A Little Mistake
’Tis a yarn I heard of a new-chum ‘trap’
On the edge of the Never-Never,
Where the dead men lie and the black men lie,
And the bushman lies for ever.
’Twas the custom still with the local blacks
To cadge in the ‘altogether’—
They had less respect for our feelings then,
And more respect for the weather.
The trooper said to the sergeant’s wife:
‘Sure, I wouldn’t seem unpleasant;
‘But there’s women and childer about the place,
‘And—barrin’ a lady’s present—
‘There’s ould King Billy wid niver a stitch
‘For a month—may the drought cremate him!—
‘Bar the wan we put in his dirty head,
‘Where his old Queen Mary bate him.
‘God give her strength!—and a peaceful reign—
‘Though she flies in a bit av a passion
‘If ony wan hints that her shtoyle an’ luks
‘Are a trifle behind the fashion.
‘There’s two of the boys by the stable now—
‘Be the powers! I’ll teach the varmints
‘To come wid nought but a shirt apiece,
‘And wid dirt for their nayther garmints.
‘Howld on, ye blaggards! How dare ye dare
‘To come widin sight av the houses?—
‘I’ll give ye a warnin’ all for wance
‘An’ a couple of ould pair of trousers.’
They took the pants as a child a toy,
The constable’s words beguiling
A smile of something beside their joy;
And they took their departure smiling.
And that very day, when the sun was low,
Two blackfellows came to the station;
They were filled with the courage of Queensland rum
And bursting with indignation.
The constable noticed, with growing ire,
They’d apparently dressed in a hurry;
And their language that day, I am sorry to say,
Mostly consisted of ‘plurry.’
The constable heard, and he wished himself back
In the land of the bogs and the ditches—
‘You plurry big tight-britches p’liceman, what for
‘You gibbit our missuses britches?’
And this was a case, I am bound to confess,
Where civilisation went under;
Had one of the gins been less modest in dress
He’d never have made such a blunder.
And here let the moral be duly made known,
And hereafter signed and attested:
We should place more reliance on that which is shown
And less upon what is suggested.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Related quotes
Britches
(words & music by wayne - edwards)
Beware of a gal in britches
Yo-di-o-di-o
Never trust no gal in britches
No-di-o-di-o
If you had a sense of this here horse
You would have known it by now of course
Who wears the britches is the boss
Thats a gal, thats a gal in britches
Dont mess with a gal in britches
Yo-di-o-di-o
No feminine gal wears britches
No-di-o-di-o
Shell beg you to come to the country dance
You ride twenty miles for the big romance
She shows up in her brothers pants
Whatd you expect from a girl in britches
Yo-di-o-di-o-i-ay, its none of my misfortune
Yo-di-o-di-o-di-ay, just thought youd like to know
Dont marry no gal in britches
Yo-di-o-di-o
Youll never know which is whichs
No-di-o-di-o
Shell put a halter through your nose
Have you cooking and washing clothes
While she goes chasing them buffaloes
Bet your boots, thats a gal in britches.
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the Children Come Home
On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'
She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'
It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'
Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master's at home,
`Be off,' she replies, `with your blarney and cant,
Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.'
`Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she's like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.
Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done,
And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'
poem by Henry Lawson
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 2)
The smoke from his pipe
rose up like a small cloud.
For a long time afterwards, t
he fire in the barn
was referred to as a ghost fire.
The next ghost fire happened
almost six months later to the day
in the midst of the summer sun.
A passing tramp had rested
for a while in a field
and fell asleep against a tree
as the grass around him suddenly came alive
with flames that burnt close to his feet.
The local Constable was riding passed
saw the flames and dismounted from his bike.
Racing into the field,
he tried to beat out the flames with his jacket.
Still the flames danced around the tramp,
whom was asleep and unaware.
The Constable yelled at him,
but the tramp did not arouse from his slumber.
The Constable looked around
and off to his left noticed a stream.
He ran across to it and filled his helmet with water.
Running back he threw the water over the tramp.
The tramp woke up startled and looked around.
He stood up and asked the Constable,
just what he thought he was doing
throwing water over him.
Watch out for the fire
the Constable shouted back.
The tramp scratched his head
and asked what he was talking about.
