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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24455d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52066 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52066) diff --git a/old/52066-0.txt b/old/52066-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6dcbf99..0000000 --- a/old/52066-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6147 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses popular and humorous, by Henry Lawson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Verses popular and humorous - -Author: Henry Lawson - -Release Date: May 14, 2016 [EBook #52066] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES POPULAR AND HUMOROUS *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Bryan Ness, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - - POPULAR AND HUMOROUS VERSES - - [Illustration] - - - - - VERSES - POPULAR AND HUMOROUS - - BY - HENRY LAWSON - - AUTHOR OF “WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES,” - “WHILE THE BILLY BOILS,” AND “ON THE TRACK AND - OVER THE SLIPRAILS” - - [Illustration: “_A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb - and Co.!_”] - - SYDNEY - ANGUS AND ROBERTSON - LONDON: THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK COMPANY - 38 WEST SMITHFIELD, E.C. - 1900 - - SYDNEY: - WEBSDALE, SHOOSMITH AND CO., PRINTERS, - 117 CLARENCE STREET. - - - - -PREFACE - - -My acknowledgments of the courtesy of the editors and proprietors of the -newspapers in which most of these verses were first published are due -and are gratefully discharged on the eve of my departure for England. -Chief among them is the Sydney _Bulletin_; others are the Sydney _Town -and Country Journal_, _Freeman’s Journal_, and _Truth_, and the _New -Zealand Mail_. - -A few new pieces are included in the collection. - -H. L. - -_Sydney, March 17th, 1900._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA - Down here where the ships loom large in 1 - -THE THREE KINGS - The East is dead and the West is done, - and again our course lies thus:-- 5 - -THE OUTSIDE TRACK - There were ten of us there on the moonlit quay, 8 - -SYDNEY-SIDE - Where’s the steward?--Bar-room steward? - Berth? Oh, any berth will do-- 10 - -THE ROVERS - Some born of homely parents 13 - -FOREIGN LANDS - You may roam the wide seas over, follow, - meet, and cross the sun, 18 - -MARY LEMAINE - Jim Duff was a ‘native,’ as wild as could be; 22 - -THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR - Set me back for twenty summers-- 25 - -REEDY RIVER - Ten miles down Reedy River 28 - -OLD STONE CHIMNEY - The rising moon on the peaks was blending 31 - -SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER - Far Back in the days when the blacks - used to ramble 35 - -THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. - Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men, 39 - -HOW THE LAND WAS WON - The future was dark and the past was dead 45 - -THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD - When he’s over a rough and unpopular - shed, 48 - -WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEARING SHED - ‘The ladies are coming,’ the super says 52 - -THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT - A rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any - land--or none-- 55 - -YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA - The big rough boys from the runs out - back were first where the balls flew free, 60 - -THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER - The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar, 67 - -THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’ - With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce 69 - -THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH - The plains lay bare on the homeward route, 71 - -THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER - The skies are brass and the plains are bare, 73 - -RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS - The valley’s full of misty cloud, 75 - -A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS - ’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin, 76 - -THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO - Let bushmen think as bushmen will, 78 - -THE DONS OF SPAIN - The Eagle screams at the beck of trade, - so Spain, as the world goes round, 81 - -THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM - The shipping office clerks are ‘short,’ the - manager is gruff-- 84 - -ANTONY VILLA - Over there, above the jetty, stands the - mansion of the Vardens, 90 - -SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE - On suburban railway stations--you may - see them as you pass-- 96 - -THE SHIPS THAT WON’T GO DOWN - We hear a great commotion 99 - -THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN - When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me 101 - -THE WAY OF THE WORLD - When fairer faces turn from me, 103 - -THE BATTLING DAYS - So, sit you down in a straight-backed - chair, with your pipe and your wife content, 105 - -WRITTEN AFTERWARDS - So the days of my tramping are over, 108 - -THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS CULTURED CRITICS - Fight through ignorance, want, and care-- 111 - -THE WRITER’S DREAM - A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and - he followed their tracks afar; 113 - -THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH - If I ever be worthy or famous-- 121 - -MY LITERARY FRIEND - Once I wrote a little poem which I - thought was very fine, 125 - -MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’ - They’d parted but a year before--she - never thought he’d come, 127 - -REJECTED - She says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate; 130 - -O’HARA, J.P. - James Patrick O’Hara, the Justice of Peace, 134 - -BILL AND JIM FALL OUT - Bill and Jim are mates no longer--they - would scorn the name of mate-- 138 - -THE PAROO - It was a week from Christmas-time, 142 - -THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT - Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!--you - don’t know what it means. 146 - -THE MAN FROM WATERLOO - It was the Man from Waterloo, 151 - -SAINT PETER - Now, I think there is a likeness 155 - -THE STRANGER’S FRIEND - The strangest things, and the maddest - things, that a man can do or say, 158 - -THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION - Pat M‘Durmer brought the tidings to the - town of God-Forgotten: 162 - -THE BOSS’S BOOTS - The shearers squint along the pens, they - squint along the ‘shoots;’ 168 - -THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH - As the night was falling slowly down on - city, town and bush, 174 - -BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’ - Long Bill, the captain of the push, was - tired of his estate, 181 - -A DERRY ON A COVE - ’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his - eyes were black and blue; 185 - -RISE YE! RISE YE! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim - your rights with fire and steel! 187 - -THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE - Ye children of the Land of Gold, 190 - -CONSTABLE M‘CARTHY’S INVESTIGATIONS - Most unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts - of lower orders 196 - -AT THE TUG-OF-WAR - ’Twas in a tug-of-war where I--the - guvnor’s hope and pride-- 205 - -HERE’S LUCK! - Old Time is tramping close to-day--you - hear his bluchers fall, 208 - -THE MEN WHO COME BEHIND - There’s a class of men (and women) who - are always on their guard-- 211 - -THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT SWIMMING - The breezes waved the silver grass, 214 - -THE OLD BARK SCHOOL - It was built of bark and poles, and the - floor was full of holes 216 - -TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION - You lazy boy, you’re here at last, 220 - -THE PROFESSIONAL WANDERER - When you’ve knocked about the country--been - away from home for years; 222 - -A LITTLE MISTAKE - ’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’ 225 - -A STUDY IN THE “NOOD” - He was bare--we don’t want to be rude-- 228 - -A WORD TO TEXAS JACK - Texas Jack, you are amusin’. By Lord - Harry, how I laughed 231 - -THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE - ’Twixt the coastline and the border lay - the town of Grog-an’-Grumble 237 - -BUT WHAT’S THE USE - But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’-- 242 - - - - -VIGNETTES BY FRANK P. MAHONY - - -PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR _facing title page_ - -THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. _title page_ - -MY LITERARY FRIEND _page_ xvi. - -[Illustration: - - _“Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine, - And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine, - First he praised the thing a little....”_ - -_page 125._ -] - - - - - THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA - - - Down here where the ships loom large in - The gloom when the sea-storms veer, - Down here on the south-west margin - Of the western hemisphere, - Where the might of a world-wide ocean - Round the youngest land rolls free-- - Storm-bound from the world’s commotion, - Lie the Ports of the Open Sea. - - By the bluff where the grey sand reaches - To the kerb of the spray-swept street, - By the sweep of the black sand beaches - From the main-road travellers’ feet, - By the heights like a work Titanic, - Begun ere the gods’ work ceased, - By a bluff-lined coast volcanic - Lie the Ports of the wild South-east. - - By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges, - By the scarped and terraced hills-- - Far away from the swift life-changes, - From the wear of the strife that kills-- - Where the land in the Spring seems younger - Than a land of the Earth might be-- - Oh! the hearts of the rovers hunger - For the Ports of the Open Sea. - - But the captains watch and hearken - For a sign of the South Sea wrath-- - Let the face of the South-east darken, - And they turn to the ocean path. - Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger, - Whatever the cargo be; - When the South-east lifts a finger - By the Ports of the Open Sea. - - South by the bleak Bluff faring, - North where the Three Kings wait, - South-east the tempest daring-- - Flight through the storm-tossed strait; - Yonder a white-winged roamer - Struck where the rollers roar-- - Where the great green froth-flaked comber - Breaks down on a black-ribbed shore. - - For the South-east lands are dread lands - To the sailor in the shrouds, - Where the low clouds loom like headlands, - And the black bluffs blur like clouds. - When the breakers rage to windward - And the lights are masked a-lee, - And the sunken rocks run inward - To a Port of the Open Sea. - - But oh! for the South-east weather-- - The sweep of the three-days’ gale-- - When, far through the flax and heather, - The spindrift drives like hail. - Glory to man’s creations - That drive where the gale grows gruff, - When the homes of the sea-coast stations - Flash white from the dark’ning bluff! - - When the swell of the South-east rouses - The wrath of the Maori sprite, - And the brown folk flee their houses - And crouch in the flax by night, - And wait as they long have waited-- - In fear as the brown folk be-- - The wave of destruction fated - For the Ports of the Open Sea. - - * * * * * - - Grey cloud to the mountain bases, - Wild boughs that rush and sweep; - On the rounded hills the tussocks - Like flocks of flying sheep; - A lonely storm-bird soaring - O’er tussock, fern and tree; - And the boulder beaches roaring - The Hymn of the Open Sea. - - - - - THE THREE KINGS[A] - - [A] Three sea-girt pinnacles off North Cape, New Zealand. - - - The East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus:-- - South-east by Fate and the Rising Sun where the Three Kings wait for us. - _When our hearts are young and the world is wide, and the heights seem grand - to climb-- - We are off and away to the Sydney-side; but the Three Kings bide their - time._ - - ‘I’ve been to the West,’ the digger said: he was bearded, bronzed and old; - ‘Ah, the smothering curse of the East is wool, and the curse of the West is - gold. - ‘I went to the West in the golden boom, with Hope and a life-long mate, - ‘They sleep in the sand by the Boulder Soak, and long may the Three Kings - wait.’ - - ‘I’ve had my fling on the Sydney-side,’ said a black-sheep to the sea, - ‘Let the young fool learn when he can’t be taught: I’ve learnt what’s good - for me.’ - And he gazed ahead on the sea-line dim--grown dim in his softened eyes-- - With a pain in his heart that was good for him--as he saw the Three Kings - rise. - - A pale girl sits on the foc’sle head--she is back, Three Kings! so soon; - But it seems to her like a life-time dead since she fled with him ‘saloon.’ - There is refuge still in the old folks’ arms for the child that loved too - well; - They will hide her shame on the Southern farm--and the Three Kings will not - tell. - - ’Twas a restless heart on the tide of life, and a false star in the skies - That led me on to the deadly strife where the Southern London lies; - But I dream in peace of a home for me, by a glorious southern sound, - As the sunset fades from a moonlit sea, and the Three Kings show us round. - - _Our hearts are young and the old hearts old, and life on the farms is - slow,_ - _And away in the world there is fame and gold--and the Three Kings watch us - go._ - _Our heads seem wise and the world seems wide, and its heights are ours to - climb,_ - _So it’s off and away in our youthful pride--but the Three Kings bide our - time._ - - - - - THE OUTSIDE TRACK - - - There were ten of us there on the moonlit quay, - And one on the for’ard hatch; - No straighter mate to his mates than he - Had ever said: ‘Len’s a match!’ - ’Twill be long, old man, ere our glasses clink, - ’Twill be long ere we grip your hand!-- - And we dragged him ashore for a final drink - Till the whole wide world seemed grand. - - For they marry and go as the world rolls back, - They marry and vanish and die; - But their spirit shall live on the Outside Track - As long as the years go by. - - The port-lights glowed in the morning mist - That rolled from the waters green; - And over the railing we grasped his fist - As the dark tide came between. - - We cheered the captain and cheered the crew, - And our mate, times out of mind; - We cheered the land he was going to - And the land he had left behind. - - We roared Lang Syne as a last farewell, - But my heart seemed out of joint; - I well remember the hush that fell - When the steamer had passed the point - We drifted home through the public bars, - We were ten times less by one - Who sailed out under the morning stars, - And under the rising sun. - - And one by one, and two by two, - They have sailed from the wharf since then; - I have said good-bye to the last I knew, - The last of the careless men. - And I can’t but think that the times we had - Were the best times after all, - As I turn aside with a lonely glass - And drink to the bar-room wall. - - But I’ll try my luck for a cheque Out Back, - Then a last good-bye to the bush; - For my heart’s away on the Outside Track, - On the track of the steerage push. - - - - - SYDNEY-SIDE - - - Where’s the steward?--Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do-- - I have left a three-pound billet just to come along with you. - Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world that’s growing wide, - But I think I’d give a kingdom for a glimpse of Sydney-Side. - - Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on ocean’s bed; - Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse on South Head; - For in loneliness and hardship--and with just a touch of pride-- - Has my heart been taught to whisper, ‘You belong to Sydney-Side.’ - - Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and lonely days, - But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays-- - And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again - As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain. - - And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red, - And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley’s Head; - And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide-- - All the life and light and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side. - - And the dreary cloud-line never veiled the end of one day more, - But the city set in jewels rose before me from ‘The Shore.’ - Round the sea-world shine the beacons of a thousand ports o’ call, - But the harbour-lights of Sydney are the grandest of them all! - - Toiling out beyond Coolgardie--heart and back and spirit broke, - Where the Rover’s Star gleams redly in the desert by the ‘soak’-- - But says one mate to the other, ‘Brace your lip and do not fret, - We will laugh on trains and ’buses--Sydney’s in the same place yet.’ - - Working in the South in winter, to the waist in dripping fern, - Where the local spirit hungers for each ‘saxpence’ that we earn-- - We can stand it for a season, for our world is growing wide, - And they all are friends and strangers who belong to Sydney-Side. - - ‘T’other-siders! T’other-siders!’ Yet we wake the dusty dead; - It is we that send the backward province fifty years ahead; - We it is that ‘trim’ Australia--making narrow country wide-- - Yet we’re always T’other-siders till we sail for Sydney-side. - - - - - THE ROVERS - - - Some born of homely parents - For ages settled down-- - The steady generations - Of village, farm, and town: - And some of dusky fathers - Who wandered since the flood-- - The fairest skin or darkest - Might hold the roving blood-- - - Some born of brutish peasants, - And some of dainty peers, - In poverty or plenty - They pass their early years; - But, born in pride of purple, - Or straw and squalid sin, - In all the far world corners - The wanderers are kin. - - A rover or a rebel, - Conceived and born to roam, - As babies they will toddle - With faces turned from home; - They’ve fought beyond the vanguard - Wherever storm has raged, - And home is but a prison - They pace like lions caged. - - They smile and are not happy; - They sing and are not gay; - They weary, yet they wander; - They love, and cannot stay; - They marry, and are single - Who watch the roving star, - For, by the family fireside, - Oh, lonely men _they_ are! - - They die of peace and quiet-- - The deadly ease of life; - They die of home and comfort; - They _live_ in storm and strife; - No poverty can tie them, - Nor wealth nor place restrain-- - Girl, wife, or child might draw them, - But they’ll be gone again! - - Across the glowing desert; - Through naked trees and snow; - Across the rolling prairies - The skies have seen them go; - They fought to where the ocean - Receives the setting sun;-- - But where shall fight the rovers - When all the lands are won? - - They thirst on Greenland snowfields, - On Never-Never sands; - Where man is not to conquer - They conquer barren lands; - They feel that most are cowards, - That all depends on ‘nerve,’ - They lead who cannot follow, - They rule who cannot serve. - - Across the plains and ranges, - Away across the seas, - On blue and green horizons - They camp by twos and threes; - They hold on stormy borders - Of states that trouble earth - The honour of the country - That only gave them birth. - - Unlisted, uncommissioned, - Untaught of any school, - In far-away world corners - Unconquered tribes they rule; - The lone hand and revolver-- - Sad eyes that never quail-- - The lone hand and the rifle - That win where armies fail. - - They slumber sound where murder - And treachery are bare-- - The pluck of self-reliance, - The pluck of past despair; - Thin brown men in pyjamas-- - The thin brown wiry men!-- - The helmet and revolver - That lie beside the pen. - - Through drought and desolation - They won the way Out Back; - The commonplace and selfish - Have followed on their track; - They conquer lands for others, - For others find the gold,-- - But where shall go the rovers - When all the lands are old? - - A rover and a rebel-- - And so the worlds commence! - Their hearts shall beat as wildly - Ten generations hence; - And when the world is crowded-- - ’Tis signed and sealed by Fate-- - The roving blood will rise to make - The countries desolate. - - - - - FOREIGN LANDS - - - You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun, - Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run; - You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands, - But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’ - For the Early Days are over, - And no more the white-winged rover - Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands. - - Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream-like, faint and far, - Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are, - For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands, - And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands. - Ah! the days of blue and gold! - When the news was six months old-- - But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands. - - _Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat-- - Here the homes of ugly Commerce--niggard farm and haggard street; - Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands-- - Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands._ - - When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song, - And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong; - When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands-- - Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands, - ‘Fitting foreign’--flood and field-- - Half the world and orders sealed-- - And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands. - - Canvas towers on the ocean--homeward bound and outward bound-- - Glint of topsails over islands--splash of anchors in the sound; - Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands, - And they fought and toiled and conquered--making homes in Foreign Lands, - Through the cold and through the drought-- - Further on and further out-- - Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands. - - Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village hearts - Followed Master Will and Harry--gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’-- - - By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sands - Are the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands-- - Gave their young lives for our sake - (Was it all a grand mistake?) - Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands! - - _Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these, - I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’ - But with all the world before us, God above us--hearts and hands, - I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands._ - - - - - MARY LEMAINE - - - Jim Duff was a ‘native,’ as wild as could be; - A stealer and duffer of cattle was he, - But back in his youth he had stolen a pearl-- - Or a diamond rather--the heart of a girl; - She served with a squatter who lived on the plain, - And the name of the girl it was Mary Lemaine. - - ’Twas a drear, rainy day and the twilight was done, - When four mounted troopers rode up to the run. - They spoke to the squatter: he asked them all in. - The homestead was small and the walls they were thin; - And in the next room, with a cold in her head, - Our Mary was sewing on buttons--in bed. - - She heard a few words, but those words were enough-- - The troopers were all on the track of Jim Duff. - The super, his rival, was planning a trap - To capture the scamp in Maginnis’s Gap. - ‘I’ve warned him before, and I’ll do it again;-- - _I’ll_ save him to-night,’ whispered Mary Lemaine. - - No petticoat job--there was no time to waste, - The suit she was mending she slipped on in haste, - And five minutes later they gathered in force, - But Mary was off, on the squatter’s best horse; - With your hand on your heart, just to deaden the pain, - Ride hard to the ranges, brave Mary Lemaine! - - She rode by the ridges all sullen and strange, - And far up long gullies that ran through the range, - Till the rain cleared away, and the tears in her eyes - Caught the beams of the moon from Maginnis’s Rise. - A fire in the depths of the gums she espied-- - ‘Who’s there?’ shouted Jim. ‘It is Mary!’ she cried. - - Next morning the sun rose in splendour again, - And two loving sinners rode out on the plain; - And baffled, and angry, and hungry and damp, - The four mounted troopers rode back to the camp. - But they hushed up the business--the reason is plain, - They all had been ‘soft’ on fair Mary Lemaine. - - The squatter got back all he lost from his mob, - And old Sergeant Kennedy winked at the job; - Jim Duff keeps a shanty far out in the west, - And the sundowners call it the ‘Bushranger’s Rest.’ - But the bushranger lives a respectable life, - And the law never troubles Jim Duff or his wife. - - - - - THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR - - - Set me back for twenty summers-- - For I’m tired of cities now-- - Set my feet in red-soil furrows - And my hands upon the plough, - With the two ‘Black Brothers’ trudging - On the home stretch through the loam-- - While, along the grassy siding, - Come the cattle grazing home. - - And I finish ploughing early, - And I hurry home to tea-- - There’s my black suit on the stretcher, - And a clean white shirt for me; - There’s a dance at Rocky Rises, - And, when all the fun is o’er, - For a certain favoured party - There’s a shake-down on the floor. - - You remember Mary Carey, - Bushmen’s favourite at the Rise? - With her sweet small freckled features, - Red-gold hair, and kind grey eyes; - Sister, daughter, to her mother, - Mother, sister, to the rest-- - And of all my friends and kindred, - Mary Carey loved me best. - - Far too shy, because she loved me, - To be dancing oft with me; - What cared I, because she loved me, - If the world were there to see? - But we lingered by the slip rails - While the rest were riding home, - Ere the hour before the dawning, - Dimmed the great star-clustered dome. - - Small brown hands that spread the mattress - While the old folk winked to see - How she’d find an extra pillow - And an extra sheet for me. - For a moment shyly smiling, - She would grant me one kiss more-- - Slip away and leave me happy - By the shake-down on the floor. - - Rock me hard in steerage cabins, - Rock me soft in wide saloons, - Lay me on the sand-hill lonely - Under waning western moons; - But wherever night may find me - Till I rest for evermore-- - I will dream that I am happy - On the shake-down on the floor. - - Ah! she often watched at sunset-- - For her people told me so-- - Where I left her at the slip-rails - More than fifteen years ago. - And she faded like a flower, - And she died, as such girls do, - While, away in Northern Queensland, - Working hard, I never knew. - - And we suffer for our sorrows, - And we suffer for our joys, - From the old bush days when mother - Spread the shake-down for the boys. - But to cool the living fever, - Comes a cold breath to my brow, - And I feel that Mary’s spirit - Is beside me, even now. - - - - - REEDY RIVER - - - Ten miles down Reedy River - A pool of water lies, - And all the year it mirrors - The changes in the skies, - And in that pool’s broad bosom - Is room for all the stars; - Its bed of sand has drifted - O’er countless rocky bars. - - Around the lower edges - There waves a bed of reeds, - Where water rats are hidden - And where the wild duck breeds; - And grassy slopes rise gently - To ridges long and low, - Where groves of wattle flourish - And native bluebells grow. - - Beneath the granite ridges - The eye may just discern - Where Rocky Creek emerges - From deep green banks of fern; - And standing tall between them, - The grassy sheoaks cool - The hard, blue-tinted waters - Before they reach the pool. - - Ten miles down Reedy River - One Sunday afternoon, - I rode with Mary Campbell - To that broad bright lagoon; - We left our horses grazing - Till shadows climbed the peak, - And strolled beneath the sheoaks - On the banks of Rocky Creek. - - Then home along the river - That night we rode a race, - And the moonlight lent a glory - To Mary Campbell’s face; - And I pleaded for my future - All thro’ that moonlight ride, - Until our weary horses - Drew closer side by side. - - Ten miles from Ryan’s crossing - And five below the peak, - I built a little homestead - On the banks of Rocky Creek; - I cleared the land and fenced it - And ploughed the rich red loam, - And my first crop was golden - When I brought Mary home. - - * * * * * - - Now still down Reedy River - The grassy sheoaks sigh, - And the waterholes still mirror - The pictures in the sky; - And over all for ever - Go sun and moon and stars, - While the golden sand is drifting - Across the rocky bars; - - But of the hut I builded - There are no traces now. - And many rains have levelled - The furrows of the plough; - And my bright days are olden, - For the twisted branches wave - And the wattle blossoms golden - On the hill by Mary’s grave. - - - - - OLD STONE CHIMNEY - - - The rising moon on the peaks was blending - Her silver light with the sunset glow, - When a swagman came as the day was ending - Along a path that he seemed to know. - But all the fences were gone or going-- - The hand of ruin was everywhere; - The creek unchecked in its course was flowing, - For none of the old clay dam was there. - - Here Time had been with his swiftest changes, - And husbandry had westward flown; - The cattle tracks in the rugged ranges - Were long ago with the scrub o’ergrown. - It must have needed long years to soften - The road, that as hard as rock had been; - The mountain path he had trod so often - Lay hidden now with a carpet green. - - He thought at times from the mountain courses - He heard the sound of a bullock bell, - The distant gallop of stockmen’s horses, - The stockwhip’s crack that he knew so well: - But these were sounds of his memory only, - And they were gone from the flat and hill, - For when he listened the place was lonely, - The range was dumb and the bush was still. - - The swagman paused by the gap and faltered, - For down the gully he feared to go, - The scene in memory never altered-- - The scene before him had altered so. - But hope is strong, and his heart grew bolder, - And over his sorrows he raised his head, - He turned his swag to the other shoulder, - And plodded on with a firmer tread. - - Ah, hope is always the keenest hearer, - And fancies much when assailed by fear; - The swagman thought, as the farm drew nearer, - He heard the sounds that he used to hear. - His weary heart for a moment bounded, - For a moment brief he forgot his dread; - For plainly still in his memory sounded - The welcome bark of a dog long dead. - - A few steps more and his face grew ghostly, - Then white as death in the twilight grey; - Deserted wholly, and ruined mostly, - The Old Selection before him lay. - Like startled spectres that paused and listened, - The few white posts of the stockyard stood; - And seemed to move as the moonlight glistened - And paled again on the whitened wood. - - And thus he came, from a life long banished - To other lands, and of peace bereft, - To find the farm and the homestead vanished, - And only the old stone chimney left. - The field his father had cleared and gardened - Was overgrown with saplings now; - The rain had set and the drought had hardened - The furrows made by a vanished plough. - - And this, and this was the longed-for haven - Where he might rest from a life of woe; - He read a name on the mantel graven-- - The name was his ere he stained it so. - ‘And so remorse on my care encroaches-- - I have not suffered enough,’ he said; - ‘That name is pregnant with deep reproaches-- - The past won’t bury dishonoured dead!’ - - Ah, now he knew it was long years after, - And felt how swiftly a long year speeds; - The hardwood post and the beam and rafter - Had rotted long in the tangled weeds. - He found that time had for years been sowing - The coarse wild scrub on the homestead path, - And saw young trees by the chimney growing, - And mountain ferns on the wide stone hearth. - - He wildly thought of the evil courses - That brought disgrace on his father’s name; - The escort robbed, and the stolen horses, - The felon’s dock with its lasting shame. - ‘Ah, God! Ah, God! is there then no pardon?’ - He cried in a voice that was strained and hoarse; - He fell on the weeds that were once a garden, - And sobbed aloud in his great remorse. - - But grief must end, and his heart ceased aching - When pitying sleep to his eye-lids crept, - And home and friends who were lost in waking, - They all came back while the stockman slept. - And when he woke on the empty morrow, - The pain at his heart was a deadened pain; - And bravely bearing his load of sorrow, - He wandered back to the world again. - - - - - SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER - - - Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble - In long single file ’neath the evergreen tree, - The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble, - And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea. - ’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger, - For those were the days when the bushman was bred. - We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer - Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread. - - With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never, - And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day, - I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River - And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray. - I would summon them back from the far Riverina, - From days that shall be from all others distinct, - And sing to the sound of an old concertina - Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked. - - We never were lonely, for, camping together, - We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away, - And little I cared for the signs of the weather - When snug in my hammock slung under the dray. - We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly, - When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost, - And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy, - Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed. - - On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums, - And homesteads and fences were hinting of change, - We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms, - And far in the distance the blue of the range; - And here in the rain, there was small use in flogging - The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load, - When down to the axles the waggons were bogging - And traffic was making a marsh of the road. - - ’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches, - Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load, - And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches, - Half-way to the summit they clung to the road. - And then, when the last of the pinches was bested, - (You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?) - The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested-- - The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn. - - Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally - Of miles that were passed on the long journey down. - We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley, - As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown. - But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded - While climbing the hills from the flats and the vales; - ’Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded - That all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’ - - And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried - Was one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse. - We courted awhile, and agreed to get married, - And couple our futures for better or worse. - And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on - The miles of rough metal they met by the way, - My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon-- - He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day. - - - - - THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. - - - Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men, - A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then; - The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star, - The growl of sleepy voices--a candle in the bar; - A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad; - A swear-word from a bedroom--the shout of ‘All aboard!’ - ‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go; - Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co. - - Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’ - Uncounted ‘Half-Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’ - The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks; - The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks; - The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’ - The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Furthest West; - Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe; - The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co. - - The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone, - In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn; - A flask of friendly whisky--each other’s hopes we share-- - And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air. - The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete; - The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet, - The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go-- - The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co. - - We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps, - To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps, - To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache-- - (Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!) - Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout: - Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out: - With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go-- - That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co. - - Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep, - A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep, - A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white; - Weird bush and scattered remnants of ‘rushes in the night;’ - Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford: - Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’ - But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow-- - A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.! - - Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch; - Pause, bird-like, on the summit--then breakneck down the pinch - Past haunted half-way houses--where convicts made the bricks-- - Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six-- - By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high, - Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky; - Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go; - New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co. - - * * * * * - - Throw down the reins, old driver--there’s no one left to shout; - The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out. - A poor old coach hereafter!--we’re lost to all such things-- - No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springs - When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear, - Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year-- - Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broad - You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board. - - Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done-- - Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run, - Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts--for men shall never know - Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co. - The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze, - But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days! - The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow, - The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co. - - - - - HOW THE LAND WAS WON - - - The future was dark and the past was dead - As they gazed on the sea once more-- - But a nation was born when the immigrants said - ‘Good-bye!’ as they stepped ashore! - In their loneliness they were parted thus - Because of the work to do, - A wild wide land to be won for us - By hearts and hands so few. - - The darkest land ’neath a blue sky’s dome, - And the widest waste on earth; - The strangest scenes and the least like home - In the lands of our fathers’ birth; - The loneliest land in the wide world then, - And away on the furthest seas, - A land most barren of life for men-- - And they won it by twos and threes! - - With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept - By the camp-fires’ ghastly glow, - Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept - With ‘nulla’ and spear held low; - Death was hidden amongst the trees, - And bare on the glaring sand - They fought and perished by twos and threes-- - And that’s how they won the land! - - It was two that failed by the dry creek bed, - While one reeled on alone-- - The dust of Australia’s greatest dead - With the dust of the desert blown! - Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin - That scorched in the blazing sun, - Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin-- - And that’s how the land was won! - - Starvation and toil on the tracks they went, - And death by the lonely way; - The childbirth under the tilt or tent, - The childbirth under the dray! - The childbirth out in the desolate hut - With a half-wild gin for nurse-- - That’s how the first were born to bear - The brunt of the first man’s curse! - - They toiled and they fought through the shame of it-- - Through wilderness, flood, and drought; - They worked, in the struggles of early days, - Their sons’ salvation out. - The white girl-wife in the hut alone, - The men on the boundless run, - The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown-- - And that’s how the land was won. - - No armchair rest for the old folk then-- - But, ruined by blight and drought, - They blazed the tracks to the camps again - In the big scrubs further out. - The worn haft, wet with a father’s sweat, - Gripped hard by the eldest son, - The boy’s back formed to the hump of toil-- - And that’s how the land was won! - - And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back, - And the rainless belt, they ride, - The currency lad and the ne’er-do-weel - And the black sheep, side by side; - In wheeling horizons of endless haze - That disk through the Great North-west, - They ride for ever by twos and by threes-- - And that’s how they win the rest. - - - - - THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD - - - When he’s over a rough and unpopular shed, - With the sins of the bank and the men on his head; - When he musn’t look black or indulge in a grin, - And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin-- - I am moved to admit--when the total is scored-- - That it’s just a bit off for the Boss-of-the-board. - I have battled a lot, - But my dream’s never soared - To the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board. - - ’Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the Boss - Was a small man to see--though a big man to cross-- - We had nought to complain of--except what we thought, - And the Boss didn’t boss any more than he ought; - But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared, - So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board. - We could tolerate ‘hands’-- - We respected the cook; - But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book. - - He’d a row with Big Duggan--a rough sort of Jim-- - Or, rather, Jim Duggan was ‘laying for’ him! - His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deep - That his shearing grew rough--and he ill-used the sheep. - And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower’d - When he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board, - For the Boss was ten stone, - And the shearer full-grown, - And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone. - - Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong, - Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong. - And the crawler was plucky, it can’t be denied, - For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside, - But he came up so gamely, as often as floored, - That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board! - And the fight was a sight, - And we pondered that night-- - ‘It’s surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!’ - - Next day at the office, when sadly the wreck - Of Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque, - Said the Boss, ‘Don’t be childish! It’s all past and gone; - I am short of good shearers. You’d _better_ stay on.’ - And we fancied Jim Duggan _our_ dignity lower’d - When he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board. - We said nothing to Jim, - For a joke might be grim, - And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him. - - The Boss just went on as he’d done from the first, - And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst; - And when we’d cut out and the steamer came down-- - With the hawkers and spielers--to take us to town, - And we’d all got aboard, ’twas Jim Duggan, good Lord! - Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board. - ’Twas a bit off, no doubt-- - And with Freedom about-- - But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out. - - With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed, - And the curse of the Children of Light on his head, - He’s apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife, - And his views be inclined to the dark side of life. - The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored-- - But it’s just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board. - I am all for the Right, - But perhaps (out of sight) - As a son or a husband or father he’s white. - - - - - WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEARING SHED - - - ‘The ladies are coming,’ the super says - To the shearers sweltering there, - And ‘the ladies’ means in the shearing shed: - ‘Don’t cut ’em too bad. Don’t swear.’ - The ghost of a pause in the shed’s rough heart, - And lower is bowed each head; - And nothing is heard, save a whispered word, - And the roar of the shearing-shed. - - The tall, shy rouser has lost his wits, - And his limbs are all astray; - He leaves a fleece on the shearing-board, - And his broom in the shearer’s way. - There’s a curse in store for that jackaroo - As down by the wall he slants-- - And the ringer bends with his legs askew - And wishes he’d ‘patched them pants.’ - - They are girls from the city. (Our hearts rebel - As we squint at their dainty feet.) - And they gush and say in a girly way - That ‘the dear little lambs’ are ‘sweet.’ - And Bill, the ringer, who’d scorn the use - Of a childish word like ‘damn,’ - Would give a pound that his tongue were loose - As he tackles a lively lamb. - - Swift thoughts of homes in the coastal towns-- - Or rivers and waving grass-- - And a weight on our hearts that we cannot define - That comes as the ladies pass. - But the rouser ventures a nervous dig - In the ribs of the next to him; - And Barcoo says to his pen-mate: ‘Twig - The style of the last un, Jim.’ - - Jim Moonlight gives her a careless glance-- - Then he catches his breath with pain-- - His strong hand shakes and the sunlights dance - As he bends to his work again. - But he’s well disguised in a bristling beard, - Bronzed skin, and his shearer’s dress; - And whatever Jim Moonlight hoped or feared - Were hard for his mates to guess. - - Jim Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow, - Explains, with a doleful smile: - ‘A stitch in the side,’ and ‘he’s all right now’-- - But he leans on the beam awhile, - And gazes out in the blazing noon - On the clearing, brown and bare-- - She has come and gone, like a breath of June, - In December’s heat and glare. - - The bushmen are big rough boys at the best, - With hearts of a larger growth; - But they hide those hearts with a brutal jest, - And the pain with a reckless oath. - Though the Bills and Jims of the bush-bard sing - Of their life loves, lost or dead, - The love of a girl is a sacred thing - Not voiced in a shearing-shed. - - - - - THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT - - - A rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land--or none-- - I bear a nick-name of the bush, and I’m--a woman’s son; - I came from where I camp’d last night, and, at the day-dawn glow, - I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, and go. - - Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no pride at all-- - (But--to us all the world is wide when driven to the wall) - Some take the track for gain in life, some take the track for loss-- - And some of us take up the swag as Christ took up the Cross. - - Some take the track for faith in men--some take the track for doubt-- - Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation out. - Some dared not see a mother’s tears nor meet a father’s face-- - Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, from Grace. - - Oh we are men who fought and rose, or fell from many grades; - Some born to lie, and some to pray, we’re men of many trades; - We’re men whose fathers were and are of high and low degree-- - The sea was open to us and we sailed across the sea. - - And--were our quarrels wrong or just?--has no place in my song-- - We seared our souls in puzzling as to what was right or wrong; - We judge not and we are not judged--’tis our philosophy-- - There’s something wrong with every ship that sails upon the sea. - - From shearing shed to shearing shed we tramp to make a cheque-- - Jack Cornstalk and the ne’er-do-weel--the tar-boy and the wreck. - We learn the worth of man to man--and this we learn too well-- - The shanty and the shearing shed are warmer spots in hell! - - I’ve humped my swag to Bawley Plain, and further out and on; - I’ve boiled my billy by the Gulf, and boiled it by the Swan-- - I’ve thirsted in dry lignum swamps, and thirsted on the sand, - And eked the fire with camel dung in Never-Never Land. - - I know the track from Spencer’s Gulf and north of Cooper’s Creek-- - Where falls the half-caste to the strong, ‘black velvet’ to the weak-- - (From gold-top Flossie in the Strand to half-caste and the gin-- - If they had brains, poor animals! we’d teach them how to sin.) - - I’ve tramped, and camped, and ‘shore’ and drunk with many mates Out Back-- - And every one to me is Jack because the first was Jack-- - A ‘lifer’ sneaked from jail at home--the ‘straightest’ mate I met-- - A ‘ratty’ Russian Nihilist--a British Baronet! - - I know the tucker tracks that feed--or leave one in the lurch-- - The ‘Burgoo’ (Presbyterian) track--the ‘Murphy’ (Roman Church)-- - But more the _man_, and not the _track_, so much as it appears, - For ‘battling’ is a trade to learn, and I’ve served seven years. - - We’re haunted by the past at times--and this is very bad, - And so we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go mad-- - So much is lost Out Back, so much of hell is realised-- - A man might skin himself alive and no one be surprised. - - A rouseabout of rouseabouts, above--beneath regard, - I know how soft is this old world, and I have learnt how hard-- - A rouseabout of rouseabouts--I know what men can feel, - I’ve seen the tears from hard eyes slip as drops from polished steel. - - I learned what college had to teach, and in the school of men - By camp-fires I have learned, or, say, unlearned it all again; - But this I’ve learned, that truth is strong, and if a man go straight - He’ll live to see his enemy struck down by time and fate! - - We hold him true who’s true to one however false he be - (There’s something wrong with every ship that lies beside the quay); - We lend and borrow, laugh and joke, and when the past is drowned, - We sit upon our swags and smoke and watch the world go round. - - - - - YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA - - - The big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew - free, - And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a - Christmas spree!’ - ‘It’s not too rusty’--and ‘Wool away!--stand clear of the blazing - shoots!’-- - ‘Sheep O! Sheep O!’--‘We’ll cut out to-day’--‘Look out for the boss’s - boots!’-- - ‘What price the tally in camp to-night!’--‘What price the boys Out Back!’-- - ‘Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside - Track!’-- - ‘Needle and thread!’--‘I have broke my comb!’--‘Now ride, you flour-bags, - ride!’-- - ‘Fight for your mates and the folk at home!’--‘Here’s for the Lachlan - side!’ - Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar, - And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for ‘Tar!’ - - * * * * * - - I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot: - ‘Look out for the blooming shell, look out!’--‘Gor’ bli’ me, but that’s - red-hot!’-- - ‘It’s Bill the Slogger--poor bloke--he’s done. A chunk of the shell was his; - I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.’ - ‘Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they - missed.’ - ‘I’d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) - fist.’ - - ‘Hold up, Billy; I’ll stick to you; they’ve hit you under the belt; - If we get the waddle I’ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt; - You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding - Chow, - And you went for ’em proper and laid out three, and I won’t forget it - now.’ - And, groaning and swearing, the pug replied: ‘I’m done ... they’ve - knocked - me out! - I’d fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss to the rouseabout. - My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives me worse than hell; - I trained for a scrap with a twelve-stone bloke, and not with a bursting - shell. - You needn’t mag, for I knowed, old chum, I _knowed_, old pal, you’d stick; - But you can’t hold out till the reg’lars come, and you’d best be nowhere - quick. - They’ve got a force and a gun ashore, both of our wings is broke; - They’ll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the best you can do is - smoke.’ - - And Jim exclaimed: ‘You can smoke, you chaps, but me--Gor’ bli’ me, no! - The push that ran from the George-street traps won’t run from a foreign - foe. - I’ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I’ll stick to what’s - left of Bill.’ - And they hiss through their blackened teeth: ‘We’ll stick! by the blazing - flame, we will!’ - And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush - How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push; - How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their - rifle-stocks, - And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons--‘rocks.’ - - * * * * * - - In the western camps it was ever our boast, when ’twas bad for the kangaroo: - ‘If the enemy’s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too; - They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track, - But they won’t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out - back!’ - When we burst the enemy’s ironclads and won by a run of luck, - We whooped as loudly as Nelson’s lads when a French three-decker struck; - And when the enemy’s troops prevailed the truth was never heard-- - We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred. - - You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the newchum jackeroo, - But ‘cuffs-’n’-collers’ were out that day, and they stuck to their posts - like - glue; - I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then; - We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street - men. - And Jim the Ringer--he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim, - ‘Old Heads a Caser’ and ‘Heads a Quid,’ but it never was ‘tails’ with him. - The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished - grand; - He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand! - - * * * * * - - I’ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade, - With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we - made. - And Billy died--he was full of sand--he said, as I raised his head: - ‘I’m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead. - Tell ’em,’ said Billy, ‘and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;’ - But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held - him up: - ‘I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong, - Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I’d loved so long. - Far out on the southern seas I’ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam, - And oft, when all on the station failed, I’ve driven the outlaw home. - I’ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I’ve made a cheque as quick; - I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our - tick. - I’ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still, - When mother and sister and _she_ were there, and the old man yelled for - Bill; - But, save for _her_, could I live my while again in the old bush way, - I’d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!’ - And he passed away as the stars came out--he died as old heroes die-- - I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high. - - - - - THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER - - - The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar, - Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown, - Too old and too odd to be drunk with, by far; - And he glides to the end where the lunch baskets are - And they say that he tipples alone. - - His frock-coat is green and the nap is no more, - And the style of his hat is at rest. - He wears the peaked collar our grandfathers wore, - The black-ribboned tie that was legal of yore, - And the coat buttoned over his breast. - - When first he came in, for a moment I thought - That my vision or wits were astray; - For a picture and page out of Dickens he brought, - ’Twas an old file dropped in from the Chancery Court - To a wine-vault just over the way. - - But I dreamed as he tasted his bitters to-night, - And the lights in the bar-room grew dim, - That the shades of the friends of that other day’s light, - And of girls that were bright in our grandfathers’ sight, - Lifted shadowy glasses to him. - - And I opened the door as the old man passed out, - With his short, shuffling step and bowed head; - And I sighed, for I felt as I turned me about, - An odd sense of respect--born of whisky no doubt-- - For the life that was fifty years dead. - - And I thought--there are times when our memory trends - Through the future, as ’twere, on its own-- - That I, out of date ere my pilgrimage ends, - In a new fashioned bar to dead loves and dead friends - Might drink like the old man alone: - While they whisper, ‘He boozes alone.’ - - - - - THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’ - - - With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce - To the awful horizons of land, - Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce - White heat-waves that flow on the sand; - Through the Never Land westward and nor’ward, - Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track, - Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward - The Christ of the Outer Out-back. - - For the cause that will ne’er be relinquished - Spite of all the great cynics on earth-- - In the ranks of the bush undistinguished - By manner or dress--if by birth-- - God’s preacher, of churches unheeded-- - God’s vineyard, though barren the sod-- - Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed-- - Rough link ’twixt the bushman and God. - - He works where the hearts of all nations - Are withered in flame from the sky, - Where the sinners work out their salvations - In a hell-upon-earth ere they die. - In the camp or the lonely hut lying - In a waste that seems out of God’s sight, - _He’s_ the doctor--the mate of the dying - Through the smothering heat of the night. - - By his work in the hells of the shearers, - Where the drinking is ghastly and grim, - Where the roughest and worst of his hearers - Have listened bareheaded to him. - By his paths through the parched desolation - Hot rides and the terrible tramps; - By the hunger, the thirst, the privation - Of his work in the furthermost camps; - - By his worth in the light that shall search men - And prove--ay! and justify each-- - I place him in front of all churchmen - Who feel not, who _know_ not--but preach! - - - - - THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH - - - The plains lay bare on the homeward route, - And the march was heavy on man and brute; - For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land, - And the white heat danced on the glowing sand. - - The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last, - His strength gave out ere the plains were passed, - And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid - His languid limbs in the nearest shade. - - He saved our lives in the years gone by, - When no one dreamed of the danger nigh, - And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept - On the silent camp where the drovers slept. - - ‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said, - As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head; - ‘’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near, - And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’ - - But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’ - As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair; - And, strangely vivid, each man descried - The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide. - - We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across - The camping pack of the lightest horse, - And raised the dog to his deathbed high, - And brought him far ’neath the burning sky. - - At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude - His eyes grew human with gratitude; - And though we parched in the heat that fags, - We gave him the last of the water-bags. - - The super’s daughter we knew would chide - If we left the dog in the desert wide; - So we brought him far o’er the burning sand - For a parting stroke of her small white hand. - - But long ere the station was seen ahead, - His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead; - And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom - ’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home. - - - - - THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER - - The only national work of the blacks was a dam or dyke of stones - across the Darling River at Brewarrina. The stones they carried - from Lord knows where--and the Lord knows how. The people of Bourke - kept up navigation for months above the town by a dam of sand-bags. - The Darling rises in blazing droughts from the Queensland rains. - There are banks and beds of good clay and rock along the river. - - - The skies are brass and the plains are bare, - Death and ruin are everywhere-- - And all that is left of the last year’s flood - Is a sickly stream on the grey-black mud; - The salt-springs bubble and quagmires quiver, - And--this is the dirge of the Darling River: - - ‘I rise in the drought from the Queensland rain, - I fill my branches again and again; - I hold my billabongs back in vain, - For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain; - And the land grows old and the people never - Will see the worth of the Darling River. - - ‘I drown dry gullies and lave bare hills, - I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills-- - I form fair island and glades all green - Till every bend is a sylvan scene. - I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide! - But in vain I have tried, ah! in vain I have tried - To show the sign of the Great All Giver, - The Word to a people: O! lock your river. - - ‘I want no blistering barge aground, - But racing steamers the seasons round; - I want fair homes on my lonely ways, - A people’s love and a people’s praise-- - And rosy children to dive and swim-- - And fair girls’ feet in my rippling brim; - And cool, green forests and gardens ever’-- - Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River. - - _The sky is brass and the scrub-lands glare, - Death and ruin are everywhere; - Thrown high to bleach, or deep in the mud - The bones lie buried by last year’s flood. - And the Demons dance from the Never Never - To laugh at the rise of the Darling River._ - - - - - RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS - - - The valley’s full of misty cloud, - Its tinted beauty drowning, - The Eucalypti roar aloud, - The mountain fronts are frowning. - - The mist is hanging like a pall - From many granite ledges, - And many a little waterfall - Starts o’er the valley’s edges. - - The sky is of a leaden grey, - Save where the north is surly, - The driven daylight speeds away, - And night comes o’er us early. - - But, love, the rain will pass full soon, - Far sooner than my sorrow, - And in a golden afternoon - The sun may set to-morrow. - - - - - A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS - - - ’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin, - These long ‘small hours’ of night, - When grass is crisp, and the air is thin, - And the stars come close and bright. - The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil, - From clouds of a steely grey, - And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale - In the wonderful Milky Way. - - There is something wrong with this star of ours, - A mortal plank unsound, - That cannot be charged to the mighty powers - Who guide the stars around. - Though man is higher than bird or beast, - Though wisdom is still his boast, - He surely resembles Nature least, - And the things that vex her most. - - Oh, say, some muse of a larger star, - Some muse of the Universe, - If they who people those planets far - Are better than we, or worse? - Are they exempted from deaths and births, - And have they greater powers, - And greater heavens, and greater earths, - And greater Gods than ours? - - Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth, - Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake, - Do they make their hells in their reckless youth - Ere they know what hells they make? - And do they toil through each weary hour - Till the tedious day is o’er, - For food that gives but the fleeting power - To toil and strive for more? - - - - - THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO - - - Let bushmen think as bushmen will, - And say whate’er they choose, - I hate to hear the stupid sneer - At New Chum Jackaroos. - - He may not ride as you can ride, - Or do what you can do; - But sometimes you’d seem small beside - The New Chum Jackaroo. - - His share of work he never shirks, - And through the blazing drought, - He lives the old things down, and works - His own salvation out. - - When older, wiser chums despond - He battles brave of heart-- - ’Twas he who sailed of old beyond - The margin of the chart. - - ’Twas he who proved the world was round-- - In crazy square canoes; - The lands you’re living in were found - By New Chum Jackaroos. - - He crossed the deserts hot and bare, - From barren, hungry shores-- - The plains that you would scarcely dare - With all your tanks and bores. - - He fought a way through stubborn hills - Towards the setting sun-- - Your fathers all and Burke and Wills - Were New Chums, every one. - - When England fought with all the world - In those brave days gone by, - And all its strength against her hurled, - He held her honour high. - - By Southern palms and Northern pines-- - Where’er was life to lose-- - She held her own with thin red lines - Of New Chum Jackaroos. - - Through shot and shell and solitudes, - Wherever feet have gone, - The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes - And Johnnies led them on. - - And though he wear a foppish coat, - And these old things forget, - In stormy times I’d give a vote - For Cuffs and Collars yet. - - - - - THE DONS OF SPAIN - - - The Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round, - Must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of the land she found; - For, as in the days when the buccaneer was abroad on the Spanish Main, - The national honour is one thing dear to the hearts of the Dons of Spain. - - She has slaughtered thousands with fire and sword, as the Christian world - might know; - We murder millions, but, thank the Lord! we only starve ’em slow. - The times have changed since the days of old, but the same old facts - remain-- - We fight for Freedom, and God, and Gold, and the Spaniards fight for - Spain. - - _We_ fought with the strength of the moral right, and they, as their ships - went down, - They only fought with the grit to fight and their armour to help ’em drown. - It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their path was plain, - The Church was the Church, and the Pope the Pope--but the Spaniards fought - for Spain. - - If Providence struck for the honest thief at times in the battle’s din-- - If ever it struck at the hypocrite--well, that’s where the Turks came in; - But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it through in vain-- - There’s something great in the wrong that dies as the Spaniards die - for Spain. - - The foes of Spain may be kin to us who are English heart and soul, - And proud of our national righteousness and proud of the lands we stole; - But we yet might pause while those brave men die and the death-drink pledge - again-- - For the sake of the past, if you’re doomed, say I, may your death be a - grand one, Spain! - - Then here’s to the bravest of Freedom’s foes who ever with death have - stood-- - For the sake of the courage to die on steel as their fathers died on wood; - And here’s a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless cause again, - For the sake of the days when the Christian world was saved by the Dons of - Spain. - - - - - THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM - - - The shipping-office clerks are ‘short,’ the manager is gruff-- - ‘They cannot make reductions,’ and ‘the fares are low enough.’ - They ship us West with cattle, and we go like cattle too; - And fight like dogs three times a day for what we get to chew.... - We’ll have the pick of empty bunks and lots of stretching room, - And go for next to nothing at the Bursting of the Boom. - - So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a show: - Then when the Boom bursts is our time to go. - We’ll meet ’em coming back in shoals, with looks of deepest gloom, - But we’re the sort that battle through at the Bursting of the Boom. - - The captain’s easy-going when Fremantle comes in sight; - He can’t say when you’ll get ashore--‘perhaps to-morrow night;’ - Your coins are few, the charges high; you must not linger here-- - You’ll get your boxes from the hold ‘when she’s ’longside the pier.’ ... - The launch will foul the gangway, and the trembling bulwarks loom - Above a fleet of harbour craft--at the Bursting of the Boom. - - So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a show; - He’ll ‘take you for a bob, sir,’ and where you want to go. - He’ll ‘take the big portmanteau, sir, if he might so presume’-- - You needn’t hump your luggage at the Bursting of the Boom. - - It’s loafers--Customs-loafers--and you pay and pay again; - They hinder you and cheat you from the gangway to the train; - The pubs and restaurants are full--they haven’t room for more; - They charge us each three shillings for a shakedown on the floor; - But, ‘Show this gentleman upstairs--the first front parlour room. - _We’ll_ see about your luggage, sir’--at the Bursting of the Boom. - - So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a show; - And wait till the Boom bursts, and swear mighty low. - ‘We mostly charge a pound a week. How do you like the room?’ - And ‘Show this gentleman the bath’--at the Bursting of the Boom. - - I go down to the timber-yard (I cannot face the rent) - To get some strips of oregon to frame my hessian tent; - To buy some scraps of lumber for a table or a shelf: - The boss comes up and says I might just look round for myself; - The foreman grunts and turns away as silent as the tomb-- - The boss himself will wait on me at the Bursting of the Boom. - - So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a load. - ‘You had better take those scraps, sir, they’re only in the road.’ - ‘Now, where the hell’s the carter?’ you’ll hear the foreman fume; - And, ‘Take that timber round at once!’ at the Bursting of the Boom. - - Each one-a-penny grocer, in his box of board and tin, - Will think it condescending to consent to take you in; - And not content with twice as much as what is just and right, - They charge and cheat you doubly, for the Boom is at its height. - It’s ‘Take it now or leave it now;’ ‘your money or your room;’-- - But ‘Who’s attending Mr. Brown?’ at the Bursting of the Boom. - - So wait till the Boom bursts!--and take what you can get, - ‘There’s not the slightest hurry, and your bill ain’t ready yet.’ - They’ll call and get your orders until the crack o’ doom, - And send them round directly, at the Bursting of the Boom. - - * * * * * - - No Country and no Brotherhood--such things are dead and cold; - A camp from all the lands or none, all mad for love of gold; - Where T’othersider number one makes slave of number two, - And the vilest women of the world the vilest ways pursue; - And men go out and slave and bake and die in agony - In western hells that God forgot, where never man should be. - I feel a prophet in my heart that speaks the one word ‘Doom!’ - And aye you’ll hear the Devil laugh at the Bursting of the Boom. - - - - - ANTONY VILLA - -_A Ballad of Ninety-three_ - - - Over there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of the Vardens, - With a tennis ground and terrace, and a flagstaff in the gardens: - They are gentlemen and ladies--they’ve been ‘toffs’ for generations, - But old Varden’s been unlucky--lost a lot in speculations. - - Troubles gathered fast upon him when the mining bubble ‘busted,’ - Then the bank suspended payment, where his little all he trusted; - And the butcher and the baker sent their bills in when they read it, - Even John, the Chow that served him, has refused to give him ‘cledit.’ - - And the daughters of the Vardens--they are beautiful as Graces-- - But the balcony’s deserted, and they rarely show their faces; - And the swells of their acquaintance never seem to venture near them, - And the bailiff says they seldom have a cup of tea to cheer them. - - They were butterflies--I always was a common caterpillar, - But I’m sorry for the ladies over there in ’Tony Villa, - Shut up there in ’Tony Villa with the bailiff and their trouble; - And the dried-up reservoir, where my tears were seems to bubble. - - Mrs. Rooney thinks it nothing when she sends a brat to ‘borry’ - Just a pinch of tea and sugar till the grocer comes temorry;’ - But it’s dif’rent with the Vardens--they would starve to death as soon as - Knuckle down. You know, they weren’t raised exactly like the Rooneys! - - * * * * * - - There is gossip in the ‘boxes’ and the drawing-rooms and gardens-- - ‘Have you heard of Varden’s failure? Have you heard about the Vardens?’ - And no doubt each toney mother on the Point across the water’s - Mighty glad about the downfall of the rivals of her daughters. - - (Tho’ the poets and the writers say that man to man’s inhuman, - I’m inclined to think it’s nothing to what woman is to woman, - More especially, the ladies, save perhaps a fellow’s mother; - And I think that men are better--they are kinder to each other.) - - * * * * * - - There’s a youngster by the jetty gathering cinders from the ashes, - He was known as ‘Master Varden’ ere the great financial crashes. - And his manner shows the dif’rence ’twixt the nurs’ry and gutter-- - But I’ve seen him at the grocer’s buying half a pound of butter. - - And his mother fights her trouble in the house across the water, - She is just as proud as Varden, though she was a ‘cocky’s’ daughter; - And at times I think I see her with the flick’ring firelight o’er her, - Sitting pale and straight and quiet, gazing vacantly before her. - - There’s a slight and girlish figure--Varden’s youngest daughter, Nettie-- - On the terrace after sunset, when the boat is near the jetty; - She is good and pure and pretty, and her rivals don’t deny it, - Though they say that Nettie Varden takes in sewing on the quiet. - - (How her sister graced the ‘circle,’ all unconscious of a lover - In the seedy ‘god’ who watched her from the gallery above her! - Shade of Poverty was on him, and the light of Wealth upon her, - But perhaps he loved her better than the swells attending on her.) - - * * * * * - - There’s a white man’s heart in Varden, spite of all the blue blood in him, - There are working men who wouldn’t stand and hear a word agin’ him; - But his name was never printed by the side of his ‘donations,’ - Save on hearts that have--in this world--very humble circulations. - - He was never stiff or hoggish--he was affable and jolly, - And he’d always say ‘Good morning’ to the deck hand on the ‘Polly;’ - He would ‘barrack’ with the newsboys on the Quay across the ferry, - And he’d very often tip ’em coming home a trifle merry. - - But his chin is getting higher, and his features daily harden - (He will not ‘give up possession’--there’s a lot of fight in Varden); - And the way he steps the gangway! oh, you couldn’t but admire it! - Just as proud as ever hero walked the plank aboard a pirate! - - He will think about the hardships that his girls were never ‘useter,’ - And it must be mighty heavy on the thoroughbred old rooster; - But he’ll never strike his colours, and I tell a lying tale if - Varden’s pride don’t kill him sooner than the bankers or the bailiff. - - You remember when we often had to go without our dinners, - In the days when Pride and Hunger fought a finish out within us; - And how Pride would come up groggy--Hunger whooping loud and louder-- - And the swells are proud as we are; they are just as proud--and prouder. - - Yes, the toffs have grit, in spite of all our sneering and our scorning-- - What’s the crowd? What’s that? God help us!-- Varden shot himself this - morning!... - There’ll be gossip in the ‘circle,’ in the drawing-rooms and gardens; - But I’m sorry for the family; yes--I’m sorry for the Vardens. - - - - - SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE - - - On suburban railway stations--you may see them as you pass-- - There are signboards on the platforms saying, ‘Wait here second class;’ - And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of running gear - Seem to be for ever saying, saying ‘Second class wait here’-- - ‘Wait here second class, - Second class wait here.’ - Seem to be for ever saying, saying ‘Second class wait here.’ - - And the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince, - And the second class are waiting--they’ve been waiting ever since. - There are gardens in the background, and the line is bare and drear, - Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering ‘Second class wait here.’ - - I have waited oft in winter, in the mornings dark and damp, - When the asphalt platform glistened underneath the lonely lamp. - Ghastly on the brick-faced cutting ‘Sellum’s Soap’ and ‘Blower’s Beer;’ - Ghastly on enamelled signboards with their ‘Second class wait here.’ - - And the others seemed like burglars, slouched and muffled to the throats, - Standing round apart and silent in their shoddy overcoats, - And the wind among the wires, and the poplars bleak and bare, - Seemed to be for ever snarling, snarling ‘Second class wait there.’ - - Out beyond the further suburb, ’neath a chimney stack alone, - Lay the works of Grinder Brothers, with a platform of their own; - And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many a year, - Slaved beneath a phantom signboard, telling our class to wait here. - - Ah! a man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine. - God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line; - And the smell of railway stations, and the roar of running gear, - And the scornful-seeming signboards, saying ‘Second class wait here.’ - - There’s a train with Death for driver, which is ever going past, - And there are no class compartments, and we all must go at last - To the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the rear; - And there won’t be any signboards, saying ‘Second class wait here.’ - - - - - THE SHIPS THAT WON’T GO DOWN - - - We hear a great commotion - ’Bout the ship that comes to grief, - That founders in mid-ocean, - Or is driven on a reef; - Because it’s cheap and brittle - A score of sinners drown. - But we hear but mighty little - Of the ships that won’t go down. - - Here’s honour to the builders-- - The builders of the past; - Here’s honour to the builders - That builded ships to last; - Here’s honour to the captain, - And honour to the crew; - Here’s double-column head-lines - To the ships that battle through. - - They make a great sensation - About famous men that fail, - That sink a world of chances - In the city morgue or gaol, - Who drink, or blow their brains out, - Because of ‘Fortune’s frown.’ - But we hear far too little - Of the men who won’t go down. - - The world is full of trouble, - And the world is full of wrong, - But the heart of man is noble, - And the heart of man is strong! - They say the sea sings dirges, - But I would say to you - That the wild wave’s song’s a pæan - For the men that battle through. - - - - - THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN - - - When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me, - Affrighting heart and mind; - When days seem dark before me, - And days seem black behind; - Those friends who think they know me-- - Who deem their insight keen-- - They ne’er forget to show me - The man I might have been. - - He’s rich and independent, - Or rising fast to fame; - His bright star is ascendant, - The country knows his name; - His houses and his gardens - Are splendid to be seen; - His fault the wise world pardons-- - The man I might have been. - - His fame and fortune haunt me; - His virtues wave me back; - His name and prestige daunt me - When I would take the track; - But you, my friend true-hearted-- - God keep our friendship green!-- - You know how I was parted - From all I might have been. - - But what avails the ache of - Remorse or weak regret? - We’ll battle for the sake of - The men we might be yet! - We’ll strive to keep in sight of - The brave, the true, and clean, - And triumph yet in spite of - The men we might have been. - - - - - THE WAY OF THE WORLD - - - When fairer faces turn from me, - And gayer friends grow cold, - And I have lost through poverty - The friendship bought, with gold; - When I have served the selfish turn - Of some all-worldly few, - And Folly’s lamps have ceased to burn, - Then I’ll come back to you. - - When my admirers find I’m not - The rising star they thought, - And praise or blame is all forgot - My early promise brought; - When brighter rivals lead a host - Where once I led a few, - And kinder times reward their boast, - Then I’ll come back to you. - - You loved me, not for what I had - Or what I might have been. - You saw the good, but not the bad, - Was kind, for that between. - I know that you’ll forgive again-- - That you will judge me true; - I’ll be too tired to explain - When I come back to you. - - - - - THE BATTLING DAYS - - - So, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife - content, - And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach of the ‘days - mis-spent;’ - Grown fat and moral apace, old man! you prate of the change ‘since then’-- - In spite of all, I’d as lief be back in those hard old days again. - - They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel at - times--but - then, - In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard old days again. - The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days when we sowed our own-- - (‘Twas little we thought or our friends believed that ours would ever - be sown) - But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and they speak of the hearts - of men-- - I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old days again. - - We travel first, or we go saloon--on the planned-out trips we go, - With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we find that the life - is slow; - It’s ‘a pleasant trip’ where they cried, ‘Good luck!’ - There was fun in the steerage then-- - In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vagabond days again. - - On Saturday night we’ve a pound to spare--a pound for a trip down town-- - We took more joy in those hard old days for a hardly spared half-crown; - We took more pride in the pants we patched than the suits we have had since - then-- - In spite of all, I would rather be back in those comical days again. - - ’Twas We and the World--and the rest go hang--as the Outside tracks we trod; - Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not as a martyred god; - The world goes wrong when your heart is strong--and this is the way - with men-- - The world goes right when your liver is white, and you preach of the change - ‘since then.’ - - They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel times--but - then, - In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard old days again. - - - - - WRITTEN AFTERWARDS - - - So the days of my tramping are over, - And the days of my riding are done-- - I’m about as content as a rover - Will ever be under the sun; - I write, after reading your letter-- - My pipe with old memories rife-- - And I feel in a mood that had better - Not meet the true eyes of the wife. - - You must never admit a suggestion - That old things are good to recall; - You must never consider the question: - ‘Was I happier then, after all?’ - You must banish the old hope and sorrow - That make the sad pleasures of life, - You must live for To-day and To-morrow - If you want to be just to the wife. - - I have changed since the first day I kissed her. - Which is due--Heaven bless her!--to her; - I’m respected and trusted--I’m ‘Mister,’ - Addressed by the children as ‘Sir.’ - And I feel the respect without feigning-- - But you’d laugh the great laugh of your life - If you only saw me entertaining - An old lady friend of the wife. - - By-the-way, when you’re writing, remember - That you never went drinking with me, - And forget our last night of December, - Lest our sev’ral accounts disagree. - And, for my sake, old man, you had better - Avoid the old language of strife, - For the technical terms of your letter - May be misunderstood by the wife. - - Never hint of the girls appertaining - To the past (when you’re writing again), - For they take such a lot of explaining, - And you know how I hate to explain. - There are some things, we know to our sorrow, - That cut to the heart like a knife, - And your past is To-day and To-morrow - If you want to be true to the wife. - - I believe that the creed we were chums in - Was grand, but too abstract and bold, - And the knowledge of life only comes in - When you’re married and fathered and old. - And it’s well. You may travel as few men, - You may stick to a mistress for life; - But the world, as it is, born of woman - Must be seen through the eyes of the wife. - - No doubt you are dreaming as _I_ did - And going the careless old pace, - While my future grows dull and decided, - And the world narrows down to the Place. - Let it be. If my ‘treason’s’ resented, - _You_ may do worse, old man, in your life; - Let me dream, too, that I am contented-- - For the sake of a true little wife. - - - - - THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS CULTURED CRITICS - - - Fight through ignorance, want, and care-- - Through the griefs that crush the spirit; - Push your way to a fortune fair, - And the smiles of the world you’ll merit. - Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn-- - For the chance that Fate denies you; - Win degrees where the Life-lights burn, - And scores will teach and advise you. - - My cultured friends! you have come too late - With your bypath nicely graded; - I’ve fought thus far on my track of Fate, - And I’ll follow the rest unaided. - Must I be stopped by a college gate - On the track of Life encroaching? - Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate, - For the lack of a college coaching? - - You grope for Truth in a language dead-- - In the dust ’neath tower and steeple! - What know you of the tracks we tread? - And what know you of our people? - ‘I must read this, and that, and the rest,’ - And write as the cult expects me?-- - I’ll read the book that may please me best, - And write as my heart directs me! - - You were quick to pick on a faulty line - That I strove to put my soul in: - Your eyes were keen for a ‘dash’ of mine - In the place of a semi-colon-- - And blind to the rest. And is it for such - As you I must brook restriction? - ‘I was taught too little?’ I learnt too much - To care for a pedant’s diction! - - Must I turn aside from my destined way - For a task your Joss would find me? - I come with strength of the living day, - And with half the world behind me; - I leave you alone in your cultured halls - To drivel and croak and cavil: - Till your voice goes further than college walls, - Keep out of the tracks we travel! - - - - - THE WRITER’S DREAM - - - A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar; - For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are. - His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim; - His land seemed barren, its people cold--yet the world was dear to him;-- - So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea, - In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be. - - And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and - wood, - And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good; - There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and - gold, - And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled. - The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were - free-- - For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea. - - And the last that were born of a noble race--when the page of the South was - fair-- - The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there. - He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient - lore, - And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such--ah! many a year before. - And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return, - ‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these--and the wise who read shall - learn. - - ‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard: - ‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word; - ‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall, - ‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows - all. - ‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with - glee-- - ‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’ - - The lines ran on as he dipped his pen--ran true to his heart and ear-- - Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear. - The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light-- - He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write. - And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride: - ‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book _you’ll_ read!’ he - cried. - - He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came) - From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name. - What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair? - But the local spirit intensified--with its pitiful shams--was there; - There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!) - They hated each other as women could--but they hated the stranger most. - - The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate-- - I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait. - ‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride-- - (The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)-- - ‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be - passed,’ - But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last. - - The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale, - His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale. - The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow, - As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now. - ‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland - yet-- - ‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’ - - But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned, - And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth - returned:-- - ‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn--the rebellious hate - of youth - From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’ - And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part; - ‘I’ll write my book and it _shall_ be true--the truth of a writer’s heart. - - ‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale--who never knew want or care-- - A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there. - You may starve the writer and buy the pen--you may drive it with want and - fear-- - But the lines run false in the hearts of men--and false to the writer’s ear. - The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew, - Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true. - - * * * * * - - ‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all, - The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl. - And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish - rule; - Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool. - Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first, - And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst! - - ‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the - World - go west; - For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best! - ‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet--for a roving folk are mine-- - ‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set--and the camp-fire glow the sign! - ‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod, - ‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!) - - ‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to - me; - ‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should - be! - ‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve - trod-- - ‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god. - ‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that _their_ - hearts - deem “white,” - ‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden - tears!--I’ll write! - - ‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret-- - ‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct - yet! - For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the _world_, not _he_, - to blame, - And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the - same; - And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night, - Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s - right!”’ - - - - - THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH - - - If I ever be worthy or famous-- - Which I’m sadly beginning to doubt-- - When the angel whose place ’tis to name us - Shall say to my spirit, ‘Pass out!’ - I wish for no sniv’lling about me - (My work was the work of the land), - But I hope that my country will shout me - The price of a decent brass band. - - Thump! thump! of the drum and ‘Ta-ra-rit,’ - Thump! thump! and the music--it’s grand, - If only in dreams, or in spirit, - To ride or march after the band! - And myself and my mourners go straying, - And strolling and drifting along - With a band in the front of us playing - The tune of an old battle song! - - I ask for no ‘turn-out’ to bear me; - I ask not for railings or slabs, - And spare me! my country--oh, spare me! - The hearse and the long string of cabs! - I ask not the baton or ‘starts’ of - The bore with the musical ear, - But the music that’s blown from the hearts of - The men who work hard and drink beer. - - And let ’em strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ - And let them burst out with ‘Lang Syne’-- - Twin voices of sadness and glory, - That have ever been likings of mine. - And give the French war-hymn deep-throated - The Watch of the Germans between, - And let the last mile be devoted - To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’ - - And if, in the end--more’s the pity-- - There is fame more than money to spare-- - There’s a van-man I know in the city - Who’ll convey me, right side up with care. - True sons of Australia, and noble, - Have gone from the long dusty way, - While the sole mourner fought down his trouble - With his pipe on the shaft of the dray. - But let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ &c. - - And my spirit will join the procession-- - Will pause, if it may, on the brink-- - Nor feel the least shade of depression - When the mourners drop out for a drink; - It may be a hot day in December, - Or a cold day in June it may be, - And the drink will but help them remember - The good points the world missed in me. - And help ’em to love ‘Annie Laurie,’ - And help ’em to raise ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ &c. - - ‘Unhook the West Port’ for an orphan, - An old digger chorus revive-- - If you don’t hear a whoop from the coffin, - I am _not_ being buried alive. - But I’ll go with a spirit less bitter - Than mine own on the earth may have been, - And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter - Will pass me, two comrades between. - - And let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ - And let ’em burst out with ‘Lang Syne,’ - Twin voices of sadness and glory - That have ever been likings of mine. - Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated - (And I’ll not buck at ‘God Save the Queen’), - But let the last mile be devoted - To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’ - - _Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit_-- - War-drums of my dreams! Oh it’s grand, - If only in fancy or spirit, - To ride or march after a band! - And we, the World-Battlers, go straying - And loving and laughing along-- - With Hope in the lead of us playing - The tune of a life-battle song! - - - - - MY LITERARY FRIEND - - - Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine, - And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine, - First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault; - ‘The ideas are good,’ he muttered, ‘but the rhythm seems to halt.’ - - So I straighten’d up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen, - And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again. - ‘You’ve improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,’ he said, - As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head. - - So I worked as he suggested (I believe in taking time), - And I burnt the ‘midnight taper’ while I straightened up the rhyme. - ‘It is better now,’ he muttered, ‘you go on and you’ll succeed, - It has got a ring about it--the ideas are what you need.’ - - So I worked for hours upon it (I go on when I commence), - And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense, - And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more-- - It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before. - - * * * * * - - Now the people say I’d never put such horrors into print - If I wasn’t too conceited to accept a friendly hint, - And my dearest friends are certain that I’d profit in the end - If I’d always show my copy to a literary friend. - - - - - MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’ - - - They’d parted but a year before--she never thought he’d come, - She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘_Mister_ Gum.’ - How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John.’ - He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and asked how she was getting on. - - They’d parted but a year before; they’d loved each other well, - But he’d been to the city, and he came back _such_ a swell. - They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss-- - But Mary called him ‘Mister,’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’ - - He stood and lean’d against the door--a stupid chap was he-- - And, when she asked if he’d come in and have a cup of tea, - He looked to left, he looked to right, and then he glanced behind, - And slowly doffed his cabbage-tree, and said he ‘didn’t mind.’ - - She made a shy apology because the meat was tough, - And then she asked if he was sure his tea was sweet enough; - He stirred the tea and sipped it twice, and answer’d ‘plenty, quite;’ - And cut the smallest piece of beef and said that it was ‘right.’ - - She glanced at him at times and cough’d an awkward little cough; - He stared at anything but her and said, ‘I must be off.’ - That evening he went riding north--a sad and lonely ride-- - She locked herself inside her room, and there sat down and cried. - - They’d parted but a year before, they loved each other well-- - But she was such a country girl and he was such a swell; - They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss-- - But Mary called him ‘Mister’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’ - - - - - REJECTED - - - She says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate; - You calmly say ‘Good-bye’ to her while standing off a yard, - Then you lift your hat and leave her, walking mighty stiff and straight-- - But you’re hit, old man--hit hard. - - In your brain the words are burning of the answer that she gave, - As you turn the nearest corner and you stagger just a bit; - But you pull yourself together, for a man’s strong heart is brave - When it’s hit, old man--hard hit. - - You might try to drown the sorrow, but the drink has no effect; - You cannot stand the barmaid with her coarse and vulgar wit; - And so you seek the street again, and start for home direct, - When you’re hit, old man--hard hit. - - You see the face of her you lost, the pity in her smile-- - Ah! she is to the barmaid as is snow to chimney grit; - You’re a better man and nobler in your sorrow, for a while, - When you’re hit, old man--hard hit. - - And, arriving at your lodgings, with a face of deepest gloom, - You shun the other boarders and your manly brow you knit; - You take a light and go upstairs directly to your room-- - But the whole house knows you’re hit. - - You clutch the scarf and collar, and you tear them from your throat, - You rip your waistcoat open like a fellow in a fit; - And you fling them in a corner with the made-to-order coat, - When you’re hit, old man--hard hit. - - You throw yourself, despairing, on your narrow little bed, - Or pace the room till someone starts with ‘Skit! cat!--skit!’ - And then lie blindly staring at the plaster overhead-- - You are hit, old man--hard hit. - - It’s doubtful whether vanity or love has suffered worst, - So neatly in our nature are those feelings interknit, - Your heart keeps swelling up so bad, you wish that it would burst, - When you’re hit, old man--hard hit. - - You think and think, and think, and think, till you go mad almost; - Across your sight the spectres of the bygone seem to flit; - The very girl herself seems dead, and comes back as a ghost, - When you’re hit, like this--hard hit. - - You know that it’s all over--you’re an older man by years, - In the future not a twinkle, in your black sky not a split. - Ah! you’ll think it well that women have the privilege of tears, - When you’re hit, old man--hard hit. - - You long and hope for nothing but the rest that sleep can bring, - And you find that in the morning things have brightened up a bit; - But you’re dull for many evenings, with a cracked heart in a sling, - When you’re hit, old man--hard hit. - - - - - O’HARA, J.P. - - - James Patrick O’Hara, the Justice of Peace, - He bossed the P.M. and he bossed the police; - A parent, a deacon, a landlord was he-- - A townsman of weight was O’Hara, J.P. - - He gave out the prizes, foundation-stones laid, - He shone when the Governor’s visit was paid; - And twice re-elected as Mayor was he-- - The flies couldn’t roost on O’Hara, J.P. - - Now Sandy M‘Fly, of the Axe-and-the-Saw, - Was charged with a breach of the licensing law-- - He sold after hours whilst talking too free - On matters concerning O’Hara, J.P. - - And each contradicted the next witness flat, - Concerning back parlours, side-doors, and all that; - ’Twas very conflicting, as all must agree-- - Ye’d betther take care!’ said O’Hara, J.P. - - But ‘Baby,’ the barmaid, her evidence gave-- - A poor, timid darling who tried to be brave-- - ‘Now, _don’t_ be afraid--if it’s frightened ye be-- - Speak out, my good girl,’ said O’Hara, J.P. - - Her hair was so golden, her eyes were so blue, - Her face was so fair and her words seemed so true-- - So green in the ways of sweet women was he - That she jolted the heart of O’Hara, J.P. - - He turned to the other grave Justice of Peace, - And whispered, ‘You can’t always trust the police; - ‘_I’ll visit the premises during the day, - And see for myself_,’ said O’Hara, Jay Pay. - (_Case postponed._) - - * * * * * - - ’Twas early next morning, or late the same night-- - ‘’Twas early next morning’ we think would be right-- - And sounds that betokened a breach of the law - Escaped through the cracks of the Axe-and-the-Saw. - - And Constable Dogherty, out in the street, - Met Constable Clancy a bit off his beat; - He took him with finger and thumb by the ear, - And led him around to a lane in the rear. - - He pointed a blind where strange shadows were seen-- - Wild pantomime hinting of revels within-- - ‘We’ll drop on M‘Fly, if you’ll listen to me, - And prove we are right to O’Hara, J.P.’ - - But Clancy was up to the lay of the land, - He cautiously shaded his mouth with his hand-- - ‘Wisht, man! Howld yer whisht! or it’s ruined we’ll be, - It’s the justice himself--it’s O’Hara, J.P.’ - - They hish’d and they whishted, and turned themselves round, - And got themselves off like two cats on wet ground; - Agreeing to be, on their honour as men, - A deaf-dumb-and-blind institution just then. - - Inside on a sofa, two barmaids between, - With one on his knee was a gentleman seen; - And any chance eye at the keyhole could see - In less than a wink ’twas O’Hara, J.P. - - The first in the chorus of songs that were sung, - The loudest that laughed at the jokes that were sprung, - The guest of the evening, the soul of the spree-- - The daddy of all was O’Hara, J.P. - - And hard-cases chuckled, and hard-cases said - That Baby and Alice conveyed him to bed-- - In subsequent storms it was painful to see - Those hard-cases side with the sinful J.P. - - Next day, in the court, when the case came in sight, - O’Hara declared he was satisfied quite; - The case was dismissed--it was destined to be - The final ukase of O’Hara, J.P. - - The law and religion came down on him first-- - The Christian was hard but his wife was the worst! - Half ruined and half driven crazy was he-- - It made an old man of O’Hara, J.P. - - Now, young men who come from the bush, do you hear? - Who know not the power of barmaids and beer-- - _Don’t see for yourself!_ from temptation steer free, - Remember the fall of O’Hara, J.P. - - - - - BILL AND JIM FALL OUT - - - Bill and Jim are mates no longer--they would scorn the name of mate-- - Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate; - Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will): - Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill. - - Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die-- - Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy. - They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flat - And at times in lurid language--they were mates in spite of that. - - Bill believed the Bible story _re_ the origin of him-- - He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim, - Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes, - Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes. - - Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through; - Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo, - And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white-- - And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite. - - They battled round in Maoriland--they saw it through and through-- - And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew; - Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up-- - Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup. - Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born, - And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn, - Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out-- - Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt. - They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars, - _Re_ conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars - Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’ - Jim declared it was too thick, if anything--yet they were mates - Bill for Freetrade--Jim, Protection--argued as to which was best - For the welfare of the workers--and their mateship stood the test! - They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all, - And what they said and didn’t--and were mates in spite of all. - Till one night _the two together_ tried to light a fire in camp, - When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp. - And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood: - _One_ alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood. - - - - - THE PAROO - - - It was a week from Christmas-time, - As near as I remember, - And half a year since in the rear - We’d left the Darling Timber. - The track was hot and more than drear; - The long day seemed forever; - But now we knew that we were near - Our camp--the Paroo River. - - With blighted eyes and blistered feet, - With stomachs out of order, - Half mad with flies and dust and heat - We’d crossed the Queensland Border. - I longed to hear a stream go by - And see the circles quiver; - I longed to lay me down and die - That night on Paroo River. - - ’Tis said the land out West is grand-- - I do not care who says it-- - It isn’t even decent scrub, - Nor yet an honest desert; - It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot, - A curse is on it ever; - I really think that God forgot - The country round that river. - - My mate--a native of the land-- - In fiery speech and vulgar, - Condemned the flies and cursed the sand, - And doubly damned the mulga. - He peered ahead, he peered about-- - A bushman he, and clever-- - ‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out; - ‘We must be near the river.’ - - The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest - (God bless one kindly squatter!) - With grateful weight our hearts they pressed-- - We only wanted water. - The sun was setting (in the west) - In colour like a liver-- - We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest - That night on Paroo River. - - A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow, - And once I heard him mutter: - ‘I’d like to see the Darling now, - ‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’ - And now and then he stopped and said - In tones that made me shiver-- - ‘It cannot well be on ahead, - ‘_I think we’ve crossed the river._’ - - But soon we saw a strip of ground - That crossed the track we followed-- - No barer than the surface round, - But just a little hollowed. - His brows assumed a thoughtful frown-- - This speech he did deliver: - ‘I wonder if we’d best go down - ‘Or up the blessed river?’ - - ‘But where,’ said I, ‘’s the blooming stream?’ - And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’ - I stood awhile, as in a dream, - ‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘is _that_ it? - ‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’ - He chuckled, ‘Well, I never! - ‘It’s nearly time you came out-back-- - ‘This _is_ the Paroo River!’ - - No place to camp--no spot of damp-- - No moisture to be seen there; - If e’er there was it left no sign - That it had ever been there. - But ere the morn, with heart and soul - We’d cause to thank the Giver-- - We found a muddy water-hole - Some ten miles down the river. - - - - - THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT - - - Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!--you don’t know what it means. - (What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you--mine is beef and greens. - Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes--a bucketful.) - I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’ - - Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat; - Bread or brownie, tea or coffee--two hours’ graft in front of that; - Legs of mutton boiled for dinner--mutton greasy-warm for tea-- - Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.) - - Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice, - And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice. - All day long with living mutton--bits and belly-wool and fleece; - Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease, - Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear, - And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer. - - * * * * * - - Dusty patch in baking mulga--glaring iron hut and shed-- - Feel and smell of rain forgotten--water scarce and feed-grass dead. - Hot and suffocating sunrise--all-pervading sheep-yard smell-- - Stiff and aching green-hand stretches--‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell-- - Pint of tea and hunk of brownie--sinners string towards the shed-- - Great, black, greasy crows round carcass--screen behind of dust-cloud red. - - Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins, - Picking up for seven devils out of Hades--for my sins; - Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell! - Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep--half a-dozen Christs they’d sell! - Day grows hot as where they come from--too damned hot for men or brutes; - Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots! - - Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams; - Blasphemy of five-and-forty--prickly heat--and stink of rams! - ‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out; - When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout. - Injury with insult added--trial of our cursing powers-- - Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours. - - ‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’ - ‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot--just jump down and pick it up.’ - ‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’ - ‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’ - ‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’ - ‘Fetch my pipe--the cook’ll show yer--and I’ll let yer have a cut.’ - - Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull: - ‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) WOOL!!’ - - * * * * * - - Pound a week and station prices--mustn’t kick against the pricks-- - Seven weeks of lurid mateship--ruined soul and four pounds six. - - * * * * * - - What’s that? waiter? _me?_ stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief, - I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef--moo-cow--Roast Bullock--BEEF! - - - - - THE MAN FROM WATERLOO - -(_With kind regards to “Banjo.”_) - - - It was the Man from Waterloo, - When work in town was slack, - Who took the track as bushmen do, - And humped his swag out back. - He tramped for months without a bob, - For most the sheds were full, - Until at last he got a job - At picking up the wool. - He found the work was rather rough, - But swore to see it through, - For he was made of sterling stuff-- - The Man from Waterloo. - - The first remark was like a stab - That fell his ear upon, - ’Twas--‘There’s another something scab - ‘The boss has taken on!’ - They couldn’t let the towny be-- - They sneered like anything; - They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’ - In words that end in ‘ing.’ - - There came a man from Ironbark, - And at the shed he shore; - He scoffed his victuals like a shark, - And like a fiend he swore. - He’d shorn his flowing beard that day-- - He found it hard to reap-- - Because ’twas hot and in the way - While he was shearing sheep. - His loaded fork in grimy holt - Was poised, his jaws moved fast, - Impatient till his throat could bolt - The mouthful taken last. - He couldn’t stand a something toff, - Much less a jackaroo; - And swore to take the trimmings off - The Man from Waterloo. - - The towny saw he must be up - Or else be underneath, - And so one day, before them all, - He dared to clean his teeth. - - The men came running from the shed, - And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’ - ‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ said - The man from Ironbark. - His feeble joke was much enjoyed; - He sneered as bullies do, - And with a scrubbing-brush he guyed - The Man from Waterloo. - - The Jackaroo made no remark - But peeled and waded in, - And soon the Man from Ironbark - Had three teeth less to grin! - And when they knew that he could fight - They swore to see him through, - Because they saw that he was right-- - The Man from Waterloo. - - Now in a shop in Sydney, near - The Bottle on the Shelf, - The tale is told--with trimmings--by - The Jackaroo himself. - ‘They made my life a hell,’ he said; - ‘They wouldn’t let me be; - ‘They set the bully of the shed - ‘To take it out of me. - - ‘The dirt was on him like a sheath, - ‘He seldom washed his phiz; - ‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth-- - ‘I guess I dusted his! - ‘I treated them as they deserved-- - ‘I signed on one or two! - ‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observed - The Man from Waterloo. - - - - - SAINT PETER - - - Now, I think there is a likeness - ’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine, - For he did a lot of trampin’ - Long ago in Palestine. - He was ‘union’ when the workers - First began to organise, - And--I’m glad that old St. Peter - Keeps the gate of Paradise. - - When the ancient agitator - And his brothers carried swags, - I’ve no doubt he very often - Tramped with empty tucker-bags; - And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket, - For I hate explainin’ things, - And he’ll think a union ticket - Just as good as Whitely King’s. - - He denied the Saviour’s union, - Which was weak of him, no doubt; - But perhaps his feet was blistered - And his boots had given out. - And the bitter storm was rushin’ - On the bark and on the slabs, - And a cheerful fire was blazin’, - And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’ - - * * * * * - - When I reach the great head-station-- - Which is somewhere ‘off the track’-- - I won’t want to talk with angels - Who have never been out back; - They might bother me with offers - Of a banjo--meanin’ well-- - And a pair of wings to fly with, - When I only want a spell. - - I’ll just ask for old St. Peter, - And I think, when he appears, - I will only have to tell him - That I carried swag for years. - ‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him, - ‘An’ I done the best I could,’ - And he’ll understand me better - Than the other angels would. - - He won’t try to get a chorus - Out of lungs that’s worn to rags, - Or to graft the wings on shoulders - That is stiff with humpin’ swags. - But I’ll rest about the station - Where the work-bell never rings, - Till they blow the final trumpet - And the Great Judge sees to things. - - - - - THE STRANGER’S FRIEND - - - The strangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say, - To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day; - Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts - discard-- - But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard. - - I met him in Bourke in the Union days--with which we have nought to do - (Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ - like glue). - He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’ - And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s - Friend.’ - - It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’ - For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him, - To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul - bakes-- - Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were - filled - with snakes. - - In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood--in his cynical stages too-- - In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was - blue-- - From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful - end, - He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend. - - ‘The feller as knows, _he_ can battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d - say-- - ‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know--send the hard-up bloke this - way; - Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the - bushman - spoke, - The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.’ - - And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they - scored, - For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the - stranger’s - board-- - The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s - bunk, - And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk. - - And the chaps and the fellers would speculate--by way of a ghastly joke-- - As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first?--the Friend or the hard-up - bloke? - And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned - in the end, - When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s - Friend. - - It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think, - He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink, - To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way, - And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say. - - At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as - ice, - He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice; - Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose - like smoke, - Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up - bloke.’ - - They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true. - I have ‘battled’ myself, and _you_ know, you chaps, what a man in the bush - goes through; - Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and - his strength - are done, - That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend has - _one_. - - - - - THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION - - - Pat M‘Durmer brought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten: - ‘There are lively days before ye--commin Parlymint’s dissolved!’ - And the boys were all excited, for the State, of course, was ‘rotten,’ - And, in subsequent elections, God-Forgotten was involved. - There was little there to live for save in drinking beer and eating; - But we rose on this occasion ere the news appeared in print, - For the boys of God-Forgotten, at a wild, uproarious meeting, - Nominated Billy Blazes for the commin Parlymint. - - Other towns had other favourites, but the day before the battle - Bushmen flocked to God-Forgotten, and the distant sheds were still; - Sheep were left to go to glory, and neglected mobs of cattle - Went a-straying down the river at their sweet bucolic will. - William Spouter stood for Freetrade (and his votes were split by Nottin), - He had influence behind him and he also had the tin, - But across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God-Forgotten, - ‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re living in!’ - - Pat M‘Durmer said, ‘Ye schaymers, please to shut yer ugly faces, - Lend yer dirty ears a momint while I give ye all a hint: - _Keep ye sober till to-morrow and record yer vote for Blazes_ - If ye want to send a ringer to the commin Parlymint. - ‘As a young and growin’ township God-Forgotten’s been neglected, - And, if we’d be ripresinted, _now’s_ the moment to begin-- - Have the local towns encouraged, local industries purtected: - Vote for Blazes, and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in. - - ‘I don’t say that William Blazes is a perfect out-an’ outer, - I don’t say he have the larnin’, for he never had the luck; - I don’t say he have the logic, or the gift of gab, like Spouter, - I don’t say he have the practice--BUT I SAY HE HAVE THE PLUCK! - Now the country’s gone to ruin, and the Governments are rotten, - But he’ll save the public credit and purtect the public tin; - To the iverlastin’ glory of the name of God-Forgotten - Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in!’ - - Pat M‘D. went on the war-path, and he worked like salts and senna, - For he organised committees full of energy and push; - And those wild committees riding through the whisky-fed Gehenna - Routed out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush. - Everything on wheels was ‘rinted,’ and half-sobered drunks were shot in; - Said M‘Durmer to the driver, ‘If ye want to save yer skin, - Never stop to wet yer whistles--drive like hell to God-Forgotten, - Make the villains plump for Blazes, and the land they’re livin’ in.’ - - Half the local long-departed (for the purpose resurrected) - Plumped for Blazes and Protection, and the country where they died; - So he topped the poll by sixty, and when Blazes was elected - There was victory and triumph on the God-Forgotten side. - Then the boys got up a banquet, and our chairman, Pat M‘Durmer, - Was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker’s bin-- - All the dough had risen round him, but we heard a smothered murmur, - ‘Vote for Blazes--and Protection--and the land ye’re livin’ in.’ - - Now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London, ’cross the waters, - And they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End, - But I very often wonder if his toney sons and daughters - Ever heard of Billy Blazes who was once the ‘people’s friend.’ - Does his biassed memory linger round that wild electioneering - When the men of God-Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin? - Does he ever, in his dreaming, hear the cry above the cheering: - ‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re livin’ in?’ - - * * * * * - - Ah, the bush was grand in those days, and the Western boys were daisies, - And their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print; - Still my recollection lingers round the time when Billy Blazes - Was returned by God-Forgotten to the ‘Commin Parlymint’: - Still I keep a sign of canvas--’twas a mate of mine that made it-- - And its paint is cracked and powdered, and its threads are bare and thin, - Yet upon its grimy surface you can read in letters faded: - ‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the Land you’re livin’ in.’ - - - - - THE BOSS’S BOOTS - - - The shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’ - The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots; - They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare, - But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware. - - _The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout! - And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out; - And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots-- - But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots._ - - The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do-- - And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe; - And though he changed his pants at times--some worn-out and some neat-- - No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet. - - The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men, - And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again; - And tigers might have _heard_ the boss ere any harm was done-- - For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one. - - But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too, - And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe. - He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will, - And never dreamed of Boss’s boots--much less of Bogan Bill. - - _Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs, - Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs, - And keep away from handicaps--for so your sugar scoots-- - And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots._ - - And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair: - ‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere-- - He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots, - He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’ - - Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat; - He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit; - He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot, - He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot. - - He thought that he’d be fined all right--he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’ - The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go; - And Bogan swore amenfully--beneath his breath he swore-- - And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before. - - And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace, - The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face; - He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few, - He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe. - - But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat, - He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet: - The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry, - And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye. - - Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt-- - You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt-- - For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look), - And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook. - - And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout; - And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out; - He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot-- - ‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’ - - The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots, - And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots. - They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare, - But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware. - - _The rouser has no soul to lose--it’s blarst the rouseabout! - And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out, - And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,-- - But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots._ - - ‘Rouseabout’ and ‘picker-up’ are interchangeable terms in above - rhymes, as also ‘boss’ and ‘super’; the shed-name for the latter is - ‘Boss-over-the-board.’ The shearer is paid by the hundred, the - rouser by the week. ‘Pink ’em pretty’: to shear clean to the skin. - ‘Bell-sheep’: shearers are not supposed to take another sheep out - of pen when ‘Smoke-ho,’ breakfast or dinner bell goes, but some - time themselves to get so many sheep out, and _one as the bell - goes_, which makes more work for the rouser and entrenches on his - ‘smoke-ho,’ as he must leave his ‘board’ clean. Shearers are seldom - or never fined now. - - - - - THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH - - - As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush, - From a slum in Jones’ Alley sloped the Captain of the Push; - And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South, - As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth. - Then his whistle, loud and shrill, woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’ - And a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks. - - There was nought to rouse their anger; yet the oath that each one swore - Seemed less fit for publication than the one that went before. - For they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comes - Only to the men whose childhood knew the brothels and the slums. - Then they spat in turns, and halted; and the one that came behind, - Spitting fiercely on the pavement, called on Heaven to strike him blind. - - Let us first describe the captain, bottle-shouldered, pale and thin, - For he was the beau-ideal of a Sydney larrikin; - E’en his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live, - With a gallows-tilt that no one, save a larrikin, can give; - And the coat, a little shorter than the writer would desire, - Showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire. - - That which tailors know as ‘trousers’--known by him as ‘bloomin’ bags’-- - Hanging loosely from his person, swept, with tattered ends, the flags; - And he had a pointed sternpost to the boots that peeped below - (Which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe), - And he wore his shirt uncollar’d, and the tie correctly wrong; - But I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long. - - And the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the kerb, - Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb, - And he begged the Gory Bleeders that they wouldn’t interrupt - Till he gave an introduction--it was painfully abrupt-- - ‘Here’s the bleedin’ push, me covey--here’s a (something) from the bush! - Strike me dead, he wants to join us!’ said the captain of the push. - - Said the stranger: ‘I am nothing but a bushy and a dunce; - But I read about the Bleeders in the WEEKLY GASBAG once: - Sitting lonely in the humpy when the wind began to “whoosh,” - How I longed to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push! - Gosh! I hate the swells and good ’uns--I could burn ’em in their beds; - I am with you, if you’ll have me, and I’ll break their blazing heads.’ - - ‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush, - ‘Now, look here--suppose a feller was to split upon the push, - Would you lay for him and fetch him, even if the traps were round? - Would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground? - Would you jump upon the nameless--kill, or cripple him, or both? - Speak? or else I’ll--SPEAK!’ The stranger answered, ‘My kerlonial oath!’ - - ‘Now, look here,’ exclamed the captain to the stranger from the bush, - ‘Now, look here--suppose the Bleeders let you come and join the push, - Would you smash a bleedin’ bobby if you got the blank alone? - Would you break a swell or Chinkie--split his garret with a stone? - Would you have a “moll” to keep yer--like to swear off work for good?’ - ‘Yes, my oath!’ replied the stranger. ‘My kerlonial oath! I would!’ - - ‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush, - ‘Now, look here--before the Bleeders let yer come and join the push, - You must prove that you’re a blazer--you must prove that you have grit - Worthy of a Gory Bleeder--you must show your form a bit-- - Take a rock and smash that winder?’ and the stranger, nothing loth, - Took the rock and--smash! They only muttered ‘My kerlonial oath!’ - - So they swore him in, and found him sure of aim and light of heel, - And his only fault, if any, lay in his excessive zeal; - He was good at throwing metal, but we chronicle with pain - That he jumped upon a victim, damaging the watch and chain, - Ere the Bleeders had secured them; yet the captain of the push - Swore a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush. - - Late next morn the captain, rising, hoarse and thirsty from his lair, - Called the newly-feather’d Bleeder, but the stranger wasn’t there! - Quickly going through the pockets of his ‘bloomin’ bags,’ he learned - That the stranger had been through him for the stuff his ‘moll’ had earned; - And the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell - (Stars! and notes of exclamation!! blank and dash will do as well). - - In the night the captain’s signal woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’ - Brought the Gory Bleeders sloping thro’ the shadows of the blocks; - And they swore the stranger’s action was a blood-escaping shame, - While they waited for the nameless, but the nameless never came. - And the Bleeders soon forgot him; but the captain of the push - Still is ‘laying’ round, in ballast, for the nameless ‘from the bush.’ - - - - - BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’ - - - Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate, - And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’; - ’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declare - That he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’ - - He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise; - The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes; - (And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’ - I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’) - - He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat; - His girl had earned a quid or two--he wouldn’t part with that; - And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper there - He ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’ - - Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe, - And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe; - Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care, - And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’ - - She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’ - She dressed in style that suited Bill--he could not wish for more. - While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear, - He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair. - - To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin, - And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in. - The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take care - In case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair. - - He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’ - He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods. - They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there-- - But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair! - - ‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash! - I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’-- - In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair, - And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair. - - And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim, - She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him. - That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air-- - The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair. - - The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park, - And they, of course, were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark; - A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declare - Gor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’ - - * * * * * - - Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d, - And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard; - Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair, - And in the Sydney ‘Orspital lies Billy’s square affair. - - - - - A DERRY ON A COVE - - - ’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue; - His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too; - He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap-- - ‘It’s orful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap. - - ‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as any bloke can see, - It’s just because the p’leece has got a derry, sir, on me; - Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain’t no joke-- - It’s cruel when the p’leece has got a derry on a bloke.’ - - ‘Why don’t you go to work?’ he said (he muttered, ‘Why don’t you?’). - ‘Yer honer knows as well as me there ain’t no work to do. - And when I try to find a job I’m shaddered by a trap-- - It’s awful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.’ - - I sigh’d and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred, - But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months’ hard. - He only said, ‘Beyond the grave you’ll cop it hot, by Jove! - There ain’t no angel p’leece to get a derry on a cove.’ - - - - - RISE YE! RISE YE! - - - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel! - Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel! - They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than - brutes! - Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed - boots! - Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! - Erwake! er-rise! - - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves! - Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye? _will_ ye still be - sl-a-a-ves?!!! - Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws! - Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws! - Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! - Erwake! er-rise! - - Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now! - He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near; - See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! - Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers! - Erwake! er-rise! - - Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep! - Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain! - March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! - Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! - Erwake! er-r-rise! - - - - - THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE - - - Ye children of the Land of Gold, - I sing a song to you, - And if the jokes are somewhat old, - The main idea’s new. - So be it sung, by hut and tent, - Where tall the native grows; - And understand, the song is meant - For singing through the nose. - - There dwelt a hard old cockatoo - On western hills far out, - Where everything is green and blue, - Except, of course, in drought; - A crimson Anarchist was he-- - Held other men in scorn-- - Yet preached that ev’ry man was free, - And also ‘ekal born.’ - - He lived in his ancestral hut-- - His missus wasn’t there-- - And there was no one with him but - His daughter, Mabel Clare. - Her eyes and hair were like the sun; - Her foot was like a mat; - Her cheeks a trifle overdone; - She was a democrat. - - A manly independence, born - Among the trees, she had, - She treated womankind with scorn, - And often cursed her dad. - She hated swells and shining lights, - For she had seen a few, - And she believed in ‘women’s rights’ - (She mostly got ’em, too). - - A stranger at the neighb’ring run - Sojourned, the squatter’s guest, - He was unknown to anyone, - But like a swell was dress’d; - He had an eyeglass to his eye, - A collar to his ears, - His feet were made to tread the sky, - His mouth was formed for sneers. - - He wore the latest toggery, - The loudest thing in ties-- - ’Twas generally reckoned he - Was something in disguise. - But who he was, or whence he came, - Was long unknown, except - Unto the squatter, who the name - And noble secret kept. - - And strolling in the noontide heat, - Beneath the blinding glare, - This noble stranger chanced to meet - The radiant Mabel Clare. - She saw at once he was a swell-- - According to her lights-- - But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell, - She met him oft of nights. - - And, strolling through a moonlit gorge, - She chatted all the while - Of Ingersoll, and Henry George, - And Bradlaugh and Carlyle: - In short, he learned to love the girl, - And things went on like this, - Until he said he was an Earl, - And asked her to be his. - - ‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee, - Oh, say no more!’ she said; - ‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee, - I wish that I was dead; - My head is in a hawful whirl, - The truth I dare not tell-- - I am a democratic girl, - And cannot wed a swell!’ - - ‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forget - That you are most unjust; - ’Twas not my fault that I was set - Within the upper crust. - Heed not the yarns the poets tell-- - Oh, darling, do not doubt - A simple lord can love as well - As any rouseabout! - - ‘For you I’ll give my fortune up-- - I’d go to work for you! - I’ll put the money in the cup - And drop the title, too. - Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with me - Across the mountains blue! - Hoh, fly with me! _Hoh, fly with me!_----’ - That very night she flew. - - They took the train and journeyed down-- - Across the range they sped-- - Until they came to Sydney town, - Where shortly they were wed. - And still upon the western wild - Admiring teamsters tell - How Mabel’s father cursed his child - For clearing with a swell. - - ‘What ails my bird this bridal night,’ - Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee; - ‘What ails my own this bridal night-- - O love, confide in me!’ - ‘Oh now,’ she said, ‘that I am yaws - You’ll let me weep--I must-- - I did desert the people’s cause - To join the upper crust.’ - - O proudly smiled his lordship then-- - His chimney-pot he floor’d-- - ‘Look up, my love, and smile again, - For I am not a lord!’ - His eye-glass from his eye he tore, - The dickey from his breast, - And turned and stood his bride before - A rouseabout--confess’d! - - ‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said, - ‘And I have loved you true-- - A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shed - I learned to worship you. - I do not care for place or pelf, - For now, my love, I’m sure - That you will love me for myself - And not because I’m poor. - - ‘To prove your love I spent my cheque - To buy this swell rig-out; - So fling your arms about my neck - For I’m a rouseabout!’ - At first she gave a startled cry, - Then, safe from care’s alarms, - She sigh’d a soul-subduing sigh - And sank into his arms. - - He pawned the togs, and home he took - His bride in all her charms; - The proud old cockatoo received - The pair with open arms. - And long they lived, the faithful bride, - The noble rouseabout-- - And if she wasn’t satisfied - She never let it out. - - - - - CONSTABLE M‘CARTY’S INVESTIGATIONS - - - Most unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower orders - Stood a ‘terrace’ in the city when the current year began, - And a notice indicated there were vacancies for boarders - In the middle house, and lodgings for a single gentleman. - Now, a singular observer could have seen but few attractions - Whether in the house, or ‘missus, or the notice, or the street, - But at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actions - Puzzled Constable M‘Carty, the policeman on the beat. - - He (the single gent) was wasted almost to emaciation, - And his features were the palest that M‘Carty ever saw, - And these indications, pointing to a past of dissipation, - Greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law. - He (the lodger--hang the pronoun!) seemed to like the stormy weather, - When the elements in battle kept it up a little late; - Yet he’d wander in the moonlight when the stars were close together, - Taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state. - - He would walk the streets at midnight, when the storm-king raised - his banner, - Walk without his old umbrella,--wave his arms above his head: - Or he’d fold them tight, and mutter, in a wild, disjointed manner, - While the town was wrapped in slumber and he should have been in bed. - Said the constable-on-duty: ‘Shure, Oi wonther phwat his trade is?’ - And the constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall, - But he never picked a pocket, and he ne’er accosted ladies, - And the constable was puzzled what to make of him at all. - - Now, M‘Carty had arrested more than one notorious dodger, - He had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads, - But he couldn’t fix the station or the business of the lodger, - Who at times would chum with cadgers, and at other times with cads. - And the constable would often stand and wonder how the gory - Sheol the stranger got his living, for he loafed the time away - And he often sought a hillock when the sun went down in glory, - Just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day. - - Mac. had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking, - And could ‘stow away a long ’un,’ never winking, so he could; - And M‘Carty once, at midnight, came upon the lodger poking - Round about suspicious alleys where the common houses stood. - Yet the constable had seen him in a class above suspicion-- - Seen him welcomed with effusion by a dozen ‘toney gents’-- - Seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politician - Thro’ the gateway of the member’s toney private residence. - - And the constable, off duty, had observed the lodger slipping - Down a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide, - Where he’d stand for hours gazing at the distant anchor’d shipping, - But he never took his coat off, so it wasn’t suicide. - For the constable had noticed that a man who’s filled with loathing - For his selfish fellow-creatures and the evil things that be, - Will, for some mysterious reason, shed a portion of his clothing, - Ere he takes his first and final plunge into eternity. - - And M‘Carty, once at midnight--be it said to his abasement-- - Left his beat and climbed a railing of considerable height, - Just to watch the lodger’s shadow on the curtain of his casement - While the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night. - Now, at first the shadow hinted that the substance sat inditing; - Now it indicated toothache, or the headache; and again, - ’Twould exaggerate the gestures of a dipsomaniac fighting - Those original conceptions of a whisky-sodden brain. - - Then the constable, retreating, scratched his head and muttered ‘Sorra - Wan of me can undershtand it. But Oi’ll keep me Oi on him, - Divil take him and his tantrums; he’s a lunatic, begorra! - Or, if he was up to mischief, he’d be sure to douse the glim.’ - But M‘Carty wasn’t easy, for he had a vague suspicion - That a ‘skame’ was being plotted; and he thought the matter down - Till his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition, - And the man, in league with others, sought to overthrow the Crown. - - But, in spite of observation, Mac. received no information - And was forced to stay inactive, being puzzled for a charge. - That the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation, - Tho’ the house would scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large. - His appearance failed to warrant apprehension as a vagrant, - Tho’ ’twas getting very shabby, as the constable could see; - But M‘Carty in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrant - Breach of peace, or the intention to commit a felony. - - (For digression there is leisure, and it is the writer’s pleasure - Just to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal fact, - Being forced to say in sorrow, and a line of doubtful measure, - That there’s nothing so elastic as the cruel Vagrant Act) - Now, M‘Carty knew his duty, and was brave as any lion, - But he dreaded being ‘landed’ in an influential bog-- - As the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye on - Was a person of importance who was travelling _incog._ - - Want of sleep and over-worry seemed to tell upon M‘Carty: - He was thirsty more than ever, but his appetite resigned; - He was previously reckoned as a jolly chap and hearty, - But the mystery was lying like a mountain on his mind. - Tho’ he tried his best, he couldn’t get a hold upon the lodger, - For the latter’s antecedents weren’t known to the police-- - They considered that the ‘devil’ was a dark and artful dodger - Who was scheming under cover for the downfall of the peace. - - ’Twas a simple explanation, though M‘Carty didn’t know it, - Which with half his penetration he might easily have seen, - _For the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet,_ - _Who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been._ - And the constable grew thinner, till one morning, ‘little dhramin’ - Av the sword of revelation that was leapin’ from its sheath,’ - He alighted on some verses in the columns of the FRAYMAN, - ‘_Wid the christian name an’ surname av the lodger onderneath!_’ - - Now, M‘Carty and the poet are as brother is to brother, - Or, at least, as brothers should be; and they very often meet - On the lonely block at midnight, and they wink at one another-- - Disappearing down the by-way of a shanty in the street. - And the poet’s name you’re asking?--well, the ground is very tender, - You must wait until the public put the gilt upon the name, - Till a glorious, sorrow-drowning, and, perhaps, a final ‘bender,’ - Heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder-halls of Fame. - - - - - AT THE TUG-OF-WAR - - - ’Twas in a tug-of-war where I--the guvnor’s hope and pride-- - Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side; - Old dad was in his glory there--it gave the old man joy - To fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy. - - A friend came up and said to me, ‘Put out your muscles, John, - And pull them to eternity--your guvnor’s looking on.’ - I paused before I grasped the rope, and glanced around the place, - And, foremost in the waiting crowd, I saw the old man’s face. - - My mates were strong and plucky chaps, but very soon I knew - That our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through; - The boys were losing surely and defeat was very near, - When, high above the mighty roar, I heard the old man cheer! - - I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheer’d for me, - I felt as though I’d burst my heart, or gain the victory! - I shouted, ‘Now! Together!’ and a steady strain replied, - And, with a mighty heave, I helped to beat the other side! - - Oh! how the old man shouted in his wild, excited joy! - I thought he’d burst his boiler then, a-cheering for his boy; - The chaps, oh! how they cheered me, while the girls all smiled so kind, - They praised me, little dreaming, how the old man pulled behind. - - * * * * * - - He barracks for his boy no more--his grave is old and green, - And sons have grown up round me since he vanished from the scene; - But, when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory, - In fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me. - - - - - HERE’S LUCK! - - - Old Time is tramping close to-day--you hear his bluchers fall, - A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all; - Some dust’ll fly from beery coats--at least it’s been declared. - I’m glad that wimin has the votes--but just a trifle scared. - - I’m just a trifle scared--For why? The wimin mean to rule; - It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school. - The days of men is nearly dead--of double moons and stars-- - They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars. - - No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife, - An’ chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife. - We’ll laugh an’ joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums, - An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes. - - Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-sense - Or legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence? - Did we prohibit bustles--or the hoops when they was here? - The wimin never think of this--they want to stop our beer. - - The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut, - But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut; - When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek, - An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week. - - For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’--in years gone past ’n’ far-- - Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar; - An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints-- - I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints. - - ’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid; - And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did. - But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant--’n’ buck, - I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’ - - The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung, - But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung. - While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck, - They’ll find a private entrance still! - Here’s Luck, old man--Here’s Luck! - - - - - THE MEN WHO COME BEHIND - - - There’s a class of men (and women) who are always on their guard-- - Cunning, treacherous, suspicious--feeling softly--grasping hard-- - Brainy, yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track-- - Cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit’s back. - - If you save a bit of money, and you start a little store-- - Say, an oyster-shop, for instance, where there wasn’t one before-- - When the shop begins to pay you, and the rent is off your mind, - You will see another started by a chap that comes behind. - - So it is, and so it might have been, my friend, with me and you-- - When a friend of both and neither interferes between the two; - They will fight like fiends, forgetting in their passion mad and blind, - That the row is mostly started by the folk who come behind. - - They will stick to you like sin will, while your money comes and goes, - But they’ll leave you when you haven’t got a shilling in your clothes. - You may get some help above you, but you’ll nearly always find - That you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind. - - There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme, - Always looking for another’s ‘footsteps on the sands of time.’ - Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind; - And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind. - - If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail, - They will rhyme and prose about it till your very own is stale, - As they raved about the region that the wattle-boughs perfume - Till the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle-bloom. - - They will follow in your footsteps while you’re groping for the light; - But they’ll run to get before you when they see you’re going right; - And they’ll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat, - Like a stupid pup that hasn’t learned to trail behind your feet. - - Take your loads of sin and sorrow on more energetic backs! - Go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks! - And--we fancy that the subject could be further treated here, - But we’ll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear. - - - - - THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT SWIMMING - - - The breezes waved the silver grass, - Waist-high along the siding, - And to the creek we ne’er could pass - Three boys on bare-back riding; - Beneath the sheoaks in the bend - The waterhole was brimming-- - Do you remember yet, old friend, - The times we ‘went in swimming?’ - - The days we ‘played the wag’ from school-- - Joys shared--and paid for singly-- - The air was hot, the water cool-- - And naked boys are kingly! - With mud for soap the sun to dry-- - A well planned lie to stay us, - And dust well rubbed on neck and face - Lest cleanliness betray us. - - And you’ll remember farmer Kutz-- - Though scarcely for his bounty-- - He leased a forty-acre block, - And thought he owned the county; - A farmer of the old world school, - That men grew hard and grim in, - He drew his water from the pool - That we preferred to swim in. - - And do you mind when down the creek - His angry way he wended, - A green-hide cartwhip in his hand - For our young backs intended? - Three naked boys upon the sand-- - Half buried and half sunning-- - Three startled boys without their clothes - Across the paddocks running. - - We’ve had some scares, but we looked blank - When, resting there and chumming, - One glanced by chance along the bank - And saw the farmer coming! - And home impressions linger yet - Of cups of sorrow brimming; - I hardly think that we’ll forget - The last day we went swimming. - - - - - THE OLD BARK SCHOOL - - - It was built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holes - Where each leak in rainy weather made a pool; - And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks-- - There was little need for windows in the school. - - Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track, - On the old grey horse that carried three or four; - And he looked so very wise that he lit the master’s eyes - Every time he put his head in at the door. - - He had run with Cobb and Co.--‘that grey leader, let him go!’ - There were men ’as knowed the brand upon his hide,’ - And ’as knowed it on the course’. Funeral service: ‘Good old horse!’ - When we burnt him in the gully where he died. - - And the master thought the same. ’Twas from Ireland that he came, - Where the tanks are full all summer, and the feed is simply grand; - And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue-- - ’Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand. - - And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy maps - Long discarded by the public-schools in town; - And as nearly every book dated back to Captain Cook - Our geography was somewhat upside-down. - - It was ‘in the book’ and so--well, at that we’d let it go, - For we never would believe that print could lie; - And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon - ‘The sun is in the south part of the sky.’ - - And Ireland! _that_ was known from the coast line to Athlone: - We got little information _re_ the land that gave us birth; - Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled) - And ‘the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.’ - - And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded race - Seemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew; - Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best; - But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo. - - But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood upon - Is a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard; - There’s a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that, - For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred.’ - - But the bark-school comes again with exchanges ’cross the plain-- - With the OUT-BACK ADVERTISER; and my fancy roams at large - When I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock, - With ‘James Bullock,’ ‘Grey,’ or ‘Henry Dale’ in charge. - - And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content, - With his ’eddication’ finished, with his pack-horse after him; - And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track, - For I wish my learning ended when the Master ‘finished’ Jim. - - - - - TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION - - - You lazy boy, you’re here at last, - You must be wooden-legged - Now, are you sure the gate is fast - And all the sliprails pegged - And all the milkers at the yard, - The calves all in the pen? - We don’t want Poley’s calf to suck - His mother dry again. - - And did you mend the broken rail - And make it firm and neat? - I s’pose you want that brindle steer - All night among the wheat. - And if he finds the lucerne patch, - He’ll stuff his belly full; - He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on that - And busts like Ryan’s bull. - - Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad, - You will, upon my soul! - She might be in the boggy swamps - Or down a digger’s hole. - You needn’t talk, you never looked - You’d find her if you’d choose, - Instead of poking ’possum logs - And hunting kangaroos. - - How came your boots as wet as muck? - You tried to drown the ants! - Why don’t you take your bluchers off, - Good Lord, he’s tore his pants! - Your father’s coming home to-night; - You’ll catch it hot, you’ll see. - Now go and wash your filthy face - And come and get your tea. - - - - - THE PROFESSIONAL WANDERER - - - When you’ve knocked about the country--been away from home for years; - When the past, by distance softened, nearly fills your eyes with tears-- - You are haunted oft, wherever or however you may roam, - By a fancy that you ought to go and see the folks at home. - You forget the family quarrels--little things that used to jar-- - And you think of how they’ll worry--how they wonder where you are; - You will think you served them badly, and your own part you’ll condemn, - And it strikes you that you’ll surely be a novelty to them, - For your voice has somewhat altered, and your face has somewhat changed-- - And your views of men and matters over wider fields have ranged. - Then it’s time to save your money, or to watch it (how it goes!); - Then it’s time to get a ‘Gladstone’ and a decent suit of clothes; - Then it’s time to practise daily with a hair-brush and a comb, - Till you drop in unexpected on the folks and friends at home. - - When you’ve been at home for some time, and the novelty’s worn off, - And old chums no longer court you, and your friends begin to scoff; - When ‘the girls’ no longer kiss you, crying ‘Jack! how you have changed!’ - When you’re stale to your relations, and their manner seems estranged; - When the old domestic quarrels, round the table thrice a day, - Make it too much like the old times--make you wish you’d stayed away, - When, in short, you’ve spent your money in the fulness of your heart, - And your clothes are getting shabby.... Then it’s high time to depart. - - - - - A LITTLE MISTAKE - - - ’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’ - On the edge of the Never-Never, - Where the dead men lie and the black men lie, - And the bushman lies for ever. - - ’Twas the custom still with the local blacks - To cadge in the ‘altogether’-- - They had less respect for our feelings then, - And more respect for the weather. - - The trooper said to the sergeant’s wife: - ‘Sure, I wouldn’t seem unpleasant; - But there’s women and childer about the place, - And--barrin’ a lady’s present-- - - ‘There’s ould King Billy wid niver a stitch - For a month--may the drought cremate him!-- - Bar the wan we put in his dhirty head, - Where his old Queen Mary bate him. - - ‘God give her strength!--and a peaceful reign-- - Though she flies in a bit av a passion - If ony wan hints that her shtoyle an’ luks - Are a trifle behind the fashion. - - ‘There’s two of the boys by the stable now-- - Be the powers! I’ll teach the varmints - To come wid nought but a shirt apiece, - And wid dirt for their nayther garmints. - - ‘Howld on, ye blaggards! How dare ye dare - To come widin sight av the houses?-- - I’ll give ye a warnin’ all for wance - An’ a couple of ould pair of trousers.’ - - They took the pants as a child a toy, - The constable’s words beguiling - A smile of something beside their joy; - And they took their departure smiling. - - And that very day, when the sun was low, - Two blackfellows came to the station; - They were filled with the courage of Queensland rum - And bursting with indignation. - - The constable noticed, with growing ire, - They’d apparently dressed in a hurry; - And their language that day, I am sorry to say, - Mostly consisted of ‘plurry.’ - - The constable heard, and he wished himself back - In the land of the bogs and the ditches-- - ‘You plurry big tight-britches p’liceman, what for - You gibbit our missuses britches?’ - - And this was a case, I am bound to confess, - Where civilisation went under; - Had one of the gins been _less_ modest in dress - He’d never have made such a blunder. - - And here let the moral be duly made known, - And hereafter signed and attested: - We should place more reliance on that which is shown - And less upon what is suggested. - - - - - A STUDY IN THE “NOOD” - - ‘A sailor named Grice was seen by the guard of a goods train lying - close to the railway-line near Warner Town (S.A.) in a nude - condition. He was unconscious, and had lain there three days, - during one of which the glass registed 110 in the shade. _Grice - expressed surprise that the train did not pick him up._’--Daily - paper. In consequence, the muse:-- - - - He was bare--we don’t want to be rude-- - (His condition was owing to drink) - They say his condition was nood, - Which amounts to the same thing, we think - (We mean his _condition_, we think, - ’Twas a naked condition, or _nood_, - Which amounts to the same thing, we think) - - Uncovered he lay on the grass - That shrivelled and shrunk; and he stayed - Three hot summer days, while the glass - Was one hundred and ten in the shade. - (We nearly remarked that he _laid_, - But that was bad grammar we thought-- - It _does_ sound bucolic, we think - It smacks of the barnyard-- - Of farming--of _pullets_ in short.) - - Unheeded he lay on the dirt; - Beside him a part of his dress, - A tattered and threadbare old shirt - Was raised as a flag of distress. - (On a stick, like a flag of distress-- - Reversed--we mean that the tail-end was up - _Half-mast_--on a stick--an evident flag of distress.) - - Perhaps in his dreams he persood - Bright visions of heav’nly bliss; - And artists who study the nood - Never saw such a study as this. - The ‘luggage’ went by and the guard - Looked out and his eyes fell on Grice-- - We fancy he looked at him hard, - We think that he looked at him twice. - - They say (if the telegram’s true) - When he woke up he wondered (good Lord!) - ‘Why the engine-man didn’t heave to-- - Why the train didn’t take him aboard.’ - And now, by the case of poor Grice, - We think that a daily express - Should travel with sunshades and ice, - And a lookout for flags of distress. - - - - - A WORD TO TEXAS JACK - - - Texas Jack, you are amusin’. By Lord Harry, how I laughed - When I seen yer rig and saddle with its bulwarks fore-and-aft; - Holy smoke! In such a saddle how the dickens can yer fall? - Why, I seen a gal ride bareback with no bridle on at all! - Gosh! so-help-me! strike-me-balmy! if a bit o’ scenery - Like ter you in all yer rig-out on the earth I ever see! - How I’d like ter see a bushman use yer fixins, Texas Jack; - On the remnant of a saddle he can ride to hell and back. - Why, I heerd a mother screamin’ when her kid went tossin’ by - Ridin’ bareback on a bucker that had murder in his eye. - - What? yer come to learn the natives how to squat on horse’s back! - Learn the cornstalk ridin’! Blazes!--w’at yer giv’n’ us, Texas Jack? - Learn the cornstalk--what the flamin’, jumptup! where’s my country gone? - Why, the cornstalk’s mother often rides the day afore he’s born! - - You may talk about your ridin’ in the city, bold an’ free, - Talk o’ ridin’ in the city, Texas Jack, but where’d yer be - When the stock horse snorts an’ bunches all ’is quarters in a hump, - And the saddle climbs a sapling, an’ the horse-shoes split a stump? - - No, before yer teach the native you must ride without a fall - Up a gum or down a gully nigh as steep as any wall-- - You must swim the roarin’ Darlin’ when the flood is at its height - Bearin’ down the stock an’ stations to the great Australian Bight. - - You can’t count the bulls an’ bisons that yer copped with your lassoo-- - But a stout old myall bullock p’raps ’ud learn yer somethin’ new; - Yer’d better make yer will an’ leave yer papers neat an’ trim - Before yer make arrangements for the lassooin’ of _him_; - Ere you’n’ yer horse is catsmeat, fittin’ fate for sich galoots, - And yer saddle’s turned to laces like we put in blucher boots. - - And yer say yer death on Injins! We’ve got somethin’ in yer line-- - If yer think your fitin’s ekal to the likes of Tommy Ryan. - Take yer karkass up to Queensland where the allygators chew - And the carpet-snake is handy with his tail for a lassoo; - Ride across the hazy regins where the lonely emus wail - An’ ye’ll find the black’ll track yer while yer lookin’ for his trail; - He can track yer without stoppin’ for a thousand miles or more-- - Come again, and he will show yer where yer spit the year before. - But yer’d best be mighty careful, you’ll be sorry you kem here - When yer skewered to the fakements of yer saddle with a spear-- - When the boomerang is sailin’ in the air, may heaven help yer! - It will cut yer head off goin’, an’ come back again and skelp yer. - - P.S.--As poet and as Yankee I will greet you, Texas Jack, - For it isn’t no ill-feelin’ that is gettin’ up my back, - But I won’t see this land crowded by each Yank and British cuss - Who takes it in his head to come a-civilisin’ us. - - So if you feel like shootin’ now, don’t let yer pistol cough-- - (Our Government is very free at chokin’ fellers off); - And though on your great continent there’s misery in the towns - An’ not a few untitled lords and kings without their crowns, - I will admit your countrymen is busted big, an’ free, - An’ great on ekal rites of men and great on liberty; - I will admit yer fathers punched the gory tyrant’s head, - But then we’ve got our heroes, too, the diggers that is dead-- - The plucky men of Ballarat who toed the scratch right well - And broke the nose of Tyranny and made his peepers swell - For yankin’ Lib.’s gold tresses in the roarin’ days gone by, - An’ doublin’ up his dirty fist to black her bonny eye; - So when it comes to ridin’ mokes, or hoistin’ out the Chow, - Or stickin’ up for labour’s rights, we don’t want showin’ how. - - They come to learn us cricket in the days of long ago, - An’ Hanlan come from Canada to learn us how to row, - An’ ‘doctors’ come from ’Frisco just to learn us how to skite, - An’ ‘pugs’ from all the lands on earth to learn us how to fight; - An’ when they go, as like or not, we find we’re taken in, - They’ve left behind no larnin’--but they’ve carried off our tin. - - - - - THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE - - - ’Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an’-Grumble - In the days before the bushman was a dull ’n’ heartless drudge, - An’ they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble, - Which was ended pretty often by an inquest on the judge. - An’ ’tis said the city talent very often caught a tartar - In the Grog-an’-Grumble sportsman, ’n’ retired with broken heads, - For the fortune, life, and safety of the Grog-an’-Grumble starter - Mostly hung upon the finish of the local thoroughbreds. - - Pat M‘Durmer was the owner of a horse they called the Screamer, - Which he called the ‘quickest shtepper ’twixt the Darling and the sea;’ - And I think it’s very doubtful if the stomach-troubled dreamer - Ever saw a more outrageous piece of equine scenery; - For his points were most decided, from his end to his beginning, - He had eyes of different colour, and his legs they wasn’t mates. - Pat M‘Durmer said he always came ‘widin a flip av winnin’,’ - An’ his sire had come from England, ’n’ his dam was from the States. - - Friends would argue with M‘Durmer, and they said he was in error - To put up his horse the Screamer, for he’d lose in any case, - And they said a city racer by the name of Holy Terror - Was regarded as the winner of the coming steeplechase; - But he said he had the knowledge to come in when it was raining, - And irrelevantly mentioned that he knew the time of day, - So he rose in their opinion. It was noticed that the training - Of the Screamer was conducted in a dark, mysterious way. - - Well, the day arrived in glory; ’twas a day of jubilation - With careless-hearted bushmen for a hundred miles around, - An’ the rum ’n’ beer ’n’ whisky came in waggons from the station, - An’ the Holy Terror talent were the first upon the ground. - Judge M‘Ard--with whose opinion it was scarcely safe to wrestle-- - Took his dangerous position on the bark-and-sapling stand: - He was what the local Stiggins used to speak of as a ‘wessel - ‘Of wrath,’ and he’d a bludgeon that he carried in his hand. - - ‘Off ye go!’ the starter shouted, as down fell a stupid jockey-- - Off they started in disorder--left the jockey where he lay-- - And they fell and rolled and galloped down the crooked course and rocky, - Till the pumping of the Screamer could be heard a mile away. - But he kept his legs and galloped; he was used to rugged courses, - And he lumbered down the gully till the ridge began to quake: - And he ploughed along the siding, raising earth till other horses - An’ their riders, too, were blinded by the dust-cloud in his wake. - - From the ruck he’d struggled slowly--they were much surprised to find him - Close abeam of Holy Terror as along the flat they tore-- - Even higher still and denser rose the cloud of dust behind him, - While in more divided splinters flew the shattered rails before. - ‘Terror!’ ‘Dead heat!’ they were shouting--‘Terror!’ but the Screamer hung - out - Nose to nose with Holy Terror as across the creek they swung, - An’ M‘Durmer shouted loudly, ‘Put yer tongue out! put yer tongue out!’ - An’ the Screamer put his tongue out, and he won by half-a-tongue. - - - - - BUT WHAT’S THE USE - - - But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’-- - Though editors demand it-- - For city folk, and farming folk, - Can never understand it. - They’re blind to what the bushman sees - The best with eyes shut tightest, - Out where the sun is hottest and - The stars are most and brightest. - - The crows at sunrise flopping round - Where some poor life has run down; - The pair of emus trotting from - The lonely tank at sundown, - Their snaky heads well up, and eyes - Well out for man’s manœuvres, - And feathers bobbing round behind - Like fringes round improvers. - - The swagman tramping ’cross the plain; - Good Lord, there’s nothing sadder, - Except the dog that slopes behind - His master like a shadder; - The turkey-tail to scare the flies, - The water-bag and billy; - The nose-bag getting cruel light, - The traveller getting silly. - - The plain that seems to Jackaroos - Like gently sloping rises, - The shrubs and tufts that’s miles away - But magnified in sizes; - The track that seems arisen up - Or else seems gently slopin’, - And just a hint of kangaroos - Way out across the open. - - The joy and hope the swagman feels - Returning, after shearing, - Or after six months’ tramp Out Back, - He strikes the final clearing. - His weary spirit breathes again, - His aching legs seem limber - When to the East across the plain - He spots the Darling Timber! - - But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’-- - Though editors demand it-- - For city folk and cockatoos, - They do not understand it. - They’re blind to what the whaler sees - The best with eyes shut tightest, - Out where Australia’s widest, and - The stars are most and brightest. - - * * * * * - -MAY, 1902. - - -LIST OF BOOKS - -PUBLISHED BY - -ANGUS & ROBERTSON - -89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY -205 SWANSTON STREET, MELBOURNE - -SOLD IN ENGLAND BY - -THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK COMPANY - -38 WEST SMITHFIELD, LONDON, E.C. - - * * * * * - -THE COMMONWEALTH SERIES - -Crown 8vo., 1s. each (_post free 1s. 3d. each_). - -=ON THE TRACK: New Stories.= _By HENRY LAWSON_ - -=OVER THE SLIPRAILS: New Stories.= _By H. LAWSON_ - -=POPULAR VERSES.= _By HENRY LAWSON_ - -_Now first published in book form._ - -=HUMOROUS VERSES.= _By HENRY LAWSON_ - -_Now first published in book form._ - -=WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: Australian Stories.= - -=First Series.= _By HENRY LAWSON_ - -=WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: Australian Stories.= - -=Second Series.= _By HENRY LAWSON_ - -=HISTORY OF AUSTRALASIA: From the Earliest Times to -the Inauguration of the Commonwealth.= - -_By A. W. JOSE_ - -=HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING.= - -_By CHARLES WHITE_ - -PART I.--THE EARLY DAYS. [_Now ready_ -PART II.--1850 TO 1862. [_Now ready_ -PART III.--1863 TO 1869. [_Now ready_ -PART IV.--1869 TO 1878. [_In preparation_ - - -*** For press notices of these books see the cloth-bound editions on -pages 4, 5, 6, 13 and 15 of this catalogue. - - * * * * * - -JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES. - - BY HENRY LAWSON, Author of “While the Billy Boils;” “When the World - was Wide and Other Verses;” “Verses, Popular and Humorous;” “On the - Track and Over the Sliprails.” - - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free 4s._), in paper covers, - 2s. 6d. (_post free 3s._). - -=The Athenæum= (London): “This is a long way the best work Mr. Lawson -has yet given us. These stories are so good that (from the literary -point of view, of course) one hopes they are not autobiographical. As -autobiography they would be good; as pure fiction they are more of an -attainment.” - -=Pall Mall Gazette:= “We can see in these rough diamonds the men who -have of late so distinguished themselves at Eland’s River and -elsewhere.” - -=The Argus:= “More tales of the Joe Wilson series are promised, and this -will be gratifying to Mr. Lawson’s admirers, for on the whole the -sketches are the best work the writer has so far accomplished.” - -=The Academy:=--“I have never read anything in modern English literature -that is so absolutely democratic in tone, so much the real thing, as -_Joe Wilson’s Courtship_. And so with all Lawson’s tales and sketches. -Tolstoy and Howells, and Whitman and Kipling, and Zola and Hauptmann and -Gorky have all written descriptions of ‘democratic’ life; but none of -these celebrated authors, not even Maupassant himself, has so absolutely -taken us inside the life as do the tales _Joe Wilson’s Courtship_ and _A -Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek_, and it is this rare convincing tone of -this Australian writer that gives him a great value. The most casual -‘newspapery’ and apparently artless art of this Australian writer -carries with it a truer, finer, more delicate commentary on life than -all the idealistic works of any of our genteel school of writers.” - - * * * * * - -VERSES: POPULAR AND HUMOROUS. - - By HENRY LAWSON, Author of “When the World was Wide, and Other - Verses,” “Joe Wilson and His Mates,” “On the Track and Over the - Sliprails,” and “While the Billy Boils.” - -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free 4s._). - - _For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2._ - -FRANCIS THOMPSON, in =The Daily Chronicle=: “He is a writer of strong -and ringing ballad verse, who gets his blows straight in, and at his -best makes them all tell. He can vignette the life he knows in a few -touches, and in this book shows an increased power of selection.” - -=Academy=: “Mr. Lawson’s work should be well known to our readers; for -we have urged them often enough to make acquaintance with it. He has the -gift of movement, and he rarely offers a loose rhyme. Technically, short -of anxious lapidary work, these verses are excellent. He varies -sentiment and humour very agreeably.” - -=New York Evening Journal=: “Such pride as a man feels when he has true -greatness as his guest, this newspaper feels in introducing to a million -readers a man of ability hitherto unknown to them. Henry Lawson is his -name.” - -=The Book Lover=: “Any book of Lawson’s should be bought and treasured -by all who care for the real beginnings of Australian literature. As a -matter of fact, he is the one Australian literary product, in any -distinctive sense.” - - * * * * * - -ON THE TRACK AND OVER THE SLIPRAILS. - - STORIES BY HENRY LAWSON, Author of “While the Billy Boils,” “Joe - Wilson and his Mates,” “When the World Was Wide and Other Verses,” - and “Verses, Popular and Humorous.” - -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free 4s._). - - _For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2._ - -=Daily Chronicle=: “Will well sustain the reputation its author has -already won as the best writer of Australian short stories and sketches -the literary world knows. Henry Lawson has the art, possessed in such -eminent degree by Mr. J. M. Barrie, of sketching in a character and -suggesting a whole life-story in a single sentence.” - -=Pall Mall Gazette=: “The volume now received will do much to enhance -the author’s reputation. There is all the quiet irresistible humour of -Dickens in the description of ‘The Darling River,’ and the creator of -‘Truthful James’ never did anything better in the way of character -sketches than Steelman and Mitchell. Mr. Lawson has a master’s sense of -what is dramatic, and he can bring out strong effects in a few touches. -Humour and pathos, comedy and tragedy, are equally at his command.” - -=Glasgow Herald=: “Mr. Lawson must now be regarded as _facile princeps_ -in the production of the short tale. Some of these brief and even slight -sketches are veritable gems that would be spoiled by an added word, and -without a word that can be looked upon as superfluous.” - -=Melbourne Punch=: “Often the little stories are wedges cut clean out of -life, and presented with artistic truth and vivid colour.” - - * * * * * - -WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. - - STORIES BY HENRY LAWSON, Author of “When the World Was Wide and - Other Verses,” “Joe Wilson and his Mates,” “On the Track and Over - the Sliprails,” and “Verses, Popular and Humorous.” - - Twenty-third Thousand. With eight plates and vignette title by F. - P. Mahony. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free 4s._). - - _For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2._ - -=The Academy=: “A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing -about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers’ tales.... -The result is a real book--a book in a hundred. His language is terse, -supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best.” - -=Literature=: “A book which Mrs. Campbell Praed assured me made her feel -that all she had written of bush life was pale and ineffective.” - -=The Spectator=: “It is strange that one we would venture to call the -greatest Australian writer should be practically unknown in England. Mr. -Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, and more unequal, -but there are two or three sketches in this volume which for vigour and -truth can hold their own with even so great a rival.” - -=The Times=: “A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories of -Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte’s manner, crossed, -perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant.” - -=The Scotsman=: “There is no lack of dramatic imagination in the -construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive to construct a -strong sensational situation in a couple of pages.” - - * * * * * - -WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES. - - BY HENRY LAWSON, Author of “While the Billy Boils,” “Joe Wilson and - his Mates,” “On the Track and Over the Sliprails,” and “Verses, - Popular and Humorous.” - - Tenth Thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette title. - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (_post free 5s. 5d._). - - _Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s._ - -=The Academy=: “These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in -spirit and manhood, in the colour and smell of Australian soil. They -deserve the popularity which they have won in Australia, and which, we -trust, this edition will now give them in England.” - -=MR. R. LE GALLIENNE, in The Idler=: “A striking volume of ballad -poetry. A volume to console one for the tantalising postponement of Mr. -Kipling’s promised volume of sea ballads.” - -=Newcastle Weekly Chronicle=: “Swinging, rhythmic verse.” - -=Sydney Morning Herald=: “The verses have natural vigour, the writer has -a rough, true faculty of characterisation, and the book is racy of the -soil from cover to cover.” - -=Bulletin=: “How graphic he is, how natural, how true, how strong.” - -=Otago Witness=: “It were well to have such books upon our shelves.... -They are true history.” - - * * * * * - -THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES. - - BY A. B. PATERSON. - - Twenty-Fourth Thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette - title. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (_post free 5s. 5d._). - - _Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s._ - -=The Literary Year Book=: “The immediate success of this book of bush -ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any -living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting -Mr. Rudyard Kipling.” - -=The Times=: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author -of ‘Barrack Room Ballads.’” - -=Spectator=: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent -and ardent verses.” - -=Athenæum=: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, -and crowding adventure.... Stirring and entertaining ballads about great -rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses.” - -Mr. A. PATCHETT MARTIN, in =Literature= (London): “In my opinion it is -the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of -these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, -such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.” - -_London: Macmillan & Co., Limited._ - - * * * * * - -THE POETICAL WORKS OF BRUNTON STEPHENS. - - New edition, with photogravure portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, - gilt top, 5s. - -=Sydney Morning Herald (N.S.W.)=: “‘The Poetical Works of Brunton -Stephens,’ as now published by Messrs. Angus and Robertson, is a book -which every Australian should have on his bookshelves, whether these -bookshelves cover walls or are merely the small collection which the man -of taste, however shrunken his purse, is bound to make. Brunton Stephens -deserves his place in even the smallest of collections. The chief of -Australian poets he has contributed to English literature work of -distinguished merit. He is many-sided, embracing all sorts and -conditions of men and things.” - -=The Melbourne Argus=: “Mr. Brunton Stephens has for some years enjoyed -an established reputation as one of the best among the small and select -cluster of Australian poets.... Mr. Stephens is specially favoured, in -that he not only has at command a vein of true pathos, but he has -moments of real humour. In more than one poem, too, he has made good his -right to be regarded as the poet of brotherhood and the prophet of -federation.” - -=The Melbourne Age=: “It is certainly one of the happiest of his -efforts, and exhibits alike his copious vocabulary and his mastery of a -most attractive form of metre.... A poet both in thought and feeling.” - -=Newcastle (N.S.W.) Morning Herald=: “Of the rapidly lengthening roll of -Australian writers, none deserves a higher place than Brunton Stephens. -For more than a generation he has charmed his countrymen with his -exquisite verse.” - - * * * * * - -RHYMES FROM THE MINES AND OTHER LINES. - - BY EDWARD DYSON, Author of “A Golden Shanty.” - - Second Thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette title. - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (_post free, 5s. 5d._). - - _Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s._ - -=The Academy=: “Here from within we have the Australian miner complete: -the young miner, the old miner, the miner in luck, and the miner out of -it, the miner in love, and the miner in peril. Mr. Dyson knows it all.” - - * * * * * - -THE MUTINEER. A Romance of Pitcairn Island. By LOUIS BECKE AND WALTER -JEFFERY. - - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free 4s._). - - * * * * * - -FOR THE TERM OF HIS NATURAL LIFE. - - By MARCUS CLARKE. - - With a Memoir of the Author, by A. B. PATERSON, Portrait of the - Author, Map of Eagle Hawk Neck and the vicinity, and 14 full-page - views of places mentioned in the book. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt - top, 3s. 6d. (_post free 4s._). - - * * * * * - -LOVE AND LONGITUDE. - - A Story of the Pacific in the Year 1900. - - BY R. SCOT SKIRVING. - - With 8 plates, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (_post free 5s. - 6d._). - -=Daily Telegraph=: “A capital story of love and adventure in the -Pacific.... Seafaring folk will find much to interest them particularly -in ‘Love and Longitude,’ and general readers will admire it for its -bright narrative.” - - * * * * * - -OUR ARMY IN SOUTH AFRICA. - - By R. SCOT SKIRVING, late Consulting Surgeon to the Australian - Contingents. - - Crown 8vo, boards, 2s. (_post free 2s. 2d._). - - * * * * * - -THE SPIRIT OF THE BUSH FIRE AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN FAIRY TALES. BY J. M. -WHITFELD. - - Second Thousand. With 32 illustrations by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo, - cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. (_post free 3s._). - -=Sydney Morning Herald=: “It is frankly written for the young folks. The -youngster will find a delight in Miss Whitfeld’s marvellous company.” - - * * * * * - -TEENS. A Story of Australian Schoolgirls. - - BY LOUISE MACK. - - Fourth Thousand. With 14 full-page illustrations by F. P. Mahony. - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. - -=Sydney Morning Herald=: “Ought to be welcome to all who feel the -responsibility of choosing the reading books of the young ... its -gaiety, impulsiveness, and youthfulness will charm them.” - -=Sydney Daily Telegraph=: “Nothing could be more natural, more -sympathetic.” - -=The Australasian=: “‘Teens’ is a pleasantly-written story, very -suitable for a present or a school prize.” - -=Bulletin=: “It is written so well that it could not be written better.” - - * * * * * - -GIRLS TOGETHER. - -A Sequel to “Teens.” BY LOUISE MACK. - - Third Thousand. Illustrated by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo, cloth - gilt, 2s. 6d. - -=Sydney Morning Herald=: “‘Girls Together’ should be in the library of -every girl who likes a pleasant story of real life.... Older people will -read it for its bright touches of human nature.” - -=Queenslander=: “A story told in a dainty style that makes it attractive -to all. It is fresh, bright, and cheery, and well worth a place on any -Australian bookshelf.” - - * * * * * - -THE ANNOTATED CONSTITUTION OF THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH. - - By Sir JOHN QUICK AND R. R. GARRAN, C.M.G. - - Royal 8vo, cloth gilt, 21s. - -=The Times=: “The Annotated Constitution of the Australian Commonwealth -is a monument of industry.... Dr. Quick and Mr. Garran have collected, -with patience and enthusiasm, every sort of information, legal and -historical, which can throw light on the new measure. The book has -evidently been a labour of love.” - - * * * * * - -HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING. BY CHARLES WHITE. - - To be completed in two vols. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each. - [_Vol. I. now ready._ - - _For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2._ - -Press Notices of Volume I. - -=Year Book of Australia=: “There is ‘romance’ enough about it to make it -of permanent interest as a peculiar and most remarkable stage in our -social history.” - -=Queenslander=: “Mr. White has supplied material enough for twenty such -novels as ‘Robbery Under Arms.’” - - * * * * * - -THE GROWTH OF THE EMPIRE. - -A Handbook to the History of Greater Britain. - - BY ARTHUR W. JOSE, Author of “A Short History of Australasia.” - - Second Edition. With 14 Maps. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. (_post - free 5s. 6d._) - -=Morning Post=: “This book is published in Sydney, but it deserves to be -circulated throughout the United Kingdom. The picture of the fashion in -which British enterprise made its way from settlement to settlement has -never been drawn more vividly than in these pages. Mr. Jose’s style is -crisp and pleasant, now and then even rising to eloquence on his grand -theme. His book deserves wide popularity, and it has the rare merit of -being so written as to be attractive alike to the young student and to -the mature man of letters.” - -=Literature=: “He has studied thoroughly, and writes vigorously.... -Admirably done.... We commend it to Britons the world over.” - -=Saturday Review=: “He writes Imperially; he also often writes -sympathetically.... We cannot close Mr. Jose’s creditable account of our -misdoings without a glow of national pride.” - -=Yorkshire Post=: “A brighter short history we do not know, and this -book deserves for the matter and the manner of it to be as well known as -Mr. McCarthy’s ‘History of Our Own Times.’” - -=The Scotsman=: “This admirable work is a solid octavo of more than 400 -pages. It is a thoughtful, well-written, and well-arranged history. -There are fourteen excellent maps to illustrate the text.” - - * * * * * - -HISTORY OF AUSTRALASIA. - -From the Earliest Times to the Inauguration of the Commonwealth. - - BY ARTHUR W. JOSE, Author of “The Growth of the Empire.” The - chapter on Federation revised by R. R. Garran, C.M.G. - - With 6 maps and 64 portraits and illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, - 1s. 6d. (_post free 1s. 10d._). _For Cheaper Edition see - Commonwealth Series, page 2._ - -=The Book Lover=: “The ignorance of the average Australian youth about -the brief history of his native land is often deplorable.... ‘A Short -History of Australasia,’ by Arthur W. Jose, just provides the thing -wanted. Mr. Jose’s previous historical work was most favourably received -in England, and this story of our land is capitally done. It is not too -long, and it is brightly written. Its value is considerably enhanced by -the useful maps and interesting illustrations. A very good book to give -to a boy.” - -=Victorian Education Gazette=: “The language is graphic and simple, and -there is much evidence of careful work and acquaintance with original -documents, which give the reader confidence in the accuracy of the -details. The low price of the book leaves young Australians no excuse -for remaining in ignorance of the history of their native land.” - -=Town and Country Journal=: “His language is graphic and simple, and he -has maintained the unity and continuity of the story of events despite -the necessity of following the subject along the seven branches -corresponding with the seven separate colonies.” - - * * * * * - -THE GEOLOGY OF SYDNEY AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS. - -A Popular Introduction to the Study of Australian Geology. - - BY REV. J. MILNE CURRAN, Lecturer in Chemistry and Geology, - Technical College, Sydney. - - Second Edition. With a Glossary of Scientific terms, a Reference - List of commonly-occurring Fossils, 2 coloured maps, and 83 - illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. (_post free 6s. 6d._). - -=Nature=: “This is, strictly speaking, an elementary manual of geology. -The general plan of the work is good; the book is well printed and -illustrated with maps, photographic pictures of rock structure and -scenery, and figures of fossils and rock sections.” - -=Saturday Review=: “His style is animated and inspiring, or clear and -precise, as occasion demands. The people of Sydney are to be -congratulated on the existence of such a guide to their beautiful -country.” - -=Literary World=: “We can heartily recommend the book as a very -interesting one, written in a much more readable style than is usual in -works of this kind.” - -=South Australian Register=: “Mr. Curran has extracted a charming -narrative of the earth’s history out of the prosaic stone. Though he has -selected Sydney rocks for his text, his discourse is interestingly -Australian.” - - * * * * * - -AUSTRALIAN CAVALRY. - - The N.S.W. Lancer Regiment and the First Australian Horse. - - BY FRANK WILKINSON, War Correspondent, Sydney _Daily Telegraph_. - With one coloured and eight other full-page plates. - - Crown 4to, boards, 2s. (_post free 2s. 4d._) - - * * * * * - -SIMPLE TESTS FOR MINERALS; - -Or, Every Man his Own Analyst. - - BY JOSEPH CAMPBELL, M.A., F.G.S., M.I.M.E. - - Fourth Edition, revised and enlarged (completing the ninth - thousand). With illustrations. Cloth, round corners, 3s. 6d. (_post - free 38. 9d._). - - * * * * * - -THE KINGSWOOD COOKERY BOOK. - - BY MRS. WICKEN, M.C.A., Late Teacher of Cookery, Technical College, - Sydney. - - Fifth edition, revised, completing the Nineteenth Thousand. 382 - pages, crown 8vo, paper cover, 1s; cloth, 1s. 6d. (_postage 4d._). - - * * * * * - -PRESBYTERIAN WOMEN’S MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION COOKERY BOOK. - - Seventh Edition, enlarged, completing the 45th Thousand. Crown - 8vo., cloth, 1s. (_post free 1s. 2d._). - - * * * * * - -THE METRIC SYSTEM OF WEIGHTS AND MEASURES, AND DECIMAL COINAGE. - - BY J. M. TAYLOR, M.A., LL.B. - - With Introductory Notes on the nature of Decimals, and contracted - methods for the Multiplication and Division of Decimals. Crown 8vo, - 6d. (_post free 7d._). - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “A masterly and elaborate treatise for the -use of schools on a subject of world-wide interest and importance.... In -commercial life a knowledge of the metric system has been for some years -essential, and it is, therefore, fitting that its underlying principles -should be taught in our schools concurrently with reduction, and -practised systematically in the more advanced grades. For this purpose -the book is unquestionably the best we have seen.” - - * * * * * - -ANSWERS TO TAYLOR’S METRIC SYSTEM. 6d. (_post free 7d._). - - * * * * * - -THE ELEMENTS OF EUCLID. - -With Historical Introduction, Notes, Appendices and Miscellaneous -Examples. - - BY J. D. ST. CLAIR MACLARDY, M.A., Lecturer at the Training - Colleges and Examiner for the New South Wales Department of Public - Instruction. - - Books I.-IV. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. (_post free 3s. 10d._). Book - I., separately, cloth, 1s. 6d. (_post free 1s. 9d._). - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “The most complete and logical discussion -of this part of the works of the great geometer that we have seen. An -unusual amount of care has been bestowed on the initiatory stages, the -definitions, axioms, and postulates being treated with commendable -fulness.... The brevity, simplicity, and perspicuity of his methods will -appeal forcibly to students.... Mr. Maclardy adheres to the plan of -simplifying the proofs and reducing the verbiage to a minimum, and has -added a contribution to mathematical literature which we regard as -indispensable.” - -=Victorian Educational Gazette=: “Among the legion of editions of -Euclid, Mr. Maclardy’s takes an honourable place. There are many -features that are the result of the author’s long experience as a -lecturer and examiner in mathematics. He has evidently taken a pride in -making his work as perfect as possible.” - - * * * * * - -ENGLISH GRAMMAR, COMPOSITION, AND PRÉCIS WRITING. - -For Use by Candidates for University and Public Service Exams - - BY JAMES CONWAY, Headmaster at Cleveland-street Superior Public - School, Sydney. - - Prescribed by the Department of Public Instruction, N.S.W., for - First and Second Class Teachers’ Certificate Examinations. New - edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. - (_post free 3s. 10d._). - -=Sydney Morning Herald=: “To its concise and admirable arrangement of -rules and definitions, which holds good wherever the English language is -spoken or written, is added special treatment of special difficulties. -Mr. Conway adopts the excellent plan of taking certain papers, and of -answering the questions in detail.... Should be in the hands of every -teacher.” - -=Victorian Educational News=: “A book which we can heartily recommend as -the most suitable we have yet met with to place in the hands of students -for our intermediate examinations, and also for matriculation, pupil -teachers’ and certificate of competency examinations. We should be glad -to see the work set down in the syllabus of the Department so that it -would reach the hands of all the students and teachers engaged in -studying the subject in our State schools.” - - * * * * * - -A SMALLER ENGLISH GRAMMAR, COMPOSITION, AND PRÉCIS WRITING. - - BY JAMES CONWAY. - - Prescribed by the Department of Public Instruction, N.S.W., for - Third Class and Pupil Teachers’ Examinations. New edition, revised - and enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s. 6d. (_post free 1s. 9d._). - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “The abridgment is very well done. One -recognises the hand of a man who has had long experience of the -difficulties of this subject.” - - * * * * * - -GEOGRAPHY OF NEW SOUTH WALES. BY J. M. TAYLOR, M.A., LL.B. - - New Edition, revised. With 37 illustrations and 6 folding maps. - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free 3s. 10d._). - -=Sydney Morning Herald=: “Something more than a school book; it is an -approach to an ideal geography.” - -=Review of Reviews=: “It makes a very attractive handbook. Its geography -is up to date; it is not overburdened with details, and it is richly -illustrated with geological diagrams and photographs of scenery -reproduced with happy skill.” - - * * * * * - -CAUSERIES FAMILIÈRES; OR, FRIENDLY CHATS. A Simple and Deductive French -Course. BY MRS. S. C. BOYD. - - Prescribed for use in schools by the Department of Public - Instruction, New South Wales. Pupils’ Edition, containing all that - need be in the hands of the learner. Crown 8vo, cloth, limp, 1s. - 6d. (_post free 1s. 8d._). Teachers’ Edition, containing - grammatical summaries, exercises, a full treatise on pronunciation, - French-English and English-French Vocabulary, and other matter for - the use of the teacher or of a student without a master. Crown 8vo, - cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (_post free, 3s. 10d._). - -=The London Spectator=: “A most excellent and practical little volume, -evidently the work of a trained teacher. It combines admirably and in an -entertaining form the advantages of the conversational with those of the -grammatical method of learning a language.” - - * * * * * - -AUSTRALIAN SONGS FOR AUSTRALIAN CHILDREN. - - BY MRS. MAYBANKE ANDERSON. - - All the songs are set to music, while to some of them appropriate - calisthenic exercises are given. Demy 4to, picture cover, 1s. - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN OBJECT LESSON BOOK. - - Part I.