's Run" (should be +"steals along the plain"). + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses, by +A. B. Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTBUSH BILL *** + +***** This file should be named 1317.txt or 1317.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/1/1317/ + +Produced by Alan R. 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Lines longer than 78 characters +are broken and the continuation is indented two spaces. Some obvious errors +have been corrected (see Notes).] + + + + + +Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses + +By A. B. Paterson + +Author of "The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses", +"Rio Grande, and Other Verses", and "An Outback Marriage". + + + + +Note + + + +Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in Egypt +for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on them to say +that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen by him in proof; +and that he is not responsible for the selection, the arrangement or the title +of "Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses". + + + + +Table of Contents + + + +Song of the Pen + Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + +Song of the Wheat + We have sung the song of the droving days, + +Brumby's Run + It lies beyond the Western Pines + +Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; + +The Reverend Mullineux + I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + +The Wisdom of Hafiz + My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, + +Saltbush Bill, J.P. + Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + +The Riders in the Stand + There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; + +Waltzing Matilda + Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + +An Answer to Various Bards + Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, + +T.Y.S.O.N. + Across the Queensland border line + +As Long as your Eyes are Blue + Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + +Bottle-O! + I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + +The Story of Mongrel Grey + This is the story the stockman told, + +Gilhooley's Estate + Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + +The Road to Hogan's Gap + Now look, you see, it's this way like, + +A Singer of the Bush + There is waving of grass in the breeze + +"Shouting" for a Camel + It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + +The Lost Drink + I had spent the night in the watch-house -- + +Mulligan's Mare + Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place + +The Matrimonial Stakes + I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + +The Mountain Squatter + Here in my mountain home, + +Pioneers + They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; + +Santa Claus in the Bush + It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + +"In Re a Gentleman, One" + We see it each day in the paper, + +The Melting of the Snow + There's a sunny Southern land, + +A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + Bring me a quart of colonial beer + +The Gundaroo Bullock + Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, + +Lay of the Motor-Car + We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + +The Corner Man + I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + +When Dacey Rode the Mule + 'Twas to a small, up-country town, + +The Mylora Elopement + By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, + +The Pannikin Poet + There's nothing here sublime, + +Not on It + The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet -- + +The Protest + I say 'e ISN'T Remorse! + +The Scapegoat + We have all of us read how the Israelites fled + +An Evening in Dandaloo + It was while we held our races -- + +A Ballad of Ducks + The railway rattled and roared and swung + +Tommy Corrigan + You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, + +The Maori's Wool + Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how + +The Angel's Kiss + An angel stood beside the bed + +Sunrise on the Coast + Grey dawn on the sand-hills -- the night wind has drifted + +The Reveille + Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + + + + + + Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses + + + + + +~Song of the Pen + + + +Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, + Not for the people's praise; +Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, + Claiming us all our days, + +Claiming our best endeavour -- body and heart and brain + Given with no reserve -- +Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; + Still, we are proud to serve. + +Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, + Gathering grain or chaff; +One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, + One, that a child may laugh. + +Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, + Freely she doth accord +Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, + Work is its own reward!~ + + + + +Song of the Wheat + + + +We have sung the song of the droving days, + Of the march of the travelling sheep; +By silent stages and lonely ways + Thin, white battalions creep. +But the man who now by the land would thrive + Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. +Is there ever a man in the world alive + To sing the song of the Wheat! + +It's west by south of the Great Divide + The grim grey plains run out, +Where the old flock-masters lived and died + In a ceaseless fight with drought. +Weary with waiting and hope deferred + They were ready to own defeat, +Till at last they heard the master-word -- + And the master-word was Wheat. + +Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine -- + 'Twas axe and fire for all; +They scarce could tarry to blaze the line + Or wait for the trees to fall, +Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, + And the dust of the horses' feet +Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide + The wonderful march of Wheat. + +Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, + The soil is turned on the plain; +Better than silver and better than gold + Is the surface-mine of the grain; +Better than cattle and better than sheep + In the fight with drought and heat; +For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, + Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. + +When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, + Deep down in his bed of clay +The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait + For the resurrection day: +Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; + But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, +Will over the steaming paddocks spread + The first green flush of the Wheat. + +Green and amber and gold it grows + When the sun sinks late in the West; +And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows + Where the quail and the skylark nest. +Mountain or river or shining star, + There's never a sight can beat -- +Away to the sky-line stretching far -- + A sea of the ripening Wheat. + +When the burning harvest sun sinks low, + And the shadows stretch on the plain, +The roaring strippers come and go + Like ships on a sea of grain; +Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear + Their tale of the load complete. +Of the world's great work he has done his share + Who has gathered a crop of wheat. + +Princes and Potentates and Czars, + They travel in regal state, +But old King Wheat has a thousand cars + For his trip to the water-gate; +And his thousand steamships breast the tide + And plough thro' the wind and sleet +To the lands where the teeming millions bide + That say: "Thank God for Wheat!" + + + + +Brumby's Run + + Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial + a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: + "Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?" + + + +It lies beyond the Western Pines + Towards the sinking sun, +And not a survey mark defines + The bounds of "Brumby's Run". + +On odds and ends of mountain land, + On tracks of range and rock +Where no one else can make a stand, + Old Brumby rears his stock. + +A wild, unhandled lot they are + Of every shape and breed. +They venture out 'neath moon and star + Along the flats to feed; + +But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals along the plain, +The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again. + +The traveller by the mountain-track + May hear their hoof-beats pass, +And catch a glimpse of brown and black + Dim shadows on the grass. + +The eager stockhorse pricks his ears + And lifts his head on high +In wild excitement when he hears + The Brumby mob go by. + +Old Brumby asks no price or fee + O'er all his wide domains: +The man who yards his stock is free + To keep them for his pains. + +So, off to scour the mountain-side + With eager eyes aglow, +To strongholds where the wild mobs hide + The gully-rakers go. + +A rush of horses through the trees, + A red shirt making play; +A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, + They vanish far away! + + . . . . . + +Ah, me! before our day is done + We long with bitter pain +To ride once more on Brumby's Run + And yard his mob again. + + + + +Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs + + + +Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; +To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me +To give you some instruction like -- a kind of Christmas tale -- +So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, "Jonah and the Whale"? + +Well, whales is sheep I've never shore; I've never been to sea, +So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; +But there's a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, +About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. + +Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, +They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run -- +A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, +The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. + +Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, +And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. +You know the way that boys grow up -- there's some that stick at home; +But any boy that's worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. + +So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers' track +To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; +You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, +The same we did out Queensland way, a score of years ago. + +Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock -- that's most uncommon clear -- +For when he got to Laban's Run, they made him overseer; +He didn't ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay +To take the roan and strawberry calves -- the same we'd take to-day. + +The duns and blacks and "Goulburn roans" (that's brindles), coarse and hard, +He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; +So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, +Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer. + +It's often so with overseers -- I've seen the same thing done +By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. +But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, +And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. + +He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; +And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; +You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so -- +No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. + +But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, +Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. +It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, +There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. + +So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, +To battle down the homeward track along the Overland -- +It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. +I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. + +But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) +When battling through the Philistines -- selectors, I suppose -- +He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; +So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. + +He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; +He couldn't hurry lambing ewes -- no more you could to-day -- +And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, +He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. + +The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, +There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt. +It's just a plain straightforward tale -- a tale that lets you know +The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. + +It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; +You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, +The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, +And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead. + +The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; +The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; +The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp -- +I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp! + +~But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know +How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago.~ + + + + +The Reverend Mullineux + + + +I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight, + And his height at five-foot-two, +With a face as plain as an eight-day clock +And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock -- + Game as a bantam, too, +Hard and wiry and full of steam, +That's the boss of the English Team, + Reverend Mullineux. + +Makes no row when the game gets rough -- + None of your "Strike me blue!" +"You's wants smacking across the snout!" +Plays like a gentleman out-and-out -- + Same as he ought to do. +"Kindly remove from off my face!" +That's the way that he states his case -- + Reverend Mullineux. + +Kick! He can kick like an army mule -- + Run like a kangaroo! +Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant, +Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant -- + Fetches him over too! +DIDN'T the public cheer and shout +Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about -- + Reverend Mullineux. + +Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form, + Somehow the ball got through -- +Who was it tackled our big half-back, +Flinging him down like an empty sack, + Right on our goal-line too? +Who but the man that we thought was dead, +Down with a score of 'em on his head, + Reverend Mullineux. + + + + +The Wisdom of Hafiz + + + +My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, +Remember, it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; +Remember, they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow. + +If ever an owner should tell you, "Back mine" -- don't you be such a flat. +He knows his own cunning, no doubt -- does he know what the others are at? +Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few dollars on that. + +Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall. +His wisdom belongs to his patron -- shall he give it to one and to all? +When the stable is served he may tell you -- and his words + are like jewels let fall. + +Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, +He tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; +And, remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst. + +When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are twenty-and-two, +Take a pull on yourself; take a pull -- it's a mighty big field + to get through. +Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about, p'raps it's you! + +Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, +For this is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. +How is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot? + +From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone, +For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, +"The very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!" + + + + +Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + +Beyond the land where Leichhardt went, + Beyond Sturt's Western track, +The rolling tide of change has sent + Some strange J.P.s out back. + +And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey, + And worn with want of sleep, +Received the news in camp one day + Behind the travelling sheep + +That Edward Rex, confiding in + His known integrity, +By hand and seal on parchment skin + Had made him a J.P. + +He read the news with eager face + But found no word of pay. +"I'd like to see my sister's place + And kids on Christmas day. + +"I'd like to see green grass again, + And watch clear water run, +Away from this unholy plain, + And flies, and dust, and sun." + +At last one little clause he found + That might some hope inspire, +"A magistrate may charge a pound + For inquest on a fire." + +A big blacks' camp was built close by, + And Saltbush Bill, says he, +"I think that camp might well supply + A job for a J.P." + +That night, by strange coincidence, + A most disastrous fire +Destroyed the country residence + Of Jacky Jack, Esquire. + +'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; + The party most concerned +Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt + If forty such were burned. + +Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, + Who watched the leaping flame. +"The home is small," said he, "but still + The principle's the same. + +"Midst palaces though you should roam, + Or follow pleasure's tracks, +You'll find," he said, "no place like home, + At least like Jacky Jack's. + +"Tell every man in camp `Come quick,' + Tell every black Maria +I give tobacco half a stick -- + Hold inquest long-a fire." + +Each juryman received a name + Well suited to a Court. +"Long Jack" and "Stumpy Bill" became + "John Long" and "William Short". + +While such as "Tarpot", "Bullock Dray", + And "Tommy Wait-a-While", +Became, for ever and a day, + "Scott", "Dickens", and "Carlyle". + +And twelve good sable men and true + Were soon engaged upon +The conflagration that o'erthrew + The home of John A. John. + +Their verdict, "Burnt by act of Fate", + They scarcely had returned +When, just behind the magistrate, + Another humpy burned! + +The jury sat again and drew + Another stick of plug. +Said Saltbush Bill, "It's up to you + Put some one long-a Jug." + +"I'll camp the sheep," he said, "and sift + The evidence about." +For quite a week he couldn't shift, + The way the fires broke out. + +The jury thought the whole concern + As good as any play. +They used to "take him oath" and earn + Three sticks of plug a day. + +At last the tribe lay down to sleep + Homeless, beneath a tree; +And onward with his travelling sheep + Went Saltbush Bill, J.P. + +The sheep delivered, safe and sound, + His horse to town he turned, +And drew some five-and-twenty pound + For fees that he had earned. + +And where Monaro's ranges hide + Their little farms away -- +His sister's children by his side -- + He spent his Christmas Day. + +The next J.P. that went out back + Was shocked, or pained, or both, +At hearing every pagan black + Repeat the juror's oath. + +No matter though he turned and fled + They followed faster still; +"You make it inkwich, boss," they said, + "All same like Saltbush Bill." + +They even said they'd let him see + The fires originate. +When he refused they said that he + Was "No good magistrate." + +And out beyond Sturt's Western track, + And Leichhardt's farthest tree, +They wait till fate shall send them back + Their Saltbush Bill, J.P. + + + + +The Riders in the Stand + + + +There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; +While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. +There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; +And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath. + +But all the finest horsemen out -- the men to Beat the Band -- +You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. +They'll say "He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight." +They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late. + +They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; +They'll tell how one was "livened up" and something else was "dead" -- +In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, +But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand. + +The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; +You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. +You ride a slashing race, and lose -- by one and all you're banned! +Ride like a bag of flour, and win -- they'll cheer you in the Stand. + + + + +Waltzing Matilda + + (Carrying a Swag.) + + + +Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, + Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; +And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, + "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me." + + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag -- + Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? + +Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, + Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; +And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, + "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!" + +Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; + Down came Policemen -- one, two, and three. +"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? + You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me." + +But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, + Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; +And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, + "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?" + + + + +An Answer to Various Bards + + + +Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, +Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, +With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, +How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; +And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, +But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb". +So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, +And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change. + +Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson -- well, of course, we almost cried +At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died, +And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's Mate" was slain; +Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again. +Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, +And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; +So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan +Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own. + +And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, +When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; +But the shearer chaps who start it -- why, he rounds on them in blame, +And he calls 'em "agitators" who are living on the game. +But I "over-write" the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt +That I always see a hero in the "man from furthest out". +I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, +And a bushman never struck me as a subject for "the tomb". + +If it ain't all "golden sunshine" where the "wattle branches wave", +Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all "lonely grave". +And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, +But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; +Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, +Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, +For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills +While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. + +Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, +And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. +For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar +And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar; +And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears, +To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years, +When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day, +And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of "Wool away!" + +Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set -- +And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. +But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back +To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, +And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, +And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. +But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, +For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done. + +There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, +And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. +For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, +And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. +Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push +Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; +And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, +And we'll slip across to England -- it's a nicer place than here; + +For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, +And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. +But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, +We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; +So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, +And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, +And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, +And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars. + + + + +T.Y.S.O.N. + + + +Across the Queensland border line + The mobs of cattle go; +They travel down in sun and shine + On dusty stage, and slow. +The drovers, riding slowly on + To let the cattle spread, +Will say: "Here's one old landmark gone, + For old man Tyson's dead." + +What tales there'll be in every camp + By men that Tyson knew; +The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, + Will yarn the long day through, +And tell of how he passed as "Brown", + And fooled the local men: +"But not for me -- I struck the town, +And passed the message further down; + That's T.Y.S.O.N.!" + +There stands a little country town + Beyond the border line, +Where dusty roads go up and down, + And banks with pubs combine. +A stranger came to cash a cheque -- + Few were the words he said -- +A handkerchief about his neck, + An old hat on his head. + +A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed -- + "Know me? Of course you do?" +"It's not my work," the boss replied, + "To know such tramps as you." +"Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash," + Replied the stranger then, +"I never care to make a splash, +I'm simple -- but I've got the cash, + I'm T.Y.S.O.N." + +But in that last great drafting-yard, + Where Peter keeps the gate, +And souls of sinners find it barred, + And go to meet their fate, +There's one who ought to enter in, + For good deeds done on earth; +Such deeds as merit ought to win, + Kind deeds of sterling worth. + +Not by the strait and narrow gate, + Reserved for wealthy men, +But through the big gate, opened wide, +The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, + Will travel through -- and then +Old Peter'll say: "We pass him through; +There's many a thing he used to do, +Good-hearted things that no one knew; + That's T.Y.S.O.N." + + + + +As Long as your Eyes are Blue + + + +Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey + And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? +When the charms of youth shall have passed away, + Will your love as of old prove true? + +For the looks may change, and the heart may range, + And the love be no longer fond; +Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth + And away to the years beyond? + +Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown + And the blush on your cheek that lies -- +But I love you most for the kindly heart + That I see in your sweet blue eyes. + +For the eyes are signs of the soul within, + Of the heart that is leal and true, +And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + +For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach + May be reft of their golden hue; +But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, + Just as long as your eyes are blue. + + + + +Bottle-O! + + + +I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; + I drives me bottle cart around the town; +A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob -- + I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. +There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, + There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, +And little dogs what comes and barks -- we take 'em off their guard + And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O! + + Chorus -- + + So it's any "Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!" + You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. + And you'll see the women rushing + To take in the Monday's washing + When they 'ear us crying, "Empty Bottle-O!" + +I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, + A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, +An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; + I stops the cart and walks across to see. +"There ain't no bottles 'ere," says she, "since father took the pledge;" + "No bottles 'ere," says I, "I'd like to know +What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, + If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!" + +I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me + We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. +Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea + And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. +But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to "scrap", + There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: +But as for me, I always says for layin' out a "trap" + There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O! + + + + +The Story of Mongrel Grey + + + +This is the story the stockman told, + On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; +The moon rose up like a globe of gold + And flooded the plain with her mellow light. + We watched the cattle till dawn of day + And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. + + . . . . . + +He was a knock-about station hack, + Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; +Ridden all day with a sore on his back, + Left all night with nothing to eat. + That was a matter of every-day + Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey. + +We might have sold him, but someone heard + He was bred out back on a flooded run, +Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird, -- + Midnight or midday were all as one. + In the flooded ground he could find his way, + Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. + +'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; + When the floods are out they will splash along +In girth-deep water, and twist and turn + From hidden channel and billabong. + Never mistaking the road to go, + For a man may guess -- but the horses KNOW. + +I was camping out with my youngest son -- + Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak -- +In an empty hut on the lower run, + Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. + The youngster toddled about all day, + And with our horses was Mongrel Grey. + +All of a sudden the flood came down + Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, +Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, + Over the flats and across the plain. + Rising and rising -- at fall of night + Nothing but water appeared in sight! + +'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, + Even in daylight; for all around +Channels and billabongs twist about, + Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. + And to move was a hopeless thing to try + In the dark with the water just racing by. + +I had to try it. I heard a roar, + And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; +And the water rose till it reached the floor + Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain + The way the water was sweeping down + We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown. + +Off to the stable I splashed, and found + The horses shaking with cold and fright; +I led them down to the lower ground, + But never a yard would they swim that night! + They reared and snorted and turned away, + And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. + +I bound the child on the horse's back, + And we started off with a prayer to heaven, +Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, + For I knew that the instinct God has given + To guide His creatures by night and day + Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. + +He struck deep water at once and swam -- + I swam beside him and held his mane -- +Till we touched the bank of the broken dam + In shallow water -- then off again, + Swimming in darkness across the flood, + Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. + +He turned and twisted across and back, + Choosing the places to wade or swim, +Picking the safest and shortest track, + The pitchy darkness was clear to him. + Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? + The Lord that led him alone could tell! + +He dodged the timber whene'er he could, + But the timber brought us to grief at last; +I was partly stunned by a log of wood, + That struck my head as it drifted past; + And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, + And in half a second he swept away. + +I reached a tree, where I had to stay, + And did a perish for two days hard; +And lived on water -- but Mongrel Grey, + He walked right into the homestead yard + At dawn next morning, and grazed around, + With the child on top of him safe and sound. + +We keep him now for the wife to ride, + Nothing too good for him now, of course; +Never a whip on his fat old hide, + For she owes the child to that old grey horse. + And not Old Tyson himself could pay + The purchase money of Mongrel Grey. + + + + +Gilhooley's Estate + + (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.) + + + +Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, + As most of us do, soon or late; +And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, + So they took him Gilhooley's Estate. + +Gilhooley in life had been living so free + 'Twas thought his possessions were great, +So Jones, with a smile, says, "There's many a fee + For me in Gilhooley's Estate." + +They made out a list of his property fine, + It totalled a thousand-and-eight; +But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine -- + The debts of Gilhooley's Estate. + +So Mrs. Gilhooley says, "Jones, my dear man, + My childer have little to ait: +Just keep the expenses as low as you can + Against poor Gilhooley's Estate." + +But Jones says, "The will isn't clear in its terms, + I fear it will need some debate, +And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) + To appear in Gilhooley's Estate." + +So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, + And a brief in his hand quite elate, +Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, + Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate. + +But his Honor the Judge said, "I think that the joint + Legatees must be called to proBATE -- +Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point -- + The point of Gilhooley's Estate. + +"I order a suit to be brought just to try + If this is correct that I state -- +A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, + Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate." + +So Mrs. Gilhooley says, "Jones, you'll appear! + Thim barristers' fees is too great; +The suit is but friendly." "Attorneys, my dear, + Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate." + +From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah + Arises both early and late: +It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar + Dividing Gilhooley's Estate. + + + + +The Road to Hogan's Gap + + + +Now look, you see, it's this way like, + You cross the broken bridge +And run the crick down till you strike + The second right-hand ridge. + +The track is hard to see in parts, + But still it's pretty clear; +There's been two Injin hawkers' carts + Along that road this year. + +Well, run that right-hand ridge along -- + It ain't, to say, too steep -- +There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong + Where blokes went out with sheep. + +But keep the crick upon your right, + And follow pretty straight +Along the spur, until you sight + A wire and sapling gate. + +Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare + Fell off and broke her back; +You'll see her carcase layin' there, + Jist down below the track. + +And then you drop two mile, or three, + It's pretty steep and blind; +You want to go and fall a tree + And tie it on behind. + +And then you pass a broken cart + Below a granite bluff; +And that is where you strike the part + They reckon pretty rough. + +But by the time you've got that far + It's either cure or kill, +So turn your horses round the spur + And face 'em up the hill. + +For look, if you should miss the slope + And get below the track, +You haven't got the whitest hope + Of ever gettin' back. + +An' half way up you'll see the hide + Of Hogan's brindled bull; +Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, + The left's too steep a pull. + +And both the banks is full of cracks; + An' just about at dark +You'll see the last year's bullock tracks + Where Hogan drew the bark. + +The marks is old and pretty faint + And grown with scrub and such; +Of course the track to Hogan's ain't + A road that's travelled much. + +But turn and run the tracks along + For half a mile or more, +And then, of course, you can't go wrong -- + You're right at Hogan's door. + +When first you come to Hogan's gate + He mightn't show, perhaps; +He's pretty sure to plant and wait + To see it ain't the traps. + +I wouldn't call it good enough + To let your horses out; +There's some that's pretty extra rough + Is livin' round about. + +It's likely if your horses did + Get feedin' near the track, +It's goin' to cost at least a quid + Or more to get them back. + +So, if you find they're off the place, + It's up to you to go +And flash a quid in Hogan's face -- + He'll know the blokes that know. + +But listen, if you're feelin' dry, + Just see there's no one near, +And go and wink the other eye + And ask for ginger beer. + +The blokes come in from near and far + To sample Hogan's pop; +They reckon once they breast the bar + They stay there till they drop. + +On Sundays you can see them spread + Like flies around the tap. +It's like that song "The Livin' Dead" + Up there at Hogan's Gap. + +They like to make it pretty strong + Whenever there's a charnce; +So when a stranger comes along + They always holds a darnce. + +There's recitations, songs, and fights -- + A willin' lot you'll meet. +There's one long bloke up there recites, + I tell you -- he's a treat. + +They're lively blokes all right up there, + It's never dull a day. +I'd go meself if I could spare + The time to get away. + + . . . . . + +The stranger turned his horses quick. + He didn't cross the bridge; +He didn't go along the crick + To strike the second ridge; + +He didn't make the trip, because + He wasn't feeling fit. +His business up at Hogan's was + To serve him with a writ. + +He reckoned if he faced the pull + And climbed the rocky stair, +The next to come might find his hide +A land-mark on the mountain side, +Along with Hogan's brindled bull + And Hogan's old grey mare! + + + + +A Singer of the Bush + + + +There is waving of grass in the breeze + And a song in the air, +And a murmur of myriad bees + That toil everywhere. +There is scent in the blossom and bough, + And the breath of the Spring +Is as soft as a kiss on a brow -- + And Spring-time I sing. + +There is drought on the land, and the stock + Tumble down in their tracks +Or follow -- a tottering flock -- + The scrub-cutter's axe. +While ever a creature survives + The axes shall swing; +We are fighting with fate for their lives -- + And the combat I sing. + + + + +"Shouting" for a Camel + + + +It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, + Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, +Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, + And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. +Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. + He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + +So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking + He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. +Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking + He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by +That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go. + +But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, + And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; +For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, + And the miners muttered softly, "Yes, he's very dry indeed! +But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go." + +So he drank up twenty buckets -- it was weird to watch