Possum A Lay of New Chumland
SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
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’ advenchers ov a new chum in the west?”
An’ you would be very thankful an’ acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karn’t say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I know a little story an’ I’ll tell it out ov hand
If yer’ll put it down in writin’ that the swells kin understand—
(It’s a story ov a new chum, and—a story ov the land.)
He had lately kum from Ingland—you cud tell it by ’s cap—
Fur “kerlonial exper’ence” (an’ he got it, too, poor chap).
’Twas in town he met the squatter, an’ he asked, as if in fun,
“If the boss ’ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?”
Well, it riz the boss’s dander, an’ he jumps clean orf ’is ’oss—
“Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv’nus?” sez the boss;
“I hev met yer kidney often, an’ yer mighty fresh an’ free,
But yer needn’t think yer gorn ter come a-lardin’ over me!”
But the new chum sed that ’onest he was lookin’ for a job,
An’ in spite of his appearance he had blued ’is bottom bob.
An’ as beggars karn’t be choosers same as people wot are rich,
Said he’d go as stoo’rd or gard’ner, but he warn’t partickler which.
Well, the joker seemed in earnest, so the boss began ter cool,
An’ he only blanked the new chum for a thund’rin’ jumpt-up fool.
Then he sed, “Well, there’s the fencin’, if yer’ll tramp it up from Perth,
The boys ’ll find yer su’thin p’r’aps, an’ giv’ yer wat yer worth.”
Ov course the squatter never thort ter see ’im any more,
But he wa’n’t the kind ov new chum that the squatter tuk ’im for;
No, he wa’n’t the kind er cockeroach that on’y kums ter shirk,
That wants ter git the sugar, but is fri’tened ov the work;
For he sold ’is watch ’n’ jool’ry, ’n’ lardi-dardy suits,
Stuck a swag upon his shoulder, ’n’ ’is feet in blucher boots;
An’ I dunno how he did it, he was anythin’ but strong,
But he ’umped his bluey ninety mile an’ kum to Bunglelong.
He earnt ’is pound and tucker borin’ holes an’ runnin’ wire,
An’ he’d work from dawn to sunset, an’ he never seemed to tire;
But he must have suffered orful from the tucker an’ the heat,
An’ the everlastin’ trampin’ made ’im tender in the feet,
An’ he must hev thort ov England w’en the everlastin’ flies
Ware a-worrit, worrit, worrit, an’ a-knawin’ at ’is eyes;
An’ he used to swear like thunder w’en the yaller sergeant ants
Took a mornin’ stroll, promiscus, on the inside ov ’is pants.
He uster make ’is damper six or seven inches thick—
It was doughey on the inside an’ the shell was like a brick,
An’ while the damper made ’im dream ov days ov long ago,
The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ nibble out the dough.
He biled ’is taters soggy, an’ ’is junk was biled to rags
(The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ chew ’s tucker bags),
But he took ’is troubles cheerful, an’ he fixed ’em like a pome,
An’ writ ’em in his darey to amuse the folks at home.
At first he flashed a coller an’ was keerful with ’is hat,
An’ he’d black ’is boots ov Sundays, but he soon grew out of that;
An’ he lernt ter bake ’is damper, an’ he leant to bile ’is junk
An’ sleep without a-getting up all night ter shake ’is bunk.
He soon got out ov takin’ “shorter cuts” across the flats,
An’ he learnt to fling ole bottles to the sorror of the rats,
An’ learnt to sling kerlonial and like the bushman’s way,
An’ it did us good to see ’im smoke ’is “nigger” in a clay.
He would sing an’ play ’is fiddle when we gathered round the blaze,
Till ole Frenchy got excited while he’d play the Mascylays;
An’ Bill ’ud take ’is hat off while he’d spout the Light Brigade,
An’ Scotchy got oneasy when the “Bony ’Ills” was played.
So we got ter like the new chum for we’d met with many wuss,
An’ we made it easy for ’im an’ he seemed to take to us:
The toilin’ an’ the trampin’ was a-cookin’ ’im we found,
So we made ’im cook an’ stoo’rd just ter keep the chap around.
Well, the months went bakin’ broilin’ on until Christmas nex’,
When we tramped it down to Perth to spend our ’ollyday (and cheques);
But Possum sed he’d save ’is tin an’ stay and mind the camp,
So we left ’im in possession an’ we started on our tramp;
(We useter call ’im Possum, but for short we called ’im Poss,
For ’is eyes was black an’ twinklin’ and a little chap he was),
We never would have left ’im if we’d know’d (but that’s the ru,
Comin’ back we found ’im dyin’ in ’is gunyah in the scrub.
We fixed ’im up an’ nursed ’im; but we seen without a doubt
That consumption was the matter, an’ the chap was peggin’ out;
But the lion heart inside ’im was as strong an’ stout as six,
An’ while he’d smile an’ thank us he would joke about ’is fix;
An’ he said ’twas very jolly to be dry-nursed in a tent,
An’ he reckoned that the Christmas was the best he’d ever spent;
He would talk of ’ome and Inglan’ when ’is head began ter swim,
But he never blamed the country that had been so ’ard on him.
He would say, “I like the country; if a feller’s blind er halt,
Or if he’s got konsumption, why it ain’t the country’s fault.
The tea that’s boil’d in billies is far sweeter stuff, I know,
Than the cursed drink w’at blasted all my chances long ago.
I would hev cum out sooner if it was my destiny,
An’ I daresay that the country would have made a man ov me.
But w’at’s the good ov energy, an’ wat’s the good er ‘push’
W’en a feller’s sick an’ dyin’ in a gunyah in the bush.”
But he tole me all about it as I sat beside ’is bunk—
How he’d spent ’is tin in Melbourne an’ was allers gettin’ drunk;
How he thort he’d take it easy while he had a little gold,
And, before he turned the new leaf, how he scribbled on the old;
An’ among a lot ov nonsense w’en ’is mind began to drift,
He told me that the new leaf was a heavy leaf to lift.
But w’ats the good er writin’ this, it’s nothin’ very new,
The land will see enough ov it an’ suffer for it, too.
