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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> |