Chapter 4

They spread their swags in the gum-tree's shade (Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!) For the work was done and the cheques were paid. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The overseer rode in at three, But his horse pulled back and would not gee, And the stockman said, "We're up a tree!" (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Johnny-cake for tea. For a lilting lay sing hey!)

The sun sank down and the stars shone out (Sing hey for a lifting lay, sing hey!) And the old book-keeper moped about. (Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!) The dingo wailed to the mopoke's call, The crazy colt stamped in his stall; But the stockman groaned, "it's bunk for all." (Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, Hey for a backblock day! Sing hey! Sing hey for a lifting lay!)

OUR COW

Down by the sliprails stands our cow Chewing, chewing, chewing, She does not care what folks out there In the great, big world are doing. She sees the small cloud-shadows pass And green grass shining under. If she does think, what does she think About it all, I wonder?

She sees the swallows skimming by Above the sweet young clover, The light reeds swaying in the wind And tall trees bending over. Far down the track she hears the crack of bullock-whips, and raving Of angry men where, in the sun, Her fellow-beasts are slaving.

Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold, And boys will fight and wrangle, And big, grown men, just now and then, Fret o'er some fingle-fangle, Vexing the earth with grief or mirth, Longing, rejoicing, rueing-- But by the sliprails stands our cow, Chewing.

THE TEACHER

I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain, Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?" I'd be quite strict with boys and girls whose minds I had to train, And all the books and maps and things I'd carefully explain; I'd make then learn the dates of kings, and all the capes of Spain; But I wouldn't be a teacher if . . . I couldn't use the cane. Would you?

THE SPOTTED HEIFERS

Mr Jeremiah Jeffers Owned a pair of spotted heifers These he sold for two pounds ten To Mr Robert Raymond Wren

Who reared them in the lucerne paddocks Owned by Mr Martin Maddox, And sold them, when they grew to cows, To Mr Donald David Dowse.

A grazier, Mr Egbert Innes, Bought them then for twenty guineas, Milked the cows, and sold the milk To Mr Stephen Evan Silk.

Who rents a butter factory From Mr Laurence Lampard-Lee. Here, once a week, come for his butter The grocer, Mr Roland Rutter,

Who keeps a shop in Sunny Street Next door to Mr Peter Peat. He every afternoon at two Sent his fair daughter, Lucy Loo,

To Mr Rutter's shop to buy Such things as were not priced too high, Especially a shilling tin Of "Fuller's Food for Folk Too Thin."

This food was bought for Lucy Loo-- A girl of charming manners, who Was much too pale and much too slight To be a very pleasant sight.

When Lucy Loo beheld the butter Stocked by Mr Roland Rutter, She said, "I'll have a pound of that." She had it, and thenceforth grew fat.

We now go back to Mr Jeffers, Who sold the pair of spotted heifers. He had a son, James Edgar John, A handsome lad to gaze upon,

Who had now reached that time of life When young men feel they need a wife; But no young girl about the place Exactly had the kind of face

That seemed to suit James Edgar John-- A saddening thing to think upon, For he grew sad and sick of life Because he could not find a wife.

One day young James was passing by (A look of sorrow in his eye) The shop of Mr Roland Rutter, When Lucy Loo came out with butter.

At once James Edgar John said, "That Is just the girl for me! She's fat." He offered her his heart and hand And prospects of his father's land.

The Reverend Saul Sylvester Slight Performed the simple marriage rite. The happy couple went their way, And lived and loved unto this day.

Events cannot be far foreseen; And all ths joy might not have been If Mr Jeremiah Jeffers Had kept his pair of spotted heifers.

TEA TALK

'Excuse me if I sit on you,' the cup said to the saucer. 'I fear I've been here all the afternoon.' 'Spare excuses,' said the saucer; 'you have sat on me before, sir.' 'Oh, I'll stir him up directly,' said the spoon. 'Stop your clatter! Stop your clatter!' cried the bread-and-butter platter 'Tittle-tattle!' sneered the tea-pot, with a shrug; 'Now, the most important question is my chronic indigestion.' 'Ah, you've taken too much tannin,' jeered the jug. 'Hey, hey, hey!' sang the silver-plated tray, 'It's time you had your faces washed. I've come to clear away!'