An’ he said w’en he was dying, (when his lung was spit away)
An’ we all was standin’ round ’im in the gunyah where he lay,
An’ he said, “I’ve watched the sunset—when the wind began to ‘woosh’,
Like a layer ov coals a-glowin’—on the dark bed ov the bush;
An’ I felt my fingers slippin’—slippin’—slowly—from the ropes,
Wen the West was cold—like ashes—like the ashes of my hopes;
An’—I—— Sit beside me—Peter—let me ’old—a—bushman’s hand,
For I’m—gorn to—’ump—my bluey—through the gates ov—Newchumland.”
poem by Henry Lawson
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On the Wallaby
Now the tent poles are rotting, the camp fires are dead,
And the possums may gambol in trees overhead;
I am humping my bluey far out on the land,
And the prints of my bluchers sink deep in the sand:
I am out on the wallaby humping my drum,
And I came by the tracks where the sundowners come.
It is nor'-west and west o'er the ranges and far
To the plains where the cattle and sheep stations are,
With the sky for my roof and the grass for my bunk,
And a calico bag for my damper and junk;
And scarcely a comrade my memory reveals,
Save the spiritless dingo in tow of my heels.
But I think of the honest old light of my home
When the stars hang in clusters like lamps from the dome,
And I think of the hearth where the dark shadows fall,
When my camp fire is built on the widest of all;
But I'm following Fate, for I know she knows best,
I follow, she leads, and it's nor'-west by west.
When my tent is all torn and my blankets are damp,
And the rising flood waters flow fast by the camp,
When the cold water rises in jets from the floor,
I lie in my bunk and I list to the roar,
And I think how to-morrow my footsteps will lag
When I tramp 'neath the weight of a rain-sodden swag.
Though the way of the swagman is mostly up-hill,
There are joys to be found on the wallaby still.
When the day has gone by with its tramp or its toil,
And your camp-fire you light, and your billy you boil,
There is comfort and peace in the bowl of your clay
Or the yarn of a mate who is tramping that way.
But beware of the town -- there is poison for years
In the pleasure you find in the depths of long beers;
For the bushman gets bushed in the streets of a town,
Where he loses his friends when his cheque is knocked down;
He is right till his pockets are empty, and then --
He can hump his old bluey up country again.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Squatter's Man
Come, all ye lads an' list to me,
That's left your homes an' crossed the sea,
To try your fortune, bound or free,
All in this golden land.
For twelve long months I had to pace,
Humping my swag with a cadging face,
Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race,
As in my song you'll understand.
Unto this country I did come,
A regular out-and-out new chum.
I then abhorred the sight of rum
Teetotal was my plan.
But soon I learned to wet one eye
Misfortune oft-times made me sigh.
To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly,
And be a squatter's man.
Soon at a station I appeared.
I saw the squatter with his beard,
And up to him I boldly steered,
With my swag and billy-can.
I said, "Kind sir, I want a job!"
Said he, "Do you know how to snob
Or can you break in a bucking cob?"
Whilst my figure he well did scan.
"'Tis now I want a useful cove
To stop at home and not to rove.
The scamps go about—a regular drove
I 'spose you're one of the clan?
But I'll give ten—ten, sugar an' tea;
Ten bob a week, if you'll suit me,
And very soon I hope you'll be
A handy squatter's man.
"At daylight you must milk the cows,
Make butter, cheese, an' feed the sows,
Put on the kettle, the cook arouse,
And clean the family shoes.
The stable an' sheep yard clean out,
And always answer when we shout,
With ‘Yes, ma'am,' and ‘No, sir,' mind your mouth;
And my youngsters don't abuse.
"You must fetch wood an' water, bake an' boil,
Act as butcher when we kill;
The corn an' taters you must hill,
Keep the garden spick and span.
You must not scruple in the rain
To take to market all the grain.
Be sure you come sober back again
To be a squatter's man."
He sent me to an old bark hut,
Inhabited by a greyhound slut,
Who put her fangs through my poor fut,
And, snarling, off she ran.
So once more I'm looking for a job,
Without a copper in my fob.
With Ben Hall or Gardiner I'd rather rob,
Than be a squatter's man.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Corny Bill
His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,
His hat pushed from his brow,
His dress best fitted for the South --
I think I see him now;
And when the city streets are still,
And sleep upon me comes,
I often dream that me an' Bill
Are humpin' of our drums.
I mind the time when first I came
A stranger to the land;
And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lame
When Bill took me in hand.
Old Bill was what a chap would call
A friend in poverty,
And he was very kind to all,
And very good to me.
We'd camp beneath the lonely trees
And sit beside the blaze,
A-nursin' of our wearied knees,
A-smokin' of our clays.
Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far,
An' clouds were in the skies,
We'd camp in some old shanty bar,
And sit a-tellin' lies.
Though time had writ upon his brow
And rubbed away his curls,
He always was -- an' may be now --
A favourite with the girls;
I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall --
I've see'd 'em laugh until
They could not do their work at all,
Because of Corny Bill.
He was the jolliest old pup
As ever you did see,
And often at some bush kick-up
They'd make old Bill M.C.
He'd make them dance and sing all night,
He'd make the music hum,
But he'd be gone at mornin' light
A-humpin' of his drum.
Though joys of which the poet rhymes
Was not for Bill an' me,
I think we had some good old times
Out on the wallaby.
I took a wife and left off rum,
An' camped beneath a roof;
But Bill preferred to hump his drum
A-paddin' of the hoof.
The lazy, idle loafers what
In toney houses camp
Would call old Bill a drunken sot,
A loafer, or a tramp;
But if the dead should ever dance --
As poets say they will --
I think I'd rather take my chance
Along of Corny Bill.
His long life's-day is nearly o'er,
Its shades begin to fall;
He soon must mount his bluey for
The last long tramp of all;
I trust that when, in bush an' town,
He's lived and learnt his fill,
They'll let the golden slip-rails down
For poor old Corny Bill.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo
If you want a situation, I'll just tell you the plan
To get on to a station, I am just your very man.
Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo,
With a name aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
When you get on to the station, of small things you'll make a fuss,
And in speaking of the station, mind, it's we, and ours, and us.
Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, too
And your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to ride
But run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide,
His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two,
Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
When the boss wants information, on the men you'll do a sneak,
And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
Then at the lamb-marking a boss they'll make of you.
Now that's the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
A squatter in the future I've no doubt you may be,
But if the banks once get you, they'll put you up a tree.
To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do,
'Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Mustering Song
The boss last night in the hut did say
"We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and don't be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go."
So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
So early in the morning, before the break of day.
Such a night in the yard there never was seen
(The horses were fat and the grass was green):
Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
Across the plain we jog along
Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
We dropp on a mob pretty lively, too
We round 'em up and give 'em a slue.
Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
A regular caution to this 'ere child
A new chum man on an old chum horse,
Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
I got a buster jumping a log;
I found this scouting rather hot,
So I joined the niggers with the lot we'd got.
