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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/214-h.zip b/214-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5e7bca7 --- /dev/null +++ b/214-h.zip diff --git a/214-h/214-h.htm b/214-h/214-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73ee34e --- /dev/null +++ b/214-h/214-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5128 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + In the Days when The World Was Wide and Other Verses, by Henry Lawson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Days When the World Was Wide and +Other Verses, by Henry Lawson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Release Date: July 3, 2008 [EBook #214] +Last Updated: January 15, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, L. Bowser and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <h3> + (2 ed.) + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Henry Lawson + </h2> + <h4> + [Australian house-painter, author and poet — 1867-1922.] + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> To an Old Mate </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> <b>IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND + OTHER VERSES</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Faces in the Street </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Roaring Days </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> 'For'ard' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> The Drover's Sweetheart </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Out Back </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> The Free-Selector's Daughter </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> 'Sez You' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Andy's Gone With Cattle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Jack Dunn of Nevertire </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Trooper Campbell </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Sliprails and the Spur </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Past Carin' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> The Glass on the Bar </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Shanty on the Rise </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> The Vagabond </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Sweeney </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Middleton's Rouseabout </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> The Ballad of the Drover </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Taking His Chance </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> When the 'Army' Prays for Watty </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Ben Duggan </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The Star of Australasia </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> The Great Grey Plain </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The Song of Old Joe Swallow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> Corny Bill </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Cherry-Tree Inn </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> Up the Country </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Knocked Up </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Blue Mountains </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The City Bushman </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Eurunderee </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> Mount Bukaroo </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Fire at Ross's Farm </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> The Teams </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Cameron's Heart </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> The Shame of Going Back </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Since Then </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> Peter Anderson and Co. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> When the Children Come Home </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> Dan, the Wreck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> A Prouder Man Than You </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> The Song and the Sigh </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> The Cambaroora Star </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> After All </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> Marshall's Mate </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> The Poets of the Tomb </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> The Ghost </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> The End. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + [Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for the + Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry to + increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. It was + apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports that Lawson + was bitter about it later. 'Up the Country' and 'The City Bushman', + included in this selection, were two of Lawson's contributions to the + debate. Please note that this is the revised edition of 1900. Therefore, + even though this book was originally published in 1896, it includes two + poems not published until 1899 ('The Sliprails and the Spur' and 'Past + Carin'').] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + First Edition printed February 1896, + + Reprinted August 1896, October 1896, March 1898, and November 1898; + + Revised Edition, January 1900; + + Reprinted May 1903, February 1910, June 1912, and July 1913. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published in the + Sydney 'Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane 'Boomerang', Sydney 'Freeman's + Journal', 'Town and Country Journal', 'Worker', and 'New Zealand Mail', + whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank for past kindnesses and + for present courtesy in granting me the right of reproduction in book + form. + </p> + <p> + 'In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland and some of + the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia. + </p> + <p> + The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents. + Those undated are now printed for the first time. + </p> + <p> + HENRY LAWSON. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + To J. F. Archibald + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + To an Old Mate + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <h2> + CONTENTS WITH FIRST LINES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To an Old Mate + Old Mate! In the gusty old weather, + + In the Days When the World was Wide + The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, + [Dec. — 1894] + + Faces in the Street + They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone + [July — 1888] + + The Roaring Days + The night too quickly passes + [Dec. — 1889] + + 'For'ard' + It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, + [Dec. — 1893] + + The Drover's Sweetheart + An hour before the sun goes down + [June — 1891] + + Out Back + The old year went, and the new returned, + in the withering weeks of drought, + [Sept. — 1893] + + The Free-Selector's Daughter + I met her on the Lachlan Side — + [May — 1891] + + 'Sez You' + When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, + [Mar. — 1894] + + Andy's Gone With Cattle + Our Andy's gone to battle now + [Oct. — 1888] + + Jack Dunn of Nevertire + It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done, + [Aug. — 1892] + + Trooper Campbell + One day old Trooper Campbell + [Apr. — 1891] + + The Sliprails and the Spur + The colours of the setting sun + [July — 1899] + + Past Carin' + Now up and down the siding brown + [Aug. — 1899] + + The Glass on the Bar + Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, + [Apr. — 1890] + + The Shanty on the Rise + When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, + [Dec. — 1891] + + The Vagabond + White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier + [Aug. — 1895] + + Sweeney + It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down, + [Dec. — 1893] + + Middleton's Rouseabout + Tall and freckled and sandy, + [Mar. — 1890] + + The Ballad of the Drover + Across the stony ridges, + [Mar. — 1889] + + Taking His Chance + They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; + [June — 1892] + + When the 'Army' Prays for Watty + When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, + [May — 1893] + + The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle' + Day of ending for beginnings! + [Dec. — 1887] + + Ben Duggan + Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, + [Dec. — 1891] + + The Star of Australasia + We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; + + The Great Grey Plain + Out West, where the stars are brightest, + [Sept. — 1893] + + The Song of Old Joe Swallow + When I was up the country in the rough and early days, + [May — 1890] + + Corny Bill + His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, + [May — 1892] + + Cherry-Tree Inn + The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star, + + Up the Country + I am back from up the country — very sorry that I went — + [July — 1892] + + Knocked Up + I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, + [Aug. — 1893] + + The Blue Mountains + Above the ashes straight and tall, + [Dec. — 1888] + + The City Bushman + It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, + [Aug. — 1892] + + Eurunderee + There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, + [Aug. — 1891] + + Mount Bukaroo + Only one old post is standing — + [Dec. — 1889] + + The Fire at Ross's Farm + The squatter saw his pastures wide + [Apr. — 1891] + + The Teams + A cloud of dust on the long white road, + [Dec. — 1889] + + Cameron's Heart + The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, + [July — 1891] + + The Shame of Going Back + When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, + [Oct. — 1891] + + Since Then + I met Jack Ellis in town to-day — + [Nov. — 1895] + + Peter Anderson and Co. + He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, + [Aug. — 1895] + + When the Children Come Home + On a lonely selection far out in the West + [Dec. — 1890] + + Dan, the Wreck + Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, + + A Prouder Man Than You + If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine, + [June — 1892] + + The Song and the Sigh + The creek went down with a broken song, + [Mar. — 1889] + + The Cambaroora Star + So you're writing for a paper? Well, it's nothing very new + [Dec. — 1891] + + After All + The brooding ghosts of Australian night + have gone from the bush and town; + + Marshall's Mate + You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn — + [July — 1895] + + The Poets of the Tomb + The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead, + [Oct. — 1892] + + Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers + While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse + [Feb. — 1894] + + The Ghost + Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, + [Aug. — 1889] +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + In the Days When the World was Wide + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 road-side — + 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 sailed 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, ay! in advance of Thought + Those brave men rose to a height 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? + + We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; + Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, + the sneer of a sneak hits hard; + The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide — + They faced each other and fought like men + in the days when the world was wide. + + Think of it all — of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! + Study the past! And answer this: 'Are these times better than those?' + The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! + No matter who fell it were better to fight + as they did when the world was wide. + + Boast as you will of your mateship now — crippled and mean and sly — + The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow + were traced since the days gone by. + There was room in the long, free lines of the van + to fight for it side by side — + There was beating-room for the heart of a man + in 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Faces in the Street + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone + 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 pages end, + For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend, + 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, + And soon I saw the 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Roaring Days + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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; + When, puzzled long, the new-chum + Would recognise at last, + Behind a bronzed and bearded skin, + A comrade of the past. + + 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. + Oh, they were lion-hearted + Who gave our country birth! + Oh, they were of the stoutest sons + From all the lands on earth! + + Oft when the camps were dreaming, + And fires began