--For Infant and Junior Classes. With 43 illustrations. - Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.; paper cover, 2s. 6d. (_postage, - 4d._). - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “Mr. Wiley has wisely adopted the plan of -utilising the services of specialists. The series is remarkably -complete, and includes almost everything with which the little learners -ought to be made familiar. Throughout the whole series the lessons have -been selected with judgment and with a due appreciation of the capacity -of the pupils for whose use they are intended.” - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN OBJECT LESSON BOOK. - - Part II.--For advanced classes. With 113 illustrations. Crown 8vo, - cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.; paper cover, 2s. 6d. (_postage 4d._). - -=Victorian Education Gazette=: “Mr. Wiley and his colleagues have -provided a storehouse of useful information on a great number of topics -that can be taken up in any Australian school.” - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “The Australian Object Lesson Book is -evidently the result of infinite patience and deep research on the part -of its compiler, who is also to be commended for the admirable -arrangement of his matter.” - - * * * * * - -A NEW BOOK OF SONGS FOR SCHOOLS AND SINGING CLASSES. - - BY HUGO ALPEN, Superintendent of Music, Department of Public - Instruction, New South Wales. - - 8vo, paper cover. 1s. (_post free 1s. 2d._). - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN PROGRESSIVE SONGSTER. - - BY S. MCBURNEY, Mus. Doc., Fellow T.S.F. College. - - Containing graded Songs, Rounds and Exercises in Staff Notation, - Tonic Sol-fa and Numerals, with Musical Theory. Price, 6d. each - part; combined, 1s. (_postage 1d. each part_). - -No. 1.--For Junior Classes. No. 2.--For Senior Classes. - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN LETTERING BOOK. - - Containing the Alphabets most useful in Mapping, Exercise Headings, - &c. with practical applications, Easy Scrolls, Flourishes, Borders, - Corners, Rulings, &c. Second Edition. New Edition, revised and - enlarged, cloth limp, 6d. (_post free 7d._). - - * * * * * - -GEOGRAPHY OF AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND. - -With Definitions of Geographical Terms. - - Second Edition, with 8 maps and 19 illustrations. 64 pages. 6d. - (_post free 7d._). - - * * * * * - -GEOGRAPHY OF EUROPE, ASIA AND AMERICA. - - Second Edition, with 14 relief and other maps, and 18 illustrations - of transcontinental views, distribution of animals, &c. 84 pages. - 6d. (_post free 7d._). - - * * * * * - -GEOGRAPHY OF NEW SOUTH WALES. - - With five folding maps. 48 pages. 6d. (_post free 7d._). - - * * * * * - -GEOGRAPHY OF AFRICA. - - With five maps in relief, &c. 64 pages. 6d. (_post free 7d._). - - * * * * * - -AUSTRALIAN SCHOOL SERIES. - -=Grammar and Derivation Book.= 64 pages. 2d. - -=Test Exercises in Grammar for 3rd Class, 1st Year.= - 64 pages. 2d. - -=Test Exercises in Grammar for 3rd Class, 2nd Year.= - 64 pages. 2d. - -=Table Book and Mental Arithmetic.= 38 pages. 1d. - -_Chief Events and Dates in English History._ Part -I. From 55 B.C. to 1485 A.D. 50 pages. 2d. - -=Chief Events and Dates in English History.= Part -II. From Henry VII. (1485) to Victoria (1900). 64 pages. 2d. - -=History of Australia.= 53 pages. 2d. - -=Geography.= Part I. Australasia and Polynesia. 64 pages. 2d. - -=Geography.= Part II. Europe, Asia, America, and -Africa. 66 pages. 2d. - -=Euclid.= Book I. With Definitions, Postulates, Axioms, -&c. 64 pages. 2d. - -=Euclid.= Book II. With Definitions and Exercises on -Books I. and II. 32 pages. 2d. - -=Euclid.= Book III. With University “Junior” Papers -1891-1897. 60 pages. 2d. - -=Arithmetic--Exercises for Class II.= 49 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d. - -=Arithmetic--Exercises for Class III.= 66 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d. - -=Arithmetic--Exercises for Class IV.= 65 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d. - -=Arithmetic and Mensuration--Exercises for Class -V.= With the Arithmetic Papers set at the Sydney -University Junior, the Public Service, the Sydney -Chamber of Commerce, and the Bankers’ Institute -Examinations to 1900, &c. 112 pages. 4d. -Answers, 4d. - -=Algebra.= Part I. 49 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d. - -=Algebra.= Part II. To Quadratic Equations. Contains -over twelve hundred Exercises, including the University -Junior, the Public Service, the Sydney Chamber -of Commerce, and the Bankers’ Institute Examination -Papers to 1900, &c. 112 pages. 4d. -Answers, 4d. - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALASIAN CATHOLIC SCHOOL SERIES. - -=History of Australia and New Zealand for Catholic -Schools=, 117 pages. 4d. - -=Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -First Reader=, 32 pages. 1d. - -=Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -Second Reader=, 64 pages. 2d. - -=Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -Third Reader=, 112 pages. 3d. - -=Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -Fourth Reader=, 160 pages. 4d. - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN DRAWING BOOK. - - By F. W. WOODHOUSE, Superintendent of Drawing, Department of Public - Instruction, New South Wales. - - Approved by the Department of Public Instruction for use in the - Public Schools of New South Wales. Price, 3d. each. - -No. 1A--Elementary, Straight Lines, Curves and Simple Figures. - -Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4--Graduated Elementary Freehand, Regular Forms, Simple -Designs, &c. - -Nos. 5 and 6--Foliage, Flowers, Ornaments, Vase Forms, &c. - -No. 7--Book of Blank Pages. - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “This series of drawing books has been -arranged by the Superintendent of Drawing for the purpose of enabling -teachers and pupils to meet fully the requirements of the Public School -Syllabus of 1899. It consists of seven numbers, designed for the third, -fourth and fifth classes respectively, and there is also a book of blank -pages (No. 7). Nos. 1 to 4 treat of elementary freehand, simple designs, -pattern drawing, &c.; Nos. 5 and 6 of foliage, flowers and ornaments. -The copies are excellently designed and executed, and carefully -graduated, and the books are printed on superior drawing paper. ‘The -Australian Drawing Books’ should be used in every public school in the -colony, first on account of their intrinsic merit, and secondly because -they are the only books that accurately fit our standard.” - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN COPY BOOK. - - Approved by the Departments of Public Instruction in New South - Wales, Queensland and Tasmania, by the Public Service Board of New - South Wales, and by the Chief Inspector of Catholic Schools. Price, - 2d. each. - - No. 1, Initiatory, Short Letters, Short Words; 2, Initiatory, Long - Letters, Words; 3, Text, Capitals, Longer Words; 4, Half-Text, - Short Sentences; 5, Intermediate, Australian and Geographical - Sentences; 6, Small Hand, Double Ruling, Australian and - Geographical Sentences, Prefixes and Examples; 6A, Text, Half-Text, - Intermediate, Small Hand; 7, Small Hand, Single Ruling, Maxims, - Quotations, Proverbs; 8, Advanced Small Hand, Abbreviations and - Contractions commonly met with; 9, Commercial Terms and Forms, - Addresses; 10, Commercial Forms, Correspondence, Addresses; 11, - Plain and Ornamental Lettering, Mapping, Flourishes, &c. - - _Numerals are given in each number._ - - * * * * * - -THE AUSTRALIAN PUPIL TEACHERS’ COPY BOOK. - - A selection of pages from the Australian Copy Book, arranged for - use of Pupil Teachers. 48 pages. Price, 6d. - - * * * * * - -ANGUS AND ROBERTSON’S PENCIL COPY BOOK. - - Approved by the N.S.W. Department of Public Instruction. In nine - numbers. 1d. each. - - No. 1, Initiatory lines, curves, letters, figures; 2 and 3, Short - letters, easy combinations, figures; 4, Long letters, short words, - figures; 5, Long letters, words, figures; 6, 7, and 8, Capitals, - words, figures; 9, Short sentences, figures. - - * * * * * - - COTTERILL’S GUIDES TO THE MUSICAL EXAMINATIONS Held by the N.S.W. - Department of Public Instruction for Teachers and Pupil Teachers in - all grades. - - Part 1. The papers set in 1898, 1899, and 1900, and Answers - thereto. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. (_post free 2s. 2d_) Part 2. The - Papers set in 1901, and Answers thereto. Crown 8vo, sewn, 1s. - (_post free 1s. 1d._). - -=N.S.W. Educational Gazette=: “We would earnestly urge upon teachers and -pupil teachers intending to sit for examination the wisdom of mastering -the principles so clearly enunciated in these valuable textbooks. The -work has been excellently done by Mr. G. T. Cotterill, of the Paddington -Superior Public School; every question has been fully and clearly -answered, difficulties have been explained with the skill of an -experienced teacher, and the questions on harmony in the first and -second class papers have been discussed with a fulness and lucidity that -we look for in vain in the ordinary manuals.” - - * * * * * - -GUIDES TO THE NEW SOUTH WALES PUBLIC SERVICE EXAMINATIONS. - - No. I.--Containing the Papers set in March, 1899 and Keys thereto, - together with the Regulations and Hints on suitable Text-books. - Cheaper edition. 8vo., paper cover, 1s. (_post free 1s. 1d._). - - No. II.--Containing the Papers set in August, 1900 and Keys - thereto, together with the revised Regulations and Hints on - suitable Text-books, and the Papers set at the examination held in - December, 1899. Cheaper edition. 8vo, paper cover, 1s. (_post free - 1s. 1d._). - - * * * * * - -CALENDAR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. - - 8vo, linen, 2s. 6d.; paper cover, 1s. (_postage 8d._). - - * * * * * - -MANUAL OF PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS HELD BY THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. - - 8vo., paper cover, 1s. (_post free 1s. 3d._). - - * * * * * - -HANDBOOK FOR TEACHERS OF INFANT SCHOOLS AND JUNIOR CLASSES. - - With colour chart nine colours and upwards of 100 illus. Cr. 8vo, - cloth, 1s. 6d. (_post free 1s. 8d._) - - * * * * * - -QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS; - -Notes and Tables for the Use of Students. - - BY REV. J. MILNE CURRAN, Lecturer in Chemistry and Geology, - Technical College, Sydney, Author of “The Geology of Sydney and the - Blue Mountains.” - - With illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 4s. 6d. (_post free - 5s._). - - * * * * * - -ANNOUNCEMENTS - - * * * * * - -HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING. - - By CHARLES WHITE. Vol. II--1863 to 1878, illustrated, crown 8vo, - cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. - -[_Shortly._] - - * * * * * - -EUCLID, BOOKS V., VI. AND XI. - - By J. D. ST. CLAIR MACLARDY, M.A., Lecturer at the Training - Colleges, and Examiner to the New South Wales Department of Public - Instruction. Crown 8vo, cloth. - -[_Shortly._] - - * * * * * - -THE POSSIBILITY OF A SCIENCE OF CASUISTRY. - - By ERNEST NORTHCROFT MERRINGTON, B.A. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. - [_May 9._] - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Verses popular and humorous, by Henry Lawson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES POPULAR AND HUMOROUS *** - -***** This file should be named 52066-0.txt or 52066-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/6/52066/ - -Produced by MWS, Bryan Ness, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Verses popular and humorous - -Author: Henry Lawson - -Release Date: May 14, 2016 [EBook #52066] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES POPULAR AND HUMOROUS *** - - - - -Produced by MWS, Bryan Ness, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="cb">POPULAR AND HUMOROUS VERSES</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="311" height="500" alt="[Book cover -image unavailable.]" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i"></a>{i}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii"></a>{ii}</span> </p> - -<p><a name="front" id="front"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_frontis_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" width="365" height="500" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii"></a>{iii}</span> </p> - -<h1> -VERSES<br /> -POPULAR AND HUMOROUS</h1> - -<p class="cb"><small>BY</small><br /> -HENRY LAWSON<br /> -<small><span class="smcap">Author of “When the World was Wide and Other Verses,”<br /> -“While the Billy Boils,” and “On the Track and<br /> -Over the Sliprails”</span></small><br /> -<br /> - -<img src="images/i_titlepage.jpg" width="250" height="246" alt="Image -unavailable: “A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!”" /> -<br /><small> -“A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!”<br /></small> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">Sydney</span><br /> -ANGUS AND ROBERTSON<br /> -<span class="smcap">London: The Australian Book Company<br /> -38 West Smithfield, E.C.</span><br /> -1900<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv"></a>{iv}</span><br /> -<br /><small> -<span class="smcap">Sydney:<br /> -Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers,<br /> -117 Clarence Street.</span></small><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v"></a>{v}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> - -<p>My acknowledgments of the courtesy of the editors and proprietors of the -newspapers in which most of these verses were first published are due -and are gratefully discharged on the eve of my departure for England. -Chief among them is the Sydney <i>Bulletin</i>; others are the Sydney <i>Town -and Country Journal</i>, <i>Freeman’s Journal</i>, and <i>Truth</i>, and the <i>New -Zealand Mail</i>.</p> - -<p>A few new pieces are included in the collection.</p> - -<p class="r"> -H. L.<br /> -</p> - -<p><i>Sydney, March 17th, 1900.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi"></a>{vi}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii"></a>{vii}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_PORTS_OF_THE_OPEN_SEA">THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Down here where the ships loom large in</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_THREE_KINGS">THE THREE KINGS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus:—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_5">5</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_OUTSIDE_TRACK">THE OUTSIDE TRACK</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">There were ten of us there on the moonlit quay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_8">8</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#SYDNEY-SIDE">SYDNEY-SIDE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Where’s the steward?—Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_10">10</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_ROVERS">THE ROVERS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Some born of homely parents</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_13">13</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#FOREIGN_LANDS">FOREIGN LANDS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">You may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_viii" id="page_viii"></a>{viii}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_18">18</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#MARY_LEMAINE">MARY LEMAINE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Jim Duff was a ‘native,’ as wild as could be;</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_22">22</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_SHAKEDOWN_ON_THE_FLOOR">THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Set me back for twenty summers—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_25">25</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#REEDY_RIVER">REEDY RIVER</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Ten miles down Reedy River</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_28">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#OLD_STONE_CHIMNEY">OLD STONE CHIMNEY</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The rising moon on the peaks was blending</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_31">31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#SONG_OF_THE_OLD_BULLOCK-DRIVER">SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Far Back in the days when the blacks used to ramble</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_35">35</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_LIGHTS_OF_COBB_AND_CO">THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_39">39</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#HOW_THE_LAND_WAS_WON">HOW THE LAND WAS WON</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The future was dark and the past was dead</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_45">45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_BOSS_OVER_THE_BOARD">THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">When he’s over a rough and unpopular shed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ix" id="page_ix"></a>{ix} </span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_48">48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#WHEN_THE_LADIES_COME_TO_THE_SHEARING_SHED">WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEARING SHED</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">‘The ladies are coming,’ the super says</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_52">52</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_BALLAD_OF_THE_ROUSEABOUT">THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">A rouseabout of rouseabouts, from any land—or none—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_55">55</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#YEARS_AFTER_THE_WAR_IN_AUSTRALIA">YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_60">60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_OLD_JIMMY_WOODSER">THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_CHRIST_OF_THE_NEVER">THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_69">69</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_CATTLE-DOGS_DEATH">THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The plains lay bare on the homeward route,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_71">71</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_SONG_OF_THE_DARLING_RIVER">THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The skies are brass and the plains are bare,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_73">73</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#RAIN_IN_THE_MOUNTAINS">RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The valley’s full of misty cloud,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_x" id="page_x"></a>{x}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_75">75</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#A_MAY_NIGHT_ON_THE_MOUNTAINS">A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_76">76</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_NEW_CHUM_JACKAROO">THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Let bushmen think as bushmen will,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_78">78</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_DONS_OF_SPAIN">THE DONS OF SPAIN</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_BURSTING_OF_THE_BOOM">THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The shipping office clerks are ‘short,’ the manager is gruff—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_84">84</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#ANTONY_VILLA">ANTONY VILLA</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Over there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of the Vardens,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_90">90</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#SECOND_CLASS_WAIT_HERE">SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">On suburban railway stations—you may see them as you pass—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_96">96</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_SHIPS_THAT_WONT_GO_DOWN">THE SHIPS THAT WON’T GO DOWN</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">We hear a great commotion</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_MEN_WE_MIGHT_HAVE_BEEN">THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xi" id="page_xi"></a>{xi}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_WAY_OF_THE_WORLD">THE WAY OF THE WORLD</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">When fairer faces turn from me,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_103">103</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_BATTLING_DAYS">THE BATTLING DAYS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">So, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife content,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#WRITTEN_AFTERWARDS">WRITTEN AFTERWARDS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">So the days of my tramping are over,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_UNCULTURED_RHYMER_TO_HIS_CULTURED_CRITICS">THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS CULTURED CRITICS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Fight through ignorance, want, and care—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_111">111</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_WRITERS_DREAM">THE WRITER’S DREAM</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_JOLLY_DEAD_MARCH">THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">If I ever be worthy or famous—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#MY_LITERARY_FRIEND">MY LITERARY FRIEND</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#MARY_CALLED_HIM_MISTER">MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">They’d parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xii" id="page_xii"></a>{xii}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#REJECTED">REJECTED</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">She says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate;</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_130">130</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#OHARA_JP">O’HARA, J.P.</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">James Patrick O’Hara, the Justice of Peace,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#BILL_AND_JIM_FALL_OUT">BILL AND JIM FALL OUT</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Bill and Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_138">138</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_PAROO">THE PAROO</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">It was a week from Christmas-time,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_GREEN-HAND_ROUSEABOUT">THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_146">146</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_MAN_FROM_WATERLOO">THE MAN FROM WATERLOO</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">It was the Man from Waterloo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#SAINT_PETER">SAINT PETER</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Now, I think there is a likeness</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_155">155</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_STRANGERS_FRIEND">THE STRANGER’S FRIEND</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The strangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xiii" id="page_xiii"></a>{xiii}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_158">158</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_GOD-FORGOTTEN_ELECTION">THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Pat M‘Durmer brought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_162">162</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_BOSSS_BOOTS">THE BOSS’S BOOTS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_168">168</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_CAPTAIN_OF_THE_PUSH">THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_174">174</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#BILLYS_SQUARE_AFFAIR">BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_181">181</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#A_DERRY_ON_A_COVE">A DERRY ON A COVE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#RISE_YE_RISE_YE">RISE YE! RISE YE!</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_BALLAD_OF_MABEL_CLARE">THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Ye children of the Land of Gold,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xiv" id="page_xiv"></a>{xiv}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#CONSTABLE_MCARTYS_INVESTIGATIONS">CONSTABLE M‘CARTHY’S INVESTIGATIONS</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Most unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower orders</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_196">196</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#AT_THE_TUG-OF-WAR">AT THE TUG-OF-WAR</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_205">205</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#HERES_LUCK">HERE’S LUCK!</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Old Time is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_208">208</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_MEN_WHO_COME_BEHIND">THE MEN WHO COME BEHIND</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">There’s a class of men (and women) who are always on their guard—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_211">211</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_DAYS_WHEN_WE_WENT_SWIMMING">THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT SWIMMING</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">The breezes waved the silver grass,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_214">214</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_OLD_BARK_SCHOOL">THE OLD BARK SCHOOL</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">It was built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holes</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_216">216</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#TROUBLE_ON_THE_SELECTION">TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">You lazy boy, you’re here at last,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_220">220</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_PROFESSIONAL_WANDERER">THE PROFESSIONAL WANDERER</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">When you’ve knocked about the country—been away from home for years;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xv" id="page_xv"></a>{xv}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#A_LITTLE_MISTAKE">A LITTLE MISTAKE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_225">225</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#A_STUDY_IN_THE_NOOD">A STUDY IN THE “NOOD”</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">He was bare—we don’t want to be rude—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#A_WORD_TO_TEXAS_JACK">A WORD TO TEXAS JACK</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">Texas Jack, you are amusin’. By Lord Harry, how I laughed</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_231">231</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#THE_GROG-AN-GRUMBLE_STEEPLECHASE">THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">’Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an’-Grumble</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th class="lft"><a href="#BUT_WHATS_THE_USE">BUT WHAT’S THE USE</a></th></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc">But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_242">242</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="VIGNETTES_BY_FRANK_P_MAHONY" id="VIGNETTES_BY_FRANK_P_MAHONY"></a>VIGNETTES BY FRANK P. MAHONY</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc"><span class="smcap">Portrait of the Author</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#front"><i>facing title page</i></a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc"><span class="smcap">The Lights of Cobb and Co.</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#front"><i>title page</i></a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="spc"><span class="smcap">My Literary Friend</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_xvi"> <i>page</i> xvi.</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xvi" id="page_xvi"></a>{xvi}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_016_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_016.jpg" width="250" height="250" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>“Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>First he praised the thing a little....”</i><br /></span> -<span class="i20"><a href="#page_125"><i>page 125.</i></a><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_PORTS_OF_THE_OPEN_SEA" id="THE_PORTS_OF_THE_OPEN_SEA"></a>THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Down</span> here where the ships loom large in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gloom when the sea-storms veer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down here on the south-west margin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the western hemisphere,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the might of a world-wide ocean<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round the youngest land rolls free—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Storm-bound from the world’s commotion,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lie the Ports of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By the bluff where the grey sand reaches<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the kerb of the spray-swept street,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the sweep of the black sand beaches<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the main-road travellers’ feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the heights like a work Titanic,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Begun ere the gods’ work ceased,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By a bluff-lined coast volcanic<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lie the Ports of the wild South-east.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a>{2}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the scarped and terraced hills—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far away from the swift life-changes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the wear of the strife that kills—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the land in the Spring seems younger<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than a land of the Earth might be—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh! the hearts of the rovers hunger<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the Ports of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But the captains watch and hearken<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a sign of the South Sea wrath—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let the face of the South-east darken,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they turn to the ocean path.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whatever the cargo be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the South-east lifts a finger<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the Ports of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">South by the bleak Bluff faring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">North where the Three Kings wait,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">South-east the tempest daring—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flight through the storm-tossed strait;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yonder a white-winged roamer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Struck where the rollers roar—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the great green froth-flaked comber<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Breaks down on a black-ribbed shore.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a>{3}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For the South-east lands are dread lands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the sailor in the shrouds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the low clouds loom like headlands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the black bluffs blur like clouds.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the breakers rage to windward<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lights are masked a-lee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sunken rocks run inward<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To a Port of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But oh! for the South-east weather—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sweep of the three-days’ gale—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, far through the flax and heather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The spindrift drives like hail.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glory to man’s creations<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That drive where the gale grows gruff,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the homes of the sea-coast stations<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Flash white from the dark’ning bluff!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the swell of the South-east rouses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wrath of the Maori sprite,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the brown folk flee their houses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And crouch in the flax by night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wait as they long have waited—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In fear as the brown folk be—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wave of destruction fated<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the Ports of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">. . . . . . . . . . -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a>{4}</span></span><br /> -<span class="i0">Grey cloud to the mountain bases,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wild boughs that rush and sweep;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the rounded hills the tussocks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like flocks of flying sheep;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A lonely storm-bird soaring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er tussock, fern and tree;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the boulder beaches roaring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Hymn of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_THREE_KINGS" id="THE_THREE_KINGS"></a>THE THREE KINGS<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a></h2> - -<p class="c"><small><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Three sea-girt pinnacles off North Cape, New Zealand.</small></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> East is dead and the West is done, and again our course lies thus:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">South-east by Fate and the Rising Sun where the Three Kings wait for us.<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>When our hearts are young and the world is wide, and the heights seem grand to climb—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>We are off and away to the Sydney-side; but the Three Kings bide their time.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I’ve been to the West,’ the digger said: he was bearded, bronzed and old;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Ah, the smothering curse of the East is wool, and the curse of the West is gold.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I went to the West in the golden boom, with Hope and a life-long mate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They sleep in the sand by the Boulder Soak, and long may the Three Kings wait.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a>{6}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I’ve had my fling on the Sydney-side,’ said a black-sheep to the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Let the young fool learn when he can’t be taught: I’ve learnt what’s good for me.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he gazed ahead on the sea-line dim—grown dim in his softened eyes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a pain in his heart that was good for him—as he saw the Three Kings rise.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A pale girl sits on the foc’sle head—she is back, Three Kings! so soon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But it seems to her like a life-time dead since she fled with him ‘saloon.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is refuge still in the old folks’ arms for the child that loved too well;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They will hide her shame on the Southern farm—and the Three Kings will not tell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas a restless heart on the tide of life, and a false star in the skies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That led me on to the deadly strife where the Southern London lies;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I dream in peace of a home for me, by a glorious southern sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the sunset fades from a moonlit sea, and the Three Kings show us round.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a>{7}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Our hearts are young and the old hearts old, and life on the farms is slow,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And away in the world there is fame and gold—and the Three Kings watch us go.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Our heads seem wise and the world seems wide, and its heights are ours to climb,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>So it’s off and away in our youthful pride—but the Three Kings bide our time.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a>{8}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_OUTSIDE_TRACK" id="THE_OUTSIDE_TRACK"></a>THE OUTSIDE TRACK</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">There</span> were ten of us there on the moonlit quay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And one on the for’ard hatch;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No straighter mate to his mates than he<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had ever said: ‘Len’s a match!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twill be long, old man, ere our glasses clink,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twill be long ere we grip your hand!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we dragged him ashore for a final drink<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the whole wide world seemed grand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For they marry and go as the world rolls back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They marry and vanish and die;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But their spirit shall live on the Outside Track<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As long as the years go by.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The port-lights glowed in the morning mist<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That rolled from the waters green;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over the railing we grasped his fist<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the dark tide came between.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a>{9}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We cheered the captain and cheered the crew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And our mate, times out of mind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We cheered the land he was going to<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the land he had left behind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We roared Lang Syne as a last farewell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But my heart seemed out of joint;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I well remember the hush that fell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the steamer had passed the point<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We drifted home through the public bars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We were ten times less by one<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who sailed out under the morning stars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And under the rising sun.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And one by one, and two by two,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have sailed from the wharf since then;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have said good-bye to the last I knew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The last of the careless men.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I can’t but think that the times we had<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were the best times after all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As I turn aside with a lonely glass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And drink to the bar-room wall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But I’ll try my luck for a cheque Out Back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then a last good-bye to the bush;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For my heart’s away on the Outside Track,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the track of the steerage push.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="SYDNEY-SIDE" id="SYDNEY-SIDE"></a>SYDNEY-SIDE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Where’s</span> the steward?—Bar-room steward? Berth? Oh, any berth will do—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have left a three-pound billet just to come along with you.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world that’s growing wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I think I’d give a kingdom for a glimpse of Sydney-Side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on ocean’s bed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse on South Head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For in loneliness and hardship—and with just a touch of pride—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Has my heart been taught to whisper, ‘You belong to Sydney-Side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a>{11}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and lonely days,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across the bays—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise again<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to Balmain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the sunny water frothing round the liners black and red,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the coastal schooners working by the loom of Bradley’s Head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and wide—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the life and light and beauty that belong to Sydney-Side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the dreary cloud-line never veiled the end of one day more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the city set in jewels rose before me from ‘The Shore.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round the sea-world shine the beacons of a thousand ports o’ call,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the harbour-lights of Sydney are the grandest of them all!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a>{12}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Toiling out beyond Coolgardie—heart and back and spirit broke,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the Rover’s Star gleams redly in the desert by the ‘soak’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But says one mate to the other, ‘Brace your lip and do not fret,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We will laugh on trains and ’buses—Sydney’s in the same place yet.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Working in the South in winter, to the waist in dripping fern,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the local spirit hungers for each ‘saxpence’ that we earn—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We can stand it for a season, for our world is growing wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they all are friends and strangers who belong to Sydney-Side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘T’other-siders! T’other-siders!’ Yet we wake the dusty dead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is we that send the backward province fifty years ahead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We it is that ‘trim’ Australia—making narrow country wide—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet we’re always T’other-siders till we sail for Sydney-side.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_ROVERS" id="THE_ROVERS"></a>THE ROVERS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Some</span> born of homely parents<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For ages settled down—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The steady generations<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of village, farm, and town:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some of dusky fathers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who wandered since the flood—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fairest skin or darkest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Might hold the roving blood—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Some born of brutish peasants,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some of dainty peers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In poverty or plenty<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They pass their early years;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, born in pride of purple,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or straw and squalid sin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In all the far world corners<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wanderers are kin.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a>{14}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A rover or a rebel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Conceived and born to roam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As babies they will toddle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With faces turned from home;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ve fought beyond the vanguard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherever storm has raged,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And home is but a prison<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They pace like lions caged.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They smile and are not happy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They sing and are not gay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They weary, yet they wander;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They love, and cannot stay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They marry, and are single<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who watch the roving star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For, by the family fireside,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, lonely men <i>they</i> are!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They die of peace and quiet—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The deadly ease of life;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They die of home and comfort;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They <i>live</i> in storm and strife;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No poverty can tie them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor wealth nor place restrain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Girl, wife, or child might draw them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they’ll be gone again!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a>{15}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Across the glowing desert;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through naked trees and snow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the rolling prairies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The skies have seen them go;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They fought to where the ocean<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Receives the setting sun;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But where shall fight the rovers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When all the lands are won?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They thirst on Greenland snowfields,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On Never-Never sands;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where man is not to conquer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They conquer barren lands;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They feel that most are cowards,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That all depends on ‘nerve,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They lead who cannot follow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They rule who cannot serve.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Across the plains and ranges,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Away across the seas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On blue and green horizons<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They camp by twos and threes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They hold on stormy borders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of states that trouble earth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The honour of the country<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That only gave them birth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a>{16}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Unlisted, uncommissioned,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Untaught of any school,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In far-away world corners<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unconquered tribes they rule;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lone hand and revolver—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sad eyes that never quail—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lone hand and the rifle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That win where armies fail.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They slumber sound where murder<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And treachery are bare—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pluck of self-reliance,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pluck of past despair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thin brown men in pyjamas—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The thin brown wiry men!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The helmet and revolver<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That lie beside the pen.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through drought and desolation<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They won the way Out Back;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The commonplace and selfish<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have followed on their track;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They conquer lands for others,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For others find the gold,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But where shall go the rovers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When all the lands are old?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a>{17}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A rover and a rebel—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so the worlds commence!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their hearts shall beat as wildly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ten generations hence;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when the world is crowded—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis signed and sealed by Fate—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The roving blood will rise to make<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The countries desolate.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a>{18}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="FOREIGN_LANDS" id="FOREIGN_LANDS"></a>FOREIGN LANDS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">You</span> may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and cross the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains can run;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or sea expands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the crowd has been before you, and you’ll not find ‘Foreign Lands;’<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For the Early Days are over,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And no more the white-winged rover<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays in Foreign Lands.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream-like, faint and far,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood fancies are,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a>{19}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the land is by the railway cramped as though with iron bands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the steamship and the cable did away with Foreign Lands.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ah! the days of blue and gold!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">When the news was six months old—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the news was worth the telling in the days of Foreign Lands.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool and Wheat—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Here the homes of ugly Commerce—niggard farm and haggard street;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Yet our mothers and our fathers won the life the heart demands—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign Lands.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the gipsies stole the children still, in village tale and song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the world was wide to travel, and the roving spirit strong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer seas and coral strands—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a>{20}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then the bravest hearts of England sailed away to Foreign Lands,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">‘Fitting foreign’—flood and field—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Half the world and orders sealed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the first and best of Europe went to fight in Foreign Lands.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Canvas towers on the ocean—homeward bound and outward bound—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glint of topsails over islands—splash of anchors in the sound;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives in their hands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they fought and toiled and conquered—making homes in Foreign Lands,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Through the cold and through the drought—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Further on and further out—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Winning half the world for England in the wilds of Foreign Lands.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple village hearts<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Followed Master Will and Harry—gone abroad to ‘furrin parts’—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a>{21}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By our townships and our cities, and across the desert sands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are the graves of those who fought and died for us in Foreign Lands—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Gave their young lives for our sake<br /></span> -<span class="i4">(Was it all a grand mistake?)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sons of Master Will and Harry born abroad in Foreign Lands!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days like these,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>I can hate the things that banished ‘Foreign Lands across the seas,’</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>But with all the world before us, God above us—hearts and hands,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a>{22}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MARY_LEMAINE" id="MARY_LEMAINE"></a>MARY LEMAINE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Jim Duff</span> was a ‘native,’ as wild as could be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A stealer and duffer of cattle was he,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But back in his youth he had stolen a pearl—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or a diamond rather—the heart of a girl;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She served with a squatter who lived on the plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the name of the girl it was Mary Lemaine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas a drear, rainy day and the twilight was done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When four mounted troopers rode up to the run.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They spoke to the squatter: he asked them all in.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The homestead was small and the walls they were thin;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in the next room, with a cold in her head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our Mary was sewing on buttons—in bed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She heard a few words, but those words were enough—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The troopers were all on the track of Jim Duff.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a>{23}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The super, his rival, was planning a trap<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To capture the scamp in Maginnis’s Gap.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’ve warned him before, and I’ll do it again;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>I’ll</i> save him to-night,’ whispered Mary Lemaine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No petticoat job—there was no time to waste,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The suit she was mending she slipped on in haste,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And five minutes later they gathered in force,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But Mary was off, on the squatter’s best horse;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With your hand on your heart, just to deaden the pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ride hard to the ranges, brave Mary Lemaine!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She rode by the ridges all sullen and strange,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And far up long gullies that ran through the range,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the rain cleared away, and the tears in her eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Caught the beams of the moon from Maginnis’s Rise.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A fire in the depths of the gums she espied—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Who’s there?’ shouted Jim. ‘It is Mary!’ she cried.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Next morning the sun rose in splendour again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And two loving sinners rode out on the plain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And baffled, and angry, and hungry and damp,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The four mounted troopers rode back to the camp.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they hushed up the business—the reason is plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They all had been ‘soft’ on fair Mary Lemaine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a>{24}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The squatter got back all he lost from his mob,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And old Sergeant Kennedy winked at the job;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jim Duff keeps a shanty far out in the west,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sundowners call it the ‘Bushranger’s Rest.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the bushranger lives a respectable life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the law never troubles Jim Duff or his wife.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a>{25}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_SHAKEDOWN_ON_THE_FLOOR" id="THE_SHAKEDOWN_ON_THE_FLOOR"></a>THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Set</span> me back for twenty summers—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I’m tired of cities now—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Set my feet in red-soil furrows<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my hands upon the plough,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the two ‘Black Brothers’ trudging<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the home stretch through the loam—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While, along the grassy siding,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come the cattle grazing home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I finish ploughing early,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I hurry home to tea—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s my black suit on the stretcher,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a clean white shirt for me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a dance at Rocky Rises,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, when all the fun is o’er,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a certain favoured party<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a shake-down on the floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a>{26}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You remember Mary Carey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bushmen’s favourite at the Rise?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With her sweet small freckled features,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Red-gold hair, and kind grey eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sister, daughter, to her mother,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mother, sister, to the rest—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And of all my friends and kindred,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mary Carey loved me best.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Far too shy, because she loved me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To be dancing oft with me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What cared I, because she loved me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If the world were there to see?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we lingered by the slip rails<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the rest were riding home,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere the hour before the dawning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dimmed the great star-clustered dome.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Small brown hands that spread the mattress<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the old folk winked to see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How she’d find an extra pillow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And an extra sheet for me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a moment shyly smiling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She would grant me one kiss more—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slip away and leave me happy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the shake-down on the floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a>{27}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rock me hard in steerage cabins,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rock me soft in wide saloons,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay me on the sand-hill lonely<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Under waning western moons;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But wherever night may find me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till I rest for evermore—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will dream that I am happy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the shake-down on the floor.