A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
He came too close to a knocked up steer,
Who up a sapling made him clear.
Now on every side we faintly hear
The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
To the camp the cattle soon converge,
As from the thick scrub they emerge.
We hastily comfort the inner man
With the warm contents of the billy can;
The beef and damper are passed about
Before we tackle the cutting out.
We're at it now—that bally calf
Would surely make a sick man laugh;
The silly fool can't take a joke;
I hope some day in the drought he'll croak.
We've 'em now—the cows and calves
(Things here are never done by halves):
Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
Of scrubbers also not a few.
It's getting late, we'd better push;
'Tis a good long way across the bush,
And the mob to drive are middling hard;
I do not think we'll reach the yard.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Knocked Up
I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought,
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out;
I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin' brow --
I'm too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an' heat,
Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin'
through mud and slush 'n sleet;
It's tramp an' tramp for tucker -- one everlastin' strife,
An' wearin' out yer boots an' heart in the wastin' of yer life.
They whine o' lost an' wasted lives in idleness and crime --
I've wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time
And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore --
But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day,
All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;
There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year,
An' fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin' here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot -- 'n that's the truth;
I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth;
I'm stung between my shoulder-blades -- my blessed back seems broke;
I'm too knocked out to eat a bite -- I'm too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin' too -- there's oceans in the sky,
An' I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly;
The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse,
The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned -- but rheumatism's worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath,
Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death;
But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse --
What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.
For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain,
And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' slush 'n mud 'n rain --
A livin' worse than any dog -- without a home 'n wife,
A-wearin' out yer heart 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Tambaroora Jim
He never drew a sword to fight a dozen foes alone,
Nor gave a life to save a life no better than his own.
He lived because he had been born—the hero of my song—
And fought the battle with his fist whene’er he fought a wrong.
Yet there are many men who would do anything for him—
A simple chap as went by name of ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
He used to keep a shanty in the ‘Come-and-find-it Scrub,’
And there were few but knew the name of Tambaroora’s pub.
He wasn’t great in lambing down, as many landlords are,
And never was a man less fit to stand behind a bar—
Off-hand, as most bush natives are, and freckled, tall, and slim,
A careless native of the land was ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
When people said that loafers took the profit from his pub,
He’d ask them how they thought a chap could do without his grub;
He’d say, ‘I’ve gone for days myself without a bite or sup—
‘Oh! I’ve been through the mill and know what ’tis to be hard-up.’
He might have made his fortune, but he wasn’t in the swim,
For no one had a softer heart than ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
One dismal day I tramped across the Come-and-find-it Flats,
With ‘Ballarat Adolphus’ and a mate of ‘Ballarat’s’;
’Twas nearly night and raining fast, and all our things were damp,
We’d no tobacco, and our legs were aching with the cramp;
We couldn’t raise a cent, and so our lamp of hope was dim;
And thus we struck the shanty kept by ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
We dropped our swags beneath a tree, and squatted in despair,
But Jim came out to watch the rain, and saw us sitting there;
He came and muttered, ‘I suppose you haven’t half -a-crown,
‘But come and get some tucker, and a drink to wash it down.’
And so we took our blueys up and went along with him,
And then we knew why bushmen swore by ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
We sat beside his kitchen fire and nursed our tired knees,
And blessed him when we heard the rain go rushing through the trees.
He made us stay, although he knew we couldn’t raise a bob,
And tuckered us until we made some money on a job.
And many times since then we’ve filled our glasses to the brim,
And drunk in many pubs the health of ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
A man need never want a meal while Jim had ‘junk’ to carve,
For ‘Tambaroora’ always said a fellow couldn’t starve.
And this went on until he got a bailiff in his pub,
Through helping chaps as couldn’t raise the money for their grub.
And so, one rainy evening, as the distant range grew dim,
He humped his bluey from the Flats—did ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
I miss the fun in Jim’s old bar—the laughter and the noise,
The jolly hours I used to spend on pay-nights with the boys.
But that’s all past, and vain regrets are useless, I’ll allow;
They say the Come-and-find-it Flats are all deserted now.
Poor ‘Tambaroora’s’ dead, perhaps, but that’s all right with him,
Saint Peter cottons on to chaps like ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
I trust that he and I may meet where starry fields are grand,
And liquor up together in the pubs in spirit-land.
But if you chance to drop on Jim while in the West, my lad,
You won’t forget to tell him that I want to see him bad.
I want to shake his hand again—I want to shout for him—
I want to have a glass or two with ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
poem by Henry Lawson
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Country Roads ~ The New Chum Road
A new chum went, to ease his care,
A-many years ago,
To loiter round Toolangi where
The stately blue gums grow.
No bushcraft had he for his quest,
No friend to be his guide,
But sought the grade that served him best,
From Yarra's plain to mountain crest,
And crossed the Great Divide.
And round and round the hills he wound
No lilting tramp song sang he
First East, then North, then West-ward bound.
An easy grade at last he found
That led him to Toolangi.
And tho' they vowed his trail a freak,
The men that followed after
No straighter, easier path might seek,
Yet named the brook the New Chum Creek,
With rough, good-humored laughter.
They followed on his trail for years
With many a stout bush load:
Till came at last wise engineers
To build a goodly road.
With plan and scale and instrument
They sought the mountain side
To find the way the new chum went,
The best, as clearly evident,
To cross the Great Divide,
So round and round that hilly around
The pleasant track goes weaving.
Who seek its hillsides, blossom bound,
By many a gum and fern-tree crowned
Will find small cause for grieving.
The New Chum Road 'tis called today;
And they who travel round it,
And drive along that verdant way,
Will find it in their hearts to say:
'Good luck to him that found it.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Years After the War In Australia
The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,
And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: ‘By God, it’s a Christmas spree!’
‘It’s not too rusty’—and ‘Wool away!’—‘stand clear of the blazing shoots!’—
‘Sheep O! Sheep O!’—‘We’ll cut out to-day’—‘Look out for the boss’s boots!’
‘What price the tally in camp to-night!’—‘What price the boys Out Back!’
‘Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!’
‘Needle and thread!’—‘I have broke my comb!’—‘Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!’
‘Fight for your mates and the folk at home!’—‘Here’s for the Lachlan side!’
Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,
And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for ‘Tar!’
I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot:
‘Look out for the blooming shell, look out!’—‘Gor’ bli’me, but that’s red-hot!’
‘It’s Bill the Slogger—poor bloke—he’s done. A chunk of the shell was his;
‘I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.’
‘Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they missed.’
‘I’d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) fist.’