him suck it, + (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) +Till the speculator stopped him, saying, "Not another bucket -- + If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. +Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town." + He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + +There's a moral to this story -- in your hat you ought to paste it, + Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, +And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, + Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; +If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, + You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go. + + + + +The Lost Drink + + + +I had spent the night in the watch-house -- + My head was the size of three -- +So I went and asked the chemist + To fix up a drink for me; +And he brewed it from various bottles + With soda and plenty of ice, +With something that smelt like lemon, + And something that seemed like spice. + +It fell on my parching palate + Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, +And my system began to flourish + Like the grass in a soft spring rain; +It wandered throughout my being, + Suffusing my soul with rest, +And I felt as I "scoffed" that liquid + That life had a new-found zest. + +I have been on the razzle-dazzle + Full many a time since then +But I never could get the chemist + To brew me that drink again. +He says he's forgotten the notion -- + 'Twas only by chance it came -- +He's tried me with various liquids + But oh! they are not the same. + +We have sought, but we sought it vainly, + That one lost drink divine; +We have sampled his various bottles, + But somehow they don't combine: +Yet I know when I cross the River + And stand on the Golden Shore +I shall meet with an angel-chemist + Who'll brew me that drink once more. + + + + +Mulligan's Mare + + + +Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place +To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; +The height of choice spirits from near and from far +Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar. + +There was "Jerry the Swell", and the jockey-boy Ned, +"Dog-bite-me" -- so called from the shape of his head -- +And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, +Designed as the "Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang". + +Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, +A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; +Whenever they backed her you safely might swear +She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare. + +But Mulligan, having some radical views, +Neglected his business and got on the booze; +He took up with runners -- a treacherous troop -- +Who gave him away and he "fell in the soup". + +And so it turned out on a fine summer day, +A bailiff turned up with a writ of "fi. fa."; +He walked to the bar with a manner serene, +"I levy," said he, "in the name of the Queen." + +Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, +To pay out the bailiff with "ONE on the jaw"; +He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, +He changed his intentions and stood him a drink. + +A great consultation there straightway befel +'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, +And the man with the head, who remarked "Why, you bet! +Dog-bite-me!" said he, "but we'll diddle 'em yet. + +"We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, +And put in her place the old broken-down hack; +The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear +The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare. + +"So out with the racer and in with the screw, +We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; +And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, +I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch." + +Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; +The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was "had"; +But marched to the stall with a confident air -- +"I levy," said he, "upon Mulligan's mare." + +He watched her by day and he watched her by night, +She was never an instant let out of his sight, +For races were coming away in the West +And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best. + +"Here's a chance," thought the bailiff, "to serve my own ends, +I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: +Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare +And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare." + +The races came round, and a crowd on the course +Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, +And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, +They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence. + +And think of the grief of the bookmaking host +At the sound of the summons to go to the post -- +For down to the start with her thorough-bred air +As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare! + +They started, and off went the boy to the front, +He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; +He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, +Then gave her her head and she smothered the field. + +The race put her owner right clear of his debts, +He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, +He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, +And gave him a hiding to keep for himself. + +So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, +Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; +For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week -- +Is never to bet on a thing that can speak. + +And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, +Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, +And fortune in season will answer your prayer +And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare. + + + + +The Matrimonial Stakes + + + +I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, + I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat +When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; + Well, she simply HAD to have me after that! + +It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead + From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; +And, although she LOOKED indifferent when I landed -- on my head -- + In the water, it appealed to her, of course! + +When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was "all Sir Garneo", + For she praised the way I made my final run. +And she thought the riding did it -- for how COULD the poor girl know + That a monkey could have ridden it and won! + +Then they "weighed me in" a winner -- it's not often that occurs! + So I didn't let my golden chances slip, +For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, + And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip. + +Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk + For a moment, so I took her by the head +(So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work + When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red. + +She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; + I could worship every little step she takes; +And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, + Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes! + + + + +The Mountain Squatter + + + +Here in my mountain home, + On rugged hills and steep, +I sit and watch you come, + O Riverina Sheep! + +You come from fertile plains + Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, +And flats that (when it rains) + Will blossom like the rose. + +But, when the summer sun + Gleams down like burnished brass, +You have to leave your run + And hustle off for grass. + +'Tis then that -- forced to roam -- + You come to where I keep, +Here in my mountain home, + A boarding-house for sheep. + +Around me where I sit + The wary wombat goes -- +A beast of little wit, + But what he knows, he KNOWS. + +The very same remark + Applies to me also; +I don't give out a spark, + But what I know, I KNOW. + +My brain perhaps would show + No convolutions deep, +But anyhow I know + The way to handle sheep. + +These Riverina cracks, + They do not care to ride +The half-inch hanging tracks + Along the mountain side. + +Their horses shake with fear + When loosened boulders go, +With leaps, like startled deer, + Down to the gulfs below. + +Their very dogs will shirk, + And drop their tails in fright +When asked to go and work + A mob that's out of sight. + +My little collie pup + Works silently and wide; +You'll see her climbing up + Along the mountain side. + +As silent as a fox + You'll see her come and go, +A shadow through the rocks + Where ash and messmate grow. + +Then, lost to sight and sound + Behind some rugged steep, +She works her way around + And gathers up the sheep; + +And, working wide and shy, + She holds them rounded up. +The cash ain't coined to buy + That little collie pup. + +And so I draw a screw + For self and dog and keep +To boundary-ride for you, + O Riverina Sheep! + +And when the autumn rain + Has made the herbage grow, +You travel off again, + And glad -- no doubt -- to go. + +But some are left behind + Around the mountain's spread, +For those we cannot find + We put them down as dead. + +But when we say adieu + And close the boarding job, +I always find a few + Fresh ear-marks in my mob. + +So what with those I sell, + And what with those I keep, +You pay me pretty well, + O Riverina Sheep! + +It's up to me to shout + Before we say good-bye -- +"Here's to a howlin' drought + All west of Gundagai!" + + + + +Pioneers + + + +They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; +They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, +We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years +As those explorers of the bush -- the brave old pioneers. + +'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; +'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; +'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, +And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid. + +But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead +When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead +By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, +And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest. + +Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, +We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, +To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years -- +The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers. + + + + +Santa Claus in the Bush + + + +It chanced out back at the Christmas time, + When the wheat was ripe and tall, +A stranger rode to the farmer's gate -- + A sturdy man and a small. + +"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + And bid the stranger stay; +And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, + For the morn is Christmas Day." + +"Nay now, nay now," said the dour good-wife, + "But ye should let him be; +He's maybe only a drover chap + Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. + +"Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst + To swiggle the hail nicht through; +Or he's maybe a life assurance carle + To talk ye black and blue." + +"Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, + For their swags are neat and thin; +And he's never a life assurance carle, + Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. + +"Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, + For the wheat stands ripe and tall, +And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, + Ewes and weaners and all. + +"There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat + Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, +And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, + So we maun ask him in. + +"Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, + And gi' him a bite tae eat; +An omelette made of a new-laid egg, + Or a tasty bit of meat." + +"But the native cats hae taen the fowls, + They havena left a leg; +And he'll get nae omelette here at a' + Till the emu lays an egg!" + +"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, + To whaur the emus bide, +Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, + While the auld cock sits beside. + +"But speak them fair, and speak them saft, + Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. +Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails + Or a rusty carriage bolt." + +So little son Jack ran blithely down, + With the rusty nails in hand, +Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched + By their nest in the open sand. + +And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, + 'Twould feed three men or four, +And the emus came for the half-inch nails + Right up to the settler's door. + +"A waste o' food," said the dour good-wife, + As she took the egg, with a frown, +"But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin + A paddy-melon down." + +"Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, + Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; +Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, + Then come nae back at a'." + +So little son Jack he raced and he ran, + And he was bare o' the feet, +And soon he captured a paddy-melon, + Was gorged with the stolen wheat. + +"Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, + To the best that the hoose can do -- +An omelette made of the emu egg + And a paddy-melon stew." + +"'Tis well, 'tis well," said the bonny wee man; + "I have eaten the wide world's meat, +And the food that is given with right good will + Is the sweetest food to eat. + +"But the night draws on to the Christmas Day + And I must rise and go, +For I have a mighty way to ride + To the land of the Esquimaux. + +"And it's there I must load my sledges up, + With reindeers four-in-hand, +That go to the North, South, East, and