a treasure-trove of literature
treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership
(and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files)
or
SEARCH the entire site with Google Site Search
|
Project Gutenberg
Australia a treasure-trove of literature treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership |
BROWSE the site for other works by this author (and our other authors) or get HELP Reading, Downloading and Converting files) or SEARCH the entire site with Google Site Search |
Title: Poetical Works of Henry Lawson Author: Henry Lawson * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 2001251h.html Language: English Date first posted: November 2020 Most recent update: November 2020 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available 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 Australia Licence which may be viewed online.
GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
Transcriber’s Note: I found twenty-one printings of this book, from 1925 - 1990. In many, changes were made ranging from slight changes in punctuation to removing verses. Where possible, I used the poems as printed in previous books, magazines or newspapers, ignoring later editing.
Preface
Introduction
The Sliprails And The
Spur
The Star Of Australasia
Faces In The Street
The Wander-Light
The Roaring Days
The Vagabond
Since Then
Sweeney
The Blue Mountains
Past Carin’
Sydney-Side
Dan The Wreck
Jack Dunn Of Nevertire
Ports Of The Open Sea
Taking His Chance
To Jim
The Lights Of Cobb And Co.
Middleton’s
Rouseabout
One-Hundred-And-Three
Bertha
On The Night Train
The Shearing-Shed
The Glass On The Bar
Reedy River
A New John Bull
Ballad Of The
Rouseabout
Andy’s Gone With
Cattle
Bill
Mallacoota Bar
When Your Pants Begin To
Go
The Teams
When The World Was Wide
The Light On The Wreck
The Great Grey Plain
Scots of the Riverina
Out Back
The Drover’s
Sweetheart
The Southerly Buster
Written Afterwards
England Yet
Ballad of the Drover
After All
Black Bonnet
The Vanguard
My Army, O My Army!
Rain In The Mountains
Talbragar
The Shakedown On The
Floor
Peter Anderson And Co.
The Song And The Sigh
Trooper Campbell
The Route March
Ballad Of The Elder Son
Knocked Up
The Never-Never Land
The Jolly Dead March
Kiss in the Ring
For’ard
To an old Mate
Says You
Andy’s Return
Song of the old
Bullock-Driver
I’m a Rebel Too
Song of the Darling
River
The Good Samaritan
To Hannah
Shearers
The Army of the Rear
New-Chum Jackeroos
The Cambaroora Star
The Water-Lily
Tracks that Lie by India
New Life, New Love
May Night on the
Mountains
The Captains
A Voice from the City
Cameron’s Heart
Genoa
Eureka
Knocking Around
The Bush Fire
The Drunkard’s Vision
Dons of Spain
The Cattledog’s Death
Second Class wait Here
The Outside Track
The Storm That is to Come
Men We Might Have Been
Booth’s Drum
Mount Bukaroo
Bourke
Sticking to Bill
Drums of Battersea
The Wreck of the Derry
Castle
Ruth
To my Cultured Critics
Pigeon Toes
The Battling Days
The Fire at Ross’s Farm
The Shame of Going Back
Farewell to the Bushmen
Break O’ Day
Cross-Roads
Men Who Come Behind
Riding Round the Lines
The Christ of the Never
A Prouder Man Than You
From the Bush
The Separation
Cherry-Tree Inn
Foreign Lands
Passing of Scotty
The Mountain Splitter
The Three Kings
Rovers
The Bush Girl
Marshall’s Mate
The Old Jimmy Woodser
Waratah and Wattle
Australian Engineers
Eurunderee
Do You Think that I Do Not
Know
The Ghost
The Last Review
The Old Bark School
Paroo River
Billy’s Square Affair
The Boss-Over-the-Board
Robbie’s Statue
Tambaroora Jim
Rejected
O’Hara, J.P.
Bill and Jim Fall Out
Ballad of Mabel Clare
The Strangers’ Friend
The Captain of the Push
Corny Bill
Mary Called him Mister
Up the Country
Days When We Went
Swimming
Ripperty! Kye! Ahoo!
Rise Ye! Rise Ye!
Song of Old Joe
Swallow
Here’s Luck
With Dickens
Professional Wanderers
Saint Peter
A Word to Texas Jack
Down the River
The City Bushman
Trouble on the Selection
The Fourth Cook
The Old Head Nurse
Jack Cornstalk
Write it Down for Me
When the Army Prays for
Watty
After the War
As Good as New
The King, The Queen and I
The Shearer’s Dream
Foreign Engineers
The Free-Selector’s
Daughter
The Shanty on the Rise
Poets of the Tomb
Grog-An’-Grumble
Steeplechase
Hawkers
Bursting of the Boom
The Greenhand Rouseabout
His Majesty’s Garden
Spade
Sign of the Old Black
Eye
Australian Bards and
Bush Reviewers
Song of the Back to
Front
Because of her Father’s
Blood
When There’s Trouble
on Your Mind
My Literary Friend
Dogs of War
But What’s the Use
Song of General
Sick-and-Tiredness
The death of Henry Lawson marked the close of the period in Australian literature which began with Henry Kendall. While living, Lawson had many imitators, but no peers; with his death we turned a page to which there can be no additions. He belonged to a past of struggle, pain, and triumph, when the country was in the making. Others will use those days to give their work background of colour and romance; but there can be none to walk where he walked, none to see with his eyes.
To say that Henry Lawson has now become a classic is to miss the real meaning of the man. The true student can never ignore his work, but his appeal is infinitely wider. With every decade that appeal must increase; for, reading Lawson, our children’s children will hear the living voice of those who laid the foundations of all they prize and love.
About Henry Lawson the man, as distinct from the poet, a tradition will grow up which may leave the future wondering. All that is bizarre and grotesque, culled from the half-memories of those who knew him least, will make an embroidery of literary gossip which may envelop him in a mystery as interesting as it is unreal. Little things will be dragged from their hiding, big things warped from their setting, and made to subserve the meaner issues of some controversy about his doings and his ways. To this the memory of all great men is subject; too often the prophet’s ragged robe is more interesting to slight minds than the message he spoke. But Lawson will outlive it all. When the last word of praise or dispraise is spoken, men will turn to his work and find the real man there, the brother-soul with the vision, the brother-heart with the passion of goodwill for his kind.
This edition of his poems brings them within easy reach of every Australian reader; and I think the man who has gone from us could seek no fairer memorial in the hearts of his people than the knowledge that his words are being read and re-read by those who with every reading love him more.
David McKee Wright
March
1925
WHEN James Cook lifted the veil that had long masked the terra incognita of the south, a fresh breeze of adventure blew across the souls of Englishmen. Here for conquest were virgin lands—lands with no history, no legend of achievement or shame—and needing for their conquest no sword, but only strong hearts and an enduring purpose. Men might have seen in their dreams a wider, sweeter England rising as by magic over far oceans, free of fettering old-world traditions, a source of light and leading to all. To claim that such a vision has been realized would be as yet too much; but the foundations have been laid. The wide spaces of the Australian continent are developing a race British in fibre and texture, yet unlike the peoples of Britain in every mere external. It is hard to discern the heights to which this race may attain in the brave days yet to be; but a nation in the making is always an object of supreme interest. Processes that in the days of the Heptarchy moulded Kent and Yorkshire are even now moulding Tasmania and Queensland. It was inevitable that such a race in the making, such a land in the shaping, should find its singer; and that, the singer found, his music should be different from that of all others.
Henry Lawson is the first articulate voice of the real Australia. Other singers in plenty the southern continent knows and has known men and women following bravely in the broad pathway where Byron strode and Wordsworth loitered; but one alone has found the heart of the new land, its rugged strength, its impatience of old restraints, its hopes and fears and despairs, its irreverence and grim humour, and the tenderness and courage that underlie them all. Lawson is never exquisite as are our greater lyrists. The axemarks show in his work everywhere. But he is sincere and strong and true; and the living beauty in that sincerity and strength and truth grips us more than any delicate craftsmanship. His laughter is as genuine as that of the wind and the sea; he weeps as Australians of the bush weep, with dry eyes and a hard curving mouth. He knows men and women—his men and women. In the world’s loneliest places he has grasped hard hands alive with heroic meaning; in crowded cities, where the shames of older nations have overflowed into the new, he has felt the throb of emotions too fine for civilization’s sordid setting. In Lawson, too, there is a splendid scorn the scorn of the Things-that-Are and always as he looks into the eyes of his world, seeking the best in the worst, his indignation biases against the shams and the shows that have been brought across the seas to hold Liberty from her purpose. Lawson has lived his people’s life, seen with their eyes, felt throb for throb with them in pain and joy; and he sets it all to a rugged music of his own that goes straight to the heart.
When in April, 1915, Australians made the historic landing at Gaba Tepe, the unexpectant world saw young soldiers from a peaceful Commonwealth bearing themselves in the stress of war like veterans of the older fighting nations. The spectacle arrested and surprised. But Lawson had sung of these things more than twenty years before. Nothing that Australians did in Gallipoli, or later in the fields of France, was new or strange to those who remembered the bugle note of his early poems. With prophetic insight he had dreamed a people’s dream had felt in that soldier-heart of his early manhood the tremor of a coming tempest, though the world skies were then clear and had foreknown with every fibre of his being the way in which men of the bush and the mountain and plain would respond to the battle-call.
What of the man who has done and felt these things? He lives his life in Australia still—a life very close to ours, yet remote and lonely as that of genius is wont to be. London called to him, and he left us for a while, but came back more Australian than when he went away. You meet him in the street and are arrested by his eyes. Are there such eyes anywhere else under such a forehead? He has the softened speech of the deaf, but the eyes speak always more than the voice; and the grasp of his hand is brotherly. A sense of great sympathy and human kindliness is always about him. You will not talk much with Lawson, but you will not lightly forget your first meeting. A child will understand him better than a busy city man, for the child understands the eternal language of the heart written in the eye; and Australia, strong-thewed pioneer though she be, has enough of the child left in her to understand her son.
Henry Lawson was born in a tent on the Grenfell gold field in 1867. His father was a Norse sailor who became a digger; his mother came of a Kentish family of gipsy blood and tradition. Henry spent his boyhood on old mining fields, and on a selection his father had taken up. Later, he came to Sydney and learned coach painting, attended a night school, dabbled in spiritualism, and was caught in the wave of socialism. Very early his verses attracted attention. He was the voice of a new movement; the ringing, surging rebellion of his song echoed the unrest of the eighties and nineties, years full of great labour strikes and the breaking up of old political parties. Then he wandered far into the interior of Australia—his fame growing all the while—saw and shared the rude strenuous life of his brothers in a dozen varieties of toil, crossed over to New Zealand, and added to the tang of the gum leaves something of the salt of the great Southern Ocean. He has lived the life that he sings and seen the places of which he writes; there is not a word in all his work which is not instantly recognized by his readers as honest Australian. The drover, the stockman, the shearer, the rider far on the skyline, the girl waiting at the sliprails, the big bush funeral, the coach with flashing lamps passing at night along the ranges, the man to whom home is a bitter memory and his future a long despair, the troops marching to the beat of the drum, the coasting vessel struggling through blinding south-westerly gales, the great grey plain, the wilderness of the Never-Never—in long procession the pictures pass, and every picture is a true one because Henry Lawson has been there to see with the eyes of his heart.
At twenty-one, Lawson was probably the most remarkable writer of verse in Australia. Some critics of those days thought his genius prematurely developed, and likely to flame up strongly and fade away swiftly. Lawson disappointed their predictions. He remained; he continued to write; he gathered grip and force as the years went by. The dates of original publication attached to each poem in this collection will enable the reader to follow the author’s progress. They cover a wide range of years. Before he had reached his twenty-first birthday, Lawson, keenly alive to all the movements about him in Sydney, found one political faction discussing a closer imperialism of a rather mechanical pattern, while another cried for an equally machine-made socialism. He listened to the outpourings of oratory one night, and, remembering the growth of wealth and luxury on the one hand and the increasing squalor of the city slums on the other, went home and wrote “Faces in the Street”—a notable achievement that brought him immediate local fame. Seven years afterwards, still with the passionate hope of a purifying revolution in his heart, he saw “The Star of Australasia” rise through tumult and battle smoke and foretold, in lines that surge and sweep, the storm that was to break down divisions between rich and poor, and to call to life a great nationhood through a baptism of blood. At forty-eight he sang of “My Army, O My Army”, the struggling “Vanguard” always suffering in the trenches of civilization that others might go on to victory. Never was the view of the final triumph obscured; but the means by which it might be attained seemed more clouded in doubt as the years went by. Then, when he had completed his full half-century of life, the poet’s vision cleared. At fifty he wrote “England Yet”, a song of pride in a greater nationality, wider and more embracing than the old Australia of his dreams. Here is natural progression of thought—a mind growing with the years, a hope enlarging with the great movements of the race.
In simpler and homelier themes the continual widening of his sympathy is equally marked. “The Drover’s Sweetheart”, with its sob of delight in the last stanza, was written at twenty-two. Ten years afterwards he penned the tenderest and most perfect of all his poems, “The Sliprails and the Spur”. Dear old “Black Bonnet”—a picture as true as it is sweet in all years and all places—first tripped to church in his verse when he was forty- nine; at fifty, “Scots of the Riverina” showed that he had not lost his power of dealing with the tragedy that underlies life’s commonplace. The reader may trace a similar growth of sympathy for the men and women whom civilization condemns, or who have come to be regarded as “down and out.” He saw “Sweeney” with battered humorous face and empty bottle in 1891; “Past Carin’ ”, with its completeness of heartbreak, was written in 1899; and the grim realism of “One-Hundred-and-Three”, which must stand among Lawson’s greatest efforts, appeared in 1908. Always there is growth, apparent from year to year and decade to decade. The verses vary greatly in merit and manner, but the thought and feeling behind them move on into wider places. Lawson fulfilled his first promise and did something more.
Of Lawson’s place in literature it is idle to speak. Something of what Burns did for Scotland, something of what Kipling did for India, he has done for Australia; but he is not in the least like either Kipling or Burns. Judged as verse, his work has nearly always a certain crudity; fudged by the higher standard of poetry, it is often greatest when the crudity is most apparent. In the coming chances and changes it is daring to predict immortality for any writer. The world is being remade in fire and pain; in that remaking every standard of achievement may be altered utterly from those to which we have been accustomed; but if permanency is to be looked for anywhere, it is in vital, red-blooded work such as Lawson’s—work that came so straight from the heart that it must always find a heart to respond to it. All Australia is there, painted with a big brush in the colours in which its people see it.
D.
M. W.
September,
1918
The colours of the setting sun
Withdrew across the Western land—
He raised the sliprails, one by one,
And shot them home with trembling hand;
Her brown hands clung—her face grew pale—
Ah! quivering chin and eyes that
brim!—
One quick, fierce kiss across the rail,
And, “Good-bye, Mary!”
“Good-bye, Jim!”
Oh, he rides hard to race the pain
Who rides from love, who rides from
home;
But he rides slowly home again,
Whose heart has learnt to love and
roam.
A hand upon the horse’s mane,
And one foot in the stirrup set,
And, stooping back to kiss again,
With “Good-bye, Mary! don’t you
fret!
When I come back”—he laughed for her—
“We do not know how soon ’twill
be;
I’ll whistle as I round the spur—
You let the sliprails down for
me.”
She gasped for sudden loss of hope,
As, with a backward wave to her,
He cantered down the grassy slope
And swiftly round the darkening spur.
Black-pencilled panels standing high,
And darkness fading into stars,
And blurring fast against the sky,
A faint white form beside the bars.
And often at the set of sun,
In winter bleak and summer brown,
She’d steal across the little run,
And shyly let the sliprails down.
And listen there when darkness shut
The nearer spur in silence deep,
And when they called her from the hut
Steal home and cry herself to sleep.
And he rides hard to dull the pain
Who rides from one that loves him best.
. .
And he rides slowly back again,
Whose restless heart must rove for
rest.
We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a
nation’s slime;
Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden
time.
From grander clouds in our peaceful skies than ever were there
before
I tell you the Star of the South shall rise—in the lurid
clouds of war.
It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men
increase;
For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace.
There’ll come a point that we will not yield, no matter if
right or wrong;
And man will fight on the battle-field while passion and pride are
strong—
So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit
sours—
And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like
ours.
* * * * * * *
There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away
from school
To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded
pool,
Who’ll stick to their guns when the mountains quake to the
tread of a mighty war,
And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought
before;
When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack till the
furthest hills vibrate,
And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and
hate.
* * * * * * *
There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth
and pride
Who’ll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it
side by side,
Who’ll hold the cliffs against armoured hells that batter a
coastal town,
Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing
down.
And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day,
Will see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn
away—
Will live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant
gun,
And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and
won—
As a mother or wife in the years to come will kneel, wild-eyed and
white,
And pray to God in her darkened home for the “men in the fort
to-night.”
* * * * * * *
But, oh! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world
was wide,
’Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men in that
glorious race to ride,
And strike for all that is true and strong, for all that is grand
and brave,
And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save.
He must lift the saddle, and close his “wings”, and
shut his angels out,
And steel his heart for the end of things, who’d ride with a
stockman scout,
When the race they ride on the battle track, and the waning
distance hums,
And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack like stockwhips
amongst the gums—
And the straight is reached and the field is gapped and the
hoof-torn sward grows red
With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and
lead;
And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes, with the spirit and
with the shades
Of the world-wide rebel dead who’ll rise and rush with the
Bush Brigades.
* * * * * * *
All creeds and trades will have soldiers there—give every
class its due—
And there’ll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the
jackeroo.
They’ll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will
fight for gold,
For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of
old;
And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped,
stern-eyed,
For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal
pride;
The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the
grim retreat—
They’ll know the glory of victory—and the grandeur of
defeat.
The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are
done
With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its
gun.
And many a rickety son of a gun, on the tides of the future
tossed,
Will tell how battles were really won that History says were
lost,
Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk the facts that are
hard to explain,
As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over
again—
How “This was our centre, and this a redoubt, and that was a
scrub in the rear,
And this was the point where the Guards held out, and the
enemy’s lines were here.”
* * * * * * *
They’ll tell the tales of the nights before and the tales
of the ship and fort
Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to
sport,
Till their breath comes deep and their eyes grow bright at the
tales of our chivalry
And every boy will want to fight, no matter what the cause may
be—
When the children run to the doors and cry: “Oh, mother, the
troops are come!”
And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of
the drum.
They’ll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at
last,
When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches
past.
And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend’s clutch, no matter
how low or mean,
Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch of the man that he
might have been.
And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies
aflame,
Will have something better to talk about than an absent
woman’s shame,
Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a
friend’s expense,
Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence.
And this we learn from the libelled past, though its methods were
somewhat rude—
A Nation’s born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of
life renewed.
We in part atone for the ghoulish strife, and the crimes of the
peace we boast,
And the better part of a people’s life in the storm comes
uppermost.
The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink
and crime
Will do the deeds in the heroes’ van that live till the end
of time.
The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish
town,
And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry—upside
down.
’Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world
goes wrong,
The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too
long.
And southern Nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of
ease,
Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.
They lie, the men who tell us, for reasons of their own,
That want is here a stranger, and that misery’s unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street —
Drifting
past, drifting past,
To
the beat of weary feet —
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street
—
Drifting
on, drifting on,
To
the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street —
Flowing
in, flowing in,
To
the beat of hurried feet —
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
The human river dwindles when ’tis past the hour of
eight,
Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street —
Grinding
body, grinding soul,
Yielding
scarce enough to eat —
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street
Tells of the city’s unemployed upon his weary beat
—
Drifting
round, drifting round,
To
the tread of listless feet —
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the
street.
And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street —
Ebbing
out, ebbing out,
To
the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.
And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day’s sad
end is seen,
For while the short “large hours” toward the longer
“small hours” lean,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half
entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street —
Sinking
down, sinking down,
Battered
wreck by tempests beat —
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.
But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city
comes,
For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street —
Rotting
out, rotting out,
For
the lack of air and meat —
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.
I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon’s slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in
terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The
wrong things and the bad things
And
the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.
I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me — the shadows of those faces in the
street,
Flitting
by, flitting by,
Flitting
by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the
street.
Once I cried: “Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still
endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.”
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city’s
street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming
near, coming near,
To
a drum’s dull distant beat,
’Twas Despair’s conscripted army that was marching down
the street.
Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution’s
heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street—
Pouring
on, pouring on,
To
a drum’s loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.
And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its
course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow
hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution’s feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street
—
The
dreadful everlasting strife
For
scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death — the city’s cruel
street.
Oh, my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways,
And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low;
I’m at home and at ease on a track that I know not,
And restless and lost on a road that I know.
And they heard the tent-poles
clatter,
And the fly in
twain was torn—
’Twas the soiled rag of a tatter
Of the tent where I
was born.
Does it matter? Which is
stranger—
Brick or stone or
calico?—
There was one born in a manger
Nineteen hundred
years ago?
And my beds were camp beds and tramp beds and damp beds,
And my beds were dry beds on drought-stricken ground,
Hard beds and soft beds, and wide beds and narrow—
For my beds were strange beds the wide world round.
And the old hag seemed to ponder
With her grey head
nodding slow—
“He will dream, and he will
wander
Where but few would
think to go.
He will flee the haunts of tailors,
He will cross the
ocean wide,
For his fathers, they were
sailors—
All on his good
father’s side.”
I rest not, ’tis best not, the world is a wide
one—
And, caged for a moment, I pace to and fro;
I see things and dree things and plan while I’m sleeping,
I wander for ever and dream as I go.
And the old hag she was troubled
As she bent above
the bed;
“He will dream things and he’ll
see things
To come true when
he is dead.
He will see things all too plainly,
And his fellows
will deride,
For his mothers they were
gipsies—
All on his good
mother’s side.”
And my dreams are strange dreams, are day dreams, are grey
dreams,
And my dreams are wild dreams, and old dreams and new;
They haunt me and daunt me with fears of the morrow—
My brothers they doubt me—but my dreams come true.
The night too quickly passes
And we are growing old,
So let us fill our glasses
And toast the Days of Gold;
When finds of wondrous treasure
Set all the South ablaze,
And you and I were faithful mates
All through the roaring days!
Then stately ships came sailing
From every harbour’s mouth,
And sought the Land of Promise
That beaconed in the South;
Then southward streamed their streamers
And swelled their canvas full
To speed the wildest dreamers
E’er borne in vessel’s
hull.
Their shining Eldorado,
Beneath the southern skies,
Was day and night for ever
Before their eager eyes.
The brooding bush, awakened,
Was stirred in wild unrest,
And all the year a human stream
Went pouring to the West.
The rough bush roads re-echoed
The bar-room’s noisy din,
When troops of stalwart horsemen
Dismounted at the inn.
And oft the hearty greetings
And hearty clasp of hands
Would tell of sudden meetings
Of friends from other lands.
And when the cheery camp-fire
Explored the bush with gleams,
The camping-grounds were crowded
With caravans of teams;
Then home the jests were driven,
And good old songs were sung,
And choruses were given
The strength of heart and lung.
Oft when the camps were dreaming,
And fires began to pale,
Through rugged ranges gleaming
Swept on the Royal Mail.
Behind six foaming horses,
And lit by flashing lamps,
Old Cobb and Co., in royal state,
Went dashing past the camps.
Oh, who would paint a goldfield,
And paint the picture right,
As old Adventure saw it
In early morning’s light?
The yellow mounds of mullock
With spots of red and white,
The scattered quartz that glistened
Like diamonds in light;
The azure line of ridges,
The bush of darkest green,
The little homes of calico
That dotted all the scene.
The flat straw hats, with ribands,
That old engravings show—
The dress that still reminds us
Of sailors, long ago.
I hear the fall of timber
From distant flats and fells,
The pealing of the anvils
As clear as little bells,
The rattle of the cradle,
The clack of windlass-boles,
The flutter of the crimson flags
Above the golden holes.
Ah, then their hearts were bolder,
And if Dame Fortune frowned
Their swags they’d lightly shoulder
And tramp to other ground.
Oh, they were lion-hearted
Who gave our country birth!
Stout sons, of stoutest fathers born,
From all the lands on earth!
Those golden days are vanished,
And altered is the scene;
The diggings are deserted,
The camping-grounds are green;
The flaunting flag of progress
Is in the West unfurled,
The mighty bush with iron rails
Is tethered to the world.
White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier
As we glide to the grand old sea—
But the song of my heart is for none to hear
If one of them waves for me.
A roving, roaming life is mine,
Ever by field or flood—
For not far back in my father’s line
Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.
Flax and tussock and fern,
Gum and mulga and sand,
Reef and palm—but my fancies turn
Ever away from land;
Strange wild cities in ancient state,
Range and river and tree,
Snow and ice. But my star of fate
Is ever across the sea.
A god-like ride on a thundering sea,
When all but the stars are blind—
A desperate race from Eternity
With a gale-and-a-half behind.
A jovial spree in the cabin at night,
A song on the rolling deck,
A lark ashore with the ships in sight,
Till—a wreck goes down with a
wreck.
A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day,
When life is a waking dream,
And care and trouble so far away
That out of your life they seem.
A roving spirit in sympathy,
Who has travelled the whole world
o’er—
My heart forgets, in a week at sea,
The trouble of years on shore.
A rolling stone!—’tis a saw for slaves—
Philosophy false as old—
Wear out or break ’neath the feet of knaves,
Or rot in your bed of mould!
But I’d rather trust to the darkest skies
And the wildest seas that roar,
Or die, where the stars of Nations rise,
In the stormy clouds of war.
Cleave to your country, home, and friends,
Die in a sordid strife—
You can count your friends on your finger ends
In the critical hours of life.
Sacrifice all for the family’s sake,
Bow to their selfish rule!
Slave till your big soft heart they break—
The heart of the “family
fool.”
I’ve never a love that can sting my pride,
Nor a friend to prove untrue;
For I leave my love ere the turning tide,
And my friends are all too new.
The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours,
With its greed and its treachery—
A stranger’s hand, and a stranger-land,
And the rest of the world for me!
But why be bitter? The world is cold
To one with a frozen heart;
New friends are often so like the old,
They seem of the Past a part—
As a better part of the past appears,
When enemies, parted long,
Are come together in kinder years,
With their better nature strong.
I had a friend, ere my first ship sailed,
A friend that I never deserved—
For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed
As soon as my turn was served.
And the memory haunts my heart with shame—
Or, rather, the pride that’s
there;
In different guises, but soul the same,
I meet him everywhere.
I had a chum. When the times were tight
We starved in Australian scrubs;
We froze together in parks at night,
And laughed together in pubs.
And I often hear a laugh like his
From a sense of humour keen,
And catch a glimpse in a passing phiz
Of his broad, good-humoured grin.
And I had a love—’twas a love to prize—
But I never went back again . . .
I have seen the light of her kind grey eyes
In many a face since then.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The sailors say ’twill be rough to-night,
As they fasten the hatches down,
The south is black, and the bar is white,
And the drifting smoke is brown.
The gold has gone from the western haze,
The sea-birds circle and swarm—
But we shall have plenty of sunny days,
And little enough of storm.
The hill is hiding the short black pier,
As the last white signal’s seen;
The points run in, and the houses veer,
And the great bluff stands between.
So darkness swallows each far white speck
On many a wharf and quay;
The night comes down on a restless deck,—
Grim cliffs—and—The Open
Sea!
I met Jack Ellis in town to-day—
Jack Ellis—my old mate, Jack.
Ten years ago, from the Castlereagh,
We carried our swags together away
To the Never-Again, Out Back.
But times have altered since those old days,
And the times have changed the men.
Ah, well! there’s little to blame or praise—
Jack Ellis and I have tramped long ways
On different tracks since then.
His hat was battered, his coat was green,
The toes of his boots were through,
But the pride was his! It was I felt mean—
I wished that my collar was not so clean,
Nor the clothes I wore so new.
He saw me first, and he knew ’twas I—
The holiday swell he met.
Why have we no faith in each other? Ah, why?—
He made as though he would pass me by,
For he thought that I might forget.
He ought to have known me better than that,
By the tracks we tramped far out—
The sweltering scrub and the blazing flat,
When the heat came down through each old felt hat
In the hell-born western drought.
* * * * * * *
He took my hand in a distant way
(I thought how we parted last),
And we seemed like men who have nought to say
And who meet—“Good-day”, and who
part—“Good-day,”
Who never have shared the past.
I asked him in for a drink with me—
Jack Ellis—my old mate,
Jack—
But his manner no longer was careless and free,
He followed, but not with the grin that he
Wore always in days Out Back.
I tried to live in the past once more—
Or the present and past combine,
But the days between I could not ignore—
I couldn’t help notice the clothes he wore,
And he couldn’t but notice mine.
He placed his glass on the polished bar,
And he wouldn’t fill up again;
For he is prouder than most men are—
Jack Ellis and I have tramped too far
On different tracks since then.
He said that he had a mate to meet,
And “I’ll see you again,”
said he,
Then he hurried away through the crowded street,
And the rattle of buses and scrape of feet
Seemed suddenly loud to me.
It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going
down,
When I came, in search of copy, to a Darling-River town;
“Come-and-Have-a-Drink” we’ll call
it—’tis a fitting name, I think—
And ’twas raining, for a wonder, up at
Come-and-Have-a-Drink.
Underneath the pub verandah I was resting on a bunk
When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk;
He apologised for speaking; there was no offence, he swore;
But he somehow seemed to fancy that he’d seen my face
before.
“No erfence,’ he said. I told him that he
needn’t mention it,
For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a
bit,
And I knew a lot of fellows in the Bush and in the
streets—
But a fellow can’t remember all the fellows that he
meets.
Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore,
Just a shirt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing
more;
He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight,
And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.
He agreed: “Yer can’t remember all the chaps yer
chance to meet,”
And he said his name was Sweeney—people lived in
Sussex-street.
He was campin’ in a stable, but he swore that he was
right,
“Only for the blanky horses walkin’ over him all
night.”
He’d apparently been fighting, for his face was
black-and-blue,
And he looked as though the horses had been treading on him,
too;
But an honest, genial twinkle in the eye that wasn’t hurt
Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and
dirt.
It appeared that he mistook me for a long-lost mate of
his—
One of whom I was the image, both in figure and in phiz—
(He’d have had a letter from him if the chap were living
still,
For they’d carried swags together from the Gulf to Broken
Hill.)
Sweeney yarned awhile and hinted that his folks were doing
well,
And he told me that his father kept the Southern Cross Hotel;
And I wondered if his absence was regarded as a loss
When he left the elder Sweeney—landlord of the Southern
Cross.
He was born in Parramatta, and he said, with humour grim,
That he’d like to see the city ere the liquor finished
him,
But he couldn’t raise the money. He was damned if he could
think
What the Government was doing. Here he offered me a drink.
I declined—’twas self-denial—and I
lectured him on booze,
Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use;
Things I’d heard in temperance lectures (I was young and
rather green),
And I ended by referring to the man he might have been.
Then a wise expression struggled with the bruises on his
face,
Though his argument had scarcely any bearing on the case:
“What’s the good o’ keepin’ sober? Fellers
rise and fellers fall;
What I might have been and wasn’t doesn’t trouble me at
all.”
But he couldn’t stay to argue, for his beer was nearly
gone.
He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he’d see me later
on;
He guessed he’d have to go and get his bottle filled
again,
And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain.
* * * * * * * * * * *
And of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land,
Visions come to me of Sweeney with his bottle in his hand,
With the stormy night behind him, and the pub
verandah-post—
And I wonder why he haunts me more than any other ghost.
I suppose he’s tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry
swags,
Dragging round the western stations with his empty tucker-bags;
And I fancy that, of evenings, when the track is growing dim,
What he “might have been and wasn’t” comes along
and troubles him.
Above the ashes straight and tall,
Through ferns with moisture dripping
I climb beneath the sandstone wall,
My feet on mosses slipping.
Like ramparts round the valley’s edge
The tinted cliffs are standing,
With many a broken wall and ledge,
And many a rocky landing.
And round about their rugged feet
Deep ferny dells are hidden
In shadowed depths, whence dust and heat
Are banished and forbidden.
The stream that, crooning to itself,
Comes down a tireless rover,
Flows calmly to the rocky shelf,
And there leaps bravely over.
Now pouring down, now lost in spray
When mountain breezes sally,
The water strikes the rock midway,
And leaps into the valley.
* * * * * * * * *
Now in the west the colours change,
The blue with crimson blending;
Behind the far Dividing Range,
The sun is fast descending.
And mellowed day comes o’er the place,
And softens ragged edges;
The rising moon’s great placid face
Looks gravely o’er the ledges.
Now up and down the sidling brown
The great black crows are flyin’,
And down below the spur, I know,
Another milker’s dyin’;
The crops have withered from the ground,
The tank’s clay bed is
glarin’,
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past
carin’—
Past
worryin’ or carin’—
Past
feelin’ aught or carin’;
But
from my heart no tear nor sound,
For
I have gone past carin’.
Through Death and Trouble, turn about,
Through hopeless desolation,
Through flood and fever, fire and drought,
And slavery and starvation;
Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
And nervousness an’
scarin’,
Through bein’ left alone at night,
I’ve got to be past carin’.
Past
botherin’ or carin’,
Past
feelin’ and past carin’;
Through
city cheats and neighbours’ spite,
I’ve
come to be past carin’.
Our first child took, in days like these,
A cruel week in dyin’,
All day upon her father’s knees,
Or on my poor breast lyin’;
The tears we shed—the prayers we said
Were awful,
wild—despairin’!
I’ve pulled three through, and buried two
Since then—and I’m past
carin’.
I’ve
grown to be past carin’,
Past
lookin’ up and carin’;
I’ve
pulled three through and buried two
Since
then, and I’m past carin’.
’Twas ten years first, then came the worst,
All for a dusty clearin’,
I thought, I thought my heart would burst
When first my man went shearin’;
He’s drovin’ in the great North-west,
I don’t know how he’s
farin’;
For I, the one that loved him best,
Have grown to be past carin’.
I’ve
grown to be past carin’
Past
waitin’ and past wearin’;
The
girl that waited long ago,
Has
lived to be past carin’.
My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
I’ve got no heart for
breakin’,
But where it was, in days gone by,
A dull and empty achin’.
My last boy ran away from me—
I know my temper’s
wearin’—
But now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin’.
Past
wearyin’ or carin’,
Past
feelin’ and despairin’;
And
now I only wish to be
Beyond
all signs of carin’.
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
you 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 ’twas 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.
Tall, and stout, and solid-looking,
Yet a wreck;
None would think Death’s finger’s hooking
Him from deck.
Cause of half the fun that’s started—
Hard-case Dan—
Isn’t like a broken-hearted,
Ruined man.
Walking-coat from tail to throat is
Frayed and greened—
Like a man whose other coat is
Being cleaned;
Gone for ever round the edging
Past repair—
Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging
After “sprats” no longer
there.
Wearing summer boots in June, or
Slippers worn and old—
Like a man whose other shoon are
Getting soled.
Pants? They’re far from being recent—
But, perhaps, I’d better
not—
Says they are the only decent
Pair he’s got.
And his hat, I am afraid, is
Troubling him—
Past all lifting to the ladies
By the brim.
But, although he’d hardly strike a
Girl, would Dan,
Yet he wears his wreckage like a
Gentleman!
Once—no matter how the rest dressed—
Up or down—
Once, they say, he was the best-dressed
Man in town.
Must have been before I knew him—
Now you’d scarcely care to meet
And be noticed talking to him
In the street.
Drink the cause, and dissipation,
That is clear—
Maybe friend or kind relation
Cause of beer.
And the talking fool, who never
Reads or thinks,
Says, from hearsay: “Yes, he’s clever;
But, you know, he drinks.”
Where he lives, or how, or wherefore
No one knows;
Lost his real friends, and therefore
Lost his foes.
Had, no doubt, his own romances—
Met his fate;
Tortured, doubtless, by the chances
And the luck that comes too late.
Now and then his boots are polished,
Collar clean,
And the worst grease stains abolished
By ammonia or benzine:
Hints of some attempt to shove him
From the taps,
Or of someone left to love him—
Sister, p’r’aps.
After all, he is a grafter,
Earns his cheer—
Keeps the room in roars of laughter
When he gets outside a beer.
Yarns that would fall flat from others
He can tell;
How he spent his stuff, my brothers,
You know well.
Manner puts a man in mind of
Old club balls and evening dress,
Ugly with a handsome kind of
Ugliness.