‘Hold up, Billy; I’ll stick to you; they’ve hit you under the belt;
‘If we get the waddle I’ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt;
‘You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding Chow,
‘And you went for ’em proper and laid out three, and I won’t forget it now.’
And, groaning and swearing, the pug replied: ‘I’m done . . . they’ve knocked me out!
‘I’d fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss to the rouseabout.
‘My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives me worse than hell;
‘I trained for a scrap with a twelve-stone bloke, and not with a bursting shell.
‘You needn’t mag, for I knowed, old chum, I knowed, old pal, you’d stick;
‘But you can’t hold out till the reg’lars come, and you’d best be nowhere quick.
‘They’ve got a force and a gun ashore, both of our wings is broke;
‘They’ll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the best you can do is smoke.’
And Jim exclaimed: ‘You can smoke, you chaps, but me—Gor’ bli’me, no!
‘The push that ran from the George-street traps won’t run from a foreign foe.
‘I’ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I’ll stick to what’s left of Bill.’
And they hiss through their blackened teeth: ‘We’ll stick! by the blazing flame, we will!’
And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush
How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push;
How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their rifle-stocks,
And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons—‘rocks.’
In the western camps it was ever our boast, when ’twas bad for the kangaroo:
If the enemy’s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too;
‘They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track,
But they won’t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out back!’
When we burst the enemy’s ironclads and won by a run of luck,
We whooped as loudly as Nelson’s lads when a French three-decker struck—
And when the enemy’s troops prevailed the truth was never heard—
We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred.
You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the new-chum jackeroo,
But ‘cuffs-’n’-collers’ were out that day, and they stuck to their posts like glue;
I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then;
We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street men.
And Jim the Ringer—he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim,
‘Old Heads a Caser’ and ‘Heads a Quid,’ but it never was ‘tails’ with him.
The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished grand;
He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand!
I’ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade,
With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we made.
And Billy died—he was full of sand—he said, as I raised his head:
‘I’m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead.
‘Tell ’em,’ said Billy, ‘and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;’
But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held him up:
‘I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong,
‘Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I’d loved so long.
‘Far out on the southern seas I’ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam,
‘And oft, when all on the station failed, I’ve driven the outlaw home.
‘I’ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I’ve made a cheque as quick;
‘I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our tick.
‘I’ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still,
‘When mother and sister and she were there, and the old man yelled for Bill;
‘But, save for her, could I live my while again in the old bush way,
‘I’d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!’
And he passed away as the stars came out—he died as old heroes die—
I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saltbush Bill
Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey --
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains.
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains:
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black --
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight.
Yet the squatters' men, thought they haunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.
Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousand starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or half of the mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow.
They set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack
The forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
And William prayed that the hand of Fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
So he turned and cursed the Jackaroo; he cursed him, alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldly feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the well-grassed plain in the regular prize-ring style.
Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground, and he sparred for wind, and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill --
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand;
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest;
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and gave his opponent best.
So the new chum rode to the homestead straight, and told them a story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland;
And the tale went home to the Public Schools of the pluck of the English swell --
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain;
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again;
A week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cabaret
Artist/band lisa minelli
Song title cabaret
Album cabaret
Submitted by merely
Lyrics what good is sitting alone
In you room?
Come hear the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum,
Come to the cabaret.
Put down the knitting,
The book and the broom.
Time for a holiday.
Life is a cabaret, old chum,
Come to the cabaret.
Come taste the wine,
Come hear the band.
Come blow a horn,
Start celebrating;
Right this way,
Your tables waiting.
No use permitting
Some prophet of doom
To wipe every smile away.
Come hear the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum,
Come to the cabaret!
I used to have a girlfriend
Known as elsie,
With whom I shared
Four sordid rooms in chelsea
She wasnt waht youd call
A blushing flower...
As a matter of fact
She rented by the hour.
The day she died the neighbors
Came to snicker:
Well, thats what comes
From too much pills and liquor.
But when I saw her laid out like a queen,
She was the happiest... corpse...
Id ever seen.
I think of elsie to this very day.
I remember how shed turn to me and say:
What good is sitting alone
In you room?
Come hear the music play.
Life is a cabaret, old chum,
Come to the cabaret.
Put down the knitting,
The book and the broom.
Time for a holiday.
Life is a cabaret, old chum,
Come to the cabaret.
And as for me,
I made my mind up, back in chelsea,
When I go, Im going like elsie.
Start by admitting,
From cradle to tomb
Isnt that a long a stay.
Life is a cabaret, old chum,
Only a cabarert, old chum
And I love a cabaret.
Here you here! good luck
Maria
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Since Then
I met Jack Ellis in town to-day --
Jack Ellis -- my old mate, Jack --
Ten years ago, from the Castlereagh,
We carried our swags together away
To the Never-Again, Out Back.
But times have altered since those old days,
And the times have changed the men.
Ah, well! there's little to blame or praise --
Jack Ellis and I have tramped long ways
On different tracks since then.
His hat was battered, his coat was green,
The toes of his boots were through,
But the pride was his! It was I felt mean --
I wished that my collar was not so clean,
Nor the clothes I wore so new.
He saw me first, and he knew 'twas I --
The holiday swell he met.
Why have we no faith in each other? Ah, why? --
He made as though he would pass me by,
For he thought that I might forget.
He ought to have known me better than that,
By the tracks we tramped far out --
The sweltering scrub and the blazing flat,
When the heat came down through each old felt hat
In the hell-born western drought.
The cheques we made and the shanty sprees,
The camps in the great blind scrub,
The long wet tramps when the plains were seas,
And the oracles worked in days like these
For rum and tobacco and grub.
Could I forget how we struck `the same
Old tale' in the nearer West,
When the first great test of our friendship came --
But -- well, there's little to praise or blame
If our mateship stood the test.
`Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) --
`Tails!' and a friendly oath;
We loved her fair, we had much to learn --
And each was stabbed to the heart in turn
By the girl who -- loved us both.
Or the last day lost on the lignum plain,
When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead,
With a burning throat and a tortured brain;
And the tank when we came to the track again
Was seventeen miles ahead.
Then life seemed finished -- then death began
As down in the dust I sank,
But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can,
Till I heard him saying, `Bear up, old man!'
In the shade by the mulga tank.
. . . . .
He took my hand in a distant way
(I thought how we parted last),
And we seemed like men who have nought to say
And who meet -- `Good-day', and who part -- `Good-day',
Who never have shared the past.