West, + To every Christian land." + +"Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour good-wife, + "Ye suit my husband well! +For when he gets up on his journey horse + He's a bit of a liar himsel'." + +Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man + To his old horse grazing nigh, +And away like a meteor flash they went + Far off to the Northern sky. + + . . . . . + +When the children woke on the Christmas morn + They chattered with might and main -- +For a sword and gun had little son Jack, + And a braw new doll had Jane, +And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; + But the dour good-wife got nane. + + + + +"In Re a Gentleman, One" + + When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer + for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name + until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers + as "In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court", + or, more shortly, "In re a Gentleman, One". + + + +We see it each day in the paper, + And know that there's mischief in store; +That some unprofessional caper + Has landed a shark on the shore. +We know there'll be plenty of trouble + Before they get through with the fun, +Because he's been coming the double + On clients, has "Gentleman, One". + +Alas! for the gallant attorney, + Intent upon cutting a dash, +Sets out on life's perilous journey + With rather more cunning than cash. +And fortune at first is inviting -- + He struts his brief hour in the sun -- +But, lo! on the wall is the writing + Of Nemesis, "Gentleman, One". + +For soon he runs short of the dollars, + He fears he must go to the wall; +So Peter's trust-money he collars + To pay off his creditor, Paul; +Then robs right and left -- for he goes it + In earnest when once he's begun. +Descensus Averni -- he knows it; + It's easy for "Gentleman, One". + +The crash comes as sure as the seasons; + He loses his coin in a mine, +Or booming in land, or for reasons + Connected with women and wine. +Or maybe the cards or the horses + A share of the damage have done +No matter; the end of the course is + The same: "Re a Gentleman, One". + +He struggles awhile to keep going, + To stave off detection and shame; +But creditors, clamorous growing, + Ere long put an end to the game. +At length the poor soldier of Satan + His course to a finish has run -- +And just think of Windeyer waiting + To deal with "A Gentleman, One"! + +And some face it boldly, and brazen + The shame and the utter disgrace; +While others, more sensitive, hasten + Their names and their deeds to efface. +They snap the frail thread which the Furies + And Fates have so cruelly spun. +May the great Final Judge and His juries + Have mercy on "Gentleman, One"! + + + + +The Melting of the Snow + + + +There's a sunny Southern land, + And it's there that I would be +Where the big hills stand, + In the South Countrie! +When the wattles bloom again, + Then it's time for us to go +To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + +To the East or to the West, + Or wherever you may be, +You will find no place + Like the South Countrie. +For the skies are blue above, + And the grass is green below, +In the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + +Now the team is in the plough, + And the thrushes start to sing, +And the pigeons on the bough + Sit a-welcoming the Spring. +So come my comrades all, + Let us saddle up and go +To the old Monaro country + At the melting of the snow. + + + + +A Dream of the Melbourne Cup + + (1886) + + + +Bring me a quart of colonial beer +And some doughy damper to make good cheer, + I must make a heavy dinner; +Heavily dine and heavily sup, +Of indigestible things fill up, +Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, + And I have to dream the winner. + +Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, +The rich ragout and the charming cham., + I've got to mix my liquor; +Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, +Hard and tough as a wooden peg, +And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, + 'Twill make me dream the quicker. + +Now I am full of fearful feed, +Now I may dream a race indeed, + In my restless, troubled slumber; +While the night-mares race through my heated brain +And their devil-riders spur amain, +The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, + And I'll spot the winning number. + + . . . . . + +Thousands and thousands and thousands more, +Like sands on the white Pacific shore, + The crowding people cluster; +For evermore it's the story old, +While races are bought and backers are sold, +Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, + In their thousands still they muster. + +And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, +"I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!" + "Five monkeys, Little John, sir!" +"Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!" +And so they shout through the livelong day, +And stick to the game that is sure to pay, + While fools put money on, sir! + +And now in my dream I seem to go +And bet with a "book" that I seem to know -- + A Hebrew money-lender; +A million to five is the price I get -- +Not bad! but before I book the bet +The horse's name I clean forget, + Its number and even gender. + +Now for the start, and here they come, +And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum + Beat by a hand unsteady; +They come like a rushing, roaring flood, +Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; +For Acme is making the pace so good + There are some of 'em done already. + +But round the back she begins to tire, +And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!" + The magpie jacket's leading; +And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, +And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, +But at length gives way to the black and gold, + Which away to the front is speeding. + +Carry them on and keep it up -- +A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, + You must race and stay to win it; +And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, +Now takes the lead with his raking stride, +And a mighty roar goes far and wide -- + "There's only Commotion in it!" + +But one draws out from the beaten ruck +And up on the rails by a piece of luck + He comes in a style that's clever; +"It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!" +"Go at 'em now while their courage fails;" +"Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!" + "The blue and white for ever!" + +Under the whip! with the ears flat back, +Under the whip! though the sinews crack, + No sign of the base white feather; +Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, +Stick to it now though your hearts should break, +While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, + They come down the straight together. + +Trident slowly forges ahead, +The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, + The pace is undiminished; +Now for the Panics that never fail! +But many a backer's face grows pale +As old Commotion swings his tail + And swerves -- and the Cup is finished. + + . . . . . + +And now in my dream it all comes back: +I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, + A million I've won, no question! +"Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! +Give me my money, bookmaking dog!" +But he disappeared in a kind of fog, + And I woke with "the indigestion". + + + + +The Gundaroo Bullock + + + +Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, +And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the "Goulburn Roan"; +But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few +Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo. + +Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, +There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; +For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, +And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo. + +There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, +And he said to Smith the squatter, "You must saddle up and ride, +For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo -- +He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo." + +"Oh, ho!" said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, +"I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, +And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, +With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide." + +That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, +They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. +"Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew -- +The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo." + +They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, +But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. +"What's this?" exclaimed the trooper -- "an infant, I declare;" +Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. +I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, +Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo. + +"The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, +The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; +We can't afford a bullock -- such expense would never do -- +So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo." + +And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, +In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, +On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, +But you mustn't ask for "bullock" when you go to Gundaroo. + + + + +Lay of the Motor-Car + + + +We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd + In our whiskers and teeth; +And the granite-like grey of the road + Seems to slide underneath. +As an eagle might sweep through the sky, + So we sweep through the land; +And the pallid pedestrians fly + When they hear us at hand. + +We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! + Not the fast-fleeing hare, +Nor the racehorses under the whip, + Nor the birds of the air +Can compete with our swiftness sublime, + Our ease and our grace. +We annihilate chickens and time + And policemen and space. + +Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? + How he dropped down to pray +In the road when he saw he was lost; + How he melted away +Underneath, and there rang through the fog + His earsplitting squeal +As he went ---- Is that he or a dog, + That stuff on the wheel? + + + + +The Corner Man + + + +I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, + When fancies come and go +To vex a man in his soothing sleep + With thoughts of awful woe -- +I dreamed that I was a corner-man + Of a nigger minstrel show. + +I cracked my jokes, and the building rang + With laughter loud and long; +I hushed the house as I softly sang + An old plantation song -- +A tale of the wicked slavery days + Of cruelty and wrong. + +A small boy sat on the foremost seat -- + A mirthful youngster he; +He beat the time with his restless feet + To each new melody, +And he picked me out as the brightest star + Of the black fraternity. + +"Oh father," he said, "what WOULD we do + If the corner-man should die? +I never saw such a man -- did you? + He makes the people cry, +And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh." + The old man made reply -- + +"We each of us fill a very small space + In the great creation's plan, +If a man don't keep his lead in the race + There's plenty more that can; +The world can very soon fill the place + Of even a corner-man." + + . . . . . + +I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find + Myself at home in bed, +And I framed a moral in my mind + From the words the old man said. +The world will jog along just the same + When its corner-men are dead. + + + + +When Dacey Rode the Mule + + + +'Twas to a small, up-country town, + When we were boys at school, +There came a circus with a clown, + Likewise a bucking mule. +The clown announced a scheme they had + Spectators for to bring -- +They'd give a crown to any lad + Who'd ride him round the ring. + + And, gentle reader, do not scoff + Nor think a man a fool -- + To buck a porous-plaster off + Was pastime to that mule. + +The boys got on; he bucked like sin; + He threw them in the dirt, +What time the clown would raise a grin + By asking, "Are you hurt?" +But Johnny Dacey came one night, + The crack of all the school; +Said he, "I'll win the crown all right, + Bring in your bucking mule." + + The elephant went off his trunk, + The monkey played the fool, + And all the band got blazing drunk + When Dacey rode the mule. + +But soon there rose a galling shout + Of laughter, for the clown +From somewhere in his pants drew out + A little paper crown. +He placed the crown on Dacey's head + While Dacey looked a fool; +"Now, there's your crown, my lad," he said, + "For riding of the mule!" + + The band struck up with "Killaloe", + And "Rule Britannia, Rule", + And "Young Man from the Country", too, + When Dacey rode the mule. + +Then Dacey, in a furious rage, + For vengeance on the show +Ascended to the monkeys' cage + And let the monkeys go; +The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee + He turned abroad to roam; +Good faith! It was a sight to see + The people step for home. + + For big baboons with canine snout + Are spiteful, as a rule -- + The people didn't sit it out + When Dacey rode the mule. + +And from the beasts that made escape, + The bushmen all declare, +Were born some creatures partly ape + And partly native-bear. +They're rather few and far between, + The race is nearly spent; +But some of them may still be seen + In Sydney Parliament. + + And when those legislators fight, + And drink, and act the fool, + Just blame it on that torrid night + When Dacey rode the mule. + + + + +The Mylora Elopement + + + +By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, +And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, +Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, +Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, "cocky" on Mylora Run. + +Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. +Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; +And Amelia loved him truly -- but the course of love, if true, +Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do. + +Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss +Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss +That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. +Old McGrath "Good day" exchanges -- off goes Jim to see his child; + +Says, "The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, +And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. +Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, +And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below. + +"I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, +One more kiss -- don't think I'm greedy -- good-bye, lass, before I'm seen -- +Just one more -- God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, +Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear." + + . . . . . + +The daylight shines on figures twain +That ride across Mylora plain, +Laughing and talking -- Jim and Jane. +"Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, +Didn't we slip the old man prime! +I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, +I reckon he'll find it too big a job. +They've beaten us all. I had a try, +But the warrigal devils seem to fly. +That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff +No doubt, but not quite good enough. +He'll have to gallop the livelong day, +To cut and come, to race and stay. +I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; +To see us going I don't think would." +A turn in the road and, fair and square, +They meet the old man standing there. +"What's up?" "Why, running away, of course," +Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, +His eye with wild excitement burned. +"I've raced all day through the scorching heat +After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. +But over that range I think you'll find +The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. +Will you go and leave the mob behind? +Which will you do? Take the girl away, +Or ride like a white man should to-day, +And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?" +Says Jim, "I can't throw this away, +We can bolt some other day, of course, +Amelia Jane, get off that horse. +Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. +Here goes to put old Bowneck through!" +Two distant specks on the mountain side, +Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. +Amelia Jane sat down and cried. + + . . . . . + +"Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? +Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, +And him dead beat. Where have you been? +"Bolted with Jim! What DO you mean?" +"Met the old man with Sambo licked +From running old Bowneck." "Well, I'm kicked -- +Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? +What did Jim do when you were stopped? +Did you bolt from father across the plain? +Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! +And father got on, and away again +The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. +Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! +They're sure to get them now, of course, +That Tambourine is a spanking horse. +And Crazy Jane is good as gold. +And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; +Not like your father, but very fair. +Jim will have to follow the mare." +"It never was yet in father's hide +To best my Jim on the mountain-side. +Jim can rally, and Jim can ride." +But here again Amelia cried. + + . . . . . + +The sound of a whip comes faint and far, +A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, +In all their tameless pride. +The fleet wild horses snort with fear, +And wheel and break as the yard draws near. +Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! +Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! +And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, +As under the whip the horses go +Adown the mountain side. +And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, +On a horse that never has failed him yet, +Is after them down the range. +Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel -- whoa back! +And long and loud the stockwhips crack, +Their flying course they change, +"Steadily does it -- let Sambo go! +Open those sliprails down below. +Smart! or you'll be too late. +They'll follow old Sambo up -- look out! +Wheel that black horse -- give Sam a clout. +They're in! Make fast the gate." + + . . . . . + +The mob is safely in the yard! +The old man mounts delighted guard. +No thought has he but for his prize. +Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. +"Will you come after all? the job is done, +And Crazy Jane is fit to run +For a prince's life -- now don't say no; +Slip on while the old man's down below +At the inner yard, and away we'll go. +Will you come, my girl?" "I will, you bet, +We'll manage this here elopement yet." + + . . . . . + +By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. +And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. +He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, +There'll be numerous "Six-fortys" taken on Mylora run. + + + + +The Pannikin Poet + + + +There's nothing here sublime, +But just a roving rhyme, +Run off to pass the time, + With nought titanic in +The theme that it supports, +And, though it treats of quarts, +It's bare of golden thoughts -- + It's just a pannikin. + +I think it's rather hard +That each Australian bard -- +Each wan, poetic card -- + With thoughts galvanic in +His fiery soul alight, +In wild aerial flight, +Will sit him down and write + About a pannikin. + +He makes some new-chum fare +From out his English lair +To hunt the native bear, + That curious mannikin; +And then when times get bad +That wandering English lad +Writes out a message sad + Upon his pannikin: + +"Oh, mother, think of me +Beneath the wattle tree" +(For you may bet that he + Will drag the wattle in) +"Oh, mother, here I think +That I shall have to sink, +There ain't a single drink + The water-bottle in." + +The dingo homeward hies, +The sooty crows uprise +And caw their fierce surprise + A tone Satanic in; +And bearded bushmen tread +Around the sleeper's head -- +"See here -- the bloke is dead! + Now where's his pannikin?" + +They read his words and weep, +And lay him down to sleep +Where wattle-branches sweep, + A style mechanic in; +And, reader, that's the way +The poets of to-day +Spin out their little lay + About a pannikin. + + + + +Not on It + + + +The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet -- +The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. +The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet + He was on it. + +The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, +The band played "What Ho! Robbo!" as our hero cantered by, +The people in the Leger Stand cried out, "Hi, Mister, Hi! + Are you on it?" + +They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told -- +The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. +The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold + Was not on it. + + + + +The Protest + + + +I say 'e ISN'T Remorse! + 'Ow do I know? +Saw 'im on Riccarton course + Two year ago! +Think I'd forget any 'orse? + COURSE 'e's The Crow! + +Bumper Maginnis and I, + After a "go", +Walkin' our 'orses to dry, + I says, "Hello! +What's that old black goin' by?" + Bumper says "Oh! +That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's -- + Runs as The Crow!" + +Now they make out 'e's Remorse. + Well, but I KNOW. +Soon as I came on the course + I says "'Ello! + 'Ere's the old Crow." +Once a man's seen any 'orse, + 'Course 'e must know. +Sure as there's wood in this table, + I say 'e's The Crow. + + (Cross-examined by the Committee.) + +'Ow do I know the moke + After one sight? +S'posin' you met a bloke + Down town at night, +Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? + That's 'IM all right! + +What was the brand on 'is 'ide? + _I_ couldn't say, +Brands can be transmogrified. + That ain't the way -- +It's the LOOK of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves + That I'd know any day. + +What was the boy on 'is back? + Why, 'e went past +All of a minute, and off down the track. + -- "The 'orse went as fast?" +True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! +'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat +Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? + Lor'! What a question to ast! + + (Protest dismissed.) + + + + +The Scapegoat + + + +We have all of us read how the Israelites fled +From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, +And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" +When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. +The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" +That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. +You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- +Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". + +For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears +In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, +The Israelite horde went roaming abroad +Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. +When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, +Was dying, he murmured "A rorty old hoss you are: +I give you command of the whole of the band" -- +And handed the Government over to Joshua. + + . . . . . + +But Moses told 'em before he died, +"Wherever you are, whatever betide, +Every year as the time draws near +By lot or by rote choose you a goat, +And let the high priest confess on the beast +The sins of the people, the worst and the least. +Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, +Because all your sins are "his troubles" in future. +Then lead him away to the wilderness black +To die with the weight of your sins on his back: +Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, +For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" + +'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, +This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. +By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, +Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, +Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, +Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. +(Just here let us note -- DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT? +It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture +By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a +Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose +Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. +In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; +'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, +When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; +Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers +Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, +That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) +Be that as it may, as each year passed away, +A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted +With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) +And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. + + . . . . . + +The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, +With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, +They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: +On every hand a reverend band, +Prophets and preachers and elders stand +And the oldest rabBI, with a tear in his eye, +Delivers a sermon to all standing by. +(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he +No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of a Pharisee.) +The sermon was marked by a deal of humility +And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, +That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, +And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. +Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat +And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, +Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. +With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- +"Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, +The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" +Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. + +The animal, freed from all restraint +Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, +And charged straight at that elderly saint. +So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it +Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, +Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. +The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, +A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", +Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", +And made a bee-line back again to the camp. +The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast +So gallantly making his way to the East, +Says he: "From the tents may I never more roam again +If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. +He's hurrying, too! This never will do. +Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. +After all our confessions, so openly granted, +He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. +We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, +If he takes home our sins -- it'll burst up the Synagogue!" + +He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, +A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. +"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, +And