One of those we say of, grimly,
At the morgue—or mean hotel
Where they hold the inquests dimly:
“He looked well!”
* * * * * * * * * *
I may be—so goes a rumour—
Bad as Dan;
But I have not got the humour
Of the man;
Nor the sight—well, deem it blindness,
As the general public do—
And the love of human kindness,
Or the grit to see it
through!
It chanced upon the very day we’d got the shearing
done,
A buggy brought a stranger to the West-o’-Sunday Run;
He had a round and jolly face, and he was sleek and stout,
He drove right up between the huts and called the super out.
We chaps were smoking after tea, and heard the swell enquire
For one as travelled by the name of “Dunn of
Nevertire.”
Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
Poor Dunn of Nevertire;
There wasn’t one of us but knew Jack Dunn of Nevertire.
“Jack Dunn of Nevertire,” he said; “I was a
mate of his;
And now it’s twenty years since I set eyes upon his phiz.
There is no whiter man than Jack—no straighter south the
line,
There is no hand in all the land I’d sooner grip in mine;
To help a mate in trouble Jack would go through flood and fire.
Great Scott! and don’t you know the name of Dunn of
Nevertire?
Big Dunn of Nevertire,
Long Jack from Nevertire;
He stuck to me through thick and thin, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.
“I did a wild and foolish thing while Jack and I were
mates,
And I disgraced my guv’nor’s name, an’ wished to
try the States.
My lamps were turned to Yankee Land, for I’d some people
there,
And I was right when someone sent the money for my fare;
I thought ’twas Dad until I took the trouble to enquire,
And found that he who sent the stuff was Dunn of Nevertire,
Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
Soft Dunn of Nevertire;
He’d won some money on a race—Jack Dunn of
Nevertire.
“Now I’ve returned, by Liverpool, a swell of Yankee
brand,
To reckon, guess, and kalkilate, ’n’ wake my native
land;
There is no better land, I swear, in all the wide world
round—
I smelt the bush a month before we touched King George’s
Sound!
And now I’ve come to settle down, the top of my desire
Is just to meet a mate o’ mine called ‘Dunn of
Nevertire’.
Was raised at Nevertire—
The town of Nevertire;
He humped his bluey by the name of ‘Dunn of
Nevertire’.
“I’ve heard he’s poor, and if he is, a proud
old fool is he;
But, spite of that, I’ll find a way to fix the old
gum-tree.
I’ve bought a station in the North—the best that could
be had;
I want a man to pick the stock—I want a super bad;
I want no bully-brute to boss—no crawling, sneaking
liar—
My station super’s name shall be ‘Jack Dunn of
Nevertire’!
Straight Dunn of Nevertire,
Old Dunn of Nevertire;
I guess he’s known up Queensland way—Jack Dunn of
Nevertire.”
The super said, while to his face a strange expression came:
“I think I’ve seen the man you want,
I think I know the name;
Had he a jolly kind of face, a free and careless way,
Gray eyes that always seem’d to smile, and hair just turning
gray—
Clean-shaved, except a light moustache, long-limbed, an’
tough as wire?”
“That’s him! that’s Dunn!” the
stranger roared, “Jack Dunn of Nevertire!”
John Dunn of Nevertire,
Jack D. from Nevertire,
They said I’d find him here, the cuss!—Jack Dunn of
Nevertire.
“I’d know his walk,” the stranger cried,
“though sobered, I’ll allow.”
“I doubt it much,” the boss replied, “he
don’t walk that way now.”
“Perhaps he don’t!” the stranger said, “for
years were hard on Jack;
But, if he were a mile away, I swear I’d know his
back.”
“I doubt it much,” the super said, and sadly puffed his
briar,
“I guess he wears a pair of wings—Jack Dunn of
Nevertire;
Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
Brave Dunn of Nevertire,
He caught a fever nursing me, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.”
We took the stranger round to where a gum-tree stood alone,
And in the grass beside the trunk he saw a granite stone;
The names of Dunn and Nevertire were plainly written
there—
“I’m all broke up,” the stranger said, in sorrow
and despair,
“I guess he has a wider run, the man that I require;
He’s got a river-frontage now, Jack Dunn of Nevertire;
Straight Dunn of Nevertire,
White Jack from Nevertire,
I guess Saint Peter knew the name of ‘Dunn of
Nevertire.’”
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.
Down South by the bleak Bluff faring,
North where the Three Kings wait,
The storms of the South-east daring,
They race through the foam-tossed
strait;
Astern, where a white-winged roamer
Found death in the temptest’s
roar,
The wash of the foam-flaked comber
Runs green to the black-ribbed shore.
For the South-east lands are dread lands
To the sailor high 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 darkening bluff!
When the swell of the South-east rouses
The wrath of the Maori sprite,
And the brown folk flee their houses
To 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 in their rush and sweep;
The rounded hills in their places
With tussocks like flying sheep;
The storm-bird alone and soaring
O’er grasses and fern and tree;
And the beaches of boulder roaring
The Hymn of the Open Sea.
They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise;
May Carney looked up in the bushranger’s eyes:
“Oh! why did you come?—it was mad of you, Jack;
You know that the troopers are out on your track.”
A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head—
“I wanted a dance, and I’ll chance it,” he
said.
Some twenty-odd bushmen had come to the ball,
But Jack from his youth had been known to them all,
And bushmen are soft where a woman is fair,
So the love of May Carney protected him there;
And all the short evening—it seems like romance—
She danced with a bushranger taking his chance.
’Twas midnight—the dancers stood suddenly still,
For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill!
Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside
Came riding as only a bushman can ride.
He sprang from his horse, to the dancers he sped—
“The troopers are down in the gully!” he said.
Quite close to the homestead the troopers were seen.
“Clear out and ride hard for the ranges, Jack Dean!
Be quick!” said May Carney—her hand on her
heart—
“We’ll bluff them awhile, and ’twill give you a
start.”
He lingered a moment—to kiss her, of course—
Then ran to the trees where he’d hobbled his horse.
She ran to the gate, and the troopers were there—
The jingle of hobbles came faint on the air—
Then loudly she screamed: it was only to drown
The treacherous clatter of slip-rails let down.
But troopers are sharp, and she saw at a glance
That someone was taking a desperate chance.
They chased, and they shouted, “Surrender, Jack
Dean!”
They called him three times in the name of the Queen.
Then came from the darkness the clicking of locks;
The crack of the rifles was heard in the rocks!
A shriek and a shout, and a rush of pale men—
And there lay the bushranger, chancing it then.
The sergeant dismounted and knelt on the sod—
“Your bushranging’s over—make peace, Jack, with
God!”
The bushranger laughed—not a word he replied,
But turned to the girl who knelt down by his side.
He gazed in her eyes as she lifted his head:
“Just kiss me—my
girl—and—I’ll—chance it,” he
said.
I gaze upon my son once more,
With eyes and heart that tire,
As solemnly he stands before
The screen drawn round the fire;
With hands behind clasped hand in hand,
Now loosely and now fast—
Just as his fathers used to stand
For generations past.
A fair and slight and childish form,
And big brown thoughtful eyes—
God help him, for a life of storm
And stress before him lies.
A wanderer and a gipsy wild,
I’ve learnt the world and know,
For I was such another child—
Ah, many years ago!
But in those dreamy eyes of him
There is no hint of doubt—
I wish that you could tell me, Jim,
The things you dream about.
You are a child of field and flood,
For with the Gipsy strain
A strong Norwegian sailor’s blood
Runs red through every vein.
Dream on, my son, that all is true
And things not what they seem—
’Twill be a bitter day when you
Are wakened from your dream,
Be true, and slander never stings,
Be straight, and all may frown—
You’ll have the strength to grapple things
That dragged your father down.
These lines I write with bitter tears
And failing heart and hand,
But you will read in after years,
And you will understand:
You’ll hear the slander of the crowd,
They’ll whisper tales of shame,
But days will come when you’ll be proud
To bear your father’s name.
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 Farthest 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 dusts and
damps,
To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps,
To stir our hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and
ache—
(Ah! when she thinks again of these 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 sidlings 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 and cheerful glow—
New camps extend across the plains new routes for 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;
By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high,
Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky;
Past haunted half-way houses—where convicts made the
bricks—
Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six;
Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go;
A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co!
Tall and freckled and sandy,
Face of a country lout;
This was the picture of Andy,
Middleton’s Rouseabout.
Type of a coming nation,
In the land of cattle and sheep;
Worked on Middleton’s station,
Pound a week and his keep;
On Middleton’s wide dominions
Plied the stockwhip and shears;
Hadn’t any opinions,
Hadn’t any “idears”.
Swiftly the years went over,
Liquor and drought prevailed;
Middleton went as a drover
After his station had failed.
Type of a careless nation,
Men who are soon played out,
Middleton was:—and his station
Was bought by the Rouseabout.
Flourishing beard and sandy,
Tall and robust and stout;
This is the picture of Andy,
Middleton’s Rouseabout.
Now on his own dominions
Works with his overseers;
Hasn’t any opinions,
Hasn’t any idears.
With the frame of a man, and the face of a boy, and a
manner strangely wild,
And the great, wide, wondering, innocent eyes of a silent-suffering
child;
With his hideous dress and his heavy boots, he drags to
Eternity—
And the Warder says, in a softened tone: “Catch step,
One-Hundred-and-Three.”
’Tis a ghastly parody of drill—or a travesty of
work—
But One-Hundred-and-Three, he catches step with a start, a shuffle
and jerk.
He is silenced and starved and “drilled” in
goal—and a waster’s son was he,
His sins were written before he was born—(Keep step,
One-Hundred-and-Three!)
They shut a man in the four-by-eight, with a six-inch slit for
air,
Twenty-three hours of the twenty-four, to brood on his virtues
there.
The dead stone walls and the iron door close in like iron bands
On eyes that had followed the distant haze out there on the Level
Lands.
Bread and water and hominy, and a scrag of meat and a spud,
A Bible and thin flat Book of Rules, to cool a strong man’s
blood;
They take the spoon from the cell at night—and a stranger
would think it odd;
But a man might sharpen it on the floor, and go to his own Great
God.
One-Hundred-and-Three, it is hard to believe that you saddled
your horse at dawn,
And strolled through the bush with a girl at eve, or lolled with
her on the lawn.
There were picnic parties in sunny bays, and ships on the shining
sea;
There were foreign ports in the glorious days—(Hold up,
One-Hundred-and-Three!)
A man came out at exercise time from one of the cells
to-day:
’Twas the ghastly spectre of one I knew, and I thought he was
far away;
We dared not speak, but he signed
“Farewell—fare—well,” and I knew by
this
And the number stamped on his clothes (not sewn)
that a heavy sentence was his.
Where five men do the work of a boy, with warders not to
see—
It is sad and bad and uselessly mad, it is ugly as it can be,
From the flower-beds shaped to fit the gaol, in circle and line
absurd,
To the gilded weathercock on the church, agape like a strangled
bird—
Agape like a strangled bird in the sun, and I wonder what he
could see—
The Fleet come in, and the Fleet go out? (Hold up,
One-Hundred-and-Three!)
The glorious sea, and the bays and Bush, and the distant mountains
blue—
(Keep step, keep step, One-Hundred-and-Three, for my heart is
halting too)
The great, round church with its volume of sound, where we dare
not turn our eyes—
They take us there from our separate hells to sing of Paradise;
The High Church service swells and swells where the tinted Christs
look down—
It is easy to see who is weary and faint and weareth the thorny
crown.
Though every creed hath its Certain Hope, yet here, in hopless
doubt,
Despairing prisoners faint in church, and the warders carry them
out.
There are swift-made signs that are not to God as they march us
hellward then;
It is hard to believe that we knelt as boys to “For ever and
ever, Amen.”
They double-lock at four o’clock; the warders leave their
keys,
And the Governor strolls with a friend at eve through his stone
conservatories;
Their window-slits are like idiot mouths, with square stone chins
adrop,
And the weatherstains for the dribble, and the dead flat foreheads
atop.
Rules, regulations—Red Tape and rules; all and alike they
bind:
Under separate treatment place the deaf; in the dark cell shut the
blind!
And somewhere down in his sandstone tomb, with never a word to
save,
One-Hundred-and-Three is keeping step, as he’ll keep it to
his grave.
The press is printing its smug, smug lies, and paying its
shameful debt—
It speaks of the comforts that prisoners have, and
“holidays” prisoners get.
The visitors come with their smug, smug smiles through the gaol on
a working day,
And the public hears with its large, large ears what
“Authorities” have to say.
They lay their fingers on well-hosed walls, and they tread on
the polished floor;
They peep in the generous, shining cans with their ration Number
Four.
And the visitors go with their smug, smug smiles; the
reporters’ work is done;
Stand up! my men, who have done your time on Ration Number
One!
He shall be buried alive without meat, for a day and a night
unheard,
If he speak to a fellow-corpse—who died for want of a
word.
He shall be punished, and he shall be starved, and he shall in
darkness rot,
He shall be murdered body and soul—and God said, “Thou
shalt not!”
I’ve seen the remand-yard men go forth by the subway out
of the yard—
And I’ve seen them come in with a foolish grin and a sentence
of Three Years Hard.
They send a half-starved man to the Court, where the hearts of men
they carve—
Then feed him up in the hospital to give him the strength to
starve.
You get the gaol-dust in your throat, in your skin the dead
gaol-white;
You get the gaol-whine in your voice and in every letter you
write.
And in your eyes comes the bright gaol-light—not the glare of
the world’s distraught,
Not the hunted look, nor the guilty look, but the awful look of the
Caught.
The brute is a brute, and a kind man kind, and the strong heart
does not fail—
A crawler’s a crawler everywhere, but a man is a man in
gaol;
For the kindness of man to man is great when penned in a sandstone
pen—
The public call us the “criminal class.” but the
warders call us “the men.”
We crave for sunlight, we crave for meat, we crave for the
Might-have Been,
But the cruellest thing in the walls of a gaol is the craving for
nicotine.
Yet the spirit of Christ is in every place where the soul of a man
can dwell—
It comes like tobacco in prison, or like news to the separate
cell.
The champagne lady comes home from the course in charge of the
criminal swell—
They carry her in from the motor car to the lift in the Grand
Hotel;
But armed with the savage Habituals Act they are waiting for you
and me—
And drunkards in judgment on drunkards sit, (Keep step,
One-Hundred-and-Three!)
The clever scoundrels are all outside, and the moneyless mugs in
gaol—
Men do twelve months for a mad wife’s lies or Life for a
strumpet’s tale.
If the people knew what the warders know, and felt as the prisoners
feel—
If the people knew, they would storm their gaols as they stormed
the old Bastile.
Warders and prisoners all alike in a dead rot, dry and
slow—
The author must not write for his own, and the tailor must not
sew.
The billet-bound officers dare not speak and discharged men dare
not tell,
Though many and many an innocent man must brood in this barren
hell.
Ay! clang the spoon on the iron floor, and shove in the bread
with your toe,
And shut with a bang the iron door, and clank the bolt—just
so;
But One-Hundred-and-Three is near the End when the clonking
gaol-bell sounds—
He cannot swallow the milk they send when the doctor has gone his
rounds.
. . . . .
They have smuggled him out to the hospital with no one to tell
the tale,
But it’s little the doctors and nurses can do for the patient
from Starvinghurst Gaol.
The blanket and screen are ready to draw. . . .There are footsteps
light and free—
And the angels are whispering over his bed: “Keep step,
One-Hundred-and-Three!”
Wide solemn eyes that question me,
Wee hand that pats my head—
Where only two have stroked before,
And both of them are dead.
“Ah, poo-ah Daddy mine,” she says,
With wondrous sympathy—
Oh, baby girl, you don’t know how
You break the heart in me!
Let friends and kinsfolk work their worst,
And the world say what it will,
Your baby arms go round my neck—
I’m your own Daddy still!
And you kiss me and I kiss you,
Fresh kisses frank and free—
Ah, baby girl, you don’t know how
You break the heart in me!
When I was good I dreamed that when
The snow showed in my hair,
A household angel in her teens
Would flit about my chair,
To comfort me as I grew old;
But that shall never be—
Ah, baby girl, you don’t know how
You break the heart in me!
But one shall love me while I live
And soothe my troubled head,
And never hear an unkind word
Of me when I am dead.
Her eyes shall light to hear my name
Howe’er disgraced it be—
Ah, baby girl, you don’t know how
You break the heart in me!
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running
by,
Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky?
Have you heard the still voice calling, yet so warm, and yet so
cold:
“I’m the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you
are old”?
Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range,
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange!
Did you hear the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and
bold:
“I’m the Mother-bush that nursed you; Come to me when
you are old”?)
Through the long, vociferous cutting as the night train swiftly
sped,
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge
overhead:
“You have seen the seas and cities – all seems done and
all seems told;
I’m the Mother-Bush that loves you – come to me now you
are old”?
“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
With his thumb in the next man’s
back;
And Bogan says to his pen-mate: “Twig
The style of the last un, Jack.”
Jack Moonlight gives her a careless glance—
Then he catches his breath with
pain—
His strong hand shakes and the sunbeams 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 he knew or hoped or feared
Were hard for his mates to guess.
Jack Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow,
Explains, with a doleful smile:
“A stitch in the side,” and “I’m 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.
Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;
They’d only returned from a trip to the North,
And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.
He absently poured out a glass of Three Star.
And set down that drink with the rest of the bar.
“There, that is for Harry,” he said, “and
it’s queer,
’Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;
His name’s on the glass, you can read it like print,
He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;
I remember his drink—it was always Three
Star”—
And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.
He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
“You were always together—where’s Harry?”
cried he.
Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,
“You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;”
But one, gazing out o’er the ridges afar,
Said, “We owe him a shout—leave the glass on the
bar.”
They thought of the far-away grave on the plain,
They thought of the comrade who came not again,
They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
“We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.”
And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star
Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.
And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;
And often the strangers will read as they pass
The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.
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;
The golden sand is drifting
Across the rocky bars;
And over all for ever
Go sun and moon and stars.
But of the hut I builded
There are no traces now.
And many rains have levelled
The furrows of my plough;
The glad bright days have vanished;
For sombre branches wave
And the wattle-blossoms golden
Above my Mary’s grave.
A tall, slight, English gentleman,
With an eyeglass to his eye;
He mostly says “Good-bai” to you,
When he means to say
“Good-bye”;
He shakes hands like a ladies’ man,
For all the world to see—
But they know, in Corners of the World.
No ladies’ man is he.
A tall, slight English gentleman,
Who hates to soil his hands;
He takes his mother’s drawing-room
To most outlandish lands;
And when, through hells we dream not of
His battery prevails,
He cleans the grime of gunpowder
And polishes his nails.
He’s what our blokes in Egypt call
“A decent sort o’
cove.”
And if the Pyramids should fall?
He’d merely say “Bai
Jove!”
And if the stones should block his path
For one too boring day,
He’d call on Sergeant Whatsisname
To clear those things away!
A quiet English gentleman,
Frequents the Empire’s rim,
Where sweating sons of ebony
Would go to Hell for him.
And if he chances to get winged,
Or smashed up rather worse,
He’s quite apologetic to
The doctor and the nurse.
A silent English gentleman—
Though sometimes he says
“Haw.”
But should a monkey in its cage
Appeal to British Law
And justice on some bullying ape,
He’d listen most polite,
And do his very best to set
The monkey’s grievance right.
A thoroughbred whose ancestry
Goes back to ages dim;
No labourer on his wide estates
Need fear to speak to him.
Although he never showed a sign
Of aught save sympathy,
He was the only gentleman
That shamed the lout in me.
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 camped last night, and, at the day-dawn
glow,
I’ll 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.
We’re haunted by the Past at times—and this is very
bad,
Because we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go mad.
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-well—the Tar-boy and
the Wreck.
We know the tucker tracks that feed—or leave one in the
lurch—
The “Burgoo” (Presbyterian) track—the
“Murphy” (Roman Church).
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’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 gaol at home—(the straightest mate I
met)—
A ratty Russian Nihilist—a British Baronet!
A rouseabout of rouseabouts, above—beneath regard,
I know how soft is this old world, and I have learnt, how
hard—
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.
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.
Our Andy’s gone with cattle now—
Our hearts are out of order—
With Drought he’s gone to battle now
Across the Queensland border.
He’s left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving;
It’s dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.
Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?
Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy cross’d the Darling.
Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;
And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant ’twill bring us Andy.
He shall live to the end of this mad, old world, he has lived
since the world began,
He never has done any good for himself, but was good to every
man.
He never has done any good for himself, and I’m sure that he
never will;
He drinks and he swears, and he fights at times, and his name is
mostly Bill.
He carried a freezing mate to his cave, and nursed him, for all
I know,
When Europe was mostly a sheet of ice, thousands of years ago.
He has stuck to many a mate since then, he is with us everywhere
still—
He loves and gambles when he is young, and the girls stick up for
Bill.
He has rowed to a wreck, when the life-boat failed, with Jim in
a crazy boat;
He has given his lifebelt many a time, and sunk that another might
float.
He has “stood ’em off” while others escaped, when
the niggers rushed from the hill.
And rescue parties who came too late have found what was left of
Bill.
He has thirsted on deserts that others might drink, he has given
lest others should lack.
He has staggered half-blinded through fire or drought with a sick
man on his back.
He is first to the rescue in tunnel or shaft, from Bulli to Broken
Hill,
When the water breaks in or the fire breaks out, a leader of men is
Bill!
He wears no Humane Society’s badge for the fearful deaths
he braved;
He seems ashamed of the good he did, and ashamed of the lives he
saved.
If you chance to know of a noble deed he has done, you had best
keep still;
If you chance to know of a kindly act, you mustn’t let on to
Bill.
He is fierce at a wrong, he is firm in right, he is kind to the
weak and mild;
He will slave all day and sit up all night by the side of a
neighbour’s child.
For a woman in trouble he’d lay down his life, nor think as
another man will;
He’s a man all through, and no other man’s wife has
ever been worse for Bill.
He is good for the noblest sacrifice, he can do what few men
can;
He will break his heart that the girl he loves may marry a better
man.
There’s many a mother and wife to-night whose heart and eyes
will fill
When she thinks of the days of the long-ago when she well might
have stuck to Bill.
Maybe he’s in trouble or hard up now, and travelling far
for work,
Or fighting a dead past down to-night in a lone camp west of
Bourke.
When he’s happy and flush, take your sorrow to him and borrow
as much as you will;
But when he’s in trouble or stony-broke, you never will hear
from Bill.
And when, because of its million sins, this earth is cracked
like a shell,
He will stand by a mate at the Judgment Seat!—and comfort him
down in—Well,—
I haven’t much sentiment left to waste, but let cynics sneer
as they will,
Perhaps God will fix up the world again for the sake of the likes
of Bill.
We tried to get over the Bar to-day,
To-day on the morning tide:
But whether I go, or whether I stay
Let Fate and the Bar decide;
But my Love—New Love—with your eyes of grey,
The weary world is wide!
We kedged her in and we poled her back
In time from the ebbing tide,
For the sky was grey, and the rocks were black,
And the rollers broke outside.
And it’s oh, my Love, but the lines are slack,
And the weary world is wide.
We’d try to get over the Bar to-night,
To-night on the higher tide;
But the moon is dull that last night was bright
And the world is dark outside.
Oh, Love—New Love!—why your face so white,
And the weary world so wide?
We tried to get over the Bar to-day,
To-morrow we’ll try again—
Oh, Love! New Love of the grey eyes, say,
Is the strife of man in vain?
The glass might lie, and the needle stray,
But the path of love is plain!
When over the Bar, there is no return
In the time of the autumn gales—
But whether the sea or the bush it be,
The heart of a man prevails—
Oh, Love! New Love, will you watch the sea
Where your Bushman sailor sails?
When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn’t
white,
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you’ll reach to-morrow
night,
You may be a man of sorrow, and on speaking terms with Care,
But as yet you’re unacquainted with the Demon of Despair;
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch
behind.
I have noticed when misfortune strikes the hero of the play
That his clothes are worn and tattered in a most unlikely way;
And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs
around,
But they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound;
Yet, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his
care
If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair.
You are none the less a hero if you elevate your chin
When you feel the pavement wearing through the leather, sock and
skin;
You are rather more heroic than are ordinary folk
If you scorn to fish for pity under cover of a joke;
You will face the doubtful glances of the people that you know;
But—of course, you’re bound to face them when your
pants begin to go.
If, when flush, you took your pleasure—failed to make a
god of Pelf—
Some will say that for your troubles you can only thank
yourself;
Some will swear you’ll die a beggar, but you only laugh at
that
While your garments hang together and you wear a decent hat;
You may laugh at their predictions while your soles are wearing
through—
But a man’s an awful coward when his pants are going too!
Though the present and the future may be anything but
bright,
It is best to tell the fellows that you’re getting on all
right.
And a man prefers to say it—’tis a manly lie to
tell,
For the folks may be persuaded that you’re doing very
well;
But it’s hard to be a hero, and it’s hard to wear a
grin,
When your most important garment is in places very thin.
Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you
best,
Then your sorrows won’t run over in the presence of the
rest;
There’s a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to
whine,
He’ll declare your coat is tidy, and he’ll say:
“Just look at mine!”
Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesn’t
show,
And he’ll swear it can’t be noticed when your pants
begin to go.
Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard, but do not
fret,
Keep your courage up and struggle, and we’ll laugh at these
things yet.
Though there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some—
Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come!
We shall often laugh together at the hard times that we know,
And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to go.
A cloud of dust on the long, white road,
And the teams go creeping on
Inch by inch with the weary load;
And by the power of the green-hide goad
The distant goal is won.
With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,
And necks to the yokes bent low,
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;
And the shining tires might almost rust
While the spokes are turning slow.
With face half-hid by a broad-brimmed hat,
That shades from the heat’s white
waves,
And shouldered whip, with its green-hide plait,
The driver plods with a gait like that
Of his weary, patient slaves.
He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,
And spits to the left with spite;
He shouts at Bally, and flicks at Scot,
And raises dust from the back of Spot,
And spits to the dusty right.
He’ll sometimes pause as a thing of form
In front of a settler’s door,
And ask for a drink, and remark “It’s warm,”
Or say "There’s signs of a thunderstorm;”
But he seldom utters more.
The rains are heavy on roads like these
And, fronting his lonely home,
For days together the settler sees
The waggons bogged to the axletrees,
Or ploughing the sodden loam.
And then, when the roads are at their worst,
The bushman’s children hear
The cruel blows of the whips reversed
While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,
And bellow with pain and fear.
And thus—with glimpses of home and rest—
Are the long, long journeys done;
And thus—’tis a thankless life at the best!—
Is Distance fought in the mighty West,
And the lonely battle won.
The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull
and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the
wanderers go;
Greater or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull
roadside—
And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when the
world was wide.
When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and
the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our
boyhood’s view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks
of pride.
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world
was wide.
Then a man could fight if his heart were bold, and win if his
faith were true—
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts
pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family
pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong and shame in the days when the
world was wide.
They roved away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled
the main,
When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed as ’twill
never prevail again;
They knew not whither, nor much they cared—let Fate or the
winds decide—
The worst of the Great Unknown they dared in the days when the
world was wide.
They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts
with awe;
They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they
saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told, and old eyes glistened
with pride—
When barbarous cities were paved with gold in the days when the
world was wide.
’Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the
Outward Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good—roaming the wide
world round.
The gods could envy a leader then when “Follow me,
lads!” he cried—
They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the
world was wide!
They tried to live as a freeman should—they were happier
men than we,
In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the
sea;
’Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword
well-tried—
They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the
world was wide.
The good ship bound for the Southern Seas when the beacon was
Ballarat,
With a “Ship ahoy!” on the freshening breeze,
“Where bound?” and “What ship’s
that?”—
The emigrant train to New Mexico—the rush to the
Lachlan-side—
Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho! from the days when the world
was wide.
South, East, and West in advance of Time—and far in
advance of Thought—
Brave men they were with a faith sublime—and is it for this
they fought?
And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that
died
At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days with the days when the world
was wide?
* * * * * * *
With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour the dreary year
drags round:
Is this the result of Old England’s power?—the bourne
of the Outward Bound?
Is this the sequel of Westward Ho!—of the days of
Whate’er Betide?
The heart of the rebel makes answer “No! We’ll fight
till the world grows wide!”
The world shall yet be a wider world—for the tokens are
manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South
and West.
The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate’er
betide!
Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows
wide!
Out there by the rocks, at the end of the bank,
In the mouth of the river, the Wanderer sank.
She is resting where meet the blue water and green,
And only her masts and her funnel are seen;
And you see, when is fading the sunset’s last fleck,
On her foremast a lantern—a light on a wreck.
’Tis a light on a wreck, warning ships to beware
Of the drowned iron hull of
the Wanderer there;
And the ships that come in and go out in the night
Keep a careful lookout for
the Wanderer’s light.
There are rules for the harbour and rules for the wave;
But all captains steer clear of a ship in her grave.
And the stories of strong lives that ended in wrecks
Might be likened to lights over derelict decks;
Like the light where, in sight of the streets of the town,
In the mouth of the channel the Wanderer went
down.
Keep a watch from the desk, as they watch from the deck;
Keep a watch from your home for the light on the wreck.
But the lights on the wrecks since creation began
Have been shining in vain for the vagabond clan.
They will never take warning, they will not beware,
For they hold for their watchwords, “What matter?”
“What care?”
And they sail without compass, they sail without check,
Till they steer to their grave ’neath a light on a wreck.
Out west, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead gleam whitest
And the sun on a desert glows—
Yet within the selfish kingdom
Where man starves man for gain,
Where white men tramp for existence—
Wide lies the Great Grey Plain.
No break in its awful horizon,
No blur in the dazzling haze,
Save where by the bordering timber
The fierce, white heat-waves blaze,
And out where the tank-heap rises
Or looms when the sunlights wane,
Till it seems like a distant mountain
Low down on the Great Grey Plain.
From the camp, while the rich man’s dreaming,
Come the “traveller” and his
mate,
In the ghastly daybreak seeming
Like a swagman’s ghost out late;
And the horseman blurs in the distance,
While still the stars remain,
A low, faint dust-cloud haunting
His track on the Great Grey Plain.
And all day long from before them
The mirage smokes away—
That daylight ghost of an ocean
Creeps close behind all day
With an evil, snake-like motion,
As the waves of a madman’s brain:
’Tis a phantom not like water
Out there on the Great Grey Plain.
There’s a run on the Western limit
Where a man lives like a beast,
And a shanty in the mulga
That stretches to the East;
And the hopeless men who carry
Their swags and tramp in pain—
The footmen must not tarry
Out there on the Great Grey Plain.
Out West, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead seem whitest,
And the sun on a desert glows—
Out back in the hungry distance
That brave hearts dare in vain—
Where swagmen tramp for existence—
There lies the Great Grey Plain.
The boy cleared out to the city from his home at the harvest
time—
They were Scots of the Riverina, and to run from home was a
crime.
The old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned,
And he scratched his name from the Bible when the old wife’s
back was turned.
A year went past and another. There were calls from the
firing-line;
They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign.
His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai—
They were Scots of the Riverina with ever the kirk hard by.
The boy came home on his “final,” and the
township’s bonfire burned.
His mother’s arms were about him; but the old man’s
back was turned.
The daughters begged for pardon till the old man raised his
hand—
A Scot of the Riverina who was hard to understand.
The boy was killed in Flanders, where the best and bravest
die.
There were tears at the Grahame homestead and grief in
Gundagai;
But the old man ploughed at daybreak and the old man ploughed till
the mirk—
There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his household went
to the kirk.
The hurricane lamp in the rafters dimly and dimly burned;
And the old man died at the table when the old wife’s back
was turned.
Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey
hair
Outspread o’er the open Bible and a name re-written
there.
The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks
of drought.
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were
all cut out;
The publican’s words were short and few, and the
publican’s looks were black—
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out
Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs
and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to
guide;
All day long in the dust and heat—when summer is on the
track—
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags
Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long
and hot.
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or
not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they
lack,
But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out
Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks
once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations
shore:
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was
slack—
The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year
Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the
air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like
lead.
Or in times of flood, when plains were seas, and the scrubs were
cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins
Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew
dim;
He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself
to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary
track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down
Out Back.
It chanced one day when the north wind blew in his face like a
furnace-breath,
He left the track for a tank he knew—’twas a shorter
cut to death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a
crack,
And, oh! it’s a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub
Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a
mile;
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his
while.
The tanks are full, and the grass is high in the mulga off the
track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag
Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains
and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to
guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside
track,
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, must carry their swags
Out Back.
An hour before the sun goes down
Behind the ragged boughs,
I go across the little run
And bring the dusty cows;
And once I used to sit and rest
Beneath the fading dome,
For there was one that I loved best
Who’d bring the cattle home.
Our yard is fixed with double bails,
Round one the grass is green,
The Bush is growing through the rails,
The spike is rusted in;
It was from there his freckled face
Would turn and smile at me;
He’d milk seven in the race
While I was milking three.
He kissed me twice and once again
And rode across the hill,
The pint-pots and the hobble-chain
I hear them jingling still . . .
About the hut the sunlight fails,
And the fire shines through the
cracks—
I climb the broken stockyard rails
And watch the bridle-tracks.
And he is coming back again—
He wrote from Evatt’s Rock;
A flood was in the Darling then
And foot-rot in the flock.
The sheep were falling thick and fast
A hundred miles from town,
And when he reached the line at last
He trucked the remnant down.
And so he’ll have to stand the cost;
His luck was always bad,
Instead of making more, he lost
The money that he had;
And how he’ll manage, heaven knows
(My eyes are getting dim),
He says—he says—he don’t—suppose
I’ll
want—to—marry—him.
As if I wouldn’t take his hand
Without a golden glove—
Oh! Jack, you men won’t understand
How much a girl can love.
I long to see his face once more—
Jack’s dog! thank God, it’s
Jack!—
(I never thought I’d faint before)
He’s coming—up—the
track.
There’s a wind that blows out of the South in the
drought,
And we pray for the touch of his breath
When siroccos come forth from the Nor’-West and North,
Or in dead calms of fever and death.
With eyes glad and dim we should sing him a hymn,
For depression and death are his foes;
Oh. it gives us new life for the bread-winning strife
When the glorious Old Southerly blows.
Old Southerly Buster! your forces you muster
Where seldom a wind bloweth twice,
And your white-caps have hint of the snow caps, and glint of
The far-away barriers of ice.
No wind the wide sea on can sing such a paean.
Or do the great work that you do;
Our Own Wind and Only, from seas wild and lonely—
Old Southerly Buster!—To you!
The yachts cut away at the close of the day
From the breakers commencing to comb,
For a few he may swamp in the health-giving romp
With the friendly Old Southerly home.
Oh, softly he plays through the city’s hot ways
To the beds where they’re calling
“Come, quick!”
He is gentle and mild round the feverish child,
And he cools the hot brow of the sick.
’Tis a glorious mission. Old Sydney’s
Physician!—
Broom, Bucket, and Cloth of the East!
’Tis a breeze and a sprayer that answers our prayer,
And it’s free to the greatest and
least.
The red-lamp’s a warning to drought and its
scorning—
A sign to the city at large—
Hence, Headache and Worry! Despondency, hurry!
Old Southerly Buster’s in charge.
Old Southerly Buster! your forces you muster
Where seldom a wind bloweth twice,
And your white-caps have hint of the snow caps, and glint of
The far-away barriers of ice.
No wind the wide sea on can sing such a paean,
Or do the great work that you do;
Our Own Wind and Only, from seas wild and lonely—
Old Southerly Buster!—To you!
(To J. Le Gay Brereton)
So the days of my riding are over,
The days of my tramping are done—
I’m about as content as a rover
Will ever be under the sun;
I write, after reading your letter—
My mind 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.”
I feel the respect without feigning,
And 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
You never went drinking with me,
And forget our Last Nights 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
Will be misconstrued 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.
No doubt you are dreaming as I did
And going the careless old pace,
But my future grows dull and decided,
And the world narrow’s 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.
She’s England yet! The nations never knew her;
Or, if they knew, were ready to forget.
She made new worlds that paid no homage to her,
Because she called for none as for a
debt.
The bullying Power who deemed all nations craven,
And that her star of destiny had set,
Was sure that she would seek a coward’s haven —
And tempted her, and found her England
yet!
We learn our England, and we soon forget,
To learn again that she is England yet!
They watched Britannia ever looking forward,
But could not see the things her children
saw.