I asked him in for a drink with me --
Jack Ellis -- my old mate, Jack --
But his manner no longer was careless and free,
He followed, but not with the grin that he
Wore always in days Out Back.
I tried to live in the past once more --
Or the present and past combine,
But the days between I could not ignore --
I couldn't help notice the clothes he wore,
And he couldn't but notice mine.
He placed his glass on the polished bar,
And he wouldn't fill up again;
For he is prouder than most men are --
Jack Ellis and I have tramped too far
On different tracks since then.
He said that he had a mate to meet,
And `I'll see you again,' said he,
Then he hurried away through the crowded street
And the rattle of buses and scrape of feet
Seemed suddenly loud to me.
And I almost wished that the time were come
When less will be left to Fate --
When boys will start on the track from home
With equal chances, and no old chum
Have more or less than his mate.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Saltbush Bill's Second Flight
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 started at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with a 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, to ask could he camp the night;
But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and called 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 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 back 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 yard, 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 tham 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.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jack Dunn of Nevertire
It chanced upon the very day we'd got the shearing done,
A buggy brought a stranger to the West-o'-Sunday Run;
He had a round and jolly face, and he was sleek and stout,
He drove right up between the huts and called the super out.
We chaps were smoking after tea, and heard the swell enquire
For one as travelled by the name of `Dunn of Nevertire'.
Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
Poor Dunn of Nevertire;
There wasn't one of us but knew Jack Dunn of Nevertire.
`Jack Dunn of Nevertire,' he said; `I was a mate of his;
And now it's twenty years since I set eyes upon his phiz.
There is no whiter man than Jack -- no straighter south the line,
There is no hand in all the land I'd sooner grip in mine;
To help a mate in trouble Jack would go through flood and fire.
Great Scott! and don't you know the name of Dunn of Nevertire?
Big Dunn of Nevertire,
Long Jack from Nevertire;
He stuck to me through thick and thin, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.
`I did a wild and foolish thing while Jack and I were mates,
And I disgraced my guv'nor's name, an' wished to try the States.
My lamps were turned to Yankee Land, for I'd some people there,
And I was right when someone sent the money for my fare;
I thought 'twas Dad until I took the trouble to enquire,
And found that he who sent the stuff was Dunn of Nevertire,
Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
Soft Dunn of Nevertire;
He'd won some money on a race -- Jack Dunn of Nevertire.
`Now I've returned, by Liverpool, a swell of Yankee brand,
To reckon, guess, and kalkilate, 'n' wake my native land;
There is no better land, I swear, in all the wide world round --
I smelt the bush a month before we touched King George's Sound!
And now I've come to settle down, the top of my desire
Is just to meet a mate o' mine called `Dunn of Nevertire'.
Was raised at Nevertire --
The town of Nevertire;
He humped his bluey by the name of `Dunn of Nevertire'.
`I've heard he's poor, and if he is, a proud old fool is he;
But, spite of that, I'll find a way to fix the old gum-tree.
I've bought a station in the North -- the best that could be had;
I want a man to pick the stock -- I want a super bad;
I want no bully-brute to boss -- no crawling, sneaking liar --
My station super's name shall be `Jack Dunn of Nevertire'!
Straight Dunn of Nevertire,
Old Dunn of Nevertire;
I guess he's known up Queensland way -- Jack Dunn of Nevertire.'
The super said, while to his face a strange expression came:
`I THINK I've seen the man you want, I THINK I know the name;
Had he a jolly kind of face, a free and careless way,
Gray eyes that always seem'd to smile, and hair just turning gray --
Clean-shaved, except a light moustache, long-limbed, an' tough as wire?'
`THAT'S HIM! THAT'S DUNN!' the stranger roared, `Jack Dunn of Nevertire!
John Dunn of Nevertire,
Jack D. from Nevertire,
They said I'd find him here, the cuss! -- Jack Dunn of Nevertire.
`I'd know his walk,' the stranger cried, `though sobered, I'll allow.'
`I doubt it much,' the boss replied, `he don't walk that way now.'
`Perhaps he don't!' the stranger said, `for years were hard on Jack;
But, if he were a mile away, I swear I'd know his back.'
`I doubt it much,' the super said, and sadly puffed his briar,
`I guess he wears a pair of wings -- Jack Dunn of Nevertire;
Jack Dunn of Nevertire,
Brave Dunn of Nevertire,
He caught a fever nursing me, Jack Dunn of Nevertire.'
We took the stranger round to where a gum-tree stood alone,
And in the grass beside the trunk he saw a granite stone;
The names of Dunn and Nevertire were plainly written there --
`I'm all broke up,' the stranger said, in sorrow and despair,
`I guess he has a wider run, the man that I require;
He's got a river-frontage now, Jack Dunn of Nevertire;
Straight Dunn of Nevertire,
White Jack from Nevertire,
I guess Saint Peter knew the name of `Dunn of Nevertire'.'
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of Old Joe Swallow
When I was up the country in the rough and early days,
I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett's bullick-drays;
Then the reelroad wasn't heered on, an' the bush was wild an' strange,
An' we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the range --
Load provisions for the stations, an' we'd travel far and slow
Through the plains an' 'cross the ranges in the days of long ago.
Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow,
An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go,
To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin',
Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin'
Days o' long ago.
Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town,
But we hadn't gone a dozen mile before the rain come down,
An' me an' Jimmy Nowlett an' the bullicks an' the dray
Was cut off on some risin' ground while floods around us lay;
An' we soon run short of tucker an' terbacca, which was bad,
An' pertaters dipped in honey was the only tuck we had.
An' half our bullicks perished when the drought was on the land,
An' the burnin' heat that dazzles as it dances on the sand;
When the sun-baked clay an' gravel paves for miles the burnin' creeks,
An' at ev'ry step yer travel there a rottin' carcase reeks --
But we pulled ourselves together, for we never used ter know
What a feather bed was good for in those days o' long ago.
But in spite ov barren ridges an' in spite ov mud an' heat,
An' dust that browned the bushes when it rose from bullicks' feet,
An' in spite ov cold and chilblains when the bush was white with frost,
An' in spite of muddy water where the burnin' plain was crossed,
An' in spite of modern progress, and in spite of all their blow,
'Twas a better land to live in, in the days o' long ago.
When the frosty moon was shinin' o'er the ranges like a lamp,
An' a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin' on the camp,
When the fire was blazin' cheery an' the pipes was drawin' well,
Then our songs we useter chorus an' our yarns we useter tell;
An' we'd talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we useter know,
For there always was behind us OTHER days o' long ago.
Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the plain,
But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again:
Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer,
Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin'-ground is near;
Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an' Jimmy useter throw
O'er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long ago.
I have been a-driftin' back'ards with the changes ov the land,
An' if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn't understand,
But when Mary wakes me sudden in the night I'll often say:
`Come here, Spot, an' stan' up, Bally, blank an' blank an' come-eer-way.'
An' she says that, when I'm sleepin', oft my elerquince 'ill flow
In the bullick-drivin' language ov the days o' long ago.
Well, the pub will soon be closin', so I'll give the thing a rest;
But if you should drop on Nowlett in the far an' distant west --
An' if Jimmy uses doubleyou instead of ar an' vee,
An' if he drops his aitches, then you're sure to know it's he.
An' yer won't forgit to arsk him if he still remembers Joe
As knowed him up the country in the days o' long ago.
Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow,
An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go,
To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin',
Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin'
Days o' long ago.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Sleeping Beauty
“Call that a yarn!” said old Tom Pugh,
“What rot! I’ll lay my hat
I’ll sling you a yarn worth more nor two
Such pumped-up yarns as that.”
And thereupon old Tommy “slew”
A yarn of Lambing Flat.
“When Lambing Flat broke out,” he said,
“’Mongst others there I knew
A lanky, orkard, Lunnon-bred
Young chap named Johnny Drew,
And nicknamed for his love of bed,
The ‘Sleeping Beauty’ too.
“He sunk a duffer on the Flat,
In comp’ny with three more,
And makin’ room for this and that
They was a tidy four,
Save when the eldest, Dublin Pat,
Got drunk and raved for gore.
“This Jack at yarnin’ licked a book,
And half the night he’d spout.
But when he once turned in, it took
Old Nick to get him out.
And that is how they came to cook
The joke I tell about.
“A duffer-rush broke out one day,
I quite forget where at
(It doesn’t matter, anyway,
It didn’t feed a cat)—
And Johnnie’s party said they’d say
Good-bye to Lambing Flat.
“Next mom rose Johnnie’s mates to pack
And make an early shunt,
But all they could get out of Jack
Was ‘All right,’ or a grunt,
By pourin’ water down his back
And—when he turned—his front.
“The billy biled, the tea was made,
They sat and ate their fill,
But Jack upon his broad back laid,
Snored like a fog-horn still;
‘We’ll save some tea to scald him,’ said
The peaceful Corney Bill.
“As they their beef and damper ate
And swilled their pints of tea
A bully notion all at wonst
Dawned on that rowdy three.
And Dublin Pat, in frantic mirth,
Said, ‘Now we’ll have a spree!’
“Well, arter that, I’m safe to swear,
The beggars didn’t lag,
But packed their togs with haste and care,
And each one made his swag
With Johnnie’s moleskins, ev’ry pair,
Included in the bag.
“With nimble fingers from the pegs
They soon the strings unbent,
And off its frame as sure as eggs
They drew the blessed tent,
And rolled it up and stretched their legs,
And packed the lot—and went.
“And scarcely p’r’aps a thing to love,
The ‘Beauty’ slumbered sound,
With nought but Heaven’s blue above
And Lambing Flat around,
Until in sight some diggers hove—
Some diggers out’ard bound.
“They sez as twelve o’clock was nigh—
We’ll say for sure elev’n—
When Johnnie ope’d his right-hand eye
And looked straight up to Heav’n:
I reckon he got more surprise
Than struck the fabled Sev’n.
“Clean off his bunk he made a bound,
And when he rubbed his eyes
I’m safe to swear poor Johnnie found
His dander ’gin to rise.
For there were diggers standin’ round—
Their missuses likewise.
“O Lor’! the joke—it wasn’t lost,
Though it did well-nigh tear
The sides of them as came acrost
The flat to hear Jack swear,
They sez as how old Grimshaw tossed
His grey wig in the air.
“Some minutes on the ground Jack lay,
And bore their screamin’ jeers,
And every bloke that passed that way
Contributed his sneers;
Jack cursed aloud, that cursed day
Seemed lengthened into years.
“Then in a fury up he sprung—
A pretty sight, you bet—
And laid about him with his tongue
Advising us ‘to get’,
And praying we might all be hung—
I think I hear him yet.
“Then on a sudden, down he bent,
And grabbed a chunk of rock,
And into Grimshaw’s stomach sent
The fossil, with a shock,
And Grimshaw doubled up and went
To pieces with the knock.
“And in the sun that day Jack stood
Clad only in his shirt,
And fired with stones and bits of wood,
And with his tongue threw dirt;
He fought as long as e’er he could—
But very few were hurt.
“He stooped to tear a lump of schist
Out of the clinging soil,
By thunder, you should hear him jist,
And see the way he’d coil
Upon the ground, and hug his fist,
And scratch and dig and toil!
“’Tis very plain he’d struck it fat,
The dufferin’ Lunnon muff;
The scoff and butt of Lambing Flat,
Who always got it rough,
Could strike his fortune where he sat;
The joker held the stuff.
“Well, that’s the yarn, it ain’t so poor;
Them golden days is o’er,
And Dublin Pat was drowned, and sure
It quenched his thirst for gore;
Old Corney Bill and Dave the Cure
I never heard on more.
“The Sleepin’ Beauty’s wealthy, too,
And wears a shiny hat,
But often comes to old Tom Pugh
To have a quiet chat;
I lent him pants to get him through
His fix on Lambing Flat.”
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Brighten’s Sister-In-Law [or The Carrier's Story]
AT A POINT where the old road crosses
The river, and turns to the right,
I’d camped with the team; and the hosses
Was all fixed up for the night.
I’d been to the town to carry
A load to the Cudgegong;
And I’d taken the youngster, Harry,
On a trip as I’d promis’d him long.
I had seven more, and another
That died at the age of three;
But they all took arter the mother,
And Harry took arter me.
And from the tiniest laddie
’Twas always his fondest dream
To go on the roads with his daddy,
And help him to drive the team.
He was bright at the school and clever,
The best of the youngsters there;
And the teacher said there was never
A lad that promised so fair.
And I half forgot life’s battle,
An’ its long, hard-beaten road,
In the sound of the youngster’s prattle
From his perch on top o’ the load.
An’ when he was tired o’ ridin’
I’d lift him down for a walk,
And he’d say, at my silence chidin’,
“Now, daddy tell me some talk.”
And oft by the camp-fire sittin’,
When the bush was round us wild,
I’d yarn by the hour, forgittin’
That Harry was only a child.