to pale, + Through rugged ranges gleaming + Would come the Royal Mail. + Behind six foaming horses, + And lit by flashing lamps, + Old 'Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state, + Went dashing past the camps. + + Oh, who would paint a goldfield, + And limn the picture right, + As we have often seen 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. + + 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 our hearts were bolder, + And if Dame Fortune frowned + Our swags we'd lightly shoulder + And tramp to other ground. + But 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 'For'ard' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 flow'rs 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 among 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 denyin' 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 an' 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. + + There'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 'n' 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 — + There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; + No anxiety abaft, + They have stuff to land with, aft — + Oh, there's 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, better than if we were 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 o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled, + An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world; + There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, + An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down; + An' 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Drover's Sweetheart + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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; + And 'twas from there his freckled face + Would turn and smile at me — + He'd milk a dozen in the race + While I was milking three. + + I milk eleven cows myself + Where once I milked but four; + I set the dishes on the shelf + And close the dairy door; + And when the glaring sunlight fails + And the fire shines through the cracks, + I climb the broken stockyard rails + And watch the bridle-tracks. + + He kissed me twice and once again + And rode across the hill, + The pint-pots and the hobble-chain + I hear them jingling still; + He'll come at night or not at all — + He left in dust and heat, + And when the soft, cool shadows fall + Is the best time to meet. + + And he is coming back again, + He wrote to let me know, + The floods were in the Darling then — + It seems so long ago; + He'd come through miles of slush and mud, + And it was weary work, + The creeks were bankers, and the flood + Was forty miles round Bourke. + + He said the floods had formed a block, + The plains could not be crossed, + And there was foot-rot in the flock + And hundreds had been lost; + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Out Back + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + He blamed himself in the year 'Too Late' — + in the heaviest hours of life — + 'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife; + There are times when wrongs from your kindred come, + and treacherous tongues attack — + When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, 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 short-cut to his 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. + + <i>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.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Free-Selector's Daughter + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 'Sez You' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Andy's Gone With Cattle + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our Andy's gone to battle now + 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; + Our Andy's gone with cattle 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. + + The gates are out of order now, + In storms the 'riders' rattle; + For far across the border now + Our Andy's gone with cattle. + + Poor Aunty's looking thin and white; + And Uncle's cross with worry; + And poor old Blucher howls all night + Since Andy left Macquarie. + + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Jack Dunn of Nevertire + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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'.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Trooper Campbell + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 + 'Twere better we were dead. + Don't take him, Trooper Campbell, + 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. + Though he is wild and reckless, + Yet still he is your child; + So bear up in your trouble, + And 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. + 'I cannot bear disgrace,' she moaned; + 'Disgrace I cannot 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'll bring a curse upon himself; + 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!' the outlaws shouted, + As up the range they sped. + 'A Merry 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 home at last; + And this is but a story + Of trouble that is past! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Sliprails and the Spur + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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!' + + <i>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.</i> + + 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 dark'ning 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. + + . . . . . + + {Some editions have four more lines here.} + + <i>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.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Past Carin' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now up and down the siding 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' — + <i>Past worryin' or carin', + Past feelin' aught or carin'; + But from my heart no tear nor sound, + For I have gone past carin'.</i> + + 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'. + <i>Past botherin' or carin', + Past feelin' and past carin'; + Through city cheats and neighbours' spite, + I've come to be past carin'.</i> + + 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>I've grown to be past carin', + Past worryin' and wearin'; + I've pulled three through and buried two + Since then, and I'm past carin'.</i> + + '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>I've grown to be past carin' + Past lookin' for or carin'; + The girl that waited long ago, + Has lived to be past carin'.</i> + + 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'. + <i>Past wearyin' or carin', + Past feelin' and despairin'; + And now I only wish to be + Beyond all signs of carin'.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Glass on the Bar + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 on 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Shanty on the Rise + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Vagabond + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + Domestic quarrels, and family spite, + And your Native Land may be + Controlled by custom, but, come what might, + The rest of the world for me. + I'd sail with money, or sail without! — + If your love be forced from home, + And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, + The world is your own to roam. + + 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 brown 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sweeney + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + 'Neath the public-house 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. + + His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh, + And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache; + (His hairy chest was open to what poets call the 'wined', + And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind). + + 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. + + Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub, + And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub, + And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west — + But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest. + + Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two — + He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo; + And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see + From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be. + + . . . . . + + I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags, + Cadging round the wretched 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Middleton's Rouseabout + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ballad of the Drover + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 pack-horse + Is trotting by his knee. + + Up Queensland way with cattle + He 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 homestead station 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 from above him + Goes rolling o'er the plain; + And down on thirsty pastures + In torrents falls the rain. + And every creek and gully + Sends forth its little flood, + Till 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 ghastly lightnings gleam, + As 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, + And a cattle dog and pack-horse + Are struggling up the bank. + But in the lonely homestead + The girl will wait in vain — + He'll never pass the stations + In charge of stock again. + + The faithful dog a moment + Sits panting on the bank, + And then swims through the current + To where his master sank. + And round and round in circles + He fights with failing strength, + Till, borne down by the waters, + The old dog sinks at length. + + Across the flooded lowlands + And slopes of sodden loam + The pack-horse struggles onward, + To take dumb tidings home. + And mud-stained, wet, and weary, + Through ranges dark goes he; + While hobble-chains and tinware + Are sounding eerily. + + . . . . . + + The floods are in the ocean, + The stream is clear again, + And now a verdant carpet + Is stretched across the plain. + But someone's eyes are saddened, + And someone's heart still bleeds + In sorrow for the drover + Who sleeps among the reeds. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Taking His Chance + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 shanty 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When the 'Army' Prays for Watty + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Ben Duggan + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar. + + <i>By station home + And shearing shed + Ben Duggan cried, 'Jack Denver's dead! + Roll up at Talbragar!'</i> + + 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, and when the day was done + He turned his panting horse's head and rode to Ross's Run. + No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far + Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar. + + <i>By diggers' camps + Ben Duggan sped — + At each he cried, 'Jack Denver's dead! + Roll up at Talbragar!'</i> + + 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; + The soft white moonbeams glistened in the 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. + + <i>At Blackman's Run + Before the dawn, + Ben Duggan cried, 'Poor Denver's gone! + Roll up at Talbragar!'</i> + + At all the shanties round the place they'd 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. + + <i>'The wretch is drunk, + And Denver's dead — + A burning shame!' the people said + Next day at Talbragar.</i> + + 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 dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar. + + <i>They knelt around, + He raised his head + And faintly gasped, 'Jack Denver's dead, + Roll up at Talbragar!'</i> + + But one short hour before he died he woke to understand, + They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was 'grand'; + And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light, + He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight. + And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar + How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar. + + <i>And far and wide + When Duggan died, + The bushmen of the western side + Rode in to Talbragar.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Star of Australasia + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 comes 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 'gainst the 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, + Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away — + Shall 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 stockwhip 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, + Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright + at the tales of our chivalry, + And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it 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 you 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Great Grey Plain + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + No sign of a stream or fountain, + No spring on its dry, hot breast, + No shade from the blazing noontide + Where a weary man might rest. + Whole years go by when the glowing + Sky never clouds for rain — + Only the shrubs of the desert + Grow on the Great Grey Plain. + + From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming, + Come the 'traveller' and his mate, + In the ghastly dawnlight 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 beggars tramp for existence — + There lies the Great Grey Plain. + + 'Tis a desert not more barren + Than the Great Grey Plain of years, + Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men — + Dries up the fount of tears: + Where the victims of a greed insane + Are crushed in a hell-born strife — + Where the souls of a race are murdered + On the Great Grey Plain of Life! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Song of Old Joe Swallow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + <i>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.</i> + + 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. + + <i>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.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Corny Bill + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Cherry-Tree Inn + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Up the Country + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Knocked Up + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + <i>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.</i> + + 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 blessed 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 ter 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. + + <i>For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain, + And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' 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.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Blue Mountains + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The City Bushman + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Eurunderee + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mount Bukaroo + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Fire at Ross's Farm + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Teams + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 'neath 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 thunder-storm'; + But he seldom utters more. + + But the rains are heavy on roads like these; + And, fronting his lonely home, + For weeks together the settler sees + The teams bogged down 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 little of joy or rest + Are the long, long journeys done; + And thus — 'tis a cruel war at the best — + Is distance fought in the mighty West, + And the lonely battles won. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Cameron's Heart + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Shame of Going Back + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Since Then + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + The cheques we made and the shanty sprees, + The camps in the great blind scrub, + The long wet tramps when the plains were seas, + And the oracles worked in days like these + For rum and tobacco and grub. + + Could I forget how we struck 'the same + Old tale' in the nearer West, + When the first great test of our friendship came — + But — well, there's little to praise or blame + If our mateship stood the test. + + 'Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) — + 'Tails!' and a friendly oath; + We loved her fair, we had much to learn — + And each was stabbed to the heart in turn + By the girl who — loved us both. + + Or the last day lost on the lignum plain, + When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead, + With a burning throat and a tortured brain; + And the tank when we came to the track again + Was seventeen miles ahead. + + Then life seemed finished — then death began + As down in the dust I sank, + But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can, + Till I heard him saying, 'Bear up, old man!' + In the shade by the mulga tank. + + . . . . . + + 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. + + And I almost wished that the time were come + When less will be left to Fate — + When boys will start on the track from home + With equal chances, and no old chum + Have more or less than his mate. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Peter Anderson and Co. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 with the comic smile of one who knows you well, + And is mighty glad to see you, and has got 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. + + They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims — + Using Peter's own expression, they had been in 'various swims'. + 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). + They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance, + But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance. + + The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up — + A 'daily' for a table cloth — a jam tin for a cup; + And if 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 other times they shot + The moon, and took an office 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 + Till 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. + + 'When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course, + And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse — + When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt, + Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt. + Shun the poison breath of cities — billiard-rooms and private bars, + Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars! + 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, if you like. But then he hadn't time to think — + All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses — dead man's drink. + + . . . . . + + Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft, + Peter paid the undertaker. He 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. + Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be, + Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three, + And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair, + Peter 'pulled himself together' and he started business there. + + But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad, + And no help to reformation was the company he had — + Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim — + 'Twas a town of wrecks and failures — they appreciated him. + 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 it would appear that he + Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free. + Though 'twas plainly self-destruction — ''twas his own affair,' they said; + And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found — that he was dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When the Children Come Home + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On a lonely selection far out in the West + An old woman works all the day without rest, + And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, + 'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.' + + She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs, + She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows, + And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack, + 'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.' + + It is five weary years since her old husband died; + And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed + 'Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can, + An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.' + + Whenever the scowling old sundowners come, + And cunningly ask if the master's at home, + 'Be off,' she replies, 'with your blarney and cant, + Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.' + + 'Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear, + For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near; + But she says to herself, when she's like to despond, + That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond. + + Ah, none of her children need follow the plough, + And some have grown rich in the city ere now; + Yet she says: 'They might come when the shearing is done, + And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Dan, the Wreck + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.' + + Been an actor and a writer — + Doesn't whine — + Reckoned now the best reciter + In his line. + Takes the stage at times, and fills it — + 'Princess May' or 'Waterloo'. + Raise a sneer! — his first line kills it, + 'Brings 'em', too. + + 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 often, + While hearts swell, + Standing sadly by the coffin: + 'He looks well.' + + . . . . . + + We may be — so goes a rumour — + Bad as Dan; + But we may not have 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Prouder Man Than You + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Song and the Sigh + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The creek went down with a broken song, + 'Neath the sheoaks high; + The waters carried the song 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Cambaroora Star + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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!'' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + After All + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, I'll not see his shadow fall, + But read the signs in the morning stars of 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Marshall's Mate + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Poets of the Tomb + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ghost + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The End. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + [From the July, 1909 section of Advertisements.] + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE, + </h2> + <p> + AND OTHER VERSES. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By Henry Lawson. +</pre> + <p> + THE ACADEMY: "These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in spirit + and manhood, in the colour and smell of Australian soil. They deserve the + popularity which they have won in Australia, and which, we trust, this + edition will now give them in England." + </p> + <p> + THE SPEAKER: "There are poems in 'In the Days When the World was Wide' + which are of a higher mood than any yet heard in distinctively Australian + poetry." + </p> + <p> + LITERARY WORLD: "Not a few of the pieces have made us feel discontented + with our sober surroundings, and desirous of seeing new birds, new + landscapes, new stars; for at times the blood tingles because of Mr. + Lawson's galloping rhymes." + </p> + <p> + NEWCASTLE WEEKLY CHRONICLE: "Swinging, rhythmic verse." + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By Henry Lawson. +</pre> + <p> + THE ACADEMY: "A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing + about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers' tales. . . . + The result is a real book — a book in a hundred. His language is + terse, supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best." + </p> + <p> + THE SCOTSMAN: "There is no lack of dramatic imagination in the + construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive to construct a + strong sensational situation in a couple of pages. But the chief charm and + value of the book is its fidelity to the rough character of the scenes + from which it is drawn." + </p> + <p> + LITERATURE: "These sketches bring us into contact with one phase of + colonial life at first hand. . . . The simplicity of the narrative gives + it almost the effect of a story that is told by word of mouth." + </p> + <p> + THE SPECTATOR: "It is strange that one we would venture to call the + greatest Australian writer should be practically unknown in England. Mr. + Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, and more unequal, + but there are two or three sketches in this volume which for vigour and + truth can hold their own with even so great a rival. Both men have somehow + gained that power of concentration which by a few strong strokes can set + place and people before you with amazing force." + </p> + <p> + THE TIMES: "A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories of + Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte's manner, crossed, + perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant." + </p> + <p> + BRITISH WEEKLY: "Many of Mr. Lawson's tales photograph life at the + diggings or in the bush with an incisive and remorseless reality that + grips the imagination. He silhouettes a swagman in a couple of pages, and + the man is there, alive." + </p> + <p> + THE MORNING POST: "For the most part they are full of local colour, and, + correctly speaking, represent rather rapid sketches illustrative of life + in the bush than tales in the ordinary sense of the word. . . . They bear + the impress of truth, sincere if unvarnished." + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +A few other titles by Henry Lawson: + + Prose: Poetry: + On the Track When I was King + Over the Sliprails Popular Verses + Joe Wilson Humorous Verses + Joe Wilson's Mates Winnowed Verses +</pre> + <p> + THE BOOK LOVER: "Any book of Lawson's should be bought and treasured by + all who care for the real beginnings of Australian literature. As a matter + of fact, he is the one Australian literary product, in any distinctive + sense." + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Days When the World Was Wide +and Other Verses, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE *** + +***** This file should be named 214-h.htm or 214-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/214/ + +Produced by A. Light, L. Bowser, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses + +Author: Henry Lawson + +Release Date: July 3, 2008 [EBook #214] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser + + + + + +IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES + +(2 ed.) + +by Henry Lawson + +[Australian house-painter, author and poet -- 1867-1922.] + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized stanzas that are ALREADY indented will be indented 10 spaces. +Italicized words and phrases have been capitalized. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, +have been corrected. This etext was prepared from a 1913 printing.] + + + + +[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for +the Sydney 'Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a 'duel' of poetry +to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. +It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports +that Lawson was bitter about it later. 'Up the Country' +and 'The City Bushman', included in this selection, +were two of Lawson's contributions to the debate. Please note +that this is the revised edition of 1900. Therefore, even though this book +was originally published in 1896, it includes two poems not published +until 1899 ('The Sliprails and the Spur' and 'Past Carin'').] + + + + + + +First Edition printed February 1896, + +Reprinted August 1896, October 1896, March 1898, and November 1898; + +Revised Edition, January 1900; + +Reprinted May 1903, February 1910, June 1912, and July 1913. + + + + +PREFACE + + +Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published in the +Sydney 'Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane 'Boomerang', Sydney 'Freeman's +Journal', 'Town and Country Journal', 'Worker', and 'New Zealand Mail', +whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank for past kindnesses and +for present courtesy in granting me the right of reproduction in book +form. + +'In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland and some +of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia. + +The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents. +Those undated are now printed for the first time. + +HENRY LAWSON. + + + +To J. F. Archibald + + + + +To an Old Mate + + + 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. + + + + +CONTENTS WITH FIRST LINES: + + To an Old Mate + Old Mate! In the gusty old weather, + + In the Days When the World was Wide + The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, + [Dec. -- 1894] + + Faces in the Street + They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone + [July -- 1888] + + The Roaring Days + The night too quickly passes + [Dec. -- 1889] + + 'For'ard' + It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, + [Dec. -- 1893] + + The Drover's Sweetheart + An hour before the sun goes down + [June -- 1891] + + Out Back + The old year went, and the new returned, + in the withering weeks of drought, + [Sept. -- 1893] + + The Free-Selector's Daughter + I met her on the Lachlan Side -- + [May -- 1891] + + 'Sez You' + When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, + [Mar. -- 1894] + + Andy's Gone With Cattle + Our Andy's gone to battle now + [Oct. -- 1888] + + Jack Dunn of Nevertire + It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done, + [Aug. -- 1892] + + Trooper Campbell + One day old Trooper Campbell + [Apr. -- 1891] + + The Sliprails and the Spur + The colours of the setting sun + [July -- 1899] + + Past Carin' + Now up and down the siding brown + [Aug. -- 1899] + + The Glass on the Bar + Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, + [Apr. -- 1890] + + The Shanty on the Rise + When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, + [Dec. -- 1891] + + The Vagabond + White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier + [Aug. -- 1895] + + Sweeney + It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down, + [Dec. -- 1893] + + Middleton's Rouseabout + Tall and freckled and sandy, + [Mar. -- 1890] + + The Ballad of the Drover + Across the stony ridges, + [Mar. -- 1889] + + Taking His Chance + They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; + [June -- 1892] + + When the 'Army' Prays for Watty + When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, + [May -- 1893] + + The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle' + Day of ending for beginnings! + [Dec. -- 1887] + + Ben Duggan + Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, + [Dec. -- 1891] + + The Star of Australasia + We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; + + The Great Grey Plain + Out West, where the stars are brightest, + [Sept. -- 1893] + + The Song of Old Joe Swallow + When I was up the country in the rough and early days, + [May -- 1890] + + Corny Bill + His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, + [May -- 1892] + + Cherry-Tree Inn + The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star, + + Up the Country + I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- + [July -- 1892] + + Knocked Up + I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, + [Aug. -- 1893] + + The Blue Mountains + Above the ashes straight and tall, + [Dec. -- 1888] + + The City Bushman + It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, + [Aug. -- 1892] + + Eurunderee + There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, + [Aug. -- 1891] + + Mount Bukaroo + Only one old post is standing -- + [Dec. -- 1889] + + The Fire at Ross's Farm + The squatter saw his pastures wide + [Apr. -- 1891] + + The Teams + A cloud of dust on the long white road, + [Dec. -- 1889] + + Cameron's Heart + The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, + [July -- 1891] + + The Shame of Going Back + When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, + [Oct. -- 1891] + + Since Then + I met Jack Ellis in town to-day -- + [Nov. -- 1895] + + Peter Anderson and Co. + He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, + [Aug. -- 1895] + + When the Children Come Home + On a lonely selection far out in the West + [Dec. -- 1890] + + Dan, the Wreck + Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, + + A Prouder Man Than You + If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine, + [June -- 1892] + + The Song and the Sigh + The creek went down with a broken song, + [Mar. -- 1889] + + The Cambaroora Star + So you're writing for a paper? Well, it's nothing very new + [Dec. -- 1891] + + After All + The brooding ghosts of Australian night + have gone from the bush and town; + + Marshall's Mate + You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn -- + [July -- 1895] + + The Poets of the Tomb + The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead, + [Oct. -- 1892] + + Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers + While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse + [Feb. -- 1894] + + The Ghost + Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, + [Aug. -- 1889] + + + + + + +IN THE DAYS WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +In the Days When the World was Wide + + + + 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 road-side -- + 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 sailed 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, ay! in advance of Thought + Those brave men rose to a height 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? + + We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; + Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, + the sneer of a sneak hits hard; + The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -- + They faced each other and fought like men + in the days when the world was wide. + + Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! + Study the past! And answer this: 'Are these times better than those?' + The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! + No matter who fell it were better to fight + as they did when the world was wide. + + Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly -- + The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow + were traced since the days gone by. + There was room in the long, free lines of the van + to fight for it side by side -- + There was beating-room for the heart of a man + in 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! + + + + +Faces in the Street + + + + They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone + 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 pages end, + For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend, + 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, + And soon I saw the 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. + + + + +The Roaring Days + + + + 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; + When, puzzled long, the new-chum + Would recognise at last, + Behind a bronzed and bearded skin, + A comrade of the past. + + 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. + Oh, they were lion-hearted + Who gave our country birth! + Oh, they were of the stoutest sons + From all the lands on earth! + + Oft when the camps were dreaming, + And fires began to pale, + Through rugged ranges gleaming + Would come the Royal Mail. + Behind six foaming horses, + And lit by flashing lamps, + Old 'Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state, + Went dashing past the camps. + + Oh, who would paint a goldfield, + And limn the picture right, + As we have often seen 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. + + 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 our hearts were bolder, + And if Dame Fortune frowned + Our swags we'd lightly shoulder + And tramp to other ground. + But 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. + + + + +'For'ard' + + + + 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 flow'rs 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 among 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 denyin' 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 an' 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. + + There'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 'n' 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 -- + There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; + No anxiety abaft, + They have stuff to land with, aft -- + Oh, there's 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, better than if we were 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 o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled, + An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world; + There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, + An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down; + An' 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. + + + + +The Drover's Sweetheart + + + + 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; + And 'twas from there his freckled face + Would turn and smile at me -- + He'd milk a dozen in the race + While I was milking three. + + I milk eleven cows myself + Where once I milked but four; + I set the dishes on the shelf + And close the dairy door; + And when the glaring sunlight fails + And the fire shines through the cracks, + I climb the broken stockyard rails + And watch the bridle-tracks. + + He kissed me twice and once again + And rode across the hill, + The pint-pots and the hobble-chain + I hear them jingling still; + He'll come at night or not at all -- + He left in dust and heat, + And when the soft, cool shadows fall + Is the best time to meet. + + And he is coming back again, + He wrote to let me know, + The floods were in the Darling then -- + It seems so long ago; + He'd come through miles of slush and mud, + And it was weary work, + The creeks were bankers, and the flood + Was forty miles round Bourke. + + He said the floods had formed a block, + The plains could not be crossed, + And there was foot-rot in the flock + And hundreds had been lost; + 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. + + + + +Out Back + + + + 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. + + He blamed himself in the year 'Too Late' -- + in the heaviest hours of life -- + 'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife; + There are times when wrongs from your kindred come, + and treacherous tongues attack -- + When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, 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 short-cut to his 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._ + + + + +The Free-Selector's Daughter + + + + 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! + + + + +'Sez You' + + + + 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. + + + + +Andy's Gone With Cattle + + + + Our Andy's gone to battle now + 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; + Our Andy's gone with cattle 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. + + The gates are out of order now, + In storms the 'riders' rattle; + For far across the border now + Our Andy's gone with cattle. + + Poor Aunty's looking thin and white; + And Uncle's cross with worry; + And poor old Blucher howls all night + Since Andy left Macquarie. + + 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. + + + + +Jack Dunn of Nevertire + + + + 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'.' + + + + +Trooper Campbell + + + + 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 + 'Twere better we were dead. + Don't take him, Trooper Campbell, + 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. + Though he is wild and reckless, + Yet still he is your child; + So bear up in your trouble, + And 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. + 'I cannot bear disgrace,' she moaned; + 'Disgrace I cannot 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'll bring a curse upon himself; + 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!' the outlaws shouted, + As up the range they sped. + 'A Merry 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 home at last; + And this is but a story + Of trouble that is past! + + + + +The Sliprails and the Spur + + + + 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 dark'ning 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. + + . . . . . + + {Some editions have four more lines here.