drive back the brute to the desert again. +The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, +From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- +Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you." +So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, +But the goat made it clear each time he drew near +That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. + +The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- +"Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- +And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, +The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. +The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, +And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! +He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" +But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. +('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), +"It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be +A good thing for someone to take up the running." +As soon said as done, they started to run -- +The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns +All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, +And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. +And then it came out, as the rabble and rout +Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- +The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, +Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, +And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, +"Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" +Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, +And Abraham proved him an "even-time" man, +But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, +Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' +And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. + +Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp +Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, +And paling and wall he plasters them all, +"I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, +Then pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills": +"Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all +Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; +Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! +Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, +For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!" +Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side +Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! +One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" +And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. +His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, +But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. + +With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, +The people came back from the desert in dread. +"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" +In very short order they got plenty word of him, +In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, +"The trail of the serpent was over them all." +A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter +Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". +The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, +The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; +He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, +But his latest achievement most anger arouses, +For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, +One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, +Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums. + + + Moral: + +The moral is patent to all the beholders -- +Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; +Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, +Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; +Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, +But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. +Remember, no matter how far you may roam, +That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens +Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". +Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, +And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it -- +But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it! + + + + +An Evening in Dandaloo + + + +It was while we held our races -- +Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases -- + Up in Dandaloo, +That a crowd of Sydney stealers, +Jockeys, pugilists and spielers +Brought some horses, real heelers, + Came and put us through. + +Beat our nags and won our money, +Made the game by no means funny, + Made us rather blue; +When the racing was concluded, +Of our hard-earned coin denuded +Dandaloonies sat and brooded + There in Dandaloo. + + . . . . . + +Night came down on Johnson's shanty +Where the grog was no means scanty, + And a tumult grew +Till some wild, excited person +Galloped down the township cursing, +"Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, + Roll up, Dandaloo!" + +Great St. Denis! what commotion! +Like the rush of stormy ocean + Fiery horsemen flew. +Dust and smoke and din and rattle, +Down the street they spurred their cattle +To the war-cry of the battle, + "Wade in, Dandaloo!" + +So the boys might have their fight out, +Johnson blew the bar-room light out, + Then, in haste, withdrew. +And in darkness and in doubting +Raged the conflict and the shouting, +"Give the Sydney push a clouting, + Go it, Dandaloo!" + +Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, +Every head he saw he struck it -- + Struck in earnest, too; +And a man from Lower Wattle, +Whom a shearer tried to throttle, +Hit out freely with a bottle, + There in Dandaloo. + +Skin and hair were flying thickly, +When a light was fetched, and quickly + Brought a fact to view -- +On the scene of the diversion +Every single, solid person +Come along to help Macpherson -- + ALL were Dandaloo!" + +When the list of slain was tabled, +Some were drunk and some disabled, + Still we found it true. +In the darkness and the smother +We'd been belting one another; +Jack Macpherson bashed his brother + There in Dandaloo. + +So we drank, and all departed -- +How the "mobbing" yarn was started + No one ever knew -- +And the stockmen tell the story +Of that conflict fierce and gory, +How we fought for love and glory + Up in Dandaloo. + +It's a proverb now, or near it -- +At the races you can hear it, + At the dog-fights, too! +Every shrieking, dancing drover +As the canines topple over +Yells applause to Grip or Rover, + "Give him `Dandaloo'!" + +And the teamster slowly toiling +Through the deep black country, soiling + Wheels and axles, too, +Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, +Rouses Tarboy with a flanker -- +"Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! + Wade in, Dandaloo!" + + + + +A Ballad of Ducks + + + +The railway rattled and roared and swung +With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. +The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung +In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue +Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told +This terrible tale of the days of old, +And the party that ought to have kept the ducks. + +"Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land +With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; +And the rabbits have pretty well took command; +But the hardest thing for a man to stand +Is the feller who says `Well, I told you so! +You should ha' done this way, don't you know!' -- +I could lay a bait for a man like that. + +"The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one +And what they leave -- well, it ain't `de luxe'. +But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun +Who'd lent some money to stock our run -- +I said they'd eaten what grass we had -- +Says he, `Your management's very bad, +You had a right to have kept some ducks!' + +"To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! +Wherever you went you had to tread +On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; +And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, +If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly +Like bullets into your open eye +And knock it out of the back of your head. + +"There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, +Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, +Can make a difference on a run +When a grasshopper plague has once begun; +`If you'd finance us,' I says, `I'd buy +Ten thousand emus and have a try; +The job,' I says, `is too big for ducks! + +"`You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; +A great big duck -- a Muscovy toff -- +Ready and fit,' I says, `for the fray; +And if the grasshoppers come our way +You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, +And I'd be ready to make a match +That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!' + +"He came to visit us by and by, +And it just so happened one day in Spring +A kind of a cloud came over the sky -- +A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, +And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, +Flyin' in regiments, side by side, +And eatin' up every living thing. + +"All day long, like a shower of rain, +You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, +Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, +And they'd rise and jump at the house again +Till their crippled carcases piled outside. +But what did it matter if thousands died -- +A million wouldn't be missed at all. + +"We were drinkin' grasshoppers -- so to speak -- +Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; +And they fell so thick in the station creek +They choked the waterholes all the week. +There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, +And they'd only take artificial flies -- +They got so sick of the real thing. + +"An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags +When the hoppers rose for their morning flight +With a flapping noise like a million flags: +And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags +For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry +Till the cook sat down and began to cry -- +And never a duck or a fowl in sight! + +"We strolled across to the railroad track -- +Under a cover, beneath some trucks, +I sees a feather and hears a quack; +I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back -- +Every duck in the place was there, +No good to them was the open air. +`Mister,' I says, `There's your blanky ducks!'" + + + + +Tommy Corrigan + + (Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.) + + + +You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, +Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. +It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, +To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; +But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat -- +When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet? + +When any slip means sudden death -- with wife and child to keep -- +It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap -- +But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, +He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; +With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, +He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race. + +He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, +He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; +He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all -- +But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. +But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand +Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. + +They were, indeed, a glorious pair -- the great upstanding horse, +The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. +Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, +"You follow Tommy Corrigan" was passed to one and all. +And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command +To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. + +But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, +We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. +We'll drink to him in silence, boys -- he's followed down the track +Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. +And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, +That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. + + + + +The Maori's Wool + + + +~Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how +They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au.