But to-day he’d been strange and quiet,
An’ lay on the chaff-bags still;
An’ though he’d bravely deny it,
I know’d as the boy was ill.
He said he was “only dosey”,
In his queer old-fashioned way;
And I fixed him up warm an’ cosey
In the hammock under the dray.
I fried him some eggs and some bakin’
Which I couldn’t git him to touch;
And it set my heart a-achin
For he’d always eaten so much.
I wandered about half silly,
And thought that my heart would stop;
And the tea got cold in the billy,
For I couldn’t ’a’ tasted a drop.
I’d seen the same sickness of’en;
An’ my spirits began to droop,
For as soon as he started coughin’
I know’d as he’d got the croup.
’Twas fifteen mile to the river;
An’ Gulgong was twenty-five;
An’ I thought ’twas a chance if ever
I got him back home alive.
The thought of the loss was horrid
If the young ’un was taken away;
And I went and leaned my forehead
Against the tire o’ the dray.
And sudden I started cryin’,
And sobbed like a woman too;
For I felt that the boy was dyin’,
And I didn’t know what to do.
All helpless I was, and lonely;
But I thought ’twas a coward’s cry
To call on the Saviour only
When trouble or death was nigh.
But after a while I lifted
My eyes to the steely blue
Of the sky where somethin’ drifted
Like a great white cockatoo.
An’ nearer it came, and nearer,
Right down to the branch of the tree;
And it seemed when its shape grew clearer,
Like the form of a woman to me.
For a moment it seemed to tarry,
An’ p’int away up the road,
An’ then seemed pintin’ at Harry,
A-coughin’ beneath the load.
I don’t want ter arger; there’s chances
The vision was only the sky,
Or the smoke outlin’d on the branches,
Or a lonely cloud on high.
But I says ’twas a message from glory;
I sees as yer goin’ to chaff;
Just wait till I done my story,
An’ laugh if yer want to laugh.
Away went the vision flyin’;
Up into the blue it went;
And I stood for a minute tryin’
To think what its comin’ meant.
When it flashed on my brain like lightnin’;
An’ arter I thought it strange
I’d almost forgotten old Brighten
Who lived on the top of the range.
He lived on a small selection,
Or used ter live there I know’d;
An’ it lay in a west direction,
’Bout five miles back from the road.
I harnessed the horses quicker
Than ever I’d taken ’em out;
An’ they must ’a’ thought me in liquor,
For the way as I shov’d ’em about.
I’d allers bin fond o’ sneerin’
An’ laughin’ at women’s ways;
I could see in their lives, I’m fearin’,
But little as called for praise;
But now when I thought he’d smother
With croup in the lonely wild,
Good God, how I longed for a mother
To save the life of my child!
I seed in a vision each minit
The youngster nursed back into life;
An’ the hand of a woman was in it;
An’ the woman was Brighten’s wife.
There’s times when not knowin’ a bliss is,
As Harry’s school-teacher ’ud say:
And I didn’t know Brighten’s missis
Had gone to the town that day.
In a moment I’d lifted Harry
To the bags on top of the load;
And I flogged the weary horses
Along on the dusty road.
But ev’rything seem’d to hinder
My hopes when I reached the hut;
For there wasn’t a light in the winder;
And both o’ the doors was shut.
That moment my heart got hurted;
An’ I felt it for many a day;
For I thought that the place was deserted,
An’ Brighten had gone away.
But I called; and the door was opened,
An’ I saw that the hut was alight;
It hadn’t shone in the winders;
For the moon was shinin’ bright.
An’ there in the door, with a candle,
I saw old Brighten stand,
With his fingers grasping the handle
Of a pistol he held in his hand.
“If any one moves,” he shouted,
“I’ll fire if I’ve got to hang!”
For the moment he never doubted
’Twas a visit from Gard’ner’s gang.
I didn’t move in a hurry;
For a man in a fright shoots quick.
But I told him he needn’t flurry,
’Twas only a youngster sick.
“Stan’ back,” said old Brighten, snatchin’
An’ shuttin’ the door in his fright;
“It’s typhoid, maybe, he’s catchin’:
An’ I can’t have him here to-night.”
But a woman’s voice shouted, “What is it?”
I’d never seen her before;
She was only there on a visit;
’Twas Brighten’s sister-in-law.
An’ nothin’ seemed able to frighten
This woman so pale an’ thin;
She pushed from the door old Brighten,
An’ carried the youngster in.
She’d bin hospital nurse in the city,
I heard, and had got the sack
For havin’ a little pity,
An’ exposin’ a doctor quack;
Some trumped-up stories agin her
All over the town was belled;
An’ in spite of the fightin’ in her
They got her at last expelled.
An’, talkin’ o’ fight, I’m fearin‘
There’s sudden fightin’ in store
For the first as speaks in my hearin’
’Gin Brighten’s sister-in-law;
For, in spite of old Brighten’s cussin’,
She got the youngster to bed;
And arter a week’s good nussin’
She won him back from the dead.
And then I began to hanker
For a speech to tell her the joy
I felt in my heart, and to thank her
For givin’ me back my boy.
The mornin’ I left old Brighten’s,
While puttin’ the horses to,
I puzzled my brains to make up
A speech as I thought would do.
She lifted the youngster and kissed him,
And helped him into the dray;
An’ I thought of how I’d ’a’ missed him,
If he’d only been taken away.
An’, “Mum,” I sez; “I oughter—”
An’ to finish the speech I tries;
But all on a sudden the water
Kem bubblin’ up to my eyes.
An’ down’ard, like water-courses,
The tears began to tear;
An’ I had to swear at the horses
To hide my weakness from her.
But the tears was only human
An’ they seem’d to ha’ done some good;
For she pressed my hand like a woman,
An’ said that she understood.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Squatter, Three Cornstalks, and the Well
There was a Squatter in the land—
So runs the truthful tale I tell—
There also were three cornstalks, and
There also was the Squatter’s Well.
Singing (slowly): “Sin and sorrer, sin and sor-rer, sin and sor-r-r-rer.”
The Squatter he was full of pluck,
The Cornstalks they were full of sin,
The well it was half full of muck
That many rains had drifted in.
Singing (with increased feeling): “Sin, &c.”
The Squatter hired the Cornstalks Three
To cleanse the well of mud and clay;
And so they started willing-lee
At five-and-twenty bob a day.
Singing (apprehensively): “Sin, &c.”
At five-and-twenty bob the lot—
That’s eight-and-four the day would bring
To each; and so they thought they’d got
A rather soft and easy thing.
Singing (sadly): “Sin, &c.”