They watched in Southern seas her boats pull shoreward,
But only marked the eyeglass, heard the
“Haw!”
In tents, and bungalows, and outpost stations,
Thin white men ruled for her, unseen,
unheard,
Till millions of strange races and far nations
Were ready to obey her at a word.
We learn our England, and in peace forget,
To learn in storm that she is England yet.
She’s England yet; and men shall doubt no longer;
And mourn no longer for what she has
been.
She’ll be a greater England and a stronger —
A better England than the world has
seen.
Our own, who reck not of a king’s regalia,
Tinsel of crowns, and courts that fume and
fret,
Are fighting for her — fighting for Australia —
And blasphemously hail her “England
Yet!”
She’s England yet, with little to regret —
Ay, more than ever, she’ll be England yet!
1917
Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
Comes riding home again.
And well his stock-horse bears him,
And light of heart is he,
And stoutly his old packhorse
Is trotting by his knee.
Up Queensland way with cattle
He’s travelled regions vast,
And many months have vanished
Since home-folk saw him last.
He hums a song of someone
He hopes to marry soon;
And hobble-chains and camp-ware
Keep jingling to the tune.
Beyond the hazy dado
Against the lower skies
And yon blue line of ranges
The station homestead lies.
And thitherward the drover
Jogs through the lazy noon,
While hobble-chains and camp-ware
Are jingling to a tune.
An hour has filled the heavens
With storm-clouds inky black;
At times the lightning trickles
Around the drover’s track;
But Harry pushes onward,
His horses’ strength he tries,
In hope to reach the river
Before the flood shall rise.
The thunder pealing o’er him
Goes rumbling down the plain;
And sweet on thirsty pastures
Beats fast the plashing rain;
Then every creek and gully
Sends forth its tribute flood—
The river runs a banker,
All stained with yellow mud.
Now Harry speaks to Rover,
The best dog on the plains,
And to his hardy horses,
And strokes their shaggy manes:
“We’ve breasted bigger rivers
When floods were at their height
Nor shall this gutter stop us
From getting home to-night!”
The thunder growls a warning,
The blue, forked lightnings gleam;
The drover turns his horses
To swim the fatal stream.
But, oh! the flood runs stronger
Than e’er it ran before;
The saddle-horse is failing,
And only half-way o’er!
When flashes next the lightning,
The flood’s grey breast is blank;
A cattle dog and packhorse
Are struggling up the bank.
But in the lonely homestead
The girl shall wait in vain—
He’ll never pass the stations
In charge of stock again.
The faithful dog a moment
Lies panting on the bank,
Then plunges through the current
To where his master sank.
And round and round in circles
He fights with failing strength,
Till, gripped by wilder waters,
He fails and sinks at length.
Across the flooded lowlands
And slopes of sodden loam
The packhorse struggles bravely
To take dumb tidings home;
And mud-stained, wet, and weary,
He goes by rock and tree,
With clanging chains and tinware
All sounding eerily.
The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush
and town;
My spirit revives in the morning breeze, though it died when the
sun went down;
The river is high and the stream is strong, and the grass is green
and tall,
And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world
after all.
The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well
read,
The glorious thrill, in a heart grown cold, of the spirit I thought
was dead,
A song that goes to a comrade’s heart, and a tear of pride
let fall—
And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after
all!
Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks, and theirs be the
fault or shame
(The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to
blame);
Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good
recall;
For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after
all.
It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was
blind;
But I’ll keep my face to the dawning light, though the devil
may stand behind!
Though the devil may stand behind my back, shall I see his shadow
fall?
I’ll read in the light of the morning stars—a good
world after all.
Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl—you have driven the
worst away—
The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart
to-day;
We’ll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight
shadows fall;
My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after
all.
A day of seeming innocence,
A glorious sun and sky,
And, just above my picket fence,
Black Bonnet passing by.
In knitted gloves and quaint old dress,
Without a spot or smirch,
Her worn face lit with peacefulness,
Old Granny goes to church.
Her hair is richly white, like milk,
That long ago was fair—
And glossy still the old black silk
She keeps for “chapel
wear”;
Her bonnet, of a bygone style
That long has passed away,
She must have kept a weary while
Just as it is to-day.
The parasol of days gone by—
Old days that seemed the best—
The hymn and prayer books carried high
Against her warm, thin breast;
As she had clasped—come smiles come tears,
Come hardship, aye, and worse—
On market days, through faded years,
The slender household purse.
Although the road is rough and steep,
She takes it with a will,
For, since she hushed her first to sleep
Her way has been uphill.
Instinctively I bare my head
(A sinful one, alas!)
Whene’er I see, by church bells led,
Brave Old Black Bonnet pass.
For she has known the cold and heat
And dangers of the Track:
Has fought bush-fires to save the wheat
And little home Out Back.
By barren creeks the Bushman loves,
In stockyard, hut, and pen,
The withered hands in those old gloves
Have done the work of men.
* * * * * * * * * *
They called it “Service” long ago
When Granny yet was young,
And in the chapel, sweet and low,
As girls her daughters sung.
And when in church she bends her head
(But not as others do)
She sees her loved ones, and her dead,
And hears their voices too.
Fair as the Saxons in her youth,
Not forward, and not shy;
And strong in healthy life and truth
As after years went by;
She often laughed with sinners vain,
Yet passed from faith to sight—
God gave her beauty back again
The more her hair grew white.
She came out in the Early Days,
(Green seas, and blue—and grey)
—
The village fair, and English ways,
Seemed worlds and worlds away.
She fought the haunting loneliness
Where brooding gum trees stood;
And won through sickness and distress
As Englishwomen could.
* * * * * * * * *
By verdant swath and ivied wall
The congregation’s seen—
White nothings where the shadows fall,
Black blots against the green.
The dull, suburban people meet
And buzz in little groups,
While down the white steps to the street
A quaint old figure stoops.
And then along my picket fence
Where staring wallflowers grow—
World-wise Old Age, and Common-sense!—
Black Bonnet, nodding slow.
But not alone; for on each side
A little dot attends
In snowy frock and sash of pride,
And these are Granny’s friends.
To them her mind is clear and bright,
Her old ideas are new;
They know her “real talk” is right,
Her “fairy talk” is true.
And they converse as grown-ups may,
When all the news is told;
The one so wisely young to-day,
The two so wisely old.
At home, with dinner waiting there,
She smooths her hair and face,
And puts her bonnet by with care
And dons a cap of lace.
The table minds its p’s and q’s
Lest one perchance be hit
By some rare dart which is a part
Of her old-fashioned wit.
* * * * * * * * * *
Her son and son’s wife are asleep,
She puts her apron on—
The quiet house is hers to keep,
With all the youngsters gone.
There’s scarce a sound of dish on dish
Or cup slipped into cup,
When left alone, as is her wish,
Black Bonnet “washes up!”
They say, in all kindness. I’m out of the hunt—
Too old and too deaf to be sent to the Front.
A scribbler of stories, a maker of songs,
To the fireside and armchair my valour belongs.
Yet in hopeless campaigns and in bitterest strife
I have been at the Front all the days of my life.
Oh, your girl feels a princess, your people are proud,
As you march down the street to the cheers of the crowd;
And the Nation’s behind you and cloudless your sky.
And you come back to Honour, or gloriously die;
But for each thing that brightens, and each thing that
cheers,
I have starved in the trenches these forty long years.
My army, O my army! The time I dreamed of comes!
I want to see your colours; I long to hear your drums!
I heard them in my boyhood when all men’s hearts seemed
cold;
I heard them through the Years of Life—and now I’m
growing old!
My army, O my army! The signs are manifold!
My army, O my army! My army and my Queen!
I sang your Southern battle-songs when I was seventeen!
They echoed down the Ages, they came from far and near;
They came to me from Paris, they came to me from Here!—
They came while I was marching with the Army of the Rear.
My Queen’s dark eyes were flashing (oh, she was younger
then!)
My Queen’s Red Cap was redder than the reddest blood of
men!
My Queen marched like an Amazon, with anger manifest—
Her wild hair darkly matted from a knife-gash in her breast
(For blood will flow where milk will not—her sisters knew the
rest).
My legions ne’er were listed, they had no need to be;
My army ne’er was trained to arms—’twas trained
to misery!
It took long years to mould it, but war could never drown
The shuffling of my army’s feet at drill in Hunger
Town—
A little child was murdered, and so Tyranny went down.
My army kept no order, my army kept no time;
My army dug no trenches, yet died in dust and slime;
Its troops were fiercely ignorant, as to the manner born;
Its clothes were rags and tatters—patched rags, the patches
torn—
Ah, me! It wore a uniform that I have often worn.
The faces of my army were ghastly as the dead;
My army’s cause was Hunger, my army’s cry was
“Bread!”
It called on God and Mary and Christ of Nazareth;
It cried to kings and courtesans that fainted at its
breath—
Its women beat their poor, flat breasts where babes had starved to
death.
* * * * * * * * * *
My army! O my army—I hear the sound of drums
Above the roar of battle—and, lo, my army comes!
Nor creed of man may stay it—nor war, nor nations’
law—
The pikes go through the firing-lines as pitchforks go through
straw—
Like pitchforks through the litter—while empires stand in
awe!
The valley’s full of misty cloud,
Its tinted beauty drowning,
Tree-tops are veiled in fleecy shrouds,
And mountain fronts are frowning.
The mist is hanging like a pall
From many granite ledges,
And many a silvery waterfall
Leaps o’er the valley’s
edges.
The sky is of a leaden grey,
Save where the north looks surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o’er us early.
Dear L ove, the rain will pass full soon,
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.
Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her
daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral yet seen on Talbragar.
By
station home
And
shearing shed
Ben
Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll
up at Talbragar!”
He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas
Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to
leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms until the day was done,
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s
Run.
No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.
By
diggers’ camps
Ben
Duggan sped—
At
each he cried. “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll
up at Talbragar!”
That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the
ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s
Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the
rise—
Did moonbeams glisten in the mist of tears that filled his
eyes?
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they
are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on
Talbragar.
At
Blackman’s Run
Before
the dawn
Ben
Duggan cried. “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll
up at Talbragar!”
At all the shanties round the place they heard his horse’s
tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the
diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were
black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late—and then he heard the swift hoof’s
sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.
“The
wretch is drunk,
And
Denver’s dead—
A
burning shame!” the people said
Next
day at Talbragar.
For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in
strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas Day rough Bushmen’s
eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan lying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar.
And
far and wide
When
Duggan died.
The
bushmen of the western side
Rode
in to Talbragar.
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 sidling
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 they can dance no more,
For a certain favoured party
There’s a shakedown 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 sliprails
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 shakedown on the floor.
Rock me hard in steerage cabins,
Rock me soft in first saloons,
Lay me on the sandhill lonely
Under waning Western moons;
But wherever night may find me—
Till I rest for evermore—
I shall dream that I am happy
In the shakedown on the floor.
He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago,
And his shingle bore the legend “Peter Anderson and
Co.”,
But his real name was Careless, as the fellows
understood—
And his relatives decided that he wasn’t any good.
’Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any
“character” he had—
He was fond of beer and leisure—and the Co. was just as
bad.
It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co.—
’Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was
Joe.
’Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken
years:
Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers.
They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce—
Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce.
Some are wanderers by profession, “turning up” and gone
as soon,
Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it’s cheap they go
saloon);
Free from “ists” and “isms”, troubled
little by belief or doubt—
Lazy, purposeless, and useless—knocking round and hanging
out.
They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can
give,
God alone knows how they manage—God alone knows how they
live!
They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the
while—
Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile!
They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome
“if” or “might”,
But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight—they are men who live
at night!
Peter met you always smiling, always seemed to know you
well,
Always gay and glad to see you, and always had a joke to tell;
He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was
blue,
Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too.
Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest,
And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest.
Seldom serious—doing business just as ’twere a friendly
game—
Cards or billiards—nothing graver. And the Co. was much the
same.
They tried everything and nothing ’twixt the shovel and
the press,
And were more or less successful in their ventures—mostly
less.
Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for
debt,
And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet.
Now and then they’d take an office, as they called
it,—make a dash
Into business life as “Agents”—something not
requiring cash.
(You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit
fails,
With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch
nails—
And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints,
And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz).
The office was their haven, for they lived there when
hard-up—
A “daily” for a table cloth—a jam tin for a
cup;
If, perchance, the landlord’s bailiff happened round in times
like these
And seized the office-fittings—well, there wasn’t much
to seize—
They would leave him in possession. But at times when things grew
hot
They would shoot the moon, and open where the landlord knew them
not.
And when morning brought the bailiff there’d be nothing to be
seen
Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant’s plate had
been;
There would be no sign of Peter—there would be no sign of
Joe
But another portal boasted “Peter Anderson and Co.”
And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private
bars—
Spicy parties at the cafe—long cab-drives beneath the
stars;
Private picnics down the Harbour—shady campings-out, you
know—
No one would have dreamed ’twas Peter—no one would have
thought ’twas Joe!
Free-and-easies in their ‘diggings”, when the funds
began to fail,
Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale—
Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters
crow—
And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.
But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,
For it can’t go on for ever, and it never lasted long.
* * * * * * * * * *
Debt-collecting ruined Peter—people talked him round too
oft,
For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.’s was just as
soft);
He would cheer the haggard missus, and he’d tell her not to
fret,
And he’d ask the worried debtor round with him to have a
wet;
He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and
her,
After each of Peter’s visits, things were brighter than they
were.
But, of course, it wasn’t business—only Peter’s
careless way;
And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn’t
pay.
They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.
Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.
“I might live,” he said to Peter, “but I
haven’t got the nerve—
I am going, Peter, going—going, going—no reserve.
Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die,
Buy experience—and we bought it—we’re
experienced, you and I.”
Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his
brow—
‘The death of such philosophy’s the death I’m
dying now.
Pull yourself together, Peter; ’Tis the dying wish of Joe
That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co.
Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had—
See if you can raise a drink, old man, I’m feelin’
mighty bad—
Hot and sweetened, nip o’ butter—squeeze o’
lemon, Pete,” he sighed.
And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep—and
died
With a smile—anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come,
Or a joke to try on Peter—or, perhaps, it was the rum.
* * * * * * * * * *
Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard
swerves—
At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered
nerves.
It was awful, more than awful, but he had no time to
think—
All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses—dead
man’s drink.
* * * * * * * * * *
Peter mourned his buried comrade, feeling beaten and bereft,
Paid the undertaker cash, and then got drunk on what was left.
Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the
Co.,
And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.
There, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might
be,
Or the man he might have been, or by spectres of the three,
And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair,
Peter pulled himself together and he started business there.
In a town of wrecks and failures—they appreciated
him—
Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the
swim;
They would ask him who the Co. was—that queer company he
kept—
And he’d always answer vaguely—he would say his partner
slept;
That he had a sleeping partner—jesting while his spirit
broke—
And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a
joke.
He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had
breath—
No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death;
Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no
more—
He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,
And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb’ring
run
Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun;
And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,
With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.
Well, they analysed the liquor, and the doctor said that he
Had mixed his drink with something good for setting spirits
free.
But said “He’s gone to look for Joseph,” that was
what thetownsfolk said;
And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found—that he was
dead.
The creek went down with a broken song,
’Neath the sheoaks high;
The waters carried the tune along,
And the oaks a sigh.
The song and the sigh went winding by,
Went winding down;
Circling the foot of the mountain high,
And the hillside brown.
They were hushed in the swamp of the Dead Man’s Crime,
Where the curlews cried;
But they reached the river the self-same time,
And there they died.
And the creek of life goes winding on,
Wandering by;
And bears for ever, its course upon,
A song and a sigh.
One day old Trooper Campbell
Rode out to Blackman’s Run;
His cap-peak and his sabre
Were glancing in the sun.
’Twas New Year’s Eve, and slowly
Across the ridges low
The sad Old Year was drifting
To where the old years go.
The trooper’s mind was reading
The love-page of his life—
His love for Mary Wylie
Ere she was Blackman’s wife;
He sorrowed for the sorrows
Of the heart a rival won,
For he knew that there was trouble
Out there on Blackman’s Run.
The sapling shades had lengthened,
The summer day was late,
When Blackman met the trooper
Beyond the homestead gate.
And if the hand of trouble
Can leave a lasting trace,
The lines of care had come to stay
On poor old Blackman’s face.
“Not good day, Trooper Campbell,
It’s a bad, bad day for me—
You are of all the men on earth
The one I wished to see.
The great black clouds of trouble
Above our homestead hang;
That wild and reckless boy of mine
Has joined M’Durmer’s gang.
“Oh! save him, save him, Campbell!
I beg in friendship’s name!
For if they take and hang him,
The wife would die of shame.
Could Mary or her sisters
Hold up their heads again,
And face a woman’s malice
Or claim the love of men?
“And if he does a murder
We all were better dead.
Don’t take him living, Trooper,
If a price be on his head;
But shoot him! shoot him, Campbell,
When you meet him face to face,
And save him from the gallows—
And us from that disgrace.”
“Now, Tom,” cried Trooper Campbell,
“You know your words are wild.
Wild though he is and reckless,
Yet still he is your child;
Bear up and face your trouble,
Yes, meet it like a man,
And tell the wife and daughters
I’ll save him if I can.”
* * * * * * * * *
The sad Australian sunset
Had faded from the west;
But night brings darker shadows
To hearts that cannot rest;
And Blackman’s wife sat rocking
And moaning in her chair.
“Oh, the disgrace, disgrace,” she moaned;
“Its more than I can bear.
“In hardship and in trouble
I struggled year by year
To make my children better
Than other children here.
And if my son’s a felon
How can I show my face?
I cannot bear disgrace; my God,
I cannot bear disgrace!
“Ah, God in Heaven pardon!
I’m selfish in my woe—
My boy is better-hearted
Than many that I know.
And I will face the world’s disgrace,
And, till his mother’s dead,
My foolish child shall find a place
To lay his outlawed head.”
* * * * * * * * *
With a sad heart Trooper Campbell
Rode back from Blackman’s Run,
Nor noticed aught about him
Till thirteen miles were done;
When, close beside a cutting,
He heard the click of locks,
And saw the rifle muzzles
Were on him from the rocks.
But suddenly a youth rode out,
And, close by Campbell’s side:
“Don’t fire! don’t fire, in heaven’s
name!
It’s Campbell, boys!” he
cried.
Then one by one in silence
The levelled rifles fell,
For who’d shoot Trooper Campbell
Of those who knew him well?
Oh, bravely sat old Campbell,
No sign of fear showed he.
He slowly drew his carbine;
It rested by his knee.
The outlaws’ guns were lifted,
But none the silence broke,
Till steadfastly and firmly
Old Trooper Campbell spoke.
“That boy that you would ruin
Goes home with me, my men;
Or some of us shall never
Ride through the Gap again.
You know old Trooper Campbell,
And have you ever heard
That bluff or lead could turn him,
That e’er he broke his word?
“That reckless lad is playing
A heartless villain’s part;
He knows that he is breaking
His poor old mother’s
heart.
He’s going straight to ruin;
But ’tis not that alone,
He’ll bring dishonour to a name
That I’d be proud to own.
“I speak to you, M’Durmer,—
If your heart’s not hardened
quite,
And if you’d seen the trouble
At Blackman’s home this night,
You’d help me now, M’Durmer—
I speak as man to man—
I swore to save that foolish lad,
And I’ll save him if I
can.”
“Oh, take him!” said M’Durmer,
“He’s got a horse to ride. . .
. ”
The youngster thought a moment,
Then rode to Campbell’s side. . .
.
“Good-bye!” young Blackman shouted,
As up the range they sped.
“Luck for the New Year, Campbell,”
Was all M’Durmer said.
* * * * * * * * *
Then fast along the ridges
Two bushmen rode a race,
And the moonlight lent a glory
To Trooper Campbell’s face.
And ere the new year’s dawning
They reached the homestead gate—
“I found him,” said the Trooper
“And not, thank God, too
late!”
Did you hear the children singing, O my
brothers?
Did you hear the children singing as our troops went marching
past?
In the sunshine and
the rain,
As they’ll
never sing again—
Hear the little school-girls singing as our troops went swinging
past?
Did you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Did you hear the children singing for the first man and the
last?
As they marched
away and vanished,
To a tune we
thought was banished—
Did you hear the children singing for the future and the past?
Shall you hear the children singing, O my brothers?
Shall you hear the children singing in the sunshine or the
rain?
There’ll be
sobs beneath the ringing
Of the cheers, and
’neath the singing
There’ll be tears of orphan children when Our Boys come
back again!
A son of elder sons I am,
Whose boyhood days were cramped and
scant,
Through ages of domestic sham
And family lies and family cant.
Come, elder brothers mine, and bring
Dull loads of care that you have won,
And gather round me while I sing
The ballad of the elder son.
’Twas Christ who spake in parables—
To picture man was his intent;
A simple tale He simply tells,
And He Himself makes no comment.
A morbid sympathy is felt
For prodigals—the selfish
ones—
The crooked world has ever dealt
Unjustly by the elder sons.
The elder son on barren soil,
Where life is crude and lands are new,
Must share the father’s hardest toil,
And share the father’s troubles
too.
With no child-thoughts to meet his own
His childhood is a lonely one:
The youth his father might have known
Is seldom for the eldest son.
It seems so strange, but fate is grim,
And Heaven’s ways are hard to
track,
Though ten young scamps come after him
The rod falls heaviest on his back.
And, well I’ll say it might be caused
By a half-sense of injustice
done—
That vague resentment parents feel
So oft towards the eldest son.
He, too, must bear the father’s name,
He loves his younger brother, too,
And feels the younger brother’s shame
As keenly as his parents do.
The mother’s prayers, the father’s curse,
The sister’s tears have all been
done—
We seldom see in prose or verse
The prayers of the elder son.
But let me to the parable
With eyes on facts but fancy free;
And don’t belie me if I tell
The story as it seems to me—
For, mind, I do not mean to sneer
(I was religious when a child),
I wouldn’t be surprised to hear
That Christ himself had sometimes
smiled.
A certain squatter had two sons
Up Canaan way some years ago.
The graft was hard on those old runs,
And it was hot and life was slow.
The younger brother coolly claimed
The portion that he hadn’t
earned,
And sought the ‘life’ for which untamed
And high young spirits always yearned.
A year or so he knocked about,
And spent his cheques on girls and
wine,
And, getting stony in the drought,
He took a job at herding swine,
And though he is a hog that swigs
And fools with girls till all is
blue—
’Twas rather rough to shepherd pigs
And have to eat their tucker too.
“When he came to himself,” he said
(I take my Bible from the shelf:
There’s nothing like a feed of husks
To bring a young man to himself.
And when you’re done with wine and girls—
Right here a moral seems to
shine—
And are hard up, you’ll find no pearls
Are cast by friends before your
swine)—
When he came to himself, he said—
He reckoned pretty shrewdly, too—
‘The rousers in my father’s shed
‘Have got more grub than they can
chew;
‘I’ve been a fool, but such is fate—
‘I guess I’ll talk the
guv’nor round:
‘“I’ve acted cronk,” I’ll tell him
straight;
‘(He’s had his time too,
I’ll be bound).
‘I’ll tell him straight I’ve had my fling,
‘I’ll tell him
“I’ve been on the beer,
‘“But put me on at anything,
‘“I’ll graft with any
bounder here.”’
He rolled his swag and struck for home—
He was by this time pretty slim
And, when the old man saw him come—
Well, you know how he welcomed him.
They’ve brought the best robe in the house,
The ring, and killed the fatted calf,
And now they hold a grand carouse,
And eat and drink and dance and laugh:
And from the field the elder son—
Whose character is not admired—
Comes plodding home when work is done,
And very hot and very tired.
He asked the meaning of the sound
Of such unwonted revelry,
They said his brother had been ‘found’
(He’d found himself it seemed to
me);
’Twas natural in the elder son
To take the thing a little hard
And brood on what was past and done
While standing outside in the yard.
Now he was hungry and knocked out
And would, if they had let him be,
Have rested and cooled down, no doubt,
And hugged his brother after tea,
And welcomed him and hugged his dad
And filled the wine cup to the
brim—
But, just when he was feeling bad
The old man came and tackled him.
He well might say with bitter tears
While music swelled and flowed the
wine—
‘Lo, I have served thee many years
‘Nor caused thee one grey hair of
thine.
‘Whate’er thou bad’st me do I did
‘And for my brother made amends;
‘Thou never gavest me a kid
‘That I might make merry with my
friends.’
(He was no honest clod and glum
Who could not trespass, sing nor
dance—
He could be merry with a chum,
It seemed, if he had half a chance;
Perhaps, if further light we seek,
He knew—and herein lay the
sting—
His brother would clear out next week
And promptly pop the robe and ring).
The father said, ‘The wandering one,
‘The lost is found, this son of
mine,
‘But thou art always with me, son—
‘Thou knowest all I have is
thine.’
(It seemed the best robe and the ring,
The love and fatted calf were not;
But this was just a little thing
The old man in his joy forgot.)
The father’s blindness in the house,
The mother’s fond and foolish way
Have caused no end of ancient rows
Right back to Cain and Abel’s
day.
The world will blame the eldest born—
But—well, when all is said and
done,
No coat has ever yet been worn
That had no colour more than one.
Oh! if I had the power to teach—
The strength for which my spirit
craves—
The cant of parents I would preach
Who slave and make their children
slaves.
For greed of gain, and that alone
Their youth they steal, their hearts they
break
And then, the wretched misers moan—
‘We did it for our children’s
sake.’
‘And all I have’—the paltry bribe
That he might slave contented yet
While envied by his selfish tribe
The birthright he might never get:
The worked-out farm and endless graft,
The mortgaged home, the barren
run—
The heavy, hopeless overdraft—
The portion of the elder son.
He keeps his parents when they’re old,
He keeps a sister in distress,
His wife must work and care for them
And bear with all their pettishness.
The mother’s moan is ever heard,
And, whining for the worthless one,
She seldom has a kindly word
To say about her eldest son.
’Tis he, in spite of sneer and jibe,
Who stands the friend when others fail:
He bears the burdens of his tribe
And keeps his brother out of jail.
He lends the quid and pays the fine,
And for the family pride he
smarts—
For reasons I cannot divine
They hate him in their heart of hearts.
A satire on this world of sin—
Where parents seldom understand—
That night the angels gathered in
The firstborn of that ancient land.
Perhaps they thought, in those old camps,
While suffering for the blow that fell,
They might have better spared the scamps
And Josephs that they loved so well.
Sometimes the Eldest takes the track
When things at home have got too
bad—
He comes not crawling, canting back
To seek the blind side of his dad.
He always finds a knife and fork
And meat between on which to dine,
And, though he sometimes deals in pork,
You’ll never catch him herding
swine.
The happy home, the overdraft,
His birthright and his prospects gay,
And likewise his share of the graft,
He leaves the rest to grab. And
they—
Who’d always do the thing by halves,
If anything for him was done—
Would kill a score of fatted calves
To welcome home the eldest son.
I’m lyin’ on the barren ground that’s
baked and cracked with drought,
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out;
I’ve got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin’
brow—
I’m too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy
now.
Oh it’s trampin’, trampin’,
tra-a-mpin’, in flies an’ dust an’ heat,
Or it’s trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-a-mpin’
through mud and slush ’n sleet;
It’s tramp an’ tramp for tucker—one
everlastin’ strife,
An’ wearin’ out yer boots an’ heart in the
wastin’ of yer life.
They whine o’ lost an’ wasted lives in idleness and
crime—
I’ve wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the
time
And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I
shore—
But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I’ve tramped this
broilin’ day,
All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;
There’s twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year,
An’ fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin’
here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot—’n
that’s the truth;
I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth;
I’m stung between my shoulder-blades—my blessed back
seems broke;
I’m too knocked out to eat a bite—I’m too knocked
up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin’ too—there’s oceans
in the sky,
An’ I suppose I must get up and rig the blasted fly;
The heat is bad, the water’s bad, the flies a crimson
curse,
The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned—but rheumatism’s
worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast to
breath,
Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin’ after
death;
But though Eternity be cursed with God’s almighty
curse—
What ever that same somethin’ is I swear it can’t be
worse.
For it’s trampin’, trampin’,
tra-a-mpin’ through hell across the plain,
And it’s trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-mpin’
through slush ’n mud ’n rain—
A livin’ worse than any dog—without a home ’n
wife,
A-wearin’ out yer heart ’n soul in the wastin’ of
yer life.
By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed,
By railroad, coach, and track—
By lonely graves where rest our dead,
Up-Country and Out-Back;
To where beneath the clustered stars
The dreamy plains expand—
My home lies wide a thousand miles
In the Never-Never Land.
It lies beyond the farming belt,
Wide wastes of scrub and plain,
A blazing desert in the drought,
A lake-land after rain;
To the skyline sweeps the waving grass,
Or whirls the scorching sand—
A phantom land, a mystic realm!
The Never-Never Land.
Where lone Mount Desolation lies,
Mounts Dreadful and Despair,
’Tis lost beneath the rainless skies
In hopeless deserts there;
It spreads nor’-wrest by No-Man’s-Land—
Where clouds are seldom seen—
To where the cattle-stations lie
Three hundred miles between.
The drovers of the Great Stock Routes
The strange Gulf Country know,
Where, travelling for the northern grass,
The big lean bullocks go;
And camped by night where plains lie wide,
Like some old ocean’s bed,
The stockmen in the starlight ride
Round fifteen hundred head.
And west of named and numbered days
The shearers walk and ride,
Jack Cornstalk and the Ne’er-do-well
And Greybeard side by side;
They veil their eyes from moon and stars,
And slumber on the sand—
Sad memories sleep as years go round
In Never-Never Land.
O rebels to society!
The Outcasts of the West—
O hopeless eyes that smile for me,
And broken hearts that jest!
The pluck to face a thousand miles,
The grit to see it through!
The Communism perfected
Till man to man is True!
The Arab to the desert sand,
The Finn to fens and snow,
The “Flax-stick” dreams of Maoriland,
While seasons come and go.
Whatever stars may glow or burn
O’er lands of East and West,
The wandering heart of man will turn
To one it loves the best.
Lest in the city I forget
True mateship, after all,
My water-bag and billy yet
Are hanging on the wall.
And I, to save my soul, again
Would tramp to sunsets grand
With sad-eyed mates across the plain
In the Never-Never Land.
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 snivelling 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.
Oh, let it strike up “Annie Laurie”
And let it 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
With “The Star Spangled Banner”
between,
But let the last mile be devoted
To “Britannia” and
“Wearing the Green.”
Thump! thump! of the drums and “Te-ri-rit,”
Thump! thump! of the
drum—’twill be grand,
Though only in dream or in spirit
To ride or flit after that band!
While myself and my mourners go straying
And strolling and drifting along,
With the cornets in 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!
And if, in the end—more’s the pity—
There’s fame more than money to
spare—
A vanman I know in the city
Will cart me “This side up with
care.”
And my spirit will join the procession—
Will pause, so to speak, 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 a drink will but help them remember
The good points the world missed in me.
“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 on this earth’s ever
been,
And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter
Will pass me, two comrades between.
Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit—
War-drums of my dreams—oh, it’s
grand!
Be this the reward of all merit
To ride or march after a band!
As 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!
Then 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.”
I’ve not seen a picnic for many a day,
My heart has grown callous, my head has grown grey;
But old faded letters their memories bring,
And I’m thinking tonight about Kiss in the Ring.
Kiss
in the Ring,
Kiss
in the Ring—
Oh, it makes me remember old Kiss in the Ring!
We drove down the gullies, we drove down the creek,
We drove round the sidlings, we drove round the Peak,
In carts and in buggies the Bush girls to bring
To laugh with us there in sweet Kiss in the Ring.
Kiss
in the Ring,
Kiss
in the Ring—
I remember the days of sweet Kiss in the Ring.
And now I think sadly of years in their flight . . .
At the turn by the sliprails I kissed her good night.
She is under the turf, but old memories cling—
Do the angels dance with her to Kiss in the Ring?
Kiss
in the Ring,
Sweet
Kiss in the Ring—
Do the angels dance with her to Kiss in the Ring?
It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers
sleep,
For there’s near a hundred for’ard, and they’re
stowed away like sheep—
They are trav’lers for the most part in a straight
’n’ honest path;
But their linen’s rather scanty, an’ there isn’t
any bath—
Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore ’n’
marked ’n’ draft;
But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel
aft—
In
the cushioned cabins, aft,
With
saloons ’n’ smoke-rooms, aft—
There is sheets ’n’ best of tucker for the
first-salooners, aft.
Our beef is just like scrapin’s from the inside of a
hide,
And the spuds were pulled too early, for they’re mostly green
inside;
But from somewhere back amidships there’s a smell o’
cookin’ waft,
An’ I’d give my earthly prospects for a real good
tuck-out aft—
Ham
an’ eggs, ’n’ coffee, aft,
Say,
cold fowl for luncheon, aft,
Juicy grills an’ toast ’n’ cutlets—tucker
a-lor-frongsy, aft.
They feed our women sep’rate, an’ they make a
blessed fuss.
Just as if they couldn’t trust ’em for to eat along
with us!
Just because our hands are horny an’ our hearts are rough
with graft—
But the gentlemen and ladies always “dine” together
aft—
With
their ferns an’ mirrors, aft,
With
their flowers an’ napkins, aft—
“I’ll assist you to an
orange”—“Kindly pass the sugar,” aft.
We are shabby, rough, ’n’ dirty, an’ our
feelin’s out of tune,
An’ it’s hard on fellers for’ard that was used to
go saloon;
There’s a broken swell amongst us—he is barracked, he
is chaffed,
An’ I wish at times, poor devil, for his own sake he was
aft;
For
they’d understand him, aft,
(He
will miss the bath-rooms aft)
Spite of all there’s no denying that there’s finer
feelin’s aft.
Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the
sea—
“It is hard to make a livin’,” said the broken
swell to me;
“There is ups and downs,” I answered, an’ a
bitter laugh he laughed—
There were brighter days an’ better when he always travelled
aft—
With
his rug an’ gladstone, aft,
With
his cap an’ spyglass, aft—
A careless, rovin’, gay young spark as always travelled
aft.
Therc’s a notice by the gangway, an’ it seems to
come amiss,
For it says that second-classers ain’t allowed abaft o’
this;
An’ there ought to be a notice for the fellows from
abaft—
But the smell an’ dirt’s a warnin’ to the
first-salooners, aft;
With
their tooth- and nail-brush, aft,
With
their cuffs an’ collars, aft—
Their cigars an’ books, an’ papers, an’ their
cap-peaks fore-’n’-aft.
I want to breathe the mornin’ breeze that blows against
the boat,
For there’s a swellin’ in my heart, a tightness in my
throat.
We are for’ard when there’s trouble! We are
for’ard when there’s graft!
But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft;
With
their dressin’-cases, aft,
With
their swell pyjamas, aft—
Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an’ comfort
aft.
I feel so low an’ wretched, as I mooch about the deck.
That I’m ripe for jumpin’ over—an’ I wish
there was a wreck!
We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there,
Scarce a shillin’ in our pockets, nor a decent rag to
wear,
With the everlastin’ worry lest we don’t get into
graft—
Oh, there’s little left to land for if you cannot travel
aft.
No
anxiety abaft,
They
have stuff to land with, aft—
There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft.
But it’s grand at sea this mornin’, an’
Creation almost speaks,
Sailin’ past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an’
peaks,
With the sunny haze all round us an’ the white-caps on the
blue,
An’ the orphan rocks an’ breakers—oh, it’s
glorious sailin’ through!
To the south a distant steamer, to the west a coastin’
craft,
An’ we see the beauty for’ard—can they see it
better aft?—
Spite
of op’ra-glasses, aft;
But,
ah well, they’re brothers aft—
Nature seems to draw us closer—bring us nearer
fore-’n’-aft.
What’s the use of bein’ bitter? What’s the use
of gettin’ mad?
What’s the use of bein’ narrer just because yer luck is
bad?
What’s the blessed use of frettin’ like a child that
wants the moon?
There is broken hearts an’ trouble in the gilded First
Saloon!
We are used to bein’ shabby—we have got no
overdraft—
We can laugh at troubles for’ard that they couldn’t
laugh at aft!
Spite
o’ pride an’ tone abaft
(Keepin’
up appearance, aft)
There’s anxiety an’ worry in the breezy cabins aft.