THE LOOKING-GLASS

When I look into the looking glass I'm always sure to see-- No matter how I dodge about-- Me, looking out at me.

I often wonder as I look, And those strange features spy, If I, in there, think I'm as plain As I, out here, think I.

WOOLLOOMOOLOO

Here's a ridiculous riddle for you: How many o's are there in Woolloomooloo? Two for the W, two for the m, Four for the l's, and that's plenty for them.

* * *

I wonder what the Jacks have got to laugh and laugh about I'm sure the worms don't see the joke when Jacky digs them out.

I wonder which is best: a rich plum-pudding stuffed with plums, Or lemon ice, or plain boiled rice, or long-division sums.

* * *

THE BARBER

I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip, Calling out, "Next please!" and pocketing my tip. All day I'd hear my scissors going, "Snip, Snip, Snip;" I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip. But I wouldn't be a barber if . . . The razor was to slip. Would you?

FARMER JACK

Old farmer Jack gazed on his wheat, And feared the frost would nip it. Said he, "it's nearly seven feet-- I must begin to strip it."

He stripped it with a stripper and He bagged it with a bagger; The bags were all so lumpy that They made the lumper stagger.

The lumper staggered up the stack Where he was told to stack it; And Jack was paid and put the cash Inside his linen jacket.

OLD BLACK JACKO

Old Black Jacko Smokes tobacco In his little pipe of clay. Puff, puff, puff, He never has enough Though he smokes it all day.

But his lubra says, "Mine tink dat Jacky Him shmoke plenty too much baccy."

BIRD SONG

I detest the Carrion Crow! (He's a raven, don't you know?) He's a greedy glutton, also, and a ghoul, And his sanctimonious caw Rubs my temper on the raw. He's a demon, and a most degraded fowl.

I admire the pert Blue-wren And his dainty little hen-- Though she hasn't got a trace of blue upon her; But she's pleasing, and she's pretty, And she sings a cheerful ditty; While her husband is a gentleman of honour.

I despise the Pallid Cuckoo, A disreputable "crook" who Shirks her duties for a lazy life of ease. I abhor her mournful call, Which is not a song at all But a cross between a whimper and a wheeze.

THE SAILOR

I'd like to be a sailor--a sailor bold and bluff-- Calling out, "Ship ahoy!" in manly tones and gruff. I'd learn to box the compass, and to reef and tack and luff; I'd sniff and snifff the briny breeze and never get enough. Perhaps I'd chew tobacco, or an old black pipe I'd puff, But I wouldn't be a sailor if . . . The sea was very rough. Would you?

THE FAMINE

Cackle and lay, cackle and lay! How many eggs did you get to-day? None in the manger, and none in the shed, None in the box where the chickens are fed, None in the tussocks and none in the tub, And only a little one out in the scrub. Oh, I say! Dumplings to-day. I fear that the hens must be laying away.

THE FEAST

Cackle and lay, cackle and lay! How many eggs did you get to-day? Two in the manger, and four in the shed, Six in the box where the chickens are fed, Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub, And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub. Hip, hooray! Pudding to-day! I think that the hens are beginning to lay.

UPON THE ROAD TO ROCKABOUT

Upon the road to Rockabout I came upon some sheep-- A large and woolly flock about As wide as it was deep.

I was about to turn about To ask the man to tell Some things I wished to learn about Both sheep and wool as well,

When I beheld a rouseabout Who lay upon his back Beside a little house about A furlong from the track.

I had a lot to talk about, And said to him "Good day." But he got up to walk about, And so I went away--

A CHANGE OF AIR

Now, a man in Oodnadatta He grew fat, and he grew fatter, Though he hardly had a thing to eat for dinner; While a man in Booboorowie Often sat and wondered how he Could prevent himself from growing any thinner.