The fire, the fire, the Constable replied.
What fire? The tramp asked.
It was only then that the Constable realised
that the fire was no longer there.
He was mystified how it disappeared.
It was about six months after that,
another ghost fire occurred
in the very Inn where I was staying.
The bar was crowded
when suddenly against one of the walls
a fire started and seemed to burn ferociously.
The first thing the customers did
was to start throwing their drinks against the wall
in hope to dampen the flames.
They met with little success
and the fire brigade was called.
The bar was evacuated
and the firemen came in with their hoses,
which like the drinks had no success on the flames.
As with all the other incidents
the fire raged for several hours
before dying away of its own accord.
The investigation that followed
found nothing had been burnt or scorched.
There seemed no earthly reason
for the mysterious fires that engulfed things,
but never harmed any of them.
Then last month the burning bush began.
When it was discovered,
an attempt was made to extinguish it,
but failed like the ones before.
Presently each night ever since
the bush ignites itself and burns for several hours
before disappearing again.
Oliver paused for a few moments,
stroked his chin
and puffed a couple of times on his pipe.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
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Only A Sod
It's only a sod, but ’twill break me ould heart
Nigh hardened wid toilin’ and carin’,
And make the ould wounds in it tingle and smart.
It’s only a sod, but it’s parcel and part
Of strugglin’, sufferin’ Erin.
It’s only a sod, but it rakes the ould pain —
The ould love in me heart that still lingers,
That Time has been soothing and docth’ring in vain;
And now he must soothe it and heal it again
Wid his kindly and gentle ould fingers.
It’s only a sod, but I see a big ship
Through the gallopin’ waters come tearin’,
And a lass that looks back on the horizon dip,
Wid eyes full of tears and a thrimblin’ lip,
On the last that she saw of ould Erin.
It’s only a sod, but wid care it will keep
Till me brooms and me brushes are silint
Put it into me arms ere they bury me deep,
And tell them old Biddy the “slavey” does sleep
’Neath a sod from the bogs of ould Irlint.
poem by Henry Lawson
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At the Railway Station, Upways
'There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!'
Spoke up the pitying child--
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in,--
'But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!'
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
With grimful glee:
'This life so free
Is the thing for me!'
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in--
The convict, and boy with the violin.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Marijuana
That idiot constable
of the South African Police
who was your colleague
gave you a Marijuana cookie
to eat with tea
and you thought
that he was only joking
and ate it
along with some of your girl friends
who were eating some too.
The psychoactive ingredient,
Tetrahydrocannabinol
made you suddenly hear voices
was followed by giddiness, euphoria
and lost in reality and fragmented ideas
and that drug
really went to your head
and sometimes I wish
for that foolish constable
to be affected by it instead.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Bush Fire
Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the bursting shell,
Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the western hell;
And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at sea,
Than the sound—most hellish of all to hear—of a fire where it should not be.
On the runs to the west of the Dingo Scrubs there was drought, and ruin, and death,
And the sandstorm came from the dread north-east with the blast of a furnace-breath;
Till at last one day, at the fierce sunrise, a boundary-rider woke,
And saw, in the place of the distant haze, a curtain of light blue smoke.
There is saddling-up by the cockey’s hut, and out in the station yard,
And away to the north, north-east, north-west, the bushmen are riding hard.
The pickets are out and many a scout, and many a mulga wire,
While Bill and Jim, with their faces grim, are riding to meet the fire.
It roars for days in the hopeless scrubs, and across, where the ground seems bare,
With a cackle and hiss, like the hissing of snakes, the fire is travelling there;
Till at last, exhausted by sleeplessness, and the terrible toil and heat,
The squatter is crying, ‘My God! the wool!’ and the farmer, ‘My God! the wheat!’
But there comes a drunkard (who reels as he rides), with the news from the roadside pub:—
‘Pat Murphy—the cockey—cut off by the fire!—way back in the Dingo Scrub!’
‘Let the wheat and the woolshed go to——’ Well, they do as each great heart bids;
They are riding a race for the Dingo Scrub—for Pat and his wife and kids.