} + + _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._ + + + + +Past Carin' + + + + Now up and down the siding 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 worryin' and wearin'; + 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 lookin' for or carin'; + 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'._ + + + + +The Glass on the Bar + + + + 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 on 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. + + + + +The Shanty on the Rise + + + + 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 Vagabond + + + + 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. + + Domestic quarrels, and family spite, + And your Native Land may be + Controlled by custom, but, come what might, + The rest of the world for me. + I'd sail with money, or sail without! -- + If your love be forced from home, + And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, + The world is your own to roam. + + 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 brown 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! + + + + +Sweeney + + + + 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. + + 'Neath the public-house 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. + + His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh, + And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache; + (His hairy chest was open to what poets call the 'wined', + And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind). + + 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. + + Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub, + And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub, + And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west -- + But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest. + + Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two -- + He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo; + And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see + From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be. + + . . . . . + + I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags, + Cadging round the wretched 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. + + + + +Middleton's Rouseabout + + + + 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'. + + + + +The Ballad of the Drover + + + + 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 pack-horse + Is trotting by his knee. + + Up Queensland way with cattle + He 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 homestead station 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 from above him + Goes rolling o'er the plain; + And down on thirsty pastures + In torrents falls the rain. + And every creek and gully + Sends forth its little flood, + Till 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 ghastly lightnings gleam, + As 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, + And a cattle dog and pack-horse + Are struggling up the bank. + But in the lonely homestead + The girl will wait in vain -- + He'll never pass the stations + In charge of stock again. + + The faithful dog a moment + Sits panting on the bank, + And then swims through the current + To where his master sank. + And round and round in circles + He fights with failing strength, + Till, borne down by the waters, + The old dog sinks at length. + + Across the flooded lowlands + And slopes of sodden loam + The pack-horse struggles onward, + To take dumb tidings home. + And mud-stained, wet, and weary, + Through ranges dark goes he; + While hobble-chains and tinware + Are sounding eerily. + + . . . . . + + The floods are in the ocean, + The stream is clear again, + And now a verdant carpet + Is stretched across the plain. + But someone's eyes are saddened, + And someone's heart still bleeds + In sorrow for the drover + Who sleeps among the reeds. + + + + +Taking His Chance + + + + 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 shanty 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. + + + + +When the 'Army' Prays for Watty + + + + 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 Wreck of the 'Derry Castle' + + + + 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! + + + + +Ben Duggan + + + + 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 longest funeral ever 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, and when the day was done + He turned his panting horse's head and rode to 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; + The soft white moonbeams glistened in the 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, 'Poor Denver's gone! + Roll up at Talbragar!'_ + + At all the shanties round the place they'd 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 dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar. + + _They knelt around, + He raised his head + And faintly gasped, 'Jack Denver's dead, + Roll up at Talbragar!'_ + + But one short hour before he died he woke to understand, + They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was 'grand'; + And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light, + He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight. + And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar + How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar. + + _And far and wide + When Duggan died, + The bushmen of the western side + Rode in to Talbragar._ + + + + +The Star of Australasia + + + + 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 comes 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 'gainst the 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, + Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away -- + Shall 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 stockwhip 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, + Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright + at the tales of our chivalry, + And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it 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 you 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. + + + + +The Great Grey Plain + + + + 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. + + No sign of a stream or fountain, + No spring on its dry, hot breast, + No shade from the blazing noontide + Where a weary man might rest. + Whole years go by when the glowing + Sky never clouds for rain -- + Only the shrubs of the desert + Grow on the Great Grey Plain. + + From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming, + Come the 'traveller' and his mate, + In the ghastly dawnlight 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 beggars tramp for existence -- + There lies the Great Grey Plain. + + 'Tis a desert not more barren + Than the Great Grey Plain of years, + Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men -- + Dries up the fount of tears: + Where the victims of a greed insane + Are crushed in a hell-born strife -- + Where the souls of a race are murdered + On the Great Grey Plain of Life! + + + + +The Song of Old Joe Swallow + + + + 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._ + + + + +Corny Bill + + + + 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. + + + + +Cherry-Tree Inn + + + + 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. + + + + +Up the Country + + + + 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. + + + + +Knocked Up + + + + 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 blessed 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 ter 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' thro' hell across the plain, + And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' 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._ + + + + +The Blue Mountains + + + + 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. + + + + +The City Bushman + + + + 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. + + + + +Eurunderee + + + + 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. + + + + +Mount Bukaroo + + + + 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. + + + + +The Fire at Ross's Farm + + + + 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. + + + + +The Teams + + + + 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 'neath 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 thunder-storm'; + But he seldom utters more. + + But the rains are heavy on roads like these; + And, fronting his lonely home, + For weeks together the settler sees + The teams bogged down 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 little of joy or rest + Are the long, long journeys done; + And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- + Is distance fought in the mighty West, + And the lonely battles won. + + + + +Cameron's Heart + + + + 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. + + + + +The Shame of Going Back + + + + 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. + + + + +Since Then + + + + 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. + + The cheques we made and the shanty sprees, + The camps in the great blind scrub, + The long wet tramps when the plains were seas, + And the oracles worked in days like these + For rum and tobacco and grub. + + Could I forget how we struck 'the same + Old tale' in the nearer West, + When the first great test of our friendship came -- + But -- well, there's little to praise or blame + If our mateship stood the test. + + 'Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) -- + 'Tails!' and a friendly oath; + We loved her fair, we had much to learn -- + And each was stabbed to the heart in turn + By the girl who -- loved us both. + + Or the last day lost on the lignum plain, + When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead, + With a burning throat and a tortured brain; + And the tank when we came to the track again + Was seventeen miles ahead. + + Then life seemed finished -- then death began + As down in the dust I sank, + But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can, + Till I heard him saying, 'Bear up, old man!' + In the shade by the mulga tank. + + . . . . . + + 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. + + And I almost wished that the time were come + When less will be left to Fate -- + When boys will start on the track from home + With equal chances, and no old chum + Have more or less than his mate. + + + + +Peter Anderson and Co. + + + + 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 with the comic smile of one who knows you well, + And is mighty glad to see you, and has got 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. + + They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims -- + Using Peter's own expression, they had been in 'various swims'. + 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). + They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance, + But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance. + + The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up -- + A 'daily' for a table cloth -- a jam tin for a cup; + And if 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 other times they shot + The moon, and took an office 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 + Till 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. + + 'When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course, + And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse -- + When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt, + Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt. + Shun the poison breath of cities -- billiard-rooms and private bars, + Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars! + 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, if you like. But then he hadn't time to think -- + All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses -- dead man's drink. + + . . . . . + + Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft, + Peter paid the undertaker. He 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. + Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be, + Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three, + And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair, + Peter 'pulled himself together' and he started business there. + + But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad, + And no help to reformation was the company he had -- + Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim -- + 'Twas a town of wrecks and failures -- they appreciated him. + 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 it would appear that he + Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free. + Though 'twas plainly self-destruction -- ''twas his own affair,' they said; + And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found -- that he was dead. + + + + +When the Children Come Home + + + + On a lonely selection far out in the West + An old woman works all the day without rest, + And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, + 'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.' + + She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs, + She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows, + And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack, + 'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.' + + It is five weary years since her old husband died; + And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed + 'Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can, + An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.' + + Whenever the scowling old sundowners come, + And cunningly ask if the master's at home, + 'Be off,' she replies, 'with your blarney and cant, + Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.' + + 'Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear, + For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near; + But she says to herself, when she's like to despond, + That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond. + + Ah, none of her children need follow the plough, + And some have grown rich in the city ere now; + Yet she says: 'They might come when the shearing is done, + And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.' + + + + +Dan, the Wreck + + + + 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.' + + Been an actor and a writer -- + Doesn't whine -- + Reckoned now the best reciter + In his line. + Takes the stage at times, and fills it -- + 'Princess May' or 'Waterloo'. + Raise a sneer! -- his first line kills it, + 'Brings 'em', too. + + 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 often, + While hearts swell, + Standing sadly by the coffin: + 'He looks well.' + + . . . . . + + We may be -- so goes a rumour -- + Bad as Dan; + But we may not have 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! + + + + +A Prouder Man Than You + + + + 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 Song and the Sigh + + + + The creek went down with a broken song, + 'Neath the sheoaks high; + The waters carried the song 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. + + + + +The Cambaroora Star + + + + 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!'' + + + + +After All + + + + 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, I'll not see his shadow fall, + But read the signs in the morning stars of 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. + + + + +Marshall's Mate + + + + 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 Poets of the Tomb + + + + 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. + + + + +Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers + + + + 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 Ghost + + + + 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.' + + + + + + +The End. + + + + + +[From the July, 1909 section of Advertisements.] + + + + + +WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE, +AND OTHER VERSES. + + By Henry Lawson. + +THE ACADEMY: "These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in +spirit and manhood, in the colour and smell of Australian soil. +They deserve the popularity which they have won in Australia, and which, +we trust, this edition will now give them in England." + +THE SPEAKER: "There are poems in 'In the Days When the World was Wide' +which are of a higher mood than any yet heard in distinctively +Australian poetry." + +LITERARY WORLD: "Not a few of the pieces have made us feel discontented +with our sober surroundings, and desirous of seeing new birds, +new landscapes, new stars; for at times the blood tingles because of +Mr. Lawson's galloping rhymes." + +NEWCASTLE WEEKLY CHRONICLE: "Swinging, rhythmic verse." + + + + + + +WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. + + By Henry Lawson. + +THE ACADEMY: "A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing +about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers' tales. . . . +The result is a real book -- a book in a hundred. His language is terse, +supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best." + +THE SCOTSMAN: "There is no lack of dramatic imagination in +the construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive to construct +a strong sensational situation in a couple of pages. But the chief charm +and value of the book is its fidelity to the rough character of the scenes +from which it is drawn." + +LITERATURE: "These sketches bring us into contact with one phase +of colonial life at first hand. . . . The simplicity of the narrative +gives it almost the effect of a story that is told by word of mouth." + +THE SPECTATOR: "It is strange that one we would venture to call +the greatest Australian writer should be practically unknown in England. +Mr. Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, +and more unequal, but there are two or three sketches in this volume +which for vigour and truth can hold their own with even so great a rival. +Both men have somehow gained that power of concentration +which by a few strong strokes can set place and people before you +with amazing force." + +THE TIMES: "A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories +of Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte's manner, +crossed, perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant." + +BRITISH WEEKLY: "Many of Mr. Lawson's tales photograph life +at the diggings or in the bush with an incisive and remorseless reality +that grips the imagination. He silhouettes a swagman in a couple of pages, +and the man is there, alive." + +THE MORNING POST: "For the most part they are full of local colour, +and, correctly speaking, represent rather rapid sketches illustrative of +life in the bush than tales in the ordinary sense of the word. . . . +They bear the impress of truth, sincere if unvarnished." + + + + + + +A few other titles by Henry Lawson: + + Prose: Poetry: + On the Track When I was King + Over the Sliprails Popular Verses + Joe Wilson Humorous Verses + Joe Wilson's Mates Winnowed Verses + + + +THE BOOK LOVER: "Any book of Lawson's should be bought and treasured +by all who care for the real beginnings of Australian literature. +As a matter of fact, he is the one Australian literary product, +in any distinctive sense." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Days When the World Was Wide +and Other Verses, by Henry Lawson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE *** + +***** This file should be named 214.txt or 214.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/214/ + +Produced by A. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +In the Days When the World was Wide and Other Verses (2 ed.) +by Henry Lawson [Australian house-painter, author and poet -- 1867-1922.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized stanzas that are ALREADY indented will be indented 10 spaces. +Italicized words and phrases have been capitalized. +Lines longer than 75 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. Also, +some obvious errors, after being confirmed against other sources, +have been corrected. This etext was prepared from a 1913 printing.] + + + + +[Note on content: Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson were writing for +the Sydney `Bulletin' in 1892 when Lawson suggested a `duel' of poetry +to increase the number of poems they could sell to the paper. +It was apparently entered into in all fun, though there are reports +that Lawson was bitter about it later. `Up the Country' +and `The City Bushman', included in this selection, +were two of Lawson's contributions to the debate. Please note +that this is the revised edition of 1900. Therefore, even though this book +was originally published in 1896, it includes two poems not published +until 1899 (`The Sliprails and the Spur' and `Past Carin'').] + + + + + + +First Edition printed February 1896, +Reprinted August 1896, October 1896, March 1898, and November 1898; + +Revised Edition, January 1900; +Reprinted May 1903, February 1910, June 1912, and July 1913. + + + + + + +Preface + + + +Most of the verses contained in this volume were first published +in the Sydney `Bulletin'; others in the Brisbane `Boomerang', +Sydney `Freeman's Journal', `Town and Country Journal', `Worker', +and `New Zealand Mail', whose editors and proprietors I desire to thank +for past kindnesses and for present courtesy in granting me +the right of reproduction in book form. + +`In the Days When the World was Wide' was written in Maoriland +and some of the other verses in Victoria, Queensland and Western Australia. + +The dates of original publication are given in the Table of Contents. +Those undated are now printed for the first time. + + HENRY LAWSON. + + + + + + +To J. F. Archibald + + + + + + +To an Old Mate + + + + 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. + + + + + + +Contents + + + +To an Old Mate + Old Mate! In the gusty old weather, + +In the Days When the World was Wide + The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow, +[Dec. -- 1894] + +Faces in the Street + They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone +[July -- 1888] + +The Roaring Days + The night too quickly passes +[Dec. -- 1889] + +`For'ard' + It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, +[Dec. -- 1893] + +The Drover's Sweetheart + An hour before the sun goes down +[June -- 1891] + +Out Back + The old year went, and the new returned, + in the withering weeks of drought, +[Sept. -- 1893] + +The Free-Selector's Daughter + I met her on the Lachlan Side -- +[May -- 1891] + +`Sez You' + When the heavy sand is yielding backward from your blistered feet, +[Mar. -- 1894] + +Andy's Gone With Cattle + Our Andy's gone to battle now +[Oct. -- 1888] + +Jack Dunn of Nevertire + It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done, +[Aug. -- 1892] + +Trooper Campbell + One day old Trooper Campbell +[Apr. -- 1891] + +The Sliprails and the Spur + The colours of the setting sun +[July -- 1899] + +Past Carin' + Now up and down the siding brown +[Aug. -- 1899] + +The Glass on the Bar + Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn, +[Apr. -- 1890] + +The Shanty on the Rise + When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, +[Dec. -- 1891] + +The Vagabond + White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier +[Aug. -- 1895] + +Sweeney + It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down, +[Dec. -- 1893] + +Middleton's Rouseabout + Tall and freckled and sandy, +[Mar. -- 1890] + +The Ballad of the Drover + Across the stony ridges, +[Mar. -- 1889] + +Taking His Chance + They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; +[June -- 1892] + +When the `Army' Prays for Watty + When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, +[May -- 1893] + +The Wreck of the `Derry Castle' + Day of ending for beginnings! +[Dec. -- 1887] + +Ben Duggan + Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, +[Dec. -- 1891] + +The Star of Australasia + We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; + +The Great Grey Plain + Out West, where the stars are brightest, +[Sept. -- 1893] + +The Song of Old Joe Swallow + When I was up the country in the rough and early days, +[May -- 1890] + +Corny Bill + His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, +[May -- 1892] + +Cherry-Tree Inn + The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star, + +Up the Country + I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- +[July -- 1892] + +Knocked Up + I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, +[Aug. -- 1893] + +The Blue Mountains + Above the ashes straight and tall, +[Dec. -- 1888] + +The City Bushman + It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, +[Aug. -- 1892] + +Eurunderee + There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, +[Aug. -- 1891] + +Mount Bukaroo + Only one old post is standing -- +[Dec. -- 1889] + +The Fire at Ross's Farm + The squatter saw his pastures wide +[Apr. -- 1891] + +The Teams + A cloud of dust on the long white road, +[Dec. -- 1889] + +Cameron's Heart + The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, +[July -- 1891] + +The Shame of Going Back + When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, +[Oct. -- 1891] + +Since Then + I met Jack Ellis in town to-day -- +[Nov. -- 1895] + +Peter Anderson and Co. + He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago, +[Aug. -- 1895] + +When the Children Come Home + On a lonely selection far out in the West +[Dec. -- 1890] + +Dan, the Wreck + Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, + +A Prouder Man Than You + If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine, +[June -- 1892] + +The Song and the Sigh + The creek went down with a broken song, +[Mar. -- 1889] + +The Cambaroora Star + So you're writing for a paper? Well, it's nothing very new +[Dec. -- 1891] + +After All + The brooding ghosts of Australian night + have gone from the bush and town; + +Marshall's Mate + You almost heard the surface bake, and saw the gum-leaves turn -- +[July -- 1895] + +The