So the man from Oodnadatta He came down to Booboorowie, Where he rapidly grew flatter; And the folk will tell you how he Urged the man from Booboorowie To go up to Oodnadatta-- Where he lived awhile, and now he Is considerably fatter.

POLLY DIBBS

Mrs Dibbs--Polly Dibbs, Standing at a tub, Washing other people's clothes-- Rub-Rub-Rub. Poor, old, skinny arms White with soapy foam-- At night she takes her shabby hat And goes off home.

Mrs Dibbs--Polly Dibbs-- Is not very rich. She goes abroad all day to scrub, And home at night to stitch. She wears her shabby hat awry, Perched on a silly comb; And people laugh at Polly Dibbs As she goes home.

Mrs Dibbs--Mother Dibbs-- Growing very old, Says, "it's a hard world!" And sniffs and drats the cold. She says it is a cruel world, A weary world to roam. But God will smile on Polly Dibbs When she goes Home.

* * *

I suspect the Kookaburra, For his methods are not thorough In his highly praised campaign against the snakes. And the small birds, one and all, Curse him for a cannibal-- Though he certainly is cheerful when he wakes.

* * *

LULLABY

You are much too big to dandle, And I will not leave the candle. Go to sleep. You are growing naughty, rather, And I'll have to speak to father. Go to sleep! If you're good I shall not tell, then. Oh, a story? Very well, then. Once upon a time, a king, named Crawley Creep, Had a very lovely daughter . . . . You don't want a drink of water! Go to sleep! There! There! Go to sleep.

* * *

I wonder why I wear a tie. It is not warm to wear; But if I left it off someone would say it was not there.

I wonder, if I took a whiff of father's pipe for fun, Would I be big and strong like him, or just his small, sick son?

I wonder when our old white hen will know her squawk betrays her. I think she lets us find her eggs just so that we shall praise her.

* * *

THE PUBLISHER

I'd like to be a publisher, And publish massive tomes Written in a massive style by blokes with massive domes-- Science books, and histories of Egypt's day and Rome's, Books of psycho-surgery to mine the minds of momes, And solemn pseudo-psychic stuff to tell where Topsy roams When her poor clay is put away beneath the spreading holms; Books about electrocuting little seeds with ohms To sternly show them how to grow in sands, and clays, and loams, And bravely burst infinitives, like angry agronomes; Books on breeding aeroplanes and airing aerodromes, On bees that buzz in bonnets and the kind that build the combs, Made plain with pretty pictures done in crimsons, mauves, and chromes; And diagrams to baulk the brain of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I'd set the scientists to work like superheated gnomes, And make them write and write and write until the printer foams And lino men, made "loony", go to psychopathic homes. I'd publish books, I would--large books on ants and antinomes And palimpsests and palinodes and pallid pallindromes: But I wouldn't be a publisher if . . . . I got many "pomes." Would you?

GOOD NIGHT

And so, Good Night. I'm rather tired. I hardly thought I'd be required To draw a lot of pictures, too, When I arranged to write for you. I found it hard, but did my best; And now I need a little rest. If you are pleased, why, that's all right. I'm rather tired. And so

GOOD NIGHT!

This very charming gentleman, extremely old and gruff, He slowly shook his head and took a great big pinch of snuff, Then he spluttered and he muttered and he loudly shouted "Fie! To tear your books is wicked sir! and likewise all my eye!" I don't know what he meant by that. He had such piercing eyes. And, he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Books will make you wise."

This very charming gentleman said, "Hum," and "Hoity, Toit! A book is not a building block, a cushion or a quoit. Soil your books and spoil your books? Is that the thing to do? Gammon, sir! and Spinach, sir! And Fiddle-faddle, too!" He blinked so quick, and thumped his stick, then gave me such a stare. And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! BOOKS--NEED--CARE!"

THE END