And who is leading the race with death? An ill-matched three, you’ll allow;
Flash Jim the breaker and Boozing Bill (who is riding steadily now),
And Constable Dunn, of the Mounted Police, is riding between the two
(He wants Flash Jim, but the job can wait till they get the Murphys through).
As they strike the track through the blazing scrub, the trooper is heard to shout:
‘We’ll take them on to the Two-mile Tank, if we cannot bring them out!’
A half-mile more, and the rest rein back, retreating, half-choked, halfblind;
And the three are gone from the sight of men, and the bush fire roars behind.
The Bushman wiped the tears of smoke, and like Bushmen wept and swore;
‘Poor Bill will be wanting his drink to-night as never he did before.
‘And Dunn was the best in the whole damned force!’ says a client of Dunn’s, with pride;
I reckon he’ll serve his summons on Jim—when they get to the other side.
It is daylight again, and the fire is past, and the black scrub silent and grim,
Except for the blaze of an old dead tree, or the crash of a falling limb;
And the Bushmen are riding again on the run, with hearts and with eyes that fill,
To look for the bodies of Constable Dunn, Flash Jim, and Boozing Bill.
They are found in the mud of the Two-mile Tank, where a fiend might scarce survive,
But the Bushmen gather from words they hear that the bodies are much alive.
There is Swearing Pat, with his grey beard singed, and his language of lurid hue,
And his tough old wife, and his half-baked kids, and the three who dragged them through.
Old Pat is deploring his burnt-out home, and his wife the climate warm;
And Jim the loss of his favourite horse, and Dunn his uniform;
And Boozing Bill, with a raging thirst, is cursing the Dingo Scrub—
He’ll only ask for the loan of a flask and a lift to the nearest pub.
Flash Jim the Breaker is lying low—blue-paper is after him,
And Dunn, the trooper, is riding his rounds with a blind eye out for Jim,
And Boozing Bill is fighting D.Ts. in the township of Sudden Jerk—
When they’re wanted again in the Dingo Scrubs, they’ll be there to do the work.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Big Britches
Too big for those big britches...
At the seam they're seen to rip.
No sewing them will masquerade,
The thickness of your hips.
You're too big for those big britches.
Do you care with me to switch?
I'd like to try them on to see,
IF on me they will fit.
I've had my eye on those big britches,
Ever since I was a kid.
I know just how to wear them and stand tall.
I've had my eye on those big britches.
And all you did in them was sit.
Stretching them with a lazy way you crave.
Too big for those big britches...
At the seam they're seen to rip.
No sewing them will masquerade,
The thickness of your hips.
You're too big for those big britches.
Do you care with me to switch?
I'd like to try them on to see,
IF on me they will fit.
You're too big for those big britches.
And on me there's a better fit!
You're too big for those big britches.
And on me they will fit!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ashore At Dover
On landing, the first voice one hears is from
An English police-constable; a man
Respectful, conscious that at need he can
Enforce respect. Our custom-house at home
Strict too, but quiet. Not the foul-mouthed scum
Of passport-mongers who in Paris still
Preserve the Reign of Terror; not the till
Where the King haggles, all through Belgium.
The country somehow seems in earnest here,
Grave and sufficient:—England, so to speak;
No other word will make the thing as clear.
“Ah! habit,” you exclaim, “and prejudice!”
If so, so be it. One don't care to shriek,
“Sir, this shall be!” But one believes it is.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Man from Goondiwindi, Q.
I
This is the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
II
This is the Push from Waterloo
That spotted the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
III
These are the wealthy uncles -- two,
Part of the Push from Waterloo
That spotted the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
IV
This is the game, by no means new,
Played by the wealthy uncles -- two,
Part of the Push from Waterloo
That spotted the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
V
This is the trooper dressed in blue,
Who busted the game by no means new,
Played by the wealthy uncles -- two,
Part of the Push from Waterloo
That spotted the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
VI
This is the magistrate who knew
Not only the trooper dressed in blue,
But also the game by no means new,
And likewise the wealthy uncles -- two,
And ditto the Push from Waterloo
That spotted the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
VII
This is the tale that has oft gone through
On western plains where the skies are blue,
Till the native bear and the kangaroo
Have heard of the magistrate who knew
Not only the trooper dressed in blue,
But also the game by no means new,
And likewise the wealthy uncles -- two,
And ditto the Push from Waterloo
That spotted the sunburnt bushman who
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
The Evening News, 17 Dec 1904
(This verse was published, copiously illustrated by Lionel Lindsay. Each stanza had its own illustration.)