The Cornstalks cleaned the well within
A day or two, or thereabout—
And then they worked an awful sin—
A scheme to make the job last out.
Singing (reproachfully): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
For when the well was cleaned out quite
Of all its logs and muck and clay
They tipped a drayload down at night
And worked to haul it up next day.
Singing (dismally): “Sin, &c.”
But first the eldest, christened Hodge,
He greased the dray-wheel axles, so
The super wouldn’t smell the dodge
And couldn’t let the Squatter know.
Singing (hopelessly): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
The stuff they surfaced out each day
With some surprise the Squatter saw.
He never dreamt the sand and clay
Was three miles off the night before.
Singing (mournfully): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
But he got something in his eye;
It wasn’t green, that’s very plain.
He said the well was rather dry,
And they could fill it up again.
Singing (mournfully and dismally): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
The Cornstalks went to work next day
In hope, of course, of extra tin—
The Squatter watched, and, sad to say,
The mullock wouldn’t all go in.
Singing (with great pathos): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
And though the Cornstalks twigged the ruse
Whereby the boss had done ’em brown,
They argued that the clay was loose,
And wanted time to settle down.
Singing (hopelessly): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
The boss began to rave and tear,
And yelled with a most awful frown,
“I will not settle up, I swear,
Till that there clay is settled down!”
Singing (hopefully): “Sin, &c.”
“Before my cheques yer’Il pocket, boys,
Yer’ll put a mountain in a well”—
The Cornstalks didn’t make a noise,
They only murmured sadly—!
Singing (triumphantly): “Sin and sorrer, &c.”
MORAL:
There is a moral to my rhyme—
A moral to the dirge I sing—
That when you do go in for crime
You mustn’t overdoo the thing.
Singing (more dismally than ever): “Sin and sorrer, s-i-n and sor-r-r-r-rer!”
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jim
He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour.,
Consumpted-Iookin'-- but la!
The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,
And his feelin's too!
Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on
Like he ust to do!
Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt,
A better feller'n Jim!
You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else--
You could git it o' him!
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!
Give up ever' nickel he's worth--
And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,
He'd a-give you the earth!
Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some
Pore feller onto his feet--
He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,
So's the feller got somepin' to eat!
Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed,
He ust to say to me--,
'You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job,
And he'll git along!' says he.
Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much
O' this world's goods at a time--.
'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n
likely,
Turn round and borry a dime!
Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile-- then jerk his coat,
And kindo' square his chin,
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench,
And go to peggin' ag'in!
Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly
Coughed hisse'f to death!
Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say
He could git ever'thing but his breath--
'You fellers,' he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,
'Is a-pilin' onto me
A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack
Through all Eternity!'
Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,
'At ortn't a-never a-died!
'But death hain't a-showin' no favors,' the old boss said--
'On'y to Jim!' and cried:
And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop--
Er the whole blame neighborhood--,
He says, 'When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day
But jes set around and feel good!'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The City Bushman
It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent;
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,
Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush;
But we lately heard you singing of the `plains where shade is not',
And you mentioned it was dusty -- `all was dry and all was hot'.
True, the bush `hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too,
For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you;
But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee --
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be.
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet
Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street;
And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall,
And it's doubtful if his spirit will be `loyal thro' it all'.
Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about,
There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without --
Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn,
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest,
And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West;
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks
From the people of a country in possession of the Banks.
And the `rise and fall of seasons' suits the rise and fall of rhyme,
But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time;
For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry,
Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky --
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight.
It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best,
But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West;
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring,
There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything.
In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird,
But the `carol of the magpie' was a thing I never heard.
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true,
But I only heard him asking, `Who the blanky blank are you?'
And the bell-bird in the ranges -- but his `silver chime' is harsh
When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh.
Yes, I heard the shearers singing `William Riley', out of tune,
Saw 'em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon,
But the bushman isn't always `trapping brumbies in the night',
Nor is he for ever riding when `the morn is fresh and bright',
And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run --
And the camp-fire's `cheery blazes' are a trifle overdone;
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days,
When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn't any blaze,
Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn
Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn.
Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags,
And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags,
And we couldn't raise a chorus, for the toothache and the cramp,
While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp.
Would you like to change with Clancy -- go a-droving? tell us true,
For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you,
And be something in the city; but 'twould give your muse a shock
To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock,
And you wouldn't mind the beauties underneath the starry dome
If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home.
Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black,
And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back
Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots
And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots --
Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough
Till a squatter's irate dummy cantered up to warn you off?
Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the `seasons' were asleep,
Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep,
Drinking mud instead of water -- climbing trees and lopping boughs
For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows?
Do you think the bush was better in the `good old droving days',
When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways,
When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn,
But were forced to take provisions from the station in return --
When you couldn't keep a chicken at your humpy on the run,
For the squatter wouldn't let you -- and your work was never done;
When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn
While you `rose up Willy Riley' -- in the days ere you were born?
Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like
Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows strike.
Don't you fancy that the poets ought to give the bush a rest
Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West?
Where the simple-minded bushman gets a meal and bed and rum
Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come;
Where the scalper -- never troubled by the `war-whoop of the push' --
Has a quiet little billet -- breeding rabbits in the bush;
Where the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a draw,
And the dummy gets his tucker through provisions in the law;
Where the labour-agitator -- when the shearers rise in might --
Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for The Right;
Where the squatter makes his fortune, and `the seasons rise and fall',
And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all;
Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest
Never reach the Eldorado of the poets of the West.
And you think the bush is purer and that life is better there,
But it doesn't seem to pay you like the `squalid street and square'.
Pray inform us, City Bushman, where you read, in prose or verse,
Of the awful `city urchin who would greet you with a curse'.
There are golden hearts in gutters, though their owners lack the fat,
And we'll back a teamster's offspring to outswear a city brat.
Do you think we're never jolly where the trams and buses rage?
Did you hear the gods in chorus when `Ri-tooral' held the stage?
Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin's voice
When he yelled for Billy Elton, when he thumped the floor for Royce?
Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars
When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private bars?
You've a down on `trams and buses', or the `roar' of 'em, you said,
And the `filthy, dirty attic', where you never toiled for bread.
(And about that self-same attic -- Lord! wherever have you been?
For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.)
But you'll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push,
And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush.
. . . . .
You'll admit that Up-the Country, more especially in drought,
Isn't quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about,
Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides
In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their hides;
Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees
And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the trees!
Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand
And to feel once more a little like a native of the land.
And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes
Isn't suited to the country nor the spirit of the times.
Let us go together droving, and returning, if we live,
Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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