But the curse of class distinctions from our shoulders shall be
hurled,
An’ the sense of Human Kinship revolutionize the world;
There’ll be higher education for the toilin’
starvin’ clown,
An’ the rich an’ educated shall be educated down;
Then we all will meet amidships on this stout old earthly
craft,
An’ there won’t be any friction ’twixt the
classes fore-’n’-aft.
We’ll
be brothers, fore-’n’-aft!
Yes,
an’ sisters, fore-’n’-aft!
When the people work together, and there ain’t no
fore-’n’-aft.
Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new,
In the years spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true —
I have gathered these verses together
For the sake of our friendship and you.
You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I’ve left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you’ll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends — and forget.
I remember, Old Man, I remember —
The tracks that we followed are clear —
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine —
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine.
Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought —
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt —
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.
You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight —
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.
When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered
feet,
And across the distant timber you can see the
flowing heat;
When your head is hot and aching, and the shadeless plain is
wide,
And it’s fifteen miles to water in the scrub the other
side—
Don’t give up, don’t be down-hearted, to a man’s
strong heart be true!
Take the air in through your nostrils, set your lips and see it
through—
For it can’t go on for ever, and—‘I’ll have
my day!’ says you.
When you’re camping in the mulga, and the rain is falling
slow,
While you nurse your rheumatism ’neath a patch of calico;
Short of tucker or tobacco, short of sugar or of tea,
And the scrubs are dark and dismal, and the plains are like a
sea;
Don’t give up and be down-hearted—to the soul of man be
true!
Grin! if you’ve a mate to grin for, grin and jest and
don’t look blue;
For it can’t go on for ever, and—‘I’ll rise
some day,’ says you.
When you’ve tramped the Sydney pavements till you’ve
counted all the flags,
And your flapping boot-soles trip you, and your clothes are mostly
rags,
When you’re called a city loafer, shunned, abused, moved on,
despised—
Fifty hungry beggars after every job that’s
advertised—
Don’t be beaten! Hold your head up! To your wretched self be
true;
Set your pride to fight your hunger! Be a man in
all you do!
For it cannot last for ever—‘I will rise again!’
says you.
When you’re dossing out in winter, in the darkness and the
rain,
Crouching, cramped, and cold and hungry ’neath a seat in The
Domain,
And a cloaked policeman stirs you with that mighty foot of
his—
‘Phwat d’ye mane? Phwat’s this? Who are ye? Come,
move on—git out av this!’
Don’t get mad; ’twere only foolish; there is nought
that you can do,
Save to mark his beat and time him—find another hole or
two;
But it can’t go on for ever—‘I’ll have
money yet!’ says you.
* * * * * * * * *
Bother not about the morrow, for sufficient to the day
Is the evil (rather more so). Put your trust in God and pray!
Study well the ant, thou sluggard. Blessed are the meek and
low.
Ponder calmly on the lilies—how they idle, how they grow.
A man’s a man! Obey your masters! Do not blame the proud and
fat,
For the poor are always with them, and they cannot alter that.
Lay your treasures up in Heaven—cling to life and see it
through!
For it cannot last for ever—‘I shall die some
day,’ says you.
With pannikins all rusty,
And billy burnt and black,
And clothes all torn and dusty,
That scarcely hide his back;
With sun-cracked saddle-leather,
And knotted greenhide rein,
And face burnt brown with weather,
Our Andy’s home again!
His unkempt hair is faded
With sleeping in the wet,
He’s looking old and jaded;
But he is hearty yet.
With eyes sunk in their sockets—
But merry as of yore;
With big cheques in his pockets,
Our Andy’s home once more!
Old Uncle’s bright and cheerful;
He wears a smiling face;
And Aunty’s never tearful
Now Andy’s round the place.
Old Blucher barks for gladness;
He broke his rusty chain,
And leapt in joyous madness
When Andy came again.
With tales of flood and famine,
On distant northern tracks,
And shady yarns—‘baal gammon!’
Of dealings with the blacks,
From where the skies hang lazy
On many a northern plain,
From regions dim and hazy
Our Andy’s home again!
His toil is nearly over;
He’ll soon enjoy his gains.
Not long he’ll be a drover,
And cross the lonely plains.
We’ll happy be for ever
When he’ll no longer roam,
But by some deep, cool river
Will make us all a home.
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.
It was the King of Virland —
O he was angry then —
That rode to crush rebellion
With twenty thousand men.
His enemies he scattered
And hanged on every side,
Because their creed was rapine,
Their cause was greed and pride.
They searched for Outlaw Eric,
They hunted everywhere —
(Most honest of the rebels
If aught was honest there).
King Hertzberg swore to hang him,
But, when the day was done,
They had not found the Outlaw,
But found his little son.
He had not seen his father,
Nor knew where he had gone;
And someone asked him, thoughtless,
Which side himself was on,
And straightway he made answer —
They found he answered true —
“My father is a rebel,
And I’m a rebel too.”
King Hertzberg, he dismounted,
And kindly bent his head:
“Now, why are you a rebel,
My little man?” he said.
The boy nor paused nor faltered,
But stood like Eric’s son,
And answered Hertzberg simply —
“Because my father’s
one.”
And then they promised all things,
Dear to his heart, I ween —
They promised they would make him
The first page to the queen,
With princesses for playmates —
But, nay, it would not do —
“My father is a rebel,
And I’m a rebel too!”
King Hertzberg sank beside him
And rested on one knee.
“I would my royal children
As loyal were!” said he.
“Go, seek and tell your father
That he and his go free,
And if his wrongs be real
Then let him come to me.
“And let him come with plain words,
With plain words in daylight,
And ride not with armed rebels
And outlaws in the night.
And let him not misjudge me —
For to all that is untrue,
And wherever Wrong’s the ruler,
I am a rebel too.”
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 the 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.
He comes from out the ages dim—
The good Samaritan;
I somehow never pictured him
A fat and jolly man;
But one who’d little joy to glean,
And little coin to give—
A sad-faced man, and lank and lean,
Who found it hard to live.
His eyes were haggard in the drought,
His hair was iron-grey—
His dusty gown was patched, no doubt,
Where we patch pants to-day.
His faded turban, too, was torn—
But darned and folded neat,
And leagues of desert sand had worn
The sandals on his feet.
He’s been a fool, perhaps, and would
Have prospered had he tried,
But he was one who never could
Pass by the other side.
An honest man whom men called soft,
While laughing in their sleeves—
No doubt in business ways he oft
Had fallen amongst thieves.
And, I suppose, by track and tent,
And other ancient ways,
He drank, and fought, and loved, and went
The pace in his young days.
And he had known the bitter year
When love and friendship fail—
I wouldn’t be surprised to hear
That he had been in jail.
A silent man, whose passions slept,
Who had no friends or foes—
A quiet man, who always kept
His hopes and sorrows close.
A man who very seldom smiled,
And one who could not weep
Be it for death of wife or child
Or sorrow still more deep.
But sometimes when a man would rave
Of wrong, as sinners do,
He’d say to cheer and make him brave
‘I’ve had my troubles
too.’
(They might be twittered by the birds,
And breathed high Heaven through,
There’s beauty in those world-old words:
‘I’ve had my sorrows
too.’)
And if he was a married man,
As many are that roam,
I guess that good Samaritan
Was rather glum at home,
Impatient when a child would fret,
And strict at times and grim—
A man whose kinsmen never yet
Appreciated him.
Howbeit—in a study brown—
He had for all we know,
His own thoughts as he journeyed down
The road to Jericho,
And pondered, as we puzzle yet,
On tragedies of life—
And maybe he was deep in debt
And parted from his wife.
(And so ‘by chance there came that way,’
It reads not like romance—
The truest friends on earth to-day,
They mostly come by chance.)
He saw a stranger left by thieves
Sore hurt and like to die—
He also saw (my heart believes)
The others pass him by.
(Perhaps that good Samaritan
Knew Levite well, and priest)
He lifted up the wounded man
And sat him on his beast,
And took him on towards the inn—
All Christ-like unawares—
Still pondering, perhaps, on sin
And virtue—and his cares.
He bore him in and fixed him right
(Helped by the local drunk),
And wined and oiled him well all night,
And thought beside his bunk.
And on the morrow ere he went
He left a quid and spoke
Unto the host in terms which meant—
‘Look after that poor
bloke.’
He must have known them at the inn,
They must have known him too—
Perhaps on that same track he’d seen
Some other sick mate through;
For ‘Whatsoe’er thou spendest more’
(The parable is plain)
‘I will repay,’ he told the host,
‘When I return again.’
He seemed to be a good sort, too,
The boss of that old pub—
(As even now there are a few
At shanties in the scrub).
The good Samaritan jogged on
Through Canaan’s dust and heat,
And pondered over various schemes
And ways to make ends meet.
. . . . .
He was no Christian, understand,
For Christ had not been born—
He journeyed later through the land
To hold the priests to scorn;
And tell the world of ‘certain men’
Like that Samaritan,
And preach the simple creed again—
Man’s duty! Man to man!
. . . . .
‘Once on a time there lived a man,’
But he has lived alway,
And that gaunt, good Samaritan
Is with us here to-day;
He passes through the city streets
Unnoticed and unknown,
He helps the sinner that he meets—
His sorrows are his own.
He shares his tucker on the track
When things are at their worst
(And often shouts in bars outback
For souls that are athirst).
To-day I see him staggering down
The blazing water-course,
And making for the distant town
With a sick man on his horse.
He’ll live while nations find their graves
And mortals suffer pain—
When colour rules and whites are slaves
And savages again.
And, after all is past and done,
He’ll rise up, the Last Man,
From tending to the last but one—
The good Samaritan.
Spirit Girl to whom ’twas given
To revisit scenes of pain,
From the hell I thought was Heaven
You have lifted me again;
Through the world that I inherit,
Where I loved her ere she died,
I am walking with the spirit
Of a dead girl by my side.
Through my old possessions only
For a very little while,
And they say that I am lonely,
And they pity, but I smile:
For the brighter side has won me
By the calmness that it brings,
And the peace that is upon me
Does not come of earthly things.
Spirit girl, the good is in me,
But the flesh you know is weak,
And with no pure soul to win me
I might miss the path I seek;
Lead me by the love you bore me
When you trod the earth with me,
Till the light is clear before me
And my spirit too is free.
No church-bell rings them from the Track,
No pulpit lights their blindness—
’Tis hardship, drought and homelessness
That teach those Bushmen kindness:
The mateship born of barren lands,
Of toil and thirst and danger—
The camp-fare for the stranger set,
The first place to the stranger.
They do the best they can to-day—
Take no thought of the morrow;
Their way is not the old-world way—
They live to lend and borrow.
When shearing’s done and cheques gone wrong,
They call it ‘time to
slither’—
They saddle up and say ‘So-long!’
And ride—the Lord knows whither.
And though he may be brown or black,
Or wrong man there or right man,
The mate that’s honest to his mates
They call that man a ‘white
man’!
They tramp in mateship side by side—
The Protestant and
‘Roman’—
They call no biped lord or ‘sir,’
And touch their hats to no man!
They carry in their swags, perhaps,
A portrait and a letter—
And, maybe, deep down in their hearts,
The hope of ‘something
better.’
Where lonely miles are long to ride,
And all days seem recurrent,
There’s lots of time to think of men
They might have been—but
weren’t.
They turn their faces to the west
And leave the world behind them—
(Their drought-dried graves are seldom green
Where even mates can find them).
They know too little of the world
To rise to wealth or greatness:
But in this book of mine I pay
My tribute to their straightness.
I listened through the music and the sounds of
revelry,
And all the hollow noises of that year of Jubilee;
I heard beyond the music and beyond the local cheer,
The steady tramp of thousands that were marching in the rear.
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
They
seem to shake the air,
Those never-ceasing footsteps of the outcasts in the rear.
I heard defiance ringing from the men of rags and dirt,
I heard wan woman singing that sad “Song of the
Shirt”,
And o’er the sounds of menace and moaning low and drear,
I heard the steady tramping of their feet along the rear.
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
Vibrating
in the air —
They’re swelling fast, those footsteps of the Army of the
Rear!
I hate the wrongs I read about, I hate the wrongs I see!
The tramping of that army sounds as music unto me!
A music that is terrible, that frights the anxious ear,
Is beaten from the weary feet that tramp along the rear.
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
In
dogged, grim despair —
They have a goal, those footsteps of the Army of the Rear!
I looked upon the nobles, with their lineage so old;
I looked upon their mansions, on their acres and their gold,
I saw their women radiant in jewelled robes appear,
And then I joined the army of the outcasts in the rear.
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
We’ll
show what Want can dare,
My brothers and my sisters of the Army of the Rear!
I looked upon the mass of poor, in filthy alleys pent;
And on rich men’s Edens, that are built on grinding rent;
I looked o’er London’s miles of slums — I saw the
horrors there,
And swore to die a soldier of the Army of the Rear.
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
I’ve
sworn to do and dare,
I’ve sworn to die a soldier of the Army of the Rear!
“They’re brutes,” so say the wealthy,
“and by steel must be dismayed” —
Be brutes among us, nobles, they are brutes that ye have made;
We want what God hath given us, we want our portion here,
And that is why we’re marching — and we’ll march
beyond the rear!
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
Awake
and have a care,
Ye proud and haughty spurners of the wretches in the rear.
We’ll nurse our wrongs to strengthen us, our hate that it
may grow,
For, outcast from society, society’s our foe.
Beware! who grind out human flesh, for human life is dear!
There’s menace in the marching of the Army of the Rear.
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
There’s
danger in despair,
There’s danger in the marching of the Army of the Rear!
The wealthy care not for our wants, nor for the pangs we
feel;
Our hands have clutched in vain for bread, and now they clutch for
steel!
Come, men of rags and hunger, come! There’s work for heroes
here!
There’s room still in the vanguard of the Army of the
Rear!
Tramp!
tramp! tramp!
O
men of want and care!
There’s glory in the vanguard of the Army of the Rear!
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.
So you’re writing for a paper? Well, it’s
nothing very new
To be writing yards of drivel for a tidy little screw;
You are young and educated, and a clever chap you are,
But you’ll never run a paper like the Cambaroora
Star.
Though in point of education I am nothing but a dunce,
I myself—you mayn’t believe it—helped to run a
paper once
With a chap on Cambaroora, by the name of Charlie Brown,
And I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll take the story
down.
On a golden day in summer, when the sunrays were aslant,
Brown arrived in Cambaroora with a little printing plant
And his worldly goods and chattels—rather damaged on the
way—
And a weary-looking woman who was following the dray.
He had bought an empty humpy, and, instead of getting tight,
Why, the diggers heard him working like a lunatic all night:
And next day a sign of canvas, writ in characters of tar,
Claimed the humpy as the office of the Cambaroora
Star.
Well, I cannot read, that’s honest, but I had a digger
friend
Who would read the paper to me from the title to the end;
And the Star contained a leader running thieves
and spielers down,
With a slap against claim-jumping, and a poem made by Brown.
Once I showed it to a critic, and he said ’twas very
fine,
Though he wasn’t long in finding glaring faults in every
line;
But it was a song of Freedom—all the clever critic said
Couldn’t stop that song from ringing, ringing, ringing in my
head.
So I went where Brown was working in his little hut hard by:
‘My old mate has been a-reading of your writings,
Brown,’ said I—
‘I have studied on your leader, I agree with what you
say,
You have struck the bed-rock certain, and there ain’t no
get-away;
Your paper’s just the thumper for a young and growing
land,
And your principles is honest, Brown; I want to shake your
hand,
And if there’s any lumping in connection with
the Star,
Well, I’ll find the time to do it, and I’ll help
you—there you are!’
Brown was every inch a digger (bronzed and bearded in the
South),
But there seemed a kind of weakness round the corners of his
mouth
When he took the hand I gave him; and he gripped it like a
vice,
While he tried his best to thank me, and he stuttered once or
twice.
But there wasn’t need for talking—we’d the same
old loves and hates,
And we understood each other—Charlie Brown and I were
mates.
So we worked a little ‘paddock’ on a place they called
the ‘Bar’,
And we sank a shaft together, and at night we worked
the Star.
Charlie thought and did his writing when his work was done at
night,
And the missus used to ‘set’ it near as quick as he
could write.
Well, I didn’t shirk my promise, and I helped the thing, I
guess,
For at night I worked the lever of the crazy printing-press;
Brown himself would do the feeding, and the missus used to
‘fly’—
She is flying with the angels, if there’s justice up on
high,
For she died on Cambaroora when the Star began to
go,
And was buried like the diggers buried diggers long ago.
* * * * * * * * * *
Lord, that press! It was a jumper—we could seldom get it
right,
And were lucky if we averaged a hundred in the night.
Many nights we’d sit together in the windy hut and fold,
And I helped the thing a little when I struck a patch of gold;
And we battled for the diggers as the papers seldom do,
Though when the diggers errored, why, we touched the diggers
too.
Yet the paper took the fancy of that roaring mining town,
And the diggers sent a nugget with their sympathy to Brown.
Oft I sat and smoked beside him in the listening hours of
night,
When the shadows from the corners seemed to gather round the
light—
When his weary, aching fingers, closing stiffly round the pen,
Wrote defiant truth in language that could touch the hearts of
men—
Wrote until his eyelids shuddered—wrote until the East was
grey:
Wrote the stern and awful lessons that were taught him in his
day;
And they knew that he was honest, and they read his smallest
par,
For I think the diggers’ Bible was the Cambaroora
Star.
Diggers then had little mercy for the loafer and the
scamp—
If there wasn’t law and order, there was justice in the
camp;
And the manly independence that is found where diggers are
Had a sentinel to guard it in the Cambaroora Star.
There was strife about the Chinamen, who came in days of old
Like a swarm of thieves and loafers when the diggers found the
gold—
Like the sneaking fortune-hunters who are always found behind,
And who only shepherd diggers till they track them to the
‘find’.
Charlie wrote a slinging leader, calling on his digger
mates,
And he said: ‘We think that Chinkies are as bad as
syndicates.
What’s the good of holding meetings where you only talk and
swear?
Get a move upon the Chinkies when you’ve got an hour to
spare.’
It was nine o’clock next morning when the Chows began to
swarm,
But they weren’t so long in going, for the diggers’
blood was warm.
Then the diggers held a meeting, and they shouted: ‘Hip
hoorar!
Give three ringing cheers, my hearties, for the Cambaroora
Star.’
But the Cambaroora petered, and the diggers’ sun went
down,
And another sort of people came and settled in the town;
The reefing was conducted by a syndicate or two,
And they changed the name to ‘Queensville’, for their
blood was very blue.
They wanted Brown to help them put the feathers in their nests,
But his leaders went like thunder for their vested interests,
And he fought for right and justice and he raved about the dawn
Of the reign of Man and Reason till his ads. were all
withdrawn.
He was offered shares for nothing in the richest of the
mines,
And he could have made a fortune had he run on other lines;
They abused him for his leaders, and they parodied his rhymes,
And they told him that his paper was a mile behind the times.
‘Let the times alone,’ said Charlie,
‘they’re all right, you needn’t fret;
For I started long before them, and they haven’t caught me
yet.
But,’ says he to me, ‘they’re coming, and
they’re not so very far—
Though I left the times behind me they are following
the Star.
‘Let them do their worst,’ said Charlie, ‘but
I’ll never drop the reins
While a single scrap of paper or an ounce of ink remains:
I’ve another truth to tell them, though they tread me in the
dirt,
And I’ll print another issue if I print it on my
shirt.’
So we fought the battle bravely, and we did our very best
Just to make the final issue quite as lively as the rest.
And the swells in Cambaroora talked of feathers and of tar
When they read the final issue of the Cambaroora
Star.
Gold is stronger than the tongue is—gold is stronger than
the pen:
They’d have squirmed in Cambaroora had I found a nugget
then;
But in vain we scraped together every penny we could get,
For they fixed us with their boycott, and the plant was seized for
debt.
’Twas a storekeeper who did it, and he sealed the
paper’s doom,
Though we gave him ads. for nothing when
the Star began to boom:
’Twas a paltry bill for tucker, and the crawling, sneaking
clown
Sold the debt for twice its value to the men who hated Brown.
I was digging up the river, and I swam the flooded bend
With a little cash and comfort for my literary friend.
Brown was sitting sad and lonely with his head bowed in
despair,
While a single tallow candle threw a flicker on his hair,
And the gusty wind that whistled through the crannies of the
door
Stirred the scattered files of paper that were lying on the
floor.
Charlie took my hand in silence—and by-and-by he said:
‘Tom, old mate, we did our damnedest, but the brave
old Star is dead.’
* * * * * * * * * *
Then he stood up on a sudden, with a face as pale as death,
And he gripped my hand a moment, while he seemed to fight for
breath:
‘Tom, old friend,’ he said, ‘I’m going, and
I’m ready to—to start,
For I know that there is something—something crooked with my
heart.
Tom, my first child died. I loved her even better than the
pen—
Tom—and while the Star was dying, why, I
felt like I did then.
* * * * * * * * * *
Listen! Like the distant thunder of the rollers on the
bar—
Listen, Tom! I hear the—diggers—shouting: ‘Bully
for the Star!’’
A lonely young
wife
In her dreaming
discerns
A lily-decked
pool
With a border of
ferns,
And a beautiful
child,
With butterfly
wings,
Trips down to the edge of the water and sings:
‘Come, mamma!
come!
‘Quick!
follow me—
‘Step out on the leaves of the water-lily!’
And the lonely
young wife,
Her heart beating
wild,
Cries, ‘Wait
till I come,
‘Till I reach
you, my child!’
But the beautiful
child
With butterfly
wings
Steps out on the leaves of the lily and sings:
‘Come, mamma!
come!
‘Quick!
follow me!
‘And step on the leaves of the water-lily!
And the wife in
her dreaming
Steps out on the
stream,
But the lily leaves
sink
And she wakes from
her dream.
Ah, the waking is
sad,
For the tears that
it brings,
And she knows ’tis her dead baby’s spirit that
sings:
‘Come, mamma!
come!
‘Quick!
follow me!
‘Step out on the leaves of the water-lily!’
Now this is not a dismal song, like some I’ve sung of
late,
When I’ve been brooding all day long about my muddled
fate;
For though I’ve had a rocky time I’ll never quite
forget,
And though I never was so deep in trouble and in debt,
And though I never was so poor nor in a fix so tight—
The tracks that run by India are shining in my sight.
The roads that run by India, and all the ports of
call—
I’m going back to London first to raise the wherewithal.
I’ll call at Suez and Port Said as I am going past
(I was too worried to take notes when I was that way last),
At Naples and at Genoa, and, if I get the chance,
Who knows but I might run across the pleasant land of France.
The track that runs by India goes up the hot Red Sea—
The other side of Africa is far too dull for me.
(I fear that I have missed a chance I’ll never get again
To see the land of chivalry and bide awhile in Spain.)
I’ll graft a year in London, and if fortune smiles on me
I’ll take the track to India by France and Italy.
’Tis sweet to court some foreign girl with eyes of
lustrous glow,
Who does not know my language and whose language I don’t
know;
To loll on gently-rolling decks beneath the softening skies,
While she sits knitting opposite, and make love with our
eyes—
The glance that says far more than words, the old half-mystic
smile—
The track that runs by India will wait for me awhile.
The tracks that run by India to China and Japan,
The tracks where all the rovers go—the tracks that call a
Man!
I’m wearied of the formal lands of parson and of priest,
Of dollars and of fashions, and I’m drifting towards the
East;
I’m tired of cant and cackle, and of sordid
jobbery—
The mystery of the East hath cast its glamour over me.
The breezes blow on the river below,
And the fleecy clouds float high,
And I mark how the dark green gum trees match
The bright blue dome of the sky.
The rain has been, and the grass is green
Where the slopes were bare and brown,
And I see the things that I used to see
In the days ere my head went down.
I have found a light in my long dark night,
Brighter than stars or moon;
I have lost the fear of the sunset drear,
And the sadness of afternoon.
Here let us stand while I hold your hand,
Where the light’s on your golden
head—
Oh! I feel the thrill that I used to feel
In the days ere my heart was dead.
The storm’s gone by, but my lips are dry
And the old wrong rankles yet—
Sweetheart or wife, I must take new life
From your red lips warm and wet!
So let it be, you may cling to me,
There is nothing on earth to dread,
For I’ll be the man that I used to be
In the days ere my heart was dead!
’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 Captains sailed from all the World—from all the
world and Spain;
And each one for his country’s ease, her glory and her
gain;
The Captains sailed to Southern Seas, and sailed the Spanish
Main;
And some sailed out beyond the World, and some sailed home
again.
And each one for his daily bread, and bitter bread it was,
Because of things they’d left at home—or for some other
cause.
Their wives and daughters made the lace to deck the Lady’s
gown,
Where sailors’ wives sew dungarees by many a seaport
town.
The Captains sailed in rotten ships, with often rotten
crews,
Because their lands were ignorant and meaner than the ooze;
With money furnished them by Greed, or by ambition mean,
When they had crawled to some pig-faced, pig-hearted king or
queen.
And when a storm was on the coast, and spray leaped o’er
the quays,
Then little Joan or Dorothy, or Inez or Louise,
Would kneel her down on such a night beside her mother’s
knees,
And fold her little hands and pray for those beyond the seas.
With the touching faith of little girls—the faith by love
embalmed—
They’d pray for men beyond the seas who might have been
becalmed.
For some will pray at CHRIST His feet, and some at
MARY’S shrine;
And some to Heathen goddesses, as I have prayed to mine;
To Mecca or to Bethlehem, to Fire, or Joss, or Sol,
And one will pray to sticks or stones, and one to her rag doll.
But we are stubborn men and vain, and though we rise or fall,
Our children’s prayers or women’s prayers,
GOD knows we need them all!
And no one fights the bitter gale, or strives in combat grim,
But, somewhere in the world, a child is praying hard for him.
The Captains sailed to India, to China and Japan.
They met the Strangers’ Welcome and the Friendliness of
Man;
The Captains sailed to Southern Seas, and “wondrous
sights” they saw—
The Rights of Man in savage lands, and law without a law.
They learnt the truth from savages, and wisdom from the wild,
And learned to walk in unknown ways, and trust them like a
child.
(The sailors told of monstrous things that be where sailors
roam . . .
But none had seen more monstrous things than they had seen at
home.)
They found new worlds for crowded folk in cities old and
worn,
And huts of hunger, fog and smoke in lands by Faction torn.
(They found the great and empty lands where Nations might be
born.)
They found new foods, they found new wealth, and newer ways to
live,
Where sons might grow in strength and health, with all that God
would give.
They tracked their ways through unknown seas where Danger still
remains,
And sailed back poor and broken men, and some sailed back in
chains.
But, bound or free, or ill or well, where’er their sails were
furled,
They brought to weary, worn-out lands glad tidings from the
World.
The Seasons saw our fathers come, their flocks and herds
increase;
They saw the old lands waste in War, the new lands waste in
Peace;
The Seasons saw new gardens made, they saw the old lands bleed,
And into new lands introduced the curse of Class and Creed.
They saw the birth of Politics, and all was ripe for Greed.
And Mammon came and built his towers, and Mammon held the fort:
Till one new land went dollar-mad, and one went mad for Sport.
Where men for love of Science sailed in rotten tubs for
years,
To hang or starve, while nought availed a wife or daughter’s
tears—
Where men made life-long sacrifice for some blind Northern
Power,
Now Science sinks a thousand souls, and sinks them in an hour.
You would be rich and great too soon—have all that mortal
craves;
The day may come ere you have lived when you’ll be poor and
slaves.
You heeded not the warning voice, for Self and Sport prevailed;
You yet might wish, in dust and dread, those Captains had not
sailed.
On western plain and eastern hill
Where once my fancy ranged,
The station hands are riding still
And they are little changed.
But I have lost in London gloom
The glory of the day,
The grand perfume of wattle bloom
Is faint and far away.
Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats
The grip of wiry hands,
The gallops on the frosty flats,
Seem dreams of other lands;
The camp fire and the stars that blaze
Above the mystic plain
Are but the thoughts of vanished days
That never come again.
The evening star I seldom view—
That led me on to roam—
I never see the morning star
That used to draw me home.
But I have often longed for day
To hide the few I see,
Because they only point and say
Most bitter things to me.
I wear my life on pavement stones
That drag me ever down,
A paltry slave to little things,
By custom chained to town.
I’ve lost the strength to strike alone,
The heart to do and dare—
I mind the day I’d roll my swag
And tramp to—God-knows-where.
When I should wait I wander out,
When I should go I bide—
I scarcely dare to think about
The days when I could ride.
I would not mount before his eyes,
‘Straight’ Bushman tall and
tan—
I mind the day when I stood up
And fought him like a man.
I mind the time when I was shy
To meet the brown Bush girls—
I’ve lunched with lords since then and I
Have been at home with earls:
I learned to smile and learned to bow
And lie to ladies gay—
But to a gaunt Bushwoman now
I’d not know what to say.
And if I sought her hard bare home
From scenes of show and sham,
I’d sit all ill at ease and feel
The poor weak thing I am.
I could not meet her hopeless eyes
That look one through and through,
The haggard woman of the past
Who once thought I was true.
But nought on earth can last for aye,
And wild with care and pain,
Some day by chance I’ll break away
And seek the Bush again.
And find awhile from bitter years
The rest the Bush can bring,
And hear, perhaps, with truer ears
The songs it has to sing.
The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron
came,
With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson
‘at hame’;
He read me his recommendations—he called them a part of his
plant—
The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron’s
aunt.
The meenister called him ’ungodly—a stray frae the
fauld o’ the Lord’,
And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, ‘a rebel at hame
and abroad’.
He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often
the same);
That’s all they could say in connection with Alister
Cameron’s name.
He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect
of his kirk;
He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of
the work.
And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were
spent,
Was sure of a lecture—and tucker, and a shakedown in
Cameron’s tent.
He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof
to the dart—
That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his
heart;
He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last,
And—well, ’tis a very old story—the story of
Cameron’s past:
A ring and a sprig o’ white heather, a letter or two and a
curl,
A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron’s
girl.
* * * * * * * * * *
It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and
McKean
Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry’s
puddle-machine.
The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when
’twas full,
Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a
bull.
He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart,
I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron’s
heart.
One day I was working below—I was filling the bucket with
clay,
When Alister cried, ‘Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed
to-day.’
He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface
until
It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and
hung still.
I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me:
‘Climb up for your life by the footholes. I’ll
stick tae th’ haun’le—or dee!’
And those were the last words he uttered. He groaned, for I
heard him quite plain—
There’s nothing so awful as that when it’s wrung from a
workman in pain.
The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew
breath,
But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible
death.
And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my
mate,
And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron’s
weight.
I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so
dim,
When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of
him?
He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his
mate—
His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than
Fate;
He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the
smart,
And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his
heart.
A long farewell to Genoa
That rises to the skies,
Where the barren coast of Italy
Like our own coastline lies.
A sad farewell to Genoa,
And long my heart shall grieve,
The only city in the world
That I was loath to leave.
No sign of rush or strife is there,
No war of greed they wage.
The deep cool streets of Genoa
Are rock-like in their age.
No garish signs of commerce there
Are flaunting in the sun.
A rag hung from a balcony
Is by an artist done.
And she was fair in Genoa,
And she was very kind,
Those pale blind-seeming eyes that seem
Most beautifully blind.
Oh they are sad in Genoa,
Those poor soiled singing birds.
I had but three Italian words
And she three English words.
But love is cheap in Genoa,
Aye, love and wine are cheap,
And neither leaves an aching head,
Nor cuts the heart too deep;
Save when the knife goes straight, and then
There’s little time to
grieve—
The only city in the world
That I was loath to leave.
I’ve said farewell to tinted days
And glorious starry nights,
I’ve said farewell to Naples with
Her long straight lines of lights;
But it is not for Naples but
For Genoa that I grieve,
The only city in the world
That I was loath to leave.
(A Fragment)
Roll up, Eureka’s heroes, on that grand Old Rush afar,
For Lalor’s gone to join you in the big camp where you
are;
Roll up and give him welcome such as only diggers can,
For well he battled for the rights of miner and of man.
And there, in that bright, golden land that lies beyond our
sight,
The record of his honest life shall be his Miner’s Right.
Here many a bearded mouth shall twitch, and many a tear be
shed,
And many a grey old digger sigh to hear that Lalor’s
dead.
But wipe your eyes, old fossickers, o’er worked-out fields
that roam,
You need not weep at parting from a digger going home.
. . . . .
Now from the strange wild seasons past, the days of golden
strife,
Now from the Roaring Fifties comes a scene from Lalor’s
life:
All gleaming white amid the shafts o’er gully, hill, and
flat
Again I see the tents that form the camp at Ballarat.
I hear the shovels and the picks, and all the air is rife
With the rattle of the cradles and the sounds of digger-life;
The clatter of the windlass-boles, as spinning round they go,
And then the signal to his mate, the digger’s cry,
‘Below!’
From many a busy pointing forge the sound of labour swells,
The tinkling at the anvils is as clear as silver bells.
I hear the broken English from the mouth at least of one
From every state and nation that is known beneath the sun;
The homely tongue of Scotland and the brogue of Ireland blend
With the dialects of England, from Berwick to Land’s End;
And to the busy concourse here the West has sent a part,
The land of gulches that has been immortalised by Harte;
The land where long from mining-camps the blue smoke upward
curled;
The land that gave that ‘Partner’ true and
‘Mliss’ unto the world;
The men from all the nations in the New World and the Old,
All side by side, like brethren here, are delving after gold;
But suddenly the warning cries are heard on every side
As, closing in around the field, a ring of troopers ride;
Unlicensed diggers are the game, their class and want are sins,
And so, with all its shameful scenes, the digger-hunt begins;
The men are seized who are too poor the heavy tax to pay,
And they are chained, as convicts were, and dragged in gangs
away;
While in the eye of many a mate is menace scarcely hid—
The digger’s blood was slow to boil, but scalded when it
did.
. . . . .
But now another match is held that sure must light the
charge,
A digger murdered in the camp! his murderer at large!
Roll up! Roll up! the pregnant cry awakes the evening air,
And angry faces surge like waves around the speakers there.
‘What are our sins that we should be an outlawed
class?’ they say,
‘Shall we stand by while mates are seized and dragged like
“lags,” away?
‘Shall insult be on insult heaped? Shall we let these things
go?
And on a roar of voices comes the diggers’
answer—‘No!’
The day has vanished from the scene, but not the air of night
Can cool the blood that, ebbing back, leaves brows in anger
white.
Lo! from the roof of Bentley’s inn the flames are leaping
high;
They write ‘Revenge!’ in letters red across the
smoke-dimmed sky.
Now the oppressed will drink no more humiliation’s cup;
Call out the troops! Read martial law!—the diggers’
blood is up!
. . . . .
‘To arms! To arms!’ the cry is out; ‘To arms
if man thou art;
‘For every pike upon a pole will find a tyrant’s
heart!’
Now Lalor comes to take the lead, the spirit does not lag,
And down the rough, wild diggers kneel beneath the Diggers’
Flag,
And, rising to their feet, they swear, while rugged hearts beat
high,
To stand beside their leader and to conquer or to die!
Around Eureka’s stockade now the shades of night close
fast,
Three hundred sleep beside their arms, and thirty sleep their
last.
. . . . .
Around about fair Melbourne town the sounds of bells are
borne
That call the citizens to prayer this fateful Sabbath morn;
But there, upon Eureka’s hill, a hundred miles away,
The diggers’ forms lie white and still above the
blood-stained clay.
The bells that ring the diggers’ death might also ring a
knell
For those few gallant soldiers, dead, who did their duty well.
There’s many a ‘someone’s’ heart shall
ache, and many a someone care,
For many a ‘someone’s darling’ lies all cold and
pallid there.
And now in smoking ruins lie the huts and tents around,
The diggers’ gallant flag is down and trampled in the
ground.
. . . . .
The sight of murdered heroes is to hero hearts a goad,
A thousand men are up in arms upon the Creswick road,
And wildest rumours in the air are flying up and down,
’Tis said the men of Ballarat will march upon the town.
But not in vain those diggers died. Their comrades may rejoice,
For o’er the voice of tyranny is heard the people’s
voice;
It says: ‘Reform your rotten law, the diggers’ wrongs
make right,
‘Or else with them, our brothers now, we’ll gather in
the fight.’
And now before my vision flash the scenes that followed
fast—
The trials, and the triumph of the diggers’ cause at
last.