Poets of the Tomb + The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead, +[Oct. -- 1892] + +Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers + While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse +[Feb. -- 1894] + +The Ghost + Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, +[Aug. -- 1889] + + + + + + +In the Days When the World was Wide and Other Verses + + + + + + +In the Days When the World was Wide + + + +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 road-side -- +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 sailed 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, ay! in advance of Thought +Those brave men rose to a height 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? + +We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; +Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, + the sneer of a sneak hits hard; +The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -- +They faced each other and fought like men + in the days when the world was wide. + +Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! +Study the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?' +The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! +No matter who fell it were better to fight + as they did when the world was wide. + +Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly -- +The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow + were traced since the days gone by. +There was room in the long, free lines of the van + to fight for it side by side -- +There was beating-room for the heart of a man + in 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! + + + + +Faces in the Street + + + +They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone +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 pages end, +For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend, +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, +And soon I saw the 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. + + + + +The Roaring Days + + + +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; +When, puzzled long, the new-chum + Would recognise at last, +Behind a bronzed and bearded skin, + A comrade of the past. + +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. +Oh, they were lion-hearted + Who gave our country birth! +Oh, they were of the stoutest sons + From all the lands on earth! + +Oft when the camps were dreaming, + And fires began to pale, +Through rugged ranges gleaming + Would come the Royal Mail. +Behind six foaming horses, + And lit by flashing lamps, +Old `Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state, + Went dashing past the camps. + +Oh, who would paint a goldfield, + And limn the picture right, +As we have often seen 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. + +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 our hearts were bolder, + And if Dame Fortune frowned +Our swags we'd lightly shoulder + And tramp to other ground. +But 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. + + + + +`For'ard' + + + +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 flow'rs 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 among 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 denyin' 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 an' 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. + +There'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 'n' 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 -- +There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; + No anxiety abaft, + They have stuff to land with, aft -- +Oh, there's 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, better than if we were 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 o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled, +An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world; +There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, +An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down; +An' 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. + + + + +The Drover's Sweetheart + + + +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; +And 'twas from there his freckled face + Would turn and smile at me -- +He'd milk a dozen in the race + While I was milking three. + +I milk eleven cows myself + Where once I milked but four; +I set the dishes on the shelf + And close the dairy door; +And when the glaring sunlight fails + And the fire shines through the cracks, +I climb the broken stockyard rails + And watch the bridle-tracks. + +He kissed me twice and once again + And rode across the hill, +The pint-pots and the hobble-chain + I hear them jingling still; +He'll come at night or not at all -- + He left in dust and heat, +And when the soft, cool shadows fall + Is the best time to meet. + +And he is coming back again, + He wrote to let me know, +The floods were in the Darling then -- + It seems so long ago; +He'd come through miles of slush and mud, + And it was weary work, +The creeks were bankers, and the flood + Was forty miles round Bourke. + +He said the floods had formed a block, + The plains could not be crossed, +And there was foot-rot in the flock + And hundreds had been lost; +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. + + + + +Out Back + + + +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. + +He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' -- + in the heaviest hours of life -- +'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife; +There are times when wrongs from your kindred come, + and treacherous tongues attack -- +When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, 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 short-cut to his 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. + + + + +The Free-Selector's Daughter + + + +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! + + + + +`Sez You' + + + +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. + + + + +Andy's Gone With Cattle + + + +Our Andy's gone to battle now + 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; +Our Andy's gone with cattle 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. + +The gates are out of order now, + In storms the `riders' rattle; +For far across the border now + Our Andy's gone with cattle. + +Poor Aunty's looking thin and white; + And Uncle's cross with worry; +And poor old Blucher howls all night + Since Andy left Macquarie. + +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. + + + + +Jack Dunn of Nevertire + + + +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'.' + + + + +Trooper Campbell + + + +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 + 'Twere better we were dead. +Don't take him, Trooper Campbell, + 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. +Though he is wild and reckless, + Yet still he is your child; +So bear up in your trouble, + And 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. +`I cannot bear disgrace,' she moaned; + `Disgrace I cannot 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'll bring a curse upon himself; + 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!' the outlaws shouted, + As up the range they sped. +`A Merry 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 home at last; +And this is but a story + Of trouble that is past! + + + + +The Sliprails and the Spur + + + +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 dark'ning 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. + + . . . . . + +{Some editions have four more lines here.} + 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. + + + + +Past Carin' + + + +Now up and down the siding 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 worryin' and wearin'; + 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 lookin' for or carin'; + 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'. + + + + +The Glass on the Bar + + + +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 on 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. + + + + +The Shanty on the Rise + + + +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 Vagabond + + + +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. + +Domestic quarrels, and family spite, + And your Native Land may be +Controlled by custom, but, come what might, + The rest of the world for me. +I'd sail with money, or sail without! -- + If your love be forced from home, +And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, + The world is your own to roam. + +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 brown 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! + + + + +Sweeney + + + +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. + +'Neath the public-house 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. + +His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh, +And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache; +(His hairy chest was open to what poets call the `wined', +And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind). + +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. + +Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub, +And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub, +And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west -- +But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest. + +Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two -- +He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo; +And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see +From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be. + + . . . . . + +I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags, +Cadging round the wretched 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. + + + + +Middleton's Rouseabout + + + +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'. + + + + +The Ballad of the Drover + + + +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 pack-horse + Is trotting by his knee. + +Up Queensland way with cattle + He 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 homestead station 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 from above him + Goes rolling o'er the plain; +And down on thirsty pastures + In torrents falls the rain. +And every creek and gully + Sends forth its little flood, +Till 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 ghastly lightnings gleam, +As 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, +And a cattle dog and pack-horse + Are struggling up the bank. +But in the lonely homestead + The girl will wait in vain -- +He'll never pass the stations + In charge of stock again. + +The faithful dog a moment + Sits panting on the bank, +And then swims through the current + To where his master sank. +And round and round in circles + He fights with failing strength, +Till, borne down by the waters, + The old dog sinks at length. + +Across the flooded lowlands + And slopes of sodden loam +The pack-horse struggles onward, + To take dumb tidings home. +And mud-stained, wet, and weary, + Through ranges dark goes he; +While hobble-chains and tinware + Are sounding eerily. + + . . . . . + +The floods are in the ocean, + The stream is clear again, +And now a verdant carpet + Is stretched across the plain. +But someone's eyes are saddened, + And someone's heart still bleeds +In sorrow for the drover + Who sleeps among the reeds. + + + + +Taking His Chance + + + +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 shanty 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. + + + + +When the `Army' Prays for Watty + + + +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 Wreck of the `Derry Castle' + + + +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! + + + + +Ben Duggan + + + +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 longest funeral ever 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, and when the day was done +He turned his panting horse's head and rode to 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; +The soft white moonbeams glistened in the 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, `Poor Denver's gone! + Roll up at Talbragar!' + +At all the shanties round the place they'd 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 dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar. + + They knelt around, + He raised his head + And faintly gasped, `Jack Denver's dead, + Roll up at Talbragar!' + +But one short hour before he died he woke to understand, +They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was `grand'; +And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light, +He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight. +And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar +How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar. + + And far and wide + When Duggan died, + The bushmen of the western side + Rode in to Talbragar. + + + + +The Star of Australasia + + + +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 comes 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 'gainst the 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, +Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away -- +Shall 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 stockwhip 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, +Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright + at the tales of our chivalry, +And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it 