The pronounciation of many Australian place-names can be quite unexpected. Goondiwindi is a case in point. The town is situated on the border of Queensland and New south Wales, on the banks of the Macintyre River, and its name is pronounced "gun-da-windy", with the main stress on the third syllable, a secondary stress on the first.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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King Billy Chips In
Boss Oberseer, Dat BULLUMTIN! Goo' day, boss Plurry 'ot!
Bloke tell me writum BULLUMTIN, bin plenty bacca got.
'You Billy, makum writin'-yabber,' bloke he say to me;
'Him quick bin pay fer writin' - plenty tsugar plenty tea.'
S'pose mine write it pretty good, you gib it two t'ree poun'?
Bin teachum mishum station plenty good write yabber down.
Mine jes' bin readin' BULLUMTIN alonga scrub. Ma word!
Mine tink it Gub'mint yabber 'bout de bee' de kin I heard.
Mine tink it pitcher budgerry - dat Lin'say an' dat Hop.
Mine tink it dem corrob'ree songs been alla same up top.
Bin plenty good, dat lubra yabber; Red Page, berry fine;
Dat White Australia policy jes' same alonga mine.
But, tell you straight, boss, all dat talk 'bout 'possum, 'roo and snake,
Bin pull your leg, mine tink it. It bin all a plurry fake.
Mine s'pose dem blokes bin walkabout dat bush down Sydney way.
Bin talkum t'ro' dere ploomin' hat 'bout eberyting dey say!
Bin catchum snake, mine tink it, outer bottle, longa pub.
Too much dam lie about dem tings dey neber seen in scrub.
Ma wud! Mine plenty bin in bush; bin plenty much out back,
But neber meet dem pfellers anywhere alonga track.
Mine tink dey catchum too much corns dey walk alonga scrub,
Dey don't bin losum sight of bed an' plenty pfeller grub.
Mine neber meet dat 'Dandalup' or 'Wang,' or 'William Cann.'
Dat 'Quan,' mine tink, drive butcher cart, an' 'Snell' bin tramway man.
Mine tell you, boss, dem blokes no good; dey all bin habin' you.
Mine tink dat 'Chimmie Pannican' bin plurry chackeroo!
So boss, you listen longa me; you make quick catchum sack,
An' Billy him bin send you plenty yabber 'bout outback.
S'pose you gib it glasserrum, mine writum Wil' Cat too.
You gib it bottle rum, mine run whole plurry show for you.
Don' bin forgettum bacca, rum, when you bin writin' nex';
Mine wantum plenty bad; ma wud! Mine bin yours, BILLY REX.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In the inner square
In the inner square
just outside the police station
a little group stands around a drum
in which coals are burning
and flames are shooting up
in the dark night.
Between them a man is standing,
holding out his hands
to get them warm
and above them the stars are bright
like lights in the night
but the moon
has a strange colour that particular night.
A woman constable walking past
stops and asks the man:
“Are you not one of those wild men
who are following the prisoner? ”
It’s as if the eyes
of every policeman around the fire
like search lights fall on him
and he shakes his head decidedly
and draws the cap lower over his head
to get hot and avoid their stares.
“I really do not know him. Do not even know
the reason why you have captured him. Just came
to get some heat from the fire
and what injustice lies in this? ”
The women constable frowns
and walks away with swaying hips
and he remark about the way
that she walks,
which makes the other men around the fire laugh
and through the open door
of the police station
he notices how somebody inside
hits the prisoner through the face
and it’s almost
as if he feels it in his own face.
“Friend, you are not from here
and looks just as ruff as him, ”
one of the constables says jokingly
and his tooth glitters white
for his own joke.
This time the man is much more definite
and worry is eating at him:
“No. Constables, if I would know him
by this time you would know me too?
You probably know
his accomplices? ”
A constable that was at the arrest
comes and stand at the fire
and the flames flares up more brightly
causing him to see the man
between them clearly.