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah! she often watched at sunset—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For her people told me so—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where I left her at the slip-rails<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More than fifteen years ago.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And she faded like a flower,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And she died, as such girls do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While, away in Northern Queensland,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Working hard, I never knew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And we suffer for our sorrows,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we suffer for our joys,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the old bush days when mother<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spread the shake-down for the boys.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But to cool the living fever,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Comes a cold breath to my brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I feel that Mary’s spirit<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is beside me, even now.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="REEDY_RIVER" id="REEDY_RIVER"></a>REEDY RIVER</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Ten</span> miles down Reedy River<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A pool of water lies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the year it mirrors<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The changes in the skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in that pool’s broad bosom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is room for all the stars;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its bed of sand has drifted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er countless rocky bars.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Around the lower edges<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There waves a bed of reeds,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where water rats are hidden<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where the wild duck breeds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And grassy slopes rise gently<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To ridges long and low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where groves of wattle flourish<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And native bluebells grow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a>{29}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Beneath the granite ridges<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The eye may just discern<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where Rocky Creek emerges<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From deep green banks of fern;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And standing tall between them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The grassy sheoaks cool<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hard, blue-tinted waters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before they reach the pool.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ten miles down Reedy River<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One Sunday afternoon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I rode with Mary Campbell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To that broad bright lagoon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We left our horses grazing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till shadows climbed the peak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And strolled beneath the sheoaks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the banks of Rocky Creek.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then home along the river<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That night we rode a race,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the moonlight lent a glory<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Mary Campbell’s face;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I pleaded for my future<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All thro’ that moonlight ride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until our weary horses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drew closer side by side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a>{30}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ten miles from Ryan’s crossing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And five below the peak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I built a little homestead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the banks of Rocky Creek;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I cleared the land and fenced it<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ploughed the rich red loam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my first crop was golden<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I brought Mary home.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Now still down Reedy River<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The grassy sheoaks sigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the waterholes still mirror<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pictures in the sky;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over all for ever<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Go sun and moon and stars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the golden sand is drifting<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the rocky bars;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But of the hut I builded<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are no traces now.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And many rains have levelled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The furrows of the plough;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my bright days are olden,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the twisted branches wave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wattle blossoms golden<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the hill by Mary’s grave.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="OLD_STONE_CHIMNEY" id="OLD_STONE_CHIMNEY"></a>OLD STONE CHIMNEY</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> rising moon on the peaks was blending<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her silver light with the sunset glow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When a swagman came as the day was ending<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Along a path that he seemed to know.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But all the fences were gone or going—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hand of ruin was everywhere;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The creek unchecked in its course was flowing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For none of the old clay dam was there.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Here Time had been with his swiftest changes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And husbandry had westward flown;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cattle tracks in the rugged ranges<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were long ago with the scrub o’ergrown.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It must have needed long years to soften<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The road, that as hard as rock had been;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mountain path he had trod so often<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay hidden now with a carpet green.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a>{32}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He thought at times from the mountain courses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He heard the sound of a bullock bell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The distant gallop of stockmen’s horses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stockwhip’s crack that he knew so well:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But these were sounds of his memory only,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they were gone from the flat and hill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For when he listened the place was lonely,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The range was dumb and the bush was still.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The swagman paused by the gap and faltered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For down the gully he feared to go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The scene in memory never altered—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The scene before him had altered so.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But hope is strong, and his heart grew bolder,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over his sorrows he raised his head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He turned his swag to the other shoulder,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And plodded on with a firmer tread.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, hope is always the keenest hearer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fancies much when assailed by fear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The swagman thought, as the farm drew nearer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He heard the sounds that he used to hear.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His weary heart for a moment bounded,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a moment brief he forgot his dread;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For plainly still in his memory sounded<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The welcome bark of a dog long dead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a>{33}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A few steps more and his face grew ghostly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then white as death in the twilight grey;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deserted wholly, and ruined mostly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Old Selection before him lay.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like startled spectres that paused and listened,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The few white posts of the stockyard stood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And seemed to move as the moonlight glistened<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And paled again on the whitened wood.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And thus he came, from a life long banished<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To other lands, and of peace bereft,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To find the farm and the homestead vanished,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And only the old stone chimney left.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The field his father had cleared and gardened<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was overgrown with saplings now;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rain had set and the drought had hardened<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The furrows made by a vanished plough.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And this, and this was the longed-for haven<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where he might rest from a life of woe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He read a name on the mantel graven—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The name was his ere he stained it so.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘And so remorse on my care encroaches—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have not suffered enough,’ he said;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘That name is pregnant with deep reproaches—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The past won’t bury dishonoured dead!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a>{34}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, now he knew it was long years after,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And felt how swiftly a long year speeds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hardwood post and the beam and rafter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had rotted long in the tangled weeds.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He found that time had for years been sowing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The coarse wild scrub on the homestead path,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And saw young trees by the chimney growing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mountain ferns on the wide stone hearth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He wildly thought of the evil courses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That brought disgrace on his father’s name;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The escort robbed, and the stolen horses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The felon’s dock with its lasting shame.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Ah, God! Ah, God! is there then no pardon?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He cried in a voice that was strained and hoarse;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He fell on the weeds that were once a garden,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sobbed aloud in his great remorse.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But grief must end, and his heart ceased aching<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When pitying sleep to his eye-lids crept,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And home and friends who were lost in waking,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They all came back while the stockman slept.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when he woke on the empty morrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pain at his heart was a deadened pain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bravely bearing his load of sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He wandered back to the world again.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="SONG_OF_THE_OLD_BULLOCK-DRIVER" id="SONG_OF_THE_OLD_BULLOCK-DRIVER"></a>SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Far</span> back in the days when the blacks used to ramble<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In long single file ’neath the evergreen tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For those were the days when the bushman was bred.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a>{36}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">I would summon them back from the far Riverina,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From days that shall be from all others distinct,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sing to the sound of an old concertina<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We never were lonely, for, camping together,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And little I cared for the signs of the weather<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When snug in my hammock slung under the dray.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And homesteads and fences were hinting of change,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And far in the distance the blue of the range;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And here in the rain, there was small use in flogging<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When down to the axles the waggons were bogging<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And traffic was making a marsh of the road.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a>{37}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Half-way to the summit they clung to the road.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then, when the last of the pinches was bested,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of miles that were passed on the long journey down.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While climbing the hills from the flats and the vales;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We courted awhile, and agreed to get married,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And couple our futures for better or worse.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a>{38}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The miles of rough metal they met by the way,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a>{39}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_LIGHTS_OF_COBB_AND_CO" id="THE_LIGHTS_OF_COBB_AND_CO"></a>THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO.</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Fire</span> lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The growl of sleepy voices—a candle in the bar;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A swear-word from a bedroom—the shout of ‘All aboard!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Uncounted ‘Half-Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a>{40}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Furthest West;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A flask of friendly whisky—each other’s hopes we share—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a>{41}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weird bush and scattered remnants of ‘rushes in the night;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a>{42}</span>’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pause, bird-like, on the summit—then breakneck down the pinch<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Past haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the bricks—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 6em;">. . . . . . . . . . -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a>{43}</span><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">Throw down the reins, old driver—there’s no one left to shout;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A poor old coach hereafter!—we’re lost to all such things—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broad<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts—for men shall never know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a>{44}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a>{45}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="HOW_THE_LAND_WAS_WON" id="HOW_THE_LAND_WAS_WON"></a>HOW THE LAND WAS WON</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> future was dark and the past was dead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As they gazed on the sea once more—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But a nation was born when the immigrants said<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Good-bye!’ as they stepped ashore!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In their loneliness they were parted thus<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because of the work to do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A wild wide land to be won for us<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By hearts and hands so few.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The darkest land ’neath a blue sky’s dome,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the widest waste on earth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The strangest scenes and the least like home<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the lands of our fathers’ birth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The loneliest land in the wide world then,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And away on the furthest seas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A land most barren of life for men—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they won it by twos and threes!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a>{46}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the camp-fires’ ghastly glow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With ‘nulla’ and spear held low;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Death was hidden amongst the trees,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bare on the glaring sand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They fought and perished by twos and threes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that’s how they won the land!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While one reeled on alone—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dust of Australia’s greatest dead<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the dust of the desert blown!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That scorched in the blazing sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that’s how the land was won!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And death by the lonely way;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The childbirth under the tilt or tent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The childbirth under the dray!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The childbirth out in the desolate hut<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a half-wild gin for nurse—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That’s how the first were born to bear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The brunt of the first man’s curse!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a>{47}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They toiled and they fought through the shame of it—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through wilderness, flood, and drought;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They worked, in the struggles of early days,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their sons’ salvation out.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The white girl-wife in the hut alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The men on the boundless run,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that’s how the land was won.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No armchair rest for the old folk then—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, ruined by blight and drought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They blazed the tracks to the camps again<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the big scrubs further out.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The worn haft, wet with a father’s sweat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gripped hard by the eldest son,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boy’s back formed to the hump of toil—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that’s how the land was won!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the rainless belt, they ride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The currency lad and the ne’er-do-weel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the black sheep, side by side;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In wheeling horizons of endless haze<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That disk through the Great North-west,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They ride for ever by twos and by threes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that’s how they win the rest.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BOSS_OVER_THE_BOARD" id="THE_BOSS_OVER_THE_BOARD"></a>THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">When</span> he’s over a rough and unpopular shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the sins of the bank and the men on his head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he musn’t look black or indulge in a grin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am moved to admit—when the total is scored—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That it’s just a bit off for the Boss-of-the-board.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">I have battled a lot,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">But my dream’s never soared<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling: the Boss<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was a small man to see—though a big man to cross—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We had nought to complain of—except what we thought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Boss didn’t boss any more than he ought;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a>{49}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So we hated like poison the Boss-of-the-board.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">We could tolerate ‘hands’—<br /></span> -<span class="i8">We respected the cook;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He’d a row with Big Duggan—a rough sort of Jim—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or, rather, Jim Duggan was ‘laying for’ him!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That his shearing grew rough—and he ill-used the sheep.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower’d<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">For the Boss was ten stone,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And the shearer full-grown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he might have, they said, let the crawler alone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Though some of us there wished the fight to the strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was wrong.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the crawler was plucky, it can’t be denied,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a>{50}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he came up so gamely, as often as floored,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-of-the-board!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And the fight was a sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And we pondered that night—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It’s surprising how some of those blacklegs can fight!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Next day at the office, when sadly the wreck<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Said the Boss, ‘Don’t be childish! It’s all past and gone;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am short of good shearers. You’d <i>better</i> stay on.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we fancied Jim Duggan <i>our</i> dignity lower’d<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-the-board.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">We said nothing to Jim,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">For a joke might be grim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Boss just went on as he’d done from the first,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the worst;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when we’d cut out and the steamer came down—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the hawkers and spielers—to take us to town,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a>{51}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we’d all got aboard, ’twas Jim Duggan, good Lord!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">’Twas a bit off, no doubt—<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And with Freedom about—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the curse of the Children of Light on his head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his views be inclined to the dark side of life.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be shored—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But it’s just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">I am all for the Right,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">But perhaps (out of sight)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As a son or a husband or father he’s white.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="WHEN_THE_LADIES_COME_TO_THE_SHEARING_SHED" id="WHEN_THE_LADIES_COME_TO_THE_SHEARING_SHED"></a>WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEARING SHED</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘<span class="smcap">The</span> ladies are coming,’ the super says<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the shearers sweltering there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ‘the ladies’ means in the shearing shed:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Don’t cut ’em too bad. Don’t swear.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ghost of a pause in the shed’s rough heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lower is bowed each head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And nothing is heard, save a whispered word,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the roar of the shearing-shed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The tall, shy rouser has lost his wits,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his limbs are all astray;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He leaves a fleece on the shearing-board,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his broom in the shearer’s way.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a curse in store for that jackaroo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As down by the wall he slants—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the ringer bends with his legs askew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wishes he’d ‘patched them pants.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a>{53}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They are girls from the city. (Our hearts rebel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As we squint at their dainty feet.)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they gush and say in a girly way<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That ‘the dear little lambs’ are ‘sweet.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Bill, the ringer, who’d scorn the use<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of a childish word like ‘damn,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would give a pound that his tongue were loose<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he tackles a lively lamb.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Swift thoughts of homes in the coastal towns—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or rivers and waving grass—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a weight on our hearts that we cannot define<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That comes as the ladies pass.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the rouser ventures a nervous dig<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the ribs of the next to him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Barcoo says to his pen-mate: ‘Twig<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The style of the last un, Jim.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Jim Moonlight gives her a careless glance—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then he catches his breath with pain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His strong hand shakes and the sunlights dance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he bends to his work again.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he’s well disguised in a bristling beard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bronzed skin, and his shearer’s dress;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And whatever Jim Moonlight hoped or feared<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were hard for his mates to guess.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a>{54}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Jim Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Explains, with a doleful smile:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘A stitch in the side,’ and ‘he’s all right now’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he leans on the beam awhile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gazes out in the blazing noon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the clearing, brown and bare—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She has come and gone, like a breath of June,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In December’s heat and glare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The bushmen are big rough boys at the best,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With hearts of a larger growth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they hide those hearts with a brutal jest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the pain with a reckless oath.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though the Bills and Jims of the bush-bard sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of their life loves, lost or dead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The love of a girl is a sacred thing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not voiced in a shearing-shed.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BALLAD_OF_THE_ROUSEABOUT" id="THE_BALLAD_OF_THE_ROUSEABOUT"></a>THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A rouseabout</span> of rouseabouts, from any land—or none—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I bear a nick-name of the bush, and I’m—a woman’s son;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I came from where I camp’d last night, and, at the day-dawn glow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, and go.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no pride at all—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(But—to us all the world is wide when driven to the wall)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some take the track for gain in life, some take the track for loss—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some of us take up the swag as Christ took up the Cross.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a>{56}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Some take the track for faith in men—some take the track for doubt—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation out.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some dared not see a mother’s tears nor meet a father’s face—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, from Grace.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh we are men who fought and rose, or fell from many grades;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some born to lie, and some to pray, we’re men of many trades;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’re men whose fathers were and are of high and low degree—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sea was open to us and we sailed across the sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And—were our quarrels wrong or just?—has no place in my song—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We seared our souls in puzzling as to what was right or wrong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We judge not and we are not judged—’tis our philosophy—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s something wrong with every ship that sails upon the sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a>{57}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From shearing shed to shearing shed we tramp to make a cheque—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jack Cornstalk and the ne’er-do-weel—the tar-boy and the wreck.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We learn the worth of man to man—and this we learn too well—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The shanty and the shearing shed are warmer spots in hell!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve humped my swag to Bawley Plain, and further out and on;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve boiled my billy by the Gulf, and boiled it by the Swan—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve thirsted in dry lignum swamps, and thirsted on the sand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And eked the fire with camel dung in Never-Never Land.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I know the track from Spencer’s Gulf and north of Cooper’s Creek—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where falls the half-caste to the strong, ‘black velvet’ to the weak—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(From gold-top Flossie in the Strand to half-caste and the gin—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If they had brains, poor animals! we’d teach them how to sin.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a>{58}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve tramped, and camped, and ‘shore’ and drunk with many mates Out Back—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And every one to me is Jack because the first was Jack—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A ‘lifer’ sneaked from jail at home—the ‘straightest’ mate I met—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A ‘ratty’ Russian Nihilist—a British Baronet!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I know the tucker tracks that feed—or leave one in the lurch—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ‘Burgoo’ (Presbyterian) track—the ‘Murphy’ (Roman Church)—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But more the <i>man</i>, and not the <i>track</i>, so much as it appears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For ‘battling’ is a trade to learn, and I’ve served seven years.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We’re haunted by the past at times—and this is very bad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go mad—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So much is lost Out Back, so much of hell is realised—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A man might skin himself alive and no one be surprised.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a>{59}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A rouseabout of rouseabouts, above—beneath regard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know how soft is this old world, and I have learnt how hard—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A rouseabout of rouseabouts—I know what men can feel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve seen the tears from hard eyes slip as drops from polished steel.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I learned what college had to teach, and in the school of men<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By camp-fires I have learned, or, say, unlearned it all again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But this I’ve learned, that truth is strong, and if a man go straight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll live to see his enemy struck down by time and fate!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We hold him true who’s true to one however false he be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(There’s something wrong with every ship that lies beside the quay);<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We lend and borrow, laugh and joke, and when the past is drowned,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We sit upon our swags and smoke and watch the world go round.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a>{60}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="YEARS_AFTER_THE_WAR_IN_AUSTRALIA" id="YEARS_AFTER_THE_WAR_IN_AUSTRALIA"></a>YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away!—stand clear of the blazing shoots!’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Sheep O! Sheep O!’—‘We’ll cut out to-day’—‘Look out for the boss’s boots!’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘What price the tally in camp to-night!’—‘What price the boys Out Back!’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Needle and thread!’—‘I have broke my comb!’—‘Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Fight for your mates and the folk at home!’—‘Here’s for the Lachlan side!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a>{61}</span>’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for ‘Tar!’<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Look out for the blooming shell, look out!’—‘Gor’ bli’ me, but that’s red-hot!’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It’s Bill the Slogger—poor bloke—he’s done. A chunk of the shell was his;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they missed.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) fist.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Hold up, Billy; I’ll stick to you; they’ve hit you under the belt;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If we get the waddle I’ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding Chow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a>{62}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you went for ’em proper and laid out three, and I won’t forget it now.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, groaning and swearing, the pug replied: ‘I’m done ... they’ve knocked me out!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss to the rouseabout.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives me worse than hell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I trained for a scrap with a twelve-stone bloke, and not with a bursting shell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You needn’t mag, for I knowed, old chum, I <i>knowed</i>, old pal, you’d stick;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But you can’t hold out till the reg’lars come, and you’d best be nowhere quick.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ve got a force and a gun ashore, both of our wings is broke;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the best you can do is smoke.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Jim exclaimed: ‘You can smoke, you chaps, but me—Gor’ bli’ me, no!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The push that ran from the George-street traps won’t run from a foreign foe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I’ll stick to what’s left of Bill.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a>{63}</span>’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they hiss through their blackened teeth: ‘We’ll stick! by the blazing flame, we will!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their rifle-stocks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons—‘rocks.’<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">In the western camps it was ever our boast, when ’twas bad for the kangaroo:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘If the enemy’s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they won’t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out back!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When we burst the enemy’s ironclads and won by a run of luck,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We whooped as loudly as Nelson’s lads when a French three-decker struck;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a>{64}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when the enemy’s troops prevailed the truth was never heard—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the newchum jackeroo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But ‘cuffs-’n’-collers’ were out that day, and they stuck to their posts like glue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street men.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Jim the Ringer—he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Old Heads a Caser’ and ‘Heads a Quid,’ but it never was ‘tails’ with him.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished grand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand!<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">I’ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a>{65}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Billy died—he was full of sand—he said, as I raised his head:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tell ’em,’ said Billy, ‘and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held him up:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I’d loved so long.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far out on the southern seas I’ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And oft, when all on the station failed, I’ve driven the outlaw home.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I’ve made a cheque as quick;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our tick.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When mother and sister and <i>she</i> were there, and the old man yelled for Bill;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a>{66}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, save for <i>her</i>, could I live my while again in the old bush way,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he passed away as the stars came out—he died as old heroes die—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_OLD_JIMMY_WOODSER" id="THE_OLD_JIMMY_WOODSER"></a>THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Too old and too odd to be drunk with, by far;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he glides to the end where the lunch baskets are<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they say that he tipples alone.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His frock-coat is green and the nap is no more,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the style of his hat is at rest.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He wears the peaked collar our grandfathers wore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The black-ribboned tie that was legal of yore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the coat buttoned over his breast.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When first he came in, for a moment I thought<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That my vision or wits were astray;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a picture and page out of Dickens he brought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas an old file dropped in from the Chancery Court<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To a wine-vault just over the way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a>{68}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But I dreamed as he tasted his bitters to-night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lights in the bar-room grew dim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the shades of the friends of that other day’s light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And of girls that were bright in our grandfathers’ sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lifted shadowy glasses to him.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I opened the door as the old man passed out,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his short, shuffling step and bowed head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I sighed, for I felt as I turned me about,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An odd sense of respect—born of whisky no doubt—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the life that was fifty years dead.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I thought—there are times when our memory trends<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the future, as ’twere, on its own—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I, out of date ere my pilgrimage ends,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a new fashioned bar to dead loves and dead friends<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Might drink like the old man alone:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While they whisper, ‘He boozes alone.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_CHRIST_OF_THE_NEVER" id="THE_CHRIST_OF_THE_NEVER"></a>THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">With</span> eyes that seem shrunken to pierce<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the awful horizons of land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White heat-waves that flow on the sand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the Never Land westward and nor’ward,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Christ of the Outer Out-back.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For the cause that will ne’er be relinquished<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spite of all the great cynics on earth—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the ranks of the bush undistinguished<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By manner or dress—if by birth—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God’s preacher, of churches unheeded—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God’s vineyard, though barren the sod—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rough link ’twixt the bushman and God.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a>{70}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He works where the hearts of all nations<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are withered in flame from the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the sinners work out their salvations<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a hell-upon-earth ere they die.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the camp or the lonely hut lying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a waste that seems out of God’s sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>He’s</i> the doctor—the mate of the dying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the smothering heat of the night.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By his work in the hells of the shearers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the drinking is ghastly and grim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the roughest and worst of his hearers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have listened bareheaded to him.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By his paths through the parched desolation<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hot rides and the terrible tramps;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the hunger, the thirst, the privation<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of his work in the furthermost camps;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By his worth in the light that shall search men<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And prove—ay! and justify each—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I place him in front of all churchmen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who feel not, who <i>know</i> not—but preach!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_CATTLE-DOGS_DEATH" id="THE_CATTLE-DOGS_DEATH"></a>THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> plains lay bare on the homeward route,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the march was heavy on man and brute;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His languid limbs in the nearest shade.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He saved our lives in the years gone by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the silent camp where the drovers slept.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘ ’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a>{72}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, strangely vivid, each man descried<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The camping pack of the lightest horse,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And raised the dog to his deathbed high,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And brought him far ’neath the burning sky.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His eyes grew human with gratitude;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though we parched in the heat that fags,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We gave him the last of the water-bags.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The super’s daughter we knew would chide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If we left the dog in the desert wide;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So we brought him far o’er the burning sand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a parting stroke of her small white hand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But long ere the station was seen ahead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_SONG_OF_THE_DARLING_RIVER" id="THE_SONG_OF_THE_DARLING_RIVER"></a>THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER</h2> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>The only national work of the blacks was a dam or dyke of stones -across the Darling River at Brewarrina. The stones they carried -from Lord knows where—and the Lord knows how. The people of Bourke -kept up navigation for months above the town by a dam of sand-bags. -The Darling rises in blazing droughts from the Queensland rains. -There are banks and beds of good clay and rock along the river.</p></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> skies are brass and the plains are bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Death and ruin are everywhere—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all that is left of the last year’s flood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is a sickly stream on the grey-black mud;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The salt-springs bubble and quagmires quiver,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And—this is the dirge of the Darling River:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I rise in the drought from the Queensland rain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I fill my branches again and again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hold my billabongs back in vain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the land grows old and the people never<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will see the worth of the Darling River.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a>{74}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I drown dry gullies and lave bare hills,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I form fair island and glades all green<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till every bend is a sylvan scene.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But in vain I have tried, ah! in vain I have tried<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To show the sign of the Great All Giver,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Word to a people: O! lock your river.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I want no blistering barge aground,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But racing steamers the seasons round;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I want fair homes on my lonely ways,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A people’s love and a people’s praise—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And rosy children to dive and swim—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fair girls’ feet in my rippling brim;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cool, green forests and gardens ever’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>The sky is brass and the scrub-lands glare,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Death and ruin are everywhere;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Thrown high to bleach, or deep in the mud</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>The bones lie buried by last year’s flood.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And the Demons dance from the Never Never</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>To laugh at the rise of the Darling River.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="RAIN_IN_THE_MOUNTAINS" id="RAIN_IN_THE_MOUNTAINS"></a>RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> valley’s full of misty cloud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its tinted beauty drowning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Eucalypti roar aloud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mountain fronts are frowning.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The mist is hanging like a pall<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From many granite ledges,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And many a little waterfall<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Starts o’er the valley’s edges.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sky is of a leaden grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Save where the north is surly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The driven daylight speeds away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And night comes o’er us early.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But, love, the rain will pass full soon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far sooner than my sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in a golden afternoon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sun may set to-morrow.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a>{76}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_MAY_NIGHT_ON_THE_MOUNTAINS" id="A_MAY_NIGHT_ON_THE_MOUNTAINS"></a>A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These long ‘small hours’ of night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the stars come close and bright.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From clouds of a steely grey,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the wonderful Milky Way.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There is something wrong with this star of ours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A mortal plank unsound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That cannot be charged to the mighty powers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who guide the stars around.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though man is higher than bird or beast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though wisdom is still his boast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He surely resembles Nature least,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the things that vex her most.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a>{77}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some muse of the Universe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If they who people those planets far<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are better than we, or worse?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are they exempted from deaths and births,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And have they greater powers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And greater heavens, and greater earths,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And greater Gods than ours?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Do they make their hells in their reckless youth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere they know what hells they make?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And do they toil through each weary hour<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the tedious day is o’er,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For food that gives but the fleeting power<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To toil and strive for more?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a>{78}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_NEW_CHUM_JACKAROO" id="THE_NEW_CHUM_JACKAROO"></a>THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Let</span> bushmen think as bushmen will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And say whate’er they choose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hate to hear the stupid sneer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At New Chum Jackaroos.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He may not ride as you can ride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or do what you can do;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But sometimes you’d seem small beside<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The New Chum Jackaroo.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His share of work he never shirks,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And through the blazing drought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He lives the old things down, and works<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His own salvation out.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When older, wiser chums despond<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He battles brave of heart—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas he who sailed of old beyond<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The margin of the chart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a>{79}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas he who proved the world was round—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In crazy square canoes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lands you’re living in were found<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By New Chum Jackaroos.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He crossed the deserts hot and bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From barren, hungry shores—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The plains that you would scarcely dare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With all your tanks and bores.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He fought a way through stubborn hills<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Towards the setting sun—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your fathers all and Burke and Wills<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Were New Chums, every one.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When England fought with all the world<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In those brave days gone by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all its strength against her hurled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He held her honour high.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By Southern palms and Northern pines—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where’er was life to lose—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She held her own with thin red lines<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of New Chum Jackaroos.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a>{80}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through shot and shell and solitudes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wherever feet have gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Johnnies led them on.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And though he wear a foppish coat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And these old things forget,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In stormy times I’d give a vote<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Cuffs and Collars yet.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a>{81}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_DONS_OF_SPAIN" id="THE_DONS_OF_SPAIN"></a>THE DONS OF SPAIN</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of the land she found;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For, as in the days when the buccaneer was abroad on the Spanish Main,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The national honour is one thing dear to the hearts of the Dons of Spain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She has slaughtered thousands with fire and sword, as the Christian world might know;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We murder millions, but, thank the Lord! we only starve ’em slow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The times have changed since the days of old, but the same old facts remain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We fight for Freedom, and God, and Gold, and the Spaniards fight for Spain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a>{82}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>We</i> fought with the strength of the moral right, and they, as their ships went down,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They only fought with the grit to fight and their armour to help ’em drown.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their path was plain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Church was the Church, and the Pope the Pope—but the Spaniards fought for Spain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If Providence struck for the honest thief at times in the battle’s din—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If ever it struck at the hypocrite—well, that’s where the Turks came in;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it through in vain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s something great in the wrong that dies as the Spaniards die for Spain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The foes of Spain may be kin to us who are English heart and soul,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And proud of our national righteousness and proud of the lands we stole;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we yet might pause while those brave men die and the death-drink pledge again—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the sake of the past, if you’re doomed, say I, may your death be a grand one, Spain!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a>{83}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then here’s to the bravest of Freedom’s foes who ever with death have stood—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the sake of the courage to die on steel as their fathers died on wood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And here’s a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless cause again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the sake of the days when the Christian world was saved by the Dons of Spain.