Twas of such stuff the men were made who saw our nation born,
And such as Lalor were the men who led their foot-steps on;
And of such men there’ll many be, and of such leaders
some,
In the roll-up of Australians on some dark day yet to come.
Weary old wife, with the bucket and cow,
‘How’s your son Jack? and where is he now?’
Haggard old eyes that turn to the west—
‘Boys will be boys, and he’s gone with the
rest!’
Grief without tears and grief without sound;
‘Somewhere up-country he’s knocking around.’
Knocking around with a vagabond
crew,
Does for himself what a mother would
do;
Maybe in trouble and maybe hard-up,
Maybe in want of a bite or a sup;
Dead of the fever, or lost in the
drought,
Lonely old mother! he’s knocking
about.
Wiry old man at the tail of the plough,
‘Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?’
Pauses a moment his forehead to wipe,
Drops the rope reins while he feels for his pipe,
Scratches his grey head in sorrow or doubt:
‘Somewheers or others he’s knocking about.’
Knocking about on the runs of the
West,
Holding his own with the worst and the
best
Breaking in horses and risking his
neck,
Droving or shearing and making a
cheque;
Straight as a sapling—six-foot and
sound,
Jack is all right when he’s knocking
around
Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the
bursting shell,
Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the
western hell;
And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at
sea,
Than the sound—most hellish of all to hear—of a fire
where it should not be.
On the runs to the west of the Dingo Scrubs there was drought,
and ruin, and death,
And the sandstorm came from the dread north-east with the blast of
a furnace-breath;
Till at last one day, at the fierce sunrise, a boundary-rider
woke,
And saw, in the place of the distant haze, a curtain of light blue
smoke.
There is saddling-up by the cockey’s hut, and out in the
station yard,
And away to the north, north-east, north-west, the bushmen are
riding hard.
The pickets are out and many a scout, and many a mulga wire,
While Bill and Jim, with their faces grim, are riding to meet the
fire.
It roars for days in the hopeless scrubs, and across, where the
ground seems bare,
With a cackle and hiss, like the hissing of snakes, the fire is
travelling there;
Till at last, exhausted by sleeplessness, and the terrible toil and
heat,
The squatter is crying, ‘My God! the wool!’ and the
farmer, ‘My God! the wheat!’
But there comes a drunkard (who reels as he rides), with the
news from the roadside pub:—
‘Pat Murphy—the cockey—cut off by the
fire!—way back in the Dingo Scrub!’
‘Let the wheat and the woolshed go to——’
Well, they do as each great heart bids;
They are riding a race for the Dingo Scrub—for Pat and his
wife and kids.
And who is leading the race with death? An ill-matched three,
you’ll allow;
Flash Jim the breaker and Boozing Bill (who is riding steadily
now),
And Constable Dunn, of the Mounted Police, is riding between the
two
(He wants Flash Jim, but the job can wait till they get the Murphys
through).
As they strike the track through the blazing scrub, the trooper
is heard to shout:
‘We’ll take them on to the Two-mile Tank, if we cannot
bring them out!’
A half-mile more, and the rest rein back, retreating, half-choked,
halfblind;
And the three are gone from the sight of men, and the bush fire
roars behind.
The Bushman wiped the tears of smoke, and like Bushmen wept and
swore;
‘Poor Bill will be wanting his drink to-night as never he did
before.
‘And Dunn was the best in the whole damned force!’ says
a client of Dunn’s, with pride;
I reckon he’ll serve his summons on Jim—when they get
to the other side.
. . . . .
It is daylight again, and the fire is past, and the black scrub
silent and grim,
Except for the blaze of an old dead tree, or the crash of a falling
limb;
And the Bushmen are riding again on the run, with hearts and with
eyes that fill,
To look for the bodies of Constable Dunn, Flash Jim, and Boozing
Bill.
They are found in the mud of the Two-mile Tank, where a fiend
might scarce survive,
But the Bushmen gather from words they hear that the bodies are
much alive.
There is Swearing Pat, with his grey beard singed, and his language
of lurid hue,
And his tough old wife, and his half-baked kids, and the three who
dragged them through.
Old Pat is deploring his burnt-out home, and his wife the
climate warm;
And Jim the loss of his favourite horse, and Dunn his uniform;
And Boozing Bill, with a raging thirst, is cursing the Dingo
Scrub—
He’ll only ask for the loan of a flask and a lift to the
nearest pub.
. . . . .
Flash Jim the Breaker is lying low—blue-paper is after
him,
And Dunn, the trooper, is riding his rounds with a blind eye out
for Jim,
And Boozing Bill is fighting D.Ts. in the township of Sudden
Jerk—
When they’re wanted again in the Dingo Scrubs, they’ll
be there to do the work.
A public parlour in the slums,
The haunt of vice and villainy,
Where things are said unfit to hear,
And things are done unfit to see;
’Mid ribald jest and reckless song,
That mock at all that’s pure and
right,
The drunkard drinks the whole day long,
And raves through half the dreadful
night.
And in the morning now he sits,
With staring eyes and trembling limb;
The harbour in the sunlight laughs,
But morning is as night to him.
And, staring blankly at the wall,
He sees the tragedy complete—
He sees the man he used to be
Go striding proudly up the street.
He turns the corner with a swing,
And, at the vine-framed cottage gate,
The father sees, with laughing eyes,
His little son and daughter wait:
They race to meet him as he comes—
And—Oh! this memory is
worst—
Her dimpled arms go round his neck,
She pants, ‘I dot my daddy
first!’
He sees his bright-eyed little wife;
He sees the cottage neat and
clean—
He sees the wrecking of his life
And all the things that might have
been!
And, sunk in hopeless, black despair,
That drink no more has power to drown,
Upon the beer-stained table there
The drunkard’s ruined head goes
down.
. . . . .
But even I, a fearful wreck,
Have drifted long before the storm:
I know, when all seems lost on earth,
How hard it can be to reform.
I, too, have sinned, and we have both
Drunk to the dregs the bitter
cup—
Give me your hand, Oh brother mine,
And even I might help you up.
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 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.
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.’
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.
If the Bourke people, with a dyke of sandbags across the Darling River, could keep the steamers running above that town for months in the drought, what could not the Government do? The Darling rises mostly from the Queensland rains, and feeds her billabongs, and the floods waste into the sea.
By our place in the midst of the furthest seas we were
fated to stand alone—
When the nations fly at each other’s throats let Australia
look to her own;
Let her spend her gold on the barren west, let her keep her men at
home;
For the South must look to the South for strength in the storm that
is to come.
Now who shall gallop from cape to cape, and who shall defend our
shores—
The crowd that stands on the kerb agape and glares at the cricket
scores?
And who will hold the invader back when the shells tear up the
ground—
The weeds that yelp by the cycling track while a nigger scorches
round?
There may be many to man the forts in the big towns by the
sea—
But the East will call to the West for scouts in the storm that is
to be:
The West cries out to the East in drought, but the coastal towns
are dumb;
And the East must look to the West for food in the war that is to
come.
The rain comes down on the Western land and the rivers run to
waste,
While the city folk rush for the special tram in their childless,
senseless haste,
And never a pile of a lock we drive—but a few mean tanks we
scratch—
For the fate of a nation is nought compared with the turn of a
cricket match!
There’s a gutter of mud where there spread a flood from
the land-long western creeks,
There is dust and drought on the plains far out where the water lay
for weeks,
There’s a pitiful dam where a dyke should stretch and a tank
where a lake should be,
And the rain goes down through the silt and sand and the floods
waste into the seas.
We’ll fight for Britain or for Japan, we will fling the
land’s wealth out;
While every penny and every man should be used to fight the
drought.
God helps the nation that helps itself, and the water brings the
rain,
And a deadlier foe than the world could send is loose on the
western plain.
I saw a vision in days gone by and would dream that dream
again
Of the days when the Darling shall not back her billabongs up in
vain.
There were reservoirs and grand canals where the Dry Country had
been,
And a glorious network of aqueducts, and the fields were always
green.
I have seen so long in the land I love what the land I love
might be,
Where the Darling rises from Queensland rains and the floods run
into the sea.
And is it our fate that we’ll wake too late to the truth that
we were blind,
With a foreign foe at our harbour gate and a blazing drought
behind!
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.
[According to Commissioner Hay, Chief Officer of the Salvation Army in Australia, who has just returned from Europe, there are already about 20,000 Salvationists at the Front, and more going, and a lot more getting ready in a hurry to go. . . . In Europe there are brigades of nurses and Red Cross workers under the control of “Brigadier” Mary Murray. She is a daughter of General Sir Alexander Murray of the Indian Military forces, and she has been a member of the Salvation Army for twenty years. . . . The Army has placed a number of its homes (and presumably all its barracks) at the disposal of the naval and military authorities for use as hospitals. . . . In Australia there are several Salvation Army training camps that have been visited and complimented by the Minister for Defence, who has accepted the offer of the Army to accommodate and care for children orphaned by the war, and for whom succour in private homes cannot be found. Belgian children will be welcomed and cared for. . . . Eighty Salvation Army people have volunteered for Red Cross work; the majority well trained as surgical nurses. . . . All those trained as officers have special training in first aid; over 600 young men have already gained certificates. Tents are being erected at Rosehill, where men in training will be provided with writing material, reading matter, games, music, etc., and a coffee canteen. I don’t know what the “etc.” is, but, incidentally, the Army handed in its little bit of £1,000 for the widow’s and orphans’ fund—just to keep things going like. Glory, Alleluia!]
They were “ratty” they were hooted by the
meanest and the least,
When they woke the Drum of Glory long ago in London East.
They were often mobbed by hoodlums—they were few, but
unafraid—
And their Lassies were insulted, but they banged the drum—and
prayed.
Prayed in public for the sinners, prayed in private for
release,
Till they saved some brawny lumpers—then they
banged the drum in peace.
(Saved some prize-fighter and burglars)—and they banged the
drum in peace.
Booth’s
Drum.
He was hook-nosed, he was
“scrawny,”
He was nothing of a Don.
And his business ways seemed Yiddish,
And his speeches “kid”—or
kiddish;
And we doubted his
“convictions”—
But his drum is going on.
Oh, they drummed it ever onward with old Blood-and-Fire
unfurled,
And they drummed it ever outward to the corners of the world.
Till they banged the drum in Greenland and they banged in
Ispahan,
And they banged it round to India and China and Japan.
And they banged it through the Islands where each seasoned Son of
Rum
Took them for new-fangled Jim Jams when he heard the Army Drum.
(For a bran’ new brand of Horrors, when he saw the Army
come.)
So they banged it in the desert, and they banged in the
snow—
They’d have banged the Drum to Mecca! with the shadow of a
“show.”
(But Mohammed cut their heads off, so they had to let it go.)
Somewhere in the early eighties they had banged the drum to
Bourke,
Where the job of fighting Satan was white-hot and dusty work.
Oh, the Local Lass was withered in the heat that bakes and
glares,
And we sent her food and firewood but took small heed of her
prayers.
We were blasphemous and beery, we were free from Creed or Care,
Till they sent their prettiest Lassies—and they broke our
centre there.
So that, moderately sober, we could stand to hear them
sing—
And we’d chaff their Testifiers, and throw quids into the
ring.
(Never less than bobs or “dollars”—sometimes
quids into the ring.)
They have “stormed” our sinful cities—banged
for all that they were worth—
From Port Darwin to Port Melbourne, and from Sydney round to
Perth.
We’d no need for them (or woman) when we were all right and
well,
But they took us out of prison, and they took us out of Hell.
And they helped our fallen sisters who went down for such as
we,
And our widows and our orphans in distress and poverty.
And neglected wives and children of the worst of us that be;
And they made us fit for Glory—or another Glorious Spree.
(So I rather think there’s something that is up to you or
me.)
Oh! the Blindness of the Future!—Ah, we never reckoned
much
That they’d beat the quids we gave them into bayonets and
such.
That the coin would be devoted, when our world was looking
blue,
To another kind of orphan—wife, or child, or widow too.
But the times have changed a sudden, and the past is very dim;
They Have Found a Real Devil, and They’re Going After
Him.
(With a Bible and a Rifle they are going after him.)
For the old Salvation Army, and their Country, and their
King,
They are marching to the trenches, shouting, “Comrades! Let
us Sing!”
They’ll find foreign “Army” soldiers here and
there and everywhere,
Who will speak their tongue and help them. And they’ll surely
breathe a prayer
For the Spy—before they shoot him; and another when
he’s still.
And they’re going to “fire a volley” in the Land
of Kaiser Bill.
But, when all is done and quiet—as before they march
away—
They will kneel about their banner, saying “Brethren. Let us
pray.”
They have long used army rank-terms, and oh, say what it shall
be,
When a few come back the real thing, and when one comes back
V.C.!
They will bang the drum at Crow’s Nest, they will bang it on
“the Shore,”
They will bang the drum in Kent-street as they never banged
before.
And At Last they’ll frighten Satan from the Mansion and the
Slum—
He’ll have never heard till that time such a Banging of the
Drum.
He was lonely with his thousands,
Lonely in his household too,
For his children had deserted,
And his captains, not a few.
He was old and white and feeble
And his sight was nearly gone,
And he “could not see his
people,”
But his drum is rolling on.
Booth’s
Drum.
Only one old post is standing—
Solid yet, but only one—
Where the milking, and the branding,
And the slaughtering were done.
Later years have brought dejection,
Care, and sorrow; but we knew
Happy days on that selection
Underneath old Bukaroo.
Then the light of day commencing
Found us at the gully’s head,
Splitting timber for the fencing,
Stripping bark to roof the shed.
Hands and hearts the labour strengthened;
Weariness we never knew,
Even when the shadows lengthened
Round the base of Bukaroo.
There for days below the paddock
How the wilderness would yield
To the spade, and pick, and mattock,
While we toiled to win the field.
Bronzed hands we used to sully
Till they were of darkest hue,
‘Burning off’ down in the gully
At the back of Bukaroo.
When we came the baby brother
Left in haste his broken toys,
Shouted to the busy mother:
‘Here is dadda and the
boys!’
Strange it seems that she was able
For the work that she would do;
How she’d bustle round the table
In the hut ’neath Bukaroo!
When the cows were safely yarded,
And the calves were in the pen,
All the cares of day discarded,
Closed we round the hut-fire then.
Rang the roof with boyish laughter
While the flames o’er-topped the
flue;
Happy days remembered after—
Far away from Bukaroo.
But the years were full of changes,
And a sorrow found us there;
For our home amid the ranges
Was not safe from searching Care.
On he came, a silent creeper;
And another mountain threw
O’er our lives a shadow deeper
Than the shade of Bukaroo.
All the farm is disappearing;
For the home has vanished now,
Mountain scrub has choked the clearing,
Hid the furrows of the plough.
Nearer still the scrub is creeping
Where the little garden grew;
And the old folks now are sleeping
At the foot of Bukaroo.
I’ve followed all my tracks and ways, from old bark
school to Leicester Square,
I’ve been right back to boyhood’s days, and found no
light or pleasure there.
But every dream and every track—and there were many that I
knew—
They all lead on, or they lead back, to Bourke in Ninety-one, and
two.
No sign that green grass ever grew in scrubs that blazed beneath
the sun;
The plains were dust in Ninety-two, that baked to bricks in
Ninety-one.
On glaring iron-roofs of Bourke, the scorching, blinding sandstorms
blew,
And there was nothing beautiful in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
Save grit and generosity of hearts that broke and healed
again—
The hottest drought that ever blazed could never parch the hearts
of men;
And they were men in spite of all, and they were straight, and they
were true,
The hat went round at trouble’s call, in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
They drank, when all is said and done, they gambled, and their
speech was rough—
You’d only need to say of one—‘He was my
mate!’ that was enough.
To hint a bushman was not white, nor to his Union straight and
true,
Would mean a long and bloody fight in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
The yard behind the Shearers’ Arms was reckoned best of
battle grounds,
And there in peace and quietness they fought their ten or fifteen
rounds;
And then they washed the blood away, and then shook hands, as
strong men do—
And washed away the bitterness—in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
The Army on the grand old creek was mighty in those days gone
by,
For they had sisters who could shriek, and brothers who could
testify;
And by the muddy waterholes, they tackled sin till all was
blue—
They took our bobs and damned our souls in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
By shanty bars and shearing sheds, they took their toll and did
their work—
But now and then they lost their heads, and raved of hotter hells
than Bourke:
The only message from the dead that ever came distinctly
through—
Was—‘Send my overcoat to hell’—it came to
Bourke in Ninety-two.
I know they drank, and fought, and died—some fighting
fiends on blazing tracks—
I don’t remember that they lied, or crawled behind each
others’ backs;
I don’t remember that they loafed, or left a mate to battle
through—
Ah! men knew how to stick to men in Ninety-one and Ninety-two.
They’re scattered wide and scattered far—by fan-like
tracks, north, east, and west—
The cruel New Australian star drew off the bravest and the
best.
The Cape and Klondyke claim their bones, the streets of London
damned a few,
And jingo-cursed Australia mourns for Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
For ever westward in the land, Australians hear—and will
not heed—
The murmur of the board-room, and the sure and stealthy steps of
greed—
Bourke was a fortress on the track! and garrisons were grim and
true
To hold the spoilers from Out Back, in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
I hear it in the ridges lone, and in the dread drought-stricken
wild—
I hear at times a woman’s moan—the whimper of a hungry
child:
And—let the cynics say the word: ‘a godless gang, a
drunken crew’—
But these were things I never heard in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
. . . . .
They say that things have changed out there, and western towns
have altered quite:
They don’t know how to drink and swear, they’ve half
forgotten how to fight;
They’ve almost lost the strength to trust, the faith in
mateship to be true—
The heart that grew in drought and dust in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
We’ve learned to laugh the bitter laugh since
then—we’ve travelled, you and I;
The sneaking little paragraph, the dirty trick, the whispered
lie
Are known to us—the little men—whose souls are rotten
through and through—
We called them scabs and crawlers then, in Ninety-one and
Ninety-two.
And could I roll the summers back, or bring the dead time on
again;
Or from the grave or world-wide track, call back to Bourke the
vanished men,
With mind content I’d go to sleep, and leave those mates to
judge me true,
And leave my name to Bourke to keep—the Bourke of Ninety-one
and two.
There’s a thing that sends a lump to my throat,
And cuts my heart like a knife:
’Tis the woman that waits at the prison gate,
And the woman is not his wife.
You may preach and pray till the dawn of day,
Denounce or damn as you will,
But the soul of that woman shall cleave for aye
To the sin-stained soul of Bill.
She hath no need for our sympathy,
And her face is as hard as a stone
—
A rag of a woman at war with the world
And fiercely fighting alone.
At the kindly touch of the janitor’s hand
The eyes of a wife would fill,
But Sal replies with a “Blast yer eyes!” —
She is only stickin’ to Bill.
But, in spite of herself there is help that comes —
And it comes from a source well hid
—
To buy the tucker and pay the rent
Of a roost for herself and kid.
For the “talent” has sent round its thievish hat
By one with a fist and a will,
For a quid or two just to see Sal through —
For Sal is stickin’ to Bill.
A furtive figure from Nowhere comes
To Red Rock Lane by night,
And it softly raps at a dingy door
While it scowls to left and right:
It jerks its arm in a half salute,
By habit — against its will,
’Tis a fellow felon of Bill’s, discharged,
And it brings her a message from Bill.
There’s a woman that comes to the gate alone
(Bill’s Gaol Delivery’s
near),
With a face a little less like a stone
And a sign of a savage tear.
With a suit of clobber done up and darned —
For William is leaving “The
Hill”.
And the tear is the first she ever has shed
Since she’s been stickin’ to
Bill.
There’s tucker at home, and a job to come
And no one to wish him ill,
There’s a bottle of beer and a minded kid
In a brand-new suit of drill.
There’s an old-time mate who will steer him straight,
And the sticks of furniture still
—
He can take a spell for a month if he likes,
And — she’s done her best for
Bill.
They can’t hear in West o’ London, where the
worst dine with the best—
Deaf to all save lies and laughter, they can’t hear in London
West—
Tailored brutes and splendid harlots, and the parasites that
be—
They can’t hear the warning thunder of the Drums of
Battersea.
More
drums! War drums!
Drums
of Misery—
Beating from the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
Where the hearses hurry ever, and where man lives like a
beast,
They can feel the war-drums beating—men of Hell! and London
East.
And the far-off foreign farmers, fighting fiercely to be free,
Found new courage in the echo of the Drums of Battersea.
More
drums! War drums!
Beating
for the free—
Beating on the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
And the drummers! Ah! the drummers!—stern and haggard men
are those
Standing grimly at their meetings; and their washed and mended
clothes
Speak of worn-out wives behind them and of grinding
poverty—
But the English of the English beat the Drums of Battersea!
More
drums! War drums!
Drums
of agony—
The big bruised heart of England’s in the Drums of
Battersea.
Where in fields slave Englishwomen, Oh! the sound of drums is
there:
I have heard it in the laughter of the nights of Leicester
Square—
Sailing southward with the summer, London but a dream to me,
Still I feel the distant thunder of the Drums of Battersea!
More
drums! War drums!
Drums
of Liberty—
Rolling round the English world—the Drums of Battersea.
Oh! I heard them in the Queen’s Hall—aye! and London
heard that night—
While we formed up round the leaders while they struck one blow for
right!
And the old strength, that old fire, that I thought was dead in
me,
Blazed up fiercely at the beating of the Drums of Battersea!
More
drums! War drums!
They
beat for victory—
When above the roar of Jingoes rolled the Drums of Battersea.
And where’er my feet may wander, and howe’er I lay
my head,
I shall hear them while I’m dreaming—I shall hear them
when I’m dead!
For they beat for men and women, beat for Christ, and you and
me:
There is hope and there is terror in the Drums of Battersea!
More
drums! War drums!
Drums
of destiny—
There’s hope!—there’s hope for England in the
Drums of Battersea.
Day of ending for beginnings!
Ocean hath another innings,
Ocean hath another score;
And the surges sing his winnings,
And the surges shout his winnings,
And the surges shriek his winnings,
All along the sullen shore.
Sing another dirge in wailing,
For another vessel sailing
With the shadow-ships at sea;
Shadow-ships for ever sinking—
Shadow-ships whose pumps are clinking,
And whose thirsty holds are drinking
Pledges to Eternity.
Pray for souls of ghastly, sodden
Corpses, floating round untrodden
Cliffs, where nought but sea-drift
strays;
Souls of dead men, in whose faces
Of humanity no trace is—
Not a mark to show their races—
Floating round for days and days.
* * * * * * *
Ocean’s salty tongues are licking
Round the faces of the drowned,
And a cruel blade seems sticking
Through my heart and turning round.
Heaven! shall his ghastly, sodden
Corpse float round for days and days?
Shall it dash ’neath cliffs untrodden,
Rocks where nought but sea-drift
strays?
God in heaven! hide the floating,
Falling, rising, face from me;
God in heaven! stay the gloating,
Mocking singing of the sea!
All is well—in a prison—to-night, and the
warders are crying ‘All’s Well!’
I must speak, for the sake of my heart—if it’s but to
the walls of my cell.
For what does it matter to me if to-morrow I go where I will?
I’m as free as I ever shall be—there is naught in my
life to fulfil.
I am free! I am haunted no more by the question that tortured my
brain:
‘Are you sane of a people gone mad? or mad in a world that is
sane?’
I have had time to rest—and to pray—and my reason no
longer is vext
By the spirit that hangs you one day, and would hail you as martyr
the next.
Are the fields of my fancy less fair through a window
that’s narrowed and barred?
Are the morning stars dimmed by the glare of the gas-light that
flares in the yard?
No! And what does it matter to me if to-morrow I sail from the
land?
I am free, as I never was free! I exult in my loneliness grand!
Be a saint and a saviour of men—be a Christ, and
they’ll slander and rail!
Only Crime’s understood in the world, and a man is
respected—in gaol.
But I find in my raving a balm—in the worst that has come to
the worst—
Let me think of it all—I grow calm—let me think it all
out from the first.
. . . . .
Beyond the horizon of Self do the walls of my prison
retreat,
And I stand in a gap of the hills with the scene of my life at my
feet;
The range to the west, and the Peak, and the marsh where the dark
ridges end,
And the spurs running down to the Creek, and the she-oaks that sigh
in the bend.
The hints of the river below; and, away on the azure and
green,
The old goldfield of Specimen Flat, and the township—a blotch
on the scene;
The store, the hotels, and the bank—and the gaol and the
people who come
With the weatherboard box and the tank—the Australian idea of
home:
The scribe—spirit-broken; the ‘wreck,’ in his
might-have-been or shame;
The townsman ‘respected’ or worthy; the workman
respectful and tame;
The boss of the pub with his fine sense of honour, grown moral and
stout,
Like the spielers who came with the ‘line,’ on the
cheques that were made farther out.
The clever young churchman, despised by the swaggering, popular
man;
The doctor with hands clasped behind, and bowed head, as if under a
ban;
The one man with the brains—with the power to lead,
unsuspected and dumb,
Whom Fate sets apart for the Hour—the man for the hour that
might come.
The old local liar whose story was ancient when Egypt was
young,
And the gossip who hangs on the fence and poisons God’s world
with her tongue;
The haggard bush mother who’d nag, though a husband or child
be divine,
And who takes a fierce joy in a rag of the clothes on the
newcomer’s line.
And a lad with a cloud on his heart who was lost in a world
vague and dim—
No one dreamed as he drifted apart that ’twas genius the
matter with him;
Who was doomed, in that ignorant hole, to its spiritless level to
sink,
Till the iron had entered his soul, and his brain found a refuge in
drink.
. . . . .
Perhaps I was bitter because of the tongues of disgrace in the
town—
Of a boy-nature misunderstood and its nobler ambitions sneered
Of the sense of injustice that stings till it ends in the creed of
the push—
I was born in that shadow that clings to the old gully homes in the
bush.
And I was ambitious. Perhaps as a boy I could see things too
plain—
How I wished I could write of the truths—of the
visions—that haunted my brain!
Of the bush-buried toiler denied e’en the last loving
comforts of all—
Of my father who slaved till he died in the scrub by his wedges and
maul.
Twenty years, and from daylight till dark—twenty years it
was split, fence, and grub,
And the end was a tumble-down hut and a bare, dusty patch in the
scrub.
’Twas the first time he’d rested, they said, but the
knit in his forehead was deep,
And to me the scarred hands of the dead seemed
to work as I’d seen them in sleep.
And the mother who toiled by his side, through hardship and
trouble and drought,
And who fought for the home when he died till her heart—not
her spirit—wore out:
I am shamed for Australia and haunted by the face of the haggard
bush wife—
She who fights her grim battle undaunted because she knows nothing
of life.
By the barren track travelled by few men—poor victims of
commerce, unknown—
E’en the troubles that woman tells woman she suffers,
unpitied, alone;
Heart-dumbed and mind-dulled and benighted, Eve’s beauty in
girlhood destroyed!
Till the wrongs never felt shall be righted—and the peace
never missed be enjoyed.
There was no one to understand me. I was lonely and shy as a
lad,
Or I lived in a world that was wider than ours; so of course I was
‘mad.’
Who is not understood is a ‘crank’—so I suffered
the tortures of men
Doomed to think in the bush, till I drank and went wrong—I
grew popular then.
There was Doctor Lebenski, my friend—and the friend, too,
of all who were down—
Clever, gloomy, and generous drunkard—the pride and disgrace
of the town.
He had been through the glory and shame of a wild life by city and
sea,
And the tales of the land whence he came had a strong fascination
for me.
And often in yarning or fancy, when she-oaks grew misty and
dim,
From the forest and straight for the camp of the Cossack I’ve
ridden with him:
Ridden out in the dusk with a score, ridden back ere the dawning
with ten—
Have struck at three kingdoms and Fate for the fair land of Poland
again!
He’d a sorrow that drink couldn’t drown—that
his great heart was powerless to fight—
And I gathered the threads ’twixt the long, pregnant puffs of
his last pipe at night;
For he’d say to me, sadly: ‘Jack Drew’—then
he’d pause, as to watch the smoke curl—
‘If a good girl should love you, be true—though you die
for it—true to the girl!
‘A man may be false to his country—a man may be
false to his friend:
‘Be a vagabond, drunkard, a spieler—yet his soul may
come right in the end;
‘But there is no prayer, no atonement, no drink that can
banish the shade
‘From your side, if you’ve one spark of manhood, of a
dead girl that you have betrayed.’
. . . . .
‘One chance for a fortune,’ we’re told, in the
lives of the poorest of men—
There’s a chance for a heaven on earth that comes over and
over again!
’Twas for Ruth, the bank manager’s niece, that the
wretched old goldfield grew fair,
And she came like an angel of peace in an hour of revengeful
despair.
A girl as God made her, and wise in a faith that was never
estranged—
From childhood neglected and wronged, she had grown with her nature
unchanged;
And she came as an angel of Hope as I crouched on Eternity’s
brink,
And the loaded revolver and rope were parts of the horrors of
drink.
I was not to be trusted, they said, within sight of a cheque or
a horse,
And the worst that was said of my name all the gossips were glad to
endorse.
But she loved me—she loved me! And why? Ask the she-oaks that
sighed in the bends—
We had suffered alike, she and I, from the blindness of kinsfolk
and friends.
A girlhood of hardship and care, for she gave the great heart of
a child
To a brother whose idol was Self, and a brother good-natured but
‘wild;’—
And a father who left her behind when he’d suffered too much
from the moan
Of a mother grown selfish and blind in her
trouble—’twas always her own.
She was brave, and she never complained, for the hardships of
youth that had driven
My soul to the brink of perdition, but strengthened the
girl’s faith in Heaven.
In the home that her relatives gave she was tortured each hour of
her life.
By her cruel dependence—the slave of her aunt, the
bank-manager’s wife.
Does the world know how easy to lead and how hard to be driven
are men?
She was leading me back with her love, to the faith of my childhood
again!
To my boyhood’s neglected ideal—to the hopes that were
strangled at birth,
To the good and the truth of the real—to the good that was
left on the earth.
And the sigh of the oaks seemed a hymn, and the waters had music
for me
As I sat on the grass at her feet, and rested my head on her
knee;
And we seemed in a dreamland apart from the world’s
discontent and despair,
For the cynic went out of my heart at the touch of her hand on my
hair.
. . . . .
She would talk like a matron at times, and she prattled at times
like a child:
‘I will trust you—I know you are good—you have
only been careless and wild—
‘You are clever—you’ll rise in the
world—you must think of your future and me—
‘You will give up the drink for my sake, and you don’t
know how happy we’ll be!’
‘I can work, I will help you,’ she said, and
she’d plan out our future and home,
But I found no response in my heart save the hungry old craving to
roam.
Would I follow the paths of the dead? I was young yet. Would I
settle down
To the life that our parents had led by the dull, paltry-spirited
town?
For the ghost of the cynic was there, and he waited and
triumphed at last—
One night—I’d been drinking, because of a spectre that
rose from the past—
My trust had so oft been betrayed: that at last I had turned to
distrust—
My sense of injustice so keen that my anger was always unjust.
Would I sacrifice all for a wife, who was free now to put on my
hat
And to go far away from the life—from the home life of
Specimen Flat?
Would I live as our fathers had lived to the finish? And what was
it worth?
A woman’s reproach in the end—of all things most unjust
on the earth.
The old rebel stirred in my blood, and he whispered, ‘What
matter?’ ‘Why not?’
And she trembled and paled, for the kiss that I gave her was
reckless and hot.
And the angel that watched o’er her slept, and the oaks
sighed aloud in the creek
As we sat in a shadow that crept from a storm-cloud that rose on
the Peak.
There’s a voice warns the purest and best of their danger
in love or in strife,
But that voice is a knell to her honour who loves with the love of
her life!
And ‘Ruth—Ruth!’ I whispered at last in a voice
that was not like my own—
She trembled and clung to me fast with a sigh that was almost a
moan.
While you listen and doubt, and incline to the devil that plucks
at your sleeve—
When the whispers of angels have failed—then Heaven speaks
once I believe.
The lightning leapt out—in a flash only seen by those ridges
and creeks,
And the darkness shut down with a crash that I thought would have
riven the peaks.
By the path through the saplings we ran, as the great drops came
pattering down,
To the first of the low-lying ridges that lay between us and the
town;
Where she suddenly drew me aside with that beautiful instinct of
love
As the clatter of hoofs reached our ears—and a horseman
loomed darkly above.
’Twas the Doctor: he reined up and sat for the first
moment pallid and mute,
Then he lifted his hand to his hat with his old-fashioned martial
salute,
And he said with a glance at the ridge, looming black with its
pine-tops awhirl,
‘Take my coat, you are caught in the storm!’ and he
whispered, ‘Be true to the girl!’
. . . . .
He rode on—to a sick bed, maybe some twenty miles back in
the bush,
And we hurried on through the gloom, and I still seemed to hear in
the ‘woosh’
Of the wind in the saplings and oaks, in the gums with their top
boughs awhirl—
In the voice of the gathering tempest—the warning, ‘Be
true to the girl!’
And I wrapped the coat round her, and held her so close that I
felt her heart thump
When the lightning leapt out, as we crouched in the lee of the
shell of a stump—
And there seemed a strange fear in her eyes and the colour had gone
from her cheek—
And she scarcely had uttered a word since the hot brutal kiss by
the creek.
The storm rushed away to the west—to the ridges
drought-stricken and dry—
To the eastward loomed far-away peaks ’neath the still starry
arch of the sky;
By the light of the full moon that swung from a curtain of cloud
like a lamp,
I saw that my tent had gone down in the storm, as we passed by the
camp.
’Tis a small thing, or chance, such as this, that decides
between hero and cur
In one’s heart. I was wet to the skin, and my comfort was
precious to her.
And her aunt was away in the city—the dining-room fire was
alight,
And the uncle was absent—he drank with some friends at the
Royal that night.
He came late, and passed to his room without glancing at her or
at me—
Too straight and precise, be it said, for a man who was sober to
be.
Then the drop of one boot on the floor (there was no wife to
witness his guilt),
And a moment thereafter a snore that proclaimed that he slept on
the quilt.
Was it vanity, love, or revolt? Was it joy that came into my
life?
As I sat there with her in my arms, and caressed her and called her
‘My wife!’
Ah, the coward! But my heart shall bleed, though I live on for
fifty long years,
For she could not cry out, only plead with eyes that were brimming
with tears.
Not the passion so much brings remorse, but the thought of the
treacherous part
I’d have played in a future already planned out—ay!
endorsed in my heart!
When a good woman falls for the sake of a love that has blinded her
eyes,
There is pardon, perhaps, for his lust; but what heaven could
pardon the lies?
And ‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘You are
mine, I am yours—and for life.
‘He is drunk and asleep—he won’t hear, and to
morrow you shall be my wife!’
There’s an hour in the memory of most that we hate ever after
and loathe—
’Twas the daylight that came like a ghost to her window that
startled us both.
. . . . .
Twixt the door of her room and the door of the office I stood
for a space,
When a treacherous board in the floor sent a crack like a shot
through the place!—
Then the creak of a step and the click of a lock in the
manager’s room—
I grew cold to the stomach and sick, as I trembled and shrank in
the gloom.
He faced me, revolver in hand—‘Now I know you, you
treacherous whelp!
‘Stand still, where you are, or I’ll fire!’ and
he suddenly shouted for help.
‘Help! Burglary!’ Yell after yell—such a voice
would have wakened the tomb;
And I heard her scream once, and she fell like a log on the floor
of her room!
And I thought of her then like a flash—of the foul fiend
of gossip that drags
A soul to perdition—I thought of the treacherous tongues of
the hags;
She would sacrifice all for my sake—she would tell the whole
township the truth.
I’d escape, send the Doctor a message and die—ere they
took me—for Ruth!
Then I rushed him—a struggle—a flash—I was
down with a shot in my arm—
Up again, and a desperate fight—hurried footsteps and cries
of alarm!
A mad struggle, a blow on the head—and the gossips will fill
in the blank
With the tale of the capture of Drew on the night he broke into the
bank.
In the cell at the lock-up all day and all night, without pause
through my brain
Whirled the scenes of my life to the last one—and over and
over again
I paced the small cell, till exhaustion brought sleep—and I
woke to the past
Like a man metamorphosed—clear-headed, and strong in a
purpose at last.
She would sacrifice all for my sake—she would tell the
whole township the truth—
In the mood I was in I’d have given my life for a moment with
Ruth;
But still, as I thought, from without came the voice of the
constable’s wife;
‘They say it’s brain fever, poor girl, and the doctor
despairs of her life.’