“You talk in the same dialect as the prisoner?
Were you not at the arrest? Surely you were there? ”
Every policeman and even
some of those in the police station
is now staring at him.
“Truly, no. He is totally strange to me!
You cannot lay the guilt
of that man’s deeds onto just anybody.
Just because we maybe comes from the same place.
I can say under oath that I do not know him.”
His gaze catches that of the prisoner
and he sees love
and no condemnation
and on that hour, minute and second
a cock crows
and pain rips through him
that he has just betrayed the Son of God
and the man walks away from the fire
into the night, just blindly
and he cries
while rain is falling around him
and he wonders what it takes
to stand for the truth
while lightning bolts hits blue-white around him.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Missis Moriarty's Boy
Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she:
"Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now -- it's the fortunate woman you are;
You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, but me Patsy boy where is he?
Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr.
Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, wid his hair all curly and bright,
And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away,
Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height:
Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day."
And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door,
Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay;
And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more,
And she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away.
And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed,
Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat;
Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead?
Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that.
Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face;
Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, and the eyes of her mother-mild;
Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case,
Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell she'd be losin' her only child.
And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind,
And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three:
Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind --
Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me?
poem by Robert William Service
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O'Hara, J.P.
James Patrick O'Hara the Justice of Peace,
He bossed the P.M. and he bossed the police;
A parent, a deacon, a landlord was he—
A townsman of weight was O’Hara, J.P.
He gave out the prizes, foundation-stones laid,
He shone when the Governor’s visit was paid;
And twice re-elected as Mayor was he—
The flies couldn’t roost on O’Hara, J.P.
Now Sandy M‘Fly, of the Axe-and-the-Saw,
Was charged with a breach of the licensing law—
He sold after hours whilst talking too free
On matters concerning O’Hara, J.P.
And each contradicted the next witness flat,
Concerning back parlours, side-doors, and all that;
‘Twas very conflicting, as all must agree—
‘Ye’d better take care!’ said O’Hara, J.P.
But ‘Baby,’ the barmaid, her evidence gave—
A poor, timid darling who tried to be brave—
‘Now, don’t be afraid—if it’s frightened ye be—
‘Speak out, my good girl,’ said O’Hara, J.P.
Her hair was so golden, her eyes were so blue,
Her face was so fair and her words seemed so true—
So green in the ways of sweet women was he
That she jolted the heart of O’Hara, J P.
He turned to the other grave Justice of Peace,
And whispered, ‘You can’t always trust the police;
‘I’ll visit the premises during the day,
‘And see for myself,’ said O’Hara, Jay Pay.
(
Case postponed
.)
’Twas early next morning, or late the same night—
‘’Twas early next morning’ we think would be right—
And sounds that betokened a breach of the law
Escaped through the cracks of the Axe-and-the-Saw.
And Constable Dogherty, out in the street,
Met Constable Clancy a bit off his beat;
He took him with finger and thumb by the ear,
And led him around to a lane in the rear.
He pointed a blind where strange shadows were seen—
Wild pantomime hinting of revels within—
‘We’ll drop on M‘Fly, if you’ll listen to me,
‘And prove we are right to O’Hara, J. P.’’
But Clancy was up to the lay of the land,
He cautiously shaded his mouth with his hand—
‘Wisht, man! Howld yer whisht! or it’s ruined we’ll be,
‘It’s the justice himself—it’s O’Hara, J.P.’
They hish’d and they whishted, and turned themselves round,
And got themselves off like two cats on wet ground;
Agreeing to be, on their honour as men,
A deaf-dumb-and-blind institution just then.
Inside on a sofa, two barmaids between,
With one on his knee was a gentleman seen;
And any chance eye at the keyhole could see
In less than a wink ’twas O’Hara, J.P.
The first in the chorus of songs that were sung,
The loudest that laughed at the jokes that were sprung,
The guest of the evening, the soul of the spree—
The daddy of all was O’Hara, J.P.
And hard-cases chuckled, and hard-cases said
That Baby and Alice conveyed him to bed—
In subsequent storms it was painful to see
Those hard-cases side with the sinful J.P.
Next day, in the court, when the case came in sight,
O’Hara declared he was satisfied quite;
The case was dismissed—it was destined to be
The final case of O’Hara, J.P.
