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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/304-h.zip b/304-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4d7d5a --- /dev/null +++ b/304-h.zip diff --git a/304-h/304-h.htm b/304-h/304-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e23049a --- /dev/null +++ b/304-h/304-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4676 @@ +<?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> + Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses, by A. B. Paterson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Release Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #304] +Last Updated: January 20, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, David M. Medinets, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE <br /> AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by A. B. Paterson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Original 1902 Sydney edition + </h4> + <blockquote> + <p> + The verses in this collection have appeared in papers in various parts<br /> + of the world—"Rio Grande" in London; most of the war verses<br /> + in Bloemfontein; others in Sydney.<br /> A. B. Paterson. + </p> + </blockquote> + <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="#linkfirstline"> Contents with First Lines </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE AND OTHER + VERSES</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Rio Grande's Last Race </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> By the Grey Gulf-water </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> With the Cattle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Mulga Bill's Bicycle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Pearl Diver </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The City of Dreadful Thirst </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> Saltbush Bill's Gamecock </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Hay and Hell and Booligal </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A Walgett Episode </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Father Riley's Horse </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> The Scotch Engineer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Song of the Future </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Anthony Considine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Song of the Artesian Water </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> A Disqualified Jockey's Story </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Road to Gundagai </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Saltbush Bill's Second Fight </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Hard Luck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Song of the Federation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> The Old Australian Ways </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> The Ballad of the 'Calliope' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Do They Know </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> The Passing of Gundagai </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> The Wargeilah Handicap </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Any Other Time </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Last Trump </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Tar and Feathers </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> It's Grand </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Out of Sight </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The Road to Old Man's Town </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> The Old Timer's Steeplechase </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> In the Stable </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> "He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Driver Smith </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> On the Trek </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> The Last Parade </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> With French to Kimberley </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> Johnny Boer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> What Have the Cavalry Done </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Right in the Front of the Army </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> That V.C. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Fed Up </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> Jock! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> Santa Claus </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> From a section of Advertisements, 1909. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE, AND OTHER VERSES. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> Biographical Note: </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><a name="linkfirstline" id="linkfirstline"></a> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents with First Lines: + </h2> + <p> + Rio Grande's Last Race<br /> Now this was what Macpherson told + </p> + <p> + By the Grey Gulf-water<br /> Far to the Northward there lies a land, + </p> + <p> + With the Cattle<br /> The drought is down on field and flock, + </p> + <p> + The First Surveyor<br /> 'The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor + and all! + </p> + <p> + Mulga Bill's Bicycle<br /> 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught + the cycling craze; + </p> + <p> + The Pearl Diver<br /> Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, + </p> + <p> + The City of Dreadful Thirst<br /> The stranger came from Narromine and made + his little joke -- + </p> + <p> + Saltbush Bill's Gamecock<br /> 'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling + sheep, was making his way to town; + </p> + <p> + Hay and Hell and Booligal<br /> 'You come and see me, boys,' he said; + </p> + <p> + A Walgett Episode<br /> The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, + </p> + <p> + Father Riley's Horse<br /> 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was + hunted like a dog + </p> + <p> + The Scotch Engineer<br /> With eyes that searched in the dark, + </p> + <p> + Song of the Future<br /> 'Tis strange that in a land so strong, + </p> + <p> + Anthony Considine<br /> Out in the wastes of the West countrie, + </p> + <p> + Song of the Artesian Water<br /> Now the stock have started dying, for the + Lord has sent a drought; + </p> + <p> + A Disqualified Jockey's Story<br /> You see, the thing was this way -- + there was me, + </p> + <p> + The Road to Gundagai<br /> The mountain road goes up and down, + </p> + <p> + Saltbush Bill's Second Fight<br /> The news came down on the Castlereagh, + and went to the world at large, + </p> + <p> + Hard Luck<br /> I left the course, and by my side + </p> + <p> + Song of the Federation<br /> As the nations sat together, grimly waiting -- + </p> + <p> + The Old Australian Ways<br /> The London lights are far abeam + </p> + <p> + The Ballad of the 'Calliope'<br /> By the far Samoan shore, + </p> + <p> + Do They Know<br /> Do they know? At the turn to the straight + </p> + <p> + The Passing of Gundagai<br /> 'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, + </p> + <p> + The Wargeilah Handicap<br /> Wargeilah town is very small, + </p> + <p> + Any Other Time<br /> All of us play our very best game -- + </p> + <p> + The Last Trump<br /> 'You led the trump,' the old man said + </p> + <p> + Tar and Feathers<br /> Oh! the circus swooped down + </p> + <p> + It's Grand<br /> It's grand to be a squatter + </p> + <p> + Out of Sight<br /> They held a polo meeting at a little country town, + </p> + <p> + The Road to Old Man's Town<br /> The fields of youth are filled with + flowers, + </p> + <p> + The Old Timer's Steeplechase<br /> The sheep were shorn and the wool went + down + </p> + <p> + In the Stable<br /> What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all + have our fancies, of course: + </p> + <p> + "He Giveth His Beloved Sleep"<br /> The long day passes with its load of + sorrow: + </p> + <p> + Driver Smith<br /> 'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a + fight; + </p> + <p> + There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down<br /> When you're lying in your + hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, + </p> + <p> + On the Trek<br /> Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, + </p> + <p> + The Last Parade<br /> With never a sound of trumpet, + </p> + <p> + With French to Kimberley<br /> The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege + and Maxim gun; + </p> + <p> + Johnny Boer<br /> Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, + </p> + <p> + What Have the Cavalry Done<br /> What have the cavalry done? + </p> + <p> + Right in the Front of the Army<br /> 'Where 'ave you been this week or + more, + </p> + <p> + That V.C.<br /> 'Twas in the days of front attack, + </p> + <p> + Fed Up<br /> I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, + </p> + <p> + Jock!<br /> There's a soldier that's been doing of his share + </p> + <p> + Santa Claus<br /> Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE AND OTHER VERSES + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Rio Grande's Last Race + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this was what Macpherson told + While waiting in the stand; + A reckless rider, over-bold, + The only man with hands to hold + The rushing Rio Grande. + + He said, 'This day I bid good-bye + To bit and bridle rein, + To ditches deep and fences high, + For I have dreamed a dream, and I + Shall never ride again. + + 'I dreamt last night I rode this race + That I to-day must ride, + And cant'ring down to take my place + I saw full many an old friend's face + Come stealing to my side. + + 'Dead men on horses long since dead, + They clustered on the track; + The champions of the days long fled, + They moved around with noiseless tread — + Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. + + 'And one man on a big grey steed + Rode up and waved his hand; + Said he, "We help a friend in need, + And we have come to give a lead + To you and Rio Grande. + + '"For you must give the field the slip, + So never draw the rein, + But keep him moving with the whip, + And if he falter — set your lip + And rouse him up again. + + '"But when you reach the big stone wall, + Put down your bridle hand + And let him sail — he cannot fall — + But don't you interfere at all; + You trust old Rio Grande." + + 'We started, and in front we showed, + The big horse running free: + Right fearlessly and game he strode, + And by my side those dead men rode + Whom no one else could see. + + 'As silently as flies a bird, + They rode on either hand; + At every fence I plainly heard + The phantom leader give the word, + "Make room for Rio Grande!" + + 'I spurred him on to get the lead, + I chanced full many a fall; + But swifter still each phantom steed + Kept with me, and at racing speed + We reached the big stone wall. + + 'And there the phantoms on each side + Drew in and blocked his leap; + "Make room! make room!" I loudly cried, + But right in front they seemed to ride — + I cursed them in my sleep. + + 'He never flinched, he faced it game, + He struck it with his chest, + And every stone burst out in flame, + And Rio Grande and I became + As phantoms with the rest. + + 'And then I woke, and for a space + All nerveless did I seem; + For I have ridden many a race, + But never one at such a pace + As in that fearful dream. + + 'And I am sure as man can be + That out upon the track, + Those phantoms that men cannot see + Are waiting now to ride with me, + And I shall not come back. + + 'For I must ride the dead men's race, + And follow their command; + 'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace + If I should fear to take my place + To-day on Rio Grande.' + + He mounted, and a jest he threw, + With never sign of gloom; + But all who heard the story knew + That Jack Macpherson, brave and true, + Was going to his doom. + + They started, and the big black steed + Came flashing past the stand; + All single-handed in the lead + He strode along at racing speed, + The mighty Rio Grande. + + But on his ribs the whalebone stung, + A madness it did seem! + And soon it rose on every tongue + That Jack Macpherson rode among + The creatures of his dream. + + He looked to left and looked to right, + As though men rode beside; + And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, + Raced at his jumps in headlong flight + And cleared them in his stride. + + But when they reached the big stone wall, + Down went the bridle-hand, + And loud we heard Macpherson call, + 'Make room, or half the field will fall! + Make room for Rio Grande!' + + . . . . . + + 'He's down! he's down!' And horse and man + Lay quiet side by side! + No need the pallid face to scan, + We knew with Rio Grande he ran + The race the dead men ride. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + By the Grey Gulf-water + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Far to the Northward there lies a land, + A wonderful land that the winds blow over, + And none may fathom nor understand + The charm it holds for the restless rover; + A great grey chaos — a land half made, + Where endless space is and no life stirreth; + And the soul of a man will recoil afraid + From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. + But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves + Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; + Many indeed are the nameless graves + Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water. + + Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, + Drifting along with a languid motion, + Lapping the reed-beds on either side, + Wending their way to the Northern Ocean. + Grey are the plains where the emus pass + Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; + Over the dead men's graves the grass + Maybe is waving a trifle greener. + Down in the world where men toil and spin + Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; + Only the dead men her smiles can win + In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. + + For the strength of man is an insect's strength + In the face of that mighty plain and river, + And the life of a man is a moment's length + To the life of the stream that will run for ever. + And so it cometh they take no part + In small-world worries; each hardy rover + Rideth abroad and is light of heart, + With the plains around and the blue sky over. + And up in the heavens the brown lark sings + The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; + Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings — + And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + With the Cattle + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The drought is down on field and flock, + The river-bed is dry; + And we must shift the starving stock + Before the cattle die. + We muster up with weary hearts + At breaking of the day, + And turn our heads to foreign parts, + To take the stock away. + And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em, + And it's get the whip and flog 'em, + For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day; + By stock-routes bare and eaten, + On dusty roads and beaten, + With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away. + + We cannot use the whip for shame + On beasts that crawl along; + We have to drop the weak and lame, + And try to save the strong; + The wrath of God is on the track, + The drought fiend holds his sway, + With blows and cries and stockwhip crack + We take the stock away. + As they fall we leave them lying, + With the crows to watch them dying, + Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey; + By the fiery dust-storm drifting, + And the mocking mirage shifting, + In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away. + + In dull despair the days go by + With never hope of change, + But every stage we draw more nigh + Towards the mountain range; + And some may live to climb the pass, + And reach the great plateau, + And revel in the mountain grass, + By streamlets fed with snow. + As the mountain wind is blowing + It starts the cattle lowing, + And calling to each other down the dusty long array; + And there speaks a grizzled drover: + 'Well, thank God, the worst is over, + The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away.' + + They press towards the mountain grass, + They look with eager eyes + Along the rugged stony pass, + That slopes towards the skies; + Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones, + But though the blood-drop starts, + They struggle on with stifled groans, + For hope is in their hearts. + And the cattle that are leading, + Though their feet are worn and bleeding, + Are breaking to a kind of run — pull up, and let them go! + For the mountain wind is blowing, + And the mountain grass is growing, + They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow. + + . . . . . + + The days are done of heat and drought + Upon the stricken plain; + The wind has shifted right about, + And brought the welcome rain; + The river runs with sullen roar, + All flecked with yellow foam, + And we must take the road once more, + To bring the cattle home. + And it's 'Lads! we'll raise a chorus, + There's a pleasant trip before us.' + And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track; + And the drovers canter, singing, + Through the sweet green grasses springing, + Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back. + + Are these the beasts we brought away + That move so lively now? + They scatter off like flying spray + Across the mountain's brow; + And dashing down the rugged range + We hear the stockwhip crack, + Good faith, it is a welcome change + To bring such cattle back. + And it's 'Steady down the lead there!' + And it's 'Let 'em stop and feed there!' + For they're wild as mountain eagles and their sides are all afoam; + But they're settling down already, + And they'll travel nice and steady, + With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home. + + We have to watch them close at night + For fear they'll make a rush, + And break away in headlong flight + Across the open bush; + And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze, + With mellow voice and strong, + We hear the lonely watchman raise + The Overlander's song: + 'Oh! it's when we're done with roving, + With the camping and the droving, + It's homeward down the Bland we'll go, and never more we'll roam;' + While the stars shine out above us, + Like the eyes of those who love us — + The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home. + + The plains are all awave with grass, + The skies are deepest blue; + And leisurely the cattle pass + And feed the long day through; + But when we sight the station gate, + We make the stockwhips crack, + A welcome sound to those who wait + To greet the cattle back: + And through the twilight falling + We hear their voices calling, + As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam; + And the children run to meet us, + And our wives and sweethearts greet us, + Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The First Surveyor +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'The opening of the railway line! — the Governor and all! + With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball. + Hark to 'em at the station now! They're raising cheer on cheer! + "The man who brought the railway through — our friend the engineer!" + + 'They cheer HIS pluck and enterprise and engineering skill! + 'Twas my old husband found the pass behind that big Red Hill. + Before the engineer was grown we settled with our stock + Behind that great big mountain chain, a line of range and rock — + A line that kept us starving there in weary weeks of drought, + With ne'er a track across the range to let the cattle out. + + ''Twas then, with horses starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl, + My husband went to find a way across that rocky wall. + He vanished in the wilderness, God knows where he was gone, + He hunted till his food gave out, but still he battled on. + His horses strayed — 'twas well they did — they made towards the grass, + And down behind that big red hill they found an easy pass. + + 'He followed up and blazed the trees, to show the safest track, + Then drew his belt another hole and turned and started back. + His horses died — just one pulled through with nothing much to spare; + God bless the beast that brought him home, the old white Arab mare! + We drove the cattle through the hills, along the new-found way, + And this was our first camping-ground — just where I live to-day. + + 'Then others came across the range and built the township here, + And then there came the railway line and this young engineer. + He drove about with tents and traps, a cook to cook his meals, + A bath to wash himself at night, a chain-man at his heels. + And that was all the pluck and skill for which he's cheered and praised, + For after all he took the track, the same my husband blazed! + + 'My poor old husband, dead and gone with never feast nor cheer; + He's buried by the railway line! — I wonder can he hear + When down the very track he marked, and close to where he's laid, + The cattle trains go roaring down the one-in-thirty grade. + I wonder does he hear them pass and can he see the sight, + When through the dark the fast express goes flaming by at night. + + 'I think 'twould comfort him to know there's someone left to care, + I'll take some things this very night and hold a banquet there! + The hard old fare we've often shared together, him and me, + Some damper and a bite of beef, a pannikin of tea: + We'll do without the bands and flags, the speeches and the fuss, + We know who OUGHT to get the cheers and that's enough for us. + + 'What's that? They wish that I'd come down — the oldest settler here! + Present me to the Governor and that young engineer! + Well, just you tell his Excellence and put the thing polite, + I'm sorry, but I can't come down — I'm dining out to-night!' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mulga Bill's Bicycle + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; + He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; + He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; + He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; + And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, + The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?' + + 'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea, + From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me. + I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, + Although I'm not the one to talk — I HATE a man that blows. + But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; + Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight. + There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, + There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, + But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: + I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.' + + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, + That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road. + He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, + But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. + It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, + It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek. + + It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: + The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, + The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, + As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound. + It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, + It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; + And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek + It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek. + + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: + He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; + I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet, + But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet. + I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve + To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve. + It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; + A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pearl Diver + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, + Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea, + Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously. + + Over the pearl-grounds, the lugger drifted — a little white speck: + Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', holding the life-line on deck, + Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check. + + Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one, + Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none; + Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun. + + Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye: + This was his formula always, 'All man go dead by-and-bye — + S'posing time come no can help it — s'pose time no come, then no die.' + + Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five; + Down where by law and by reason, men are forbidden to dive; + Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive: + + Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go, + Forcing the air down that reached him heated, and tainted, and slow — + Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below; + + Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain; + Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain: + Sailed once again to the Darnleys — laughed and descended again! + + . . . . . + + Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; + Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; + Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch, + + Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, + Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day: + But the lumbering Dutch, with their gunboats, hunted the divers away. + + Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', finding the profits grow small, + Said, 'Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! + If we get caught, go to prison — let them take lugger and all!' + + Kanzo Makame, the diver — knowing full well what it meant — + Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, + Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. + + Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, + Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, + When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. + + Once that the diver was sighted pearl-shell and lugger must go. + Joe Nagasaki decided — quick was the word and the blow — + Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below! + + Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand, + Pulled the 'haul up' on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand; + Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand. + + Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', smiling a sanctified smile, + Headed her straight for the gunboat — throwing out shells all the while — + Then went aboard and reported, 'No makee dive in three mile! + + 'Dress no have got and no helmet — diver go shore on the spree; + Plenty wind come and break rudder — lugger get blown out to sea: + Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!' + + . . . . . + + So the Dutch let him go, and they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, + Doubting him much, but what would you? You have to be sure of your man + Ere you wake up that nest-full of hornets — the little brown men of Japan. + + Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread, + Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead: + Joe Nagasaki, his 'tender', is owner and diver instead. + + Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can, + These are the risks of the pearling — these are the ways of Japan, + 'Plenty more Japanee diver, plenty more little brown man!' +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The City of Dreadful Thirst + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke — + 'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk. + But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define + A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine. + + 'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm — + Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm — + We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town, + When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down, + + 'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust, + They mostly bring a Bogan shower — three rain-drops and some dust; + But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think + That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!" + + 'There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust — we'd heard of them before, + And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war": + But — if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst — + That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst. + + 'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze; + It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days, + And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine + To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine. + + 'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst! + We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst. + The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub, + They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub. + + 'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried; + Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side + Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said, + Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead! + + 'We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room, + And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom. + The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again, + But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train. + + 'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie, + But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die. + But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work + Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke. + + 'But when you see those clouds about — like this one over here — + All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer, + It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst + You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!' + + . . . . . + + We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half; + He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff; + 'I joined some friends last night,' he said, 'in what THEY called a spree; + But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.' + + And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red, + And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead, + The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line, + That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Saltbush Bill's Gamecock + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; + He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; + He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard: + For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard. + He bore no malice to Stingy Smith — 'twas simply the hand of fate + That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate; + And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt, + It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out. + So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall, + Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall. + + 'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft, + Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft; + And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame + As breeder of champion fighting cocks — his 'forte' was the British Game. + The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall + Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all. + Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, + his fowls were his sole delight; + He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight. + He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; + In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win! + The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock; + The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock; + For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all — + And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall. + + . . . . . + + 'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep, + And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep — + A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came — + 'A drover has an Australian Bird to match with your British Game.' + 'Twas done, and done in a half a trice; a five-pound note aside; + Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried. + 'Steel spurs, of course?' said old Rooster Hall; + 'you'll need 'em, without a doubt!' + 'You stick the spurs on your bird!' said Bill, 'but mine fights best without.' + 'Fights best without?' said old Rooster Hall; 'he can't fight best unspurred! + You must be crazy!' But Saltbush Bill said, 'Wait till you see my bird!' + So Rooster Hall to his fowlyard went, and quickly back he came, + Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game. + With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumpet call, + He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall. + Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with word to his cronies two, + McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo. + Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court, + With Father D. as a picker-up — a regular all-round Sport! + They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came, + Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game; + They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before — + Old Rooster Hall was a blithesome man, when he thought of the treat in store. + They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene, + Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen. + + 'Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill, + 'and wait till you see the fight; + There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare — + there's game-fowl stew to-night! + For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred; + And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird. + I've made a match that our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock, + But he's game enough, and it's many a mile + that he's tramped with the travelling stock.' + The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard, + Under the dray, in the shadows hid, a something moved and stirred: + A great tame Emu strutted out. Said Saltbush, 'Here's our bird!' + But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word. + + The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall + Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all. + For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault, + That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault + On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard, + Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird; + And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried, + Remarked, 'Discharged with a clean discharge — the assault was justified!' +</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> + Hay and Hell and Booligal + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'You come and see me, boys,' he said; + 'You'll find a welcome and a bed + And whisky any time you call; + Although our township hasn't got + The name of quite a lively spot — + You see, I live in Booligal. + + 'And people have an awful down + Upon the district and the town — + Which worse than hell itself they call; + In fact, the saying far and wide + Along the Riverina side + Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal". + + 'No doubt it suits 'em very well + To say it's worse than Hay or Hell, + But don't you heed their talk at all; + Of course, there's heat — no one denies — + And sand and dust and stacks of flies, + And rabbits, too, at Booligal. + + 'But such a pleasant, quiet place, + You never see a stranger's face — + They hardly ever care to call; + The drovers mostly pass it by; + They reckon that they'd rather die + Than spend a night in Booligal. + + 'The big mosquitoes frighten some — + You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum — + And snakes about the township crawl; + But shearers, when they get their cheque, + They never come along and wreck + The blessed town of Booligal. + + 'But down in Hay the shearers come + And fill themselves with fighting-rum, + And chase blue devils up the wall, + And fight the snaggers every day, + Until there is the deuce to pay — + There's none of that in Booligal. + + 'Of course, there isn't much to see — + The billiard-table used to be + The great attraction for us all, + Until some careless, drunken curs + Got sleeping on it in their spurs, + And ruined it, in Booligal. + + 'Just now there is a howling drought + That pretty near has starved us out — + It never seems to rain at all; + But, if there SHOULD come any rain, + You couldn't cross the black-soil plain — + You'd have to stop in Booligal.' + + . . . . . + + 'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath + We prayed that both in life and death + Our fate in other lines might fall: + 'Oh, send us to our just reward + In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, + Deliver us from Booligal!' +</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> + A Walgett Episode + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, + The skies are blue and the plains are wide, + The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare + By Walgett out on the Barwon side — + The Barwon river that wanders down + In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town. + + There came a stranger — a 'Cockatoo' — + The word means farmer, as all men know + Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo + Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow + Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence + As he watches the lambkins passing hence. + + The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown, + But it soon appeared that he meant to flout + The iron law of the country town, + Which is — that the stranger has got to shout: + 'If he will not shout we must take him down,' + Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town. + + They baited a trap with a crafty bait, + With a crafty bait, for they held discourse + Concerning a new chum who of late + Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse; + They would wager that no one could ride him down + The length of the city of Walgett Town. + + The stranger was born on a horse's hide; + So he took the wagers, and made them good + With his hard-earned cash — but his hopes they died, + For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! — + 'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down + Full many a stranger in Walgett Town. + + The stranger smiled with a sickly smile — + 'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins — + And he said he had travelled for quite a while + In trying to sell some marsupial skins. + 'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down, + You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!' + + He said that his home was at Wingadee, + At Wingadee where he had for sale + Some fifty skins and would guarantee + They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail + Complete, and he sold them for money down + To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town. + + Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf, + 'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose: + You can fetch them in when it suits yourself, + And you'll find the skins — on the kangaroos!' + Then he left — and the silence settled down + Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town. +</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> + Father Riley's Horse + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog + By the troopers of the Upper Murray side, + They had searched in every gully — they had looked in every log, + But never sight or track of him they spied, + Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late + And a whisper 'Father Riley — come across!' + So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate + And admitted Andy Regan — and a horse! + + 'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, + For its close upon my death I am to-night. + With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day + In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. + But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, + And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, + So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, + 'Tis the only way I see to save my life. + + 'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next + An' be buried on the Thursday — and, of course, + I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed + And it's — Father, it's this jewel of a horse! + He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear + To his owner or his breeder, but I know, + That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare + And his dam was close related to The Roe. + + 'And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, + He could canter while they're going at their top: + He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, + A five-foot fence — he'd clear it in a hop! + So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, + 'Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, + You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain + If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! + + 'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye, + For the stars above the East are growing pale. + And I'm making home to mother — and it's hard for me to die! + But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! + You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip + Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. + Sure he'll jump them fences easy — you must never raise the whip + Or he'll rush 'em! — now, good-bye!' and he had fled! + + So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, + In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; + There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights + Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. + There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, + And their riders flogged each other all the while. + And the lashins of the liquor! And the lavins of the grub! + Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style. + + Then the races came to Kiley's — with a steeplechase and all, + For the folk were mostly Irish round about, + And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, + They were training morning in and morning out. + But they never started training till the sun was on the course + For a superstitious story kept 'em back, + That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, + Had been training by the starlight on the track. + + And they read the nominations for the races with surprise + And amusement at the Father's little joke, + For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, + And they found that it was Father Riley's moke! + He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! + But his owner's views of training were immense, + For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, + And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. + + And the priest would join the laughter; 'Oh,' said he, 'I put him in, + For there's five and twenty sovereigns to be won. + And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, + And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!' + He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for clear the course, + And his colours were a vivid shade of green: + All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, + While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin! + + It was Hogan, the dog poisoner — aged man and very wise, + Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, + And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, + That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. + 'You can talk about your riders — and the horse has not been schooled, + And the fences is terrific, and the rest! + When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, + And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. + + 'For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, + And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, + But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, + Will be running by his side to keep him straight. + And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, + Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! + I've prayed him over every fence — I've prayed him out and back! + And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!' + + . . . . . + + Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round, + And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. + There was some that cleared the water — there was more fell in and drowned, + Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! + But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, + For the finish down the long green stretch of course, + And in front of all the flyers — jumpin' like a kangaroo, + Came the rank outsider — Father Riley's horse! + + Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! + For he left the others standing, in the straight; + And the rider — well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, + And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! + But he weighed it, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, + Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), + And old Hogan muttered sagely, 'If it wasn't for the beard + They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!' + + And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide + Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. + There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, + And they wondered who on earth he could have been. + But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, + 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, + That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out + For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse! +</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 Scotch Engineer + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With eyes that searched in the dark, + Peering along the line, + Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark, + Driver of 'Forty-nine', + And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead, + Like a blood-red beacon sign. + + There was word of a fight to the north, + And a column hard-pressed, + So they started the Highlanders forth, + Without food, without rest. + + But the pipers gaily played, + Chanting their fierce delight, + And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed, + Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade, + Hurrying up to the fight, + And the grim, grey Highland engineer, + Driving them into the night. + + Then a signal light glowed red, + And a picket came to the track. + 'Enemy holding the line ahead, + Three of our mates we have left for dead, + Only we two got back.' + And far to the north through the still night air, + They heard the rifles crack. + + And the boom of a gun rang out, + Like the sound of a deep appeal, + And the picket stood in doubt + By the side of the driving-wheel. + + But the Engineer looked down, + With his hand on the starting-bar, + 'Ride ye back to the town, + Ye know what my orders are, + Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade + Up on those hills afar. + + 'I am no soldier at all, + Only an engineer, + But I could not bear that the folk should say, + Over in Scotland — Glasgow way — + That Hector Clark stayed here + With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone, + With ever a rail to run her on. + Ready behind! Stand clear! + + 'Fireman, get you gone + Into the armoured train, + I will drive her alone; + One more trip — and perhaps the last — + With a well-raked fire and an open blast — + Hark to the rifles again.' + + . . . . . + + On through the choking dark, + Never a lamp nor a light, + Never an engine spark, + Showing her hurried flight. + Over the lonely plain + Rushed the great armoured train, + Hurrying up to the fight. + + Then with her living freight + On to the foe she came, + And the rifles snapped their hate, + And the darkness spouted flame. + + Over the roar of the fray + The hungry bullets whined, + As she dashed through the foe that lay + Loading and firing blind, + Till the glare of the furnace burning clear + Showed them the form of the engineer, + Sharply and well defined. + + Through! They were safely through! + Hark to the column's cheer! + Surely the driver knew + He was to halt her here; + But he took no heed of the signals red, + And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead, + There on the floor of his engine — dead, + Lay the Scotch Engineer! +</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> + Song of the Future + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis strange that in a land so strong, + So strong and bold in mighty youth, + We have no poet's voice of truth + To sing for us a wondrous song. + + Our chiefest singer yet has sung + In wild, sweet notes a passing strain, + All carelessly and sadly flung + To that dull world he thought so vain. + + 'I care for nothing, good nor bad, + My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, + I am but sifting sand,' he said: + What wonder Gordon's songs were sad! + + And yet, not always sad and hard; + In cheerful mood and light of heart + He told the tale of Britomarte, + And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard. + + And some have said that Nature's face + To us is always sad; but these + Have never felt the smiling grace + Of waving grass and forest trees + On sunlit plains as wide as seas. + + 'A land where dull Despair is king + O'er scentless flower and songless bird!' + But we have heard the bell-birds ring + Their silver bells at eventide, + Like fairies on the mountain side, + The sweetest note man ever heard. + + The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; + The bronzewing pigeons call and coo + Beside their nests the long day through; + The magpie warbles clear and strong + A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, + For all God's mercies upon earth. + + And many voices such as these + Are joyful sounds for those to tell, + Who know the Bush and love it well, + With all its hidden mysteries. + + We cannot love the restless sea, + That rolls and tosses to and fro + Like some fierce creature in its glee; + For human weal or human woe + It has no touch of sympathy. + + For us the bush is never sad: + Its myriad voices whisper low, + In tones the bushmen only know, + Its sympathy and welcome glad. + + For us the roving breezes bring + From many a blossom-tufted tree — + Where wild bees murmur dreamily — + The honey-laden breath of Spring. + + . . . . . + + We have no tales of other days, + No bygone history to tell; + Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze + At midnight, when the solemn hush + Of that vast wonderland, the Bush, + Hath laid on every heart its spell. + + Although we have no songs of strife, + Of bloodshed reddening the land, + We yet may find achievements grand + Within the bushman's quiet life. + + Lift ye your faces to the sky + Ye far blue mountains of the West, + Who lie so peacefully at rest + Enshrouded in a haze of blue; + 'Tis hard to feel that years went by + Before the pioneers broke through + Your rocky heights and walls of stone, + And made your secrets all their own. + + For years the fertile Western plains + Were hid behind your sullen walls, + Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls + All weatherworn with tropic rains. + + Between the mountains and the sea, + Like Israelites with staff in hand, + The people waited restlessly: + They looked towards the mountains old + And saw the sunsets come and go + With gorgeous golden afterglow, + That made the West a fairyland, + And marvelled what that West might be + Of which such wondrous tales were told. + + For tales were told of inland seas + Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, + And sandy deserts, white and wan, + Where never trod the foot of man, + Nor bird went winging overhead, + Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze + To wake the silence with its breath — + A land of loneliness and death. + + At length the hardy pioneers + By rock and crag found out the way, + And woke with voices of to-day, + A silence kept for years and years. + + Upon the Western slope they stood + And saw — a wide expanse of plain + As far as eye could stretch or see + Go rolling westward endlessly. + The native grasses, tall as grain, + Were waved and rippled in the breeze; + From boughs of blossom-laden trees + The parrots answered back again. + They saw the land that it was good, + A land of fatness all untrod, + And gave their silent thanks to God. + + The way is won! The way is won! + And straightway from the barren coast + There came a westward-marching host, + That aye and ever onward prest + With eager faces to the West, + Along the pathway of the sun. + + The mountains saw them marching by: + They faced the all-consuming drought, + They would not rest in settled land: + But, taking each his life in hand, + Their faces ever westward bent + Beyond the farthest settlement, + Responding to the challenge cry + Of 'better country further out.' + + And lo a miracle! the land + But yesterday was all unknown, + The wild man's boomerang was thrown + Where now great busy cities stand. + It was not much, you say, that these + Should win their way where none withstood; + In sooth there was not much of blood + No war was fought between the seas. + + It was not much! but we who know + The strange capricious land they trod — + At times a stricken, parching sod, + At times with raging floods beset — + Through which they found their lonely way, + Are quite content that you should say + It was not much, while we can feel + That nothing in the ages old, + In song or story written yet + On Grecian urn or Roman arch, + Though it should ring with clash of steel, + Could braver histories unfold + Than this bush story, yet untold — + The story of their westward march. + + . . . . . + + But times are changed, and changes rung + From old to new — the olden days, + The old bush life and all its ways + Are passing from us all unsung. + The freedom, and the hopeful sense + Of toil that brought due recompense, + Of room for all, has passed away, + And lies forgotten with the dead. + Within our streets men cry for bread + In cities built but yesterday. + + About us stretches wealth of land, + A boundless wealth of virgin soil + As yet unfruitful and untilled! + Our willing workmen, strong and skilled + Within our cities idle stand, + And cry aloud for leave to toil. + + The stunted children come and go + In squalid lanes and alleys black; + We follow but the beaten track + Of other nations, and we grow + In wealth for some — for many, woe. + + And it may be that we who live + In this new land apart, beyond + The hard old world grown fierce and fond + And bound by precedent and bond, + May read the riddle right and give + New hope to those who dimly see + That all things may be yet for good, + And teach the world at length to be + One vast united brotherhood. + + . . . . . + + So may it be, and he who sings + In accents hopeful, clear, and strong, + The glories which that future brings + Shall sing, indeed, a wond'rous song. +</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> + Anthony Considine + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Out in the wastes of the West countrie, + Out where the white stars shine, + Grim and silent as such men be, + Rideth a man with a history — + Anthony Considine. + + For the ways of men they are manifold + As their differing views in life; + For some are sold for the lust of gold + And some for the lust of strife: + But this man counted the world well lost + For the love of his neighbour's wife. + + They fled together, as those must flee + Whom all men hold in blame; + Each to the other must all things be + Who cross the gulf of iniquity + And live in the land of shame. + + But a light-o'-love, if she sins with one, + She sinneth with ninety-nine: + The rule holds good since the world begun — + Since ever the streams began to run + And the stars began to shine. + The rule holds true, and he found it true — + Anthony Considine. + + A nobler spirit had turned in scorn + From a love that was stained with mire; + A weaker being might mourn and mourn + For the loss of his Heart's Desire: + But the anger of Anthony Considine + Blazed up like a flaming fire. + + And she, with her new love, presently + Came past with her eyes ashine; + And God so willed it, and God knows why, + She turned and laughed as they passed him by — + Anthony Considine. + + Her laughter stung as a whip might sting; + And mad with his wounded pride + He turned and sprang with a panther's spring + And struck at his rival's side: + And only the woman, shuddering, + Could tell how the dead man died! + + She dared not speak — and the mystery + Is buried in auld lang syne, + But out on the wastes of the West countrie, + Grim and silent as such men be, + Rideth a man with a history — + Anthony Considine. +</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> + Song of the Artesian Water + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; + But we're sick of prayers and Providence — we're going to do without; + With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below, + We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we'll sink it deeper down: + As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level, + If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil; + Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down. + + Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot, + And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what: + When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs, + She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down: + If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter, + For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter, + But we're bound to get the water deeper down. + + But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow, + And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below, + And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shift + Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down + Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming, + Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming — + While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down. + + But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet, + And the contract price is growing and the boss is nearly beat. + But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go, + Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down: + And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin'; + But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in — + Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down. + + But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast, + And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last, + And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below + Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow. + And it's down, deeper down — + Oh, it comes from deeper down; + It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure + From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure — + Where the old earth hides her treasure deeper down. + + And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run: + How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun! + By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain + It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again. + Flowing down, further down; + It is flowing further down + To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going; + Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing — + It is flowing, ever flowing, further down. +</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> + A Disqualified Jockey's Story + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You see, the thing was this way — there was me, + That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare, + And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook, + And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret, + And that long bloke from Wagga — him what rode + Veronikew, the Snowy River horse. + Well, none of them had chances — not a chance + Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead + Or wasn't trying — for a blind man's dog + Could see Enchantress was a certain cop, + And all the books was layin' six to four. + + They brought her out to show our lot the road, + Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know, + You can't believe 'em, though they took an oath + On forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth. + But anyhow, an amateur was up + On this Enchantress, and so Ike and me, + We thought that we might frighten him a bit + By asking if he minded riding rough — + 'Oh, not at all,' says he, 'oh, not at all! + I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comes + To bumping I'm your Moses! Strike me blue!' + Says he, 'I'll bump you over either rail, + The inside rail or outside — which you choose + Is good enough for me' — which settled Ike; + For he was shaky since he near got killed + From being sent a buster on the rail, + When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down + At Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it best + To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed. + + So all the books was layin' six to four + Against the favourite, and the amateur + Was walking this Enchantress up and down, + And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought + We might as well get something for ourselves, + Because we knew our horses couldn't win. + But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob; + Because he said he reckoned he was stiff, + And all the books was layin' six to four. + + Well, anyhow, before the start, the news + Got round that this here amateur was stiff, + And our good stuff was blued, and all the books + Was in it, and the prices lengthened out, + And every book was bustin' of his throat, + And layin' five to one the favourite. + So there was we that couldn't win ourselves, + And this here amateur that wouldn't try, + And all the books was layin' five to one. + + So Smithy says to me, 'You take a hold + Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn + Come up behind Enchantress with the whip + And let her have it; that long bloke and me + Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us + We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight, + And Ikey'll flog her home, because his boss + Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what, + And so he won't be touched — and, as for us, + We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!' + And all the books was layin' five to one. + + Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn + I saw the amateur was holding back + And poking into every hole he could + To get her blocked, and so I pulled behind + And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare — + I let her have it twice, and then she shot + Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out + And let her up beside him on the rails, + And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke + Until she struggled past him pullin' hard + And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip + And hit her on the nose and sent her back + And won the race himself — for, after all, + It seems he had a fiver on the Dook + And never told us — so our stuff was lost. + And then they had us up for ridin' foul, + And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each, + To get our livin' any way we could; + But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss + Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what. + + But Mister — if you'll lend us half-a-crown, + I know three certain winners at the Park — + Three certain cops as no one knows but me; + And — thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer + (I always like a beer about this time) . . . + Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Road to Gundagai + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The mountain road goes up and down, + From Gundagai to Tumut Town. + + And branching off there runs a track, + Across the foothills grim and black, + + Across the plains and ranges grey + To Sydney city far away. + + . . . . . + + It came by chance one day that I + From Tumut rode to Gundagai. + + And reached about the evening tide + The crossing where the roads divide; + + And, waiting at the crossing place, + I saw a maiden fair of face, + + With eyes of deepest violet blue, + And cheeks to match the rose in hue — + + The fairest maids Australia knows + Are bred among the mountain snows. + + Then, fearing I might go astray, + I asked if she could show the way. + + Her voice might well a man bewitch — + Its tones so supple, deep, and rich. + + 'The tracks are clear,' she made reply, + 'And this goes down to Sydney town, + And that one goes to Gundagai.' + + Then slowly, looking coyly back, + She went along the Sydney track. + + And I for one was well content + To go the road the lady went; + + But round the turn a swain she met — + The kiss she gave him haunts me yet! + + . . . . . + + I turned and travelled with a sigh + The lonely road to Gundagai. +</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> + Saltbush Bill's Second Fight + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, + That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, + Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh; + And the squatters swore when they heard the news, + and wished they were well away: + For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country side + For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, + and the dodges and tricks he tried. + He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, + and stray to the squatters' grass; + He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass; + And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew, + If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through: + But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill, + And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill. + + . . . . . + + 'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring, + When he stared at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with jaunty swing; + For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track + Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back. + So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, + and asked could he camp the night; + But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and he said to him, 'Can you fight?' + 'Why, what's the game?' said the clean-shaved tramp, + as he looked at him up and down — + 'If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown! + But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me, it wouldn't be fair nor right; + I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight: + I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm a trampin' back, + To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track ——' + 'Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap,' said Stingy Smith with glee; + 'A bullying fellow, called Saltbush Bill — and you are the man for me. + He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row, + For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow — + Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard, + And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard. + It's a five-pound job if you belt him well — do anything short of kill, + For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill.' + + 'I'll take the job,' said the fighting man; 'and hot as this cove appears, + He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, + what's lived on the game for years; + For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so, + But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show; + They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, + and they tried for it every night — + In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight, + For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line; + And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine: + If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait + Till an opening came — and it ALWAYS came — and I settled 'em, sure as fate; + Left on the ribs and right on the jaw — + and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE! + And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur: + For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours, + That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs ——' + 'Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut,' + said Smith, 'for you waste your breath; + You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight, + of talking your man to death. + I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill, + And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill.' + + . . . . . + + 'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way + On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run, + on their six-mile stage a day; + And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along, + And, when Stingy Smith came up, Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong; + And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed + and strayed from their camp at night, + But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight: + So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground + and never a sound was heard + But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word, + Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout, + And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow — and Saltbush Bill 'went out'. + He fell face down, and towards the blow; + and their hearts with fear were filled, + For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed. + So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground, + And sent to home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round; + But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt — + in fact, he could scarcely speak — + So they let him spell till he got his wits, and he camped on the run a week, + While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray, + Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + + Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man: + 'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran: + 'The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name; + He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game: + But it's worth your while to employ the chap, + for there isn't the slightest doubt + You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about ——' + But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal: + 'The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all! + He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look; + He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook. + Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn, and taught him the tale by rote, + And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass + and divided your five-pound note. + 'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise — + 'twill save you a lot of pelf — + When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself.' + + . . . . . + + And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain, + And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black soil plain, + When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool, + And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull, + When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses them while he flogs, + And the air is thick with the language used, + and the clamour of men and dogs — + The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat, + They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith + when he read that neighbour's note. +</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> + Hard Luck + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I left the course, and by my side + There walked a ruined tout — + A hungry creature evil-eyed, + Who poured this story out. + + 'You see,' he said, 'there came a swell + To Kensington to-day, + And if I picked the winners well, + A crown at least he'd pay. + + 'I picked three winners straight, I did, + I filled his purse with pelf, + And then he gave me half-a-quid, + To back one for myself. + + 'A half-a-quid to me he cast, + I wanted it indeed. + So help me Bob, for two days past + I haven't had a feed. + + 'But still I thought my luck was in, + I couldn't go astray, + I put it all on Little Min, + And lost it straightaway. + + 'I haven't got a bite or bed, + I'm absolutely stuck, + So keep this lesson in your head: + Don't over-trust your luck!' + + The folks went homeward, near and far, + The tout, Oh! where was he? + Ask where the empty boilers are, + Beside the Circular Quay. +</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> + Song of the Federation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As the nations sat together, grimly waiting — + The fierce old nations battle-scarred — + Grown grey in their lusting and their hating, + Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard, + Through the tumult of their warlike preparation + And the half-stilled clamour of the drums + Came a voice crying, 'Lo! a new-made nation, + To her place in the sisterhood she comes!' + + And she came — she was beautiful as morning, + With the bloom of the roses in her mouth, + Like a young queen lavishly adorning + Her charms with the splendours of the South. + And the fierce old nations, looking on her, + Said, 'Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown, + Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her, + Hath she power to protect and guard her own? + + Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing + In the ears of the nations old and gray, + Saying, 'Hark, and ye shall hear my children singing + Their war-song in countries far away. + They are strangers to the tumult of the battle, + They are few but their hearts are very strong, + 'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle, + But they now sing Australia's marching song.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Song of the Australians in Action +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For the honour of Australia, our mother, + Side by side with our kin from over sea, + We have fought and we have tested one another, + And enrolled among the brotherhood are we. + + There was never post of danger but we sought it + In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood. + There was never prize so costly but we bought it, + Though we paid for its purchase with our blood. + + Was there any road too rough for us to travel? + Was there any path too far for us to tread? + You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel + On the roads that we milestoned with our dead! + + And for you, oh our young and anxious mother, + O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward, + Neither fearing nor despising any other, + We will hold your possessions with the sword. + + . . . . . + + Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping, + The grey-clad figures with their dead, + To the sound of their women softly weeping + And the Dead March moaning at their head: + And the Nations, as the grim procession ended, + Whispered, 'Child! But ye have seen the price we pay, + From War may we ever be defended, + Kneel ye down, new-made Sister — Let us Pray!' +</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 Old Australian Ways + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The London lights are far abeam + Behind a bank of cloud, + Along the shore the gaslights gleam, + The gale is piping loud; + And down the Channel, groping blind, + We drive her through the haze + Towards the land we left behind — + The good old land of 'never mind', + And old Australian ways. + + The narrow ways of English folk + Are not for such as we; + They bear the long-accustomed yoke + Of staid conservancy: + But all our roads are new and strange, + And through our blood there runs + The vagabonding love of change + That drove us westward of the range + And westward of the suns. + + The city folk go to and fro + Behind a prison's bars, + They never feel the breezes blow + And never see the stars; + They never hear in blossomed trees + The music low and sweet + Of wild birds making melodies, + Nor catch the little laughing breeze + That whispers in the wheat. + + Our fathers came of roving stock + That could not fixed abide: + And we have followed field and flock + Since e'er we learnt to ride; + By miner's camp and shearing shed, + In land of heat and drought, + We followed where our fortunes led, + With fortune always on ahead + And always further out. + + The wind is in the barley-grass, + The wattles are in bloom; + The breezes greet us as they pass + With honey-sweet perfume; + The parakeets go screaming by + With flash of golden wing, + And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry + Their long-drawn note of revelry, + Rejoicing at the Spring. + + So throw the weary pen aside + And let the papers rest, + For we must saddle up and ride + Towards the blue hill's breast; + And we must travel far and fast + Across their rugged maze, + To find the Spring of Youth at last, + And call back from the buried past + The old Australian ways. + + When Clancy took the drover's track + In years of long ago, + He drifted to the outer back + Beyond the Overflow; + By rolling plain and rocky shelf, + With stockwhip in his hand, + He reached at last, oh lucky elf, + The Town of Come-and-help-yourself + In Rough-and-ready Land. + + And if it be that you would know + The tracks he used to ride, + Then you must saddle up and go + Beyond the Queensland side — + Beyond the reach of rule or law, + To ride the long day through, + In Nature's homestead — filled with awe + You then might see what Clancy saw + And know what Clancy knew. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ballad of the 'Calliope' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the far Samoan shore, + Where the league-long rollers pour + All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, + Riding lightly at their ease, + In the calm of tropic seas, + The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay. + + Riding lightly, head to wind, + With the coral reefs behind, + Three Germans and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue; + And on one ship unfurled + Was the flag that rules the world — + For on the old 'Calliope' the flag of England flew. + + When the gentle off-shore breeze, + That had scarcely stirred the trees, + Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall, + Away across the main + Lowered the coming hurricane, + And far away to seaward hung the cloud wrack like a pall. + + If the word had passed around, + 'Let us move to safer ground; + Let us steam away to seaward' — then this tale were not to tell! + But each Captain seemed to say + 'If the others stay, I stay!' + And they lingered at their moorings till the shades of evening fell. + + Then the cloud wrack neared them fast, + And there came a sudden blast, + And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main! + Like a lion on its prey, + Leapt the storm fiend on the bay, + And the vessels shook and shivered as their cables felt the strain. + + As the surging seas came by, + That were running mountains high, + The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee; + And the darkness of the night + Hid the coral reefs from sight, + And the Captains dared not risk the chance to grope their way to sea. + + In the dark they dared not shift! + They were forced to wait and drift; + All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no. + But the men on deck could see + If a chance of hope might be — + There was little chance of safety for the men who were below. + + Through that long, long night of dread, + While the storm raged overhead, + They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar. + So they waited, staunch and true, + Though they knew, and well they knew, + They must drown like rats imprisoned if the vessel touched the shore. + + When the grey dawn broke at last, + And the long, long night was past, + While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away, + On the rocks, all smashed and strewn, + Were the German vessels thrown, + While the Yankees, swamped and helpless, drifted shorewards down the bay. + + Then at last spoke Captain Kane, + 'All our anchors are in vain, + And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee! + Cut the cables at the bow! + We must trust the engines now! + Give her steam, and let her have it, lads, we'll fight her out to sea!' + + And the answer came with cheers + From the stalwart engineers, + From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below; + And above the sullen roar + Of the breakers on the shore + Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro. + + If the strain should find a flaw, + Should a bolt or rivet draw, + Then — God help them! for the vessel were a plaything in the tide! + With a face of honest cheer, + Quoth an English engineer, + 'I will answer for the engines that were built on old Thames side! + + 'For the stays and stanchions taut, + For the rivets truly wrought, + For the valves that fit their faces as a glove should fit the hand. + Give her every ounce of power, + If we make a knot an hour + Then it's way enough to steer her and we'll drive her from the land.' + + Like a foam flake tossed and thrown, + She could barely hold her own, + While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee. + Through the smother and the rout + The 'Calliope' steamed out — + And they cheered her from the Trenton that was foundering in the sea. + + Aye! drifting shoreward there, + All helpless as they were, + Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled. + Without a thought of fear + The Yankees raised a cheer — + A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world. +</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> + Do They Know + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Do they know? At the turn to the straight + Where the favourites fail, + And every atom of weight + Is telling its tale; + As some grim old stayer hard-pressed + Runs true to his breed, + And with head just in front of the rest + Fights on in the lead; + When the jockeys are out with the whips, + With a furlong to go; + And the backers grow white to the lips — + Do you think THEY don't know? + + Do they know? As they come back to weigh + In a whirlwind of cheers, + Though the spurs have left marks of the fray, + Though the sweat on the ears + Gathers cold, and they sob with distress + As they roll up the track, + They know just as well their success + As the man on their back. + As they walk through a dense human lane, + That sways to and fro, + And cheers them again and again, + Do you think THEY don't know? +</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 Passing of Gundagai + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, + And if you've got a vacant pen + You'd better take him in the shed + And start him shearing straight ahead, + He's one of these here quiet men. + + 'He never strikes — that ain't his game; + No matter what the others try + HE goes on shearing just the same. + I never rightly knew his name — + We always call him "Gundagai"!' + + Our flashest shearer then had gone + To train a racehorse for a race, + And while his sporting fit was on + He couldn't be relied upon, + So 'Gundagai' shore in his place. + + Alas for man's veracity! + For reputations false and true! + This 'Gundagai' turned out to be, + For strife and all-round villainy, + The very worst I ever knew! + + He started racing Jack Devine, + And grumbled when I made him stop. + The pace he showed was extra fine, + But all those pure-bred ewes of mine + Were bleeding like a butcher's shop. + + He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed, + From roof to rafter, floor to shelf; + As for my mongrel ewes, he said, + I ought to get a razor blade + And shave the blooming things myself. + + On Sundays he controlled a 'school', + And played 'two-up' the livelong day; + And many a young confiding fool + He shore of his financial wool; + And when he lost he would not pay. + + He organised a shearers' race, + And 'touched' me to provide the prize. + His packhorse showed surprising pace + And won hands down — he was The Ace, + A well-known racehorse in disguise. + + Next day the bruiser of the shed + Displayed an opal-tinted eye, + With large contusions on his head. + He smiled a sickly smile, and said + He'd 'had a cut at "Gundagai"!' + + But just as we were getting full + Of 'Gundagai' and all his ways, + A telegram for 'Henry Bull' + Arrived. Said he, 'That's me — all wool! + Let's see what this here message says.' + + He opened it, his face grew white, + He dropped the shears and turned away. + It ran, 'Your wife took bad last night; + Come home at once — no time to write, + We fear she may not last the day.' + + He got his cheque — I didn't care + To dock him for my mangled ewes; + His store account — we 'called it square'. + Poor wretch! he had enough to bear, + Confronted by such dreadful news. + + The shearers raised a little purse + To help a mate, as shearers will, + 'To pay the doctor and the nurse, + And if there should be something worse — + To pay the undertaker's bill.' + + They wrung his hand in sympathy, + He rode away without a word, + His head hung down in misery. + A wandering hawker passing by + Was told of what had just occurred. + + 'Well! that's a curious thing,' he said, + 'I've known that feller all his life — + He's had the loan of this here shed! + I know his wife ain't nearly dead, + Because he HASN'T GOT A WIFE!' + + . . . . . + + You should have heard the whipcord crack + As angry shearers galloped by, + In vain they tried to fetch him back. + A little dust along the track + Was all they saw of 'Gundagai'. +</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> + The Wargeilah Handicap + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wargeilah town is very small, + There's no cathedral nor a club, + In fact the township, all in all, + Is just one unpretentious pub; + And there, from all the stations round, + The local sportsmen can be found. + + The sportsmen of Wargeilah side + Are very few but very fit: + There's scarcely any sport been tried + But what they held their own at it + In fact, to search their records o'er, + They held their own and something more. + + 'Twas round about Wargeilah town + An English new-chum did infest: + He used to wander up and down + In baggy English breeches drest — + His mental aspect seemed to be + Just stolid self-sufficiency. + + The local sportsmen vainly sought + His tranquil calm to counteract, + By urging that he should be brought + Within the Noxious Creatures Act. + 'Nay, harm him not,' said one more wise, + 'He is a blessing in disguise! + + 'You see, he wants to buy a horse, + To ride, and hunt, and steeplechase, + And carry ladies, too, of course, + And pull a cart and win a race. + Good gracious! he must be a flat + To think he'll get a horse like that! + + 'But since he has so little sense + And such a lot of cash to burn, + We'll sell him some experience + By which alone a fool can learn. + Suppose we let him have The Trap + To win Wargeilah Handicap!' + + And here, I must explain to you + That, round about Wargeilah run, + There lived a very aged screw + Whose days of brilliancy were done: + A grand old warrior in his prime — + But age will beat us all in time. + + A trooper's horse in seasons past + He did his share to keep the peace, + But took to falling, and at last + Was cast for age from the Police. + A publican at Conroy's Gap + Then bought and christened him The Trap. + + When grass was good, and horses dear, + He changed his owner now and then + At prices ranging somewhere near + The neighbourhood of two pound ten: + And manfully he earned his keep + By yarding cows and ration sheep. + + They brought him in from off the grass + And fed and groomed the old horse up; + His coat began to shine like glass — + You'd think he'd win the Melbourne Cup. + And when they'd got him fat and flash + They asked the new-chum — fifty — cash! + + And when he said the price was high, + Their indignation knew no bounds. + They said, 'It's seldom you can buy + A horse like that for fifty pounds! + We'll refund twenty if The Trap + Should fail to win the handicap!' + + The deed was done, the price was paid, + The new-chum put the horse in train: + The local sports were much afraid + That he would sad experience gain, + By racing with some shearer's hack, + Who'd beat him half-way round the track. + + So, on this guileless English spark + They did most fervently impress + That he must keep the matter dark, + And not let any person guess + That he was purchasing The Trap + To win Wargeilah Handicap. + + They spoke of 'spielers from The Bland', + And 'champions from the Castlereagh', + And gave the youth to understand + That all of these would stop away, + And spoil the race, if they should hear + That they had got The Trap to fear. + + 'Keep dark! They'll muster thick as flies + When once the news gets sent around + We're giving such a splendid prize — + A Snowdon horse worth fifty pound! + They'll come right in from Dandaloo, + And find — that it's a gift to you!' + + . . . . . + + The race came on — with no display, + Nor any calling of the card, + But round about the pub all day + A crowd of shearers, drinking hard, + And using language in a strain + 'Twere flattery to call profane. + + Our hero, dressed in silk attire — + Blue jacket and a scarlet cap — + With boots that shone like flames of fire, + Now did his canter on The Trap, + And walked him up and round about, + Until the other steeds came out. + + He eyed them with a haughty look, + But saw a sight that caught his breath! + It was! Ah John! The Chinee cook! + In boots and breeches! Pale as death! + Tied with a rope, like any sack, + Upon a piebald pony's back! + + The next, a colt — all mud and burrs! + Half-broken, with a black boy up, + Who said, 'You gim'me pair o' spurs, + I win the bloomin' Melbourne Cup!' + These two were to oppose The Trap + For the Wargeilah Handicap! + + They're off! The colt whipped down his head, + And humped his back and gave a squeal, + And bucked into the drinking shed, + Revolving like a Cath'rine wheel! + Men ran like rats! The atmosphere + Was filled with oaths and pints of beer! + + But up the course the bold Ah John + Beside The Trap raced neck and neck: + The boys had tied him firmly on, + Which ultimately proved his wreck, + The saddle turned, and, like a clown, + He rode some distance upside down. + + His legs around the horse were tied, + His feet towards the heavens were spread, + He swung and bumped at every stride + And ploughed the ground up with his head! + And when they rescued him, The Trap + Had won Wargeilah Handicap! + + And no enquiries we could make + Could tell by what false statements swayed + Ah John was led to undertake + A task so foreign to his trade! + He only smiled and said, 'Hoo Ki! + I stop topside, I win all 'li!' + + But never, in Wargeilah Town, + Was heard so eloquent a cheer + As when the President came down, + And toasted, in Colonial Beer, + 'The finest rider on the course! + The winner of the Snowdon Horse!' + + 'You go and get your prize,' he said, + 'He's with a wild mob, somewhere round + The mountains near The Watershed; + He's honestly worth fifty pound, + A noble horse, indeed, to win, + But none of US can run him in! + + 'We've chased him poor, we've chased him fat, + We've run him till our horses dropped, + But by such obstacles as that + A man like you will not be stopped, + You'll go and yard him any day, + So here's your health! Hooray! Hooray!' + + . . . . . + + The day wound up with booze and blow + And fights till all were well content, + But of the new-chum, all I know + Is shown by this advertisement — + 'For Sale, the well-known racehorse Trap, + He won Wargeilah Handicap!' +</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> + Any Other Time + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All of us play our very best game — + Any other time. + Golf or billiards, it's all the same — + Any other time. + Lose a match and you always say, + 'Just my luck! I was 'off' to-day! + I could have beaten him quite half-way — + Any other time!' + + After a fiver you ought to go — + Any other time. + Every man that you ask says 'Oh, + Any OTHER time. + Lend you a fiver! I'd lend you two, + But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due, + Wish you'd ask me — now, mind you do — + Any other time!' + + Fellows will ask you out to dine — + Any other time. + 'Not to-night, for we're twenty-nine — + Any other time. + Not to-morrow, for cook's on strike, + Not next day, I'll be out on the bike — + Just drop in whenever you like — + Any other time!' + + Seasick passengers like the sea — + Any other time. + 'Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me! + Any other time + Ocean-trav'lling is . . simply bliss, + Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . . + Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this — + Any other time.' + + . . . . . + + Most of us mean to be better men — + Any other time: + Regular upright characters then — + Any other time. + Yet somehow as the years go by + Still we gamble and drink and lie, + When it comes to the last we'll want to die — + Any other time! +</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 Last Trump + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'You led the trump,' the old man said + With fury in his eye, + 'And yet you hope my girl to wed! + Young man! your hopes of love are fled, + 'Twere better she should die! + + 'My sweet young daughter sitting there, + So innocent and plump! + You don't suppose that she would care + To wed an outlawed man who'd dare + To lead the thirteenth trump! + + 'If you had drawn their leading spade + It meant a certain win! + But no! By Pembroke's mighty shade + The thirteenth trump you went and played + And let their diamonds in! + + 'My girl! Return at my command + His presents in a lump! + Return his ring! For understand + No man is fit to hold your hand + Who leads a thirteenth trump! + + 'But hold! Give every man his due + And every dog his day. + Speak up and say what made you do + This dreadful thing — that is, if you + Have anything to say!' + + He spoke. 'I meant at first,' said he, + 'To give their spades a bump: + Or lead the hearts, but then you see + I thought against us there might be, + Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!' + + . . . . . + + They buried him at dawn of day + Beside a ruined stump: + And there he sleeps the hours away + And waits for Gabriel to play + The last — the fourteenth — trump. +</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> + Tar and Feathers + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! the circus swooped down + On the Narrabri town, + For the Narrabri populace moneyed are; + And the showman he smiled + At the folk he beguiled + To come all the distance from Gunnedah. + + But a juvenile smart, + Who objected to 'part', + Went in 'on the nod', and to do it he + Crawled in through a crack + In the tent at the back, + For the boy had no slight ingenuity. + + And says he with a grin, + 'That's the way to get in; + But I reckon I'd better be quiet or + They'll spiflicate me,' + And he chuckled, for he + Had the loan of the circus proprietor. + + But the showman astute + On that wily galoot + Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him — + Not he; with a grim + Sort of humorous whim, + He took him and tarred him and feathered him. + + Says he, 'You can go + Round the world with a show, + And knock every Injun and Arab wry; + With your name and your trade, + On the posters displayed, + The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.' + + Next day for his freak, + By a Narrabri beak, + He was jawed with a deal of verbosity; + For his only appeal + Was 'professional zeal' — + He wanted another monstrosity. + + Said his worship, 'Begob! + You are fined forty bob, + And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says. + And the Narrabri joy, + Half bird and half boy, + Has a 'down' on himself and on circuses. +</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> + It's Grand + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It's grand to be a squatter + And sit upon a post, + And watch your little ewes and lambs + A-giving up the ghost. + + It's grand to be a 'cockie' + With wife and kids to keep, + And find an all-wise Providence + Has mustered all your sheep. + + It's grand to be a Western man, + With shovel in your hand, + To dig your little homestead out + From underneath the sand. + + It's grand to be a shearer, + Along the Darling side, + And pluck the wool from stinking sheep + That some days since have died. + + It's grand to be a rabbit + And breed till all is blue, + And then to die in heaps because + There's nothing left to chew. + + It's grand to be a Minister + And travel like a swell, + And tell the Central District folk + To go to — Inverell. + + It's grand to be a Socialist + And lead the bold array + That marches to prosperity + At seven bob a day. + + It's grand to be an unemployed + And lie in the Domain, + And wake up every second day + And go to sleep again. + + It's grand to borrow English tin + To pay for wharves and Rocks, + And then to find it isn't in + The little money-box. + + It's grand to be a democrat + And toady to the mob, + For fear that if you told the truth + They'd hunt you from your job. + + It's grand to be a lot of things + In this fair Southern land, + But if the Lord would send us rain, + That would, indeed, be grand! +</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> + Out of Sight + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They held a polo meeting at a little country town, + And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. + There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid + They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'. + + They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur + To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure, + The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight + The rest would never see him go — he'd finish out of sight. + + So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up, + Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'. + The horse was known as 'Who's Afraid', by Panic from 'The Fright'. + But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight. + + And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence, + Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence; + And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right — + For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'. +</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 Road to Old Man's Town + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The fields of youth are filled with flowers, + The wine of youth is strong: + What need have we to count the hours? + The summer days are long. + + But soon we find to our dismay + That we are drifting down + The barren slopes that fall away + Towards the foothills grim and grey + That lead to Old Man's Town. + + And marching with us on the track + Full many friends we find: + We see them looking sadly back + For those that dropped behind. + + But God forbid a fate so dread — + ALONE to travel down + The dreary road we all must tread, + With faltering steps and whitening head, + The road to Old Man's Town! +</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> + The Old Timer's Steeplechase + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sheep were shorn and the wool went down + At the time of our local racing: + And I'd earned a spell — I was burnt and brown — + So I rolled my swag for a trip to town + And a look at the steeplechasing. + + 'Twas rough and ready — an uncleared course + As rough as the blacks had found it; + With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse, + And a water-jump that would drown a horse, + And the steeple three times round it. + + There was never a fence the tracks to guard, — + Some straggling posts defined 'em: + And the day was hot, and the drinking hard, + Till none of the stewards could see a yard + Before nor yet behind 'em! + + But the bell was rung and the nags were out, + Excepting an old outsider + Whose trainer started an awful rout, + For his boy had gone on a drinking bout + And left him without a rider. + + 'Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried, + 'In the whole of the crowd so clever, + Is there not one man that will take a ride + On the old white horse from the Northern side + That was bred on the Mooki River?' + + 'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow, + And a cow would look well beside him; + But I was pluckier then than now + (And I wanted excitement anyhow), + So at last I agreed to ride him. + + And the trainer said, 'Well, he's dreadful slow, + And he hasn't a chance whatever; + But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show + A trick or two that the trainers know + Who train by the Mooki River. + + 'The first time round at the further side, + With the trees and the scrub about you, + Just pull behind them and run out wide + And then dodge into the scrub and hide, + And let them go round without you. + + 'At the third time round, for the final spin + With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em, + They'll never notice if you chip in + For the last half-mile — you'll be sure to win, + And they'll think you raced behind 'em. + + 'At the water-jump you may have to swim — + He hasn't a hope to clear it — + Unless he skims like the swallows skim + At full speed over, but not for him! + He'll never go next or near it. + + 'But don't you worry — just plunge across, + For he swims like a well-trained setter. + Then hide away in the scrub and gorse + The rest will be far ahead of course — + The further ahead the better. + + 'You must rush the jumps in the last half-round + For fear that he might refuse 'em; + He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound, + Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound, + And don't be afraid to use 'em. + + 'At the final round, when the field are slow + And you are quite fresh to meet 'em, + Sit down, and hustle him all you know + With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go — + Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!' + + . . . . . + + The flag went down and we seemed to fly, + And we made the timbers shiver + Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by, + And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry: + 'Go on! For the Mooki River!' + + I jammed him in with a well-packed crush, + And recklessly — out for slaughter — + Like a living wave over fence and brush + We swept and swung with a flying rush, + Till we came to the dreaded water. + + Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think + Of the way I contrived to work it. + Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink, + He found himself on the water's brink, + With never a chance to shirk it! + + The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles + The heart of this grizzled rover! + He gave a snort you could hear for miles, + And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles + And carried me safely over! + + Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back + In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver: + And I waited there in the shadows black + While the rest of the horses, round the track, + Went on like a rushing river! + + At the second round, as the field swept by, + I saw that the pace was telling; + But on they thundered, and by-and-bye + As they passed the stand I could hear the cry + Of the folk in the distance, yelling! + + Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang! + And I said, 'Well, it's now or never!' + And out on the heels of the throng I sprang, + And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang + As I rode! For the Mooki River! + + We raced for home in a cloud of dust + And the curses rose in chorus. + 'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must! + And The Cow ran well — but to my disgust + There was one got home before us. + + 'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen + In the part of the race I'd ridden; + And his coat was cool and his rider clean, + And I thought that perhaps I had not been + The only one that had hidden. + + . . . . . + + And the trainer came with a visage blue + With rage, when the race concluded: + Said he, 'I thought you'd have pulled us through, + But the man on the black horse planted too, + AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!' + + Alas to think that those times so gay + Have vanished and passed for ever! + You don't believe in the yarn you say? + Why, man! 'Twas a matter of every day + When we raced on the Mooki River! +</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> + In the Stable + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! You don't like him; well, maybe — we all have our fancies, of course: + Brumby to look at you reckon? Well, no: he's a thoroughbred horse; + Sired by a son of old Panic — look at his ears and his head — + Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? — well, that's how the Panics are bred. + Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride, + Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide + That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good, + This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should: + Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall, + Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall. + + . . . . . + + Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days, + Made themselves kings of the district — ruled it in old-fashioned ways — + Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night, + Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright: + Came to the station one morning — and why they did this no one knows — + Took a brood mare from the paddock — wanting some fun, I suppose — + Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank, + Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank. + + Go! She went mad! She went tearing + and screaming with fear through the trees, + While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees. + Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run, + Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun! + Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all, + And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall. + + Day after day then I chased them — 'course they had friends on the sly, + Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy. + Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm + One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm: + Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat, + Took to the rocks and we lost him — the others made good their retreat. + It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed, + They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head! + + Then we heard they were gone from the district; + they stuck up a coach in the West, + And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest, + Riding this colt as a youngster — awkward, half-broken and shy, + He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why, + But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall, + And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + + 'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead — + bad going, with plenty of trees — + So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees. + 'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them! It puts a man's nerve to the test + On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West. + But the half-broken colt was a racehorse! He lay down to work with a will, + Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin — + by Heavens we FLEW down the hill! + Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer + And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me — + a bullet sang close to my ear — + And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it: + but I saw as we raced through the gap + That the rails at the homestead were fastened — + I was caught like a rat in a trap. + Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock — + barbed wire that would cut like a knife — + How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life? + + Bang went a rifle behind me — the colt gave a spring, he was hit; + Straight at the sliprails I rode him — I felt him take hold of the bit; + Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride, + Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride! + Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened + barbed wire on the top of the post, + Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most; + Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall, + And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + + Yes! There's the mark of the bullet — he's got it inside of him yet + Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret! + Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy — eats any thing he can bite; + Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night: + Ah! We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young. + Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung, + Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend, + Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end. + But you can talk about riding — I've ridden a lot in the past — + Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast! + I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses', + but I think the most dashing of all + Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! +</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> + "He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The long day passes with its load of sorrow: + In slumber deep + I lay me down to rest until to-morrow — + Thank God for sleep. + + Thank God for all respite from weary toiling, + From cares that creep + Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling + God's kindly sleep. + + We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later, + We strive to reap, + And build our barns, and hope to build them greater + Before we sleep. + + We toil and strain and strive with one another + In hopes to heap + Some greater share of profit than our brother + Before we sleep. + + What will it profit that with tears or laughter + Our watch we keep? + Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter! + Thank God for sleep! + + For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us, + We turn with deep + Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us + The Gift of Sleep. +</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> + Driver Smith + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; + He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night — + 'Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he, + 'I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C. + + 'I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills + A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills. + And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show, + For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go. + + 'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din, + It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in — + A-raking 'em in like human flies — and a driver smart like me + Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.' + + So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip, + From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip. + And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack, + 'You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he — + 'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.' + + Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more, + And Driver Smith he worked his trip — all aboard for the seat of war! + He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast + Till he heard a sound that he knew full well — a battery rolling past. + + He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind — + He heard the crack of the drivers' whips, + and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind, + I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk, + But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.' + + Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face. + 'Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.' + So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance, + And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance. + + They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, + When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; + They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, + And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight. + + The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, + For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; + But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, + Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray. + + He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro, + A hard old face with a monkey beard — a face that he seemed to know; + 'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day. + Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,' + and he jumped for him straight away. + + He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van. + It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man; + But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride, + And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.' + + He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace, + A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase; + But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day, + You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.' + + He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O., + 'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go; + And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed, + So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.' + + So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more, + For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war: + And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night, + And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight. +</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> + There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, + Without a care or trouble on your mind, + And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round, + And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind; + In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise, + And a clatter on the deck above your crown, + And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out, + 'There's another blessed horse fell down.' + + You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall, + A-leaning on the railings nearly dead, + And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall, + And you curse them as you tumble into bed. + Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon, + There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown; + And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack, + There's another blessed horse fell down.' + + And when the war is over and the fighting all is done, + And you're all at home with medals on your chest, + And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun + At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest; + As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep, + And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown, + Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new, + It's another blessed horse fell down.' +</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> + On the Trek + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, + With sun above and silent veldt below; + And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, + And the homestead where the climbing roses grow. + Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? + Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? + Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, + For we're going on a long job now. + + In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, + With the endless line of waggons stretching back, + While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, + Plodding silent on the never-ending track, + While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see + Makes you wonder will your turn come — when and how? + As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee — + Oh! we're going on a long job now. + + When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, + And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, + Or you've watched your old mate dying — with the vultures overhead, + Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price. + And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear, + I can picture the excitement and the row; + But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, + For we're going on a long job now. +</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> + The Last Parade + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With never a sound of trumpet, + With never a flag displayed, + The last of the old campaigners + Lined up for the last parade. + + Weary they were and battered, + Shoeless, and knocked about; + From under their ragged forelocks + Their hungry eyes looked out. + + And they watched as the old commander + Read out, to the cheering men, + The Nation's thanks and the orders + To carry them home again. + + And the last of the old campaigners, + Sinewy, lean, and spare — + He spoke for his hungry comrades: + 'Have we not done our share? + + 'Starving and tired and thirsty + We limped on the blazing plain; + And after a long night's picket + You saddled us up again. + + 'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes + When the frost lay snowy-white. + Never a halt in the daytime, + Never a rest at night! + + 'We knew when the rifles rattled + From the hillside bare and brown, + And over our weary shoulders + We felt warm blood run down, + + 'As we turned for the stretching gallop, + Crushed to the earth with weight; + But we carried our riders through it — + Carried them p'raps too late. + + 'Steel! We were steel to stand it — + We that have lasted through, + We that are old campaigners + Pitiful, poor, and few. + + 'Over the sea you brought us, + Over the leagues of foam: + Now we have served you fairly + Will you not take us home? + + 'Home to the Hunter River, + To the flats where the lucerne grows; + Home where the Murrumbidgee + Runs white with the melted snows. + + 'This is a small thing surely! + Will not you give command + That the last of the old campaigners + Go back to their native land?' + + . . . . . + + They looked at the grim commander, + But never a sign he made. + 'Dismiss!' and the old campaigners + Moved off from their last parade. +</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> + With French to Kimberley + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; + The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! + Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good, + Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. + They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, + They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!' + And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, + For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + He made no march along the line; he made no front attack + Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back; + But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley, + Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. + The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, + Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. + The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall + Rode back in haste: 'He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!' + Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay, + That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + His column was five thousand strong — all mounted men — and guns: + There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; + They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, + And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! + From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, + From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows; + And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: + With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. + Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew + Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. + From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array, + To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. + The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. + The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs; + He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! + Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; + We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. + Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day + Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. + Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared. + A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side; + The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, + For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone: + But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 'Push on!' + The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; + With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; + And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, + And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done + We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: + Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: + Around the town the foemen camped — they knew not that we came; + But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; + In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled; + And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, + The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, + The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, + The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!' + Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say + We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. +</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> + Johnny Boer + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, + And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. + At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about + They reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out. + But Fuzzy gives himself away — his style is out of date, + He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; + You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: + But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head; + He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, + He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun. + + For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, + He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, + Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own — + Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. + The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his hand + He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; + And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, + And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. + It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun + Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun. + + On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, + He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; + With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks + And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox. + At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, + Next day at dawn — 'What, ho! she bumps' — from somewhere in the rear. + Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass — + He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; + But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun, + There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun. + + But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow, + We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go. + With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late, + We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State; + And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run, + And we'll be running after with OUR little Maxim gun. +</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> + What Have the Cavalry Done + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What have the cavalry done? + Cantered and trotted about, + Routin' the enemy out, + Causin' the beggars to run! + And we tramped along in the blazin' heat, + Over the veldt on our weary feet. + Tramp, tramp, tramp + Under the blazin' sun, + With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer, + 'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before — + That's what the cavalry done! + + What have the gunners done + Battlin' every day, + Battlin' any way. + Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they? + 'Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.! + See! when the fight grows hot, + Under the rifles or not, + Always the order runs, + 'Fetch up the bloomin' guns!' + + And you'd see them great gun-horses spring + To the 'action front' — and around they'd swing. + Find the range with some queer machine + 'At four thousand with fuse fourteen. + Ready! Fire number one!' + Handled the battery neat and quick! + Stick to it, too! How DID they stick! + Never a gunner was seen to run! + Never a gunner would leave his gun! + Not though his mates dropped all around! + Always a gunner would stand his ground. + Take the army — the infantry, + Mounted rifles, and cavalry, + Twice the numbers I'd give away, + And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A., + For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run, + That's what the gunners done! +</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> + Right in the Front of the Army + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Where 'ave you been this week or more, + 'Aven't seen you about the war? + Thought perhaps you was at the rear + Guarding the waggons.' 'What, us? No fear! + Where have we been? Why, bless my heart, + Where have we been since the bloomin' start? + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight!' + Every separate man you see, + Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V., + Every one of 'em seems to be + Right in the front of the army! + + Most of the troops to the camp had gone, + When we met with a cow-gun toiling on; + And we said to the boys, as they walked her past, + 'Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!' + 'Here at last! Why, what d'yer mean? + Ain't we just where we've always been? + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight!' + Correspondents and vets. in force, + Mounted foot and dismounted horse, + All of them were, as a matter of course, + Right in the front of the army. + + Old Lord Roberts will have to mind + If ever the enemy get behind; + For they'll smash him up with a rear attack, + Because his army has got no back! + Think of the horrors that might befall + An army without any rear at all! + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight! + Swede attaches and German counts, + Yeomen (known as De Wet's remounts), + All of them were by their own accounts + Right in the front of the army! +</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> + That V.C. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas in the days of front attack, + This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it — + That every 'front' had got a back, + And French was just the man to turn it. + + A wounded soldier on the ground + Was lying hid behind a hummock; + He proved the good old proverb sound — + An army travels on its stomach. + + He lay as flat as any fish, + His nose had worn a little furrow; + He only had one frantic wish, + That like an antbear he could burrow. + + The bullets whistled into space, + The pom-pom gun kept up its braying, + The four-point-seven supplied the bass — + You'd think the devil's band was playing. + + A valiant comrade crawling near + Observed his most supine behaviour, + And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer? + Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer. + + 'You get up on my shoulders, mate, + And if we live beyond the firing, + I'll get the V.C. sure as fate, + Because our blokes is all retiring. + + 'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he, + 'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.' + 'No,' says the wounded man, 'not me, + I'll not be saved, it's far too risky. + + 'I'm fairly safe behind this mound, + I've worn a hole that seems to fit me; + But if you lift me off the ground, + It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.' + + So back towards the firing line + Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh! + Remarking 'What a selfish swine! + He might have let me be a hero.' +</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> + Fed Up + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, + I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post; + But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp, + A-drawing fire from Koppies — well, I'm fair fed up. + + It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through; + Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you; + But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup + From that there blooming pom-pom gun — well, I'm fed up. + + We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut, + I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut. + But after all — What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day, + They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away. + The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights, + But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights — + Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup, + Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up. + + And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks, + They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books. + They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead, + And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead. + Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup, + But walking forty miles to fight — well, I'm fed up! + + So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry + I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.; + They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup, + But Bully Beef and Biscuits — well! I'm fair fed up! +</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> + Jock! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a soldier that's been doing of his share + In the fighting up and down and round about. + He's continually marching here and there + And he's fighting, morning in and morning out. + + The Boer, you see, he generally runs; + But sometimes when he hides behind a rock, + And we can't make no impression with the guns, + Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!' + + Yes, it's Jock — Scotch Jock. + He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. + For he's hairy and he's hard, + And his feet are by the yard, + And his face is like the face what's on a clock. + But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry — + 'Send for Jock!' + + The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance, + Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. + The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance + By holding of their helmets on their head. + + And when the Boer has dug himself a trench + And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, + These mounted heroes — pets of Johnny French — + They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! + + Yes, the Jocks — Scotch Jocks, + With their music that'd terrify an ox! + When the bullets kick the sand + You can hear the sharp command — + 'Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!' + And the charge is like a flood + When they've warmed the Highland blood + Of the Jocks! +</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> + Santa Claus + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call + Rose on the midnight air + Above the noises of the camp, + The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp. + The challenge echoed over all — + Halt! Who goes there? + + A quaint old figure clothed in white, + He bore a staff of pine, + An ivy-wreath was on his head. + 'Advance, oh friend,' the sentry said, + Advance, for this is Christmas night, + And give the countersign.' + + 'No sign nor countersign have I, + Through many lands I roam + The whole world over far and wide, + To exiles all at Christmastide, + From those who love them tenderly + I bring a thought of home. + + 'From English brook and Scottish burn, + From cold Canadian snows, + From those far lands ye hold most dear + I bring you all a greeting here, + A frond of a New Zealand fern, + A bloom of English rose. + + 'From faithful wife and loving lass + I bring a wish divine, + For Christmas blessings on your head.' + 'I wish you well,' the sentry said, + But here, alas! you may not pass + Without the countersign.' + + He vanished — and the sentry's tramp + Re-echoed down the line. + It was not till the morning light + The soldiers knew that in the night + Old Santa Claus had come to camp + Without the countersign. +</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> + From a section of Advertisements, 1909. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, + </h2> + <p> + AND OTHER VERSES. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By A. B. Paterson. +</pre> + <p> + * "The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel + in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet + boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling." + </p> + <p> + * "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent + verses." + </p> + <p> + * "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and crowding + adventure. . . . Stirring and entertaining ballads about great rides, in + which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses." + </p> + <p> + * "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of + 'Barrack-Room Ballads'." + </p> + <p> + * Mr. A. Patchett Martin (London): "In my opinion, it is the absolutely + un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these new bush + bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, + among all classes of the rising native generation." + </p> + <p> + * "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet whose bush + ballads are as distinctively characteristic of the country as Burns's + poetry is characteristic of Scotland." + </p> + <p> + * "A book like this . . . is worth a dozen of the aspiring, idealistic + sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real tears in + its composition." + </p> + <p> + * "These ballads . . . are full of such go that the mere reading of them + make the blood tingle. . . . But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's + book besides mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark of + special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has also a note of + pathos, which is always wholesome." + </p> + <p> + * "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, shouting his + vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, constraining us + to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones and capital subjects . . + . We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse with instantaneous gratitude." + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE, AND OTHER VERSES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By A. B. Paterson. +</pre> + <p> + * "There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Paterson's verse; there is no + difficulty in feeling the strong human interest which moves in it." + </p> + <p> + * "Every way worthy of the man who ranks with the first of Australian + poets." + </p> + <p> + * "At once naturalistic and imaginative, and racy without being slangy, + the poems have always a strong human interest of every-day life to keep + them going. They make a book which should give an equal pleasure to simple + and to fastidious readers." + </p> + <p> + * "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo from the older, more + experienced land, leads him to more serious singing, and proves that real + poetry is, after all, universal. It is a hearty book." + </p> + <p> + * "Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied sympathies, coupled with a genuine + lyrical impulse, and some skill, which makes his attempts always + attractive and usually successful." + </p> + <p> + * "These are all entertaining, their rough and ready wit and virility of + expression making them highly acceptable, while the dash of satire gives + point to the humour." + </p> + <p> + * "He catches the bush in its most joyous moments, and writes of it with + the simple charm of an unaffected lover." + </p> + <p> + * "Will be welcome to that too select class at home who follow the + Australian endeavour to utter a fresh and genuine poetic voice." + </p> + <p> + * "Mr. Paterson now proves beyond question that Australia has produced at + least one singer who can voice in truest poetry the aspirations and + experiences peculiar to the Commonwealth, and who is to be ranked with the + foremost living poets of the motherland." + </p> + <p> + * "Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that sings as it goes along. The + subjects are capital, and some of the refrains haunt one. There is always + room for a book of unpretentious, vigorous verse of this sort." + </p> + <p> + * "These ballads make bright and easy reading; one takes up the book, and, + delighted at the rhythm, turns page after page, finding entertainment upon + each." + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Biographical Note: + </h2> + <p> + Andrew Barton Paterson was born at Narambla, in New South Wales, on 17 + February 1864, but grew up at Buckenbah and Illalong. He became a lawyer + but devoted much of his time to writing, and gained popularity especially + for his poetry and ballads. His best known poems are The Man from Snowy + River (1892) on which a motion picture was loosely based, and Waltzing + Matilda (1895) which slowly became an Australian symbol and national song. + The poems he wrote for a Sydney newspaper led him into reporting, and he + went to South Africa to cover the Boer War. Always a fair man, he had his + doubts about the war and was a little too vocal about it for the tastes of + some of his readers. During the First World War he served in Egypt as a + Major in a Remount Unit, training horses for the war. This fit one of his + main interests in life — horses —a preoccupation which is very + evident in his poems, and even in his choice of pseudonym —"The + Banjo" was a race-horse. + </p> + <p> + The works for which Paterson is famous were mostly written before the + First World War, and are collected in three books of poems, The Man from + Snowy River and Other Verses (1895), Rio Grande's Last Race and Other + Verses (1902), and Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses (1917). His prose + works include An Outback Marriage (1906), and Three Elephant Power and + Other Stories (1917), the latter of which is a collection of tall tales + and serious (but often humourous) reporting. In fact, above all else it is + perhaps Paterson's sense of humour that sets him apart from such + balladists as Rudyard Kipling and Robert Service. It should also be noted + that Paterson was writing his ballads before either of these became + well-known, and there was little, if any, influence from either side. More + likely, Paterson was influenced by the Scottish tradition of poetry + (Paterson was of Scottish descent) which had been popularized in Australia + by Adam Lindsay Gordon and others. Banjo Paterson died of a heart attack + on 5 February, 1941. + </p> + <p> + A. Light, 1995. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE *** + +***** This file should be named 304-h.htm or 304-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/304/ + +Produced by A. Light, David M. 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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: Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses + +Author: Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +Posting Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #304] +Release Date: August, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, and David M. Medinets + + + + + +RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE AND OTHER VERSES + +by A. B. Paterson + + +Original 1902 Sydney edition + + + +The verses in this collection have appeared in papers in various parts +of the world--"Rio Grande" in London; most of the war verses +in Bloemfontein; others in Sydney. + +A. B. Paterson. + + + + + +Contents with First Lines: + + + Rio Grande's Last Race + Now this was what Macpherson told + + By the Grey Gulf-water + Far to the Northward there lies a land, + + With the Cattle + The drought is down on field and flock, + + The First Surveyor + 'The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor and all! + + Mulga Bill's Bicycle + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; + + The Pearl Diver + Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, + + The City of Dreadful Thirst + The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke -- + + Saltbush Bill's Gamecock + 'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; + + Hay and Hell and Booligal + 'You come and see me, boys,' he said; + + A Walgett Episode + The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, + + Father Riley's Horse + 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog + + The Scotch Engineer + With eyes that searched in the dark, + + Song of the Future + 'Tis strange that in a land so strong, + + Anthony Considine + Out in the wastes of the West countrie, + + Song of the Artesian Water + Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; + + A Disqualified Jockey's Story + You see, the thing was this way -- there was me, + + The Road to Gundagai + The mountain road goes up and down, + + Saltbush Bill's Second Fight + The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, + + Hard Luck + I left the course, and by my side + + Song of the Federation + As the nations sat together, grimly waiting -- + + The Old Australian Ways + The London lights are far abeam + + The Ballad of the 'Calliope' + By the far Samoan shore, + + Do They Know + Do they know? At the turn to the straight + + The Passing of Gundagai + 'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, + + The Wargeilah Handicap + Wargeilah town is very small, + + Any Other Time + All of us play our very best game -- + + The Last Trump + 'You led the trump,' the old man said + + Tar and Feathers + Oh! the circus swooped down + + It's Grand + It's grand to be a squatter + + Out of Sight + They held a polo meeting at a little country town, + + The Road to Old Man's Town + The fields of youth are filled with flowers, + + The Old Timer's Steeplechase + The sheep were shorn and the wool went down + + In the Stable + What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: + + "He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" + The long day passes with its load of sorrow: + + Driver Smith + 'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; + + There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down + When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, + + On the Trek + Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, + + The Last Parade + With never a sound of trumpet, + + With French to Kimberley + The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; + + Johnny Boer + Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, + + What Have the Cavalry Done + What have the cavalry done? + + Right in the Front of the Army + 'Where 'ave you been this week or more, + + That V.C. + 'Twas in the days of front attack, + + Fed Up + I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, + + Jock! + There's a soldier that's been doing of his share + + Santa Claus + Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call + + + + + + +RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE AND OTHER VERSES + + + + + +Rio Grande's Last Race + + + + Now this was what Macpherson told + While waiting in the stand; + A reckless rider, over-bold, + The only man with hands to hold + The rushing Rio Grande. + + He said, 'This day I bid good-bye + To bit and bridle rein, + To ditches deep and fences high, + For I have dreamed a dream, and I + Shall never ride again. + + 'I dreamt last night I rode this race + That I to-day must ride, + And cant'ring down to take my place + I saw full many an old friend's face + Come stealing to my side. + + 'Dead men on horses long since dead, + They clustered on the track; + The champions of the days long fled, + They moved around with noiseless tread -- + Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. + + 'And one man on a big grey steed + Rode up and waved his hand; + Said he, "We help a friend in need, + And we have come to give a lead + To you and Rio Grande. + + '"For you must give the field the slip, + So never draw the rein, + But keep him moving with the whip, + And if he falter -- set your lip + And rouse him up again. + + '"But when you reach the big stone wall, + Put down your bridle hand + And let him sail -- he cannot fall -- + But don't you interfere at all; + You trust old Rio Grande." + + 'We started, and in front we showed, + The big horse running free: + Right fearlessly and game he strode, + And by my side those dead men rode + Whom no one else could see. + + 'As silently as flies a bird, + They rode on either hand; + At every fence I plainly heard + The phantom leader give the word, + "Make room for Rio Grande!" + + 'I spurred him on to get the lead, + I chanced full many a fall; + But swifter still each phantom steed + Kept with me, and at racing speed + We reached the big stone wall. + + 'And there the phantoms on each side + Drew in and blocked his leap; + "Make room! make room!" I loudly cried, + But right in front they seemed to ride -- + I cursed them in my sleep. + + 'He never flinched, he faced it game, + He struck it with his chest, + And every stone burst out in flame, + And Rio Grande and I became + As phantoms with the rest. + + 'And then I woke, and for a space + All nerveless did I seem; + For I have ridden many a race, + But never one at such a pace + As in that fearful dream. + + 'And I am sure as man can be + That out upon the track, + Those phantoms that men cannot see + Are waiting now to ride with me, + And I shall not come back. + + 'For I must ride the dead men's race, + And follow their command; + 'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace + If I should fear to take my place + To-day on Rio Grande.' + + He mounted, and a jest he threw, + With never sign of gloom; + But all who heard the story knew + That Jack Macpherson, brave and true, + Was going to his doom. + + They started, and the big black steed + Came flashing past the stand; + All single-handed in the lead + He strode along at racing speed, + The mighty Rio Grande. + + But on his ribs the whalebone stung, + A madness it did seem! + And soon it rose on every tongue + That Jack Macpherson rode among + The creatures of his dream. + + He looked to left and looked to right, + As though men rode beside; + And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, + Raced at his jumps in headlong flight + And cleared them in his stride. + + But when they reached the big stone wall, + Down went the bridle-hand, + And loud we heard Macpherson call, + 'Make room, or half the field will fall! + Make room for Rio Grande!' + + . . . . . + + 'He's down! he's down!' And horse and man + Lay quiet side by side! + No need the pallid face to scan, + We knew with Rio Grande he ran + The race the dead men ride. + + + + +By the Grey Gulf-water + + + + Far to the Northward there lies a land, + A wonderful land that the winds blow over, + And none may fathom nor understand + The charm it holds for the restless rover; + A great grey chaos -- a land half made, + Where endless space is and no life stirreth; + And the soul of a man will recoil afraid + From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. + But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves + Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; + Many indeed are the nameless graves + Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water. + + Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, + Drifting along with a languid motion, + Lapping the reed-beds on either side, + Wending their way to the Northern Ocean. + Grey are the plains where the emus pass + Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; + Over the dead men's graves the grass + Maybe is waving a trifle greener. + Down in the world where men toil and spin + Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; + Only the dead men her smiles can win + In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. + + For the strength of man is an insect's strength + In the face of that mighty plain and river, + And the life of a man is a moment's length + To the life of the stream that will run for ever. + And so it cometh they take no part + In small-world worries; each hardy rover + Rideth abroad and is light of heart, + With the plains around and the blue sky over. + And up in the heavens the brown lark sings + The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; + Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- + And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. + + + + +With the Cattle + + + + The drought is down on field and flock, + The river-bed is dry; + And we must shift the starving stock + Before the cattle die. + We muster up with weary hearts + At breaking of the day, + And turn our heads to foreign parts, + To take the stock away. + And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em, + And it's get the whip and flog 'em, + For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day; + By stock-routes bare and eaten, + On dusty roads and beaten, + With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away. + + We cannot use the whip for shame + On beasts that crawl along; + We have to drop the weak and lame, + And try to save the strong; + The wrath of God is on the track, + The drought fiend holds his sway, + With blows and cries and stockwhip crack + We take the stock away. + As they fall we leave them lying, + With the crows to watch them dying, + Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey; + By the fiery dust-storm drifting, + And the mocking mirage shifting, + In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away. + + In dull despair the days go by + With never hope of change, + But every stage we draw more nigh + Towards the mountain range; + And some may live to climb the pass, + And reach the great plateau, + And revel in the mountain grass, + By streamlets fed with snow. + As the mountain wind is blowing + It starts the cattle lowing, + And calling to each other down the dusty long array; + And there speaks a grizzled drover: + 'Well, thank God, the worst is over, + The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away.' + + They press towards the mountain grass, + They look with eager eyes + Along the rugged stony pass, + That slopes towards the skies; + Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones, + But though the blood-drop starts, + They struggle on with stifled groans, + For hope is in their hearts. + And the cattle that are leading, + Though their feet are worn and bleeding, + Are breaking to a kind of run -- pull up, and let them go! + For the mountain wind is blowing, + And the mountain grass is growing, + They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow. + + . . . . . + + The days are done of heat and drought + Upon the stricken plain; + The wind has shifted right about, + And brought the welcome rain; + The river runs with sullen roar, + All flecked with yellow foam, + And we must take the road once more, + To bring the cattle home. + And it's 'Lads! we'll raise a chorus, + There's a pleasant trip before us.' + And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track; + And the drovers canter, singing, + Through the sweet green grasses springing, + Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back. + + Are these the beasts we brought away + That move so lively now? + They scatter off like flying spray + Across the mountain's brow; + And dashing down the rugged range + We hear the stockwhip crack, + Good faith, it is a welcome change + To bring such cattle back. + And it's 'Steady down the lead there!' + And it's 'Let 'em stop and feed there!' + For they're wild as mountain eagles and their sides are all afoam; + But they're settling down already, + And they'll travel nice and steady, + With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home. + + We have to watch them close at night + For fear they'll make a rush, + And break away in headlong flight + Across the open bush; + And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze, + With mellow voice and strong, + We hear the lonely watchman raise + The Overlander's song: + 'Oh! it's when we're done with roving, + With the camping and the droving, + It's homeward down the Bland we'll go, and never more we'll roam;' + While the stars shine out above us, + Like the eyes of those who love us -- + The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home. + + The plains are all awave with grass, + The skies are deepest blue; + And leisurely the cattle pass + And feed the long day through; + But when we sight the station gate, + We make the stockwhips crack, + A welcome sound to those who wait + To greet the cattle back: + And through the twilight falling + We hear their voices calling, + As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam; + And the children run to meet us, + And our wives and sweethearts greet us, + Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home. + + + + + The First Surveyor + + + + 'The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor and all! + With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball. + Hark to 'em at the station now! They're raising cheer on cheer! + "The man who brought the railway through -- our friend the engineer!" + + 'They cheer HIS pluck and enterprise and engineering skill! + 'Twas my old husband found the pass behind that big Red Hill. + Before the engineer was grown we settled with our stock + Behind that great big mountain chain, a line of range and rock -- + A line that kept us starving there in weary weeks of drought, + With ne'er a track across the range to let the cattle out. + + ''Twas then, with horses starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl, + My husband went to find a way across that rocky wall. + He vanished in the wilderness, God knows where he was gone, + He hunted till his food gave out, but still he battled on. + His horses strayed -- 'twas well they did -- they made towards the grass, + And down behind that big red hill they found an easy pass. + + 'He followed up and blazed the trees, to show the safest track, + Then drew his belt another hole and turned and started back. + His horses died -- just one pulled through with nothing much to spare; + God bless the beast that brought him home, the old white Arab mare! + We drove the cattle through the hills, along the new-found way, + And this was our first camping-ground -- just where I live to-day. + + 'Then others came across the range and built the township here, + And then there came the railway line and this young engineer. + He drove about with tents and traps, a cook to cook his meals, + A bath to wash himself at night, a chain-man at his heels. + And that was all the pluck and skill for which he's cheered and praised, + For after all he took the track, the same my husband blazed! + + 'My poor old husband, dead and gone with never feast nor cheer; + He's buried by the railway line! -- I wonder can he hear + When down the very track he marked, and close to where he's laid, + The cattle trains go roaring down the one-in-thirty grade. + I wonder does he hear them pass and can he see the sight, + When through the dark the fast express goes flaming by at night. + + 'I think 'twould comfort him to know there's someone left to care, + I'll take some things this very night and hold a banquet there! + The hard old fare we've often shared together, him and me, + Some damper and a bite of beef, a pannikin of tea: + We'll do without the bands and flags, the speeches and the fuss, + We know who OUGHT to get the cheers and that's enough for us. + + 'What's that? They wish that I'd come down -- the oldest settler here! + Present me to the Governor and that young engineer! + Well, just you tell his Excellence and put the thing polite, + I'm sorry, but I can't come down -- I'm dining out to-night!' + + + + +Mulga Bill's Bicycle + + + + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; + He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; + He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; + He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; + And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, + The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?' + + 'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea, + From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me. + I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, + Although I'm not the one to talk -- I HATE a man that blows. + But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; + Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight. + There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, + There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, + But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: + I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.' + + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, + That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road. + He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, + But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. + It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, + It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek. + + It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: + The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, + The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, + As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound. + It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, + It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; + And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek + It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek. + + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: + He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; + I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet, + But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet. + I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve + To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve. + It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; + A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.' + + + + +The Pearl Diver + + + + Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, + Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea, + Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously. + + Over the pearl-grounds, the lugger drifted -- a little white speck: + Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', holding the life-line on deck, + Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check. + + Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one, + Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none; + Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun. + + Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye: + This was his formula always, 'All man go dead by-and-bye -- + S'posing time come no can help it -- s'pose time no come, then no die.' + + Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five; + Down where by law and by reason, men are forbidden to dive; + Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive: + + Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go, + Forcing the air down that reached him heated, and tainted, and slow -- + Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below; + + Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain; + Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain: + Sailed once again to the Darnleys -- laughed and descended again! + + . . . . . + + Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; + Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; + Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch, + + Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, + Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day: + But the lumbering Dutch, with their gunboats, hunted the divers away. + + Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', finding the profits grow small, + Said, 'Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! + If we get caught, go to prison -- let them take lugger and all!' + + Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant -- + Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, + Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. + + Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, + Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, + When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. + + Once that the diver was sighted pearl-shell and lugger must go. + Joe Nagasaki decided -- quick was the word and the blow -- + Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below! + + Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand, + Pulled the 'haul up' on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand; + Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand. + + Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', smiling a sanctified smile, + Headed her straight for the gunboat -- throwing out shells all the while -- + Then went aboard and reported, 'No makee dive in three mile! + + 'Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree; + Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea: + Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!' + + . . . . . + + So the Dutch let him go, and they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, + Doubting him much, but what would you? You have to be sure of your man + Ere you wake up that nest-full of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. + + Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread, + Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead: + Joe Nagasaki, his 'tender', is owner and diver instead. + + Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can, + These are the risks of the pearling -- these are the ways of Japan, + 'Plenty more Japanee diver, plenty more little brown man!' + + + + +The City of Dreadful Thirst + + + + The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke -- + 'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk. + But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define + A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine. + + 'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm -- + Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm -- + We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town, + When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down, + + 'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust, + They mostly bring a Bogan shower -- three rain-drops and some dust; + But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think + That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!" + + 'There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust -- we'd heard of them before, + And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war": + But -- if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst -- + That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst. + + 'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze; + It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days, + And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine + To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine. + + 'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst! + We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst. + The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub, + They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub. + + 'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried; + Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side + Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said, + Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead! + + 'We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room, + And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom. + The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again, + But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train. + + 'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie, + But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die. + But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work + Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke. + + 'But when you see those clouds about -- like this one over here -- + All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer, + It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst + You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!' + + . . . . . + + We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half; + He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff; + 'I joined some friends last night,' he said, 'in what THEY called a spree; + But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.' + + And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red, + And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead, + The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line, + That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine. + + + + +Saltbush Bill's Gamecock + + + + 'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; + He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; + He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard: + For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard. + He bore no malice to Stingy Smith -- 'twas simply the hand of fate + That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate; + And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt, + It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out. + So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall, + Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall. + + 'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft, + Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft; + And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame + As breeder of champion fighting cocks -- his 'forte' was the British Game. + The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall + Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all. + Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, + his fowls were his sole delight; + He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight. + He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; + In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win! + The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock; + The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock; + For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all -- + And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall. + + . . . . . + + 'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep, + And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep -- + A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came -- + 'A drover has an Australian Bird to match with your British Game.' + 'Twas done, and done in a half a trice; a five-pound note aside; + Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried. + 'Steel spurs, of course?' said old Rooster Hall; + 'you'll need 'em, without a doubt!' + 'You stick the spurs on your bird!' said Bill, 'but mine fights best without.' + 'Fights best without?' said old Rooster Hall; 'he can't fight best unspurred! + You must be crazy!' But Saltbush Bill said, 'Wait till you see my bird!' + So Rooster Hall to his fowlyard went, and quickly back he came, + Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game. + With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumpet call, + He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall. + Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with word to his cronies two, + McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo. + Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court, + With Father D. as a picker-up -- a regular all-round Sport! + They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came, + Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game; + They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before -- + Old Rooster Hall was a blithesome man, when he thought of the treat in store. + They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene, + Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen. + + 'Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill, + 'and wait till you see the fight; + There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare -- + there's game-fowl stew to-night! + For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred; + And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird. + I've made a match that our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock, + But he's game enough, and it's many a mile + that he's tramped with the travelling stock.' + The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard, + Under the dray, in the shadows hid, a something moved and stirred: + A great tame Emu strutted out. Said Saltbush, 'Here's our bird!' + But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word. + + The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall + Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all. + For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault, + That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault + On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard, + Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird; + And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried, + Remarked, 'Discharged with a clean discharge -- the assault was justified!' + + + + +Hay and Hell and Booligal + + + + 'You come and see me, boys,' he said; + 'You'll find a welcome and a bed + And whisky any time you call; + Although our township hasn't got + The name of quite a lively spot -- + You see, I live in Booligal. + + 'And people have an awful down + Upon the district and the town -- + Which worse than hell itself they call; + In fact, the saying far and wide + Along the Riverina side + Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal". + + 'No doubt it suits 'em very well + To say it's worse than Hay or Hell, + But don't you heed their talk at all; + Of course, there's heat -- no one denies -- + And sand and dust and stacks of flies, + And rabbits, too, at Booligal. + + 'But such a pleasant, quiet place, + You never see a stranger's face -- + They hardly ever care to call; + The drovers mostly pass it by; + They reckon that they'd rather die + Than spend a night in Booligal. + + 'The big mosquitoes frighten some -- + You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum -- + And snakes about the township crawl; + But shearers, when they get their cheque, + They never come along and wreck + The blessed town of Booligal. + + 'But down in Hay the shearers come + And fill themselves with fighting-rum, + And chase blue devils up the wall, + And fight the snaggers every day, + Until there is the deuce to pay -- + There's none of that in Booligal. + + 'Of course, there isn't much to see -- + The billiard-table used to be + The great attraction for us all, + Until some careless, drunken curs + Got sleeping on it in their spurs, + And ruined it, in Booligal. + + 'Just now there is a howling drought + That pretty near has starved us out -- + It never seems to rain at all; + But, if there SHOULD come any rain, + You couldn't cross the black-soil plain -- + You'd have to stop in Booligal.' + + . . . . . + + 'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath + We prayed that both in life and death + Our fate in other lines might fall: + 'Oh, send us to our just reward + In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, + Deliver us from Booligal!' + + + + +A Walgett Episode + + + + The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, + The skies are blue and the plains are wide, + The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare + By Walgett out on the Barwon side -- + The Barwon river that wanders down + In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town. + + There came a stranger -- a 'Cockatoo' -- + The word means farmer, as all men know + Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo + Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow + Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence + As he watches the lambkins passing hence. + + The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown, + But it soon appeared that he meant to flout + The iron law of the country town, + Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout: + 'If he will not shout we must take him down,' + Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town. + + They baited a trap with a crafty bait, + With a crafty bait, for they held discourse + Concerning a new chum who of late + Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse; + They would wager that no one could ride him down + The length of the city of Walgett Town. + + The stranger was born on a horse's hide; + So he took the wagers, and made them good + With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died, + For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! -- + 'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down + Full many a stranger in Walgett Town. + + The stranger smiled with a sickly smile -- + 'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins -- + And he said he had travelled for quite a while + In trying to sell some marsupial skins. + 'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down, + You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!' + + He said that his home was at Wingadee, + At Wingadee where he had for sale + Some fifty skins and would guarantee + They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail + Complete, and he sold them for money down + To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town. + + Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf, + 'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose: + You can fetch them in when it suits yourself, + And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!' + Then he left -- and the silence settled down + Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town. + + + + +Father Riley's Horse + + + + 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog + By the troopers of the Upper Murray side, + They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, + But never sight or track of him they spied, + Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late + And a whisper 'Father Riley -- come across!' + So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate + And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! + + 'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, + For its close upon my death I am to-night. + With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day + In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. + But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, + And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, + So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, + 'Tis the only way I see to save my life. + + 'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next + An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course, + I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed + And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse! + He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear + To his owner or his breeder, but I know, + That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare + And his dam was close related to The Roe. + + 'And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, + He could canter while they're going at their top: + He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, + A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop! + So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, + 'Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, + You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain + If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! + + 'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye, + For the stars above the East are growing pale. + And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! + But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! + You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip + Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. + Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip + Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, good-bye!' and he had fled! + + So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, + In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; + There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights + Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. + There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, + And their riders flogged each other all the while. + And the lashins of the liquor! And the lavins of the grub! + Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style. + + Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, + For the folk were mostly Irish round about, + And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, + They were training morning in and morning out. + But they never started training till the sun was on the course + For a superstitious story kept 'em back, + That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, + Had been training by the starlight on the track. + + And they read the nominations for the races with surprise + And amusement at the Father's little joke, + For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, + And they found that it was Father Riley's moke! + He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! + But his owner's views of training were immense, + For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, + And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. + + And the priest would join the laughter; 'Oh,' said he, 'I put him in, + For there's five and twenty sovereigns to be won. + And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, + And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!' + He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for clear the course, + And his colours were a vivid shade of green: + All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, + While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin! + + It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, + Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, + And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, + That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. + 'You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, + And the fences is terrific, and the rest! + When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, + And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. + + 'For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, + And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, + But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, + Will be running by his side to keep him straight. + And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, + Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! + I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! + And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!' + + . . . . . + + Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round, + And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. + There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, + Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! + But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, + For the finish down the long green stretch of course, + And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, + Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse! + + Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! + For he left the others standing, in the straight; + And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, + And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! + But he weighed it, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, + Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), + And old Hogan muttered sagely, 'If it wasn't for the beard + They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!' + + And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide + Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. + There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, + And they wondered who on earth he could have been. + But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, + 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, + That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out + For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse! + + + + +The Scotch Engineer + + + + With eyes that searched in the dark, + Peering along the line, + Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark, + Driver of 'Forty-nine', + And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead, + Like a blood-red beacon sign. + + There was word of a fight to the north, + And a column hard-pressed, + So they started the Highlanders forth, + Without food, without rest. + + But the pipers gaily played, + Chanting their fierce delight, + And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed, + Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade, + Hurrying up to the fight, + And the grim, grey Highland engineer, + Driving them into the night. + + Then a signal light glowed red, + And a picket came to the track. + 'Enemy holding the line ahead, + Three of our mates we have left for dead, + Only we two got back.' + And far to the north through the still night air, + They heard the rifles crack. + + And the boom of a gun rang out, + Like the sound of a deep appeal, + And the picket stood in doubt + By the side of the driving-wheel. + + But the Engineer looked down, + With his hand on the starting-bar, + 'Ride ye back to the town, + Ye know what my orders are, + Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade + Up on those hills afar. + + 'I am no soldier at all, + Only an engineer, + But I could not bear that the folk should say, + Over in Scotland -- Glasgow way -- + That Hector Clark stayed here + With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone, + With ever a rail to run her on. + Ready behind! Stand clear! + + 'Fireman, get you gone + Into the armoured train, + I will drive her alone; + One more trip -- and perhaps the last -- + With a well-raked fire and an open blast -- + Hark to the rifles again.' + + . . . . . + + On through the choking dark, + Never a lamp nor a light, + Never an engine spark, + Showing her hurried flight. + Over the lonely plain + Rushed the great armoured train, + Hurrying up to the fight. + + Then with her living freight + On to the foe she came, + And the rifles snapped their hate, + And the darkness spouted flame. + + Over the roar of the fray + The hungry bullets whined, + As she dashed through the foe that lay + Loading and firing blind, + Till the glare of the furnace burning clear + Showed them the form of the engineer, + Sharply and well defined. + + Through! They were safely through! + Hark to the column's cheer! + Surely the driver knew + He was to halt her here; + But he took no heed of the signals red, + And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead, + There on the floor of his engine -- dead, + Lay the Scotch Engineer! + + + + +Song of the Future + + + + 'Tis strange that in a land so strong, + So strong and bold in mighty youth, + We have no poet's voice of truth + To sing for us a wondrous song. + + Our chiefest singer yet has sung + In wild, sweet notes a passing strain, + All carelessly and sadly flung + To that dull world he thought so vain. + + 'I care for nothing, good nor bad, + My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, + I am but sifting sand,' he said: + What wonder Gordon's songs were sad! + + And yet, not always sad and hard; + In cheerful mood and light of heart + He told the tale of Britomarte, + And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard. + + And some have said that Nature's face + To us is always sad; but these + Have never felt the smiling grace + Of waving grass and forest trees + On sunlit plains as wide as seas. + + 'A land where dull Despair is king + O'er scentless flower and songless bird!' + But we have heard the bell-birds ring + Their silver bells at eventide, + Like fairies on the mountain side, + The sweetest note man ever heard. + + The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; + The bronzewing pigeons call and coo + Beside their nests the long day through; + The magpie warbles clear and strong + A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, + For all God's mercies upon earth. + + And many voices such as these + Are joyful sounds for those to tell, + Who know the Bush and love it well, + With all its hidden mysteries. + + We cannot love the restless sea, + That rolls and tosses to and fro + Like some fierce creature in its glee; + For human weal or human woe + It has no touch of sympathy. + + For us the bush is never sad: + Its myriad voices whisper low, + In tones the bushmen only know, + Its sympathy and welcome glad. + + For us the roving breezes bring + From many a blossom-tufted tree -- + Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- + The honey-laden breath of Spring. + + . . . . . + + We have no tales of other days, + No bygone history to tell; + Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze + At midnight, when the solemn hush + Of that vast wonderland, the Bush, + Hath laid on every heart its spell. + + Although we have no songs of strife, + Of bloodshed reddening the land, + We yet may find achievements grand + Within the bushman's quiet life. + + Lift ye your faces to the sky + Ye far blue mountains of the West, + Who lie so peacefully at rest + Enshrouded in a haze of blue; + 'Tis hard to feel that years went by + Before the pioneers broke through + Your rocky heights and walls of stone, + And made your secrets all their own. + + For years the fertile Western plains + Were hid behind your sullen walls, + Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls + All weatherworn with tropic rains. + + Between the mountains and the sea, + Like Israelites with staff in hand, + The people waited restlessly: + They looked towards the mountains old + And saw the sunsets come and go + With gorgeous golden afterglow, + That made the West a fairyland, + And marvelled what that West might be + Of which such wondrous tales were told. + + For tales were told of inland seas + Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, + And sandy deserts, white and wan, + Where never trod the foot of man, + Nor bird went winging overhead, + Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze + To wake the silence with its breath -- + A land of loneliness and death. + + At length the hardy pioneers + By rock and crag found out the way, + And woke with voices of to-day, + A silence kept for years and years. + + Upon the Western slope they stood + And saw -- a wide expanse of plain + As far as eye could stretch or see + Go rolling westward endlessly. + The native grasses, tall as grain, + Were waved and rippled in the breeze; + From boughs of blossom-laden trees + The parrots answered back again. + They saw the land that it was good, + A land of fatness all untrod, + And gave their silent thanks to God. + + The way is won! The way is won! + And straightway from the barren coast + There came a westward-marching host, + That aye and ever onward prest + With eager faces to the West, + Along the pathway of the sun. + + The mountains saw them marching by: + They faced the all-consuming drought, + They would not rest in settled land: + But, taking each his life in hand, + Their faces ever westward bent + Beyond the farthest settlement, + Responding to the challenge cry + Of 'better country further out.' + + And lo a miracle! the land + But yesterday was all unknown, + The wild man's boomerang was thrown + Where now great busy cities stand. + It was not much, you say, that these + Should win their way where none withstood; + In sooth there was not much of blood + No war was fought between the seas. + + It was not much! but we who know + The strange capricious land they trod -- + At times a stricken, parching sod, + At times with raging floods beset -- + Through which they found their lonely way, + Are quite content that you should say + It was not much, while we can feel + That nothing in the ages old, + In song or story written yet + On Grecian urn or Roman arch, + Though it should ring with clash of steel, + Could braver histories unfold + Than this bush story, yet untold -- + The story of their westward march. + + . . . . . + + But times are changed, and changes rung + From old to new -- the olden days, + The old bush life and all its ways + Are passing from us all unsung. + The freedom, and the hopeful sense + Of toil that brought due recompense, + Of room for all, has passed away, + And lies forgotten with the dead. + Within our streets men cry for bread + In cities built but yesterday. + + About us stretches wealth of land, + A boundless wealth of virgin soil + As yet unfruitful and untilled! + Our willing workmen, strong and skilled + Within our cities idle stand, + And cry aloud for leave to toil. + + The stunted children come and go + In squalid lanes and alleys black; + We follow but the beaten track + Of other nations, and we grow + In wealth for some -- for many, woe. + + And it may be that we who live + In this new land apart, beyond + The hard old world grown fierce and fond + And bound by precedent and bond, + May read the riddle right and give + New hope to those who dimly see + That all things may be yet for good, + And teach the world at length to be + One vast united brotherhood. + + . . . . . + + So may it be, and he who sings + In accents hopeful, clear, and strong, + The glories which that future brings + Shall sing, indeed, a wond'rous song. + + + + +Anthony Considine + + + + Out in the wastes of the West countrie, + Out where the white stars shine, + Grim and silent as such men be, + Rideth a man with a history -- + Anthony Considine. + + For the ways of men they are manifold + As their differing views in life; + For some are sold for the lust of gold + And some for the lust of strife: + But this man counted the world well lost + For the love of his neighbour's wife. + + They fled together, as those must flee + Whom all men hold in blame; + Each to the other must all things be + Who cross the gulf of iniquity + And live in the land of shame. + + But a light-o'-love, if she sins with one, + She sinneth with ninety-nine: + The rule holds good since the world begun -- + Since ever the streams began to run + And the stars began to shine. + The rule holds true, and he found it true -- + Anthony Considine. + + A nobler spirit had turned in scorn + From a love that was stained with mire; + A weaker being might mourn and mourn + For the loss of his Heart's Desire: + But the anger of Anthony Considine + Blazed up like a flaming fire. + + And she, with her new love, presently + Came past with her eyes ashine; + And God so willed it, and God knows why, + She turned and laughed as they passed him by -- + Anthony Considine. + + Her laughter stung as a whip might sting; + And mad with his wounded pride + He turned and sprang with a panther's spring + And struck at his rival's side: + And only the woman, shuddering, + Could tell how the dead man died! + + She dared not speak -- and the mystery + Is buried in auld lang syne, + But out on the wastes of the West countrie, + Grim and silent as such men be, + Rideth a man with a history -- + Anthony Considine. + + + + +Song of the Artesian Water + + + + Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; + But we're sick of prayers and Providence -- we're going to do without; + With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below, + We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we'll sink it deeper down: + As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level, + If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil; + Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down. + + Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot, + And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what: + When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs, + She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down: + If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter, + For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter, + But we're bound to get the water deeper down. + + But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow, + And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below, + And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shift + Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down + Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming, + Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming -- + While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down. + + But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet, + And the contract price is growing and the boss is nearly beat. + But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go, + Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down: + And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin'; + But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in -- + Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down. + + But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast, + And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last, + And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below + Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow. + And it's down, deeper down -- + Oh, it comes from deeper down; + It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure + From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure -- + Where the old earth hides her treasure deeper down. + + And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run: + How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun! + By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain + It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again. + Flowing down, further down; + It is flowing further down + To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going; + Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing -- + It is flowing, ever flowing, further down. + + + + +A Disqualified Jockey's Story + + + + You see, the thing was this way -- there was me, + That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare, + And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook, + And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret, + And that long bloke from Wagga -- him what rode + Veronikew, the Snowy River horse. + Well, none of them had chances -- not a chance + Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead + Or wasn't trying -- for a blind man's dog + Could see Enchantress was a certain cop, + And all the books was layin' six to four. + + They brought her out to show our lot the road, + Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know, + You can't believe 'em, though they took an oath + On forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth. + But anyhow, an amateur was up + On this Enchantress, and so Ike and me, + We thought that we might frighten him a bit + By asking if he minded riding rough -- + 'Oh, not at all,' says he, 'oh, not at all! + I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comes + To bumping I'm your Moses! Strike me blue!' + Says he, 'I'll bump you over either rail, + The inside rail or outside -- which you choose + Is good enough for me' -- which settled Ike; + For he was shaky since he near got killed + From being sent a buster on the rail, + When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down + At Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it best + To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed. + + So all the books was layin' six to four + Against the favourite, and the amateur + Was walking this Enchantress up and down, + And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought + We might as well get something for ourselves, + Because we knew our horses couldn't win. + But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob; + Because he said he reckoned he was stiff, + And all the books was layin' six to four. + + Well, anyhow, before the start, the news + Got round that this here amateur was stiff, + And our good stuff was blued, and all the books + Was in it, and the prices lengthened out, + And every book was bustin' of his throat, + And layin' five to one the favourite. + So there was we that couldn't win ourselves, + And this here amateur that wouldn't try, + And all the books was layin' five to one. + + So Smithy says to me, 'You take a hold + Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn + Come up behind Enchantress with the whip + And let her have it; that long bloke and me + Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us + We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight, + And Ikey'll flog her home, because his boss + Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what, + And so he won't be touched -- and, as for us, + We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!' + And all the books was layin' five to one. + + Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn + I saw the amateur was holding back + And poking into every hole he could + To get her blocked, and so I pulled behind + And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare -- + I let her have it twice, and then she shot + Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out + And let her up beside him on the rails, + And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke + Until she struggled past him pullin' hard + And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip + And hit her on the nose and sent her back + And won the race himself -- for, after all, + It seems he had a fiver on the Dook + And never told us -- so our stuff was lost. + And then they had us up for ridin' foul, + And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each, + To get our livin' any way we could; + But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss + Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what. + + But Mister -- if you'll lend us half-a-crown, + I know three certain winners at the Park -- + Three certain cops as no one knows but me; + And -- thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer + (I always like a beer about this time) . . . + Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again. + + + + +The Road to Gundagai + + + + The mountain road goes up and down, + From Gundagai to Tumut Town. + + And branching off there runs a track, + Across the foothills grim and black, + + Across the plains and ranges grey + To Sydney city far away. + + . . . . . + + It came by chance one day that I + From Tumut rode to Gundagai. + + And reached about the evening tide + The crossing where the roads divide; + + And, waiting at the crossing place, + I saw a maiden fair of face, + + With eyes of deepest violet blue, + And cheeks to match the rose in hue -- + + The fairest maids Australia knows + Are bred among the mountain snows. + + Then, fearing I might go astray, + I asked if she could show the way. + + Her voice might well a man bewitch -- + Its tones so supple, deep, and rich. + + 'The tracks are clear,' she made reply, + 'And this goes down to Sydney town, + And that one goes to Gundagai.' + + Then slowly, looking coyly back, + She went along the Sydney track. + + And I for one was well content + To go the road the lady went; + + But round the turn a swain she met -- + The kiss she gave him haunts me yet! + + . . . . . + + I turned and travelled with a sigh + The lonely road to Gundagai. + + + + +Saltbush Bill's Second Fight + + + + The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, + That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, + Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh; + And the squatters swore when they heard the news, + and wished they were well away: + For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country side + For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, + and the dodges and tricks he tried. + He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, + and stray to the squatters' grass; + He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass; + And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew, + If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through: + But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill, + And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill. + + . . . . . + + 'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring, + When he stared at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with jaunty swing; + For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track + Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back. + So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, + and asked could he camp the night; + But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and he said to him, 'Can you fight?' + 'Why, what's the game?' said the clean-shaved tramp, + as he looked at him up and down -- + 'If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown! + But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me, it wouldn't be fair nor right; + I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight: + I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm a trampin' back, + To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track ----' + 'Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap,' said Stingy Smith with glee; + 'A bullying fellow, called Saltbush Bill -- and you are the man for me. + He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row, + For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow -- + Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard, + And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard. + It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill, + For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill.' + + 'I'll take the job,' said the fighting man; 'and hot as this cove appears, + He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, + what's lived on the game for years; + For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so, + But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show; + They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, + and they tried for it every night -- + In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight, + For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line; + And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine: + If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait + Till an opening came -- and it ALWAYS came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate; + Left on the ribs and right on the jaw -- + and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE! + And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur: + For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours, + That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs ----' + 'Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut,' + said Smith, 'for you waste your breath; + You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight, + of talking your man to death. + I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill, + And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill.' + + . . . . . + + 'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way + On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run, + on their six-mile stage a day; + And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along, + And, when Stingy Smith came up, Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong; + And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed + and strayed from their camp at night, + But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight: + So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground + and never a sound was heard + But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word, + Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout, + And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow -- and Saltbush Bill 'went out'. + He fell face down, and towards the blow; + and their hearts with fear were filled, + For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed. + So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground, + And sent to home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round; + But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt -- + in fact, he could scarcely speak -- + So they let him spell till he got his wits, and he camped on the run a week, + While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray, + Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + + Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man: + 'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran: + 'The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name; + He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game: + But it's worth your while to employ the chap, + for there isn't the slightest doubt + You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about ----' + But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal: + 'The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all! + He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look; + He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook. + Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn, and taught him the tale by rote, + And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass + and divided your five-pound note. + 'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise -- + 'twill save you a lot of pelf -- + When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself.' + + . . . . . + + And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain, + And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black soil plain, + When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool, + And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull, + When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses them while he flogs, + And the air is thick with the language used, + and the clamour of men and dogs -- + The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat, + They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith + when he read that neighbour's note. + + + + +Hard Luck + + + + I left the course, and by my side + There walked a ruined tout -- + A hungry creature evil-eyed, + Who poured this story out. + + 'You see,' he said, 'there came a swell + To Kensington to-day, + And if I picked the winners well, + A crown at least he'd pay. + + 'I picked three winners straight, I did, + I filled his purse with pelf, + And then he gave me half-a-quid, + To back one for myself. + + 'A half-a-quid to me he cast, + I wanted it indeed. + So help me Bob, for two days past + I haven't had a feed. + + 'But still I thought my luck was in, + I couldn't go astray, + I put it all on Little Min, + And lost it straightaway. + + 'I haven't got a bite or bed, + I'm absolutely stuck, + So keep this lesson in your head: + Don't over-trust your luck!' + + The folks went homeward, near and far, + The tout, Oh! where was he? + Ask where the empty boilers are, + Beside the Circular Quay. + + + + +Song of the Federation + + + + As the nations sat together, grimly waiting -- + The fierce old nations battle-scarred -- + Grown grey in their lusting and their hating, + Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard, + Through the tumult of their warlike preparation + And the half-stilled clamour of the drums + Came a voice crying, 'Lo! a new-made nation, + To her place in the sisterhood she comes!' + + And she came -- she was beautiful as morning, + With the bloom of the roses in her mouth, + Like a young queen lavishly adorning + Her charms with the splendours of the South. + And the fierce old nations, looking on her, + Said, 'Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown, + Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her, + Hath she power to protect and guard her own? + + Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing + In the ears of the nations old and gray, + Saying, 'Hark, and ye shall hear my children singing + Their war-song in countries far away. + They are strangers to the tumult of the battle, + They are few but their hearts are very strong, + 'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle, + But they now sing Australia's marching song.' + + + Song of the Australians in Action + + + For the honour of Australia, our mother, + Side by side with our kin from over sea, + We have fought and we have tested one another, + And enrolled among the brotherhood are we. + + There was never post of danger but we sought it + In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood. + There was never prize so costly but we bought it, + Though we paid for its purchase with our blood. + + Was there any road too rough for us to travel? + Was there any path too far for us to tread? + You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel + On the roads that we milestoned with our dead! + + And for you, oh our young and anxious mother, + O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward, + Neither fearing nor despising any other, + We will hold your possessions with the sword. + + . . . . . + + Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping, + The grey-clad figures with their dead, + To the sound of their women softly weeping + And the Dead March moaning at their head: + And the Nations, as the grim procession ended, + Whispered, 'Child! But ye have seen the price we pay, + From War may we ever be defended, + Kneel ye down, new-made Sister -- Let us Pray!' + + + + +The Old Australian Ways + + + + The London lights are far abeam + Behind a bank of cloud, + Along the shore the gaslights gleam, + The gale is piping loud; + And down the Channel, groping blind, + We drive her through the haze + Towards the land we left behind -- + The good old land of 'never mind', + And old Australian ways. + + The narrow ways of English folk + Are not for such as we; + They bear the long-accustomed yoke + Of staid conservancy: + But all our roads are new and strange, + And through our blood there runs + The vagabonding love of change + That drove us westward of the range + And westward of the suns. + + The city folk go to and fro + Behind a prison's bars, + They never feel the breezes blow + And never see the stars; + They never hear in blossomed trees + The music low and sweet + Of wild birds making melodies, + Nor catch the little laughing breeze + That whispers in the wheat. + + Our fathers came of roving stock + That could not fixed abide: + And we have followed field and flock + Since e'er we learnt to ride; + By miner's camp and shearing shed, + In land of heat and drought, + We followed where our fortunes led, + With fortune always on ahead + And always further out. + + The wind is in the barley-grass, + The wattles are in bloom; + The breezes greet us as they pass + With honey-sweet perfume; + The parakeets go screaming by + With flash of golden wing, + And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry + Their long-drawn note of revelry, + Rejoicing at the Spring. + + So throw the weary pen aside + And let the papers rest, + For we must saddle up and ride + Towards the blue hill's breast; + And we must travel far and fast + Across their rugged maze, + To find the Spring of Youth at last, + And call back from the buried past + The old Australian ways. + + When Clancy took the drover's track + In years of long ago, + He drifted to the outer back + Beyond the Overflow; + By rolling plain and rocky shelf, + With stockwhip in his hand, + He reached at last, oh lucky elf, + The Town of Come-and-help-yourself + In Rough-and-ready Land. + + And if it be that you would know + The tracks he used to ride, + Then you must saddle up and go + Beyond the Queensland side -- + Beyond the reach of rule or law, + To ride the long day through, + In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe + You then might see what Clancy saw + And know what Clancy knew. + + + + +The Ballad of the 'Calliope' + + + + By the far Samoan shore, + Where the league-long rollers pour + All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, + Riding lightly at their ease, + In the calm of tropic seas, + The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay. + + Riding lightly, head to wind, + With the coral reefs behind, + Three Germans and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue; + And on one ship unfurled + Was the flag that rules the world -- + For on the old 'Calliope' the flag of England flew. + + When the gentle off-shore breeze, + That had scarcely stirred the trees, + Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall, + Away across the main + Lowered the coming hurricane, + And far away to seaward hung the cloud wrack like a pall. + + If the word had passed around, + 'Let us move to safer ground; + Let us steam away to seaward' -- then this tale were not to tell! + But each Captain seemed to say + 'If the others stay, I stay!' + And they lingered at their moorings till the shades of evening fell. + + Then the cloud wrack neared them fast, + And there came a sudden blast, + And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main! + Like a lion on its prey, + Leapt the storm fiend on the bay, + And the vessels shook and shivered as their cables felt the strain. + + As the surging seas came by, + That were running mountains high, + The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee; + And the darkness of the night + Hid the coral reefs from sight, + And the Captains dared not risk the chance to grope their way to sea. + + In the dark they dared not shift! + They were forced to wait and drift; + All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no. + But the men on deck could see + If a chance of hope might be -- + There was little chance of safety for the men who were below. + + Through that long, long night of dread, + While the storm raged overhead, + They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar. + So they waited, staunch and true, + Though they knew, and well they knew, + They must drown like rats imprisoned if the vessel touched the shore. + + When the grey dawn broke at last, + And the long, long night was past, + While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away, + On the rocks, all smashed and strewn, + Were the German vessels thrown, + While the Yankees, swamped and helpless, drifted shorewards down the bay. + + Then at last spoke Captain Kane, + 'All our anchors are in vain, + And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee! + Cut the cables at the bow! + We must trust the engines now! + Give her steam, and let her have it, lads, we'll fight her out to sea!' + + And the answer came with cheers + From the stalwart engineers, + From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below; + And above the sullen roar + Of the breakers on the shore + Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro. + + If the strain should find a flaw, + Should a bolt or rivet draw, + Then -- God help them! for the vessel were a plaything in the tide! + With a face of honest cheer, + Quoth an English engineer, + 'I will answer for the engines that were built on old Thames side! + + 'For the stays and stanchions taut, + For the rivets truly wrought, + For the valves that fit their faces as a glove should fit the hand. + Give her every ounce of power, + If we make a knot an hour + Then it's way enough to steer her and we'll drive her from the land.' + + Like a foam flake tossed and thrown, + She could barely hold her own, + While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee. + Through the smother and the rout + The 'Calliope' steamed out -- + And they cheered her from the Trenton that was foundering in the sea. + + Aye! drifting shoreward there, + All helpless as they were, + Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled. + Without a thought of fear + The Yankees raised a cheer -- + A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world. + + + + +Do They Know + + + + Do they know? At the turn to the straight + Where the favourites fail, + And every atom of weight + Is telling its tale; + As some grim old stayer hard-pressed + Runs true to his breed, + And with head just in front of the rest + Fights on in the lead; + When the jockeys are out with the whips, + With a furlong to go; + And the backers grow white to the lips -- + Do you think THEY don't know? + + Do they know? As they come back to weigh + In a whirlwind of cheers, + Though the spurs have left marks of the fray, + Though the sweat on the ears + Gathers cold, and they sob with distress + As they roll up the track, + They know just as well their success + As the man on their back. + As they walk through a dense human lane, + That sways to and fro, + And cheers them again and again, + Do you think THEY don't know? + + + + +The Passing of Gundagai + + + + 'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, + And if you've got a vacant pen + You'd better take him in the shed + And start him shearing straight ahead, + He's one of these here quiet men. + + 'He never strikes -- that ain't his game; + No matter what the others try + HE goes on shearing just the same. + I never rightly knew his name -- + We always call him "Gundagai"!' + + Our flashest shearer then had gone + To train a racehorse for a race, + And while his sporting fit was on + He couldn't be relied upon, + So 'Gundagai' shore in his place. + + Alas for man's veracity! + For reputations false and true! + This 'Gundagai' turned out to be, + For strife and all-round villainy, + The very worst I ever knew! + + He started racing Jack Devine, + And grumbled when I made him stop. + The pace he showed was extra fine, + But all those pure-bred ewes of mine + Were bleeding like a butcher's shop. + + He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed, + From roof to rafter, floor to shelf; + As for my mongrel ewes, he said, + I ought to get a razor blade + And shave the blooming things myself. + + On Sundays he controlled a 'school', + And played 'two-up' the livelong day; + And many a young confiding fool + He shore of his financial wool; + And when he lost he would not pay. + + He organised a shearers' race, + And 'touched' me to provide the prize. + His packhorse showed surprising pace + And won hands down -- he was The Ace, + A well-known racehorse in disguise. + + Next day the bruiser of the shed + Displayed an opal-tinted eye, + With large contusions on his head. + He smiled a sickly smile, and said + He'd 'had a cut at "Gundagai"!' + + But just as we were getting full + Of 'Gundagai' and all his ways, + A telegram for 'Henry Bull' + Arrived. Said he, 'That's me -- all wool! + Let's see what this here message says.' + + He opened it, his face grew white, + He dropped the shears and turned away. + It ran, 'Your wife took bad last night; + Come home at once -- no time to write, + We fear she may not last the day.' + + He got his cheque -- I didn't care + To dock him for my mangled ewes; + His store account -- we 'called it square'. + Poor wretch! he had enough to bear, + Confronted by such dreadful news. + + The shearers raised a little purse + To help a mate, as shearers will, + 'To pay the doctor and the nurse, + And if there should be something worse -- + To pay the undertaker's bill.' + + They wrung his hand in sympathy, + He rode away without a word, + His head hung down in misery. + A wandering hawker passing by + Was told of what had just occurred. + + 'Well! that's a curious thing,' he said, + 'I've known that feller all his life -- + He's had the loan of this here shed! + I know his wife ain't nearly dead, + Because he HASN'T GOT A WIFE!' + + . . . . . + + You should have heard the whipcord crack + As angry shearers galloped by, + In vain they tried to fetch him back. + A little dust along the track + Was all they saw of 'Gundagai'. + + + + +The Wargeilah Handicap + + + + Wargeilah town is very small, + There's no cathedral nor a club, + In fact the township, all in all, + Is just one unpretentious pub; + And there, from all the stations round, + The local sportsmen can be found. + + The sportsmen of Wargeilah side + Are very few but very fit: + There's scarcely any sport been tried + But what they held their own at it + In fact, to search their records o'er, + They held their own and something more. + + 'Twas round about Wargeilah town + An English new-chum did infest: + He used to wander up and down + In baggy English breeches drest -- + His mental aspect seemed to be + Just stolid self-sufficiency. + + The local sportsmen vainly sought + His tranquil calm to counteract, + By urging that he should be brought + Within the Noxious Creatures Act. + 'Nay, harm him not,' said one more wise, + 'He is a blessing in disguise! + + 'You see, he wants to buy a horse, + To ride, and hunt, and steeplechase, + And carry ladies, too, of course, + And pull a cart and win a race. + Good gracious! he must be a flat + To think he'll get a horse like that! + + 'But since he has so little sense + And such a lot of cash to burn, + We'll sell him some experience + By which alone a fool can learn. + Suppose we let him have The Trap + To win Wargeilah Handicap!' + + And here, I must explain to you + That, round about Wargeilah run, + There lived a very aged screw + Whose days of brilliancy were done: + A grand old warrior in his prime -- + But age will beat us all in time. + + A trooper's horse in seasons past + He did his share to keep the peace, + But took to falling, and at last + Was cast for age from the Police. + A publican at Conroy's Gap + Then bought and christened him The Trap. + + When grass was good, and horses dear, + He changed his owner now and then + At prices ranging somewhere near + The neighbourhood of two pound ten: + And manfully he earned his keep + By yarding cows and ration sheep. + + They brought him in from off the grass + And fed and groomed the old horse up; + His coat began to shine like glass -- + You'd think he'd win the Melbourne Cup. + And when they'd got him fat and flash + They asked the new-chum -- fifty -- cash! + + And when he said the price was high, + Their indignation knew no bounds. + They said, 'It's seldom you can buy + A horse like that for fifty pounds! + We'll refund twenty if The Trap + Should fail to win the handicap!' + + The deed was done, the price was paid, + The new-chum put the horse in train: + The local sports were much afraid + That he would sad experience gain, + By racing with some shearer's hack, + Who'd beat him half-way round the track. + + So, on this guileless English spark + They did most fervently impress + That he must keep the matter dark, + And not let any person guess + That he was purchasing The Trap + To win Wargeilah Handicap. + + They spoke of 'spielers from The Bland', + And 'champions from the Castlereagh', + And gave the youth to understand + That all of these would stop away, + And spoil the race, if they should hear + That they had got The Trap to fear. + + 'Keep dark! They'll muster thick as flies + When once the news gets sent around + We're giving such a splendid prize -- + A Snowdon horse worth fifty pound! + They'll come right in from Dandaloo, + And find -- that it's a gift to you!' + + . . . . . + + The race came on -- with no display, + Nor any calling of the card, + But round about the pub all day + A crowd of shearers, drinking hard, + And using language in a strain + 'Twere flattery to call profane. + + Our hero, dressed in silk attire -- + Blue jacket and a scarlet cap -- + With boots that shone like flames of fire, + Now did his canter on The Trap, + And walked him up and round about, + Until the other steeds came out. + + He eyed them with a haughty look, + But saw a sight that caught his breath! + It was! Ah John! The Chinee cook! + In boots and breeches! Pale as death! + Tied with a rope, like any sack, + Upon a piebald pony's back! + + The next, a colt -- all mud and burrs! + Half-broken, with a black boy up, + Who said, 'You gim'me pair o' spurs, + I win the bloomin' Melbourne Cup!' + These two were to oppose The Trap + For the Wargeilah Handicap! + + They're off! The colt whipped down his head, + And humped his back and gave a squeal, + And bucked into the drinking shed, + Revolving like a Cath'rine wheel! + Men ran like rats! The atmosphere + Was filled with oaths and pints of beer! + + But up the course the bold Ah John + Beside The Trap raced neck and neck: + The boys had tied him firmly on, + Which ultimately proved his wreck, + The saddle turned, and, like a clown, + He rode some distance upside down. + + His legs around the horse were tied, + His feet towards the heavens were spread, + He swung and bumped at every stride + And ploughed the ground up with his head! + And when they rescued him, The Trap + Had won Wargeilah Handicap! + + And no enquiries we could make + Could tell by what false statements swayed + Ah John was led to undertake + A task so foreign to his trade! + He only smiled and said, 'Hoo Ki! + I stop topside, I win all 'li!' + + But never, in Wargeilah Town, + Was heard so eloquent a cheer + As when the President came down, + And toasted, in Colonial Beer, + 'The finest rider on the course! + The winner of the Snowdon Horse!' + + 'You go and get your prize,' he said, + 'He's with a wild mob, somewhere round + The mountains near The Watershed; + He's honestly worth fifty pound, + A noble horse, indeed, to win, + But none of US can run him in! + + 'We've chased him poor, we've chased him fat, + We've run him till our horses dropped, + But by such obstacles as that + A man like you will not be stopped, + You'll go and yard him any day, + So here's your health! Hooray! Hooray!' + + . . . . . + + The day wound up with booze and blow + And fights till all were well content, + But of the new-chum, all I know + Is shown by this advertisement -- + 'For Sale, the well-known racehorse Trap, + He won Wargeilah Handicap!' + + + + +Any Other Time + + + + All of us play our very best game -- + Any other time. + Golf or billiards, it's all the same -- + Any other time. + Lose a match and you always say, + 'Just my luck! I was 'off' to-day! + I could have beaten him quite half-way -- + Any other time!' + + After a fiver you ought to go -- + Any other time. + Every man that you ask says 'Oh, + Any OTHER time. + Lend you a fiver! I'd lend you two, + But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due, + Wish you'd ask me -- now, mind you do -- + Any other time!' + + Fellows will ask you out to dine -- + Any other time. + 'Not to-night, for we're twenty-nine -- + Any other time. + Not to-morrow, for cook's on strike, + Not next day, I'll be out on the bike -- + Just drop in whenever you like -- + Any other time!' + + Seasick passengers like the sea -- + Any other time. + 'Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me! + Any other time + Ocean-trav'lling is . . simply bliss, + Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . . + Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this -- + Any other time.' + + . . . . . + + Most of us mean to be better men -- + Any other time: + Regular upright characters then -- + Any other time. + Yet somehow as the years go by + Still we gamble and drink and lie, + When it comes to the last we'll want to die -- + Any other time! + + + + +The Last Trump + + + + 'You led the trump,' the old man said + With fury in his eye, + 'And yet you hope my girl to wed! + Young man! your hopes of love are fled, + 'Twere better she should die! + + 'My sweet young daughter sitting there, + So innocent and plump! + You don't suppose that she would care + To wed an outlawed man who'd dare + To lead the thirteenth trump! + + 'If you had drawn their leading spade + It meant a certain win! + But no! By Pembroke's mighty shade + The thirteenth trump you went and played + And let their diamonds in! + + 'My girl! Return at my command + His presents in a lump! + Return his ring! For understand + No man is fit to hold your hand + Who leads a thirteenth trump! + + 'But hold! Give every man his due + And every dog his day. + Speak up and say what made you do + This dreadful thing -- that is, if you + Have anything to say!' + + He spoke. 'I meant at first,' said he, + 'To give their spades a bump: + Or lead the hearts, but then you see + I thought against us there might be, + Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!' + + . . . . . + + They buried him at dawn of day + Beside a ruined stump: + And there he sleeps the hours away + And waits for Gabriel to play + The last -- the fourteenth -- trump. + + + + +Tar and Feathers + + + + Oh! the circus swooped down + On the Narrabri town, + For the Narrabri populace moneyed are; + And the showman he smiled + At the folk he beguiled + To come all the distance from Gunnedah. + + But a juvenile smart, + Who objected to 'part', + Went in 'on the nod', and to do it he + Crawled in through a crack + In the tent at the back, + For the boy had no slight ingenuity. + + And says he with a grin, + 'That's the way to get in; + But I reckon I'd better be quiet or + They'll spiflicate me,' + And he chuckled, for he + Had the loan of the circus proprietor. + + But the showman astute + On that wily galoot + Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him -- + Not he; with a grim + Sort of humorous whim, + He took him and tarred him and feathered him. + + Says he, 'You can go + Round the world with a show, + And knock every Injun and Arab wry; + With your name and your trade, + On the posters displayed, + The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.' + + Next day for his freak, + By a Narrabri beak, + He was jawed with a deal of verbosity; + For his only appeal + Was 'professional zeal' -- + He wanted another monstrosity. + + Said his worship, 'Begob! + You are fined forty bob, + And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says. + And the Narrabri joy, + Half bird and half boy, + Has a 'down' on himself and on circuses. + + + + +It's Grand + + + + It's grand to be a squatter + And sit upon a post, + And watch your little ewes and lambs + A-giving up the ghost. + + It's grand to be a 'cockie' + With wife and kids to keep, + And find an all-wise Providence + Has mustered all your sheep. + + It's grand to be a Western man, + With shovel in your hand, + To dig your little homestead out + From underneath the sand. + + It's grand to be a shearer, + Along the Darling side, + And pluck the wool from stinking sheep + That some days since have died. + + It's grand to be a rabbit + And breed till all is blue, + And then to die in heaps because + There's nothing left to chew. + + It's grand to be a Minister + And travel like a swell, + And tell the Central District folk + To go to -- Inverell. + + It's grand to be a Socialist + And lead the bold array + That marches to prosperity + At seven bob a day. + + It's grand to be an unemployed + And lie in the Domain, + And wake up every second day + And go to sleep again. + + It's grand to borrow English tin + To pay for wharves and Rocks, + And then to find it isn't in + The little money-box. + + It's grand to be a democrat + And toady to the mob, + For fear that if you told the truth + They'd hunt you from your job. + + It's grand to be a lot of things + In this fair Southern land, + But if the Lord would send us rain, + That would, indeed, be grand! + + + + +Out of Sight + + + + They held a polo meeting at a little country town, + And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. + There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid + They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'. + + They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur + To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure, + The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight + The rest would never see him go -- he'd finish out of sight. + + So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up, + Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'. + The horse was known as 'Who's Afraid', by Panic from 'The Fright'. + But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight. + + And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence, + Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence; + And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right -- + For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'. + + + + +The Road to Old Man's Town + + + + The fields of youth are filled with flowers, + The wine of youth is strong: + What need have we to count the hours? + The summer days are long. + + But soon we find to our dismay + That we are drifting down + The barren slopes that fall away + Towards the foothills grim and grey + That lead to Old Man's Town. + + And marching with us on the track + Full many friends we find: + We see them looking sadly back + For those that dropped behind. + + But God forbid a fate so dread -- + ALONE to travel down + The dreary road we all must tread, + With faltering steps and whitening head, + The road to Old Man's Town! + + + + +The Old Timer's Steeplechase + + + + The sheep were shorn and the wool went down + At the time of our local racing: + And I'd earned a spell -- I was burnt and brown -- + So I rolled my swag for a trip to town + And a look at the steeplechasing. + + 'Twas rough and ready -- an uncleared course + As rough as the blacks had found it; + With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse, + And a water-jump that would drown a horse, + And the steeple three times round it. + + There was never a fence the tracks to guard, -- + Some straggling posts defined 'em: + And the day was hot, and the drinking hard, + Till none of the stewards could see a yard + Before nor yet behind 'em! + + But the bell was rung and the nags were out, + Excepting an old outsider + Whose trainer started an awful rout, + For his boy had gone on a drinking bout + And left him without a rider. + + 'Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried, + 'In the whole of the crowd so clever, + Is there not one man that will take a ride + On the old white horse from the Northern side + That was bred on the Mooki River?' + + 'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow, + And a cow would look well beside him; + But I was pluckier then than now + (And I wanted excitement anyhow), + So at last I agreed to ride him. + + And the trainer said, 'Well, he's dreadful slow, + And he hasn't a chance whatever; + But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show + A trick or two that the trainers know + Who train by the Mooki River. + + 'The first time round at the further side, + With the trees and the scrub about you, + Just pull behind them and run out wide + And then dodge into the scrub and hide, + And let them go round without you. + + 'At the third time round, for the final spin + With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em, + They'll never notice if you chip in + For the last half-mile -- you'll be sure to win, + And they'll think you raced behind 'em. + + 'At the water-jump you may have to swim -- + He hasn't a hope to clear it -- + Unless he skims like the swallows skim + At full speed over, but not for him! + He'll never go next or near it. + + 'But don't you worry -- just plunge across, + For he swims like a well-trained setter. + Then hide away in the scrub and gorse + The rest will be far ahead of course -- + The further ahead the better. + + 'You must rush the jumps in the last half-round + For fear that he might refuse 'em; + He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound, + Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound, + And don't be afraid to use 'em. + + 'At the final round, when the field are slow + And you are quite fresh to meet 'em, + Sit down, and hustle him all you know + With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go -- + Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!' + + . . . . . + + The flag went down and we seemed to fly, + And we made the timbers shiver + Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by, + And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry: + 'Go on! For the Mooki River!' + + I jammed him in with a well-packed crush, + And recklessly -- out for slaughter -- + Like a living wave over fence and brush + We swept and swung with a flying rush, + Till we came to the dreaded water. + + Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think + Of the way I contrived to work it. + Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink, + He found himself on the water's brink, + With never a chance to shirk it! + + The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles + The heart of this grizzled rover! + He gave a snort you could hear for miles, + And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles + And carried me safely over! + + Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back + In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver: + And I waited there in the shadows black + While the rest of the horses, round the track, + Went on like a rushing river! + + At the second round, as the field swept by, + I saw that the pace was telling; + But on they thundered, and by-and-bye + As they passed the stand I could hear the cry + Of the folk in the distance, yelling! + + Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang! + And I said, 'Well, it's now or never!' + And out on the heels of the throng I sprang, + And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang + As I rode! For the Mooki River! + + We raced for home in a cloud of dust + And the curses rose in chorus. + 'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must! + And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust + There was one got home before us. + + 'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen + In the part of the race I'd ridden; + And his coat was cool and his rider clean, + And I thought that perhaps I had not been + The only one that had hidden. + + . . . . . + + And the trainer came with a visage blue + With rage, when the race concluded: + Said he, 'I thought you'd have pulled us through, + But the man on the black horse planted too, + AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!' + + Alas to think that those times so gay + Have vanished and passed for ever! + You don't believe in the yarn you say? + Why, man! 'Twas a matter of every day + When we raced on the Mooki River! + + + + +In the Stable + + + + What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: + Brumby to look at you reckon? Well, no: he's a thoroughbred horse; + Sired by a son of old Panic -- look at his ears and his head -- + Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? -- well, that's how the Panics are bred. + Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride, + Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide + That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good, + This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should: + Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall, + Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall. + + . . . . . + + Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days, + Made themselves kings of the district -- ruled it in old-fashioned ways -- + Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night, + Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright: + Came to the station one morning -- and why they did this no one knows -- + Took a brood mare from the paddock -- wanting some fun, I suppose -- + Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank, + Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank. + + Go! She went mad! She went tearing + and screaming with fear through the trees, + While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees. + Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run, + Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun! + Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all, + And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall. + + Day after day then I chased them -- 'course they had friends on the sly, + Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy. + Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm + One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm: + Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat, + Took to the rocks and we lost him -- the others made good their retreat. + It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed, + They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head! + + Then we heard they were gone from the district; + they stuck up a coach in the West, + And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest, + Riding this colt as a youngster -- awkward, half-broken and shy, + He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why, + But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall, + And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + + 'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead -- + bad going, with plenty of trees -- + So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees. + 'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them! It puts a man's nerve to the test + On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West. + But the half-broken colt was a racehorse! He lay down to work with a will, + Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin -- + by Heavens we FLEW down the hill! + Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer + And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me -- + a bullet sang close to my ear -- + And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it: + but I saw as we raced through the gap + That the rails at the homestead were fastened -- + I was caught like a rat in a trap. + Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock -- + barbed wire that would cut like a knife -- + How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life? + + Bang went a rifle behind me -- the colt gave a spring, he was hit; + Straight at the sliprails I rode him -- I felt him take hold of the bit; + Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride, + Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride! + Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened + barbed wire on the top of the post, + Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most; + Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall, + And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + + Yes! There's the mark of the bullet -- he's got it inside of him yet + Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret! + Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy -- eats any thing he can bite; + Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night: + Ah! We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young. + Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung, + Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend, + Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end. + But you can talk about riding -- I've ridden a lot in the past -- + Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast! + I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses', + but I think the most dashing of all + Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + + + + +"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" + + + + The long day passes with its load of sorrow: + In slumber deep + I lay me down to rest until to-morrow -- + Thank God for sleep. + + Thank God for all respite from weary toiling, + From cares that creep + Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling + God's kindly sleep. + + We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later, + We strive to reap, + And build our barns, and hope to build them greater + Before we sleep. + + We toil and strain and strive with one another + In hopes to heap + Some greater share of profit than our brother + Before we sleep. + + What will it profit that with tears or laughter + Our watch we keep? + Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter! + Thank God for sleep! + + For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us, + We turn with deep + Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us + The Gift of Sleep. + + + + +Driver Smith + + + + 'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; + He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night -- + 'Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he, + 'I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C. + + 'I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills + A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills. + And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show, + For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go. + + 'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din, + It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in -- + A-raking 'em in like human flies -- and a driver smart like me + Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.' + + So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip, + From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip. + And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack, + 'You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he -- + 'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.' + + Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more, + And Driver Smith he worked his trip -- all aboard for the seat of war! + He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast + Till he heard a sound that he knew full well -- a battery rolling past. + + He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind -- + He heard the crack of the drivers' whips, + and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind, + I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk, + But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.' + + Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face. + 'Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.' + So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance, + And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance. + + They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, + When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; + They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, + And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight. + + The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, + For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; + But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, + Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray. + + He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro, + A hard old face with a monkey beard -- a face that he seemed to know; + 'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day. + Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,' + and he jumped for him straight away. + + He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van. + It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man; + But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride, + And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.' + + He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace, + A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase; + But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day, + You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.' + + He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O., + 'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go; + And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed, + So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.' + + So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more, + For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war: + And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night, + And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight. + + + + +There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down + + + + When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, + Without a care or trouble on your mind, + And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round, + And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind; + In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise, + And a clatter on the deck above your crown, + And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out, + 'There's another blessed horse fell down.' + + You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall, + A-leaning on the railings nearly dead, + And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall, + And you curse them as you tumble into bed. + Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon, + There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown; + And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack, + There's another blessed horse fell down.' + + And when the war is over and the fighting all is done, + And you're all at home with medals on your chest, + And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun + At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest; + As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep, + And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown, + Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new, + It's another blessed horse fell down.' + + + + +On the Trek + + + + Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, + With sun above and silent veldt below; + And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, + And the homestead where the climbing roses grow. + Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? + Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? + Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, + For we're going on a long job now. + + In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, + With the endless line of waggons stretching back, + While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, + Plodding silent on the never-ending track, + While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see + Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how? + As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- + Oh! we're going on a long job now. + + When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, + And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, + Or you've watched your old mate dying -- with the vultures overhead, + Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price. + And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear, + I can picture the excitement and the row; + But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, + For we're going on a long job now. + + + + +The Last Parade + + + + With never a sound of trumpet, + With never a flag displayed, + The last of the old campaigners + Lined up for the last parade. + + Weary they were and battered, + Shoeless, and knocked about; + From under their ragged forelocks + Their hungry eyes looked out. + + And they watched as the old commander + Read out, to the cheering men, + The Nation's thanks and the orders + To carry them home again. + + And the last of the old campaigners, + Sinewy, lean, and spare -- + He spoke for his hungry comrades: + 'Have we not done our share? + + 'Starving and tired and thirsty + We limped on the blazing plain; + And after a long night's picket + You saddled us up again. + + 'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes + When the frost lay snowy-white. + Never a halt in the daytime, + Never a rest at night! + + 'We knew when the rifles rattled + From the hillside bare and brown, + And over our weary shoulders + We felt warm blood run down, + + 'As we turned for the stretching gallop, + Crushed to the earth with weight; + But we carried our riders through it -- + Carried them p'raps too late. + + 'Steel! We were steel to stand it -- + We that have lasted through, + We that are old campaigners + Pitiful, poor, and few. + + 'Over the sea you brought us, + Over the leagues of foam: + Now we have served you fairly + Will you not take us home? + + 'Home to the Hunter River, + To the flats where the lucerne grows; + Home where the Murrumbidgee + Runs white with the melted snows. + + 'This is a small thing surely! + Will not you give command + That the last of the old campaigners + Go back to their native land?' + + . . . . . + + They looked at the grim commander, + But never a sign he made. + 'Dismiss!' and the old campaigners + Moved off from their last parade. + + + + +With French to Kimberley + + + + The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; + The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! + Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good, + Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. + They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, + They flashed a message to the south 'Help! or the town must fall!' + And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, + For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + He made no march along the line; he made no front attack + Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back; + But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley, + Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. + The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, + Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. + The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall + Rode back in haste: 'He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!' + Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay, + That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: + There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; + They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, + And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! + From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, + From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows; + And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: + With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. + Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew + Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. + From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array, + To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. + The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. + The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs; + He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! + Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; + We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. + Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day + Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. + Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared. + A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side; + The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, + For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone: + But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, 'Push on!' + The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; + With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; + And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, + And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done + We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: + Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: + Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; + But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; + In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled; + And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, + The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, + The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, + The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!' + Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say + We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + + + +Johnny Boer + + + + Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, + And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. + At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about + They reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out. + But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, + He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; + You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: + But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head; + He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, + He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun. + + For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, + He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, + Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own -- + Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. + The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his hand + He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; + And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, + And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. + It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun + Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun. + + On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, + He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; + With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks + And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox. + At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, + Next day at dawn -- 'What, ho! she bumps' -- from somewhere in the rear. + Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass -- + He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; + But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun, + There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun. + + But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow, + We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go. + With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late, + We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State; + And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run, + And we'll be running after with OUR little Maxim gun. + + + + +What Have the Cavalry Done + + + + What have the cavalry done? + Cantered and trotted about, + Routin' the enemy out, + Causin' the beggars to run! + And we tramped along in the blazin' heat, + Over the veldt on our weary feet. + Tramp, tramp, tramp + Under the blazin' sun, + With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer, + 'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before -- + That's what the cavalry done! + + What have the gunners done + Battlin' every day, + Battlin' any way. + Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they? + 'Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.! + See! when the fight grows hot, + Under the rifles or not, + Always the order runs, + 'Fetch up the bloomin' guns!' + + And you'd see them great gun-horses spring + To the 'action front' -- and around they'd swing. + Find the range with some queer machine + 'At four thousand with fuse fourteen. + Ready! Fire number one!' + Handled the battery neat and quick! + Stick to it, too! How DID they stick! + Never a gunner was seen to run! + Never a gunner would leave his gun! + Not though his mates dropped all around! + Always a gunner would stand his ground. + Take the army -- the infantry, + Mounted rifles, and cavalry, + Twice the numbers I'd give away, + And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A., + For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run, + That's what the gunners done! + + + + +Right in the Front of the Army + + + + 'Where 'ave you been this week or more, + 'Aven't seen you about the war? + Thought perhaps you was at the rear + Guarding the waggons.' 'What, us? No fear! + Where have we been? Why, bless my heart, + Where have we been since the bloomin' start? + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight!' + Every separate man you see, + Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V., + Every one of 'em seems to be + Right in the front of the army! + + Most of the troops to the camp had gone, + When we met with a cow-gun toiling on; + And we said to the boys, as they walked her past, + 'Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!' + 'Here at last! Why, what d'yer mean? + Ain't we just where we've always been? + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight!' + Correspondents and vets. in force, + Mounted foot and dismounted horse, + All of them were, as a matter of course, + Right in the front of the army. + + Old Lord Roberts will have to mind + If ever the enemy get behind; + For they'll smash him up with a rear attack, + Because his army has got no back! + Think of the horrors that might befall + An army without any rear at all! + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight! + Swede attaches and German counts, + Yeomen (known as De Wet's remounts), + All of them were by their own accounts + Right in the front of the army! + + + + +That V.C. + + + + 'Twas in the days of front attack, + This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it -- + That every 'front' had got a back, + And French was just the man to turn it. + + A wounded soldier on the ground + Was lying hid behind a hummock; + He proved the good old proverb sound -- + An army travels on its stomach. + + He lay as flat as any fish, + His nose had worn a little furrow; + He only had one frantic wish, + That like an antbear he could burrow. + + The bullets whistled into space, + The pom-pom gun kept up its braying, + The four-point-seven supplied the bass -- + You'd think the devil's band was playing. + + A valiant comrade crawling near + Observed his most supine behaviour, + And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer? + Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer. + + 'You get up on my shoulders, mate, + And if we live beyond the firing, + I'll get the V.C. sure as fate, + Because our blokes is all retiring. + + 'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he, + 'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.' + 'No,' says the wounded man, 'not me, + I'll not be saved, it's far too risky. + + 'I'm fairly safe behind this mound, + I've worn a hole that seems to fit me; + But if you lift me off the ground, + It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.' + + So back towards the firing line + Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh! + Remarking 'What a selfish swine! + He might have let me be a hero.' + + + + +Fed Up + + + + I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, + I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post; + But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp, + A-drawing fire from Koppies -- well, I'm fair fed up. + + It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through; + Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you; + But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup + From that there blooming pom-pom gun -- well, I'm fed up. + + We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut, + I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut. + But after all -- What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day, + They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away. + The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights, + But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights -- + Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup, + Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up. + + And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks, + They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books. + They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead, + And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead. + Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup, + But walking forty miles to fight -- well, I'm fed up! + + So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry + I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.; + They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup, + But Bully Beef and Biscuits -- well! I'm fair fed up! + + + + +Jock! + + + + There's a soldier that's been doing of his share + In the fighting up and down and round about. + He's continually marching here and there + And he's fighting, morning in and morning out. + + The Boer, you see, he generally runs; + But sometimes when he hides behind a rock, + And we can't make no impression with the guns, + Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!' + + Yes, it's Jock -- Scotch Jock. + He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. + For he's hairy and he's hard, + And his feet are by the yard, + And his face is like the face what's on a clock. + But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- + 'Send for Jock!' + + The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance, + Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. + The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance + By holding of their helmets on their head. + + And when the Boer has dug himself a trench + And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, + These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- + They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! + + Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, + With their music that'd terrify an ox! + When the bullets kick the sand + You can hear the sharp command -- + 'Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!' + And the charge is like a flood + When they've warmed the Highland blood + Of the Jocks! + + + + +Santa Claus + + + + Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call + Rose on the midnight air + Above the noises of the camp, + The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp. + The challenge echoed over all -- + Halt! Who goes there? + + A quaint old figure clothed in white, + He bore a staff of pine, + An ivy-wreath was on his head. + 'Advance, oh friend,' the sentry said, + Advance, for this is Christmas night, + And give the countersign.' + + 'No sign nor countersign have I, + Through many lands I roam + The whole world over far and wide, + To exiles all at Christmastide, + From those who love them tenderly + I bring a thought of home. + + 'From English brook and Scottish burn, + From cold Canadian snows, + From those far lands ye hold most dear + I bring you all a greeting here, + A frond of a New Zealand fern, + A bloom of English rose. + + 'From faithful wife and loving lass + I bring a wish divine, + For Christmas blessings on your head.' + 'I wish you well,' the sentry said, + But here, alas! you may not pass + Without the countersign.' + + He vanished -- and the sentry's tramp + Re-echoed down the line. + It was not till the morning light + The soldiers knew that in the night + Old Santa Claus had come to camp + Without the countersign. + + + + +From a section of Advertisements, 1909. + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, +AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +* "The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel +in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet +boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling." + +* "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. +Eloquent and ardent verses." + +* "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, +and crowding adventure. . . . Stirring and entertaining ballads +about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs +of the horses." + +* "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author +of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'." + +* Mr. A. Patchett Martin (London): "In my opinion, +it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character +of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, +such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation." + +* "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet +whose bush ballads are as distinctively characteristic of the country +as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland." + +* "A book like this . . . is worth a dozen of the aspiring, +idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter +and a dash of real tears in its composition." + +* "These ballads . . . are full of such go that the mere reading of them +make the blood tingle. . . . But there are other things +in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, +and each piece bears the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. +The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome." + +* "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, +shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, +constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones +and capital subjects . . . We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse +with instantaneous gratitude." + + + + +RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE, AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +* "There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Paterson's verse; +there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human interest +which moves in it." + +* "Every way worthy of the man who ranks with the first of Australian poets." + +* "At once naturalistic and imaginative, and racy without being slangy, +the poems have always a strong human interest of every-day life +to keep them going. They make a book which should give an equal pleasure +to simple and to fastidious readers." + +* "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo from the older, +more experienced land, leads him to more serious singing, and proves that +real poetry is, after all, universal. It is a hearty book." + +* "Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied sympathies, +coupled with a genuine lyrical impulse, and some skill, +which makes his attempts always attractive and usually successful." + +* "These are all entertaining, their rough and ready wit +and virility of expression making them highly acceptable, +while the dash of satire gives point to the humour." + +* "He catches the bush in its most joyous moments, and writes of it +with the simple charm of an unaffected lover." + +* "Will be welcome to that too select class at home who follow +the Australian endeavour to utter a fresh and genuine poetic voice." + +* "Mr. Paterson now proves beyond question that Australia has produced +at least one singer who can voice in truest poetry the aspirations +and experiences peculiar to the Commonwealth, and who is to be ranked +with the foremost living poets of the motherland." + +* "Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that sings as it goes along. +The subjects are capital, and some of the refrains haunt one. +There is always room for a book of unpretentious, vigorous verse +of this sort." + +* "These ballads make bright and easy reading; one takes up the book, +and, delighted at the rhythm, turns page after page, +finding entertainment upon each." + + + + +Biographical Note: + +Andrew Barton Paterson was born at Narambla, in New South Wales, on 17 +February 1864, but grew up at Buckenbah and Illalong. He became a lawyer +but devoted much of his time to writing, and gained popularity +especially for his poetry and ballads. His best known poems are The Man +from Snowy River (1892) on which a motion picture was loosely based, and +Waltzing Matilda (1895) which slowly became an Australian symbol and +national song. The poems he wrote for a Sydney newspaper led him into +reporting, and he went to South Africa to cover the Boer War. Always a +fair man, he had his doubts about the war and was a little too vocal +about it for the tastes of some of his readers. During the First World +War he served in Egypt as a Major in a Remount Unit, training horses for +the war. This fit one of his main interests in life -- horses --a +preoccupation which is very evident in his poems, and even in his choice +of pseudonym --"The Banjo" was a race-horse. + +The works for which Paterson is famous were mostly written before the +First World War, and are collected in three books of poems, The Man from +Snowy River and Other Verses (1895), Rio Grande's Last Race and Other +Verses (1902), and Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses (1917). His +prose works include An Outback Marriage (1906), and Three Elephant Power +and Other Stories (1917), the latter of which is a collection of tall +tales and serious (but often humourous) reporting. In fact, above all +else it is perhaps Paterson's sense of humour that sets him apart from +such balladists as Rudyard Kipling and Robert Service. It should also be +noted that Paterson was writing his ballads before either of these +became well-known, and there was little, if any, influence from either +side. More likely, Paterson was influenced by the Scottish tradition of +poetry (Paterson was of Scottish descent) which had been popularized in +Australia by Adam Lindsay Gordon and others. Banjo Paterson died of a +heart attack on 5 February, 1941. + +A. Light, 1995. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses, by +Andrew Barton 'Banjo' Paterson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE *** + +***** This file should be named 304.txt or 304.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/304/ + +Produced by A. Light, and David M. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses +by Andrew Barton `Banjo' Paterson [Australian Poet, Reporter -- 1864-1941.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas are indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases are capitalized. +Lines longer than 78 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 has been transcribed from the original 1902 Sydney edition.] + + + + + + +Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses + +by A. B. Paterson + + + + + + +The verses in this collection have appeared in papers in various parts +of the world -- "Rio Grande" in London; most of the war verses +in Bloemfontein; others in Sydney. + A. B. Paterson. + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Rio Grande's Last Race + Now this was what Macpherson told + +By the Grey Gulf-water + Far to the Northward there lies a land, + +With the Cattle + The drought is down on field and flock, + +The First Surveyor + `The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor and all! + +Mulga Bill's Bicycle + 'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; + +The Pearl Diver + Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, + +The City of Dreadful Thirst + The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke -- + +Saltbush Bill's Gamecock + 'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; + +Hay and Hell and Booligal + `You come and see me, boys,' he said; + +A Walgett Episode + The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, + +Father Riley's Horse + 'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog + +The Scotch Engineer + With eyes that searched in the dark, + +Song of the Future + 'Tis strange that in a land so strong, + +Anthony Considine + Out in the wastes of the West countrie, + +Song of the Artesian Water + Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; + +A Disqualified Jockey's Story + You see, the thing was this way -- there was me, + +The Road to Gundagai + The mountain road goes up and down, + +Saltbush Bill's Second Fight + The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, + +Hard Luck + I left the course, and by my side + +Song of the Federation + As the nations sat together, grimly waiting -- + +The Old Australian Ways + The London lights are far abeam + +The Ballad of the `Calliope' + By the far Samoan shore, + +Do They Know + Do they know? At the turn to the straight + +The Passing of Gundagai + `I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, + +The Wargeilah Handicap + Wargeilah town is very small, + +Any Other Time + All of us play our very best game -- + +The Last Trump + `You led the trump,' the old man said + +Tar and Feathers + Oh! the circus swooped down + +It's Grand + It's grand to be a squatter + +Out of Sight + They held a polo meeting at a little country town, + +The Road to Old Man's Town + The fields of youth are filled with flowers, + +The Old Timer's Steeplechase + The sheep were shorn and the wool went down + +In the Stable + What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: + +"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" + The long day passes with its load of sorrow: + +Driver Smith + 'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; + +There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down + When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, + +On the Trek + Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, + +The Last Parade + With never a sound of trumpet, + +With French to Kimberley + The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; + +Johnny Boer + Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, + +What Have the Cavalry Done + What have the cavalry done? + +Right in the Front of the Army + `Where 'ave you been this week or more, + +That V.C. + 'Twas in the days of front attack, + +Fed Up + I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, + +Jock! + There's a soldier that's been doing of his share + +Santa Claus + Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call + + + + + + +Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses + + + + + + +Rio Grande's Last Race + + + +Now this was what Macpherson told + While waiting in the stand; +A reckless rider, over-bold, +The only man with hands to hold + The rushing Rio Grande. + +He said, `This day I bid good-bye + To bit and bridle rein, +To ditches deep and fences high, +For I have dreamed a dream, and I + Shall never ride again. + +`I dreamt last night I rode this race + That I to-day must ride, +And cant'ring down to take my place +I saw full many an old friend's face + Come stealing to my side. + +`Dead men on horses long since dead, + They clustered on the track; +The champions of the days long fled, +They moved around with noiseless tread -- + Bay, chestnut, brown, and black. + +`And one man on a big grey steed + Rode up and waved his hand; +Said he, "We help a friend in need, +And we have come to give a lead + To you and Rio Grande. + +`"For you must give the field the slip, + So never draw the rein, +But keep him moving with the whip, +And if he falter -- set your lip + And rouse him up again. + +`"But when you reach the big stone wall, + Put down your bridle hand +And let him sail -- he cannot fall -- +But don't you interfere at all; + You trust old Rio Grande." + +`We started, and in front we showed, + The big horse running free: +Right fearlessly and game he strode, +And by my side those dead men rode + Whom no one else could see. + +`As silently as flies a bird, + They rode on either hand; +At every fence I plainly heard +The phantom leader give the word, + "Make room for Rio Grande!" + +`I spurred him on to get the lead, + I chanced full many a fall; +But swifter still each phantom steed +Kept with me, and at racing speed + We reached the big stone wall. + +`And there the phantoms on each side + Drew in and blocked his leap; +"Make room! make room!" I loudly cried, +But right in front they seemed to ride -- + I cursed them in my sleep. + +`He never flinched, he faced it game, + He struck it with his chest, +And every stone burst out in flame, +And Rio Grande and I became + As phantoms with the rest. + +`And then I woke, and for a space + All nerveless did I seem; +For I have ridden many a race, +But never one at such a pace + As in that fearful dream. + +`And I am sure as man can be + That out upon the track, +Those phantoms that men cannot see +Are waiting now to ride with me, + And I shall not come back. + +`For I must ride the dead men's race, + And follow their command; +'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace +If I should fear to take my place + To-day on Rio Grande.' + +He mounted, and a jest he threw, + With never sign of gloom; +But all who heard the story knew +That Jack Macpherson, brave and true, + Was going to his doom. + +They started, and the big black steed + Came flashing past the stand; +All single-handed in the lead +He strode along at racing speed, + The mighty Rio Grande. + +But on his ribs the whalebone stung, + A madness it did seem! +And soon it rose on every tongue +That Jack Macpherson rode among + The creatures of his dream. + +He looked to left and looked to right, + As though men rode beside; +And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white, +Raced at his jumps in headlong flight + And cleared them in his stride. + +But when they reached the big stone wall, + Down went the bridle-hand, +And loud we heard Macpherson call, +`Make room, or half the field will fall! + Make room for Rio Grande!' + + . . . . . + +`He's down! he's down!' And horse and man + Lay quiet side by side! +No need the pallid face to scan, +We knew with Rio Grande he ran + The race the dead men ride. + + + + +By the Grey Gulf-water + + + +Far to the Northward there lies a land, + A wonderful land that the winds blow over, +And none may fathom nor understand + The charm it holds for the restless rover; +A great grey chaos -- a land half made, + Where endless space is and no life stirreth; +And the soul of a man will recoil afraid + From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. +But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves + Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; +Many indeed are the nameless graves + Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water. + +Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, + Drifting along with a languid motion, +Lapping the reed-beds on either side, + Wending their way to the Northern Ocean. +Grey are the plains where the emus pass + Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; +Over the dead men's graves the grass + Maybe is waving a trifle greener. +Down in the world where men toil and spin + Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; +Only the dead men her smiles can win + In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. + +For the strength of man is an insect's strength + In the face of that mighty plain and river, +And the life of a man is a moment's length + To the life of the stream that will run for ever. +And so it cometh they take no part + In small-world worries; each hardy rover +Rideth abroad and is light of heart, + With the plains around and the blue sky over. +And up in the heavens the brown lark sings + The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; +Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- + And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. + + + + +With the Cattle + + + +The drought is down on field and flock, + The river-bed is dry; +And we must shift the starving stock + Before the cattle die. +We muster up with weary hearts + At breaking of the day, +And turn our heads to foreign parts, + To take the stock away. + And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em, + And it's get the whip and flog 'em, +For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day; + By stock-routes bare and eaten, + On dusty roads and beaten, +With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away. + +We cannot use the whip for shame + On beasts that crawl along; +We have to drop the weak and lame, + And try to save the strong; +The wrath of God is on the track, + The drought fiend holds his sway, +With blows and cries and stockwhip crack + We take the stock away. + As they fall we leave them lying, + With the crows to watch them dying, +Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey; + By the fiery dust-storm drifting, + And the mocking mirage shifting, +In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away. + +In dull despair the days go by + With never hope of change, +But every stage we draw more nigh + Towards the mountain range; +And some may live to climb the pass, + And reach the great plateau, +And revel in the mountain grass, + By streamlets fed with snow. + As the mountain wind is blowing + It starts the cattle lowing, +And calling to each other down the dusty long array; + And there speaks a grizzled drover: + `Well, thank God, the worst is over, +The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away.' + +They press towards the mountain grass, + They look with eager eyes +Along the rugged stony pass, + That slopes towards the skies; +Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones, + But though the blood-drop starts, +They struggle on with stifled groans, + For hope is in their hearts. + And the cattle that are leading, + Though their feet are worn and bleeding, +Are breaking to a kind of run -- pull up, and let them go! + For the mountain wind is blowing, + And the mountain grass is growing, +They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow. + + . . . . . + +The days are done of heat and drought + Upon the stricken plain; +The wind has shifted right about, + And brought the welcome rain; +The river runs with sullen roar, + All flecked with yellow foam, +And we must take the road once more, + To bring the cattle home. + And it's `Lads! we'll raise a chorus, + There's a pleasant trip before us.' +And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track; + And the drovers canter, singing, + Through the sweet green grasses springing, +Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back. + +Are these the beasts we brought away + That move so lively now? +They scatter off like flying spray + Across the mountain's brow; +And dashing down the rugged range + We hear the stockwhip crack, +Good faith, it is a welcome change + To bring such cattle back. + And it's `Steady down the lead there!' + And it's `Let 'em stop and feed there!' +For they're wild as mountain eagles and their sides are all afoam; + But they're settling down already, + And they'll travel nice and steady, +With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home. + +We have to watch them close at night + For fear they'll make a rush, +And break away in headlong flight + Across the open bush; +And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze, + With mellow voice and strong, +We hear the lonely watchman raise + The Overlander's song: + `Oh! it's when we're done with roving, + With the camping and the droving, +It's homeward down the Bland we'll go, and never more we'll roam;' + While the stars shine out above us, + Like the eyes of those who love us -- +The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home. + +The plains are all awave with grass, + The skies are deepest blue; +And leisurely the cattle pass + And feed the long day through; +But when we sight the station gate, + We make the stockwhips crack, +A welcome sound to those who wait + To greet the cattle back: + And through the twilight falling + We hear their voices calling, +As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam; + And the children run to meet us, + And our wives and sweethearts greet us, +Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home. + + + + +The First Surveyor + + + +`The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor and all! +With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball. +Hark to 'em at the station now! They're raising cheer on cheer! +"The man who brought the railway through -- our friend the engineer!" + +`They cheer HIS pluck and enterprise and engineering skill! +'Twas my old husband found the pass behind that big Red Hill. +Before the engineer was grown we settled with our stock +Behind that great big mountain chain, a line of range and rock -- +A line that kept us starving there in weary weeks of drought, +With ne'er a track across the range to let the cattle out. + +`'Twas then, with horses starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl, +My husband went to find a way across that rocky wall. +He vanished in the wilderness, God knows where he was gone, +He hunted till his food gave out, but still he battled on. +His horses strayed -- 'twas well they did -- they made towards the grass, +And down behind that big red hill they found an easy pass. + +`He followed up and blazed the trees, to show the safest track, +Then drew his belt another hole and turned and started back. +His horses died -- just one pulled through with nothing much to spare; +God bless the beast that brought him home, the old white Arab mare! +We drove the cattle through the hills, along the new-found way, +And this was our first camping-ground -- just where I live to-day. + +`Then others came across the range and built the township here, +And then there came the railway line and this young engineer. +He drove about with tents and traps, a cook to cook his meals, +A bath to wash himself at night, a chain-man at his heels. +And that was all the pluck and skill for which he's cheered and praised, +For after all he took the track, the same my husband blazed! + +`My poor old husband, dead and gone with never feast nor cheer; +He's buried by the railway line! -- I wonder can he hear +When down the very track he marked, and close to where he's laid, +The cattle trains go roaring down the one-in-thirty grade. +I wonder does he hear them pass and can he see the sight, +When through the dark the fast express goes flaming by at night. + +`I think 'twould comfort him to know there's someone left to care, +I'll take some things this very night and hold a banquet there! +The hard old fare we've often shared together, him and me, +Some damper and a bite of beef, a pannikin of tea: +We'll do without the bands and flags, the speeches and the fuss, +We know who OUGHT to get the cheers and that's enough for us. + +`What's that? They wish that I'd come down -- the oldest settler here! +Present me to the Governor and that young engineer! +Well, just you tell his Excellence and put the thing polite, +I'm sorry, but I can't come down -- I'm dining out to-night!' + + + + +Mulga Bill's Bicycle + + + +'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze; +He turned away the good old horse that served him many days; +He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen; +He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine; +And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, +The grinning shop assistant said, `Excuse me, can you ride?' + +`See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, `from Walgett to the sea, +From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me. +I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, +Although I'm not the one to talk -- I HATE a man that blows. +But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; +Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight. +There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel, +There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel, +But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight: +I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.' + +'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode, +That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road. +He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray, +But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away. +It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak, +It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek. + +It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box: +The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks, +The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground, +As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound. +It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree, +It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be; +And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek +It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek. + +'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore: +He said, `I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before; +I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet, +But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet. +I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve +To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve. +It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still; +A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.' + + + + +The Pearl Diver + + + +Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, +Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea, +Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously. + +Over the pearl-grounds, the lugger drifted -- a little white speck: +Joe Nagasaki, the `tender', holding the life-line on deck, +Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check. + +Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one, +Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none; +Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun. + +Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye: +This was his formula always, `All man go dead by-and-bye -- +S'posing time come no can help it -- s'pose time no come, then no die.' + +Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five; +Down where by law and by reason, men are forbidden to dive; +Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive: + +Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go, +Forcing the air down that reached him heated, and tainted, and slow -- +Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below; + +Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain; +Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain: +Sailed once again to the Darnleys -- laughed and descended again! + + . . . . . + +Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; +Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; +Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch, + +Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, +Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day: +But the lumbering Dutch, with their gunboats, hunted the divers away. + +Joe Nagasaki, the `tender', finding the profits grow small, +Said, `Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! +If we get caught, go to prison -- let them take lugger and all!' + +Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant -- +Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, +Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. + +Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, +Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, +When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. + +Once that the diver was sighted pearl-shell and lugger must go. +Joe Nagasaki decided -- quick was the word and the blow -- +Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below! + +Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand, +Pulled the `haul up' on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand; +Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand. + +Joe Nagasaki, the `tender', smiling a sanctified smile, +Headed her straight for the gunboat -- throwing out shells all the while -- +Then went aboard and reported, `No makee dive in three mile! + +`Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree; +Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea: +Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!' + + . . . . . + +So the Dutch let him go, and they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, +Doubting him much, but what would you? You have to be sure of your man +Ere you wake up that nest-full of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. + +Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread, +Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead: +Joe Nagasaki, his `tender', is owner and diver instead. + +Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can, +These are the risks of the pearling -- these are the ways of Japan, +`Plenty more Japanee diver, plenty more little brown man!' + + + + +The City of Dreadful Thirst + + + +The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke -- +`They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk. +But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define +A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine. + +`Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm -- +Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm -- +We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town, +When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down, + +`We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust, +They mostly bring a Bogan shower -- three rain-drops and some dust; +But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think +That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!" + +`There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust -- we'd heard of them before, +And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war": +But -- if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst -- +That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst. + +`It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze; +It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days, +And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine +To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine. + +`Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst! +We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst. +The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub, +They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub. + +`We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried; +Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side +Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said, +Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead! + +`We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room, +And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom. +The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again, +But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train. + +`And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie, +But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die. +But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work +Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke. + +`But when you see those clouds about -- like this one over here -- +All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer, +It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst +You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!' + + . . . . . + +We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half; +He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff; +`I joined some friends last night,' he said, `in what THEY called a spree; +But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.' + +And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red, +And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead, +The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line, +That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine. + + + + +Saltbush Bill's Gamecock + + + +'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; +He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; +He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard: +For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard. +He bore no malice to Stingy Smith -- 'twas simply the hand of fate +That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate; +And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt, +It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out. +So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall, +Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall. + +'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft, +Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft; +And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame +As breeder of champion fighting cocks -- his `forte' was the British Game. +The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall +Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all. +Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, + his fowls were his sole delight; +He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight. +He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; +In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win! +The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock; +The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock; +For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all -- +And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall. + + . . . . . + +'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep, +And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep -- +A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came -- +`A drover has an Australian Bird to match with your British Game.' +'Twas done, and done in a half a trice; a five-pound note aside; +Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried. +`Steel spurs, of course?' said old Rooster Hall; + `you'll need 'em, without a doubt!' +`You stick the spurs on your bird!' said Bill, `but mine fights best without.' +`Fights best without?' said old Rooster Hall; `he can't fight best unspurred! +You must be crazy!' But Saltbush Bill said, `Wait till you see my bird!' +So Rooster Hall to his fowlyard went, and quickly back he came, +Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game. +With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumpet call, +He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall. +Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with word to his cronies two, +McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo. +Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court, +With Father D. as a picker-up -- a regular all-round Sport! +They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came, +Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game; +They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before -- +Old Rooster Hall was a blithesome man, when he thought of the treat in store. +They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene, +Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen. + +`Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill, + `and wait till you see the fight; +There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare -- + there's game-fowl stew to-night! +For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred; +And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird. +I've made a match that our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock, +But he's game enough, and it's many a mile + that he's tramped with the travelling stock.' +The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard, +Under the dray, in the shadows hid, a something moved and stirred: +A great tame Emu strutted out. Said Saltbush, `Here's our bird!' +But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word. + +The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall +Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all. +For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault, +That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault +On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard, +Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird; +And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried, +Remarked, `Discharged with a clean discharge -- the assault was justified!' + + + + +Hay and Hell and Booligal + + + +`You come and see me, boys,' he said; +`You'll find a welcome and a bed + And whisky any time you call; +Although our township hasn't got +The name of quite a lively spot -- + You see, I live in Booligal. + +`And people have an awful down +Upon the district and the town -- + Which worse than hell itself they call; +In fact, the saying far and wide +Along the Riverina side + Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal". + +`No doubt it suits 'em very well +To say it's worse than Hay or Hell, + But don't you heed their talk at all; +Of course, there's heat -- no one denies -- +And sand and dust and stacks of flies, + And rabbits, too, at Booligal. + +`But such a pleasant, quiet place, +You never see a stranger's face -- + They hardly ever care to call; +The drovers mostly pass it by; +They reckon that they'd rather die + Than spend a night in Booligal. + +`The big mosquitoes frighten some -- +You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum -- + And snakes about the township crawl; +But shearers, when they get their cheque, +They never come along and wreck + The blessed town of Booligal. + +`But down in Hay the shearers come +And fill themselves with fighting-rum, + And chase blue devils up the wall, +And fight the snaggers every day, +Until there is the deuce to pay -- + There's none of that in Booligal. + +`Of course, there isn't much to see -- +The billiard-table used to be + The great attraction for us all, +Until some careless, drunken curs +Got sleeping on it in their spurs, + And ruined it, in Booligal. + +`Just now there is a howling drought +That pretty near has starved us out -- + It never seems to rain at all; +But, if there SHOULD come any rain, +You couldn't cross the black-soil plain -- + You'd have to stop in Booligal.' + + . . . . . + +`WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath +We prayed that both in life and death + Our fate in other lines might fall: +`Oh, send us to our just reward +In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, + Deliver us from Booligal!' + + + + +A Walgett Episode + + + +The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, + The skies are blue and the plains are wide, +The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare + By Walgett out on the Barwon side -- +The Barwon river that wanders down +In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town. + +There came a stranger -- a `Cockatoo' -- + The word means farmer, as all men know +Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo + Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow +Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence +As he watches the lambkins passing hence. + +The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown, + But it soon appeared that he meant to flout +The iron law of the country town, + Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout: +`If he will not shout we must take him down,' +Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town. + +They baited a trap with a crafty bait, + With a crafty bait, for they held discourse +Concerning a new chum who of late + Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse; +They would wager that no one could ride him down +The length of the city of Walgett Town. + +The stranger was born on a horse's hide; + So he took the wagers, and made them good +With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died, + For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! -- +'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down +Full many a stranger in Walgett Town. + +The stranger smiled with a sickly smile -- + 'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins -- +And he said he had travelled for quite a while + In trying to sell some marsupial skins. +`And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down, +You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!' + +He said that his home was at Wingadee, + At Wingadee where he had for sale +Some fifty skins and would guarantee + They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail +Complete, and he sold them for money down +To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town. + +Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf, + `I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose: +You can fetch them in when it suits yourself, + And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!' +Then he left -- and the silence settled down +Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town. + + + + +Father Riley's Horse + + + +'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog + By the troopers of the Upper Murray side, +They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, + But never sight or track of him they spied, +Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late + And a whisper `Father Riley -- come across!' +So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate + And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse! + +`Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, + For its close upon my death I am to-night. +With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day + In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. +But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, + And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, +So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, + 'Tis the only way I see to save my life. + +`Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next + An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course, +I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed + And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse! +He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear + To his owner or his breeder, but I know, +That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare + And his dam was close related to The Roe. + +`And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, + He could canter while they're going at their top: +He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, + A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop! +So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, + 'Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, +You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain + If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse! + +`But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye, + For the stars above the East are growing pale. +And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! + But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! +You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip + Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. +Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip + Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, good-bye!' and he had fled! + +So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, + In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; +There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights + Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. +There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, + And their riders flogged each other all the while. +And the lashins of the liquor! And the lavins of the grub! + Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style. + +Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, + For the folk were mostly Irish round about, +And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, + They were training morning in and morning out. +But they never started training till the sun was on the course + For a superstitious story kept 'em back, +That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, + Had been training by the starlight on the track. + +And they read the nominations for the races with surprise + And amusement at the Father's little joke, +For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, + And they found that it was Father Riley's moke! +He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! + But his owner's views of training were immense, +For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, + And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. + +And the priest would join the laughter; `Oh,' said he, `I put him in, + For there's five and twenty sovereigns to be won. +And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, + And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!' +He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for clear the course, + And his colours were a vivid shade of green: +All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, + While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin! + +It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, + Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, +And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, + That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. +`You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, + And the fences is terrific, and the rest! +When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, + And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. + +`For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, + And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, +But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, + Will be running by his side to keep him straight. +And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, + Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! +I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! + And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!' + + . . . . . + +Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round, + And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. +There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, + Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! +But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, + For the finish down the long green stretch of course, +And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, + Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse! + +Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! + For he left the others standing, in the straight; +And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, + And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! +But he weighed it, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, + Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), +And old Hogan muttered sagely, `If it wasn't for the beard + They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!' + +And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide + Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. +There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, + And they wondered who on earth he could have been. +But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, + 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, +That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out + For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse! + + + + +The Scotch Engineer + + + +With eyes that searched in the dark, +Peering along the line, +Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark, +Driver of `Forty-nine', +And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead, +Like a blood-red beacon sign. + +There was word of a fight to the north, +And a column hard-pressed, +So they started the Highlanders forth, +Without food, without rest. + +But the pipers gaily played, +Chanting their fierce delight, +And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed, +Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade, +Hurrying up to the fight, +And the grim, grey Highland engineer, +Driving them into the night. + +Then a signal light glowed red, +And a picket came to the track. +`Enemy holding the line ahead, +Three of our mates we have left for dead, +Only we two got back.' +And far to the north through the still night air, +They heard the rifles crack. + +And the boom of a gun rang out, +Like the sound of a deep appeal, +And the picket stood in doubt +By the side of the driving-wheel. + +But the Engineer looked down, +With his hand on the starting-bar, +`Ride ye back to the town, +Ye know what my orders are, +Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade +Up on those hills afar. + +`I am no soldier at all, +Only an engineer, +But I could not bear that the folk should say, +Over in Scotland -- Glasgow way -- +That Hector Clark stayed here +With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone, +With ever a rail to run her on. +Ready behind! Stand clear! + +`Fireman, get you gone +Into the armoured train, +I will drive her alone; +One more trip -- and perhaps the last -- +With a well-raked fire and an open blast -- +Hark to the rifles again.' + + . . . . . + +On through the choking dark, +Never a lamp nor a light, +Never an engine spark, +Showing her hurried flight. +Over the lonely plain +Rushed the great armoured train, +Hurrying up to the fight. + +Then with her living freight +On to the foe she came, +And the rifles snapped their hate, +And the darkness spouted flame. + +Over the roar of the fray +The hungry bullets whined, +As she dashed through the foe that lay +Loading and firing blind, +Till the glare of the furnace burning clear +Showed them the form of the engineer, +Sharply and well defined. + +Through! They were safely through! +Hark to the column's cheer! +Surely the driver knew +He was to halt her here; +But he took no heed of the signals red, +And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead, +There on the floor of his engine -- dead, +Lay the Scotch Engineer! + + + + +Song of the Future + + + +'Tis strange that in a land so strong, +So strong and bold in mighty youth, +We have no poet's voice of truth +To sing for us a wondrous song. + +Our chiefest singer yet has sung +In wild, sweet notes a passing strain, +All carelessly and sadly flung +To that dull world he thought so vain. + +`I care for nothing, good nor bad, +My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, +I am but sifting sand,' he said: +What wonder Gordon's songs were sad! + +And yet, not always sad and hard; +In cheerful mood and light of heart +He told the tale of Britomarte, +And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard. + +And some have said that Nature's face +To us is always sad; but these +Have never felt the smiling grace +Of waving grass and forest trees +On sunlit plains as wide as seas. + +`A land where dull Despair is king +O'er scentless flower and songless bird!' +But we have heard the bell-birds ring +Their silver bells at eventide, +Like fairies on the mountain side, +The sweetest note man ever heard. + +The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; +The bronzewing pigeons call and coo +Beside their nests the long day through; +The magpie warbles clear and strong +A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, +For all God's mercies upon earth. + +And many voices such as these +Are joyful sounds for those to tell, +Who know the Bush and love it well, +With all its hidden mysteries. + +We cannot love the restless sea, +That rolls and tosses to and fro +Like some fierce creature in its glee; +For human weal or human woe +It has no touch of sympathy. + +For us the bush is never sad: +Its myriad voices whisper low, +In tones the bushmen only know, +Its sympathy and welcome glad. + +For us the roving breezes bring +From many a blossom-tufted tree -- +Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- +The honey-laden breath of Spring. + + . . . . . + +We have no tales of other days, +No bygone history to tell; +Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze +At midnight, when the solemn hush +Of that vast wonderland, the Bush, +Hath laid on every heart its spell. + +Although we have no songs of strife, +Of bloodshed reddening the land, +We yet may find achievements grand +Within the bushman's quiet life. + +Lift ye your faces to the sky +Ye far blue mountains of the West, +Who lie so peacefully at rest +Enshrouded in a haze of blue; +'Tis hard to feel that years went by +Before the pioneers broke through +Your rocky heights and walls of stone, +And made your secrets all their own. + +For years the fertile Western plains +Were hid behind your sullen walls, +Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls +All weatherworn with tropic rains. + +Between the mountains and the sea, +Like Israelites with staff in hand, +The people waited restlessly: +They looked towards the mountains old +And saw the sunsets come and go +With gorgeous golden afterglow, +That made the West a fairyland, +And marvelled what that West might be +Of which such wondrous tales were told. + +For tales were told of inland seas +Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, +And sandy deserts, white and wan, +Where never trod the foot of man, +Nor bird went winging overhead, +Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze +To wake the silence with its breath -- +A land of loneliness and death. + +At length the hardy pioneers +By rock and crag found out the way, +And woke with voices of to-day, +A silence kept for years and years. + +Upon the Western slope they stood +And saw -- a wide expanse of plain +As far as eye could stretch or see +Go rolling westward endlessly. +The native grasses, tall as grain, +Were waved and rippled in the breeze; +From boughs of blossom-laden trees +The parrots answered back again. +They saw the land that it was good, +A land of fatness all untrod, +And gave their silent thanks to God. + +The way is won! The way is won! +And straightway from the barren coast +There came a westward-marching host, +That aye and ever onward prest +With eager faces to the West, +Along the pathway of the sun. + +The mountains saw them marching by: +They faced the all-consuming drought, +They would not rest in settled land: +But, taking each his life in hand, +Their faces ever westward bent +Beyond the farthest settlement, +Responding to the challenge cry +Of `better country further out.' + +And lo a miracle! the land +But yesterday was all unknown, +The wild man's boomerang was thrown +Where now great busy cities stand. +It was not much, you say, that these +Should win their way where none withstood; +In sooth there was not much of blood +No war was fought between the seas. + +It was not much! but we who know +The strange capricious land they trod -- +At times a stricken, parching sod, +At times with raging floods beset -- +Through which they found their lonely way, +Are quite content that you should say +It was not much, while we can feel +That nothing in the ages old, +In song or story written yet +On Grecian urn or Roman arch, +Though it should ring with clash of steel, +Could braver histories unfold +Than this bush story, yet untold -- +The story of their westward march. + + . . . . . + +But times are changed, and changes rung +From old to new -- the olden days, +The old bush life and all its ways +Are passing from us all unsung. +The freedom, and the hopeful sense +Of toil that brought due recompense, +Of room for all, has passed away, +And lies forgotten with the dead. +Within our streets men cry for bread +In cities built but yesterday. + +About us stretches wealth of land, +A boundless wealth of virgin soil +As yet unfruitful and untilled! +Our willing workmen, strong and skilled +Within our cities idle stand, +And cry aloud for leave to toil. + +The stunted children come and go +In squalid lanes and alleys black; +We follow but the beaten track +Of other nations, and we grow +In wealth for some -- for many, woe. + +And it may be that we who live +In this new land apart, beyond +The hard old world grown fierce and fond +And bound by precedent and bond, +May read the riddle right and give +New hope to those who dimly see +That all things may be yet for good, +And teach the world at length to be +One vast united brotherhood. + + . . . . . + +So may it be, and he who sings +In accents hopeful, clear, and strong, +The glories which that future brings +Shall sing, indeed, a wond'rous song. + + + + +Anthony Considine + + + +Out in the wastes of the West countrie, + Out where the white stars shine, +Grim and silent as such men be, +Rideth a man with a history -- + Anthony Considine. + +For the ways of men they are manifold + As their differing views in life; +For some are sold for the lust of gold + And some for the lust of strife: +But this man counted the world well lost + For the love of his neighbour's wife. + +They fled together, as those must flee + Whom all men hold in blame; +Each to the other must all things be +Who cross the gulf of iniquity + And live in the land of shame. + +But a light-o'-love, if she sins with one, + She sinneth with ninety-nine: +The rule holds good since the world begun -- +Since ever the streams began to run + And the stars began to shine. +The rule holds true, and he found it true -- + Anthony Considine. + +A nobler spirit had turned in scorn + From a love that was stained with mire; +A weaker being might mourn and mourn + For the loss of his Heart's Desire: +But the anger of Anthony Considine + Blazed up like a flaming fire. + +And she, with her new love, presently + Came past with her eyes ashine; +And God so willed it, and God knows why, +She turned and laughed as they passed him by -- + Anthony Considine. + +Her laughter stung as a whip might sting; + And mad with his wounded pride +He turned and sprang with a panther's spring + And struck at his rival's side: +And only the woman, shuddering, + Could tell how the dead man died! + +She dared not speak -- and the mystery + Is buried in auld lang syne, +But out on the wastes of the West countrie, +Grim and silent as such men be, +Rideth a man with a history -- + Anthony Considine. + + + + +Song of the Artesian Water + + + +Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; +But we're sick of prayers and Providence -- we're going to do without; +With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below, +We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we'll sink it deeper down: +As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level, +If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil; +Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down. + +Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot, +And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what: +When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs, +She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down: +If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter, +For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter, +But we're bound to get the water deeper down. + +But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow, +And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below, +And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shift +Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down +Though the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming, +Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming -- +While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down. + +But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet, +And the contract price is growing and the boss is nearly beat. +But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go, +Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below. + Sinking down, deeper down, + Oh, we're going deeper down: +And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin'; +But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in -- +Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down. + +But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast, +And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last, +And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet below +Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow. + And it's down, deeper down -- + Oh, it comes from deeper down; +It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure +From the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure -- +Where the old earth hides her treasure deeper down. + +And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run: +How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun! +By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain +It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again. + Flowing down, further down; + It is flowing further down +To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going; +Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing -- +It is flowing, ever flowing, further down. + + + + +A Disqualified Jockey's Story + + + +You see, the thing was this way -- there was me, +That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare, +And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook, +And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret, +And that long bloke from Wagga -- him what rode +Veronikew, the Snowy River horse. +Well, none of them had chances -- not a chance +Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead +Or wasn't trying -- for a blind man's dog +Could see Enchantress was a certain cop, +And all the books was layin' six to four. + +They brought her out to show our lot the road, +Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know, +You can't believe 'em, though they took an oath +On forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth. +But anyhow, an amateur was up +On this Enchantress, and so Ike and me, +We thought that we might frighten him a bit +By asking if he minded riding rough -- +`Oh, not at all,' says he, `oh, not at all! +I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comes +To bumping I'm your Moses! Strike me blue!' +Says he, `I'll bump you over either rail, +The inside rail or outside -- which you choose +Is good enough for me' -- which settled Ike; +For he was shaky since he near got killed +From being sent a buster on the rail, +When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down +At Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it best +To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed. + +So all the books was layin' six to four +Against the favourite, and the amateur +Was walking this Enchantress up and down, +And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought +We might as well get something for ourselves, +Because we knew our horses couldn't win. +But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob; +Because he said he reckoned he was stiff, +And all the books was layin' six to four. + +Well, anyhow, before the start, the news +Got round that this here amateur was stiff, +And our good stuff was blued, and all the books +Was in it, and the prices lengthened out, +And every book was bustin' of his throat, +And layin' five to one the favourite. +So there was we that couldn't win ourselves, +And this here amateur that wouldn't try, +And all the books was layin' five to one. + +So Smithy says to me, `You take a hold +Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn +Come up behind Enchantress with the whip +And let her have it; that long bloke and me +Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us +We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight, +And Ikey'll flog her home, because his boss +Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what, +And so he won't be touched -- and, as for us, +We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!' +And all the books was layin' five to one. + +Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn +I saw the amateur was holding back +And poking into every hole he could +To get her blocked, and so I pulled behind +And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare -- +I let her have it twice, and then she shot +Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out +And let her up beside him on the rails, +And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke +Until she struggled past him pullin' hard +And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip +And hit her on the nose and sent her back +And won the race himself -- for, after all, +It seems he had a fiver on the Dook +And never told us -- so our stuff was lost. +And then they had us up for ridin' foul, +And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each, +To get our livin' any way we could; +But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss +Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what. + +But Mister -- if you'll lend us half-a-crown, +I know three certain winners at the Park -- +Three certain cops as no one knows but me; +And -- thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer +(I always like a beer about this time) . . . +Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again. + + + + +The Road to Gundagai + + + +The mountain road goes up and down, +From Gundagai to Tumut Town. + +And branching off there runs a track, +Across the foothills grim and black, + +Across the plains and ranges grey +To Sydney city far away. + + . . . . . + +It came by chance one day that I +From Tumut rode to Gundagai. + +And reached about the evening tide +The crossing where the roads divide; + +And, waiting at the crossing place, +I saw a maiden fair of face, + +With eyes of deepest violet blue, +And cheeks to match the rose in hue -- + +The fairest maids Australia knows +Are bred among the mountain snows. + +Then, fearing I might go astray, +I asked if she could show the way. + +Her voice might well a man bewitch -- +Its tones so supple, deep, and rich. + +`The tracks are clear,' she made reply, +`And this goes down to Sydney town, +And that one goes to Gundagai.' + +Then slowly, looking coyly back, +She went along the Sydney track. + +And I for one was well content +To go the road the lady went; + +But round the turn a swain she met -- +The kiss she gave him haunts me yet! + + . . . . . + +I turned and travelled with a sigh +The lonely road to Gundagai. + + + + +Saltbush Bill's Second Fight + + + +The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, +That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, +Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh; +And the squatters swore when they heard the news, + and wished they were well away: +For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country side +For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, + and the dodges and tricks he tried. +He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, + and stray to the squatters' grass; +He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass; +And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew, +If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through: +But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill, +And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill. + + . . . . . + +'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring, +When he stared at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with jaunty swing; +For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track +Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back. +So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, + and asked could he camp the night; +But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and he said to him, `Can you fight?' +`Why, what's the game?' said the clean-shaved tramp, + as he looked at him up and down -- +`If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown! +But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me, it wouldn't be fair nor right; +I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight: +I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm a trampin' back, +To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track ----' +`Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap,' said Stingy Smith with glee; +`A bullying fellow, called Saltbush Bill -- and you are the man for me. +He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row, +For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow -- +Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard, +And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard. +It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill, +For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill.' + +`I'll take the job,' said the fighting man; `and hot as this cove appears, +He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, + what's lived on the game for years; +For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so, +But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show; +They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, + and they tried for it every night -- +In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight, +For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line; +And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine: +If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait +Till an opening came -- and it ALWAYS came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate; +Left on the ribs and right on the jaw -- + and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE! +And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur: +For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours, +That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs ----' +`Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut,' + said Smith, `for you waste your breath; +You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight, + of talking your man to death. +I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill, +And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill.' + + . . . . . + +'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way +On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run, + on their six-mile stage a day; +And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along, +And, when Stingy Smith came up, Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong; +And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed + and strayed from their camp at night, +But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight: +So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground + and never a sound was heard +But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word, +Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout, +And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow -- and Saltbush Bill `went out'. +He fell face down, and towards the blow; + and their hearts with fear were filled, +For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed. +So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground, +And sent to home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round; +But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt -- + in fact, he could scarcely speak -- +So they let him spell till he got his wits, and he camped on the run a week, +While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray, +Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh. + + . . . . . + +Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man: +'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran: +`The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name; +He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game: +But it's worth your while to employ the chap, + for there isn't the slightest doubt +You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about ----' +But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal: +`The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all! +He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look; +He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook. +Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn, and taught him the tale by rote, +And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass + and divided your five-pound note. +'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise -- + 'twill save you a lot of pelf -- +When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself.' + + . . . . . + +And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain, +And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black soil plain, +When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool, +And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull, +When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses them while he flogs, +And the air is thick with the language used, + and the clamour of men and dogs -- +The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat, +They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith + when he read that neighbour's note. + + + + +Hard Luck + + + +I left the course, and by my side + There walked a ruined tout -- +A hungry creature evil-eyed, + Who poured this story out. + +`You see,' he said, `there came a swell + To Kensington to-day, +And if I picked the winners well, + A crown at least he'd pay. + +`I picked three winners straight, I did, + I filled his purse with pelf, +And then he gave me half-a-quid, + To back one for myself. + +`A half-a-quid to me he cast, + I wanted it indeed. +So help me Bob, for two days past + I haven't had a feed. + +`But still I thought my luck was in, + I couldn't go astray, +I put it all on Little Min, + And lost it straightaway. + +`I haven't got a bite or bed, + I'm absolutely stuck, +So keep this lesson in your head: + Don't over-trust your luck!' + +The folks went homeward, near and far, + The tout, Oh! where was he? +Ask where the empty boilers are, + Beside the Circular Quay. + + + + +Song of the Federation + + + +As the nations sat together, grimly waiting -- + The fierce old nations battle-scarred -- +Grown grey in their lusting and their hating, + Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard, +Through the tumult of their warlike preparation + And the half-stilled clamour of the drums +Came a voice crying, `Lo! a new-made nation, + To her place in the sisterhood she comes!' + +And she came -- she was beautiful as morning, + With the bloom of the roses in her mouth, +Like a young queen lavishly adorning + Her charms with the splendours of the South. +And the fierce old nations, looking on her, + Said, `Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown, +Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her, + Hath she power to protect and guard her own? + +Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing + In the ears of the nations old and gray, +Saying, `Hark, and ye shall hear my children singing + Their war-song in countries far away. +They are strangers to the tumult of the battle, + They are few but their hearts are very strong, +'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle, + But they now sing Australia's marching song.' + + + Song of the Australians in Action + + + For the honour of Australia, our mother, + Side by side with our kin from over sea, + We have fought and we have tested one another, + And enrolled among the brotherhood are we. + + There was never post of danger but we sought it + In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood. + There was never prize so costly but we bought it, + Though we paid for its purchase with our blood. + + Was there any road too rough for us to travel? + Was there any path too far for us to tread? + You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel + On the roads that we milestoned with our dead! + + And for you, oh our young and anxious mother, + O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward, + Neither fearing nor despising any other, + We will hold your possessions with the sword. + + . . . . . + +Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping, + The grey-clad figures with their dead, +To the sound of their women softly weeping + And the Dead March moaning at their head: +And the Nations, as the grim procession ended, + Whispered, `Child! But ye have seen the price we pay, +From War may we ever be defended, + Kneel ye down, new-made Sister -- Let us Pray!' + + + + +The Old Australian Ways + + + +The London lights are far abeam + Behind a bank of cloud, +Along the shore the gaslights gleam, + The gale is piping loud; +And down the Channel, groping blind, + We drive her through the haze +Towards the land we left behind -- +The good old land of `never mind', + And old Australian ways. + +The narrow ways of English folk + Are not for such as we; +They bear the long-accustomed yoke + Of staid conservancy: +But all our roads are new and strange, + And through our blood there runs +The vagabonding love of change +That drove us westward of the range + And westward of the suns. + +The city folk go to and fro + Behind a prison's bars, +They never feel the breezes blow + And never see the stars; +They never hear in blossomed trees + The music low and sweet +Of wild birds making melodies, +Nor catch the little laughing breeze + That whispers in the wheat. + +Our fathers came of roving stock + That could not fixed abide: +And we have followed field and flock + Since e'er we learnt to ride; +By miner's camp and shearing shed, + In land of heat and drought, +We followed where our fortunes led, +With fortune always on ahead + And always further out. + +The wind is in the barley-grass, + The wattles are in bloom; +The breezes greet us as they pass + With honey-sweet perfume; +The parakeets go screaming by + With flash of golden wing, +And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry +Their long-drawn note of revelry, + Rejoicing at the Spring. + +So throw the weary pen aside + And let the papers rest, +For we must saddle up and ride + Towards the blue hill's breast; +And we must travel far and fast + Across their rugged maze, +To find the Spring of Youth at last, +And call back from the buried past + The old Australian ways. + +When Clancy took the drover's track + In years of long ago, +He drifted to the outer back + Beyond the Overflow; +By rolling plain and rocky shelf, + With stockwhip in his hand, +He reached at last, oh lucky elf, +The Town of Come-and-help-yourself + In Rough-and-ready Land. + +And if it be that you would know + The tracks he used to ride, +Then you must saddle up and go + Beyond the Queensland side -- +Beyond the reach of rule or law, + To ride the long day through, +In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe +You then might see what Clancy saw + And know what Clancy knew. + + + + +The Ballad of the `Calliope' + + + + By the far Samoan shore, + Where the league-long rollers pour +All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, + Riding lightly at their ease, + In the calm of tropic seas, +The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay. + + Riding lightly, head to wind, + With the coral reefs behind, +Three Germans and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue; + And on one ship unfurled + Was the flag that rules the world -- +For on the old `Calliope' the flag of England flew. + + When the gentle off-shore breeze, + That had scarcely stirred the trees, +Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall, + Away across the main + Lowered the coming hurricane, +And far away to seaward hung the cloud wrack like a pall. + + If the word had passed around, + `Let us move to safer ground; +Let us steam away to seaward' -- then this tale were not to tell! + But each Captain seemed to say + `If the others stay, I stay!' +And they lingered at their moorings till the shades of evening fell. + + Then the cloud wrack neared them fast, + And there came a sudden blast, +And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main! + Like a lion on its prey, + Leapt the storm fiend on the bay, +And the vessels shook and shivered as their cables felt the strain. + + As the surging seas came by, + That were running mountains high, +The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee; + And the darkness of the night + Hid the coral reefs from sight, +And the Captains dared not risk the chance to grope their way to sea. + + In the dark they dared not shift! + They were forced to wait and drift; +All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no. + But the men on deck could see + If a chance of hope might be -- +There was little chance of safety for the men who were below. + + Through that long, long night of dread, + While the storm raged overhead, +They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar. + So they waited, staunch and true, + Though they knew, and well they knew, +They must drown like rats imprisoned if the vessel touched the shore. + + When the grey dawn broke at last, + And the long, long night was past, +While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away, + On the rocks, all smashed and strewn, + Were the German vessels thrown, +While the Yankees, swamped and helpless, drifted shorewards down the bay. + + Then at last spoke Captain Kane, + `All our anchors are in vain, +And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee! + Cut the cables at the bow! + We must trust the engines now! +Give her steam, and let her have it, lads, we'll fight her out to sea!' + + And the answer came with cheers + From the stalwart engineers, +From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below; + And above the sullen roar + Of the breakers on the shore +Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro. + + If the strain should find a flaw, + Should a bolt or rivet draw, +Then -- God help them! for the vessel were a plaything in the tide! + With a face of honest cheer, + Quoth an English engineer, +`I will answer for the engines that were built on old Thames side! + + `For the stays and stanchions taut, + For the rivets truly wrought, +For the valves that fit their faces as a glove should fit the hand. + Give her every ounce of power, + If we make a knot an hour +Then it's way enough to steer her and we'll drive her from the land.' + + Like a foam flake tossed and thrown, + She could barely hold her own, +While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee. + Through the smother and the rout + The `Calliope' steamed out -- +And they cheered her from the Trenton that was foundering in the sea. + + Aye! drifting shoreward there, + All helpless as they were, +Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled. + Without a thought of fear + The Yankees raised a cheer -- +A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world. + + + + +Do They Know + + + +Do they know? At the turn to the straight + Where the favourites fail, +And every atom of weight + Is telling its tale; +As some grim old stayer hard-pressed + Runs true to his breed, +And with head just in front of the rest + Fights on in the lead; +When the jockeys are out with the whips, + With a furlong to go; +And the backers grow white to the lips -- + Do you think THEY don't know? + +Do they know? As they come back to weigh + In a whirlwind of cheers, +Though the spurs have left marks of the fray, + Though the sweat on the ears +Gathers cold, and they sob with distress + As they roll up the track, +They know just as well their success + As the man on their back. +As they walk through a dense human lane, + That sways to and fro, +And cheers them again and again, + Do you think THEY don't know? + + + + +The Passing of Gundagai + + + +`I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, + And if you've got a vacant pen +You'd better take him in the shed +And start him shearing straight ahead, + He's one of these here quiet men. + +`He never strikes -- that ain't his game; + No matter what the others try +HE goes on shearing just the same. +I never rightly knew his name -- + We always call him "Gundagai"!' + +Our flashest shearer then had gone + To train a racehorse for a race, +And while his sporting fit was on +He couldn't be relied upon, + So `Gundagai' shore in his place. + +Alas for man's veracity! + For reputations false and true! +This `Gundagai' turned out to be, +For strife and all-round villainy, + The very worst I ever knew! + +He started racing Jack Devine, + And grumbled when I made him stop. +The pace he showed was extra fine, +But all those pure-bred ewes of mine + Were bleeding like a butcher's shop. + +He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed, + From roof to rafter, floor to shelf; +As for my mongrel ewes, he said, +I ought to get a razor blade + And shave the blooming things myself. + +On Sundays he controlled a `school', + And played `two-up' the livelong day; +And many a young confiding fool +He shore of his financial wool; + And when he lost he would not pay. + +He organised a shearers' race, + And `touched' me to provide the prize. +His packhorse showed surprising pace +And won hands down -- he was The Ace, + A well-known racehorse in disguise. + +Next day the bruiser of the shed + Displayed an opal-tinted eye, +With large contusions on his head. +He smiled a sickly smile, and said + He'd `had a cut at "Gundagai"!' + +But just as we were getting full + Of `Gundagai' and all his ways, +A telegram for `Henry Bull' +Arrived. Said he, `That's me -- all wool! + Let's see what this here message says.' + +He opened it, his face grew white, + He dropped the shears and turned away. +It ran, `Your wife took bad last night; +Come home at once -- no time to write, + We fear she may not last the day.' + +He got his cheque -- I didn't care + To dock him for my mangled ewes; +His store account -- we `called it square'. +Poor wretch! he had enough to bear, + Confronted by such dreadful news. + +The shearers raised a little purse + To help a mate, as shearers will, +`To pay the doctor and the nurse, +And if there should be something worse -- + To pay the undertaker's bill.' + +They wrung his hand in sympathy, + He rode away without a word, +His head hung down in misery. +A wandering hawker passing by + Was told of what had just occurred. + +`Well! that's a curious thing,' he said, + `I've known that feller all his life -- +He's had the loan of this here shed! +I know his wife ain't nearly dead, + Because he HASN'T GOT A WIFE!' + + . . . . . + +You should have heard the whipcord crack + As angry shearers galloped by, +In vain they tried to fetch him back. +A little dust along the track + Was all they saw of `Gundagai'. + + + + +The Wargeilah Handicap + + + +Wargeilah town is very small, + There's no cathedral nor a club, +In fact the township, all in all, + Is just one unpretentious pub; +And there, from all the stations round, +The local sportsmen can be found. + +The sportsmen of Wargeilah side + Are very few but very fit: +There's scarcely any sport been tried + But what they held their own at it +In fact, to search their records o'er, +They held their own and something more. + +'Twas round about Wargeilah town + An English new-chum did infest: +He used to wander up and down + In baggy English breeches drest -- +His mental aspect seemed to be +Just stolid self-sufficiency. + +The local sportsmen vainly sought + His tranquil calm to counteract, +By urging that he should be brought + Within the Noxious Creatures Act. +`Nay, harm him not,' said one more wise, +`He is a blessing in disguise! + +`You see, he wants to buy a horse, + To ride, and hunt, and steeplechase, +And carry ladies, too, of course, + And pull a cart and win a race. +Good gracious! he must be a flat +To think he'll get a horse like that! + +`But since he has so little sense + And such a lot of cash to burn, +We'll sell him some experience + By which alone a fool can learn. +Suppose we let him have The Trap +To win Wargeilah Handicap!' + +And here, I must explain to you + That, round about Wargeilah run, +There lived a very aged screw + Whose days of brilliancy were done: +A grand old warrior in his prime -- +But age will beat us all in time. + +A trooper's horse in seasons past + He did his share to keep the peace, +But took to falling, and at last + Was cast for age from the Police. +A publican at Conroy's Gap +Then bought and christened him The Trap. + +When grass was good, and horses dear, + He changed his owner now and then +At prices ranging somewhere near + The neighbourhood of two pound ten: +And manfully he earned his keep +By yarding cows and ration sheep. + +They brought him in from off the grass + And fed and groomed the old horse up; +His coat began to shine like glass -- + You'd think he'd win the Melbourne Cup. +And when they'd got him fat and flash +They asked the new-chum -- fifty -- cash! + +And when he said the price was high, + Their indignation knew no bounds. +They said, `It's seldom you can buy + A horse like that for fifty pounds! +We'll refund twenty if The Trap +Should fail to win the handicap!' + +The deed was done, the price was paid, + The new-chum put the horse in train: +The local sports were much afraid + That he would sad experience gain, +By racing with some shearer's hack, +Who'd beat him half-way round the track. + +So, on this guileless English spark + They did most fervently impress +That he must keep the matter dark, + And not let any person guess +That he was purchasing The Trap +To win Wargeilah Handicap. + +They spoke of `spielers from The Bland', + And `champions from the Castlereagh', +And gave the youth to understand + That all of these would stop away, +And spoil the race, if they should hear +That they had got The Trap to fear. + +`Keep dark! They'll muster thick as flies + When once the news gets sent around +We're giving such a splendid prize -- + A Snowdon horse worth fifty pound! +They'll come right in from Dandaloo, +And find -- that it's a gift to you!' + + . . . . . + +The race came on -- with no display, + Nor any calling of the card, +But round about the pub all day + A crowd of shearers, drinking hard, +And using language in a strain +'Twere flattery to call profane. + +Our hero, dressed in silk attire -- + Blue jacket and a scarlet cap -- +With boots that shone like flames of fire, + Now did his canter on The Trap, +And walked him up and round about, +Until the other steeds came out. + +He eyed them with a haughty look, + But saw a sight that caught his breath! +It was! Ah John! The Chinee cook! + In boots and breeches! Pale as death! +Tied with a rope, like any sack, +Upon a piebald pony's back! + +The next, a colt -- all mud and burrs! + Half-broken, with a black boy up, +Who said, `You gim'me pair o' spurs, + I win the bloomin' Melbourne Cup!' +These two were to oppose The Trap +For the Wargeilah Handicap! + +They're off! The colt whipped down his head, + And humped his back and gave a squeal, +And bucked into the drinking shed, + Revolving like a Cath'rine wheel! +Men ran like rats! The atmosphere +Was filled with oaths and pints of beer! + +But up the course the bold Ah John + Beside The Trap raced neck and neck: +The boys had tied him firmly on, + Which ultimately proved his wreck, +The saddle turned, and, like a clown, +He rode some distance upside down. + +His legs around the horse were tied, + His feet towards the heavens were spread, +He swung and bumped at every stride + And ploughed the ground up with his head! +And when they rescued him, The Trap +Had won Wargeilah Handicap! + +And no enquiries we could make + Could tell by what false statements swayed +Ah John was led to undertake + A task so foreign to his trade! +He only smiled and said, `Hoo Ki! +I stop topside, I win all 'li!' + +But never, in Wargeilah Town, + Was heard so eloquent a cheer +As when the President came down, + And toasted, in Colonial Beer, +`The finest rider on the course! +The winner of the Snowdon Horse!' + +`You go and get your prize,' he said, + `He's with a wild mob, somewhere round +The mountains near The Watershed; + He's honestly worth fifty pound, +A noble horse, indeed, to win, +But none of US can run him in! + +`We've chased him poor, we've chased him fat, + We've run him till our horses dropped, +But by such obstacles as that + A man like you will not be stopped, +You'll go and yard him any day, +So here's your health! Hooray! Hooray!' + + . . . . . + +The day wound up with booze and blow + And fights till all were well content, +But of the new-chum, all I know + Is shown by this advertisement -- +`For Sale, the well-known racehorse Trap, +He won Wargeilah Handicap!' + + + + +Any Other Time + + + +All of us play our very best game -- + Any other time. +Golf or billiards, it's all the same -- + Any other time. +Lose a match and you always say, +`Just my luck! I was `off' to-day! +I could have beaten him quite half-way -- + Any other time!' + +After a fiver you ought to go -- + Any other time. +Every man that you ask says `Oh, + Any OTHER time. +Lend you a fiver! I'd lend you two, +But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due, +Wish you'd ask me -- now, mind you do -- + Any other time!' + +Fellows will ask you out to dine -- + Any other time. +`Not to-night, for we're twenty-nine -- + Any other time. +Not to-morrow, for cook's on strike, +Not next day, I'll be out on the bike -- +Just drop in whenever you like -- + Any other time!' + +Seasick passengers like the sea -- + Any other time. +`Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me! + Any other time +Ocean-trav'lling is . . simply bliss, +Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . . +Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this -- + Any other time.' + + . . . . . + +Most of us mean to be better men -- + Any other time: +Regular upright characters then -- + Any other time. +Yet somehow as the years go by +Still we gamble and drink and lie, +When it comes to the last we'll want to die -- + Any other time! + + + + +The Last Trump + + + +`You led the trump,' the old man said + With fury in his eye, +`And yet you hope my girl to wed! +Young man! your hopes of love are fled, + 'Twere better she should die! + +`My sweet young daughter sitting there, + So innocent and plump! +You don't suppose that she would care +To wed an outlawed man who'd dare + To lead the thirteenth trump! + +`If you had drawn their leading spade + It meant a certain win! +But no! By Pembroke's mighty shade +The thirteenth trump you went and played + And let their diamonds in! + +`My girl! Return at my command + His presents in a lump! +Return his ring! For understand +No man is fit to hold your hand + Who leads a thirteenth trump! + +`But hold! Give every man his due + And every dog his day. +Speak up and say what made you do +This dreadful thing -- that is, if you + Have anything to say!' + +He spoke. `I meant at first,' said he, + `To give their spades a bump: +Or lead the hearts, but then you see +I thought against us there might be, + Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!' + + . . . . . + +They buried him at dawn of day + Beside a ruined stump: +And there he sleeps the hours away +And waits for Gabriel to play + The last -- the fourteenth -- trump. + + + + +Tar and Feathers + + + + Oh! the circus swooped down + On the Narrabri town, +For the Narrabri populace moneyed are; + And the showman he smiled + At the folk he beguiled +To come all the distance from Gunnedah. + + But a juvenile smart, + Who objected to `part', +Went in `on the nod', and to do it he + Crawled in through a crack + In the tent at the back, +For the boy had no slight ingenuity. + + And says he with a grin, + `That's the way to get in; +But I reckon I'd better be quiet or + They'll spiflicate me,' + And he chuckled, for he +Had the loan of the circus proprietor. + + But the showman astute + On that wily galoot +Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him -- + Not he; with a grim + Sort of humorous whim, +He took him and tarred him and feathered him. + + Says he, `You can go + Round the world with a show, +And knock every Injun and Arab wry; + With your name and your trade, + On the posters displayed, +The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.' + + Next day for his freak, + By a Narrabri beak, +He was jawed with a deal of verbosity; + For his only appeal + Was `professional zeal' -- +He wanted another monstrosity. + + Said his worship, `Begob! + You are fined forty bob, +And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says. + And the Narrabri joy, + Half bird and half boy, +Has a `down' on himself and on circuses. + + + + +It's Grand + + + +It's grand to be a squatter + And sit upon a post, +And watch your little ewes and lambs + A-giving up the ghost. + +It's grand to be a `cockie' + With wife and kids to keep, +And find an all-wise Providence + Has mustered all your sheep. + +It's grand to be a Western man, + With shovel in your hand, +To dig your little homestead out + From underneath the sand. + +It's grand to be a shearer, + Along the Darling side, +And pluck the wool from stinking sheep + That some days since have died. + +It's grand to be a rabbit + And breed till all is blue, +And then to die in heaps because + There's nothing left to chew. + +It's grand to be a Minister + And travel like a swell, +And tell the Central District folk + To go to -- Inverell. + +It's grand to be a Socialist + And lead the bold array +That marches to prosperity + At seven bob a day. + +It's grand to be an unemployed + And lie in the Domain, +And wake up every second day + And go to sleep again. + +It's grand to borrow English tin + To pay for wharves and Rocks, +And then to find it isn't in + The little money-box. + +It's grand to be a democrat + And toady to the mob, +For fear that if you told the truth + They'd hunt you from your job. + +It's grand to be a lot of things + In this fair Southern land, +But if the Lord would send us rain, + That would, indeed, be grand! + + + + +Out of Sight + + + +They held a polo meeting at a little country town, +And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. +There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid +They both belonged to what is called `the take-you-down brigade'. + +They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur +To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure, +The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight +The rest would never see him go -- he'd finish out of sight. + +So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up, +Some local genius called the race `the dude-in-danger cup'. +The horse was known as `Who's Afraid', by Panic from `The Fright'. +But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight. + +And so he did; for `Who's Afraid', without the least pretence, +Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence; +And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right -- +For he was in the ambulance, and safely `out of sight'. + + + + +The Road to Old Man's Town + + + +The fields of youth are filled with flowers, +The wine of youth is strong: +What need have we to count the hours? +The summer days are long. + +But soon we find to our dismay +That we are drifting down +The barren slopes that fall away +Towards the foothills grim and grey +That lead to Old Man's Town. + +And marching with us on the track +Full many friends we find: +We see them looking sadly back +For those that dropped behind. + +But God forbid a fate so dread -- +ALONE to travel down +The dreary road we all must tread, +With faltering steps and whitening head, +The road to Old Man's Town! + + + + +The Old Timer's Steeplechase + + + +The sheep were shorn and the wool went down + At the time of our local racing: +And I'd earned a spell -- I was burnt and brown -- +So I rolled my swag for a trip to town + And a look at the steeplechasing. + +'Twas rough and ready -- an uncleared course + As rough as the blacks had found it; +With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse, +And a water-jump that would drown a horse, + And the steeple three times round it. + +There was never a fence the tracks to guard, -- + Some straggling posts defined 'em: +And the day was hot, and the drinking hard, +Till none of the stewards could see a yard + Before nor yet behind 'em! + +But the bell was rung and the nags were out, + Excepting an old outsider +Whose trainer started an awful rout, +For his boy had gone on a drinking bout + And left him without a rider. + +`Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried, + `In the whole of the crowd so clever, +Is there not one man that will take a ride +On the old white horse from the Northern side + That was bred on the Mooki River?' + +'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow, + And a cow would look well beside him; +But I was pluckier then than now +(And I wanted excitement anyhow), + So at last I agreed to ride him. + +And the trainer said, `Well, he's dreadful slow, + And he hasn't a chance whatever; +But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show +A trick or two that the trainers know + Who train by the Mooki River. + +`The first time round at the further side, + With the trees and the scrub about you, +Just pull behind them and run out wide +And then dodge into the scrub and hide, + And let them go round without you. + +`At the third time round, for the final spin + With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em, +They'll never notice if you chip in +For the last half-mile -- you'll be sure to win, + And they'll think you raced behind 'em. + +`At the water-jump you may have to swim -- + He hasn't a hope to clear it -- +Unless he skims like the swallows skim +At full speed over, but not for him! + He'll never go next or near it. + +`But don't you worry -- just plunge across, + For he swims like a well-trained setter. +Then hide away in the scrub and gorse +The rest will be far ahead of course -- + The further ahead the better. + +`You must rush the jumps in the last half-round + For fear that he might refuse 'em; +He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound, +Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound, + And don't be afraid to use 'em. + +`At the final round, when the field are slow + And you are quite fresh to meet 'em, +Sit down, and hustle him all you know +With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go -- + Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!' + + . . . . . + +The flag went down and we seemed to fly, + And we made the timbers shiver +Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by, +And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry: + `Go on! For the Mooki River!' + +I jammed him in with a well-packed crush, + And recklessly -- out for slaughter -- +Like a living wave over fence and brush +We swept and swung with a flying rush, + Till we came to the dreaded water. + +Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think + Of the way I contrived to work it. +Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink, +He found himself on the water's brink, + With never a chance to shirk it! + +The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles + The heart of this grizzled rover! +He gave a snort you could hear for miles, +And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles + And carried me safely over! + +Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back + In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver: +And I waited there in the shadows black +While the rest of the horses, round the track, + Went on like a rushing river! + +At the second round, as the field swept by, + I saw that the pace was telling; +But on they thundered, and by-and-bye +As they passed the stand I could hear the cry + Of the folk in the distance, yelling! + +Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang! + And I said, `Well, it's now or never!' +And out on the heels of the throng I sprang, +And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang + As I rode! For the Mooki River! + +We raced for home in a cloud of dust + And the curses rose in chorus. +'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must! +And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust + There was one got home before us. + +'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen + In the part of the race I'd ridden; +And his coat was cool and his rider clean, +And I thought that perhaps I had not been + The only one that had hidden. + + . . . . . + +And the trainer came with a visage blue + With rage, when the race concluded: +Said he, `I thought you'd have pulled us through, +But the man on the black horse planted too, + AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!' + +Alas to think that those times so gay + Have vanished and passed for ever! +You don't believe in the yarn you say? +Why, man! 'Twas a matter of every day + When we raced on the Mooki River! + + + + +In the Stable + + + +What! You don't like him; well, maybe -- we all have our fancies, of course: +Brumby to look at you reckon? Well, no: he's a thoroughbred horse; +Sired by a son of old Panic -- look at his ears and his head -- +Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? -- well, that's how the Panics are bred. +Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride, +Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide +That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good, +This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should: +Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall, +Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall. + + . . . . . + +Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days, +Made themselves kings of the district -- ruled it in old-fashioned ways -- +Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night, +Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright: +Came to the station one morning -- and why they did this no one knows -- +Took a brood mare from the paddock -- wanting some fun, I suppose -- +Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank, +Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank. + +Go! She went mad! She went tearing + and screaming with fear through the trees, +While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees. +Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run, +Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun! +Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all, +And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall. + +Day after day then I chased them -- 'course they had friends on the sly, +Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy. +Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm +One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm: +Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat, +Took to the rocks and we lost him -- the others made good their retreat. +It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed, +They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head! + +Then we heard they were gone from the district; + they stuck up a coach in the West, +And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest, +Riding this colt as a youngster -- awkward, half-broken and shy, +He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why, +But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall, +And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + +'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead -- + bad going, with plenty of trees -- +So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees. +'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them! It puts a man's nerve to the test +On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West. +But the half-broken colt was a racehorse! He lay down to work with a will, +Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin -- + by Heavens we FLEW down the hill! +Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer +And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me -- + a bullet sang close to my ear -- +And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it: + but I saw as we raced through the gap +That the rails at the homestead were fastened -- + I was caught like a rat in a trap. +Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock -- + barbed wire that would cut like a knife -- +How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life? + +Bang went a rifle behind me -- the colt gave a spring, he was hit; +Straight at the sliprails I rode him -- I felt him take hold of the bit; +Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride, +Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride! +Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened + barbed wire on the top of the post, +Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most; +Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall, +And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + +Yes! There's the mark of the bullet -- he's got it inside of him yet +Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret! +Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy -- eats any thing he can bite; +Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night: +Ah! We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young. +Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung, +Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend, +Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end. +But you can talk about riding -- I've ridden a lot in the past -- +Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast! +I've steeplechased, raced, and `run horses', + but I think the most dashing of all +Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall! + + + + +"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" + + + +The long day passes with its load of sorrow: + In slumber deep +I lay me down to rest until to-morrow -- + Thank God for sleep. + +Thank God for all respite from weary toiling, + From cares that creep +Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling + God's kindly sleep. + +We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later, + We strive to reap, +And build our barns, and hope to build them greater + Before we sleep. + +We toil and strain and strive with one another + In hopes to heap +Some greater share of profit than our brother + Before we sleep. + +What will it profit that with tears or laughter + Our watch we keep? +Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter! + Thank God for sleep! + +For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us, + We turn with deep +Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us + The Gift of Sleep. + + + + +Driver Smith + + + +'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight; +He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night -- +`Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he, +`I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C. + +`I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills +A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills. +And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show, +For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go. + +`Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din, +It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in -- +A-raking 'em in like human flies -- and a driver smart like me +Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.' + +So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip, +From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip. +And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack, +`You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he -- + `Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.' + +Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more, +And Driver Smith he worked his trip -- all aboard for the seat of war! +He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast +Till he heard a sound that he knew full well -- a battery rolling past. + +He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind -- +He heard the crack of the drivers' whips, + and he says to 'em, `Strike me blind, +I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk, +But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.' + +Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face. +`Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.' +So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance, +And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance. + +They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, +When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; +They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, +And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight. + +The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, +For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; +But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, +Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray. + +He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro, +A hard old face with a monkey beard -- a face that he seemed to know; +`Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, `I've seen him before to-day. +Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,' + and he jumped for him straight away. + +He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van. +It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man; +But he forced him in and said, `All aboard, we're off for a little ride, +And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, `I reckon we're full inside.' + +He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace, +A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase; +But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, `Good-day, +You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.' + +He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O., +`Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go; +And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed, +So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.' + +So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more, +For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war: +And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night, +And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight. + + + + +There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down + + + +When you're lying in your hammock, sleeping soft and sleeping sound, + Without a care or trouble on your mind, +And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round, + And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind; +In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise, + And a clatter on the deck above your crown, +And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out, + `There's another blessed horse fell down.' + +You can see 'em in the morning, when you're cleaning out the stall, + A-leaning on the railings nearly dead, +And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall, + And you curse them as you tumble into bed. +Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, `Pass the word for Denny Moon, + There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown; +And it's `Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack, + There's another blessed horse fell down.' + +And when the war is over and the fighting all is done, + And you're all at home with medals on your chest, +And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun + At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest; +As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep, + And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown, +Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, `It's nothing new, + It's another blessed horse fell down.' + + + + +On the Trek + + + +Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day, + With sun above and silent veldt below; +And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away, + And the homestead where the climbing roses grow. +Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? + Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? +Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, + For we're going on a long job now. + +In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, + With the endless line of waggons stretching back, +While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, + Plodding silent on the never-ending track, +While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see + Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how? +As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee -- + Oh! we're going on a long job now. + +When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead, + And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice, +Or you've watched your old mate dying -- with the vultures overhead, + Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price. +And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear, + I can picture the excitement and the row; +But they'll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year, + For we're going on a long job now. + + + + +The Last Parade + + + +With never a sound of trumpet, + With never a flag displayed, +The last of the old campaigners + Lined up for the last parade. + +Weary they were and battered, + Shoeless, and knocked about; +From under their ragged forelocks + Their hungry eyes looked out. + +And they watched as the old commander + Read out, to the cheering men, +The Nation's thanks and the orders + To carry them home again. + +And the last of the old campaigners, + Sinewy, lean, and spare -- +He spoke for his hungry comrades: + `Have we not done our share? + +`Starving and tired and thirsty + We limped on the blazing plain; +And after a long night's picket + You saddled us up again. + +`We froze on the wind-swept kopjes + When the frost lay snowy-white. +Never a halt in the daytime, + Never a rest at night! + +`We knew when the rifles rattled + From the hillside bare and brown, +And over our weary shoulders + We felt warm blood run down, + +`As we turned for the stretching gallop, + Crushed to the earth with weight; +But we carried our riders through it -- + Carried them p'raps too late. + +`Steel! We were steel to stand it -- + We that have lasted through, +We that are old campaigners + Pitiful, poor, and few. + +`Over the sea you brought us, + Over the leagues of foam: +Now we have served you fairly + Will you not take us home? + +`Home to the Hunter River, + To the flats where the lucerne grows; +Home where the Murrumbidgee + Runs white with the melted snows. + +`This is a small thing surely! + Will not you give command +That the last of the old campaigners + Go back to their native land?' + + . . . . . + +They looked at the grim commander, + But never a sign he made. +`Dismiss!' and the old campaigners + Moved off from their last parade. + + + + +With French to Kimberley + + + +The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun; +The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one! +Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good, +Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood. +They built them forts from bags of sand, they fought from roof and wall, +They flashed a message to the south `Help! or the town must fall!' +And down our ranks the order ran to march at dawn of day, +For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + +He made no march along the line; he made no front attack +Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back; +But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley, +Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way. +The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs, +Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns. +The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall +Rode back in haste: `He marches east! He threatens Jacobsdal!' +Then north he wheeled as wheels the hawk and showed to their dismay, +That French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + +His column was five thousand strong -- all mounted men -- and guns: +There met, beneath the world-wide flag, the world-wide Empire's sons; +They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space, +And those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race! +From far New Zealand's flax and fern, from cold Canadian snows, +From Queensland plains, where hot as fire the summer sunshine glows; +And in the front the Lancers rode that New South Wales had sent: +With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went. +Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew +Beside the English regiments that fought at Waterloo. +From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array, +To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + +He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank. +The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank. +The long, dry grass was all ablaze, and fierce the veldt fire runs; +He fought them through a wall of flame that blazed around the guns! +Then limbered up and drove at speed, though horses fell and died; +We might not halt for man nor beast on that wild, daring ride. +Black with the smoke and parched with thirst, we pressed the livelong day +Our headlong march to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + +We reached the drift at fall of night, and camped across the ford. +Next day from all the hills around the Dutchman's cannons roared. +A narrow pass between the hills, with guns on either side; +The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried, +For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone: +But French looked once, and only once, and then he said, `Push on!' +The gunners plied their guns amain; the hail of shrapnel flew; +With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw; +And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray, +And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + +Ay, French was through to Kimberley! And ere the day was done +We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun: +Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame: +Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came; +But soon they saw us, rank on rank; they heard our squadrons' tread; +In panic fear they left their tents, in hopeless rout they fled; +And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain, +The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein, +The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer, +The bells rang out a joyous peal to say `Relief is here!' +Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say +We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away. + + + + +Johnny Boer + + + +Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run, +And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun. +At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about +They reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out. +But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date, +He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate; +You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead: +But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head; +He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run, +He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun. + +For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, +He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, +Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own -- +Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. +The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his hand +He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; +And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, +And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. +It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun +Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun. + +On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy, +He wheels a four-point-seven about as easy as a toy; +With bullocks yoked and drag-ropes manned, he lifts her up the rocks +And shifts her every now and then, as cunning as a fox. +At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear, +Next day at dawn -- `What, ho! she bumps' -- from somewhere in the rear. +Or else the keenest-eyed patrol will miss him with the glass -- +He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass; +But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun, +There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun. + +But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow, +We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go. +With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late, +We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State; +And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run, +And we'll be running after with OUR little Maxim gun. + + + + +What Have the Cavalry Done + + + +What have the cavalry done? +Cantered and trotted about, +Routin' the enemy out, +Causin' the beggars to run! +And we tramped along in the blazin' heat, +Over the veldt on our weary feet. +Tramp, tramp, tramp +Under the blazin' sun, +With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer, +'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before -- +That's what the cavalry done! + +What have the gunners done +Battlin' every day, +Battlin' any way. +Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they? +`Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.! +See! when the fight grows hot, +Under the rifles or not, +Always the order runs, +`Fetch up the bloomin' guns!' + +And you'd see them great gun-horses spring +To the `action front' -- and around they'd swing. +Find the range with some queer machine +`At four thousand with fuse fourteen. +Ready! Fire number one!' +Handled the battery neat and quick! +Stick to it, too! How DID they stick! +Never a gunner was seen to run! +Never a gunner would leave his gun! +Not though his mates dropped all around! +Always a gunner would stand his ground. +Take the army -- the infantry, +Mounted rifles, and cavalry, +Twice the numbers I'd give away, +And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A., +For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run, +That's what the gunners done! + + + + +Right in the Front of the Army + + + +`Where 'ave you been this week or more, +'Aven't seen you about the war? +Thought perhaps you was at the rear +Guarding the waggons.' `What, us? No fear! +Where have we been? Why, bless my heart, +Where have we been since the bloomin' start? + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight!' + Every separate man you see, + Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V., + Every one of 'em seems to be + Right in the front of the army! + +Most of the troops to the camp had gone, +When we met with a cow-gun toiling on; +And we said to the boys, as they walked her past, +`Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!' +`Here at last! Why, what d'yer mean? +Ain't we just where we've always been? + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight!' + Correspondents and vets. in force, + Mounted foot and dismounted horse, + All of them were, as a matter of course, + Right in the front of the army. + +Old Lord Roberts will have to mind +If ever the enemy get behind; +For they'll smash him up with a rear attack, +Because his army has got no back! +Think of the horrors that might befall +An army without any rear at all! + Right in the front of the army, + Battling day and night! + Right in the front of the army, + Teaching 'em how to fight! + Swede attaches and German counts, + Yeomen (known as De Wet's remounts), + All of them were by their own accounts + Right in the front of the army! + + + + +That V.C. + + + +'Twas in the days of front attack, + This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it -- +That every `front' had got a back, + And French was just the man to turn it. + +A wounded soldier on the ground + Was lying hid behind a hummock; +He proved the good old proverb sound -- + An army travels on its stomach. + +He lay as flat as any fish, + His nose had worn a little furrow; +He only had one frantic wish, + That like an antbear he could burrow. + +The bullets whistled into space, + The pom-pom gun kept up its braying, +The four-point-seven supplied the bass -- + You'd think the devil's band was playing. + +A valiant comrade crawling near + Observed his most supine behaviour, +And crept towards him, `Hey! what cheer? + Buck up,' said he, `I've come to save yer. + +`You get up on my shoulders, mate, + And if we live beyond the firing, +I'll get the V.C. sure as fate, + Because our blokes is all retiring. + +`It's fifty pounds a year,' says he, + `I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.' +`No,' says the wounded man, `not me, + I'll not be saved, it's far too risky. + +`I'm fairly safe behind this mound, + I've worn a hole that seems to fit me; +But if you lift me off the ground, + It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.' + +So back towards the firing line + Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh! +Remarking `What a selfish swine! + He might have let me be a hero.' + + + + +Fed Up + + + +I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most, +I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post; +But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp, +A-drawing fire from Koppies -- well, I'm fair fed up. + +It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through; +Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you; +But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup +From that there blooming pom-pom gun -- well, I'm fed up. + +We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut, +I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut. +But after all -- What's Mounted Fut? I saw them t'other day, +They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away. +The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights, +But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights -- +Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup, +Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up. + +And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks, +They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books. +They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead, +And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead. +Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup, +But walking forty miles to fight -- well, I'm fed up! + +So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry +I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.; +They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup, +But Bully Beef and Biscuits -- well! I'm fair fed up! + + + + +Jock! + + + +There's a soldier that's been doing of his share +In the fighting up and down and round about. +He's continually marching here and there +And he's fighting, morning in and morning out. + +The Boer, you see, he generally runs; +But sometimes when he hides behind a rock, +And we can't make no impression with the guns, +Oh, then you'll hear the order, `Send for Jock!' + +Yes, it's Jock -- Scotch Jock. +He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. +For he's hairy and he's hard, +And his feet are by the yard, +And his face is like the face what's on a clock. +But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- +`Send for Jock!' + +The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance, +Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. +The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance +By holding of their helmets on their head. + +And when the Boer has dug himself a trench +And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, +These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- +They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! + +Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, +With their music that'd terrify an ox! +When the bullets kick the sand +You can hear the sharp command -- +`Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!' +And the charge is like a flood +When they've warmed the Highland blood +Of the Jocks! + + + + +Santa Claus + + + +Halt! Who goes there? The sentry's call +Rose on the midnight air +Above the noises of the camp, +The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp. +The challenge echoed over all -- +Halt! Who goes there? + +A quaint old figure clothed in white, +He bore a staff of pine, +An ivy-wreath was on his head. +`Advance, oh friend,' the sentry said, +Advance, for this is Christmas night, +And give the countersign.' + +`No sign nor countersign have I, +Through many lands I roam +The whole world over far and wide, +To exiles all at Christmastide, +From those who love them tenderly +I bring a thought of home. + +`From English brook and Scottish burn, +From cold Canadian snows, +From those far lands ye hold most dear +I bring you all a greeting here, +A frond of a New Zealand fern, +A bloom of English rose. + +`From faithful wife and loving lass +I bring a wish divine, +For Christmas blessings on your head.' +`I wish you well,' the sentry said, +But here, alas! you may not pass +Without the countersign.' + +He vanished -- and the sentry's tramp +Re-echoed down the line. +It was not till the morning light +The soldiers knew that in the night +Old Santa Claus had come to camp +Without the countersign. + + + + +[End of Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses.] + + + + + + +[From a section of Advertisements, 1909.] + + + + +THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, +AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +* "The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel +in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet +boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling." + +* "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. +Eloquent and ardent verses." + +* "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, +and crowding adventure. . . . Stirring and entertaining ballads +about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs +of the horses." + +* "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author +of `Barrack-Room Ballads'." + +* Mr. A. Patchett Martin (London): "In my opinion, +it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character +of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, +such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation." + +* "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet +whose bush ballads are as distinctively characteristic of the country +as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland." + +* "A book like this . . . is worth a dozen of the aspiring, +idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter +and a dash of real tears in its composition." + +* "These ballads . . . are full of such go that the mere reading of them +make the blood tingle. . . . But there are other things +in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, +and each piece bears the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. +The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome." + +* "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, +shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, +constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones +and capital subjects . . . We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse +with instantaneous gratitude." + + + + +RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE, AND OTHER VERSES. + + By A. B. Paterson. + +* "There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Paterson's verse; +there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human interest +which moves in it." + +* "Every way worthy of the man who ranks with the first of Australian poets." + +* "At once naturalistic and imaginative, and racy without being slangy, +the poems have always a strong human interest of every-day life +to keep them going. They make a book which should give an equal pleasure +to simple and to fastidious readers." + +* "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo from the older, +more experienced land, leads him to more serious singing, and proves that +real poetry is, after all, universal. It is a hearty book." + +* "Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied sympathies, +coupled with a genuine lyrical impulse, and some skill, +which makes his attempts always attractive and usually successful." + +* "These are all entertaining, their rough and ready wit +and virility of expression making them highly acceptable, +while the dash of satire gives point to the humour." + +* "He catches the bush in its most joyous moments, and writes of it +with the simple charm of an unaffected lover." + +* "Will be welcome to that too select class at home who follow +the Australian endeavour to utter a fresh and genuine poetic voice." + +* "Mr. Paterson now proves beyond question that Australia has produced +at least one singer who can voice in truest poetry the aspirations +and experiences peculiar to the Commonwealth, and who is to be ranked +with the foremost living poets of the motherland." + +* "Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that sings as it goes along. +The subjects are capital, and some of the refrains haunt one. +There is always room for a book of unpretentious, vigorous verse +of this sort." + +* "These ballads make bright and easy reading; one takes up the book, +and, delighted at the rhythm, turns page after page, +finding entertainment upon each." + + + + + + +Biographical Note: + + + +Andrew Barton Paterson was born at Narambla, in New South Wales, +on 17 February 1864, but grew up at Buckenbah and Illalong. +He became a lawyer but devoted much of his time to writing, +and gained popularity especially for his poetry and ballads. +His best known poems are The Man from Snowy River (1892) +on which a motion picture was loosely based, and Waltzing Matilda (1895) +which slowly became an Australian symbol and national song. +The poems he wrote for a Sydney newspaper led him into reporting, +and he went to South Africa to cover the Boer War. Always a fair man, +he had his doubts about the war and was a little too vocal about it +for the tastes of some of his readers. During the First World War +he served in Egypt as a Major in a Remount Unit, training horses +for the war. This fit one of his main interests in life -- horses -- +a preoccupation which is very evident in his poems, +and even in his choice of pseudonym -- "The Banjo" was a race-horse. + +The works for which Paterson is famous were mostly written +before the First World War, and are collected in three books of poems, +The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses (1895), Rio Grande's Last Race +and Other Verses (1902), and Saltbush Bill, J.P. and Other Verses (1917). +His prose works include An Outback Marriage (1906), and Three Elephant Power +and Other Stories (1917), the latter of which is a collection of tall tales +and serious (but often humourous) reporting. In fact, above all else +it is perhaps Paterson's sense of humour that sets him apart +from such balladists as Rudyard Kipling and Robert Service. +It should also be noted that Paterson was writing his ballads +before either of these became well-known, and there was little, if any, +influence from either side. More likely, Paterson was influenced +by the Scottish tradition of poetry (Paterson was of Scottish descent) +which had been popularized in Australia by Adam Lindsay Gordon and others. +Banjo Paterson died of a heart attack on 5 February, 1941. + + A. Light, 1995. + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Rio Grande's Last Race and Other Verses + + + + diff --git a/old/rlast10.zip b/old/rlast10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5607097 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/rlast10.zip |