‘He has frightened the poor girl to death—such a
pity—so pretty and young,’
So the voice of a gossip chimed in: ‘And the wretch! he
deserves to be hung.
‘They were always a bad lot, the Drews, and I knowed he was
more rogue than crank,
‘And he only pretended to court her so’s to know his
way into the bank!’
Came the doctor at last with his voice hard and cold and a face
like a stone—
Hands behind, but it mattered not then—’twas a fight I
must fight out alone:
‘You have cause to be thankful,’ he said, as though
speaking a line from the past—
‘She was conscious an hour; she is dead, and she called for
you, Drew, till the last!
‘Ay! And I knew the truth, but I lied. She fought for the
truth, but I lied;
‘And I said you were well and were coming, and, listening and
waiting, she died.
‘God forgive you! I warned you in time. You will suffer while
reason endures:
‘For the rest, you will know only I have the key of her
story—and yours.’
. . . . .
The curious crowd in the court seemed to me but as ghosts from
the past,
As the words of the charge were read out, like a hymn from the
first to the last;
I repeated the words I’d rehearsed—in a voice that
seemed strangely away—
In their place, ‘I am guilty,’ I said; and again,
‘I have nothing to say.’
I realised then, and stood straight—would I shrink from
the eyes of the clown—
From the eyes of the sawney who’d boast of success with a
girl of the town?
But there is human feeling in men which is easy, or hard, to
define:
Every eye, as I glanced round the court, was cast down, or averted
from mine.
Save the doctor’s—it seemed to me then as if he and
I stood there alone—
For a moment he looked in my eyes with a wonderful smile in his
own,
Slowly lifted his hand in salute, turned and walked from the
court-room, and then
From the rear of the crowd came the whisper: ‘The
Doctor’s been boozing again!’
I could laugh at it then from the depth of the bitterness still
in my heart,
At the ignorant stare of surprise, at the constables’
‘Arder in Car-rt!’
But I know. Oh, I understand now how the poor tortured heart cries
aloud
For a flame from High Heaven to wither the grin on the face of a
crowd.
Then the Judge spoke harshly; I stood with my fluttering senses
awhirl:
My crime, he said sternly, had cost the young life of an innocent
girl;
I’d brought sorrow and death to a home, I was worse than a
murderer now;
And the sentence he passed on me there was the worst that the law
would allow.
. . . . .
Let me rest—I grow weary and faint. Let me
breathe—but what value is breath?
Ah! the pain in my heart—as of old; and I know what it
is—it is death.
It is death—it is rest—it is sleep. ’Tis the
world and I drifting apart.
I have been through a sorrow too deep to have passed without
breaking my heart.
There’s a breeze! And a light without bars! Let me drink
the free air till I drown.
’Tis the she-oaks—the Peak—and the stars. Lo, a
dead angel’s spirit floats down!
This will pass—aye, and all things will pass. Oh, my love,
have you come back to me?
I am tired—let me lie on the grass at your feet, with my head
on your knee.
‘I was wrong’—the words lull me to sleep, like
the words of a lullaby song—
I was wrong—but the iron went deep in my heart ere I knew I
was wrong.
I rebelled, but I suffered in youth, and I suffer too deeply to
live:
You’ll forgive me, and pray for me, Ruth—for you loved
me—and God will forgive.
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!
A dusty clearing in the scrubs
Of barren, western lands—
Where, out of sight, or sign of hope
The wretched school-house stands;
A roof that glares at glaring days,
A bare, unshaded wall,
A fence that guards no blade of green—
A dust-storm over all.
The books and slates are packed away,
The maps are rolled and tied,
And for an hour I breathe, and lay
My ghastly mask aside;
I linger here to save my head
From voices shrill and thin,
That rasp for ever in the shed,
The ‘home’ I’m boarding
in.
The heat and dirt and wretchedness
With which their lives began—
Bush mother nagging day and night,
And sullen, brooding man;
The minds that harp on single strings,
And never bright by chance,
The rasping voice of paltry things,
The hopeless ignorance.
I had ideals when I came here,
A noble purpose had,
But all that they can understand
Is ‘axe to grind’ or
‘mad.’
I brood at times till comes a fear
That sets my brain awhirl—
I fight a strong man’s battle here,
And I am but a girl.
I hated paltriness and deemed
A breach of faith a crime;
I listen now to scandal’s voice
In sewing-lesson time.
There is a thought that haunts me so,
And gathers strength each day—
Shall I as narrow-minded grow,
As mean of soul as they?
The feuds that rise from paltry spite,
Or from no cause at all;
The brooding, dark, suspicious minds—
I suffer for it all.
They do not dream the ‘Teacher’ knows,
What brutal thoughts are said;
The children call me ‘Pigeon Toes,’
‘Green Eyes’ and ‘Carrot
Head.’
On phantom seas of endless change
My thoughts to madness roam—
The only thing that keeps me here,
The thoughts of those at home—
The hearts that love and cling to me,
That I love best on earth,
My mother left in poverty,
My brother blind from birth.
On burning West Australian fields
In that great dreadful land,
Where all day long the heat waves flow
O’er the seas of glowing sand.
My elder brother toils and breaks
That great true heart of his
To rescue us from poverty—
To rescue me from this.
And one is with him where he goes,
My brother’s mate and mine;
He never called me Pigeon Toes—
He said my eyes were
‘fine’;
And his face comes before me now,
And hope and courage rise,
The lines of life—the troubled brow,
Firm mouth and kind grey eyes.
I preach content and gentleness,
And mock example give;
They little think the Teacher hates
And loathes the life they live.
I told the infants fairy tales
But half an hour since—
They little dream how Pigeon Toes
Prays for a fairy Prince.
I have one prayer (and God forgive
A selfish prayer and wild);
I kneel down by the infants’ stool
(For I am but a child),
And pray as I’ve prayed times untold
That Heaven will set a sign,
To guide my brother to the gold,
For mother’s sake and mine.
A dust cloud on the lonely road,
And I am here alone;
I lock the door till it be past,
For I have nervous grown.
. . . . .
God spare me disappointment’s blow.
He stops beside the gate;
A voice, thrill-feeling that I know.
My brother! No! His mate!
. . . . .
His eyes—a proud, triumphant smile,
His arms outstretched, and ‘Come,
‘For Jack and I have made our pile,
‘And I’m here to take you
home’!
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.
The squatter saw his pastures wide
Decrease, as one by one
The farmers moving to the west
Selected on his run;
Selectors took the water up
And all the black soil round;
The best grass-land the squatter had
Was spoilt by Ross’s Ground.
Now many schemes to shift old Ross
Had racked the squatter’s brains,
But Sandy had the stubborn blood
Of Scotland in his veins;
He held the land and fenced it in,
He cleared and ploughed the soil,
And year by year a richer crop
Repaid him for his toil.
Between the homes for many years
The devil left his tracks:
The squatter pounded Ross’s stock,
And Sandy pounded Black’s.
A well upon the lower run
Was filled with earth and logs,
And Black laid baits about the farm
To poison Ross’s dogs.
It was, indeed, a deadly feud
Of class and creed and race;
But, yet, there was a Romeo
And a Juliet in the case;
And more than once across the flats,
Beneath the Southern Cross,
Young Robert Black was seen to ride
With pretty Jenny Ross.
One Christmas time, when months of drought
Had parched the western creeks,
The bush-fires started in the north
And travelled south for weeks.
At night along the river-side
The scene was grand and strange—
The hill-fires looked like lighted streets
Of cities in the range.
The cattle-tracks between the trees
Were like long dusky aisles,
And on a sudden breeze the fire
Would sweep along for miles;
Like sounds of distant musketry
It crackled through the brakes,
And o’er the flat of silver grass
It hissed like angry snakes.
It leapt across the flowing streams
And raced o’er pastures broad;
It climbed the trees and lit the boughs
And through the scrubs it roared.
The bees fell stifled in the smoke
Or perished in their hives,
And with the stock the kangaroos
Went flying for their lives.
The sun had set on Christmas Eve,
When, through the scrub-lands wide,
Young Robert Black came riding home
As only natives ride.
He galloped to the homestead door
And gave the first alarm:
‘The fire is past the granite spur,
‘And close to Ross’s
farm.’
‘Now, father, send the men at once,
They won’t be wanted here;
Poor Ross’s wheat is all he has
To pull him through the year.’
‘Then let it burn,’ the squatter said;
‘I’d like to see it
done—
I’d bless the fire if it would clear
Selectors from the run.’
‘Go if you will,’ the squatter said,
‘You shall not take the
men—
Go out and join your precious friends,
And don’t come here again.’
‘I won’t come back,’ young Robert cried,
And, reckless in his ire,
He sharply turned his horse’s head
And galloped towards the fire.
And there, for three long weary hours,
Half-blind with smoke and heat,
Old Ross and Robert fought the flames
That neared the ripened wheat.
The farmer’s hand was nerved by fears
Of danger and of loss;
And Robert fought the stubborn foe
For the love of Jenny Ross.
But serpent-like the curves and lines
Slipped past them, and between,
Until they reached the bound’ry where
The old coach-road had been.
‘The track is now our only hope,
There we must stand,’ cried Ross,
‘For nought on earth can stop the fire
If once it gets across.’
Then came a cruel gust of wind,
And, with a fiendish rush,
The flames leapt o’er the narrow path
And lit the fence of brush.
‘The crop must burn!’ the farmer cried,
‘We cannot save it now,’
And down upon the blackened ground
He dashed the ragged bough.
But wildly, in a rush of hope,
His heart began to beat,
For o’er the crackling fire he heard
The sound of horses’ feet.
‘Here’s help at last,’ young Robert cried,
And even as he spoke
The squatter with a dozen men
Came racing through the smoke.
Down on the ground the stockmen jumped
And bared each brawny arm,
They tore green branches from the trees
And fought for Ross’s farm;
And when before the gallant band
The beaten flames gave way,
Two grimy hands in friendship joined—
And it was Christmas Day.
When you’ve come to make a fortune and you
haven’t made your salt,
And the reason of your failure isn’t anybody’s fault
—
When you haven’t got a billet, and the times are very
slack,
There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going
back;
Crawling home with
empty pockets,
Going back
hard-up;
Oh! it’s then you learn the meaning of humiliation’s
cup.
When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all
alone,
And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known;
When your clothes are very shabby and the future’s very
black,
There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going
back.
When we’ve fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the
wall,
’Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of
us all;
And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack,
And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.
When a beaten man’s discovered with a bullet in his
brain,
They post-mortem him, and try him, and they say he
was insane;
But it very often happens that he’d lately got the sack,
And his onward move was owing to the shame of going back.
Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense, and your upper lip is
curled,
I can see that you have never worked your passage through the
world;
But when fortune rounds upon you and the rain is on the track,
You will learn the bitter meaning of the shame of going back;
Going home with
empty pockets,
Going home
hard-up;
Oh, you’ll taste the bitter poison in humiliation’s
cup.
Some carry their swags in the Great North-West,
Where the bravest battle and die,
And a few have gone to their last long rest,
And a few have said: Good-bye!
The coast grows dim, and it may be long
Ere the Gums again I see;
So I put my soul in a farewell song
To the chaps who barracked for me.
Their days are hard at the best of times,
And their dreams are dreams of
care—
God bless them all for their big soft hearts,
And the brave, brave grins they wear!
God keep me straight as a man can go,
And true as a man may be!
For the sake of the hearts that were always so,
Of the men who had faith in me!
And a ship-side word I would say, you chaps
Of the blood of the
Don’t-give-in!
The world will call it a boast, perhaps—
But I’ll win, if a man can win!
And not for gold nor the world’s applause—
Though ways to the end they be—
I’ll win, if a man might win, because
Of the men who believed in me.
You love me, you say, and I think you do,
But I know so many who don’t,
And how can I say I’ll be true to you
When I know very well that I
won’t?
I have journeyed long and my goal is far,
I love, but I cannot bide,
For as sure as rises the morning star,
With the break of day I’ll ride.
I was doomed to
ruin or doomed to mar
The
home wherever I stay,
But I’ll
think of you as the morning star
And
they call me Break o’ Day.
They well might have named me the Fall o’ Night,
For drear is the track I mark,
But I love fair girls and I love the light,
For I and my tribe were dark.
You may love me dear, for a day and night,
You may cast your life aside;
But as sure as the morning star shines bright
With the break of day I’ll ride.
There was never a lover so proud and kind,
There was never a friend so true;
But the song of my life I have left behind
In the heart of a girl like you.
There was never so deep or cruel a wrong
In the land that is far away,
There was never so bitter a broken heart
That rode at the break of day.
God bless you, dear, with your red-gold hair
And your pitying eyes of grey—
Oh! my heart forbids that a star so fair
Should be marred by the Break o’
Day.
Live on, my girl, as the girl you are,
Be a good and a true man’s bride,
For as sure as beckons the evening star
With the fall o’ night I’ll
ride.
I was born to
ruin or born to mar
The
home wherever I light.
Oh! I wish that you
were the Evening Star
And
that I were the Fall o’ Night.
Once more I write a line to you,
While darker shadows fall;
Dear friends of mine who have been true,
And steadfast through it all.
If I have written bitter rhymes,
With many lines that halt,
And if I have been false at times
It was not all my fault.
To Heaven’s decree I would not bow,
And I sank very low—
The bitter things are written now,
And we must let them go.
But I feel softened as I write;
The better spirit springs,
And I am very sad to-night
Because of many things.
The friendships that I have abused,
The trust I did betray,
The talents that I have misused,
The gifts I threw away.
The things that did me little good,
And—well my cheeks might
burn—
The kindly letters that I should
Have answered by return.
But you might deem them answered now,
And answered from my heart;
And injured friends will understand
’Tis I who feel the smart.
But I have done with barren strife
And dark imaginings,
And in my future work and life
Will seek the better things.
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.
Dust and smoke against the sunrise out where grim disaster
lurks
And a broken sky-line looming like unfinished railway works,
And a trot, trot, trot and canter down inside the belt of
mines:
It is General Greybeard Shrapnel who is riding round his lines.
And the scarecrows from the trenches, haggard eyes and hollow
cheeks,
War-stained uniforms and ragged that have not been off for
weeks;
They salute him and they cheer him and they watch his face for
signs;
Ah! they try to read old Greybeard while he’s riding round
the lines.
There’s a crack, crack, crack and rattle; there’s a
thud and there’s a crash;
In the battery over yonder there is something gone to smash,
Then a hush and sudden movement, and its meaning he divines,
And he patches up a blunder while he’s riding round his
lines.
Pushing this position forward, bringing that position back,
While his officers, with orders, ride like hell down hell’s
own track;
Making hay—and to what purpose?—while his sun of winter
shines,
But his work is just beginning when he’s ridden round his
lines.
There are fifty thousand rifles and a hundred batteries
All a-playing battle music, with his fingers on the keys,
And if for an hour, exhausted, on his camp bed he reclines,
In his mind he still is riding—he is riding round his
lines.
He’s the brains of fifty thousand, blundering at their
country’s call;
He’s the one hope of his nation, and the loneliest man of
all;
He is flesh and blood and human, though he never shews the
signs:
He is General Greybeard Shrapnel who is fixing up his lines.
It is thankless work and weary, and, for all his neighbour
knows,
He may sometimes feel as if he doesn’t half care how it
goes;
But for all that can be gathered from his eyes of steely blue
He might be a great contractor who has some big job to do.
There’s the son who died in action—it may be a week
ago;
There’s the wife and other troubles that most men have got to
know—
(And we’ll say the grey-haired mother underneath the porch of
vines):
Does he ever think of these things while he’s riding round
his lines?
He is bossed by bitter boobies who can never understand;
He is hampered by the asses and the robbers of the land,
And I feel inclined to wonder what his own opinions are
Of the Government, the country, of the war and of the Czar.
He’s the same when he’s advancing, he’s the
same in grim retreat;
For he wears one mask in triumph and the same mask in defeat;
Of the brave he is the bravest, he is strongest of the strong:
General Greybeard Shrapnel never shows that anything is wrong.
But we each and all are lonely, and we have our work to do;
We must fight for wife and children or our country and our
screw
In the everlasting struggle to the end that fate destines;
In the war that men call living we are riding round our lines.
I ride round my last defences, where the bitter jibes are
flung,
I am patching up the blunders that I made when I was young,
And I may be digging pitfalls and I may be laying mines;
For I sometimes feel like Shrapnel while I’m riding round my
lines.
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!
If you fancy that your people came of better stock than
mine,
If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign,
If you’re proud because of fortune or the clever things you
do—
Then I’ll play no second fiddle: I’m a prouder man than
you!
If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I’m shabby while your clothes are spruce
and new—
You have only got to hint it: I’m a prouder man than you!
If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I’m too common for your toney friend to
meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your
view—
Then be blind to me for ever: I’m a prouder man than you!
If your character be blameless, if your outward past be
clean,
While ’tis known my antecedents are not what they should have
been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name whate’er you
do—
‘Birds o’ feather fly together’: I’m a
prouder bird than you!
Keep your patronage for others! Gold and station cannot hide
Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer
pride!
Offer this as to an equal—let me see that you are true,
And my wall of pride is shattered: I am not so proud as you!
The Channel fog has lifted—
And see where we have come!
Round all the world we’ve drifted,
A hundred years from
‘home.’
The fields our parents longed for—
Ah! we shall ne’er know
how—
The wealth that they were wronged for
We’ll see as strangers now!
The Dover cliffs have passed on—
In morning light aglow—
That our fathers looked their last on
A weary time ago.
Now grin, and grin your bravest!
We need be strong to fight;
For you go home to picture
And I go home to write.
Hold up your head in England,
Tread firm on London streets;
We come from where the strong heart
Of all Australia beats!
Hold up your head in England
However poor you roam!
For no men are your betters
Who never sailed from home!
From a hundred years of hardships—
’Tis ours to tell the cost—
From a thousand miles of silence
Where London would be lost;
From where the glorious sunset
On sweeps of mulga glows—
Ah! we know more than England,
And more than Europe knows!
Hold up your head in London,
However poor you come,
For no man is your better
Who never sailed from home!
Our ‘home’ and foreign fathers,
Where none but men dared go,
Have done more for the White Man
Than England e’er shall know!
We knew too little of the world,
And you and I were good—
’Twas paltry things that wrecked our lives
As well I knew they would.
The people said our love was dead,
But how were they to know?
Ah! had we loved each other less
We’d not have quarrelled so.
We knew too little of the world,
And you and I were kind,
We listened to what others said
And both of us were blind.
The people said ’twas selfishness,
But how were they to know?
Ah! had we both more selfish been
We’d not have parted so.
But still when all seems lost on earth
Then heaven sets a sign—
Kneel down beside your lonely bed,
And I will kneel by mine,
And let us pray for happy days—
Like those of long ago.
Ah! had we knelt together then
We’d not have parted so.
The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star,
Thistles and nettles grow high in the bar—
The chimneys are crumbling, the log fires are dead,
And green mosses spring from the hearthstone instead.
The voices are silent, the bustle and din,
For the railroad hath ruined the Cherry-tree Inn.
Save the glimmer of stars, or the moon’s pallid
streams,
And the sounds of the ’possums that camp on the beams,
The bar-room is dark and the stable is still,
For the coach comes no more over Cherry-tree Hill.
No riders push on through the darkness to win
The rest and the comfort of Cherry-tree Inn.
I drift from my theme, for my memory strays
To the carrying, digging, and bushranging days—
Far back to the seasons that I love the best,
When a stream of wild diggers rushed into the west,
But the rushes grew feeble, and sluggish, and thin,
Till scarcely a swagman passed Cherry-tree Inn.
Do you think, my old mate (if it’s thinking you be),
Of the days when you tramped to the goldfields with me?
Do you think of the day of our thirty-mile tramp,
When never a fire could we light on the camp,
And, weary and footsore and drenched to the skin,
We tramped through the darkness to Cherry-tree Inn?
Then I had a sweetheart and you had a wife,
And Johnny was more to his mother than life;
But we solemnly swore, ere that evening was done,
That we’d never return till our fortunes were won.
Next morning to harvests of folly and sin
We tramped o’er the ranges from Cherry-tree Inn.
* * * * * * *
The years have gone over with many a change,
And there comes an old swagman from over the range,
And faint ’neath the weight of his rain-sodden load,
He suddenly thinks of the inn by the road.
He tramps through the darkness the shelter to win,
And reaches the ruins of Cherry-tree Inn.
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 dreamlike, 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.
We throw us down on the dusty plain
When the gold has gone from the west,
But we rise and tramp on the track again,
For we’re tired, too tired to
rest.
Darker and denser the shadows fall
That are cramping each aching brow,
Scotty the Wrinkler! you’ve solved it all,
Give us a wrinkle now.
But no one lieth so still in death
As the rover who never could rest;
And he’s free of thought as he’s free of breath,
And his hands are crossed on his
breast.
You have earned your rest, you brave old tramp,
As I hope in the end we will.
Ah me! ’Twas a long, long way to camp
Since the days when they called you
“Phil”.
What have they done with your quaint old soul
Now they have passed you through?
But we can’t but think, as our swags we roll,
That it’s right, old man, with
you;
You learned some truth in the storm and strife
Of the outcast battler’s ways;
And you left some light in the vagabond’s life
Ere you vanished beyond the haze.
One by one in the far ahead,
In the smothering haze of drought,
Where hearts are loyal and hopes are dead,
The forms of our mates fade out.
’Tis a distant goal and a weary load,
But we follow the Wrinkler home,
As, staggering into the short, straight road,
From the blind branch tracks we come.
We leave our mark and we play our part
In the nation’s pregnant days,
And we find a place in the Bushman’s heart
Ere we vanish beyond the haze.
He works in the glen where the waratah grows,
And the gums and the ashes are tall,
’Neath cliffs that re-echo the sound of his blows
When the wedges leap in from the mawl.
He comes of a hardy old immigrant race,
And he feels not the rain nor the
drouth.
His sinews are tougher than wire; and his face
Has been tanned by the sun of the
south.
Now doomed to be shorn of its glory at last
Is the stately old tree he attacks;
Its moments of life he is numbering fast
With the keen steady strokes of his
axe.
Loud cracks at the butt; and the strong wood is burst;
And the splitter steps backward, and
turns
His eyes to the boughs that move slowly at first
Ere they rush to their grave in the
ferns.
He strips off the bark with slight effort of strength
And stretches it out on the weeds,
And marks off the trunk with a measure the length
Of the rails or the palings he needs.
The teeth of his crosscut so truly are set
That it swings from his elbow at ease;
And the song of the saw, I am hearing it yet,
Has the music of wind in the trees.
Strong blows on the wedge, and a rip and a tear,
And the log opens up to the butt;
And, spreading around through the pure mountain air,
Is the scent of the wood newly cut.
A lover of comfort and cronies is he;
And when the day’s work is
behind,
A fire, and a yarn, and a billy of tea,
At the hut of the splitter you’ll
find.
His custom is sought in the town by the range;
For well to the future he looks:
His cheques in an instant the storekeepers change;
And his name is the best on the books.
[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.
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.
So you rode from the range where your brothers select,
Through the ghostly, grey Bush in the
dawn—
You rode slowly at first, lest her heart should suspect
That you were so glad to be gone;
You had scarcely the courage to glance back at her
By the homestead receding from view,
And you breathed with relief as you rounded the spur,
For the world was a wide world to you.
Grey eyes that
grow sadder than sunset or rain,
Fond
heart that is ever more true,
Firm faith that
grows firmer for watching in vain—
She’ll
wait by the slip-rails for you.
Ah! the world is a new and a wide one to you,
But the world to your sweetheart is
shut,
For a change never comes to the lonely Bush homes
Of the stockyard, the scrub, and the
hut;
And the only relief from its dulness she feels
When the ridges grow softened and dim,
And away in the dusk to the slip-rails she steals
To dream of past hours ‘with
him.’
Do you think, where, in place of bare fences, dry creeks,
Clear streams and green hedges are
seen—
Where the girls have the lily and rose in their cheeks,
And the grass in mid-summer is
green—
Do you think, now and then, now or then, in the whirl
Of the town life, while London is new,
Of the hut in the Bush and the freckled-faced girl
Who waits by the slip-rails for you?
Grey eyes that
are sadder than sunset or rain,
Bruised
heart that is ever more true,
Fond faith that is
firmer for trusting in vain—
She
waits by the slip-rails for you.
You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves
turn—
You could have watched the grass scorch brown had there been grass
to burn.
In such a drought the strongest heart might well grow faint and
weak—
’Twould frighten Satan to his home—not far from Dingo
Creek.
The tanks went dry on Ninety Mile, as tanks go dry out back,
The Half-Way Spring had failed at last when Marshall missed the
track;
Beneath a dead tree on the plain we saw a pack-horse
reel—
Too blind to see there was no shade, and too done-up to feel.
And charcoaled on the canvas bag (’twas written pretty
clear)
We read the message Marshall wrote. It said: ‘I’m taken
queer—
I’m somewhere off of Deadman’s Track, half-blind and
nearly dead;
Find Crowbar, get him sobered up, and follow back,’ it
said.
‘Let Mitchell go to Bandicoot. You’ll find him
there,’ said Mack.
‘I’ll start the chaps from Starving Steers, and take
the dry-holes back.’
We tramped till dark, and tried to track the pack-horse on the
sands,
And just at daylight Crowbar came with Milroy’s station
hands.
His cheeks were drawn, his face was white, but he was sober
then—
In times of trouble, fire, and flood, ’twas Crowbar led the
men.
‘Spread out as widely as you can each side the track,’
said he;
‘The first to find him make a smoke that all the rest can
see.’
We took the track and followed back where Crowbar followed
fate,
We found a dead man in the scrub—but ’twas not
Crowbar’s mate.
The station hands from Starving Steers were searching all the
week—
But never news of Marshall’s fate came back to Dingo
Creek.
And no one, save the spirit of the sand-waste, fierce and lone,
Knew where Jack Marshall crawled to die—but Crowbar might
have known.
He’d scarcely closed his quiet eyes or drawn a sleeping
breath—
They say that Crowbar slept no more until he slept in death.
A careless, roving scamp, that loved to laugh and drink and
joke,
But no man saw him smile again (and no one saw him smoke),
And, when we spelled at night, he’d lie with eyes still open
wide,
And watch the stars as if they’d point the place where
Marshall died.
The search was made as searches are (and often made in
vain),
And on the seventh day we saw a smoke across the plain;
We left the track and followed back—’twas Crowbar still
that led,
And when his horse gave out at last he walked and ran ahead.
We reached the place and turned again—dragged back and no man
spoke—
It was a bush-fire in the scrubs that made the cursed smoke.
And when we gave it best at last, he said,
‘I’ll see it through,’
Although he knew we’d done as much as mortal men could
do.
‘I’ll not—I won’t give up!’ he said,
his hand pressed to his brow;
‘My God! the cursed flies and ants, they might be at him
now.
I’ll see it so in twenty years, ’twill haunt me all my
life—
I could not face his sister, and I could not face his wife.
It’s no use talking to me now—I’m going
back,’ he said,
‘I’m going back to find him, and I will—alive or
dead!’
* * * * * * * * * *
He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week,
And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek.
We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late,
Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall’s
mate.
The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back,
And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the
track.
They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole
Creeks—
There came a day when none had heard of Marshall’s mate for
weeks;
They’d seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving
Steers—
There came a time when none had heard of Marshall’s mate for
years.
They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows,
But no one knew how Crowbar died—the soul of Marshall
knows!
And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late,
The bushmen talk of Crowbar’s ghost ‘what’s
looking for his mate’;
For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men
doubt—
The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out.
Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and
Nevertire—
Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common
wire—
Beyond the furthest ‘Gov’ment’ tank, and past the
furthest bore—
The Never-Never, No Man’s Land, No More, and
Nevermore—
Beyond the Land o’ Break-o’-Day, and Sunset and the
Dawn,
The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall’s mate have
gone
Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and
clean—
Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always
green.
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.’
Though poor and in trouble I wander alone,
With a rebel cockade in my hat;
Though friends may desert me, and kindred disown,
My country will never do that!
You may sing of the Shamrock, the Thistle, and Rose,
Or the three in a bunch if you will;
But I know of a country that gathered all those,
And I love the great land where the Waratah grows,
And the Wattle-bough blooms on the
hill.
Australia! Australia! so fair to behold—
While the blue sky is arching above;
The stranger should never have need to be told,
That the Wattle-bloom means that her heart is of gold,
And the Waratah red blood of love.
Australia! Australia! most beautiful name,
Most kindly and bountiful land;
I would die every death that might save her from shame,
If a black cloud should rise on the
strand;
But whatever the quarrel, whoever her foes,
Let them come! Let them come when they
will!
Though the struggle be grim, ’tis Australia that knows,
That her children shall fight while the Waratah grows,
And the Wattle blooms out on the hill.
Ah, well! but the case seems hopeless, and the pen might write
in vain;
The people gabble of old things over and over again.
For the sake of the sleek importer we slave with the pick and the
shears,
While hundreds of boys in Australia long to be engineers.
A new generation has risen under Australian skies,
Boys with the light of genius deep in their dreamy eyes—
Not as of artists or poets with their vain imaginings,
But born to be thinkers and doers, and makers of wonderful
things.
Born to be builders of vessels in the Harbours of Waste and
Loss,
That shall carry our goods to the nations, flying the Southern
Cross;
And fleets that shall guard our seaboard—while the East is
backed by the Jews—
Under Australian captains, and manned by Australian crews.
Boys who are slight and quiet, but boys who are strong and
true,
Dreaming of great inventions—always of something new;
With brains untrammelled by training, but quick where reason
directs—
Boys with imagination and unclouded intellects.
They long for the crank and the belting, the gear and the
whirring wheel,
The stamp of the giant hammer, the glint of the polished steel.
For the mould and the vice and the lathe—they are boys who
long for the keys
To the doors of the world’s Mechanics and Science’s
mysteries.
They would be makers of fabrics, of cloth for the
continents—
Makers of mighty engines and delicate instruments;
It is they who would set fair cities on the western plains far
out,
They who would garden the deserts—it is they who would
conquer the drought!
They see the dykes to the skyline, where a dust-waste blazes
to-day,
And they hear the lap of the waters on the miles of sand and
clay;
They see the rainfall increasing, and the boundless sweeps of
grass,
And all the year on the rivers the strings of barges pass.
. . . . .
But still the steamers sail out with our timber and wool and
gold,
And back with the costly shoddy stacked high in the foreign
hold;
With the cardboard boots for our leather; and the Brummagem goods
and the slops
For stunted and white-faced Australians to sell in our sordid
shops.
There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not,
On the desolate flats where gaunt appletrees rot.
Where the brooding old ridge rises up to the breeze
From his dark lonely gullies of stringy-bark trees,
There are voice-haunted gaps, ever sullen and strange,
But Eurunderee lies like a gem in the range.
Still I see in my fancy the dark-green and blue
Of the box-covered hills where the five-corners grew;
And the rugged old sheoaks that sighed in the bend
O’er the lily-decked pools where the dark ridges end,
And the scrub-covered spurs running down from the Peak
To the deep grassy banks of Eurunderee Creek.
On the knolls where the vineyards and fruit-gardens are
There’s a beauty that even the drought cannot mar;
For I noticed it oft, in the days that are lost,
As I trod on the siding where lingered the frost,
When the shadows of night from the gullies were gone
And the hills in the background were flushed by the dawn.
I was there in late years, but there’s many a change
Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range,
For the curse of the town with the railroad had come,
And the goldfields were dead. And the girl and the chum
And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak
Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek.
And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold,
When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold,
And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks,
Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks;
For the years waste away like the waters that leak
Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek.
They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and
true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love’s
roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?
When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel’s
crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a
row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm
Do you think that I do not know?
By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to
foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips
Do you think that I do not know?
She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden its secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed
Do you think that I do not know?
I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been
Do you think that I do not know?
They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his
part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl’s
heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy
Do you think that I do not know?
They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang
low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write
Do you think that I do not know?
Down the street as I was drifting with the city’s
human tide,
Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my
side—
Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he,
So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company.
Said the Shade: ‘At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be
curled,
‘Self and Pelf’, my friend, has ever been the motto for
the world.’
And he said: ‘If you’d be happy, you must clip your
fancy’s wings,
Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly
things;
Never fight another’s battle, for a friend can never know
When he’ll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the
foe.
At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be
curled—
‘Self and Pelf’, my friend, remember, is the motto of
the world.
‘Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule;
Never send an ‘i’ undotted to the teacher of a
school;
Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back,
And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack;
At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be
curled,
‘Self and Pelf’, my friend, remember, that’s the
motto of the world.
‘Ne’er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her
niches hung,
Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the
rung;
Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown,
Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you
down.
At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be
curled,
‘Self and Pelf’, my friend, remember, is the motto of
the world.
‘Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched
and dry,
Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too
high;
Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that’s in the
bard;
And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows
hard.
At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be
curled,
‘Self and Pelf’, my friend, remember, that’s the
motto of the world.
‘Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and
mocking tune,
Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are
strewn.
Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold;
Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but
gold.
At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be
curled—
‘Self and Pelf’, my friend, shall ever be the motto of
the world.’
Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer
drew;
But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me
through;
Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o’er it
stole,
Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my
soul,
Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled,
And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.
But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my
side—
‘Heed him not! there’s truth and friendship in this
wondrous world,’ she cried,
And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown,
Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down.
At a cynic’s baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be
curled!
‘Brotherhood and Love and Honour!’ is the motto for the
world.’
Turn the light down, nurse, and leave me, while I hold my
last review,
For the Bush is slipping from me, and the town is going too:
Draw the blinds, the streets are lighted, and I hear the tramp of
feet—
And I’m weary, very weary, of the Faces in the
Street.
In the dens of Grind and Heartbreak, in the streets of
Never-Rest,
I have lost the scent and colour and the music of the West:
And I would recall old faces with the memories they
bring—
Where are Bill and Jim and Mary and the Songs They used to
Sing?
They are coming! They are coming! they are passing through the
room
With the smell of gum leaves burning, and the scent of Wattle
bloom!
And behind them in the timber, after dust and heat and toil,
Others sit beside the camp fire yarning while the billies boil.
In the Gap above the ridges there’s a flash and
there’s a glow—
Swiftly down the scrub-clad siding come the Lights of Cobb and
Co.:
Red face from the box-seat beaming—Oh, how plain those faces
come!
From his ‘Golden-Hole’ ’tis Peter M’Intosh
who’s going home.
Dusty patch in desolation, bare slab walls and earthen
floor,
And a blinding drought is blazing from horizons to the door:
Milkless tea and ration sugar, damper junk and pumpkin
mash—
And a Day on our Selection passes by me in a flash.
Rush of big wild-eyed store bullocks while the sheep crawl
hoplessly,
And the loaded wool teams rolling, lurching on like ships at
sea:
With his whip across his shoulder (and the wind just now
abeam),
There goes Jimmy Nowlett ploughing through the dust beside his
team!
Sunrise on the diggings! (Oh! what life and hearts and hopes are
here)
From a hundred pointing forges comes a tinkle, tinkle
clear—
Strings of drays with wash to puddle, clack of countless windlass
boles,
Here and there the red flag flying, flying over golden holes.
Picturesque, unreal, romantic, chivalrous, and brave and
free;
Clean in living, true in mateship—reckless generosity.
Mates are buried here as comrades who on fields of battle
fall—
And—the dreams, the aching, hoping lover hearts beneath it
all!
Rough-built theatres and stages where the world’s best
actors trod—
Singers bringing reckless rovers nearer boyhood, home and God;
Paid in laughter, tears and nuggets in the play that fortune
plays—
’Tis the palmy days of Gulgong—Gulgong in the
Roaring Days.
Pass the same old scenes before me—and again my heart can
ache—
There the Drover’s Wife sits watching (not as Eve did) for a
snake.
And I see the drear deserted goldfields when the night is late,
And the stony face of Mason watching by his Father’s
Mate.
And I see my Haggard Women plainly as they were in life,
’Tis the form of Mrs. Spicer and her friend, Joe
Wilson’s wife,
Sitting hand in hand ‘Past Carin’.’ not a sigh
and not a moan,
Staring steadily before her and the tears just trickle down.
It was No Place for a Woman—where the women worked
like men—
From the Bush and Jones’ Alley come their haunting forms
again.
And, let this thing be remembered when I’ve answered to the
roll,
That I pitied haggard women—wrote for them with all my
soul.