The law and religion came down on him first—
The Christian was hard but his wife was the worst!
Half ruined and half driven crazy was he—
It made an old man of O’Hara, J. P.
Now, young men who come from the bush, do you hear?
Who know not the power of barmaids and beer—
Don’t see for yourself! from temptation steer free,
Remember the fall of O’Hara, J.P.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Billy Barlow In Australia
When I was at home I was down on my luck,
And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—"Oh, oh,
I'll start on my travels," said Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
He'd cattle and sheep past the colony's bounds,
Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He gammon'd the cash out of Billy Barlow.
When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
He said, "My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"I shall die of starvation," thought Billy Barlow.
At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
A constable came up, and to me did say,
"Are you free?" Says I, "Yes, to be sure; don't you know?"
And I handed my card, "Mr. William Barlow."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He said, "That's all gammon," to Billy Barlow.
Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
"I must send you down to be i—dentified."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
They at last let me go, and I then did repair
For my station once more, and at length I got there;
But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
Had spear'd all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"It's a beautiful country," said Billy Barlow.
And for nine months before no rain there had been,
So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"I shall soon be a settler," said Billy Barlow.
And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
He replied he was sorry he couldn't, because
The bill had passed into a usurer's claws.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"But perhaps he'll renew it," said Billy Barlow.
I applied; to renew he was quite content,
If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
But as I couldn't do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
He asked, "Don't you know me?" I answered him "No."
"Why," said he, "my name's Kinsmill; how are you, Barlow?"
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He'd got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow.
What I'd left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
And he said, "They won't pay all the costs and my fees;"
Then he sold off the lot, and I'm sure 'twas a sin,
At sixpence a head, and the station giv'n in.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
"I'll go back to England," said Billy Barlow.
My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
Having got all he could by the writ of fi. fa.,
By way of a change he'd brought up a ca. sa.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
Poor unfortunate Billy fast "under the clock;"
And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
Then once more I got free, but in poverty's toil;
I've no "cattle for salting," no "sheep for to boil;"
I can't get a job—though to any I'd stoop,
If it was only the making of portable soup."
Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Past Our future
My heart is filled with…
The bitter sweetness of…
My past…our past…
I want to change the way…
I smile…
At me and my past…our past
There are things I must…
Not forget as well as…
Forget…
I am a queen from…
My motherland…
Which I am separated from…
And yet…
I am still a queen…your queen
Still the gift…
My respect shell stand…
Know that my black man…
Your hands belong not…
On me in an abusive way…
Loving me is okay…
God created us…
You an I…
For each other…
To respect, love, and built up
One another…
The whole world is our…
Play ground…our living room
Together we are the next…
Ship to the moon…
We are history…
In the making…
My love for you…
Powers me in many ways…
And yet., .
Your disrespect warns me not…
What am I to do…
You can’t keep driving over my foot…
And expect for me…
Not to respond…
I am queen…
Your queen…
And has been from the beginning…
You my dear black male…
Must work on your respect…
Toward me…
For I am you…
I live for you…
I educate myself for you…
You must work to keep…
Me happy…
Respect of me is your first job…
Know that…
And keep me in your bed…
Forget that and we …
WE are DEAD…
Whiseprkwane
[email protected]
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Respect for My Foes
Why should I show respect for a man that shows me none?
Why should I follow your codes when they have no meaning to me?
Respect after all is something we must earn,
And as far as my eyes can see you deserve nothing.
It may be law that I should respect you,
But I shall break law if it means that I am free
Because who likes shackels; they after all are made from man kind.
No man shall hold me for I am as free as a bird.
I shall dropp dead flat on my face
Before I ever put you in a palace
Before I give you the respect you think you have earned.
The highest you will ever go is the social status of a goat.
But we slaughter them.
I hope your happy being king of the goats
They say respect your foes as you do yourself.
So today I shall pretend to be the dirt under my shoes.
And I shall treat you the exact same way.
Respect is somethning we must earn, have you earned it.
I Think Not!
poem by Lexie Mulkey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ladies
I've taken my fun where I've found it;
I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time;
I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweet'earts,
An' four o' the lot was prime.