~ + + . . . . . + +The Maoris are a mighty race -- the finest ever known; +Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; +They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done +They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. +But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, +Prepared to smoke or drink or talk -- or anything but work. +The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow +Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. + +'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, +A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name -- +(The word Rerenga means a "snag" -- but until he was gone +This didn't strike the folk he met -- it struck them later on). +He stalked into the Bank they call the "Great Financial Hell", +And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. +The Bold Bank Manager looked grave -- the price of wool was high. +He said, "We'll lend you what you need -- we're not disposed to buy. +You ship the wool to England, Chief! -- You'll find it's good advice, +And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price." +The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state +In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, +But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand +This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. +So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, +To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. + +They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, +With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. +They called themselves poetic names -- "lost children in a wood"; +They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai -- extra good! +And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, +To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; +And wedged into a "Cargo Tank", full up from stern to bow, +A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. + +It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; +Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; +A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark -- +You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark -- +But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, +"I'll haka for you, sir," he said, "in honour of yourself!" +The haka is a striking dance -- the sort they don't allow +In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. + +He "haka'd" most effectively -- then, with an airy grace +Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. +But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! +For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! +Yes -- thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; +On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. +And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, +Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. + + + + +The Angel's Kiss + + + +An angel stood beside the bed +Where lay the living and the dead. + +He gave the mother -- her who died -- +A kiss that Christ the Crucified + +Had sent to greet the weary soul +When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. + +He gave the infant kisses twain, +One on the breast, one on the brain. + +"Go forth into the world," he said, +"With blessings on your heart and head, + +"For God, who ruleth righteously, +Hath ordered that to such as be + +"From birth deprived of mother's love, +I bring His blessing from above; + +"But if the mother's life He spare +Then she is made God's messenger + +"To kiss and pray that heart and brain +May go through life without a stain." + +The infant moved towards the light, +The angel spread his wings in flight. + +But each man carries to his grave +The kisses that in hopes to save +The angel or his mother gave. + + + + +Sunrise on the Coast + + + +Grey dawn on the sand-hills -- the night wind has drifted + All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; +With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, + At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. + +Like mariners calling the roll of their number + The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. +And far over-head -- sinking softly to slumber -- + Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. + +To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on + The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; +And far from behind the enshrouded horizon + Comes the voice of a God saying "Let there be light." + +And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, + It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; +And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour -- + Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! + + + + +The Reveille + + + +Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, + Sound a loud reveille; +Sound it over Sydney shore, +Send the message far and wide +Down the Richmond River side -- +Boot and saddle, mount and ride, + Sound a loud reveille. + +Whither go ye, Lancers gay, + With your bold reveille? +O'er the ocean far away +From your sunny southern home, +Over leagues of trackless foam, +In a foreign land to roam + With your bold reveille. + +When we hear our brethren call, + Sound a clear reveille. +Then we answer, one and all, +Answer that the world may see, +"Of the English stock are we, +At their side we still will be" -- + That's our bold reveille. + + + + +[End of original text.] + + + + +[Original Advertisement] + +Pocket Editions for the Trenches + +Price, 4/- each (postage, per volume: within the Commonwealth, 1d.; +to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) + +Saltbush Bill, J.P. By Major A. B. Paterson ("The Banjo") +The Moods of Ginger Mick. By C. J. Dennis +The Australian, and other Verses. By Will H. Ogilvie +Songs of a Sentimental Bloke. By C. J. Dennis +The Man from Snowy River. By Major A. B. Paterson +Rio Grande, and other Verses. By Major A. B. Paterson + +Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold +during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour +by Norman Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable +from all Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. + +[End Original Advertisement] + + + + + +About the author: + +Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, +New South Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, +when he went to Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor +(a type of lawyer) but also contributed some verse to the Sydney "Bulletin" +under the pseudonym of "The Banjo", taken from the name of a horse. +His first book, "The Man from Snowy River", was published in 1895, +and has sold more copies than any other book of Australian poetry. +He later gave up law to become a journalist, and went to South Africa +to report on the Boer War. When World War I broke out +he sought work as a war correspondent, but failed to get it. +He then went to work driving an ambulance in France, and later became +a Remount Officer with the Australian forces then in Egypt. +After returning to Australia in 1919 he continued as a writer, +and died in Sydney on 5 February 1941. + +Paterson's most famous work is "Waltzing Matilda", written in 1895, +and now an unofficial anthem of Australia. "The Man from Snowy River" +has since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, +and even a series on a cable television network. "Clancy of the Overflow" +is similarly well known. + + + + +An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: + + +Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. + +Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for tea. + +Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and shrubs, + especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. + +Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. + +Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. + The leaves of the Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, + as an adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. + +Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United Kingdom + (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to 1910. + +Fi. fa.: fieri facias -- a legal paper authorising the seizure + of a debtor's goods. + +Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. + +Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). + +Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, + especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. + A gunyah, wurley, or mia-mia. + +Jumbuck: A sheep. + +Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. + +Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, + his last expedition (in 1848) never returned. + +Matilda: A swag. See "Waltz Matilda". + +Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. + +Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; + any of several types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). + +Native bear: A koala. + +Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, + and especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; + to drive stock by land, especially on this route. + +Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. + +Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, + of the genus Thylogalefound. + +Pah/Pa: A Maori village. + +Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. + +Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. + +Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. + +Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the group. + +Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, + especially of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which + is limited to Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, + saltbush can grow in arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; + the region where saltbush grows. + +Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land + by lease or license from the government. + +Shout: To buy a round of drinks. + +Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government permission, + and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise stock; + a wealthy rural landowner. + +Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. + +Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, + explored eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery + of the river system in southeastern Australia. + +Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for work, + but looking for food and/or shelter. + +Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. + +Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, + e.g. carrying a swag. + +Tucker: Food. + +Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, etc., + related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) "on the wallaby (track)", + on the move, on the road. + +Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. "Waltz", to travel in circles. + +Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; + by association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). + +Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. + +Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, + having off-white or yellow flowers. So named because + the branches were used to weave wattle, a type of construction + made of interwoven branches and the like. + +Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family Vombatidae, + which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant person. + +Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, + A. glaucescens. + + + + +Notes on the text: + + +"An Answer to Various Bards" appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of poems +in the Sydney `Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, +or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), +primarily between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], +who may have staged the debate as a way of selling more poems. + +Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], +who, despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush +in at least one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie [1869-1963] +who was in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, returned in 1901, +and was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). + +Other verses from the debate maybe found in "The Man from Snowy River" +by Paterson and "In the Days When the World was Wide" by Henry Lawson. + +The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts +in the original edition. + + +"`Shouting' for a Camel": A number of camels were brought to Australia, +with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden +in the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. +(A similar scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, +but no camels remain.) + + +"The Gundaroo Bullock": + +[ Said Morgan, "Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + changed to: +[ Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] + + +"Lay of the Motor-Car": To put this poem in perspective, +it must be remembered that this book was published in 1917, +and the poem written earlier. It may be helpful to compare +Paterson's short story, "Three Elephant Power", in the book of the same name +that was published in the same year. The plot centres around a speed demon +who would drive at unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) + + +"The Mylora Elopement": + +[ No thought has be but for his prize. ] + changed to: +[ No thought has he but for his prize. ] + + +"The Protest": + +[ W ll, but I KNOW. ] + changed to: +[ Well, but I KNOW. ] + + +"The Maori's Wool": + +[ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] + changed to: +[ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] + + + +"The Lost Drink", "The Matrimonial Stakes", "Not on It", "The Scapegoat", +"The Angel's Kiss", and "The Reveille" were all dropped from "Saltbush Bill" +when it was included in Paterson's "Collected Verse" (first issued in 1921). +No poems were added, though "The Song of the Pen" moved +from the front of the book to the back, and several titles +were slightly changed. No effort has been made to compare the texts. + +There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was added. + +Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) +and the "frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay", +the first of which was set above the lines: + + "But when the dawn makes pink the sky + And steals across the plain, + The Brumby horses turn and fly + Towards the hills again." + +which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of "Brumby's Run" +(should be "steals along the plain"). + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Saltbush Bill, J.P., by A. B. Paterson + diff --git a/old/old/biljp10.zip b/old/old/biljp10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5dab315 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/biljp10.zip |