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BURSTING_OF_THE_BOOM" id="THE_BURSTING_OF_THE_BOOM"></a>THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> shipping-office clerks are ‘short,’ the manager is gruff—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They cannot make reductions,’ and ‘the fares are low enough.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They ship us West with cattle, and we go like cattle too;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fight like dogs three times a day for what we get to chew....<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll have the pick of empty bunks and lots of stretching room,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And go for next to nothing at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So wait till the Boom bursts!—we’ll all get a show:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then when the Boom bursts is our time to go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a>{85}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll meet ’em coming back in shoals, with looks of deepest gloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we’re the sort that battle through at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The captain’s easy-going when Fremantle comes in sight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He can’t say when you’ll get ashore—‘perhaps to-morrow night;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your coins are few, the charges high; you must not linger here—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll get your boxes from the hold ‘when she’s ’longside the pier.’ ...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The launch will foul the gangway, and the trembling bulwarks loom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above a fleet of harbour craft—at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So wait till the Boom bursts!—we’ll all get a show;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll ‘take you for a bob, sir,’ and where you want to go.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll ‘take the big portmanteau, sir, if he might so presume’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You needn’t hump your luggage at the Bursting of the Boom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a>{86}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s loafers—Customs-loafers—and you pay and pay again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They hinder you and cheat you from the gangway to the train;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pubs and restaurants are full—they haven’t room for more;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They charge us each three shillings for a shakedown on the floor;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, ‘Show this gentleman upstairs—the first front parlour room.<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>We’ll</i> see about your luggage, sir’—at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So wait till the Boom bursts!—we’ll all get a show;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wait till the Boom bursts, and swear mighty low.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘We mostly charge a pound a week. How do you like the room?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ‘Show this gentleman the bath’—at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I go down to the timber-yard (I cannot face the rent)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To get some strips of oregon to frame my hessian tent;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a>{87}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">To buy some scraps of lumber for a table or a shelf:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boss comes up and says I might just look round for myself;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The foreman grunts and turns away as silent as the tomb—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boss himself will wait on me at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So wait till the Boom bursts!—we’ll all get a load.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘You had better take those scraps, sir, they’re only in the road.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Now, where the hell’s the carter?’ you’ll hear the foreman fume;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, ‘Take that timber round at once!’ at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Each one-a-penny grocer, in his box of board and tin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will think it condescending to consent to take you in;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And not content with twice as much as what is just and right,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They charge and cheat you doubly, for the Boom is at its height.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a>{88}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s ‘Take it now or leave it now;’ ‘your money or your room;’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But ‘Who’s attending Mr. Brown?’ at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So wait till the Boom bursts!—and take what you can get,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘There’s not the slightest hurry, and your bill ain’t ready yet.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ll call and get your orders until the crack o’ doom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And send them round directly, at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">No Country and no Brotherhood—such things are dead and cold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A camp from all the lands or none, all mad for love of gold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where T’othersider number one makes slave of number two,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the vilest women of the world the vilest ways pursue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And men go out and slave and bake and die in agony<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a>{89}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">In western hells that God forgot, where never man should be.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I feel a prophet in my heart that speaks the one word ‘Doom!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And aye you’ll hear the Devil laugh at the Bursting of the Boom.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a>{90}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="ANTONY_VILLA" id="ANTONY_VILLA"></a>ANTONY VILLA<br /><br /> -<small><i>A Ballad of Ninety-three</i></small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Over</span> there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of the Vardens,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a tennis ground and terrace, and a flagstaff in the gardens:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They are gentlemen and ladies—they’ve been ‘toffs’ for generations,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But old Varden’s been unlucky—lost a lot in speculations.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Troubles gathered fast upon him when the mining bubble ‘busted,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then the bank suspended payment, where his little all he trusted;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the butcher and the baker sent their bills in when they read it,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Even John, the Chow that served him, has refused to give him ‘cledit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a>{91}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the daughters of the Vardens—they are beautiful as Graces—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the balcony’s deserted, and they rarely show their faces;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the swells of their acquaintance never seem to venture near them,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the bailiff says they seldom have a cup of tea to cheer them.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They were butterflies—I always was a common caterpillar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’m sorry for the ladies over there in ’Tony Villa,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shut up there in ’Tony Villa with the bailiff and their trouble;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the dried-up reservoir, where my tears were seems to bubble.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mrs. Rooney thinks it nothing when she sends a brat to ‘borry’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just a pinch of tea and sugar till the grocer comes temorry;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But it’s dif’rent with the Vardens—they would starve to death as soon as<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Knuckle down. You know, they weren’t raised exactly like the Rooneys!<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a>{92}</span> -</span><br /> -<span class="i0">There is gossip in the ‘boxes’ and the drawing-rooms and gardens—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Have you heard of Varden’s failure? Have you heard about the Vardens?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And no doubt each toney mother on the Point across the water’s<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mighty glad about the downfall of the rivals of her daughters.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">(Tho’ the poets and the writers say that man to man’s inhuman,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m inclined to think it’s nothing to what woman is to woman,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More especially, the ladies, save perhaps a fellow’s mother;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I think that men are better—they are kinder to each other.)<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">There’s a youngster by the jetty gathering cinders from the ashes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was known as ‘Master Varden’ ere the great financial crashes.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his manner shows the dif’rence ’twixt the nurs’ry and gutter—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’ve seen him at the grocer’s buying half a pound of butter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a>{93}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And his mother fights her trouble in the house across the water,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She is just as proud as Varden, though she was a ‘cocky’s’ daughter;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at times I think I see her with the flick’ring firelight o’er her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sitting pale and straight and quiet, gazing vacantly before her.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s a slight and girlish figure—Varden’s youngest daughter, Nettie—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the terrace after sunset, when the boat is near the jetty;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She is good and pure and pretty, and her rivals don’t deny it,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though they say that Nettie Varden takes in sewing on the quiet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">(How her sister graced the ‘circle,’ all unconscious of a lover<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the seedy ‘god’ who watched her from the gallery above her!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shade of Poverty was on him, and the light of Wealth upon her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But perhaps he loved her better than the swells attending on her.)<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a>{94}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a white man’s heart in Varden, spite of all the blue blood in him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are working men who wouldn’t stand and hear a word agin’ him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But his name was never printed by the side of his ‘donations,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Save on hearts that have—in this world—very humble circulations.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He was never stiff or hoggish—he was affable and jolly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he’d always say ‘Good morning’ to the deck hand on the ‘Polly;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He would ‘barrack’ with the newsboys on the Quay across the ferry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he’d very often tip ’em coming home a trifle merry.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But his chin is getting higher, and his features daily harden<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(He will not ‘give up possession’—there’s a lot of fight in Varden);<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the way he steps the gangway! oh, you couldn’t but admire it!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just as proud as ever hero walked the plank aboard a pirate!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a>{95}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He will think about the hardships that his girls were never ‘useter,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it must be mighty heavy on the thoroughbred old rooster;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he’ll never strike his colours, and I tell a lying tale if<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Varden’s pride don’t kill him sooner than the bankers or the bailiff.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You remember when we often had to go without our dinners,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the days when Pride and Hunger fought a finish out within us;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And how Pride would come up groggy—Hunger whooping loud and louder—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the swells are proud as we are; they are just as proud—and prouder.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yes, the toffs have grit, in spite of all our sneering and our scorning—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What’s the crowd? What’s that? God help us!— Varden shot himself this morning!...<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’ll be gossip in the ‘circle,’ in the drawing-rooms and gardens;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’m sorry for the family; yes—I’m sorry for the Vardens.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a>{96}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="SECOND_CLASS_WAIT_HERE" id="SECOND_CLASS_WAIT_HERE"></a>SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">On</span> suburban railway stations—you may see them as you pass—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are signboards on the platforms saying, ‘Wait here second class;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of running gear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seem to be for ever saying, saying ‘Second class wait here’—<br /></span> -<span class="i8">‘Wait here second class,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Second class wait here.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seem to be for ever saying, saying ‘Second class wait here.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the second class are waiting—they’ve been waiting ever since.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a>{97}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are gardens in the background, and the line is bare and drear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering ‘Second class wait here.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have waited oft in winter, in the mornings dark and damp,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the asphalt platform glistened underneath the lonely lamp.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ghastly on the brick-faced cutting ‘Sellum’s Soap’ and ‘Blower’s Beer;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ghastly on enamelled signboards with their ‘Second class wait here.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the others seemed like burglars, slouched and muffled to the throats,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Standing round apart and silent in their shoddy overcoats,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the wind among the wires, and the poplars bleak and bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seemed to be for ever snarling, snarling ‘Second class wait there.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Out beyond the further suburb, ’neath a chimney stack alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay the works of Grinder Brothers, with a platform of their own;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a>{98}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many a year,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slaved beneath a phantom signboard, telling our class to wait here.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah! a man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the smell of railway stations, and the roar of running gear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the scornful-seeming signboards, saying ‘Second class wait here.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s a train with Death for driver, which is ever going past,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there are no class compartments, and we all must go at last<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the rear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there won’t be any signboards, saying ‘Second class wait here.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_SHIPS_THAT_WONT_GO_DOWN" id="THE_SHIPS_THAT_WONT_GO_DOWN"></a>THE SHIPS THAT WON’T GO DOWN</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">We</span> hear a great commotion<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Bout the ship that comes to grief,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That founders in mid-ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or is driven on a reef;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because it’s cheap and brittle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A score of sinners drown.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we hear but mighty little<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the ships that won’t go down.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Here’s honour to the builders—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The builders of the past;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here’s honour to the builders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That builded ships to last;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here’s honour to the captain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And honour to the crew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here’s double-column head-lines<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the ships that battle through.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They make a great sensation<br /></span> -<span class="i0">About famous men that fail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That sink a world of chances<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the city morgue or gaol,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who drink, or blow their brains out,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because of ‘Fortune’s frown.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we hear far too little<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the men who won’t go down.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The world is full of trouble,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the world is full of wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the heart of man is noble,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the heart of man is strong!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They say the sea sings dirges,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I would say to you<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the wild wave’s song’s a pæan<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the men that battle through.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MEN_WE_MIGHT_HAVE_BEEN" id="THE_MEN_WE_MIGHT_HAVE_BEEN"></a>THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">When</span> God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Affrighting heart and mind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When days seem dark before me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And days seem black behind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those friends who think they know me—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who deem their insight keen—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They ne’er forget to show me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The man I might have been.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He’s rich and independent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or rising fast to fame;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His bright star is ascendant,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The country knows his name;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His houses and his gardens<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are splendid to be seen;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His fault the wise world pardons—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The man I might have been.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His fame and fortune haunt me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His virtues wave me back;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His name and prestige daunt me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I would take the track;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But you, my friend true-hearted—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God keep our friendship green!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You know how I was parted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From all I might have been.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But what avails the ache of<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remorse or weak regret?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll battle for the sake of<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The men we might be yet!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll strive to keep in sight of<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The brave, the true, and clean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And triumph yet in spite of<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The men we might have been.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_WAY_OF_THE_WORLD" id="THE_WAY_OF_THE_WORLD"></a>THE WAY OF THE WORLD</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">When</span> fairer faces turn from me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gayer friends grow cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I have lost through poverty<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The friendship bought, with gold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I have served the selfish turn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of some all-worldly few,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Folly’s lamps have ceased to burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then I’ll come back to you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When my admirers find I’m not<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rising star they thought,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And praise or blame is all forgot<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My early promise brought;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When brighter rivals lead a host<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where once I led a few,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kinder times reward their boast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then I’ll come back to you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You loved me, not for what I had<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or what I might have been.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You saw the good, but not the bad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was kind, for that between.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know that you’ll forgive again—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you will judge me true;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll be too tired to explain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I come back to you.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BATTLING_DAYS" id="THE_BATTLING_DAYS"></a>THE BATTLING DAYS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">So</span>, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife content,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach of the ‘days mis-spent;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grown fat and moral apace, old man! you prate of the change ‘since then’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of all, I’d as lief be back in those hard old days again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel at times—but then,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard old days again.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days when we sowed our own—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(‘Twas little we thought or our friends believed that ours would ever be sown)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and they speak of the hearts of men—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old days again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We travel first, or we go saloon—on the planned-out trips we go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we find that the life is slow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s ‘a pleasant trip’ where they cried, ‘Good luck!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was fun in the steerage then—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vagabond days again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On Saturday night we’ve a pound to spare—a pound for a trip down town—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We took more joy in those hard old days for a hardly spared half-crown;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We took more pride in the pants we patched than the suits we have had since then—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of all, I would rather be back in those comical days again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas We and the World—and the rest go hang—as the Outside tracks we trod;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not as a martyred god;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world goes wrong when your heart is strong—and this is the way with men—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world goes right when your liver is white, and you preach of the change ‘since then.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel times—but then,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard old days again.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="WRITTEN_AFTERWARDS" id="WRITTEN_AFTERWARDS"></a>WRITTEN AFTERWARDS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">So</span> the days of my tramping are over,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the days of my riding are done—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m about as content as a rover<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will ever be under the sun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I write, after reading your letter—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My pipe with old memories rife—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I feel in a mood that had better<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not meet the true eyes of the wife.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You must never admit a suggestion<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That old things are good to recall;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must never consider the question:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Was I happier then, after all?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must banish the old hope and sorrow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That make the sad pleasures of life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must live for To-day and To-morrow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you want to be just to the wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have changed since the first day I kissed her.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which is due—Heaven bless her!—to her;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m respected and trusted—I’m ‘Mister,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Addressed by the children as ‘Sir.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I feel the respect without feigning—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But you’d laugh the great laugh of your life<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you only saw me entertaining<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An old lady friend of the wife.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By-the-way, when you’re writing, remember<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you never went drinking with me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And forget our last night of December,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lest our sev’ral accounts disagree.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, for my sake, old man, you had better<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Avoid the old language of strife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the technical terms of your letter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May be misunderstood by the wife.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Never hint of the girls appertaining<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the past (when you’re writing again),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For they take such a lot of explaining,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you know how I hate to explain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are some things, we know to our sorrow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That cut to the heart like a knife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And your past is To-day and To-morrow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you want to be true to the wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I believe that the creed we were chums in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was grand, but too abstract and bold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the knowledge of life only comes in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re married and fathered and old.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it’s well. You may travel as few men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You may stick to a mistress for life;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the world, as it is, born of woman<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must be seen through the eyes of the wife.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No doubt you are dreaming as <i>I</i> did<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And going the careless old pace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While my future grows dull and decided,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the world narrows down to the Place.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let it be. If my ‘treason’s’ resented,<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>You</i> may do worse, old man, in your life;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let me dream, too, that I am contented—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the sake of a true little wife.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_UNCULTURED_RHYMER_TO_HIS_CULTURED_CRITICS" id="THE_UNCULTURED_RHYMER_TO_HIS_CULTURED_CRITICS"></a>THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS CULTURED CRITICS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Fight</span> through ignorance, want, and care—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the griefs that crush the spirit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Push your way to a fortune fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the smiles of the world you’ll merit.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the chance that Fate denies you;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Win degrees where the Life-lights burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And scores will teach and advise you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My cultured friends! you have come too late<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With your bypath nicely graded;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve fought thus far on my track of Fate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’ll follow the rest unaided.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must I be stopped by a college gate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the track of Life encroaching?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the lack of a college coaching?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You grope for Truth in a language dead—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the dust ’neath tower and steeple!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What know you of the tracks we tread?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And what know you of our people?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I must read this, and that, and the rest,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And write as the cult expects me?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll read the book that may please me best,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And write as my heart directs me!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You were quick to pick on a faulty line<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I strove to put my soul in:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your eyes were keen for a ‘dash’ of mine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the place of a semi-colon—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And blind to the rest. And is it for such<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As you I must brook restriction?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I was taught too little?’ I learnt too much<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To care for a pedant’s diction!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Must I turn aside from my destined way<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a task your Joss would find me?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I come with strength of the living day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with half the world behind me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I leave you alone in your cultured halls<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To drivel and croak and cavil:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till your voice goes further than college walls,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keep out of the tracks we travel!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_WRITERS_DREAM" id="THE_WRITERS_DREAM"></a>THE WRITER’S DREAM</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">A</span> writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘ ’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book <i>you’ll</i> read!’ he cried.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘ ’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn—the rebellious hate of youth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’ll write my book and it <i>shall</i> be true—the truth of a writer’s heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale—who never knew want or care—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">You may starve the writer and buy the pen—you may drive it with want and fear—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the lines run false in the hearts of men—and false to the writer’s ear.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">‘ ’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet—for a roving folk are mine—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set—and the camp-fire glow the sign!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve trod—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that <i>their</i> hearts deem “white,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears!—I’ll write!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the <i>world</i>, not <i>he</i>, to blame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s right!”’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_JOLLY_DEAD_MARCH" id="THE_JOLLY_DEAD_MARCH"></a>THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">If</span> I ever be worthy or famous—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which I’m sadly beginning to doubt—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the angel whose place ’tis to name us<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall say to my spirit, ‘Pass out!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wish for no sniv’lling about me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(My work was the work of the land),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I hope that my country will shout me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The price of a decent brass band.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thump! thump! of the drum and ‘Ta-ra-rit,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thump! thump! and the music—it’s grand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If only in dreams, or in spirit,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To ride or march after the band!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And myself and my mourners go straying,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And strolling and drifting along<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a band in the front of us playing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tune of an old battle song!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I ask for no ‘turn-out’ to bear me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I ask not for railings or slabs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And spare me! my country—oh, spare me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hearse and the long string of cabs!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I ask not the baton or ‘starts’ of<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bore with the musical ear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the music that’s blown from the hearts of<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The men who work hard and drink beer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And let ’em strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let them burst out with ‘Lang Syne’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Twin voices of sadness and glory,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That have ever been likings of mine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And give the French war-hymn deep-throated<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Watch of the Germans between,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let the last mile be devoted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And if, in the end—more’s the pity—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is fame more than money to spare—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a van-man I know in the city<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who’ll convey me, right side up with care.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">True sons of Australia, and noble,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have gone from the long dusty way,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the sole mourner fought down his trouble<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his pipe on the shaft of the dray.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And my spirit will join the procession—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will pause, if it may, on the brink—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor feel the least shade of depression<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the mourners drop out for a drink;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It may be a hot day in December,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or a cold day in June it may be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the drink will but help them remember<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The good points the world missed in me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And help ’em to love ‘Annie Laurie,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And help ’em to raise ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ &c.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Unhook the West Port’ for an orphan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An old digger chorus revive—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you don’t hear a whoop from the coffin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am <i>not</i> being buried alive.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’ll go with a spirit less bitter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than mine own on the earth may have been,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will pass me, two comrades between.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let ’em burst out with ‘Lang Syne,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Twin voices of sadness and glory<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That have ever been likings of mine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(And I’ll not buck at ‘God Save the Queen’),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But let the last mile be devoted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit</i>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">War-drums of my dreams! Oh it’s grand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If only in fancy or spirit,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To ride or march after a band!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we, the World-Battlers, go straying<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And loving and laughing along—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With Hope in the lead of us playing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tune of a life-battle song!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MY_LITERARY_FRIEND" id="MY_LITERARY_FRIEND"></a>MY LITERARY FRIEND</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Once</span> I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The ideas are good,’ he muttered, ‘but the rhythm seems to halt.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So I straighten’d up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘You’ve improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,’ he said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So I worked as he suggested (I believe in taking time),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I burnt the ‘midnight taper’ while I straightened up the rhyme.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It is better now,’ he muttered, ‘you go on and you’ll succeed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It has got a ring about it—the ideas are what you need.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So I worked for hours upon it (I go on when I commence),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Now the people say I’d never put such horrors into print<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If I wasn’t too conceited to accept a friendly hint,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my dearest friends are certain that I’d profit in the end<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If I’d always show my copy to a literary friend.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MARY_CALLED_HIM_MISTER" id="MARY_CALLED_HIM_MISTER"></a>MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">They</span>’d parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘<i>Mister</i> Gum.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and asked how she was getting on.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They’d parted but a year before; they’d loved each other well,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he’d been to the city, and he came back <i>such</i> a swell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But Mary called him ‘Mister,’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He stood and lean’d against the door—a stupid chap was he—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, when she asked if he’d come in and have a cup of tea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He looked to left, he looked to right, and then he glanced behind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And slowly doffed his cabbage-tree, and said he ‘didn’t mind.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She made a shy apology because the meat was tough,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then she asked if he was sure his tea was sweet enough;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He stirred the tea and sipped it twice, and answer’d ‘plenty, quite;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cut the smallest piece of beef and said that it was ‘right.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She glanced at him at times and cough’d an awkward little cough;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He stared at anything but her and said, ‘I must be off.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That evening he went riding north—a sad and lonely ride—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She locked herself inside her room, and there sat down and cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They’d parted but a year before, they loved each other well—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But she was such a country girl and he was such a swell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But Mary called him ‘Mister’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="REJECTED" id="REJECTED"></a>REJECTED</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">She</span> says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You calmly say ‘Good-bye’ to her while standing off a yard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then you lift your hat and leave her, walking mighty stiff and straight—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But you’re hit, old man—hit hard.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In your brain the words are burning of the answer that she gave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As you turn the nearest corner and you stagger just a bit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But you pull yourself together, for a man’s strong heart is brave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When it’s hit, old man—hard hit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You might try to drown the sorrow, but the drink has no effect;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You cannot stand the barmaid with her coarse and vulgar wit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so you seek the street again, and start for home direct,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You see the face of her you lost, the pity in her smile—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! she is to the barmaid as is snow to chimney grit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’re a better man and nobler in your sorrow, for a while,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, arriving at your lodgings, with a face of deepest gloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You shun the other boarders and your manly brow you knit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You take a light and go upstairs directly to your room—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the whole house knows you’re hit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You clutch the scarf and collar, and you tear them from your throat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You rip your waistcoat open like a fellow in a fit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you fling them in a corner with the made-to-order coat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You throw yourself, despairing, on your narrow little bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or pace the room till someone starts with ‘Skit! cat!—skit!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then lie blindly staring at the plaster overhead—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You are hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s doubtful whether vanity or love has suffered worst,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So neatly in our nature are those feelings interknit,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your heart keeps swelling up so bad, you wish that it would burst,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You think and think, and think, and think, till you go mad almost;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across your sight the spectres of the bygone seem to flit;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The very girl herself seems dead, and comes back as a ghost,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, like this—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You know that it’s all over—you’re an older man by years,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the future not a twinkle, in your black sky not a split.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! you’ll think it well that women have the privilege of tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You long and hope for nothing but the rest that sleep can bring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you find that in the morning things have brightened up a bit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But you’re dull for many evenings, with a cracked heart in a sling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re hit, old man—hard hit.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="OHARA_JP" id="OHARA_JP"></a>O’HARA, J.P.</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">James Patrick O’Hara,</span> the Justice of Peace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He bossed the P.M. and he bossed the police;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A parent, a deacon, a landlord was he—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A townsman of weight was O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He gave out the prizes, foundation-stones laid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He shone when the Governor’s visit was paid;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And twice re-elected as Mayor was he—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The flies couldn’t roost on O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now Sandy M‘Fly, of the Axe-and-the-Saw,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was charged with a breach of the licensing law—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He sold after hours whilst talking too free<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On matters concerning O’Hara, J.P.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And each contradicted the next witness flat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Concerning back parlours, side-doors, and all that;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas very conflicting, as all must agree—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye’d betther take care!’ said O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But ‘Baby,’ the barmaid, her evidence gave—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A poor, timid darling who tried to be brave—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Now, <i>don’t</i> be afraid—if it’s frightened ye be—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Speak out, my good girl,’ said O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her hair was so golden, her eyes were so blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her face was so fair and her words seemed so true—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So green in the ways of sweet women was he<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That she jolted the heart of O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He turned to the other grave Justice of Peace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And whispered, ‘You can’t always trust the police;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘<i>I’ll visit the premises during the day,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And see for myself</i>,’ said O’Hara, Jay Pay.<br /></span> -<span class="i12">(<i>Case postponed.</i>)<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">’Twas early next morning, or late the same night—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘ ’Twas early next morning’ we think would be right—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sounds that betokened a breach of the law<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Escaped through the cracks of the Axe-and-the-Saw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Constable Dogherty, out in the street,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Met Constable Clancy a bit off his beat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He took him with finger and thumb by the ear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And led him around to a lane in the rear.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He pointed a blind where strange shadows were seen—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wild pantomime hinting of revels within—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘We’ll drop on M‘Fly, if you’ll listen to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And prove we are right to O’Hara, J.P.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But Clancy was up to the lay of the land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He cautiously shaded his mouth with his hand—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Wisht, man! Howld yer whisht! or it’s ruined we’ll be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s the justice himself—it’s O’Hara, J.P.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They hish’d and they whishted, and turned themselves round,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And got themselves off like two cats on wet ground;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Agreeing to be, on their honour as men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A deaf-dumb-and-blind institution just then.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Inside on a sofa, two barmaids between,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With one on his knee was a gentleman seen;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And any chance eye at the keyhole could see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In less than a wink ’twas O’Hara, J.P.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The first in the chorus of songs that were sung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The loudest that laughed at the jokes that were sprung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The guest of the evening, the soul of the spree—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The daddy of all was O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And hard-cases chuckled, and hard-cases said<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That Baby and Alice conveyed him to bed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In subsequent storms it was painful to see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those hard-cases side with the sinful J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Next day, in the court, when the case came in sight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’Hara declared he was satisfied quite;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The case was dismissed—it was destined to be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The final ukase of O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The law and religion came down on him first—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Christian was hard but his wife was the worst!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Half ruined and half driven crazy was he—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It made an old man of O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now, young men who come from the bush, do you hear?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who know not the power of barmaids and beer—<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Don’t see for yourself!</i> from temptation steer free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remember the fall of O’Hara, J.P.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="BILL_AND_JIM_FALL_OUT" id="BILL_AND_JIM_FALL_OUT"></a>BILL AND JIM FALL OUT</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Bill</span> and Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bill believed the Bible story <i>re</i> the origin of him—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Re</i> conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were mates<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was best<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till one night <i>the two together</i> tried to light a fire in camp,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>One</i> alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_PAROO" id="THE_PAROO"></a>THE PAROO</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a week from Christmas-time,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As near as I remember,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And half a year since in the rear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’d left the Darling Timber.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The track was hot and more than drear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The long day seemed forever;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But now we knew that we were near<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our camp—the Paroo River.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With blighted eyes and blistered feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With stomachs out of order,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Half mad with flies and dust and heat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’d crossed the Queensland Border.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I longed to hear a stream go by<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And see the circles quiver;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I longed to lay me down and die<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That night on Paroo River.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis said the land out West is grand—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I do not care who says it—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It isn’t even decent scrub,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor yet an honest desert;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A curse is on it ever;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I really think that God forgot<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The country round that river.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My mate—a native of the land—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In fiery speech and vulgar,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And doubly damned the mulga.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He peered ahead, he peered about—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bushman he, and clever—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘We must be near the river.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(God bless one kindly squatter!)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We only wanted water.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sun was setting (in the west)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In colour like a liver—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That night on Paroo River.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And once I heard him mutter:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’d like to see the Darling now,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And now and then he stopped and said<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In tones that made me shiver—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It cannot well be on ahead,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘<i>I think we’ve crossed the river.</i>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But soon we saw a strip of ground<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That crossed the track we followed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No barer than the surface round,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But just a little hollowed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This speech he did deliver:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I wonder if we’d best go down<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Or up the blessed river?’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘But where,’ said I, ‘ ’s the blooming stream?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I stood awhile, as in a dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘is <i>that</i> it?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It’s nearly time you came out-back—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘This <i>is</i> the Paroo River!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No place to camp—no spot of damp—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No moisture to be seen there;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If e’er there was it left no sign<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That it had ever been there.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But ere the morn, with heart and soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’d cause to thank the Giver—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We found a muddy water-hole<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some ten miles down the river.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_GREEN-HAND_ROUSEABOUT" id="THE_GREEN-HAND_ROUSEABOUT"></a>THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Call</span> this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard smell—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) <span class="smcap">Wool</span>!!’<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span><br /> -<span class="i0">What’s that? waiter? <i>me?</i> stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MAN_FROM_WATERLOO" id="THE_MAN_FROM_WATERLOO"></a>THE MAN FROM WATERLOO<br /><br /> -<small>(<i>With kind regards to “Banjo.”</i>)</small></h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">It</span> was the Man from Waterloo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When work in town was slack,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who took the track as bushmen do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And humped his swag out back.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He tramped for months without a bob,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For most the sheds were full,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until at last he got a job<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At picking up the wool.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He found the work was rather rough,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But swore to see it through,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he was made of sterling stuff—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Man from Waterloo.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The first remark was like a stab<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That fell his ear upon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas—‘There’s another something scab<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The boss has taken on!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span>’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They couldn’t let the towny be—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They sneered like anything;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In words that end in ‘ing.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There came a man from Ironbark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And at the shed he shore;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He scoffed his victuals like a shark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And like a fiend he swore.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’d shorn his flowing beard that day—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He found it hard to reap—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because ’twas hot and in the way<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While he was shearing sheep.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His loaded fork in grimy holt<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was poised, his jaws moved fast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Impatient till his throat could bolt<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mouthful taken last.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He couldn’t stand a something toff,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Much less a jackaroo;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And swore to take the trimmings off<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Man from Waterloo.