One was an 'arf-caste widow,
One was a woman at Prome,
One was the wife of a ~jemadar-sais~, [Head-groom.]
An' one is a girl at 'ome.
Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies,
For, takin' 'em all along,
You never can say till you've tried 'em,
An' then you are like to be wrong.
There's times when you'll think that you mightn't,
There's times when you'll know that you might;
But the things you will learn from the Yellow an' Brown,
They'll 'elp you a lot with the White!
I was a young un at 'Oogli,
Shy as a girl to begin;
Aggie de Castrer she made me,
An' Aggie was clever as sin;
Older than me, but my first un --
More like a mother she were --
Showed me the way to promotion an' pay,
An' I learned about women from 'er!
Then I was ordered to Burma,
Actin' in charge o' Bazar,
An' I got me a tiddy live 'eathen
Through buyin' supplies off 'er pa.
Funny an' yellow an' faithful --
Doll in a teacup she were,
But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair,
An' I learned about women from 'er!
Then we was shifted to Neemuch
(Or I might ha' been keepin' 'er now),
An' I took with a shiny she-devil,
The wife of a nigger at Mhow;
'Taught me the gipsy-folks' ~bolee~; [Slang.]
Kind o' volcano she were,
For she knifed me one night 'cause I wished she was white,
And I learned about women from 'er!
Then I come 'ome in the trooper,
'Long of a kid o' sixteen --
Girl from a convent at Meerut,
The straightest I ever 'ave seen.
Love at first sight was 'er trouble,
~She~ didn't know what it were;
An' I wouldn't do such, 'cause I liked 'er too much,
But -- I learned about women from 'er!
I've taken my fun where I've found it,
An' now I must pay for my fun,
For the more you 'ave known o' the others
The less will you settle to one;
An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin',
An' dreamin' Hell-fires to see;
So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),
An' learn about women from me!
What did the Colonel's Lady think?
Nobody never knew.
Somebody asked the Sergeant's wife,
~An'~ she told 'em true!
When you get to a man in the case,
They're like as a row of pins --
For the Colonel's Lady an' Judy O'Grady
Are sisters under their skins!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Way This Life Is
Judgements you make and place on others,
Not living up to your expectations...
Should help you in doing some self reflection.
If you do the initiating,
That has come with others in mind to respect...
In many cases,
Your respect given will be returned.
However,
If your practice is initiating doing what you please...
In a disregard of those needs and wishes of others,
That judgement you placed...
With an erasing done through selective memory,
Will get those similar deeds done back to you.
And that,
Is the way this life is!
You give what you eventually get.
Not what your perceive you should receive!
Especially,
When a thoughtfulness shown...
Is not a custom but a rarity!
When one gets their own act together,
Pieces have a way of falling into place.
And that...
Is the way,
This life is.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Local Hero
I was driving through my hometown
I was just kinda killin time
When I seen a face staring out of a black velvet painting
From the window of the five and dime
I couldnt quite recall the name
But the pose looked familiar to me
So I asked the salesgirl who was that man
Between the doberman and bruce lee?
She said just a local hero
Local hero she said with a smile
Yeah a local hero he used to live here for a while
I met a stranger dressed in black
At the train station
He said son your soul can be saved
Theres a beautiful women nights of low livin
And some dangerous money to be made
Theres a big town cross the whiskey line
And if we turn the right card up
They make us boss the devil pays off
And them folks that are real hard up
They get their local hero
Somebody with the right style
They get their local hero
Somebody with just the right smile
Well I learned my job I learned it well
Fit myself with religion and a story to tell
First they made me the king then they made me pope
Then they brought the rope
I woke to a gypsy girl sayin drink this
Well my hands had lost all sensation
These days Im feeling all right
cept I cant tell my courage from my desperation
From the tainted chalice
Well I drunk some heady wine
Tonight Im layin here
But theres something in my ear
Sayin theres a little town just beneath the floodline
Needs a local hero
Somebody with the right style
Lookin for a local hero
Someone with the right smile
Local hero local hero she said with a smile
Local hero he used to live here for a while
Lisa lowell, backing vocals
Patti scialfa, backing vocals
Soozie tyrell, backing vocals
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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