Narrow bed-room in the City in the hard days that are
dead—
An alarm clock on the table, and a pale boy on the bed:
Arvie Aspinalls Alarm Clock with its harsh and startling
call
Never more shall break his slumbers—I was Arvie
Aspinall.
Maoriland and Steelman, cynic, spieler, stiff-lipped,
battler-through
(Kept a wife and child in comfort, but of course they never
knew—
Thought he was an honest bagman)—Well, old man, you
needn’t hug—
Sentimental; you of all men!—Steelman, Oh!
I was a mug!
Ghostly lines of scrub at daybreak—dusty daybreak in the
drought—
And a lonely swagman tramping on the track to Further Out:
Like a shade the form of Mitchell, nose-bag full and bluey up
And between the swag and shoulders lolls his foolish
cattle-pup.
Kindly cynic, sad comedian! Mitchell! when you’ve left the
Track,
And have shed your load of sorrow as we slipped our swags out
back,
We shall have a yarn together in the land of Rest Awhile—
And across his ragged shoulder Mitchell smiles his quiet smile.
Shearing sheds and tracks and shanties—girls that wait at
homestead gates—
Camps and stern-eyed Union leaders, and Joe Wilson and his
Mates
True and straight, and to my fancy, each one as he passes
through
Deftly down upon the table slips a dusty ‘note’ or
two.
. . . . .
So at last the end has found me—(end of all the human
push)
And again in silence round me come my Children of the
Bush!—
Listen, who are young, and let them—if I in late and bitter
days
Wrote some reckless lines—forget them—there is little
there to praise.
I was human, very human, and if in the days misspent
I have injured man or woman, it was done without intent.
If at times I blundered blindly—bitter heart and aching
brow—
If I wrote a line unkindly—I am sorry for it now.
Days in London like a nightmare—dreams of foreign lands
and sea—
And Australia is the only land that seemeth real to me.
Tell the Bushmen to Australia and each other to be true—
‘Tell the boys to stick together!’ I have held my Last
Review.
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 learnin’ ended when the
Master ‘finished’ Jim.
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;
Put 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.
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.
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.
Grown tired of mourning for my sins—
And brooding over merits—
The other night with bothered brow
I went amongst the spirits;
And I met one that I knew well:
‘Oh, Scotty’s Ghost, is that
you?
‘And did you see the fearsome crowd
‘At Robbie Burns’s statue?
‘They hurried up in hansom cabs,
‘Tall-hatted and frock-coated;
‘They trained it in from all the towns,
‘The weird and hairy-throated;
‘They spoke in some outlandish tongue,
‘They cut some comic capers,
‘And ilka man was wild to get
‘His name in all the papers.
‘They showed no gleam of intellect,
‘Those frauds who rushed before
us;
‘They knew one verse of “Auld Lang
Syne—”
‘The first one and the chorus:
‘They clacked the clack o’ Scotlan’s Bard,
‘They glibly talked of
“Rabby;”
‘But what if he had come to them
‘Without a groat and shabby?
‘They drank and wept for Robbie’s sake,
‘They stood and brayed like asses
‘(The living bard’s a drunken rake,
‘The dead one loved the lasses);
‘If Robbie Burns were here, they’d sit
‘As still as any mouse is;
‘If Robbie Burns should come their way,
‘They’d turn him out their
houses.
‘Oh, weep for bonny Scotland’s bard!
‘And praise the Scottish nation,
‘Who made him spy and let him die
‘Heart-broken in privation:
‘Exciseman, so that he might live
‘Through northern winters’
rigours—
‘Just as in southern lands they give
‘The hard-up rhymer figures.
‘We need some songs of stinging fun
‘To wake the States and light
’em;
‘I wish a man like Robert Burns
‘Were here to-day to write
’em!
‘But still the mockery shall survive
‘Till the Day o’ Judgment
crashes—
‘The men we scorn when we’re alive
‘With praise insult our
ashes.’
And Scotty’s ghost said: ‘Never mind
‘The fleas that you inherit;
‘The living bard can flick them off—
‘They cannot hurt his spirit.
‘The crawlers round the bardie’s name
‘Shall crawl through all the
ages;
‘His work’s the living thing, and they
‘Are fly-dirt on the
pages.’
He never drew a sword to fight a dozen foes alone,
Nor gave a life to save a life no better than his own.
He lived because he had been born—the hero of my
song—
And fought the battle with his fist whene’er he fought a
wrong.
Yet there are many men who would do anything for him—
A simple chap as went by name of ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
He used to keep a shanty in the Come-and-find-it Scrub,
And there were few but knew the name of Tambaroora’s pub.
He wasn’t great in lambing down, as many landlords are,
And never was a man less fit to stand behind a bar—
Off-hand, as most bush natives are, and freckled, tall, and
slim,
A careless native of the land was ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
When people said that loafers took the profit from his pub,
He’d ask them how they thought a chap could do without his
grub;
He’d say, ‘I’ve gone for days myself without a
bite or sup—
‘Oh! I’ve been through the mill and know what
’tis to be hard-up.’
He might have made his fortune, but he wasn’t in the
swim,
For no one had a softer heart than ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
One dismal day I tramped across the Come-and-find-it Flats,
With ‘Ballarat Adolphus’ and a mate of
‘Ballarat’s’;
’Twas nearly night and raining fast, and all our things were
damp,
We’d no tobacco, and our legs were aching with the cramp;
We couldn’t raise a cent, and so our lamp of hope was
dim;
And thus we struck the shanty kept by ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
We dropped our swags beneath a tree, and squatted in
despair,
But Jim came out to watch the rain, and saw us sitting there;
He came and muttered, ‘I suppose you haven’t half
-a-crown,
‘But come and get some tucker, and a drink to wash it
down.’
And so we took our blueys up and went along with him,
And then we knew why bushmen swore by ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
We sat beside his kitchen fire and nursed our tired knees,
And blessed him when we heard the rain go rushing through the
trees.
He made us stay, although he knew we couldn’t raise a
bob,
And tuckered us until we made some money on a job.
And many times since then we’ve filled our glasses to the
brim,
And drunk in many pubs the health of ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
A man need never want a meal while Jim had ‘junk’ to
carve,
For ‘Tambaroora’ always said a fellow couldn’t
starve.
And this went on until he got a bailiff in his pub,
Through helping chaps as couldn’t raise the money for their
grub.
And so, one rainy evening, as the distant range grew dim,
He humped his bluey from the Flats—did ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
I miss the fun in Jim’s old bar—the laughter and the
noise,
The jolly hours I used to spend on pay-nights with the boys.
But that’s all past, and vain regrets are useless, I’ll
allow;
They say the Come-and-find-it Flats are all deserted now.
Poor ‘Tambaroora’s’ dead, perhaps, but
that’s all right with him,
Saint Peter cottons on to chaps like ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
I trust that he and I may meet where starry fields are
grand,
And liquor up together in the pubs in spirit-land.
But if you chance to drop on Jim while in the West, my lad,
You won’t forget to tell him that I want to see him bad.
I want to shake his hand again—I want to shout for
him—
I want to have a glass or two with ‘Tambaroora
Jim.’
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.
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 better 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 case 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 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 anythin—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.
Ye children of the Land of Gold,
I sing a song to you,
And if the jokes are somewhat old,
The main idea is 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.
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 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.
As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and
bush,
From a slum in Jones’s 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,’ exclaimed 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 the
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.’
His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,
His hat pushed from his brow,
His dress best fitted for the South—
I think I see him now;
And when the city streets are still,
And sleep upon me comes,
I often dream that me an’ Bill
Are humpin’ of our drums.
I mind the time when first I came
A stranger to the land;
And I was stumped, an’ sick, an’ lame
When Bill took me in hand.
Old Bill was what a chap would call
A friend in poverty,
And he was very kind to all,
And very good to me.
We’d camp beneath the lonely trees
And sit beside the blaze,
A-nursin’ of our wearied knees,
A-smokin’ of our clays.
Or when we’d journeyed damp an’ far,
An’ clouds were in the skies,
We’d camp in some old shanty bar,
And sit a-tellin’ lies.
Though time had writ upon his brow
And rubbed away his curls,
He always was—an’ may be now—
A favourite with the girls;
I’ve heard bush-wimmin scream an’ squall—
I’ve see’d ’em laugh
until
They could not do their work at all,
Because of Corny Bill.
He was the jolliest old pup
As ever you did see,
And often at some bush kick-up
They’d make old Bill M.C.
He’d make them dance and sing all night,
He’d make the music hum,
But he’d be gone at mornin’ light
A-humpin’ of his drum.
Though joys of which the poet rhymes
Was not for Bill an’ me,
I think we had some good old times
Out on the wallaby.
I took a wife and left off rum,
An’ camped beneath a roof;
But Bill preferred to hump his drum
A-paddin’ of the hoof.
The lazy, idle loafers what
In toney houses camp
Would call old Bill a drunken sot,
A loafer, or a tramp;
But if the dead should ever dance—
As poets say they will—
I think I’d rather take my chance
Along of Corny Bill.
His long life’s-day is nearly o’er,
Its shades begin to fall;
He soon must mount his bluey for
The last long tramp of all;
I trust that when, in bush an’ town,
He’s lived and learnt his fill,
They’ll let the golden slip-rails down
For poor old Corny Bill.
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.’
I am back from up the country—very sorry that I
went—
Seeking for the Southern poets’ land whereon to pitch my
tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I’m glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets
boast,
But I think the country’s rather more inviting round the
coast.
Anyway, I’ll stay at present at a boarding-house in town,
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling
down.
‘Sunny plains’! Great Scott!—those burning
wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened
eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers
creep
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling
sheep.
Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass
Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass.
Miles and miles of thirsty gutters—strings of muddy
water-holes
In the place of ‘shining rivers’—‘walled by
cliffs and forest boles.’
Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd’ning
flies—
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt—swarm about your blighted
eyes!
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees
Nothing—Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted
trees!
Lonely hut where drought’s eternal, suffocating
atmosphere
Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer.
Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that
gleam and glare,
Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there!
Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks
bake,
And the sinister ‘gohanna’, and the lizard, and the
snake.
Land of day and night—no morning freshness, and no
afternoon,
When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in
June.
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall
From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of
all.
Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that
drift
O’er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never
lift—
Dismal land when it is raining—growl of floods, and, oh! the
woosh
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the
bush—
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are
piled
In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.
Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like
men,
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again:
Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place,
Where the wild selector’s children fly before a
stranger’s face.
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes’ dismal yell,
Heaven of the shanty-keeper—fitting fiend for such a
hell—
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew’s
call—
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all!
I am back from up the country, up the country where I went
Seeking for the Southern poets’ land whereon to pitch my
tent;
I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses—and I’m glad that I am
back.
I believe the Southern poets’ dream will not be realised
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.
I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling
down.
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
sunnin’—
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.
There was a young woman, as I’ve heard tell
(Ripperty!
Kye! Ahoo!),
Lived near the sea in a nice little hell
That she made for herself and her husband as well;
But that’s how a good many married folk dwell—
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
She kept a big mongrel that murdered his fowls
(Ripperty!
Kye! Ahoo!)
She also had cats that assisted with yowls;
She gave him old dishcloths and nightgowns for tow’ls,
And called in the neighbours to witness his growls—
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
You’d think ’twas the limit, but she
didn’t—quite
(Ripperty!
Kye! Ahoo!);
He had to sleep out in the fowlhouse at night
And make his own breakfast before it was light;
Then go to his work and keep out of sight—
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
She’d find him and chase him with potstick and fist
(Ripperty!
Kye! Ahoo!)
Why didn’t he give her a jolt or a twist?
Then because she so crowed for the hiding she missed,
She’d shriek: “You great coward! Why don’t you
enlist?”
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
She’d invite all her relatives down for the day
(Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!),
And also invite his relations to stay
He found his own worst, as is often the way;
His red beard went white and his brown hair went grey.
(Sadly:)
Rip-per-ty! Kye! A-hoo!
Her parents were German, as he was aware.
(Ripperty!
Kye! Ahoo),
He said to himself: “I had better be there!”
He went to the Depot and made himself bare,
Was straightway accepted, and passed then and there—
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
He came home for “final” and filled up with rum.
(Ripperty!
Kye! A-hic-hoo!)
She said, when she saw him: “I thought you would
come!”
Just fix the allowance, and don’t look so glum!”
He did as she told him, and went away, dumb—
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
He went to the Front, and he fought for the French.
(Ripperty!
Kye! Ahoo!)
He went for the Germans and cleared out a trench
He finished them off with a jab and a wrench,
And loudly he yelled, in the mix-up and stench.
“Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!”
He came back at last with ideas that were new,
(
Ripperty! Kye! Ahoo!)
He went for the mongrel and ran him right through—
North, southward and eastward the relatives flew;
Then he said: “Now, old woman, I’m coming for you!
RIPPERTY!
KYE! A-HOO!”
Three times round the house and the fowlyard she fled—
(Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!)
Three inches in front of his bayonet red—
He yelled and she shrieked fit to shriek off her head,
Till she fell on the wood-heap quite three-quarters dead.
Ripperty!
Kye! A-hoo!
. . . . . .
Now, there’s a young woman, as I’ve heard tell
(Sing
softly) Ripperty! Kye! Ahoo!
Resides in a nice little home at Rozelle;
She’s fond of her husband, and he’s doing
well—
And that’s how a good many married folk dwell.
(Sing
Exultantly) Ripperty! Kye! A-hoo!
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!
When I was up the country in the rough and early days,
I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett’s bullick-drays;
Then the reelroad wasn’t heered on, an’ the bush was
wild an’ strange,
An’ we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the
range—
Load provisions for the stations, an’ we’d travel far
and slow
Through the plains an’ ’cross the ranges in the days of
long ago.
Then it’s yoke up the bullicks and
tramp beside ’em slow,
An’ saddle up yer horses an’
a-ridin’ we will go,
To the bullick-drivin’,
cattle-drovin’,
Nigger, digger, roarin’,
rovin’
Days o’ long ago.
Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town,
But we hadn’t gone a dozen mile before the rain come
down,
An’ me an’ Jimmy Nowlett an’ the bullicks
an’ the dray
Was cut off on some risin’ ground while floods around us
lay;
An’ we soon run short of tucker an’ terbacca, which was
bad,
An’ pertaters dipped in honey was the only tuck we had.
An’ half our bullicks perished when the drought was on the
land,
An’ the burnin’ heat that dazzles as it dances on the
sand;
When the sun-baked clay an’ gravel paves for miles the
burnin’ creeks,
An’ at ev’ry step yer travel there a rottin’
carcase reeks—
But we pulled ourselves together, for we never used ter know
What a feather bed was good for in those days o’ long
ago.
But in spite ov barren ridges an’ in spite ov mud
an’ heat,
An’ dust that browned the bushes when it rose from
bullicks’ feet,
An’ in spite ov cold and chilblains when the bush was white
with frost,
An’ in spite of muddy water where the burnin’ plain was
crossed,
An’ in spite of modern progress, and in spite of all their
blow,
’Twas a better land to live in, in the days o’ long
ago.
When the frosty moon was shinin’ o’er the ranges
like a lamp,
An’ a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin’ on the
camp,
When the fire was blazin’ cheery an’ the pipes was
drawin’ well,
Then our songs we useter chorus an’ our yarns we useter
tell;
An’ we’d talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we
useter know,
For there always was behind us other days o’
long ago.
Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the
plain,
But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again:
Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer,
Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin’-ground is
near;
Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an’ Jimmy useter
throw
O’er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long
ago.
I have been a-driftin’ back’ards with the changes ov
the land,
An’ if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn’t
understand,
But when Mary wakes me sudden in the night I’ll often
say:
‘Come here, Spot, an’ stan’ up, Bally, blank
an’ blank an’ come-eer-way.’
An’ she says that, when I’m sleepin’, oft my
elerquince ’ill flow
In the bullick-drivin’ language ov the days o’ long
ago.
Well, the pub will soon be closin’, so I’ll give the
thing a rest;
But if you should drop on Nowlett in the far an’ distant
west—
An’ if Jimmy uses doubleyou instead of ar an’ vee,
An’ if he drops his aitches, then you’re sure to know
it’s he.
An’ yer won’t forgit to arsk him if he still remembers
Joe
As knowed him up the country in the days o’ long ago.
Then it’s yoke up the bullicks and
tramp beside ’em slow,
An’ saddle up yer horses an’
a-ridin’ we will go,
To the bullick-drivin’,
cattle-drovin’,
Nigger, digger, roarin’,
rovin’
Days o’ long ago.
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!
In Windsor Terrace, number four,
I’ve taken my abode—
A little crescent from the street,
A bight from City Road;
And, hard up and in exile, I
To many fancies yield;
For it was here Micawber lived
And David Copperfield.
A bed, a table, and a chair,
A bottle and a cup.
The landlord’s waiting even now
For something to turn up.
The landlady is spiritless—
They both seem tired of life;
They cannot fight the battle like
Micawber and his wife.
But in the little open space
That lies back from the street,
The same old ancient, shabby clerk
Is sitting on a seat.
The same sad characters go by,
The ragged children play—
And things have very little changed
Since Dickens passed away.
Some seek religion in their grief,
And some for friendship yearn;
Some fly to liquor for relief,
But I to Dickens turn.
I find him ever fresh and new,
His lesson ever plain;
And every line that Dickens wrote
I’ve read and read again.
The tavern’s just across the ‘wye,’
And frowsy women there
Are gossiping and drinking gin,
And twisting up their hair.
And grubby girls go past at times,
And furtive gentry lurk—
I don’t think anyone has died
Since Dickens did his work.
There’s Jingle, Tigg, and Chevy Slyme,
And Weevle—whom you will;
And hard-up virtue proudly slinks
Into the pawnshop still.
Go east a bit from City Road,
And all the rest are there—
A friendly whistle might produce
A Chicken anywhere.
My favourite author’s heroes I
Should love, but somehow can’t.
I don’t like David Copperfield
As much as David’s Aunt,
And it may be because my mind
Has been in many fogs—
I don’t like Nicholas Nickleby
So well as Newman Noggs.
I don’t like Richard Carstone, Pip,
Or Martin Chuzzlewit,
And for the rich and fatherly
I scarcely care a bit.
The honest, sober clods are bores
Who cannot suffer much,
And with the Esther Summersons
I never was in touch.
The ‘Charleys’ and the haggard wives,
Kind hearts in poverty—
And yes! the Lizzie Hexams, too—
Are very near to me;
But men like Brothers Cheeryble,
And Madeline Bray divine,
And Nell, and Little Dorrit live
In a better world than mine.
The Nicklebys and Copperfields,
They do not stand the test;
And in my heart I don’t believe
That Dickens loved them best.
I can’t admire their ways and talk,
I do not like their looks—
Those selfish, injured sticks that stalk
Through all the Master’s books.
They’re mostly selfish in their love,
And selfish in their hate,
They marry Dora Spenlows, too,
While Agnes Wickfields wait;
And back they come to poor Tom Pinch
When hard-up for a friend;
They come to wrecks like Newman Nogga
To help them in the end.
And—well, maybe I am unjust,
And maybe I forget;
Some of us marry dolls and jilt
Our Agnes Wickfields yet.
We seek our friends when fortune frowns—
It has been ever thus—
And we neglect Joe Gargery
When fortune smiles on us.
They get some rich old grandfather
Or aunt to see them through,
And you can trace self-interest
In nearly all they do.
And scoundrels like Ralph Nickleby,
In spite of all their crimes,
And crawlers like Uriah Heep
Told bitter truths at times.
But—yes, I love the vagabonds
And failures from the ranks,
And hard old files with hidden hearts
Like Wemmick and like Pancks.
And Jaggers had his ‘poor dreams, too,’
And fond hopes like the rest—
But, somehow, somehow, all my life
I’ve loved Dick Swiveller best!
But, let us peep at Snagsby first
As softly he lays down
Beside the bed of dying Joe
Another half-a-crown.
And Nemo’s wretched pauper grave—
But we can let them be,
For Joe has said to Heaven: ‘They
Wos werry good to me.’
And Wemmick with his aged P——
No doubt has his reward;
And Jaggers, hardest nut of all,
Will be judged by the Lord.
And Pancks, the rent-collecting screw,
With laurels on his brow,
Is loved by all the bleeding hearts
In Bleeding Heart Yard now.
Tom Pinch is very happy now,
And Magwitch is at rest,
And Newman Noggs again might hold
His head up with the best;
Micawber, too, when all is said,
Drank bravely Sorrow’s cup—
Micawber worked to right them all,
And something did turn
up.
How do ‘John Edward Nandy, Sir!’
And Plornish get along?
Why! if the old man is in voice
We’ll hear him pipe a song.
We’ll have a look at Baptiste, too,
While still the night is young—
With Mrs. Plornish to explain
In the Italian tongue.
Before we go we’ll ask about
Poor young John Chivery:
‘There never was a gentleman
In all his family.’
His hopeless love, his broken heart,
But to his rival true;
He came of Nature’s gentlemen,
But young John never knew.
We’ll pass the little midshipman
With heart that swells and fills,
Where Captain Ed’ard Cuttle waits
For Wal’r and Sol Gills.
Jack Bunsby stands by what he says
(Which isn’t very clear),
And Toots with his own hopeless love—
As true as any here.
And who that read has never felt
The sorrow that it cost
When Captain Cuttle read the news
The ‘Son and Heir’ was
lost?
And who that read has not rejoiced
With him and ‘Heart’s
Delight,’
And felt as Captain Cuttle felt
When Wal’r came that night?
And yonder, with a broken heart,
That people thought was stone,
Deserted in his ruined home,
Poor Dombey sits alone.
Who has not gulped a something down,
Whose eye has not grown dim
While feeling glad for Dombey’s sake
When Florence came to him?
. . . . .
(A stately house in Lincolnshire—
The scene is bleak and cold—
The footsteps on the terrace sound
To-night at Chesney Wold.
One who loved honour, wife, and truth,
If nothing else besides,
Along the dreary Avenue
Sir Leicester Dedlock rides.)
. . . . .
We’ll go round by Poll Sweedlepipe’s,
The bird and barber shop;
If Sairey Gamp is so dispoged
We’ll send her up a drop.
We’ll cross High Holborn to the Bull,
And, if he cares to come,
By streets that are not closed to him
We’ll see Dick Swiveller home.
He’s looking rather glum to-night,
The why I will not ask—
No matter how we act the goat,
We mostly wear a mask.
Some wear a mask to hide the false
(And some the good and true)—
I wouldn’t be surprised to know
Mark Tapley wore one too.
We wear a mask called cheerfulness
While feeling sad inside;
And men like Dombey, who was shy,
Oft wear a mask called pride.
A front of pure benevolence
The grinding ‘Patriarch’
bore;
And kind men often wear a mask
Like that which Jaggers wore.
. . . . .
But, never mind, Dick Swiveller!
We’ll see it out together
Beneath the wing of friendship, Dick,
That never moults a feather.
We’ll look upon the rosy yet
Full many a night, old friend,
And tread the mazy ere we woo
The balmy in the end.
Our palace walls are rather bare,
The floor is somewhat damp,
But, while there’s liquor, anywhere
Is good enough to camp.
What ho! mine host! bring forth thine ale
And let the board be spread!—
It is the hour when churchyards yawn
And wine goes to the head.
’Twas you who saved poor Kit, old chap,
When he was in a mess—
But, what ho! Varlet! bring us wine!
Here’s to the Marchioness!
‘We’ll make a scholar of her yet,’
She’ll be a lady fair,
‘And she shall go in silk attire
And siller have to spare.’
From sport to sport they hurry her
To banish her regrets,
And when we win a smile from her
We cannot pay our debts!
Left orphans at a tender age,
We’re happiest in the land—
We’re Glorious Apollos, Dick,
And you’re Perpetual Grand!
You’re king of all philosophers,
And let the Godly rust;
Here’s to the obscure citizen
Who sent the beer on trust?
It sure would be a cheerful world
If never man got tight;
You spent your money on your friends,
Dick Swiveller! Good night!
‘A dissolute and careless man—
An idle, drunken path;’
But see where Sidney Carton spills
His last drink on the hearth!
A ruined life! He lived for drink
And but one thing beside—
And Oh! it was a glorious death
That Sidney Carton died.
. . . . .
And ‘Which I meantersay is Pip’—
The voices hurry past—
‘Not to deceive you, sir’—‘Stand
by!’
‘Awast, my lass, awast!’
‘Beware of widders, Samivel,’
And shun strong drink, my friend;
And, ‘not to put too fine a point
Upon it,’ I must end.
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.
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.
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.
I’ve done with joys an’ misery,
An’ why should I repine?
There’s no one knows the past but me
An’ that ol’ dog o’
mine.
We camp an’ walk an’ camp an’ walk,
An’ find it fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he
could.
We sits an’ thinks beside the fire,
With all the stars a-shine,
An’ no one knows our thoughts but me
An’ that there dog o’ mine.
We has our Johnny-cake an’ “scrag,”
An’ finds ’em fairly good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he
could.
He gets a ’possum now an’ then,
I cooks it on the fire;
He has his water, me my tea—
What more could we desire?
He gets a rabbit when he likes,
We finds it pretty good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he
could.
I has me smoke, he has his rest,
When sunset’s gettin’ dim;
An’ if I do get drunk at times,
It’s all the same to him.
So long’s he’s got me swag to mind,
He thinks that times is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he
could.
He gets his tucker from the cook,
For cook is good to him,
An’ when I sobers up a bit,
He goes an’ has a swim.
He likes the rivers where I fish,
An’ all the world is good;
He can do anything but talk,
An’ he wouldn’t if he
could.
It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you
went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a
gent;
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,
Though you know the squalid city needn’t keep you from the
bush;
But we lately heard you singing of the ‘plains where shade is
not’,
And you mentioned it was dusty—‘all was dry and all was
hot’.
True, the bush ‘hath moods and changes’—and
the bushman hath ’em, too,
For he’s not a poet’s dummy—he’s a man, the
same as you;
But his back is growing rounder—slaving for the
absentee—
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be.
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet
Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street;
And, in short, we think the bushman’s being driven to the
wall,
And it’s doubtful if his spirit will be ‘loyal
thro’ it all’.
Though the bush has been romantic and it’s nice to sing
about,
There’s a lot of patriotism that the land could do
without—
Sort of British Workman nonsense that shall perish
in the scorn
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn,
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for
rest,
And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West;
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks
From the people of a country in possession of the Banks.
And the ‘rise and fall of seasons’ suits the rise
and fall of rhyme,
But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time;
For the drought will go on drying while there’s anything to
dry,
Then it rains until you’d fancy it would bleach the sunny
sky—
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight.
It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best,
But it’s doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West;
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring,
There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like
anything.
In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird,
But the ‘carol of the magpie’ was a thing I never
heard.
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true,
But I only heard him asking, ‘Who the blanky blank are
you?’
And the bell-bird in the ranges—but his ‘silver
chime’ is harsh
When it’s heard beside the solo of the curlew in the
marsh.
Yes, I heard the shearers singing ‘William Riley’,
out of tune,
Saw ’em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon,
But the bushman isn’t always ‘trapping brumbies in the
night’,
Nor is he for ever riding when ‘the morn is fresh and
bright’,
And he isn’t always singing in the humpies on the
run—
And the camp-fire’s ‘cheery blazes’ are a trifle
overdone;
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days,
When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn’t any
blaze,
Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn
Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn.
Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the
swags,
And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags,
And we couldn’t raise a chorus, for the toothache and the
cramp,
While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the
camp.
Would you like to change with Clancy—go a-droving? tell us
true,
For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with
you,
And be something in the city; but ’twould give your muse a
shock
To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock,
And you wouldn’t mind the beauties underneath the starry
dome
If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home.
Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black,
And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back
Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots
And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your
boots—
Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and
cough
Till a squatter’s irate dummy cantered up to warn you
off?
Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the ‘seasons’
were asleep,
Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep,
Drinking mud instead of water—climbing trees and lopping
boughs
For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows?
Do you think the bush was better in the ‘good old droving
days’,
When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways,
When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn,
But were forced to take provisions from the station in
return—
When you couldn’t keep a chicken at your humpy on the
run,
For the squatter wouldn’t let you—and your work was
never done;
When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn
While you ‘rose up Willy Riley’—in the days ere
you were born?
Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like
Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows strike.
Don’t you fancy that the poets ought to give the bush a
rest
Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West?
Where the simple-minded bushman gets a meal and bed and rum
Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come;
Where the scalper—never troubled by the ‘war-whoop of
the push’—
Has a quiet little billet—breeding rabbits in the bush;
Where the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a draw,
And the dummy gets his tucker through provisions in the law;
Where the labour-agitator—when the shearers rise in
might—
Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for The Right;
Where the squatter makes his fortune, and ‘the seasons rise
and fall’,
And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all;
Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest
Never reach the Eldorado of the poets of the West.
And you think the bush is purer and that life is better
there,
But it doesn’t seem to pay you like the ‘squalid street
and square’.
Pray inform us, City Bushman, where you read, in prose or
verse,
Of the awful ‘city urchin who would greet you with a
curse’.
There are golden hearts in gutters, though their owners lack the
fat,
And we’ll back a teamster’s offspring to outswear a
city brat.
Do you think we’re never jolly where the trams and buses
rage?
Did you hear the gods in chorus when ‘Ri-tooral’ held
the stage?
Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin’s voice
When he yelled for Billy Elton, when he thumped the floor for
Royce?
Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars
When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private
bars?
You’ve a down on ‘trams and buses’, or the
‘roar’ of ’em, you said,
And the ‘filthy, dirty attic’, where you never toiled
for bread.
(And about that self-same attic—Lord! wherever have you
been?
For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.)
But you’ll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar
push,
And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush.
* * * * * * * * *
You’ll admit that Up-the Country, more especially in
drought,
Isn’t quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about,
Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides
In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their
hides;
Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees
And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the
trees!
Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand
And to feel once more a little like a native of the land.
And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes
Isn’t suited to the country nor the spirit of the times.
Let us go together droving, and returning, if we live,
Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div.
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.
He has notions of Australia from the tales that he’s
been told—
Land of leggings and revolvers, land of savages and gold;
So he begs old shirts, and someone patches up his worn-out
duds.
He is shipped as ‘general servant,’ scrubbing pots and
peeling spuds
(In the steamer’s grimy alley, hating man and peeling
spuds).
There is little time to comfort, there is little time to
cry—
He will come back with a fortune—‘We’ll be happy
by-and-by!’
Scarcely time to kiss his sweetheart, barely time to change his
duds,
Ere they want him at the galley, and they set him peeling spuds
(With a butcher’s knife, a bucket, and, say, half a ton of
spuds).
And he peels ’em hard to Plymouth, peels ’em fast to
drown his grief,
Peels ’em while his stomach sickens on the road to
Teneriffe;
Peels ’em while the donkey rattles, peels ’em while the
engine thuds,
By the time they touch at Cape Town he’s a don at peeling
spuds
(And he finds some time for dreaming as he gets on with the
spuds).
In the steamer’s slushy alley, where the souls of men are
dead,
And the adjectives are crimson if the substances are red,
He’s perhaps a college black-sheep, and, maybe, of ancient
blood—
Ah! his devil grips him sometimes as he reaches for a spud
(And he jerks his head and sadly gouges dry-rot from a spud).
And his brave heart hopes and sickens as the weary days go
round;
There is lots o’ time for blue-lights ere they reach King
George’s Sound.
But he gets his best suit ready—two white shirts and three
bone studs!
He will face the new world bravely when he’s finished with
the spuds
(And next week, perhaps, he’ll gladly take a job at peeling
spuds).
There were heroes in Australia went exploring long ago;
There are heroes in Australia that the world shall never know;
And the men we use for heroes in the land of droughts and
floods
Often win their way to Sydney scrubbing pots and peeling spuds
(Plucky beggars! brave, poor devils! gouging dry-rot from their
spuds).
I saw her first from a painful bed,
Where I lay fresh from a fearful fall,
With a broken leg and a broken head,
In the accident ward of the hospital.
Some women are hard as the road to grace
That natural sinners are doomed to
tread;
And as beautiful as a camel’s face —
But our head nurse was the limit, they
said.
She walked like a trestle, with toes turned in,
As gaunt she was as a drought-baked
horse,
With big buck teeth and a downy chin —
And the three-haired mole — and a
nose, of course.
She had us there where we could not strike,
And she could punish in many ways too;
She was hated by nurses and patients alike —
But she knew much more than the
doctors knew.
With deep respect they would wait for her,
In a desperate case where the chance was
slim,
To take her place in the theatre
Of the hospital with its secrets grim.
Of many a ghastly grapple with death —
When doctors paled, she could tell, no
doubt:
Of the hours she fought for the fluttering breath—
Yes! — she knew mankind, inside and
out.
And, speaking of nurses, now’s my chance
To put in a word for the sisterhood,
Their life has little or no romance,
The work is grand, and their hearts are
good.
They take it, of course, “for better or worse”;
But, when the “Head” is a
Tartar, I know
That between the patients and that head nurse
The sisters have a hard row to hoe.
. . . . . .
I lived in “Thelma” in Belgrave Street,
Off Belmore Park. ’Twas a good
address
For the head of a memo short and sweet
To the editors of the Sydney press.
’Twas a four-roomed shanty, built in a plain
Colonial fashion — Australian
quite;
The local pound was just down the lane,
The Mongolian Gardens were opposite.
We kept a servant, a stunted freak
I caught at a Government Bureau,
She might have been seventeen last week —
Or six-and-twenty, for aught I know
She’d been trained backward (of immigrant stock
—
A midland county — I know no
more).
She started each morning at six o’clock
By scrubbing a hole in the kitchen
floor.
Intentions excellent. Short of breath,
Our troubles caused her the greatest
distress.
By the wife she was called Elizabeth
And known to me as “The
Marchioness”.
“Master’s narrer” (she meant “The
Boss”)
She’d say to the wife when I could
not eat,
“He’s nearly as narrer as father was;
I wish that master would take his
meat.”
She never could understand at all
That this was a Land of Democracy.
She’d bully the tradesmen great and small
Till those sons of freedom appealed to
me.
They had to “go round to the kitching door”—
Butcher and Baker, and Milk! no less,
A thing that they never had done before
But they all were afraid of the
Marchioness.
The sledge-hammer force of simplicity
And truth was hers by an ancient right,
Hard, practical kindness and sympathy,
And a great love somewhere — but out
of sight.
Kiddies obeyed her, and, what is more,
They loved her and came to her early and
late,
And she’d dole out alms at the “kitching”
door
With the air of a Dame at her castle
gate.
They never came singly to palace or tent,
Twins or troubles, or human ills;
And I think that wherever a man pays rent
The same thing mostly applies to bills.
And so, one Monday, when all behind
With the rent (or ahead of it — which
you will)
And the Butcher and Baker had been unkind,
And a story rejected — wee Joe fell
ill.
The doctor came, and he shook his head
And he looked at the child for a moment or
two;
He listened and nodded to what we said,
And told the wife what she mustn’t
do.
He said we must keep the child in bed —
(It was bitter cold and ’twas raining
too!)
And then he wrote a prescription and fled —
A district doctor must earn his screw.
I looked in the kitchen — don’t know for what
—
The Marchioness there, with an altered
face,
Was hurriedly making water hot
In every kettle and pan in the place.
She plucked a rug from her skimpy bed,
And dragged in a tub on the bedroom
floor,
And, when I protested, she only said,
“I know it, Master — I’ve
seen it before.”
Ten o’clock in the morning found
Joe still doubtful, and in distress.
I was bracing up for the second round;
“Same time to-night” said the
Marchioness.
I felt that my face was drawn and white—
No doubt you’ll think I’m a
womanish one—
But have you ever been up all
night
Fighting with death for
your first-born son?
Or seen your child in convulsions, you chaps?
I rose, and I went to the door at last
To look for the Unexpected perhaps —
And who should I see but the
“Head” go past!
In mufti, too — but you’d know her walk
If you saw her passing on Paradise
track.
’Twas a desperate case — I don’t want to talk
—
I was clean knocked out, so I called her
back.
She was having a holiday — first in her life —
And resting, of course, on her restless
feet —
She was staying a week with her brother’s wife
On the heights overlooking Belgrave
Street.
This much I gathered — my wits were slow;
I was faint and ill, and as dull as a
dunce;
But she took charge of the wife and Joe
And the Marchioness, “Thelma”
and me at once.
The Marchioness looked at the Head Nurse hard;
And the Head Nurse looked at the
Marchioness —
(So the wife whispered to me in the yard)
Why they chummed up at once I never could
guess.