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The towny saw he must be up<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or else be underneath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so one day, before them all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He dared to clean his teeth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The men came running from the shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ said<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The man from Ironbark.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His feeble joke was much enjoyed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He sneered as bullies do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with a scrubbing-brush he guyed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Man from Waterloo.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Jackaroo made no remark<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But peeled and waded in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And soon the Man from Ironbark<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had three teeth less to grin!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when they knew that he could fight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They swore to see him through,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because they saw that he was right—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Man from Waterloo.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now in a shop in Sydney, near<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Bottle on the Shelf,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tale is told—with trimmings—by<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Jackaroo himself.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They wouldn’t let me be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They set the bully of the shed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘To take it out of me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘The dirt was on him like a sheath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘He seldom washed his phiz;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I guess I dusted his!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I treated them as they deserved—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I signed on one or two!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Man from Waterloo.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="SAINT_PETER" id="SAINT_PETER"></a>SAINT PETER</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Now</span>, I think there is a likeness<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he did a lot of trampin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long ago in Palestine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was ‘union’ when the workers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">First began to organise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And—I’m glad that old St. Peter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Keeps the gate of Paradise.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When the ancient agitator<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his brothers carried swags,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve no doubt he very often<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tramped with empty tucker-bags;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I hate explainin’ things,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he’ll think a union ticket<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just as good as Whitely King’s.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He denied the Saviour’s union,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which was weak of him, no doubt;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But perhaps his feet was blistered<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his boots had given out.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the bitter storm was rushin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the bark and on the slabs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a cheerful fire was blazin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left:4em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">When I reach the great head-station—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which is somewhere ‘off the track’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I won’t want to talk with angels<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who have never been out back;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They might bother me with offers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of a banjo—meanin’ well—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a pair of wings to fly with,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I only want a spell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ll just ask for old St. Peter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I think, when he appears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will only have to tell him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That I carried swag for years.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘An’ I done the best I could,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he’ll understand me better<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than the other angels would.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He won’t try to get a chorus<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of lungs that’s worn to rags,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or to graft the wings on shoulders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That is stiff with humpin’ swags.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’ll rest about the station<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the work-bell never rings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till they blow the final trumpet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Great Judge sees to things.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_STRANGERS_FRIEND" id="THE_STRANGERS_FRIEND"></a>THE STRANGER’S FRIEND</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> strangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts discard—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I met him in Bourke in the Union days—with which we have nought to do<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ like glue).<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s Friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were filled with snakes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood—in his cynical stages too—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was blue—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful end,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘The feller as knows, <i>he</i> can battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d say—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know—send the hard-up bloke this way;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the bushman spoke,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they scored,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the stranger’s board—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s bunk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the chaps and the fellers would speculate—by way of a ghastly joke—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first?—the Friend or the hard-up bloke?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned in the end,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s Friend.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as ice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose like smoke,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up bloke.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have ‘battled’ myself, and <i>you</i> know, you chaps, what a man in the bush goes through;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and his strength are done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend has <i>one</i>.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_GOD-FORGOTTEN_ELECTION" id="THE_GOD-FORGOTTEN_ELECTION"></a>THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Pat M‘Durmer</span> brought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘There are lively days before ye—commin Parlymint’s dissolved!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the boys were all excited, for the State, of course, was ‘rotten,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, in subsequent elections, God-Forgotten was involved.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was little there to live for save in drinking beer and eating;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we rose on this occasion ere the news appeared in print,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the boys of God-Forgotten, at a wild, uproarious meeting,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nominated Billy Blazes for the commin Parlymint.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Other towns had other favourites, but the day before the battle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bushmen flocked to God-Forgotten, and the distant sheds were still;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sheep were left to go to glory, and neglected mobs of cattle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Went a-straying down the river at their sweet bucolic will.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">William Spouter stood for Freetrade (and his votes were split by Nottin),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He had influence behind him and he also had the tin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God-Forgotten,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re living in!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pat M‘Durmer said, ‘Ye schaymers, please to shut yer ugly faces,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lend yer dirty ears a momint while I give ye all a hint:<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Keep ye sober till to-morrow and record yer vote for Blazes</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">If ye want to send a ringer to the commin Parlymint.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘As a young and growin’ township God-Forgotten’s been neglected,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, if we’d be ripresinted, <i>now’s</i> the moment to begin—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have the local towns encouraged, local industries purtected:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vote for Blazes, and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I don’t say that William Blazes is a perfect out-an’ outer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I don’t say he have the larnin’, for he never had the luck;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I don’t say he have the logic, or the gift of gab, like Spouter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I don’t say he have the practice—<span class="smcap">but I say he have the pluck</span>!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now the country’s gone to ruin, and the Governments are rotten,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he’ll save the public credit and purtect the public tin;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the iverlastin’ glory of the name of God-Forgotten<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pat M‘D. went on the war-path, and he worked like salts and senna,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he organised committees full of energy and push;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And those wild committees riding through the whisky-fed Gehenna<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Routed out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Everything on wheels was ‘rinted,’ and half-sobered drunks were shot in;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Said M‘Durmer to the driver, ‘If ye want to save yer skin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never stop to wet yer whistles—drive like hell to God-Forgotten,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make the villains plump for Blazes, and the land they’re livin’ in.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Half the local long-departed (for the purpose resurrected)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Plumped for Blazes and Protection, and the country where they died;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So he topped the poll by sixty, and when Blazes was elected<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was victory and triumph on the God-Forgotten side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then the boys got up a banquet, and our chairman, Pat M‘Durmer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker’s bin—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the dough had risen round him, but we heard a smothered murmur,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Vote for Blazes—and Protection—and the land ye’re livin’ in.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London, ’cross the waters,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I very often wonder if his toney sons and daughters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ever heard of Billy Blazes who was once the ‘people’s friend.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Does his biassed memory linger round that wild electioneering<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the men of God-Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Does he ever, in his dreaming, hear the cry above the cheering:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re livin’ in?’<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . . -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">Ah, the bush was grand in those days, and the Western boys were daisies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still my recollection lingers round the time when Billy Blazes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was returned by God-Forgotten to the ‘Commin Parlymint’:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still I keep a sign of canvas—’twas a mate of mine that made it—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And its paint is cracked and powdered, and its threads are bare and thin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet upon its grimy surface you can read in letters faded:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the Land you’re livin’ in.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BOSSS_BOOTS" id="THE_BOSSS_BOOTS"></a>THE BOSS’S BOOTS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though he changed his pants at times—some worn-out and some neat—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And tigers might have <i>heard</i> the boss ere any harm was done—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And never dreamed of Boss’s boots—much less of Bogan Bill.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And keep away from handicaps—for so your sugar scoots—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He thought that he’d be fined all right—he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Bogan swore amenfully—beneath his breath he swore—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>The rouser has no soul to lose—it’s blarst the rouseabout!</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,—</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Rouseabout’ and ‘picker-up’ are interchangeable terms in above -rhymes, as also ‘boss’ and ‘super’; the shed-name for the latter is -‘Boss-over-the-board.’ The shearer is paid by the hundred, the -rouser by the week. ‘Pink ’em pretty’: to shear clean to the skin. -‘Bell-sheep’: shearers are not supposed to take another sheep out -of pen when ‘Smoke-ho,’ breakfast or dinner bell goes, but some -time themselves to get so many sheep out, and <i>one as the bell -goes</i>, which makes more work for the rouser and entrenches on his -‘smoke-ho,’ as he must leave his ‘board’ clean. Shearers are seldom -or never fined now.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_CAPTAIN_OF_THE_PUSH" id="THE_CAPTAIN_OF_THE_PUSH"></a>THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">As</span> the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From a slum in Jones’ Alley sloped the Captain of the Push;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then his whistle, loud and shrill, woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There was nought to rouse their anger; yet the oath that each one swore<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seemed less fit for publication than the one that went before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only to the men whose childhood knew the brothels and the slums.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then they spat in turns, and halted; and the one that came behind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spitting fiercely on the pavement, called on Heaven to strike him blind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let us first describe the captain, bottle-shouldered, pale and thin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For he was the beau-ideal of a Sydney larrikin;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E’en his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a gallows-tilt that no one, save a larrikin, can give;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the coat, a little shorter than the writer would desire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That which tailors know as ‘trousers’—known by him as ‘bloomin’ bags’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hanging loosely from his person, swept, with tattered ends, the flags;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he had a pointed sternpost to the boots that peeped below<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he wore his shirt uncollar’d, and the tie correctly wrong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the kerb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he begged the Gory Bleeders that they wouldn’t interrupt<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till he gave an introduction—it was painfully abrupt—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Here’s the bleedin’ push, me covey—here’s a (something) from the bush!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strike me dead, he wants to join us!’ said the captain of the push.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Said the stranger: ‘I am nothing but a bushy and a dunce;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I read about the Bleeders in the <span class="smcap">Weekly Gasbag</span> once:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sitting lonely in the humpy when the wind began to “whoosh,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How I longed to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gosh! I hate the swells and good ’uns—I could burn ’em in their beds;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am with you, if you’ll have me, and I’ll break their blazing heads.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Now, look here—suppose a feller was to split upon the push,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would you lay for him and fetch him, even if the traps were round?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would you jump upon the nameless—kill, or cripple him, or both?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Speak? or else I’ll—<small>SPEAK</small>!’ The stranger answered, ‘My kerlonial oath!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Now, look here,’ exclamed the captain to the stranger from the bush,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Now, look here—suppose the Bleeders let you come and join the push,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would you smash a bleedin’ bobby if you got the blank alone?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would you break a swell or Chinkie—split his garret with a stone?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would you have a “moll” to keep yer—like to swear off work for good?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Yes, my oath!’ replied the stranger. ‘My kerlonial oath! I would!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Now, look here—before the Bleeders let yer come and join the push,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must prove that you’re a blazer—you must prove that you have grit<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Worthy of a Gory Bleeder—you must show your form a bit—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Take a rock and smash that winder?’ and the stranger, nothing loth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Took the rock and—smash! They only muttered ‘My kerlonial oath!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So they swore him in, and found him sure of aim and light of heel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his only fault, if any, lay in his excessive zeal;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was good at throwing metal, but we chronicle with pain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That he jumped upon a victim, damaging the watch and chain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere the Bleeders had secured them; yet the captain of the push<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Swore a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Late next morn the captain, rising, hoarse and thirsty from his lair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Called the newly-feather’d Bleeder, but the stranger wasn’t there!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quickly going through the pockets of his ‘bloomin’ bags,’ he learned<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the stranger had been through him for the stuff his ‘moll’ had earned;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Stars! and notes of exclamation!! blank and dash will do as well).<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the night the captain’s signal woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brought the Gory Bleeders sloping thro’ the shadows of the blocks;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they swore the stranger’s action was a blood-escaping shame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While they waited for the nameless, but the nameless never came.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the Bleeders soon forgot him; but the captain of the push<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still is ‘laying’ round, in ballast, for the nameless ‘from the bush.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="BILLYS_SQUARE_AFFAIR" id="BILLYS_SQUARE_AFFAIR"></a>BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Long Bill</span>, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His girl had earned a quid or two—he wouldn’t part with that;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper there<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She dressed in style that suited Bill—he could not wish for more.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take care<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they, of course, were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . .</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in the Sydney ‘Orspital lies Billy’s square affair.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_DERRY_ON_A_COVE" id="A_DERRY_ON_A_COVE"></a>A DERRY ON A COVE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘It’s orful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as any bloke can see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s just because the p’leece has got a derry, sir, on me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain’t no joke—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s cruel when the p’leece has got a derry on a bloke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Why don’t you go to work?’ he said (he muttered, ‘Why don’t you?’).<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Yer honer knows as well as me there ain’t no work to do.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when I try to find a job I’m shaddered by a trap—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s awful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I sigh’d and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months’ hard.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He only said, ‘Beyond the grave you’ll cop it hot, by Jove!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There ain’t no angel p’leece to get a derry on a cove.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="RISE_YE_RISE_YE" id="RISE_YE_RISE_YE"></a>RISE YE! RISE YE!</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Rise</span> ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than brutes!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed boots!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Erwake! er-rise!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye? <i>will</i> ye still be sl-a-a-ves?!!!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Erwake! er-rise!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Erwake! er-rise!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Erwake! er-r-rise!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BALLAD_OF_MABEL_CLARE" id="THE_BALLAD_OF_MABEL_CLARE"></a>THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> children of the Land of Gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I sing a song to you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And if the jokes are somewhat old,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The main idea’s new.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So be it sung, by hut and tent,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where tall the native grows;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And understand, the song is meant<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For singing through the nose.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There dwelt a hard old cockatoo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On western hills far out,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where everything is green and blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Except, of course, in drought;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A crimson Anarchist was he—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Held other men in scorn—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet preached that ev’ry man was free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And also ‘ekal born.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He lived in his ancestral hut—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His missus wasn’t there—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And there was no one with him but<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His daughter, Mabel Clare.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her eyes and hair were like the sun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her foot was like a mat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her cheeks a trifle overdone;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She was a democrat.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A manly independence, born<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Among the trees, she had,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She treated womankind with scorn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And often cursed her dad.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She hated swells and shining lights,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For she had seen a few,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And she believed in ‘women’s rights’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(She mostly got ’em, too).<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A stranger at the neighb’ring run<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sojourned, the squatter’s guest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was unknown to anyone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But like a swell was dress’d;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He had an eyeglass to his eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A collar to his ears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His feet were made to tread the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His mouth was formed for sneers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He wore the latest toggery,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The loudest thing in ties—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas generally reckoned he<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was something in disguise.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But who he was, or whence he came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was long unknown, except<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unto the squatter, who the name<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And noble secret kept.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And strolling in the noontide heat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath the blinding glare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This noble stranger chanced to meet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The radiant Mabel Clare.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She saw at once he was a swell—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">According to her lights—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She met him oft of nights.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She chatted all the while<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Ingersoll, and Henry George,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In short, he learned to love the girl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And things went on like this,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until he said he was an Earl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And asked her to be his.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, say no more!’ she said;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wish that I was dead;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My head is in a hawful whirl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The truth I dare not tell—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am a democratic girl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cannot wed a swell!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forget<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you are most unjust;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas not my fault that I was set<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within the upper crust.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heed not the yarns the poets tell—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, darling, do not doubt<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A simple lord can love as well<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As any rouseabout!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘For you I’ll give my fortune up—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d go to work for you!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll put the money in the cup<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And drop the title, too.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the mountains blue!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hoh, fly with me! <i>Hoh, fly with me!</i>——’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That very night she flew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They took the train and journeyed down—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the range they sped—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until they came to Sydney town,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where shortly they were wed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And still upon the western wild<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Admiring teamsters tell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How Mabel’s father cursed his child<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For clearing with a swell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘What ails my bird this bridal night,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘What ails my own this bridal night—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O love, confide in me!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Oh now,’ she said, ‘that I am yaws<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll let me weep—I must—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I did desert the people’s cause<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To join the upper crust.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O proudly smiled his lordship then—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His chimney-pot he floor’d—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Look up, my love, and smile again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I am not a lord!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His eye-glass from his eye he tore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dickey from his breast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And turned and stood his bride before<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A rouseabout—confess’d!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘And I have loved you true—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I learned to worship you.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I do not care for place or pelf,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For now, my love, I’m sure<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you will love me for myself<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And not because I’m poor.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘To prove your love I spent my cheque<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To buy this swell rig-out;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So fling your arms about my neck<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I’m a rouseabout!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At first she gave a startled cry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, safe from care’s alarms,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She sigh’d a soul-subduing sigh<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sank into his arms.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He pawned the togs, and home he took<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His bride in all her charms;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The proud old cockatoo received<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pair with open arms.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And long they lived, the faithful bride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The noble rouseabout—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And if she wasn’t satisfied<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She never let it out.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONSTABLE_MCARTYS_INVESTIGATIONS" id="CONSTABLE_MCARTYS_INVESTIGATIONS"></a>CONSTABLE M‘CARTY’S INVESTIGATIONS</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Most</span> unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower orders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood a ‘terrace’ in the city when the current year began,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a notice indicated there were vacancies for boarders<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the middle house, and lodgings for a single gentleman.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now, a singular observer could have seen but few attractions<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whether in the house, or ‘missus, or the notice, or the street,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actions<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Puzzled Constable M‘Carty, the policeman on the beat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He (the single gent) was wasted almost to emaciation,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And his features were the palest that M‘Carty ever saw,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And these indications, pointing to a past of dissipation,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He (the lodger—hang the pronoun!) seemed to like the stormy weather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the elements in battle kept it up a little late;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet he’d wander in the moonlight when the stars were close together,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He would walk the streets at midnight, when the storm-king raised his banner,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Walk without his old umbrella,—wave his arms above his head:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or he’d fold them tight, and mutter, in a wild, disjointed manner,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the town was wrapped in slumber and he should have been in bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Said the constable-on-duty: ‘Shure, Oi wonther phwat his trade is?’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he never picked a pocket, and he ne’er accosted ladies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the constable was puzzled what to make of him at all.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now, M‘Carty had arrested more than one notorious dodger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he couldn’t fix the station or the business of the lodger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who at times would chum with cadgers, and at other times with cads.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the constable would often stand and wonder how the gory<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sheol the stranger got his living, for he loafed the time away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he often sought a hillock when the sun went down in glory,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mac. had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And could ‘stow away a long ’un,’ never winking, so he could;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And M‘Carty once, at midnight, came upon the lodger poking<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Round about suspicious alleys where the common houses stood.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet the constable had seen him in a class above suspicion—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seen him welcomed with effusion by a dozen ‘toney gents’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politician<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thro’ the gateway of the member’s toney private residence.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the constable, off duty, had observed the lodger slipping<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where he’d stand for hours gazing at the distant anchor’d shipping,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he never took his coat off, so it wasn’t suicide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the constable had noticed that a man who’s filled with loathing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For his selfish fellow-creatures and the evil things that be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will, for some mysterious reason, shed a portion of his clothing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere he takes his first and final plunge into eternity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And M‘Carty, once at midnight—be it said to his abasement—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Left his beat and climbed a railing of considerable height,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just to watch the lodger’s shadow on the curtain of his casement<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now, at first the shadow hinted that the substance sat inditing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now it indicated toothache, or the headache; and again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twould exaggerate the gestures of a dipsomaniac fighting<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those original conceptions of a whisky-sodden brain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then the constable, retreating, scratched his head and muttered ‘Sorra<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wan of me can undershtand it. But Oi’ll keep me Oi on him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Divil take him and his tantrums; he’s a lunatic, begorra!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or, if he was up to mischief, he’d be sure to douse the glim.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But M‘Carty wasn’t easy, for he had a vague suspicion<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That a ‘skame’ was being plotted; and he thought the matter down<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the man, in league with others, sought to overthrow the Crown.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But, in spite of observation, Mac. received no information<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And was forced to stay inactive, being puzzled for a charge.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ the house would scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">His appearance failed to warrant apprehension as a vagrant,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ ’twas getting very shabby, as the constable could see;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But M‘Carty in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrant<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Breach of peace, or the intention to commit a felony.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">(For digression there is leisure, and it is the writer’s pleasure<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal fact,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Being forced to say in sorrow, and a line of doubtful measure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That there’s nothing so elastic as the cruel Vagrant Act)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now, M‘Carty knew his duty, and was brave as any lion,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he dreaded being ‘landed’ in an influential bog—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye on<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was a person of importance who was travelling <i>incog.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Want of sleep and over-worry seemed to tell upon M‘Carty:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was thirsty more than ever, but his appetite resigned;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was previously reckoned as a jolly chap and hearty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the mystery was lying like a mountain on his mind.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tho’ he tried his best, he couldn’t get a hold upon the lodger,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the latter’s antecedents weren’t known to the police—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They considered that the ‘devil’ was a dark and artful dodger<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who was scheming under cover for the downfall of the peace.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas a simple explanation, though M‘Carty didn’t know it,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which with half his penetration he might easily have seen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>For the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the constable grew thinner, till one morning, ‘little dhramin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Av the sword of revelation that was leapin’ from its sheath,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He alighted on some verses in the columns of the <span class="smcap">Frayman</span>,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘<i>Wid the christian name an’ surname av the lodger onderneath!</i>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now, M‘Carty and the poet are as brother is to brother,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or, at least, as brothers should be; and they very often meet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the lonely block at midnight, and they wink at one another—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Disappearing down the by-way of a shanty in the street.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the poet’s name you’re asking?—well, the ground is very tender,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must wait until the public put the gilt upon the name,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till a glorious, sorrow-drowning, and, perhaps, a final ‘bender,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder-halls of Fame.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="AT_THE_TUG-OF-WAR" id="AT_THE_TUG-OF-WAR"></a>AT THE TUG-OF-WAR</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Old dad was in his glory there—it gave the old man joy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A friend came up and said to me, ‘Put out your muscles, John,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pull them to eternity—your guvnor’s looking on.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I paused before I grasped the rope, and glanced around the place,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, foremost in the waiting crowd, I saw the old man’s face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My mates were strong and plucky chaps, but very soon I knew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The boys were losing surely and defeat was very near,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, high above the mighty roar, I heard the old man cheer!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheer’d for me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I felt as though I’d burst my heart, or gain the victory!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I shouted, ‘Now! Together!’ and a steady strain replied,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, with a mighty heave, I helped to beat the other side!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh! how the old man shouted in his wild, excited joy!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I thought he’d burst his boiler then, a-cheering for his boy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The chaps, oh! how they cheered me, while the girls all smiled so kind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They praised me, little dreaming, how the old man pulled behind.<br /></span> -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">. . . . . . . . . . -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span><br /></span> - -<span class="i0">He barracks for his boy no more—his grave is old and green,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sons have grown up round me since he vanished from the scene;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="HERES_LUCK" id="HERES_LUCK"></a>HERE’S LUCK!</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Old</span> Time is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle scared.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’m just a trifle scared—For why? The wimin mean to rule;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The days of men is nearly dead—of double moons and stars—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’ll laugh an’ joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-sense<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did we prohibit bustles—or the hoops when they was here?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wimin never think of this—they want to stop our beer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’—in years gone past ’n’ far—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant—’n’ buck,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ll find a private entrance still!<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Here’s Luck, old man—Here’s Luck!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MEN_WHO_COME_BEHIND" id="THE_MEN_WHO_COME_BEHIND"></a>THE MEN WHO COME BEHIND</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">There’s</span> a class of men (and women) who are always on their guard—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cunning, treacherous, suspicious—feeling softly—grasping hard—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brainy, yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit’s back.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If you save a bit of money, and you start a little store—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Say, an oyster-shop, for instance, where there wasn’t one before—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the shop begins to pay you, and the rent is off your mind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You will see another started by a chap that comes behind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So it is, and so it might have been, my friend, with me and you—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When a friend of both and neither interferes between the two;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They will fight like fiends, forgetting in their passion mad and blind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That the row is mostly started by the folk who come behind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They will stick to you like sin will, while your money comes and goes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they’ll leave you when you haven’t got a shilling in your clothes.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You may get some help above you, but you’ll nearly always find<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Always looking for another’s ‘footsteps on the sands of time.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They will rhyme and prose about it till your very own is stale,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As they raved about the region that the wattle-boughs perfume<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle-bloom.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They will follow in your footsteps while you’re groping for the light;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But they’ll run to get before you when they see you’re going right;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they’ll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like a stupid pup that hasn’t learned to trail behind your feet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Take your loads of sin and sorrow on more energetic backs!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And—we fancy that the subject could be further treated here,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we’ll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_DAYS_WHEN_WE_WENT_SWIMMING" id="THE_DAYS_WHEN_WE_WENT_SWIMMING"></a>THE DAYS WHEN WE WENT SWIMMING</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The</span> breezes waved the silver grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Waist-high along the siding,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to the creek we ne’er could pass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three boys on bare-back riding;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath the sheoaks in the bend<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waterhole was brimming—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Do you remember yet, old friend,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The times we ‘went in swimming?’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The days we ‘played the wag’ from school—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Joys shared—and paid for singly—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The air was hot, the water cool—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And naked boys are kingly!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With mud for soap the sun to dry—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A well planned lie to stay us,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And dust well rubbed on neck and face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lest cleanliness betray us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And you’ll remember farmer Kutz—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though scarcely for his bounty—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He leased a forty-acre block,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thought he owned the county;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A farmer of the old world school,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That men grew hard and grim in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He drew his water from the pool<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That we preferred to swim in.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And do you mind when down the creek<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His angry way he wended,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A green-hide cartwhip in his hand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For our young backs intended?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three naked boys upon the sand—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Half buried and half sunning—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three startled boys without their clothes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across the paddocks running.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We’ve had some scares, but we looked blank<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, resting there and chumming,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One glanced by chance along the bank<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And saw the farmer coming!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And home impressions linger yet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of cups of sorrow brimming;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hardly think that we’ll forget<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The last day we went swimming.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_OLD_BARK_SCHOOL" id="THE_OLD_BARK_SCHOOL"></a>THE OLD BARK SCHOOL</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">It</span> was built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where each leak in rainy weather made a pool;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was little need for windows in the school.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the old grey horse that carried three or four;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he looked so very wise that he lit the master’s eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Every time he put his head in at the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He had run with Cobb and Co.—‘that grey leader, let him go!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There were men ’as knowed the brand upon his hide,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ’as knowed it on the course’. Funeral service: ‘Good old horse!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When we burnt him in the gully where he died.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the master thought the same. ’Twas from Ireland that he came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the tanks are full all summer, and the feed is simply grand;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy maps<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long discarded by the public-schools in town;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as nearly every book dated back to Captain Cook<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our geography was somewhat upside-down.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It was ‘in the book’ and so—well, at that we’d let it go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For we never would believe that print could lie;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘The sun is in the south part of the sky.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And Ireland! <i>that</i> was known from the coast line to Athlone:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We got little information <i>re</i> the land that gave us birth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ‘the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded race<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood upon<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But the bark-school comes again with exchanges ’cross the plain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the <span class="smcap">Out-Back Advertiser</span>; and my fancy roams at large<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With ‘James Bullock,’ ‘Grey,’ or ‘Henry Dale’ in charge.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With his ’eddication’ finished, with his pack-horse after him;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For I wish my learning ended when the Master ‘finished’ Jim.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="TROUBLE_ON_THE_SELECTION" id="TROUBLE_ON_THE_SELECTION"></a>TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">You</span> lazy boy, you’re here at last,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must be wooden-legged<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now, are you sure the gate is fast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the sliprails pegged<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the milkers at the yard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The calves all in the pen?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We don’t want Poley’s calf to suck<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His mother dry again.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And did you mend the broken rail<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And make it firm and neat?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I s’pose you want that brindle steer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All night among the wheat.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And if he finds the lucerne patch,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll stuff his belly full;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on that<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And busts like Ryan’s bull.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You will, upon my soul!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She might be in the boggy swamps<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or down a digger’s hole.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You needn’t talk, you never looked<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’d find her if you’d choose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Instead of poking ’possum logs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hunting kangaroos.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How came your boots as wet as muck?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You tried to drown the ants!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why don’t you take your bluchers off,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Good Lord, he’s tore his pants!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your father’s coming home to-night;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll catch it hot, you’ll see.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now go and wash your filthy face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And come and get your tea.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_PROFESSIONAL_WANDERER" id="THE_PROFESSIONAL_WANDERER"></a>THE PROFESSIONAL WANDERER</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">When</span> you’ve knocked about the country—been away from home for years;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the past, by distance softened, nearly fills your eyes with tears—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You are haunted oft, wherever or however you may roam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By a fancy that you ought to go and see the folks at home.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You forget the family quarrels—little things that used to jar—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you think of how they’ll worry—how they wonder where you are;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You will think you served them badly, and your own part you’ll condemn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it strikes you that you’ll surely be a novelty to them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For your voice has somewhat altered, and your face has somewhat changed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And your views of men and matters over wider fields have ranged.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then it’s time to save your money, or to watch it (how it goes!);<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then it’s time to get a ‘Gladstone’ and a decent suit of clothes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then it’s time to practise daily with a hair-brush and a comb,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till you drop in unexpected on the folks and friends at home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When you’ve been at home for some time, and the novelty’s worn off,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And old chums no longer court you, and your friends begin to scoff;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When ‘the girls’ no longer kiss you, crying ‘Jack! how you have changed!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you’re stale to your relations, and their manner seems estranged;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the old domestic quarrels, round the table thrice a day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make it too much like the old times—make you wish you’d stayed away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">When, in short, you’ve spent your money in the fulness of your heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And your clothes are getting shabby.... Then it’s high time to depart.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_LITTLE_MISTAKE" id="A_LITTLE_MISTAKE"></a>A LITTLE MISTAKE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the edge of the Never-Never,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the dead men lie and the black men lie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the bushman lies for ever.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas the custom still with the local blacks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To cadge in the ‘altogether’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They had less respect for our feelings then,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And more respect for the weather.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The trooper said to the sergeant’s wife:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Sure, I wouldn’t seem unpleasant;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But there’s women and childer about the place,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And—barrin’ a lady’s present—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘There’s ould King Billy wid niver a stitch<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a month—may the drought cremate him!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bar the wan we put in his dhirty head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where his old Queen Mary bate him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘God give her strength!—and a peaceful reign—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though she flies in a bit av a passion<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If ony wan hints that her shtoyle an’ luks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are a trifle behind the fashion.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘There’s two of the boys by the stable now—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be the powers! I’ll teach the varmints<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To come wid nought but a shirt apiece,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wid dirt for their nayther garmints.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Howld on, ye blaggards! How dare ye dare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To come widin sight av the houses?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll give ye a warnin’ all for wance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ a couple of ould pair of trousers.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They took the pants as a child a toy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The constable’s words beguiling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A smile of something beside their joy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they took their departure smiling.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And that very day, when the sun was low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Two blackfellows came to the station;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They were filled with the courage of Queensland rum<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bursting with indignation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The constable noticed, with growing ire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’d apparently dressed in a hurry;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And their language that day, I am sorry to say,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mostly consisted of ‘plurry.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The constable heard, and he wished himself back<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the land of the bogs and the ditches—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘You plurry big tight-britches p’liceman, what for<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You gibbit our missuses britches?’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And this was a case, I am bound to confess,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where civilisation went under;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had one of the gins been <i>less</i> modest in dress<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’d never have made such a blunder.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And here let the moral be duly made known,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hereafter signed and attested:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We should place more reliance on that which is shown<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And less upon what is suggested.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_STUDY_IN_THE_NOOD" id="A_STUDY_IN_THE_NOOD"></a>A STUDY IN THE “NOOD”</h2> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘A <small>SAILOR</small> named Grice was seen by the guard of a goods train lying -close to the railway-line near Warner Town (S.A.) in a nude -condition. He was unconscious, and had lain there three days, -during one of which the glass registed 110 in the shade. <i>Grice -expressed surprise that the train did not pick him up.</i>’—Daily -paper. In consequence, the muse:—</p></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">He</span> was bare—we don’t want to be rude—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(His condition was owing to drink)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They say his condition was nood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which amounts to the same thing, we think<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(We mean his <i>condition</i>, we think,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas a naked condition, or <i>nood</i>,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which amounts to the same thing, we think)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Uncovered he lay on the grass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That shrivelled and shrunk; and he stayed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Three hot summer days, while the glass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was one hundred and ten in the shade.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">(We nearly remarked that he <i>laid</i>,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But that was bad grammar we thought—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It <i>does</i> sound bucolic, we think<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It smacks of the barnyard—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of farming—of <i>pullets</i> in short.)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Unheeded he lay on the dirt;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside him a part of his dress,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A tattered and threadbare old shirt<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was raised as a flag of distress.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(On a stick, like a flag of distress—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reversed—we mean that the tail-end was up<br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>Half-mast</i>—on a stick—an evident flag of distress.)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Perhaps in his dreams he persood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright visions of heav’nly bliss;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And artists who study the nood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never saw such a study as this.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ‘luggage’ went by and the guard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Looked out and his eyes fell on Grice—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We fancy he looked at him hard,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We think that he looked at him twice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They say (if the telegram’s true)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When he woke up he wondered (good Lord!)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Why the engine-man didn’t heave to—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why the train didn’t take him aboard.’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And now, by the case of poor Grice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We think that a daily express<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Should travel with sunshades and ice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a lookout for flags of distress.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_WORD_TO_TEXAS_JACK" id="A_WORD_TO_TEXAS_JACK"></a>A WORD TO TEXAS JACK</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Texas Jack</span>, you are amusin’. By Lord Harry, how I laughed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When I seen yer rig and saddle with its bulwarks fore-and-aft;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Holy smoke! In such a saddle how the dickens can yer fall?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why, I seen a gal ride bareback with no bridle on at all!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gosh! so-help-me! strike-me-balmy! if a bit o’ scenery<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like ter you in all yer rig-out on the earth I ever see!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How I’d like ter see a bushman use yer fixins, Texas Jack;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the remnant of a saddle he can ride to hell and back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why, I heerd a mother screamin’ when her kid went tossin’ by<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ridin’ bareback on a bucker that had murder in his eye.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What? yer come to learn the natives how to squat on horse’s back!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Learn the cornstalk ridin’! Blazes!—w’at yer giv’n’ us, Texas Jack?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Learn the cornstalk—what the flamin’, jumptup! where’s my country gone?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why, the cornstalk’s mother often rides the day afore he’s born!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You may talk about your ridin’ in the city, bold an’ free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Talk o’ ridin’ in the city, Texas Jack, but where’d yer be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the stock horse snorts an’ bunches all ’is quarters in a hump,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the saddle climbs a sapling, an’ the horse-shoes split a stump?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No, before yer teach the native you must ride without a fall<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up a gum or down a gully nigh as steep as any wall—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">You must swim the roarin’ Darlin’ when the flood is at its height<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bearin’ down the stock an’ stations to the great Australian Bight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You can’t count the bulls an’ bisons that yer copped with your lassoo—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But a stout old myall bullock p’raps ’ud learn yer somethin’ new;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yer’d better make yer will an’ leave yer papers neat an’ trim<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before yer make arrangements for the lassooin’ of <i>him</i>;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere you’n’ yer horse is catsmeat, fittin’ fate for sich galoots,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yer saddle’s turned to laces like we put in blucher boots.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And yer say yer death on Injins! We’ve got somethin’ in yer line—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If yer think your fitin’s ekal to the likes of Tommy Ryan.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Take yer karkass up to Queensland where the allygators chew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the carpet-snake is handy with his tail for a lassoo;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ride across the hazy regins where the lonely emus wail<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ ye’ll find the black’ll track yer while yer lookin’ for his trail;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He can track yer without stoppin’ for a thousand miles or more—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come again, and he will show yer where yer spit the year before.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But yer’d best be mighty careful, you’ll be sorry you kem here<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When yer skewered to the fakements of yer saddle with a spear—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the boomerang is sailin’ in the air, may heaven help yer!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It will cut yer head off goin’, an’ come back again and skelp yer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">P.S.—As poet and as Yankee I will greet you, Texas Jack,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For it isn’t no ill-feelin’ that is gettin’ up my back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I won’t see this land crowded by each Yank and British cuss<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who takes it in his head to come a-civilisin’ us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So if you feel like shootin’ now, don’t let yer pistol cough—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Our Government is very free at chokin’ fellers off);<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though on your great continent there’s misery in the towns<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ not a few untitled lords and kings without their crowns,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will admit your countrymen is busted big, an’ free,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ great on ekal rites of men and great on liberty;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will admit yer fathers punched the gory tyrant’s head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But then we’ve got our heroes, too, the diggers that is dead—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The plucky men of Ballarat who toed the scratch right well<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And broke the nose of Tyranny and made his peepers swell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For yankin’ Lib.’s gold tresses in the roarin’ days gone by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ doublin’ up his dirty fist to black her bonny eye;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So when it comes to ridin’ mokes, or hoistin’ out the Chow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or stickin’ up for labour’s rights, we don’t want showin’ how.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They come to learn us cricket in the days of long ago,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ Hanlan come from Canada to learn us how to row,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ ‘doctors’ come from ’Frisco just to learn us how to skite,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ ‘pugs’ from all the lands on earth to learn us how to fight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ when they go, as like or not, we find we’re taken in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ve left behind no larnin’—but they’ve carried off our tin.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_GROG-AN-GRUMBLE_STEEPLECHASE" id="THE_GROG-AN-GRUMBLE_STEEPLECHASE"></a>THE GROG-AN’-GRUMBLE STEEPLECHASE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an’-Grumble<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the days before the bushman was a dull ’n’ heartless drudge,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which was ended pretty often by an inquest on the judge.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ ’tis said the city talent very often caught a tartar<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the Grog-an’-Grumble sportsman, ’n’ retired with broken heads,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For the fortune, life, and safety of the Grog-an’-Grumble starter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mostly hung upon the finish of the local thoroughbreds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pat M‘Durmer was the owner of a horse they called the Screamer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which he called the ‘quickest shtepper ’twixt the Darling and the sea;’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I think it’s very doubtful if the stomach-troubled dreamer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ever saw a more outrageous piece of equine scenery;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For his points were most decided, from his end to his beginning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He had eyes of different colour, and his legs they wasn’t mates.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pat M‘Durmer said he always came ‘widin a flip av winnin’,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ his sire had come from England, ’n’ his dam was from the States.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Friends would argue with M‘Durmer, and they said he was in error<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To put up his horse the Screamer, for he’d lose in any case,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they said a city racer by the name of Holy Terror<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was regarded as the winner of the coming steeplechase;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he said he had the knowledge to come in when it was raining,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And irrelevantly mentioned that he knew the time of day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So he rose in their opinion. It was noticed that the training<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of the Screamer was conducted in a dark, mysterious way.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Well, the day arrived in glory; ’twas a day of jubilation<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With careless-hearted bushmen for a hundred miles around,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ the rum ’n’ beer ’n’ whisky came in waggons from the station,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ the Holy Terror talent were the first upon the ground.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Judge M‘Ard—with whose opinion it was scarcely safe to wrestle—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Took his dangerous position on the bark-and-sapling stand:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He was what the local Stiggins used to speak of as a ‘wessel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Of wrath,’ and he’d a bludgeon that he carried in his hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Off ye go!’ the starter shouted, as down fell a stupid jockey—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Off they started in disorder—left the jockey where he lay—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they fell and rolled and galloped down the crooked course and rocky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till the pumping of the Screamer could be heard a mile away.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he kept his legs and galloped; he was used to rugged courses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he lumbered down the gully till the ridge began to quake:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he ploughed along the siding, raising earth till other horses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ their riders, too, were blinded by the dust-cloud in his wake.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From the ruck he’d struggled slowly—they were much surprised to find him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Close abeam of Holy Terror as along the flat they tore—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Even higher still and denser rose the cloud of dust behind him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While in more divided splinters flew the shattered rails before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘Terror!’ ‘Dead heat!’ they were shouting—‘Terror!’ but the Screamer hung out<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nose to nose with Holy Terror as across the creek they swung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ M‘Durmer shouted loudly, ‘Put yer tongue out! put yer tongue out!’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ the Screamer put his tongue out, and he won by half-a-tongue.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="BUT_WHATS_THE_USE" id="BUT_WHATS_THE_USE"></a>BUT WHAT’S THE USE</h2> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">But</span> what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though editors demand it—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For city folk, and farming folk,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Can never understand it.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’re blind to what the bushman sees<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The best with eyes shut tightest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out where the sun is hottest and<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stars are most and brightest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The crows at sunrise flopping round<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where some poor life has run down;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pair of emus trotting from<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lonely tank at sundown,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their snaky heads well up, and eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well out for man’s manœuvres,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And feathers bobbing round behind<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like fringes round improvers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The swagman tramping ’cross the plain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Good Lord, there’s nothing sadder,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Except the dog that slopes behind<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His master like a shadder;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The turkey-tail to scare the flies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The water-bag and billy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The nose-bag getting cruel light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The traveller getting silly.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The plain that seems to Jackaroos<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like gently sloping rises,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The shrubs and tufts that’s miles away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But magnified in sizes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The track that seems arisen up<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or else seems gently slopin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And just a hint of kangaroos<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Way out across the open.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The joy and hope the swagman feels<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Returning, after shearing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or after six months’ tramp Out Back,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He strikes the final clearing.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His weary spirit breathes again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His aching legs seem limber<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When to the East across the plain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He spots the Darling Timber!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though editors demand it—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For city folk and cockatoos,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They do not understand it.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’re blind to what the whaler sees<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The best with eyes shut tightest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out where Australia’s widest, and<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stars are most and brightest.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="r"> -MAY, 1902.</p> - -<p class="cb"> -LIST OF BOOKS<br /> -<br /> -PUBLISHED BY<br /> -<br /> -ANGUS & ROBERTSON<br /> -<br /> -89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY<br /> -205 SWANSTON STREET, MELBOURNE<br /> -<br /><br /> -SOLD IN ENGLAND BY<br /> - -THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK COMPANY<br /> - -38 WEST SMITHFIELD, LONDON, E.C.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE COMMONWEALTH SERIES</p> - -<p class="c">Crown 8vo., 1s. each (<i>post free 1s. 3d. each</i>).</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>ON THE TRACK: New Stories.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By HENRY LAWSON</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>OVER THE SLIPRAILS: New Stories.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By H. LAWSON</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>POPULAR VERSES.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By HENRY LAWSON</i></td></tr> -<tr><td colspan="2" class="c"><i>Now first published in book form.</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>HUMOROUS VERSES.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By HENRY LAWSON</i></td></tr> -<tr><td colspan="2" class="c"><i>Now first published in book form.</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: Australian Stories.</b></td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt"><b>First Series.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By HENRY LAWSON</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: Australian Stories.</b></td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt"><b>Second Series.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By HENRY LAWSON</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>HISTORY OF AUSTRALASIA: From the Earliest Times to the Inauguration of the Commonwealth.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By A. W. JOSE</i></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><b>HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING.</b></td><td class="rt"><i>By CHARLES WHITE</i></td></tr> -</table> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Part</span></td><td class="rt">I.—The Early Days.</td><td class="rt">[<i>Now ready</i></td></tr> -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Part</span></td><td class="rt">II.—1850 to 1862.</td><td class="rt">[<i>Now ready</i></td></tr> -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Part</span></td><td class="rt"> III.—1863 to 1869.</td><td class="rt">[<i>Now ready</i></td></tr> -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Part</span></td><td class="rt">IV.—1869 to 1878.</td><td class="rt">[<i>In preparation</i></td></tr> -</table> - -<p>*** For press notices of these books see the cloth-bound editions on -pages 4, 5, 6, 13 and 15 of this catalogue.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>BY HENRY LAWSON, Author of “While the Billy Boils;” “When the World -was Wide and Other Verses;” “Verses, Popular and Humorous;” “On the -Track and Over the Sliprails.”</p> - -<p class="c">Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 4s.</i>), in paper covers, -2s. 6d. (<i>post free 3s.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>The Athenæum</b> (London): “This is a long way the best work Mr. Lawson has -yet given us. These stories are so good that (from the literary point of -view, of course) one hopes they are not autobiographical. As -autobiography they would be good; as pure fiction they are more of an -attainment.”</p> - -<p><b>Pall Mall Gazette:</b> “We can see in these rough diamonds the men who have -of late so distinguished themselves at Eland’s River and elsewhere.”</p> - -<p><b>The Argus:</b> “More tales of the Joe Wilson series are promised, and this -will be gratifying to Mr. Lawson’s admirers, for on the whole the -sketches are the best work the writer has so far accomplished.”</p> - -<p><b>The Academy:</b>—“I have never read anything in modern English literature -that is so absolutely democratic in tone, so much the real thing, as -<i>Joe Wilson’s Courtship</i>. And so with all Lawson’s tales and sketches. -Tolstoy and Howells, and Whitman and Kipling, and Zola and Hauptmann and -Gorky have all written descriptions of ‘democratic’ life; but none of -these celebrated authors, not even Maupassant himself, has so absolutely -taken us inside the life as do the tales <i>Joe Wilson’s Courtship</i> and <i>A -Double Buggy at Lahey’s Creek</i>, and it is this rare convincing tone of -this Australian writer that gives him a great value. The most casual -‘newspapery’ and apparently artless art of this Australian writer -carries with it a truer, finer, more delicate commentary on life than -all the idealistic works of any of our genteel school of writers.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">VERSES: POPULAR AND HUMOROUS.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>By HENRY LAWSON, Author of “When the World was Wide, and Other -Verses,” “Joe Wilson and His Mates,” “On the Track and Over the -Sliprails,” and “While the Billy Boils.”</p></div> - -<p class="c">Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 4s.</i>).</p> - -<p class="c"><i>For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Francis Thompson</span>, in <b>The Daily Chronicle</b>: “He is a writer of strong and -ringing ballad verse, who gets his blows straight in, and at his best -makes them all tell. He can vignette the life he knows in a few touches, -and in this book shows an increased power of selection.”</p> - -<p><b>Academy</b>: “Mr. Lawson’s work should be well known to our readers; for we -have urged them often enough to make acquaintance with it. He has the -gift of movement, and he rarely offers a loose rhyme. Technically, short -of anxious lapidary work, these verses are excellent. He varies -sentiment and humour very agreeably.”</p> - -<p><b>New York Evening Journal</b>: “Such pride as a man feels when he has true -greatness as his guest, this newspaper feels in introducing to a million -readers a man of ability hitherto unknown to them. Henry Lawson is his -name.”</p> - -<p><b>The Book Lover</b>: “Any book of Lawson’s should be bought and treasured by -all who care for the real beginnings of Australian literature. As a -matter of fact, he is the one Australian literary product, in any -distinctive sense.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">ON THE TRACK AND OVER THE SLIPRAILS.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">Stories by</span> HENRY LAWSON, Author of “While the Billy Boils,” “Joe -Wilson and his Mates,” “When the World Was Wide and Other Verses,” -and “Verses, Popular and Humorous.”</p></div> - -<p class="c">Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 4s.</i>).</p> - -<p class="c"><i>For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2.</i></p> - -<p><b>Daily Chronicle</b>: “Will well sustain the reputation its author has -already won as the best writer of Australian short stories and sketches -the literary world knows. Henry Lawson has the art, possessed in such -eminent degree by Mr. J. M. Barrie, of sketching in a character and -suggesting a whole life-story in a single sentence.”</p> - -<p><b>Pall Mall Gazette</b>: “The volume now received will do much to enhance the -author’s reputation. There is all the quiet irresistible humour of -Dickens in the description of ‘The Darling River,’ and the creator of -‘Truthful James’ never did anything better in the way of character -sketches than Steelman and Mitchell. Mr. Lawson has a master’s sense of -what is dramatic, and he can bring out strong effects in a few touches. -Humour and pathos, comedy and tragedy, are equally at his command.”</p> - -<p><b>Glasgow Herald</b>: “Mr. Lawson must now be regarded as <i>facile princeps</i> in -the production of the short tale. Some of these brief and even slight -sketches are veritable gems that would be spoiled by an added word, and -without a word that can be looked upon as superfluous.”</p> - -<p><b>Melbourne Punch</b>: “Often the little stories are wedges cut clean out of -life, and presented with artistic truth and vivid colour.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">WHILE THE BILLY BOILS.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">Stories by</span> HENRY LAWSON, Author of “When the World Was Wide and -Other Verses,” “Joe Wilson and his Mates,” “On the Track and Over -the Sliprails,” and “Verses, Popular and Humorous.”</p> - -<p>Twenty-third Thousand. With eight plates and vignette title by F. -P. Mahony. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 4s.</i>).</p></div> - -<p class="c"><i>For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2.</i></p> - -<p><b>The Academy</b>: “A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing -about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers’ tales.... -The result is a real book—a book in a hundred. His language is terse, -supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best.”</p> - -<p><b>Literature</b>: “A book which Mrs. Campbell Praed assured me made her feel -that all she had written of bush life was pale and ineffective.”</p> - -<p><b>The Spectator</b>: “It is strange that one we would venture to call the -greatest Australian writer should be practically unknown in England. Mr. -Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, and more unequal, -but there are two or three sketches in this volume which for vigour and -truth can hold their own with even so great a rival.”</p> - -<p><b>The Times</b>: “A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories of -Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte’s manner, crossed, -perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant.”</p> - -<p><b>The Scotsman</b>: “There is no lack of dramatic imagination in the -construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive to construct a -strong sensational situation in a couple of pages.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> HENRY LAWSON, Author of “While the Billy Boils,” “Joe Wilson and -his Mates,” “On the Track and Over the Sliprails,” and “Verses, -Popular and Humorous.”</p> - -<p>Tenth Thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette title. -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (<i>post free 5s. 5d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p class="c"><i>Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.</i></p> - -<p><b>The Academy</b>: “These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in spirit -and manhood, in the colour and smell of Australian soil. They deserve -the popularity which they have won in Australia, and which, we trust, -this edition will now give them in England.”</p> - -<p><b><span class="smcap">Mr. R. Le Gallienne</span>, in The Idler</b>: “A striking volume of ballad poetry. -A volume to console one for the tantalising postponement of Mr. -Kipling’s promised volume of sea ballads.”</p> - -<p><b>Newcastle Weekly Chronicle</b>: “Swinging, rhythmic verse.”</p> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald</b>: “The verses have natural vigour, the writer has a -rough, true faculty of characterisation, and the book is racy of the -soil from cover to cover.”</p> - -<p><b>Bulletin</b>: “How graphic he is, how natural, how true, how strong.”</p> - -<p><b>Otago Witness</b>: “It were well to have such books upon our shelves.... -They are true history.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER AND OTHER VERSES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> A. B. PATERSON.</p> - -<p>Twenty-Fourth Thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette -title. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (<i>post free 5s. 5d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p class="c"><i>Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.</i></p> - -<p><b>The Literary Year Book</b>: “The immediate success of this book of bush -ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any -living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting -Mr. Rudyard Kipling.”</p> - -<p><b>The Times</b>: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of -‘Barrack Room Ballads.’ ”</p> - -<p><b>Spectator</b>: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and -ardent verses.”</p> - -<p><b>Athenæum</b>: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and -crowding adventure.... Stirring and entertaining ballads about great -rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses.”</p> - -<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">A. Patchett Martin</span>, in <b>Literature</b> (London): “In my opinion it is the -absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of -these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, -such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.”</p> - -<p> -<i>London: Macmillan & Co., Limited.</i><br /> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE POETICAL WORKS OF BRUNTON STEPHENS.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>New edition, with photogravure portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, -gilt top, 5s.</p></div> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald (N.S.W.)</b>: “ ‘The Poetical Works of Brunton -Stephens,’ as now published by Messrs. Angus and Robertson, is a book -which every Australian should have on his bookshelves, whether these -bookshelves cover walls or are merely the small collection which the man -of taste, however shrunken his purse, is bound to make. Brunton Stephens -deserves his place in even the smallest of collections. The chief of -Australian poets he has contributed to English literature work of -distinguished merit. He is many-sided, embracing all sorts and -conditions of men and things.”</p> - -<p><b>The Melbourne Argus</b>: “Mr. Brunton Stephens has for some years enjoyed an -established reputation as one of the best among the small and select -cluster of Australian poets.... Mr. Stephens is specially favoured, in -that he not only has at command a vein of true pathos, but he has -moments of real humour. In more than one poem, too, he has made good his -right to be regarded as the poet of brotherhood and the prophet of -federation.”</p> - -<p><b>The Melbourne Age</b>: “It is certainly one of the happiest of his efforts, -and exhibits alike his copious vocabulary and his mastery of a most -attractive form of metre.... A poet both in thought and feeling.”</p> - -<p><b>Newcastle (N.S.W.) Morning Herald</b>: “Of the rapidly lengthening roll of -Australian writers, none deserves a higher place than Brunton Stephens. -For more than a generation he has charmed his countrymen with his -exquisite verse.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">RHYMES FROM THE MINES AND OTHER LINES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> EDWARD DYSON, Author of “A Golden Shanty.”</p> - -<p>Second Thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette title. -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (<i>post free, 5s. 5d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p class="c"><i>Presentation edition, French Morocco, gilt edges, 9s.</i></p> - -<p><b>The Academy</b>: “Here from within we have the Australian miner complete: -the young miner, the old miner, the miner in luck, and the miner out of -it, the miner in love, and the miner in peril. Mr. Dyson knows it all.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE MUTINEER. A Romance of Pitcairn Island. By LOUIS BECKE <small>AND</small> WALTER -JEFFERY.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="c">Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 4s.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">FOR THE TERM OF HIS NATURAL LIFE.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>By MARCUS CLARKE.</p> - -<p>With a Memoir of the Author, by <span class="smcap">A. B. Paterson</span>, Portrait of the -Author, Map of Eagle Hawk Neck and the vicinity, and 14 full-page -views of places mentioned in the book. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt -top, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 4s.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">LOVE AND LONGITUDE.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>A Story of the Pacific in the Year 1900.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">By</span> R. SCOT SKIRVING.</p> - -<p>With 8 plates, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (<i>post free 5s. -6d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>Daily Telegraph</b>: “A capital story of love and adventure in the -Pacific.... Seafaring folk will find much to interest them particularly -in ‘Love and Longitude,’ and general readers will admire it for its -bright narrative.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">OUR ARMY IN SOUTH AFRICA.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>By R. SCOT SKIRVING, late Consulting Surgeon to the Australian -Contingents.</p> - -<p class="c">Crown 8vo, boards, 2s. (<i>post free 2s. 2d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE SPIRIT OF THE BUSH FIRE AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN FAIRY TALES. <span class="smcap">By</span> J. M. -WHITFELD.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Second Thousand. With 32 illustrations by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo, -cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. (<i>post free 3s.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald</b>: “It is frankly written for the young folks. The -youngster will find a delight in Miss Whitfeld’s marvellous company.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">TEENS. A Story of Australian Schoolgirls.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> LOUISE MACK.</p> - -<p>Fourth Thousand. With 14 full-page illustrations by F. P. Mahony. -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.</p></div> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald</b>: “Ought to be welcome to all who feel the -responsibility of choosing the reading books of the young ... its -gaiety, impulsiveness, and youthfulness will charm them.”</p> - -<p><b>Sydney Daily Telegraph</b>: “Nothing could be more natural, more -sympathetic.”</p> - -<p><b>The Australasian</b>: “ ‘Teens’ is a pleasantly-written story, very suitable -for a present or a school prize.”</p> - -<p><b>Bulletin</b>: “It is written so well that it could not be written better.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GIRLS TOGETHER.</p> - -<p>A Sequel to “Teens.” <span class="smcap">By</span> LOUISE MACK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Third Thousand. Illustrated by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo, cloth -gilt, 2s. 6d.</p></div> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald</b>: “ ‘Girls Together’ should be in the library of -every girl who likes a pleasant story of real life.... Older people will -read it for its bright touches of human nature.”</p> - -<p><b>Queenslander</b>: “A story told in a dainty style that makes it attractive -to all. It is fresh, bright, and cheery, and well worth a place on any -Australian bookshelf.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE ANNOTATED CONSTITUTION OF THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>By Sir JOHN QUICK <span class="smcap">AND</span> R. R. GARRAN, C.M.G.</p> - -<p>Royal 8vo, cloth gilt, 21s.</p></div> - -<p><b>The Times</b>: “The Annotated Constitution of the Australian Commonwealth is -a monument of industry.... Dr. Quick and Mr. Garran have collected, -with patience and enthusiasm, every sort of information, legal and -historical, which can throw light on the new measure. The book has -evidently been a labour of love.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING. <span class="smcap">By</span> CHARLES WHITE.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>To be completed in two vols. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each. -[<i>Vol. I. now ready.</i></p></div> - -<p class="c"><i>For Cheaper Edition see Commonwealth Series, page 2.</i></p> - -<p>Press Notices of Volume I.</p> - -<p><b>Year Book of Australia</b>: “There is ‘romance’ enough about it to make it -of permanent interest as a peculiar and most remarkable stage in our -social history.”</p> - -<p><b>Queenslander</b>: “Mr. White has supplied material enough for twenty such -novels as ‘Robbery Under Arms.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE GROWTH OF THE EMPIRE.</p> - -<p>A Handbook to the History of Greater Britain.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By Arthur W. JOSE</span>, Author of “A Short History of Australasia.”</p> - -<p>Second Edition. With 14 Maps. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. (<i>post -free 5s. 6d.</i>)</p></div> - -<p><b>Morning Post</b>: “This book is published in Sydney, but it deserves to be -circulated throughout the United Kingdom. The picture of the fashion in -which British enterprise made its way from settlement to settlement has -never been drawn more vividly than in these pages. Mr. Jose’s style is -crisp and pleasant, now and then even rising to eloquence on his grand -theme. His book deserves wide popularity, and it has the rare merit of -being so written as to be attractive alike to the young student and to -the mature man of letters.”</p> - -<p><b>Literature</b>: “He has studied thoroughly, and writes vigorously.... -Admirably done.... We commend it to Britons the world over.”</p> - -<p><b>Saturday Review</b>: “He writes Imperially; he also often writes -sympathetically.... We cannot close Mr. Jose’s creditable account of our -misdoings without a glow of national pride.”</p> - -<p><b>Yorkshire Post</b>: “A brighter short history we do not know, and this book -deserves for the matter and the manner of it to be as well known as Mr. -McCarthy’s ‘History of Our Own Times.’ ”</p> - -<p><b>The Scotsman</b>: “This admirable work is a solid octavo of more than 400 -pages. It is a thoughtful, well-written, and well-arranged history. -There are fourteen excellent maps to illustrate the text.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">HISTORY OF AUSTRALASIA.</p> - -<p>From the Earliest Times to the Inauguration of the Commonwealth.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> ARTHUR W. JOSE, Author of “The Growth of the Empire.” The -chapter on Federation revised by R. R. Garran, C.M.G.</p> - -<p>With 6 maps and 64 portraits and illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth, -1s. 6d. (<i>post free 1s. 10d.</i>). <i>For Cheaper Edition see -Commonwealth Series, page 2.</i></p></div> - -<p><b>The Book Lover</b>: “The ignorance of the average Australian youth about the -brief history of his native land is often deplorable.... ‘A Short -History of Australasia,’ by Arthur W. Jose, just provides the thing -wanted. Mr. Jose’s previous historical work was most favourably received -in England, and this story of our land is capitally done. It is not too -long, and it is brightly written. Its value is considerably enhanced by -the useful maps and interesting illustrations. A very good book to give -to a boy.”</p> - -<p><b>Victorian Education Gazette</b>: “The language is graphic and simple, and -there is much evidence of careful work and acquaintance with original -documents, which give the reader confidence in the accuracy of the -details. The low price of the book leaves young Australians no excuse -for remaining in ignorance of the history of their native land.”</p> - -<p><b>Town and Country Journal</b>: “His language is graphic and simple, and he -has maintained the unity and continuity of the story of events despite -the necessity of following the subject along the seven branches -corresponding with the seven separate colonies.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE GEOLOGY OF SYDNEY AND THE BLUE MOUNTAINS.</p> - -<p>A Popular Introduction to the Study of Australian Geology.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By Rev. J. MILNE CURRAN</span>, Lecturer in Chemistry and Geology, -Technical College, Sydney.</p> - -<p>Second Edition. With a Glossary of Scientific terms, a Reference -List of commonly-occurring Fossils, 2 coloured maps, and 83 -illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. (<i>post free 6s. 6d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>Nature</b>: “This is, strictly speaking, an elementary manual of geology. -The general plan of the work is good; the book is well printed and -illustrated with maps, photographic pictures of rock structure and -scenery, and figures of fossils and rock sections.”</p> - -<p><b>Saturday Review</b>: “His style is animated and inspiring, or clear and -precise, as occasion demands. The people of Sydney are to be -congratulated on the existence of such a guide to their beautiful -country.”</p> - -<p><b>Literary World</b>: “We can heartily recommend the book as a very -interesting one, written in a much more readable style than is usual in -works of this kind.”</p> - -<p><b>South Australian Register</b>: “Mr. Curran has extracted a charming -narrative of the earth’s history out of the prosaic stone. Though he has -selected Sydney rocks for his text, his discourse is interestingly -Australian.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">AUSTRALIAN CAVALRY.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>The N.S.W. Lancer Regiment and the First Australian Horse.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">By</span> FRANK WILKINSON, War Correspondent, Sydney <i>Daily Telegraph</i>. -With one coloured and eight other full-page plates.</p> - -<p>Crown 4to, boards, 2s. (<i>post free 2s. 4d.</i>)</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">SIMPLE TESTS FOR MINERALS;</p> - -<p class="c">Or, Every Man his Own Analyst.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> JOSEPH CAMPBELL, M.A., F.G.S., M.I.M.E.</p> - -<p>Fourth Edition, revised and enlarged (completing the ninth -thousand). With illustrations. Cloth, round corners, 3s. 6d. (<i>post -free 38. 9d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE KINGSWOOD COOKERY BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. WICKEN</span>, M.C.A., Late Teacher of Cookery, Technical College, -Sydney.</p> - -<p>Fifth edition, revised, completing the Nineteenth Thousand. 382 -pages, crown 8vo, paper cover, 1s; cloth, 1s. 6d. (<i>postage 4d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">PRESBYTERIAN WOMEN’S MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION COOKERY BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Seventh Edition, enlarged, completing the 45th Thousand. Crown -8vo., cloth, 1s. (<i>post free 1s. 2d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE METRIC SYSTEM OF WEIGHTS AND MEASURES, AND DECIMAL COINAGE.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> J. M. TAYLOR, M.A., LL.B.</p> - -<p>With Introductory Notes on the nature of Decimals, and contracted -methods for the Multiplication and Division of Decimals. Crown 8vo, -6d. (<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “A masterly and elaborate treatise for the -use of schools on a subject of world-wide interest and importance.... In -commercial life a knowledge of the metric system has been for some years -essential, and it is, therefore, fitting that its underlying principles -should be taught in our schools concurrently with reduction, and -practised systematically in the more advanced grades. For this purpose -the book is unquestionably the best we have seen.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">ANSWERS TO TAYLOR’S METRIC SYSTEM. 6d. (<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE ELEMENTS OF EUCLID.</p> - -<p>With Historical Introduction, Notes, Appendices and Miscellaneous -Examples.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> J. D. ST. CLAIR MACLARDY, M.A., Lecturer at the Training -Colleges and Examiner for the New South Wales Department of Public -Instruction.</p> - -<p>Books I.-IV. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 3s. 10d.</i>). Book -I., separately, cloth, 1s. 6d. (<i>post free 1s. 9d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “The most complete and logical discussion of -this part of the works of the great geometer that we have seen. An -unusual amount of care has been bestowed on the initiatory stages, the -definitions, axioms, and postulates being treated with commendable -fulness.... The brevity, simplicity, and perspicuity of his methods will -appeal forcibly to students.... Mr. Maclardy adheres to the plan of -simplifying the proofs and reducing the verbiage to a minimum, and has -added a contribution to mathematical literature which we regard as -indispensable.”</p> - -<p><b>Victorian Educational Gazette</b>: “Among the legion of editions of Euclid, -Mr. Maclardy’s takes an honourable place. There are many features that -are the result of the author’s long experience as a lecturer and -examiner in mathematics. He has evidently taken a pride in making his -work as perfect as possible.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">ENGLISH GRAMMAR, COMPOSITION, AND PRÉCIS WRITING.</p> - -<p>For Use by Candidates for University and Public Service Exams</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> JAMES CONWAY, Headmaster at Cleveland-street Superior Public -School, Sydney.</p> - -<p>Prescribed by the Department of Public Instruction, N.S.W., for -First and Second Class Teachers’ Certificate Examinations. New -edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. -(<i>post free 3s. 10d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald</b>: “To its concise and admirable arrangement of -rules and definitions, which holds good wherever the English language is -spoken or written, is added special treatment of special difficulties. -Mr. Conway adopts the excellent plan of taking certain papers, and of -answering the questions in detail.... Should be in the hands of every -teacher.”</p> - -<p><b>Victorian Educational News</b>: “A book which we can heartily recommend as -the most suitable we have yet met with to place in the hands of students -for our intermediate examinations, and also for matriculation, pupil -teachers’ and certificate of competency examinations. We should be glad -to see the work set down in the syllabus of the Department so that it -would reach the hands of all the students and teachers engaged in -studying the subject in our State schools.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">A SMALLER ENGLISH GRAMMAR, COMPOSITION, AND PRÉCIS WRITING.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> JAMES CONWAY.</p> - -<p>Prescribed by the Department of Public Instruction, N.S.W., for -Third Class and Pupil Teachers’ Examinations. New edition, revised -and enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s. 6d. (<i>post free 1s. 9d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “The abridgment is very well done. One -recognises the hand of a man who has had long experience of the -difficulties of this subject.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GEOGRAPHY OF NEW SOUTH WALES. <span class="smcap">By</span> J. M. TAYLOR, M.A., LL.B.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>New Edition, revised. With 37 illustrations and 6 folding maps. -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free 3s. 10d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>Sydney Morning Herald</b>: “Something more than a school book; it is an -approach to an ideal geography.”</p> - -<p><b>Review of Reviews</b>: “It makes a very attractive handbook. Its geography -is up to date; it is not overburdened with details, and it is richly -illustrated with geological diagrams and photographs of scenery -reproduced with happy skill.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">CAUSERIES FAMILIÈRES; OR, FRIENDLY CHATS. A Simple and Deductive French -Course. <span class="smcap">By Mrs. S. C. Boyd.</span></p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Prescribed for use in schools by the Department of Public -Instruction, New South Wales. Pupils’ Edition, containing all that -need be in the hands of the learner. Crown 8vo, cloth, limp, 1s. -6d. (<i>post free 1s. 8d.</i>). Teachers’ Edition, containing -grammatical summaries, exercises, a full treatise on pronunciation, -French-English and English-French Vocabulary, and other matter for -the use of the teacher or of a student without a master. Crown 8vo, -cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (<i>post free, 3s. 10d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>The London Spectator</b>: “A most excellent and practical little volume, -evidently the work of a trained teacher. It combines admirably and in an -entertaining form the advantages of the conversational with those of the -grammatical method of learning a language.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">AUSTRALIAN SONGS FOR AUSTRALIAN CHILDREN.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By Mrs. MAYBANKE ANDERSON.</span></p> - -<p>All the songs are set to music, while to some of them appropriate -calisthenic exercises are given. Demy 4to, picture cover, 1s.</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN OBJECT LESSON BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Part I.—For Infant and Junior Classes. With 43 illustrations. -Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.; paper cover, 2s. 6d. (<i>postage, -4d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “Mr. Wiley has wisely adopted the plan of -utilising the services of specialists. The series is remarkably -complete, and includes almost everything with which the little learners -ought to be made familiar. Throughout the whole series the lessons have -been selected with judgment and with a due appreciation of the capacity -of the pupils for whose use they are intended.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN OBJECT LESSON BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Part II.—For advanced classes. With 113 illustrations. Crown 8vo, -cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.; paper cover, 2s. 6d. (<i>postage 4d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>Victorian Education Gazette</b>: “Mr. Wiley and his colleagues have provided -a storehouse of useful information on a great number of topics that can -be taken up in any Australian school.”</p> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “The Australian Object Lesson Book is -evidently the result of infinite patience and deep research on the part -of its compiler, who is also to be commended for the admirable -arrangement of his matter.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">A NEW BOOK OF SONGS FOR SCHOOLS AND SINGING CLASSES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By</span> HUGO ALPEN, Superintendent of Music, Department of Public -Instruction, New South Wales.</p> - -<p>8vo, paper cover. 1s. (<i>post free 1s. 2d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN PROGRESSIVE SONGSTER.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By S. McBurney</span>, Mus. Doc., Fellow T.S.F. College.</p> - -<p>Containing graded Songs, Rounds and Exercises in Staff Notation, -Tonic Sol-fa and Numerals, with Musical Theory. Price, 6d. each -part; combined, 1s. (<i>postage 1d. each part</i>).</p></div> - -<p>No. 1.—For Junior Classes. No. 2.—For Senior Classes.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN LETTERING BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Containing the Alphabets most useful in Mapping, Exercise Headings, -&c. with practical applications, Easy Scrolls, Flourishes, Borders, -Corners, Rulings, &c. Second Edition. New Edition, revised and -enlarged, cloth limp, 6d. (<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GEOGRAPHY OF AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND.</p> - -<p>With Definitions of Geographical Terms.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Second Edition, with 8 maps and 19 illustrations. 64 pages. 6d. -(<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GEOGRAPHY OF EUROPE, ASIA AND AMERICA.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>Second Edition, with 14 relief and other maps, and 18 illustrations -of transcontinental views, distribution of animals, &c. 84 pages. -6d. (<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GEOGRAPHY OF NEW SOUTH WALES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>With five folding maps. 48 pages. 6d. (<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GEOGRAPHY OF AFRICA.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>With five maps in relief, &c. 64 pages. 6d. (<i>post free 7d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">AUSTRALIAN SCHOOL SERIES.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Grammar and Derivation Book.</b> 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Test Exercises in Grammar for 3rd Class, 1st Year.</b> - 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Test Exercises in Grammar for 3rd Class, 2nd Year.</b> - 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Table Book and Mental Arithmetic.</b> 38 pages. 1d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><i>Chief Events and Dates in English History.</i> Part -I. From 55 B.C. to 1485 A.D. 50 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Chief Events and Dates in English History.</b> Part -II. From Henry VII. (1485) to Victoria (1900). 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>History of Australia.</b> 53 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Geography.</b> Part I. Australasia and Polynesia. 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Geography.</b> Part II. Europe, Asia, America, and -Africa. 66 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Euclid.</b> Book I. With Definitions, Postulates, Axioms, -&c. 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Euclid.</b> Book II. With Definitions and Exercises on -Books I. and II. 32 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Euclid.</b> Book III. With University “Junior” Papers -1891-1897. 60 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Arithmetic—Exercises for Class II.</b> 49 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Arithmetic—Exercises for Class III.</b> 66 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Arithmetic—Exercises for Class IV.</b> 65 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Arithmetic and Mensuration—Exercises for Class -V.</b> With the Arithmetic Papers set at the Sydney -University Junior, the Public Service, the Sydney -Chamber of Commerce, and the Bankers’ Institute -Examinations to 1900, &c. 112 pages. 4d. -Answers, 4d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Algebra.</b> Part I. 49 pages. 2d. -Answers, 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Algebra.</b> Part II. To Quadratic Equations. Contains -over twelve hundred Exercises, including the University -Junior, the Public Service, the Sydney Chamber -of Commerce, and the Bankers’ Institute Examination -Papers to 1900, &c. 112 pages. 4d. -Answers, 4d.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALASIAN CATHOLIC SCHOOL SERIES.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>History of Australia and New Zealand for Catholic -Schools</b>, 117 pages. 4d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -First Reader</b>, 32 pages. 1d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -Second Reader</b>, 64 pages. 2d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -Third Reader</b>, 112 pages. 3d.</p> - -<p class="hang"><b>Pupil’s Companion to the Australian Catholic -Fourth Reader</b>, 160 pages. 4d.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN DRAWING BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>By F. W. WOODHOUSE, Superintendent of Drawing, Department of Public -Instruction, New South Wales.</p> - -<p>Approved by the Department of Public Instruction for use in the -Public Schools of New South Wales. Price, 3d. each.</p></div> - -<p>No. 1A—Elementary, Straight Lines, Curves and Simple Figures.</p> - -<p>Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4—Graduated Elementary Freehand, Regular Forms, Simple -Designs, &c.</p> - -<p>Nos. 5 and 6—Foliage, Flowers, Ornaments, Vase Forms, &c.</p> - -<p>No. 7—Book of Blank Pages.</p> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “This series of drawing books has been -arranged by the Superintendent of Drawing for the purpose of enabling -teachers and pupils to meet fully the requirements of the Public School -Syllabus of 1899. It consists of seven numbers, designed for the third, -fourth and fifth classes respectively, and there is also a book of blank -pages (No. 7). Nos. 1 to 4 treat of elementary freehand, simple designs, -pattern drawing, &c.; Nos. 5 and 6 of foliage, flowers and ornaments. -The copies are excellently designed and executed, and carefully -graduated, and the books are printed on superior drawing paper. ‘The -Australian Drawing Books’ should be used in every public school in the -colony, first on account of their intrinsic merit, and secondly because -they are the only books that accurately fit our standard.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN COPY BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">Approved by the Departments of Public Instruction in New South -Wales, Queensland and Tasmania, by the Public Service Board of New -South Wales, and by the Chief Inspector of Catholic Schools. Price, -2d. each.</p> - -<p class="hang">No. 1, Initiatory, Short Letters, Short Words; 2, Initiatory, Long -Letters, Words; 3, Text, Capitals, Longer Words; 4, Half-Text, -Short Sentences; 5, Intermediate, Australian and Geographical -Sentences; 6, Small Hand, Double Ruling, Australian and -Geographical Sentences, Prefixes and Examples; 6A, Text, Half-Text, -Intermediate, Small Hand; 7, Small Hand, Single Ruling, Maxims, -Quotations, Proverbs; 8, Advanced Small Hand, Abbreviations and -Contractions commonly met with; 9, Commercial Terms and Forms, -Addresses; 10, Commercial Forms, Correspondence, Addresses; 11, -Plain and Ornamental Lettering, Mapping, Flourishes, &c.</p></div> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><i>Numerals are given in each number.</i></p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">THE AUSTRALIAN PUPIL TEACHERS’ COPY BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">A selection of pages from the Australian Copy Book, arranged for -use of Pupil Teachers. 48 pages. Price, 6d.</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">ANGUS AND ROBERTSON’S PENCIL COPY BOOK.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">Approved by the N.S.W. Department of Public Instruction. In nine -numbers. 1d. each.</p> - -<p class="hang">No. 1, Initiatory lines, curves, letters, figures; 2 and 3, Short -letters, easy combinations, figures; 4, Long letters, short words, -figures; 5, Long letters, words, figures; 6, 7, and 8, Capitals, -words, figures; 9, Short sentences, figures.</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="blockquott"><p>COTTERILL’S GUIDES TO THE MUSICAL EXAMINATIONS Held by the N.S.W. -Department of Public Instruction for Teachers and Pupil Teachers in -all grades.</p> - -<p class="nind">Part 1. The papers set in 1898, 1899, and 1900, and Answers -thereto. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s. (<i>post free 2s. 2d</i>) Part 2. The -Papers set in 1901, and Answers thereto. Crown 8vo, sewn, 1s. -(<i>post free 1s. 1d.</i>).</p></div> - -<p><b>N.S.W. Educational Gazette</b>: “We would earnestly urge upon teachers and -pupil teachers intending to sit for examination the wisdom of mastering -the principles so clearly enunciated in these valuable textbooks. The -work has been excellently done by Mr. G. T. Cotterill, of the Paddington -Superior Public School; every question has been fully and clearly -answered, difficulties have been explained with the skill of an -experienced teacher, and the questions on harmony in the first and -second class papers have been discussed with a fulness and lucidity that -we look for in vain in the ordinary manuals.”</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">GUIDES TO THE NEW SOUTH WALES PUBLIC SERVICE EXAMINATIONS.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">No. I.—Containing the Papers set in March, 1899 and Keys thereto, -together with the Regulations and Hints on suitable Text-books. -Cheaper edition. 8vo., paper cover, 1s. (<i>post free 1s. 1d.</i>).</p> - -<p class="nind">No. II.—Containing the Papers set in August, 1900 and Keys -thereto, together with the revised Regulations and Hints on -suitable Text-books, and the Papers set at the examination held in -December, 1899. Cheaper edition. 8vo, paper cover, 1s. (<i>post free -1s. 1d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">CALENDAR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">8vo, linen, 2s. 6d.; paper cover, 1s. (<i>postage 8d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">MANUAL OF PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS HELD BY THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">8vo., paper cover, 1s. (<i>post free 1s. 3d.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">HANDBOOK FOR TEACHERS OF INFANT SCHOOLS AND JUNIOR CLASSES.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">With colour chart nine colours and upwards of 100 illus. Cr. 8vo, -cloth, 1s. 6d. (<i>post free 1s. 8d.</i>)</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS;</p> - -<p>Notes and Tables for the Use of Students.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p><span class="smcap">By Rev. J. MILNE CURRAN</span>, Lecturer in Chemistry and Geology, -Technical College, Sydney, Author of “The Geology of Sydney and the -Blue Mountains.”</p> - -<p>With illustrations. Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 4s. 6d. (<i>post free -5s.</i>).</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>ANNOUNCEMENTS</big></big></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">By CHARLES WHITE. Vol. II—1863 to 1878, illustrated, crown 8vo, -cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.</p></div> - -<p class="rt"> -[<i>Shortly.</i>]<br /> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="tittle">EUCLID, BOOKS V., VI. AND XI.</p> - -<div class="blockquott"><p class="nind">By J. D. ST. CLAIR MACLARDY, M.A., Lecturer at the Training -Colleges, and Examiner to the New South Wales Department of Public -Instruction. 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