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 you 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. + + + + +The Great Grey Plain + + + +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. + +No sign of a stream or fountain, + No spring on its dry, hot breast, +No shade from the blazing noontide + Where a weary man might rest. +Whole years go by when the glowing + Sky never clouds for rain -- +Only the shrubs of the desert + Grow on the Great Grey Plain. + +From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming, + Come the `traveller' and his mate, +In the ghastly dawnlight 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 beggars tramp for existence -- + There lies the Great Grey Plain. + +'Tis a desert not more barren + Than the Great Grey Plain of years, +Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men -- + Dries up the fount of tears: +Where the victims of a greed insane + Are crushed in a hell-born strife -- +Where the souls of a race are murdered + On the Great Grey Plain of Life! + + + + +The Song of Old Joe Swallow + + + +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. + + + + +Corny Bill + + + +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. + + + + +Cherry-Tree Inn + + + +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. + + + + +Up the Country + + + +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. + + + + +Knocked Up + + + +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 blessed 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 ter 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' thro' hell across the plain, + And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' 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. + + + + +The Blue Mountains + + + +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. + + + + +The City Bushman + + + +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. + + + + +Eurunderee + + + +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. + + + + +Mount Bukaroo + + + +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. + + + + +The Fire at Ross's Farm + + + +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. + + + + +The Teams + + + +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 'neath 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 thunder-storm'; + But he seldom utters more. + +But the rains are heavy on roads like these; + And, fronting his lonely home, +For weeks together the settler sees +The teams bogged down 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 little of joy or rest + Are the long, long journeys done; +And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- +Is distance fought in the mighty West, + And the lonely battles won. + + + + +Cameron's Heart + + + +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. + + + + +The Shame of Going Back + + + +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. + + + + +Since Then + + + +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. + +The cheques we made and the shanty sprees, + The camps in the great blind scrub, +The long wet tramps when the plains were seas, +And the oracles worked in days like these + For rum and tobacco and grub. + +Could I forget how we struck `the same + Old tale' in the nearer West, +When the first great test of our friendship came -- +But -- well, there's little to praise or blame + If our mateship stood the test. + +`Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) -- + `Tails!' and a friendly oath; +We loved her fair, we had much to learn -- +And each was stabbed to the heart in turn + By the girl who -- loved us both. + +Or the last day lost on the lignum plain, + When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead, +With a burning throat and a tortured brain; +And the tank when we came to the track again + Was seventeen miles ahead. + +Then life seemed finished -- then death began + As down in the dust I sank, +But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can, +Till I heard him saying, `Bear up, old man!' + In the shade by the mulga tank. + + . . . . . + +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. + +And I almost wished that the time were come + When less will be left to Fate -- +When boys will start on the track from home +With equal chances, and no old chum + Have more or less than his mate. + + + + +Peter Anderson and Co. + + + +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 with the comic smile of one who knows you well, +And is mighty glad to see you, and has got 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. + +They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims -- +Using Peter's own expression, they had been in `various swims'. +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). +They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance, +But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance. + +The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up -- +A `daily' for a table cloth -- a jam tin for a cup; +And if 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 other times they shot +The moon, and took an office 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 +Till 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. + +`When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course, +And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse -- +When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt, +Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt. +Shun the poison breath of cities -- billiard-rooms and private bars, +Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars! +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, if you like. But then he hadn't time to think -- +All is nothing! Nothing matters! Fill your glasses -- dead man's drink. + + . . . . . + +Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft, +Peter paid the undertaker. He 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. +Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be, +Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three, +And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair, +Peter `pulled himself together' and he started business there. + +But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad, +And no help to reformation was the company he had -- +Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim -- +'Twas a town of wrecks and failures -- they appreciated him. +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 it would appear that he +Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free. +Though 'twas plainly self-destruction -- `'twas his own affair,' they said; +And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found -- that he was dead. + + + + +When the Children Come Home + + + +On a lonely selection far out in the West +An old woman works all the day without rest, +And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome, +`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.' + +She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs, +She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows, +And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack, +`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.' + +It is five weary years since her old husband died; +And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed +`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can, +An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.' + +Whenever the scowling old sundowners come, +And cunningly ask if the master's at home, +`Be off,' she replies, `with your blarney and cant, +Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.' + +`Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear, +For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near; +But she says to herself, when she's like to despond, +That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond. + +Ah, none of her children need follow the plough, +And some have grown rich in the city ere now; +Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done, +And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.' + + + + +Dan, the Wreck + + + +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.' + +Been an actor and a writer -- + Doesn't whine -- +Reckoned now the best reciter + In his line. +Takes the stage at times, and fills it -- + `Princess May' or `Waterloo'. +Raise a sneer! -- his first line kills it, + `Brings 'em', too. + +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 often, + While hearts swell, +Standing sadly by the coffin: + `He looks well.' + + . . . . . + +We may be -- so goes a rumour -- + Bad as Dan; +But we may not have 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! + + + + +A Prouder Man Than You + + + +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 Song and the Sigh + + + +The creek went down with a broken song, + 'Neath the sheoaks high; +The waters carried the song 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. + + + + +The Cambaroora Star + + + +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!'' + + + + +After All + + + +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, I'll not see his shadow fall, +But read the signs in the morning stars of 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. + + + + +Marshall's Mate + + + +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 Poets of the Tomb + + + +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. + + + + +Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers + + + +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 Ghost + + + +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.' + + + + + + +The End. + + + + + +[From the July, 1909 section of Advertisements.] + + + + + +WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE, +AND OTHER VERSES. + + By Henry Lawson. + +THE ACADEMY: "These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in +spirit and manhood, in the colour and smell of Australian soil. +They deserve the popularity which they have won in Australia, and which, +we trust, this edition will now give them in England." + +THE SPEAKER: "There are poems in `In the Days When the World was Wide' +which are of a higher mood than any yet heard in distinctively +Australian poetry." + +LITERARY WORLD: "Not a few of the pieces have made us feel discontented +with our sober surroundings, and desirous of seeing new birds, +new landscapes, new stars; for at times the blood tingles because of +Mr. Lawson's galloping rhymes." + +NEWCASTLE WEEKLY CHRONICLE: "Swinging, rhythmic verse." + + + + + + +WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. + + By Henry Lawson. + +THE ACADEMY: "A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing +about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers' tales. . . . +The result is a real book -- a book in a hundred. His language is terse, +supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best." + +THE SCOTSMAN: "There is no lack of dramatic imagination in +the construction of the tales; and the best of them contrive to construct +a strong sensational situation in a couple of pages. But the chief charm +and value of the book is its fidelity to the rough character of the scenes +from which it is drawn." + +LITERATURE: "These sketches bring us into contact with one phase +of colonial life at first hand. . . . The simplicity of the narrative +gives it almost the effect of a story that is told by word of mouth." + +THE SPECTATOR: "It is strange that one we would venture to call +the greatest Australian writer should be practically unknown in England. +Mr. Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, +and more unequal, but there are two or three sketches in this volume +which for vigour and truth can hold their own with even so great a rival. +Both men have somehow gained that power of concentration +which by a few strong strokes can set place and people before you +with amazing force." + +THE TIMES: "A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories +of Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte's manner, +crossed, perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant." + +BRITISH WEEKLY: "Many of Mr. Lawson's tales photograph life +at the diggings or in the bush with an incisive and remorseless reality +that grips the imagination. He silhouettes a swagman in a couple of pages, +and the man is there, alive." + +THE MORNING POST: "For the most part they are full of local colour, +and, correctly speaking, represent rather rapid sketches illustrative of +life in the bush than tales in the ordinary sense of the word. . . . +They bear the impress of truth, sincere if unvarnished." + + + + + + +A few other titles by Henry Lawson: + +Prose: Poetry: + On the Track When I was King + Over the Sliprails Popular Verses + Joe Wilson Humorous Verses + Joe Wilson's Mates Winnowed Verses + + + +THE BOOK LOVER: "Any book of Lawson's should be bought and treasured +by all who care for the real beginnings of Australian literature. +As a matter of fact, he is the one Australian literary product, +in any distinctive sense." + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of + In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses + diff --git a/old/dwwww11.zip b/old/dwwww11.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e15c4e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/dwwww11.zip |