We hadn’t yet told the Head Nurse about
How the Marchioness saved Joe from
Paradise,
And to this very hour I could never make out
What those two saw in each other’s
eyes.
She packed the pair of us into a room
To sleep for an hour by the Blessed
Grace.
And she sent the priestess of our old broom
For a lot of things from her
brother’s place.
By hidden signs that were known to me
(And known perhaps to Elizabeth),
And her hardening eyes, I could see that she
Was bracing herself for a scrap with
Death.
In the grey of the morning I crept by stealth
To listen and peep in the passage
gloom,
And the cleverest nurse in the Commonwealth
Was sweeping and dusting the “dining
room”.
Eyes of a hawk! She caught me, and said,
“What do you here in the dead of
night?
Get on with your writing, or go to bed —
Your wife is asleep, and the boy’s
all right.”
Eyes half blinded with — well, ’tis a poor
Unmanlike, unwriterlike thing to do.
I’ve had always a fancy (but couldn’t be sure)
That some of the tears were in her eyes
too.
But she only muttered “Confound the man!”
Giving her duster a vicious twirl
—
“Go back as quietly as you can;
Elizabeth is asleep — poor
girl.”
. . . . . .
Long years ten—and the Nurse is dead,
Forgotten by hundreds she helped to
live;
You gave her her uniform and her bread,
I gave her a headstone (’twas little
to give).
But I want you to know that preachers and pugs,
Doctors and editors (publishers too),
Likewise spielers, and also mugs;
And nurses and poets have hearts —
like you.
I met with Jack Cornstalk in London to-day,
He saw me and coo-eed from over the way.
Oh! the solemn-faced Londoners stared with surprise
At his hair and his height as compared with his size!
For his trousers were short and his collar was low,
And—there’s not room to coo-ee in London, I know
But I said to him, ‘Jack!’ as he gripped my hand
fast,
‘Oh, I hear that our Country’s a nation at last!
‘I hear they have launched the new ship of the State,
‘And with men at the wheel who are steering it straight.
‘I hear ’twas the vote of your Bush mates and you;
‘And, oh, tell me, Jack Cornstalk, if this can be true?
‘I hear that the bitter black strike times are
o’er,
‘And that Grabbitt and Co. shall crush Labour no more;
‘That Australians are first where Australia was last,
‘And the day of the foreign adventurer’s past;
‘That all things are coming we fought for so long;
‘And, oh, tell me, Jack Cornstalk, if I have heard
wrong?’
For a moment he dropped the old grin that he wore—
He’d a light in his eyes that was not there before—
And he reached for my hand, which I gave, nothing loth,
And replied in two words, and those words were ‘My Oath!
‘They are standing up grand, Toby Barton and See,
‘And Australia’s all right, you can take it from
me.’
In the parlour of the shanty where the lives have all gone
wrong,
When a singer or reciter gives a story or a song,
Where the poet’s heart is speaking to their hearts in every
line,
Till the hardest curse and blubber at the thoughts of Auld Lang
Syne;
Then a boozer lurches forward with an oath for all
disguise—
Prayers and curses in his soul, and tears and liquor in his
eyes—
Grasps the singer or reciter with a death-grip by the hand:
‘That’s the truth, bloke! Sling it at ’em! Oh!
Gorbli’me, that was grand!
‘Don’t mind me; I’ve got
’em. You know! What’s yer name, bloke!
Don’t yer see?
‘Who’s the bloke what wrote the
po’try? Will yer write it down fer
me?’
And the backblocks’ bard goes through it, ever seeking as
he goes
For the line of least resistance to the hearts of men he knows;
And he tracks their hearts in mateship, and he tracks them out
alone—
Seeking for the power to sway them, till he finds it in his
own,
Feels what they feel, loves what they love, learns to hate what
they condemn,
Takes his pen in tears and triumph, and he writes it down for
them.
When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon
and star,
Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty’s Horse
Bazaar;
When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub,
Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub.
Now, I often sit at Watty’s when the night is very
near,
With a head that’s full of jingles and the fumes of bottled
beer,
For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there
When the Army prays for Watty, I’m included in the
prayer.
Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place,
With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face;
And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way,
And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray.
And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim,
Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him?
Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below,
Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should
go?
But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast,
Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest;
And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came,
And the loafers wait for ‘shouters’ and—they get
there just the same.
It would take a lot of praying—lots of thumping on the
drum—
To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come;
But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole,
That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty’s
soul.
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 be 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 new-chum
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.
Oh, this is a song of the old lights, that came to my heart like
a hymn;
And this is a song for the old lights—the lights that we
thought grew dim,
That came to my heart to comfort me, and I pass it along to
you;
And here is a hand to the good old friend who turns up as good as
new.
And this is a song for the camp-fire out west where the stars
shine bright—
Oh, this is a song for the camp-fire where the old mates yarn
to-night;
Where the old mates yarn of the old days, and their numbers are all
too few,
And this is a song for the good old times that will turn up as good
as new.
Oh, this is a song for the old foe—we have both grown
wiser now,
And this is a song for the old foe, and we’re sorry we had
that row;
And this is a song for the old love—the love that we thought
untrue—
Oh, this is a song of the dear old love that comes back as good as
new.
Oh, this is a song for the black sheep, for the black sheep that
fled from town,
And this is a song for the brave heart, for the brave heart that
lived it down;
And this is a song for the battler, for the battler who sees it
through—
And this is a song for the broken heart that turns up as good as
new.
Ah, this is a song for the brave mate, be he Bushman, Scot, or
Russ,
A song for the mates we will stick to—for the mates who have
stuck to us;
And this is a song for the old creed, to do as a man should do,
Till the Lord takes us all to a wider world—where we’ll
turn up as good as new.
Oh, Scotty, have you visited the Picture Gallery,
And did you see the portraits of the King and Queen and me?
The portraits made by Longstaff, and the pictures done by Jack,
Of the King and Queen and Lawson and the lady all in black?
The King is robed in royal state, with medals on his breast,
And, like the mother Queen she is, Her Majesty is dressed.
The lady’s dressed in simple black and sports no precious
stones,
And I a suit of reach-me-downs I bought from Davy Jones.
We’re strangers two to two, and each unto the other
three—
I do not know the lady and I don’t think she knows me.
We’re strangers to each other here, and to the other two,
And they themselves are strangers yet, if all we hear is true.
I s’pose we’re just as satisfied as folks have ever
been:
The lady would much rather be her own self than the Queen;
And though I’m down and precious stiff and I admire King
Ned,
I’d sooner just be Harry, with his follies on his head.
We four may meet together—stranger folk have met, I
ween,
Than a rhymer and a monarch and a lady and a queen.
Ned and I might talk it over on the terrace, frank and free,
With cigars, while Alexandra and the lady’s having tea.
Anyway, we’ll never quarrel while we’re hanging on
the wall—
Friends! we all have had our troubles—we are human, one and
all!
If by chance we hang together—hang together on the line,
And the thing should shock the Godly—then it’s
Longstaff’s fault, not mine.
‘Oh, I dreamt I shore in a shearin’ shed, and it was
a dream of joy,
For every one of the rouseabouts was a girl dressed up as a
boy—
Dressed up like a page in a pantomime, and the prettiest ever
seen—
They had flaxen hair, they had coal black hair—and every
shade between.’
‘There was
short, plump girls, there was tall, slim girls, and the handsomest
ever seen—
They was
four-foot-five, they was six-foot high, and every size
between.’
‘The shed was cooled by electric fans that was over every
shoot;
The pens was of polished ma-ho-gany, and ev’rything else to
suit;
The huts was fixed with spring-mattresses, and the tucker was
simply grand,
And every night by the biller-bong we darnced to a German
band.’
‘Our pay was the wool on the jumbucks’ backs, so we
shore till all was blue—
The sheep was washed afore they was shore (and the rams was scented
too);
And we all of us cried when the shed cut out, in spite of the long,
hot days,
For every hour them girls waltzed in with whisky and beer on
tr-a-a-ays!’
‘There was three of them girls to every chap, and as
jealous as they could be—
There was three of them girls to every chap, and six of ’em
picked on me;
We was draftin’ ’em out for the homeward track and
sharin’ ’em round like steam,
When I woke with my head in the blazin’ sun to find
’twas a shearer’s dream.’
‘They had
kind grey eyes, they had coal-black eyes, and the grandest ever
seen—
They had plump pink
hands, they had slim white hands, and every shape
be-tw-e-e-n.’
Old Ivan McIvanovitch, with knitted brow of care,
Has climbed up from the engine-room to get a breath of air;
He slowly wipes the grease and sweat from hairy face and neck.
And from beneath his bushy brows he glowers around the deck.
The weirdest Russian in the fleet, whose words are strange to
hear,
He seems to run the battleship, though but an engineer.
He is not great, he has no rank, and he is far from rich—
’Tis strange the admiral salutes old McIvanovitch.
He gives the order ‘Whusky!’ ere he goes below once
more—
And ‘Whusky’ is a Russian word I never heard
before;
Perhaps some Tartar dialect, because, you know, you’ll
meet
Some very various Muscovites aboard the Baltic fleet.
And on another battleship that sailed out from Japan
The boss of all the engineers, you’ll find another man
With flaming hair and eyes like steel, and he is six-foot
three—
His name is Jock McNogo, and a fearsome Jap is he.
He wears a beard upon his chest, his face you won’t
forget,
His like was never found amongst the heathen idols yet;
His words are awesome words to hear, his lightest smile is
grim,
And daily in the engine-room the heathen bow to him.
Now, if the fleets meet in the North and settle matters
there,
Say, how will McIvanovitch and Jock McNogo fare?
But if you ken that Russian and that Jap, you needn’t
fret,
They’ll hae a drap, or maybe twa, some nicht in Glesca
yet.
Those foreigners will ship again aboard some foreign boat,
And do their best to drive her through and keep the tub afloat.
They’ll stir the foreign greasers up and prove from whence
they came—
And all to win the bawbees for the wife and bairns at hame.
I met her on the Lachlan Side—
A darling girl I thought her,
And ere I left I swore I’d win
The free-selector’s daughter.
I milked her father’s cows a month,
I brought the wood and water,
I mended all the broken fence,
Before I won the daughter.
I listened to her father’s yarns,
I did just what I
‘oughter’,
And what you’ll have to do to win
A free-selector’s daughter.
I broke my pipe and burnt my twist,
And washed my mouth with water;
I had a shave before I kissed
The free-selector’s daughter.
Then, rising in the frosty morn,
I brought the cows for Mary,
And when I’d milked a bucketful
I took it to the dairy.
I poured the milk into the dish
While Mary held the strainer,
I summoned heart to speak my wish,
And, oh! her blush grew plainer.
I told her I must leave the place,
I said that I would miss her;
At first she turned away her face,
And then she let me kiss her.
I put the bucket on the ground,
And in my arms I caught her:
I’d give the world to hold again
That free-selector’s daughter!
When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the
West,
On a spur among the mountains stood ‘The
Bullock-drivers’ Rest’;
It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside,
But ’twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that
died—
Just a quiet little shanty kept by
‘Something-in-Disguise’,
As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.
City swells who ‘do the Royal’ would have called the
Shanty low,
But ’twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I
know;
For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men,
And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn’t welcome there
again.
You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise,
With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.
’Twas the bullock-driver’s haven when his team was
on the road,
And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the
load;
And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light,
Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night;
And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their
eyes
On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.
And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the
flats
As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats;
And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire,
As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire.
Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size,
When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.
They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago,
While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below;
Poor old Jim was in his glory—they’d elected him
M.C.,
For there wasn’t such another raving lunatic as he.
‘Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!’ shouted
Something-in-Disguise,
As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.
There is little real pleasure in the city where I am—
There’s a swarry round the corner with its mockery and
sham;
But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls
In a party up the country with the jolly country girls.
Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies,
When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, ‘Go
along!’
But he shouted, ‘Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a
song!’
And at first I said I wouldn’t, and I shammed a little
too,
Till the girls began to whisper, ‘Mr. Swallow, now,
ah, do!’
So I sang a song of something ’bout the love that never
dies,
And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.
Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went
For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his
tent;
Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn’t come, he
said,
But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed;
And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that
Something-in-Disguise
Had a cure for Joe’s lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise.
Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home,
’Neath the stars that hung in clusters, near and distant,
from the dome;
And we walked so very silent—being lost in reverie—
That we heard the settlers’-matches rustle softly on the
tree;
And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet
good-byes—
But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise.
I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago,
And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know;
My old chums are in the distance—some have crossed the
border-line,
But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine.
And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies
In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.
The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were
dead,
’Tis time the people passed a law to knock ’em on the
head,
For ’twould be lovely if their friends could grant the rest
they crave —
Those bards of ‘tears’ and ‘vanished
hopes’, those poets of the grave.
They say that life’s an awful thing, and full of care and
gloom,
They talk of peace and restfulness connected with the tomb.
They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he
must;
But, all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust.
There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ,
That some are made of common mud, and some are made
of grit;
Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume
And wish that they were slumbering in the silence of the tomb.
’Twixt mother’s arms and coffin-gear a man has work
to do!
And if he does his very best he mostly worries through,
And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes
round,
An honest man alive is worth a million underground.
And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom,
The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.
And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the
scene,
I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green.
Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I’d care
If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there;
And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before,
I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.
Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight;
I’ll take my chances with the world, I’d rather live
and fight.
Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest
frown,
I’ll try to do the world some good before I tumble down.
Let’s fight for things that ought to be, and try to make
’em boom;
We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.
’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
thorough-breds.
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 difrerent 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
steeple-chase;
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.
Dust, dust, dust and a dog —
Oh! The sheep-dog won’t be last.
When the long, long, shadow of the old bay horse
With the shadow of his mate is cast.
A brick-brown woman with the brick-brown kids,
And a man with his head half-mast,
The feed-bags hung and the bedding slung,
And the blackened bucket made fast
Where the tailboard clings to the tucker and things —
So the hawker’s van goes past.
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
tomorrow 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.
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 very look of 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 scent of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass
dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard
smell—
Stiff and aching, Greenhand 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 shearers—rushing, sweating for my
sins;
Picking up for seven demons, seven devils 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!” “Seen my
(something) cattle-pup?”
“There’s a crawler down in my shoot—just slip
through and pick it up.”
“Give the office when the boss comes.” “Catch
that gory ram, old man.”
“Count the sheep in my pen, will you?” “Fetch my
combs back when you can.”
“When you get a chance, old fellow, will you pop down to the
hut?
Fetch my pipe—the cook ’ll show you—and
I’ll let you 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!
It was the old King of Virland,
The monarch of all the land,
Who toiled away through a sunny day
With a garden spade in his hand.
There was peace in his wide dominions
For arts and tillage and trade —
He’d won it with something sharper
Than was ever a garden spade.
The old king wiped his forehead,
And he blew a long breath — so,
As he’d done when the fight was over
In the warlike long ago.
And he sat close under the ivy,
And spelled in the dark green shade;
And he thought of nought but potatoes
As he scraped his garden spade.
There stood a knave in the shadow,
Unsuspecting and unafraid,
With his head through the buttery window
And his arms round a buttery maid.
He tempted and she resisted —
For to tempt and resist was their
trade;
They were all unaware of his majesty
And his majesty’s garden spade.
The old king stood by the ivy
And listened to every word;
The oath, and the yielding murmur,
And the plan for the night he heard.
And, be it a boor and a serving wench,
Or be it a lady and knight,
He wanted his maids to be mated,
But he wanted them mated aright.
So a sudden smack smote the silence,
And startled both knave and maid:
‘Twas the mighty monarch of Virland,
And the back of his kingly spade!
The knave swung round with a bad word —
Then bowed with a knavish mien,
With his head bent low to the gravel,
And a hand where the spade had been.
The old king pondered a moment,
And leaned on his garden spade,
While the other maids screamed in hysterics
To the screams of the buttery maid.
The old king paused for a moment,
Then said with a kingly frown:
“I command you twain to be wedded
The moment the sun goes down.
“For, be it a boor and a besom,
Or a ladye and knight love-hot,
Though I want strong sons in my kingdom,
I’ll have them honestly got;
That the son on the night ere battle,
As he lies on the starlit sward,
May think without shame of his mother’s name,
And be proud of his father’s
sword!”
And the knave was a squire thereafter,
And he bore him so well in a fight,
When a war-time came to Virland,
That the old king made him a knight.
And he lived till his first great-grandson
Was wed to a scullery maid,
And he died beloved and honoured,
As the Knight of the Garden Spade.
When your rifle is lost, and your bayonet too,
And your mates have all turned tail,
And captain and country are done with you,
And the chances are death or gaol
—
When the treacherous knife for your throat is raised
Or the handcuffs held for your wrists
—
Then put up a fight with your fists, old man!
Oh, put up a fight with your fists!
For the sign of a man since strife began
(Which nobody can deny),
Of the Man who Won, and the Beaten Man,
Was the sign of the Old Black Eye.
Oh, the signs of a man since a man had foes,
To show ’em the reason why,
Were ever the sign of the Broken Nose
And the sign of the Blue-Black Eye.
When you’re down in the world where you once were up
—
When weather and friends were fair
—
And the coat you wear is a lonesome coat,
And your pants are a lonesome pair,
When the friends who borrowed when luck was good
All leave you severely alone,
Then put up a fight on your own, old man!
Oh, put up a fight on your own!
You’ll need to stand, where the down-track ends,
With your drink-lulled senses clear,
For you’ll get no help from your fine new friends,
And you’ll get no help from beer.
They’ll call you a boozer and loafer and all,
And be noble for your disgrace.
But put your back to the nearest wall,
And strike at the nearest face.
There are friends you helped, when your star was high,
Who pass you as something strange
—
Oh, they drank your beer in the days gone by,
And they borrowed your careless change!
But you pass ’em blind and you pass ’em dumb,
And they’ll borrow your cash
again;
For they’ll drink your wine in the days to come,
And you’ll pity the world of men.
There were friends that you lost by your own neglect
In the days of your sinful pride;
There were friends that you lost with your self-respect
Who’d have fought for you side by
side.
You’d never have thought it would come to this —
That you’d battle the world alone
—
But swallow the lump in your throat, old man,
And put up a fight of your own.
There were friends who came thrice, with help and advice,
Ere the days of your folly were spent
—
Oh, you wish you had answered the letters they wrote
And paid back the money they lent!
Think not of the grey-black mists behind,
Nor the future’s lurid mists,
But put up a fight with your fists (so to speak) —
Oh, put up a fight with your fists.
You’ll know, when it’s done, and the fight
you’ve won —
And won on your lonesome own —
That a man goes up with a host of friends,
But a man goes down alone.
But you laugh at it all as they chair you in,
As they did in the days gone by,
And they’ll chuckle and grin, and drink to your win,
At the Sign of the Old Black Eye.
While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in
verse
The gambling and the drink which are your country’s greatest
curse,
While you glorify the bully and take the spieler’s
part—
You’re a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret
Harte.
If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as
bricks,
And discover shining rivers where there’s only mud and
sticks;
If you picture ‘mighty forests’ where the mulga spoils
the view—
You’re superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.
If you swear there’s not a country like the land that gave
you birth,
And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on
earth;
If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns,
You are gracefully referred to as the ‘young Australian
Burns’.
But if you should find that bushmen—spite of all the poets
say—
Are just common brother-sinners, and you’re quite as good as
they—
You’re a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak,
Your grammar’s simply awful and your intellect is weak.
The Finn stokes well in the hot Red Sea, where the fireman damns
his soul;
And the played-out sons of a warm country went furthest towards the
Pole.
The grief is oft to the topside pup — and the
“first” runs out of the hunt —
And — this is the song of the downside up, and a song of the
back to front.
Yes
— grunt!
And
a song of the back to front.
Oh! this is the way that it all begun since first on one end we
trod.
The short girl yearns for the six-foot-one, and the long for the
four-foot-odd!
Or this is the way that it all began (if my grammar’s
misunderstood),
The good girl loveth the bad, bad man, and the bad girl loves the
good.
Yo-o-u
— would! —
And
the bad girl loves the good.
The thin girl seeketh the stout boy oft when the slight
boy’s there to win;
And often the man who is fat and soft gets roped by the hard and
thin.
The slave-wife loveth her “boss” and house, and
everything seems to suit,
And the pampered wife leaves a generous spouse and sticks to a
drunken brute.
Ye-es
— shoot!
And
she sticks to a drunken brute.
The woman says “Yes” when she meaneth
“No”, and “No” when she meaneth
“Yes”;
But the blithering fool who would take her so is about to fall in,
I guess.
The mother sticks fast to the worthless one who treated her with
contempt,
And often she hateth the good old son of whose
“feelings” she never dreamt —
Yes!
dreamt —
Of
whose feelings she never dreamt.
The low comedian’s glum off-stage, and the heavy
tragedian’s gay,
With the artist or poet at Pint or Page, ’tis ever the
self-same way.
The fool looks wise, and the wise a fool, and the
extra-“open” looks sly,
The smart and the cunning is oft the tool that the plain and the
simple ply.
They’re
fly —
So
the plain and the simple ply.
The hard man’s “soft” when the crisis comes,
though the whole of his life be marred,
And often as not, in our peaceful homes, are the “soft”
men mean and hard.
The excitable man — when the crisis arrives —
is cool — as often as not.
And the calm, mild men with the fiend’s own wives are wild to
the world, and hot —
Yes! Ge-e-t hot!
Are
wild to the world and hot.
The weeds go through where the strong men fail — be it
office or desert or trench,
And the fattest coward in England’s tale brought tucker slap
through the French!
The coward dies for his king and gods, and he throws his men
away,
But the brave man runs from the doubtful odds — that
his foe may run next day —
Wotcher say?
That
his foe may run some day.
The pig is clean, and the bulldog kind, but the
man is a brute or hog.
’Tis starve, sty, or bludgeon, you’ll mostly find, that
spoileth the man, pig and dog.
The poet is generous, noble and clean, and he singeth by day and
night,
But the edit — er — publisher? Woddidimean? —
well, I didn’t mean that way quite.
*** —! —! —!! — — All right —!!
—
But I didn’t — mean
— thatwayquite.
FROM THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS:
The Low is Up, and the Small is Great — and —
(Now-I’m-goin’-quietly-don’t
you-lay-a-hand-on-me.)
OUTSIDE:
— and the scissoring fool
is wise —
(All right,
constable!)
BY TELEPHONE:
The cur must run, but the hound can wait, and — (cut
off)
BY POST:
—and The
Bulletin’s mostly lies.
Tho’ nothing is much, and the much is less, and the
staring are always blind,
And the front is as good as the back, I guess, when the
editor’s back’s behind.
Sir William was gone to the Wars again,
That went through the world at large,
And he left the Keep with some forty men,
And his aunt, Dame Ruth, in charge.
The soldiers swore, and each knave looked grave,
And the maids shed tears in a flood,
For a fearsome mistress she was to serve,
Because of her father’s blood.
There was never a smile on her grim old mouth,
Nor a tear in her hard old eye,
For her mincing days and her simpering days
And her tearful days were by.
There was never a siege-starved horse so gaunt,
Nor a camel’s face less fair;
But no court ladye could gaze her down,
And never a knight out-swear.
She would cuff a maid till the maid saw sense,
And a page till the page saw stars
—
Oh, she was a queen of the olden time,
In spite of her sinister bars.
’Twas a grim time then for the serving men,
And the “maids” that we called
the girls —
’Twas hard to be cuffed by a bony fist,
With the strength of a hundred earls.
Sir William had been for a year away,
And the land was a land of woe,
When the outlaw Marr came down from afar
With a hundred men or so.
He cooped us up with the country folk —
And he was a cur in truth —
He knew that the knight was not there to fight —
But he did not know Dame Ruth.
He gathered the cattle and gathered the grain,
And he promised to leave us be,
But he’d heard of gold in the oak chest old,
So he sent for his outlaw’s fee.
We gathered like sheep in a castle keep,
And an angry old dame was there —
Oh, we feared Dame Ruth with a tenfold fear
On the days when she did not
swear.
For she felt too much. “Outnumbered?” she cried,
“Ye slime, and the spawn of slime!
—
Would a Marr for a day in the Westland bide
In my father’s father’s
time?
There are forked things left that can stand upright,
But are no men left in the land?
Must I carry you forth? Hold your blades in the fight
As I’d hold a babe’s spoon in
its hand?”
So we gat us out through the eastern gate,
And down through the old oak trees,
Till backward borne in the wintry morn
We fought them by twos and threes.
We’d gathered to win to the gate again —
The gate of our grim despair —
When Clarence, who fought on my right hand, cried,
With a backward glance, “Look
there!”
Heels first in retreat — for they pressed us close
—
Just time to glance back through the trees
—
And she sat on her horse on the top of the knoll
With her ragged grey hair in the
breeze.
Her old house gown was the armour she wore,
And her old grey hair the crest,
And a long, tough whip on the pommel she bore,
And — we did not look for the
rest.
Then Clarence drew sword when his shaft was sped
(And he was a mettlesome youth),
“I’ll face them one to a dozen,” he said,
“But I will not face Dame
Ruth.”
Her screech was heard in the startled land,
And the outlaws paused in affright
As she spurred her down to her gallant band,
Crying “Fight! ye scullions!
Fight!”
The outlaws halted like stricken men
Who stand ere they strike the sod
—
They believed in warlocks and witches then,
Far more than they did in God.
Their leader looked twice, and their leader looked thrice,
And was first to gallop away,
Or, in spite of his warlike gear, he’d been
A well-whipped cur that day.
We drove them clear and we chased them far,
And we left a few in the mud,
And we hanged a few in the old oak trees
As a hint of her father’s blood.
There was never a tear in her hard old eyes,
On her grim face never a smile;
But she bound our wounds with her claw-like hands
And she swore at the maids the while.
But all of us knew, of her battered crew,
And we grinned and we winked aside,
For her bony old fingers they trembled at times,
And the oaths were to hide her pride.
Sir William is come from the wars again
With his faith and his thick head
whole;
And Marr is gone to the Holy Land
For the sake of his sinful soul.
We think too often of women and wine —
Too seldom of cause or creed;
But we’d go with Dame Ruth to the gates of Hell,
And never a whip she’d need.
Now I do not want to bore you, or to take up too much time
When your nose is on the grindstone and to lift it seems a
crime;
But in spite of all your wisdom you will nearly always find
That there’s one you like to talk to when there’s
trouble on your mind.
Never
mind
If it’s Gaol, or Corns, or Toothache that’s the trouble
on your mind.
And he’ll grip your hand a moment, and he’ll beckon
silently
To the waiter or the barmaid, as the case may chance to be;
And he’ll signal you to light up — and you’ll
mostly always find
At this early stage the trouble seems much lighter on your
mind.
Why,
you’ll find
That ‘twill cost you quite an effort for to keep it on your
mind!
“I’ve been there!” he says, and fills up
— or he only says “Same here,”
And the humour of it strikes you as your head begins to clear.
And you say no more about it, for you see that you’ve been
blind:
It was Nothing! Have another! Damn the trouble on your mind!
Weren’t
you blind!
Why, there wasn’t any trouble — it was just your silly
mind!
And he grins the grin of sorrow as he sees you home to bed,
And you even cease to wonder what was bothering your head.
Let the godly cant and snuffle, and the shallow cynic scoff,
But the grandest thing in this world is the grin that won’t
come off
Won’t
wash off;
It may fade at times a little, but (in public) won’t come
off.
No, it won’t come off in public when the world is there to
see,
And it won’t come off in private when there’s only you
and me.
You may shift it for a moment when you’re sure you’re
quite alone,
just to clasp your head in trouble, and to shed a tear and groan
—
Just
one groan,
For you cannot always wear it when you’re sure you’re
quite alone.
Man was always, for his comfort, just a worry-making brute;
When you’ve just escaped the gallows, then your corns begin
to shoot.
When you’re clear of debt or doctors, and the wolf has left
your throat,
Then you find the time to worry at the fit of your new coat.
(That
damned tailor!)
Why is man for ever haunted by the fit of his new coat?
When the future’s fair before him and when things are all
serene,
Then he’ll think of years he wasted and the man he might have
been.
Why! we might have all been married, and been living with our
wives,
With a world of things to worry and to irritate our lives
—
Just
like knives,
And our grown-up children at us, backed up blindly by our
wives.
Or he thinks about his boyhood, and he mourns his vanished Youth
—
Now, who would live his life again, or face it? Tell the truth.
I am mighty glad my boyhood and my youth are far away
—
I am in the straight for Fifty — and grow younger every
day;
Drink
and play,
And I grow more interested in a woman every day.
Death is nothing! We’re immortal — that’s the
blessing — or the curse:
But whate’er the further future, I am sure it can’t be
worse.
We shall live again in this world through the centuries to
come,
And, should I return a woman, oh, I’ll make it warm for
some!
Make
things hum —
Breach o’ Promise — Alimony — Oh,
I’ll score in times to come.
But the main thing for the present is just only to be kind
—
You can always hear the scandal, but you don’t know
what’s behind.
Take what friends can give in friendship, and pass on what you can
get;
And, while jokes or kindly words can cheer, your life’s not
wasted yet —
Never
fret!
While a friend’s in need of cheering, life is full of
interest yet.
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.
Comes the British bulldog first—solid as a
log—
He’s so ugly in repose that he’s a handsome dog;
Full of mild benevolence as his years increase;
Silent as a china dog on the mantelpiece.
Rub his sides and
point his nose,
Click your tongue
and in he goes,
To the thick of
Britain’s foes—
Enemies behind him
close—
(Silence for a while).
Comes a very different dog—tell him at a glance.
Clipped and trimmed and frilled all round. Dandy dog of France.
(Always was a dandy dog, no matter what his age)
Now his every hair and frill is stiff as wire with rage.
Rub his sides and
point his nose,
Click your tongue
and in he goes,
While behind him
France’s foes
Reel and surge and
pack and close.
(Silence for a while.)
Next comes Belgium’s market dog—hard to realise.
Go-cart dog and barrow dog—he’s a great surprise.
Dog that never hurt a cat, did no person harm;
Friendly, kindly, round and fat as a “Johnny Darm.”
Rub his sides and
point his nose,
Click your tongue
and in he goes,
At the flank of
Belgium’s foes
Who
could not behind him close—
(Silence for a while).
Next comes Servia’s mongrel pup—mongrel dawgs can
fight;
Up or down, or down or up, whether wrong or right.
He was mad the other day—he is mad today,
Hustling round and raising dust in his backyard way.
Rub his sides and
point his nose,
Click your tongue
and in he goes,
’Twixt the
legs of Servia’s foes,
Biting tails and
rearmost toes—
(Silence for a while.)
There are various terrier dawgs mixed up in the scrap,
Much too small for us to see, and too mad to yap.
Each one, on his frantic own—heard the row
commence—
Tore with tooth and claw a hole in the backyard fence.
No one called, but
in they go,
Dogs with many a
nameless woe,
Tripping up their
common foe—
(Silence for a while).
From the snows of Canada, dragging box and bale,
Comes the sledge-dog toiling on, sore-foot from the trail.
He’ll be useful in the trench, when the nose is
blue—
Winter dog that knows the French and the English too.
Rub his sides and
point his nose,
Click your tongue
and in he goes,
At his
father’s country’s foes,
And his
mother’s country’s foes.
(Silence for a while.)
See, in sunny Southern France a dog that runs by sight,
Lean and yellow, sharp of nose, long of leg and light,
Silent and bloodthirsty, too; Distance in his eyes,
Leaping high to gain his view, the Kangaroo Dog flies!
Rub his sides and
point his nose,
Click your tongue
and up he goes,
Lands amongst his
country’s foes—
And his
country’s country’s foes;
While they sway and
while they close—
(Silence for a while).
. . . . .
See across the early snow, far across the plain,
Where the clouds are grey and low and winter comes again;
By the sand-dune and the marsh—and forest black and
dumb—
As dusky white as their winter’s night, the Russian
wolf-hounds come!
(Silence for a while.)
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 manoeuvres,
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.
I’m tired of raving at wrong things which must still to
the end endure;
I’m sick and tired of the selfish rich, and I’m tired
of the selfish poor.
Of the Awful Wrongs of the Social Plan (both sides, and in between)
—
I’m tired of The Bulletin’s own Fat Man,
and I’m also tired of the Lean.
‘Tis a weariness born of twenty years of
‘rastlin’ with Truth and Lies,
And of writing on rum and blood-stained tears, that the People
might Wake and Rise!
I am wild, Damned Wild, at the wages paid for fighting with
Freedom’s Foes,
And the awful blunders the people made when at last they Woke and
Rose.
The motor car is the Car of Greed, and I’ve often written
it down
(With little effect I fear, indeed, for I notice it still in
town);
But now I’m tired of the Goggled Hog, and his veiled
contemptuous “dart”.
I am also weary of Boko Bill and his fruit and Bottle-O cart.
I’m weary of Clara Vere de Vere, and her Bloque at the
grand hotel,
And the Orphan Girl and the Orphan Boy — and their mother and
father as well.
It’s not their fault, for extremes are fate (and extremes
will meet again) —
I’m also disgusted with One-eyed Kate and her Bloke in Red
Rock Lane.
My soul is sad for the young bards here who rave of a wrong
red-hot,
And care not a curse, so they get their beer, if the people starve
or not.
With a fine contempt for the grave and the tomb, for the old books
on the shelves,
They gibe and sneer at the old bard’s gloom
— and they straightway weep themselves.
I’m tired of the cruel, bleeding welt on the Young Heart
Tempest-Tost;
Likewise of the love that we never felt, and the friend that we
never lost.
I’m tired of the long white limbs, small head, and the eyes
of unearthly hue;
Of the Bride, Rose Red, in her Bridal Bed — and I’m
sick of the Other Man, too.
I’m tired — O I’m tired — of the
bleeding heart of the bride that never was wed;
And the Dagger Drave — and the blood-stained grave of the
lover who never was dead;
Of the wronged young wife, and her blighted life; also of the
locket worn
With the Golden Curl from the Head of the Girl of the Babe that
never was born.
To resume:
I’m scared of the great strong arms and the breast, and the
brute force under control;
Of the gloomy eyes, and the head, and the rest — and the
hidden heart and soul —
Of the muscle and tan of the awful MAN that our girl bards rave
about;
The first of his kind since the world began — and I want them
to trot him out.
Of the Swooning Love, ‘neath the stars (above), and the
Slumbrous Burning Eyes;
Of the Blarst of Skorn from our Bards of Morn, and our
girl-bards’ DAMN likewise.
(And let it be said, ere we go to bed, lest you curse me
needlessly,
That I do not moan for these things alone, for I’m also tired
of ME.)
To proceed:
I’m sick of the sight of the Single White in the islands far
away,
Who is jabbed with a poisoned spear by night, and who pots the
tribe next day.
A club-man dead to the world he knew, and long by his love forgot
—
And the innocent swims with the Lithe Brown Limbs, and — the
rest of the Thomas Rot.
He’s mostly a thin brown man in twill and specs (for his
sight is dim),
And a score of niggers to work his will, and Ah Soon to cook for
him.
With the steamer in sight (and a drunken white) and the rest of the
world within hail,
A wife — or the pick of the native girls — and his
fairly reg’lar mail.
And now to conclude:
I’m tired of the sneering at friendship, too, for
you’ll find in the end, no doubt,
When you get run in, and the world looks blue, there’ll
be one to bail you out —
I’m tired of the Love of the Bygone Day, of Women and Dice
and Wine —
You’ll find, when his Washup has said his say, ‘tis the
Missus that pays the fine.
You may shriek to High Heaven of love and death and howl of a
Soul in Pain,
You may curse the Gods with your latest breath till the cows come
home again;
But Dad plods home from his work to-night — in his bosom a
peace profound —
To his bustling wife and his kitchen bright, and he helps the world
go round.
You may write of revolvers, and nerves of steel, and the eyes of
a steel-blue grey,
Of the white man banned, with his life in his hand, in those
Islands far away;
Of his panther limbs and his courage grand, and his deadly aim and
true —
But Bill and Jim with perception dim would call him a Jackaroo.
You may rave and rave of your fancy loves that go by your fancy
names,
But the bread you eat and the bills you meet are fixed by Lizzie
and James.
You may ode your Gladyses and what not — at the rest let your
scorn be hurled,
But Lucy, and Mary, and Jack, and Fred — O! they are the
living world.
This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia