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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408715" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Possum A Lay of New Chumland</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?<br>An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess<br>You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,<br>’Bout the “blunders an’ advenchers ov a new chum in the west?”<br>An’ you would be very thankful an’ acknowledge any hint?<br>Well, I karn’t say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;<br>But I know a little story an’ I’ll tell it out ov hand<br>If yer’ll put it down in writin’ that the swells kin understand—<br>(It’s a story ov a new chum, and—a story ov the land.)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He had lately kum from Ingland—you cud tell it by ’s cap—<br>Fur “kerlonial exper’ence” (an’ he got it, too, poor chap).<br>’Twas in town he met the squatter, an’ he asked, as if in fun,<br>“If the boss ’ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?”<br>Well, it riz the boss’s dander, an’ he jumps clean orf ’is ’oss—<br>“Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv’nus?” sez the boss;<br>“I hev met yer kidney often, an’ yer mighty fresh an’ free,<br>But yer needn’t think yer gorn ter come a-lardin’ over me!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But the new chum sed that ’onest he was lookin’ for a job,<br>An’ in spite of his appearance he had blued ’is bottom bob.<br>An’ as beggars karn’t be choosers same as people wot are rich,<br>Said he’d go as stoo’rd or gard’ner, but he warn’t partickler which.<br>Well, the joker seemed in earnest, so the boss began ter cool,<br>An’ he only blanked the new chum for a thund’rin’ jumpt-up fool.<br>Then he sed, “Well, there’s the fencin’, if yer’ll tramp it up from Perth,<br>The boys ’ll find yer su’thin p’r’aps, an’ giv’ yer wat yer worth.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Ov course the squatter never thort ter see ’im any more,<br>But he wa’n’t the kind ov new chum that the squatter tuk ’im for;<br>No, he wa’n’t the kind er cockeroach that on’y kums ter shirk,<br>That wants ter git the sugar, but is fri’tened ov the work;<br>For he sold ’is watch ’n’ jool’ry, ’n’ lardi-dardy suits,<br>Stuck a swag upon his shoulder, ’n’ ’is feet in blucher boots;<br>An’ I dunno how he did it, he was anythin’ but strong,<br>But he ’umped his bluey ninety mile an’ kum to Bunglelong.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He earnt ’is pound and tucker borin’ holes an’ runnin’ wire,<br>An’ he’d work from dawn to sunset, an’ he never seemed to tire;<br>But he must have suffered orful from the tucker an’ the heat,<br>An’ the everlastin’ trampin’ made ’im tender in the feet,<br>An’ he must hev thort ov England w’en the everlastin’ flies<br>Ware a-worrit, worrit, worrit, an’ a-knawin’ at ’is eyes;<br>An’ he used to swear like thunder w’en the yaller sergeant ants<br>Took a mornin’ stroll, promiscus, on the inside ov ’is pants.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He uster make ’is damper six or seven inches thick—<br>It was doughey on the inside an’ the shell was like a brick,<br>An’ while the damper made ’im dream ov days ov long ago,<br>The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ nibble out the dough.<br>He biled ’is taters soggy, an’ ’is junk was biled to rags<br>(The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ chew ’s tucker bags),<br>But he took ’is troubles cheerful, an’ he fixed ’em like a pome,<br>An’ writ ’em in his darey to amuse the folks at home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At first he flashed a coller an’ was keerful with ’is hat,<br>An’ he’d black ’is boots ov Sundays, but he soon grew out of that;<br>An’ he lernt ter bake ’is damper, an’ he leant to bile ’is junk<br>An’ sleep without a-getting up all night ter shake ’is bunk.<br>He soon got out ov takin’ “shorter cuts” across the flats,<br>An’ he learnt to fling ole bottles to the sorror of the rats,<br>An’ learnt to sling kerlonial and like the bushman’s way,<br>An’ it did us good to see ’im smoke ’is “nigger” in a clay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He would sing an’ play ’is fiddle when we gathered round the blaze,<br>Till ole Frenchy got excited while he’d play the Mascylays;<br>An’ Bill ’ud take ’is hat off while he’d spout the Light Brigade,<br>An’ Scotchy got oneasy when the “Bony ’Ills” was played.<br>So we got ter like the new chum for we’d met with many wuss,<br>An’ we made it easy for ’im an’ he seemed to take to us:<br>The toilin’ an’ the trampin’ was a-cookin’ ’im we found,<br>So we made ’im cook an’ stoo’rd just ter keep the chap around.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well, the months went bakin’ broilin’ on until Christmas nex’,<br>When we tramped it down to Perth to spend our ’ollyday (and cheques);<br>But Possum sed he’d save ’is tin an’ stay and mind the camp,<br>So we left ’im in possession an’ we started on our tramp;<br>(We useter call ’im Possum, but for short we called ’im Poss,<br>For ’is eyes was black an’ twinklin’ and a little chap he was),<br>We never would have left ’im if we’d know’d (but that’s the ru,<br>Comin’ back we found ’im dyin’ in ’is gunyah in the scrub.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We fixed ’im up an’ nursed ’im; but we seen without a doubt<br>That consumption was the matter, an’ the chap was peggin’ out;<br>But the lion heart inside ’im was as strong an’ stout as six,<br>An’ while he’d smile an’ thank us he would joke about ’is fix;<br>An’ he said ’twas very jolly to be dry-nursed in a tent,<br>An’ he reckoned that the Christmas was the best he’d ever spent;<br>He would talk of ’ome and Inglan’ when ’is head began ter swim,<br>But he never blamed the country that had been so ’ard on him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He would say, “I like the country; if a feller’s blind er halt,<br>Or if he’s got konsumption, why it ain’t the country’s fault.<br>The tea that’s boil’d in billies is far sweeter stuff, I know,<br>Than the cursed drink w’at blasted all my chances long ago.<br>I would hev cum out sooner if it was my destiny,<br>An’ I daresay that the country would have made a man ov me.<br>But w’at’s the good ov energy, an’ wat’s the good er ‘push’<br>W’en a feller’s sick an’ dyin’ in a gunyah in the bush.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But he tole me all about it as I sat beside ’is bunk—<br>How he’d spent ’is tin in Melbourne an’ was allers gettin’ drunk;<br>How he thort he’d take it easy while he had a little gold,<br>And, before he turned the new leaf, how he scribbled on the old;<br>An’ among a lot ov nonsense w’en ’is mind began to drift,<br>He told me that the new leaf was a heavy leaf to lift.<br>But w’ats the good er writin’ this, it’s nothin’ very new,<br>The land will see enough ov it an’ suffer for it, too.<br>An’ he said w’en he was dying, (when his lung was spit away)<br>An’ we all was standin’ round ’im in the gunyah where he lay,<br>An’ he said, “I’ve watched the sunset—when the wind began to ‘woosh’,<br>Like a layer ov coals a-glowin’—on the dark bed ov the bush;<br>An’ I felt my fingers slippin’—slippin’—slowly—from the ropes,<br>Wen the West was cold—like ashes—like the ashes of my hopes;<br>An’—I—— Sit beside me—Peter—let me ’old—a—bushman’s hand,<br>For I’m—gorn to—’ump—my bluey—through the gates ov—Newchumland.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
’Bout the “blunders an’ ad..."></div>
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