Chapter 8

By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone, Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare, She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air, Then launches down the other side across the plains away To bear that note to "Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh".

And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it "further down". Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

The Old Australian Ways

The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud, Along the shore the gaslights gleam, The gale is piping loud; And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze Towards the land we left behind -- The good old land of "never mind", And old Australian ways.

The narrow ways of English folk Are not for such as we; They bear the long-accustomed yoke Of staid conservancy: But all our roads are new and strange, And through our blood there runs The vagabonding love of change That drove us westward of the range And westward of the suns.

The city folk go to and fro Behind a prison's bars, They never feel the breezes blow And never see the stars; They never hear in blossomed trees The music low and sweet Of wild birds making melodies, Nor catch the little laughing breeze That whispers in the wheat.

Our fathers came of roving stock That could not fixed abide: And we have followed field and flock Since e'er we learnt to ride; By miner's camp and shearing shed, In land of heat and drought, We followed where our fortunes led, With fortune always on ahead And always further out.

The wind is in the barley-grass, The wattles are in bloom; The breezes greet us as they pass With honey-sweet perfume; The parrakeets go screaming by With flash of golden wing, And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry Their long-drawn note of revelry, Rejoicing at the Spring.

So throw the weary pen aside And let the papers rest, For we must saddle up and ride Towards the blue hill's breast; And we must travel far and fast Across their rugged maze, To find the Spring of Youth at last, And call back from the buried past The old Australian ways.

When Clancy took the drover's track In years of long ago, He drifted to the outer back Beyond the Overflow; By rolling plain and rocky shelf, With stockwhip in his hand, He reached at last, oh lucky elf! The Town of Come-and-help-yourself In Rough-and-ready Land.

And if it be that you would know The tracks he used to ride, Then you must saddle up and go Beyond the Queensland side -- Beyond the reach of rule or law, To ride the long day through, In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe: You then might see what Clancy saw And know what Clancy knew.

By the Grey Gulf-Water

Far to the Northward there lies a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom nor understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos -- a land half made, Where endless space is and no life stirreth; And the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth. But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.

Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the Northern Ocean. Grey are the plains where the emus pass Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; Over the dead men's graves the grass Maybe is waving a trifle greener. Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.

For the strength of man is an insect's strength In the face of that mighty plain and river, And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever. And so it cometh they take no part In small-world worries; each hardy rover Rideth abroad and is light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over. And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings -- And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.

Jessie Mackay.

The Grey Company

O the grey, grey company Of the pallid dawn! O the ghostly faces, Ashen-like and drawn! The Lord's lone sentinels Dotted down the years, The little grey company Before the pioneers.

Dreaming of Utopias Ere the time was ripe, They awoke to scorning, The jeering and the strife. Dreaming of millenniums In a world of wars, They awoke to shudder At a flaming Mars.

Never was a Luther But a Huss was first -- A fountain unregarded In the primal thirst. Never was a Newton Crowned and honoured well, But first, alone, Galileo Wasted in a cell.

In each other's faces Looked the pioneers; Drank the wine of courage All their battle years. For their weary sowing Through the world wide, Green they saw the harvest Ere the day they died.

But the grey, grey company Stood every man alone In the chilly dawnlight, Scarcely had they known Ere the day they perished, That their beacon-star Was not glint of marsh-light In the shadows far.

The brave white witnesses To the truth within Took the dart of folly, Took the jeer of sin; Crying "Follow, follow, Back to Eden gate!" They trod the Polar desert, Met a desert fate.

Be laurel to the victor, And roses to the fair, And asphodel Elysian Let the hero wear; But lay the maiden lilies Upon their narrow biers -- The lone grey company Before the pioneers.

A Folk Song

I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said "She is with the Queen's maidens: They tarry long at their play. They are stringing her words like pearls To throw to the dukes and earls." But O, the pity! I had but a morn of windy red To come to the town where you were bred, And you were away, away!

I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said, "She is with the mountain elves And misty and fair as they. They are spinning a diamond net To cover her curls of jet." But O, the pity! I had but a noon of searing heat To come to your town, my love, my sweet, And you were away, away!

I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away! I said, "She is with the pale white saints, And they tarry long to pray. They give her a white lily-crown, And I fear she will never come down." But O, the pity! I had but an even grey and wan To come to your town and plead as man, And you were away, away!

Dunedin in the Gloaming

Like a black, enamoured King whispered low the thunder To the lights of Roslyn, terraced far asunder: Hovered low the sister cloud in wild, warm wonder.

"O my love, Dunedin town, the only, the abiding! Who can look undazzled up where the Norn is riding, -- Watch the sword of destiny from the scabbard gliding!

"Dark and rich and ringing true -- word and look for ever; Taking to her woman heart all forlorn endeavour; Heaven's sea about her feet, not the bounded river!"

"Sister of the mountain mist, and never to be holden With the weary sophistries that dimmer eyes embolden, -- O the dark Dunedin town, shot with green and golden!"

Then a silver pioneer netted in the rift, Leaning over Maori Hill, dreaming in the lift, Dropped her starry memories through the passioned drift: --

"Once -- I do remember them, the glory and the garden, Ere the elder stars had learnt God's mystery of pardon, Ere the youngest, I myself, had seen the flaming warden --

"Once even after even I stole ever shy and early To mirror me within a glade of Eden cool and pearly, Where shy and cold and holy ran a torrent sought but rarely.

"And fondly could I swear that this my glade had risen newly, -- Burst the burning desert tomb wherein she lieth truly, To keep an Easter with the birds and me who loved her duly."

Wailing, laughing, loving, hoar, spake the lordly ocean: "You are sheen and steadfastness: I am sheen and motion, Gulfing argosies for whim, navies for a notion.

"Sleep you well, Dunedin Town, though loud the lulling lyre is; Lady of the stars terrene, where quick the human fire is, Lady of the Maori pines, the turrets, and the eyries!"

The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie

(1901)

They played him home to the House of Stones All the way, all the way, To his grave in the sound of the winter sea: The sky was dour, the sky was gray. They played him home with the chieftain's dirge, Till the wail was wed to the rolling surge, They played him home with a sorrowful will To his grave at the foot of the Holy Hill And the pipes went mourning all the way.

Strong hands that had struck for right All the day, all the day, Folded now in the dark of earth, Veiled dawn of the upper way! Strong hands that struck with his From days that were to the day that is Carry him now from the house of woe To ride the way the Chief must go: And his peers went mourning all the way.

Son and brother at his right hand All the way, all the way! And O for them and O for her Who stayed within, the dowie day! Son and brother and near of kin Go out with the chief who never comes in! And of all who loved him far and near 'Twas the nearest most who held him dear -- And his kin went mourning all the way!

The clan went on with the pipes before All the way, all the way; A wider clan than ever he knew Followed him home that dowie day. And who were they of the wider clan? The landless man and the no man's man, The man that lacked and the man unlearned, The man that lived but as he earned -- And the clan went mourning all the way.

The heart of New Zealand went beside All the way, all the way, To the resting-place of her Highland Chief; Much she thought she could not say; He found her a land of many domains, Maiden forest and fallow plains -- He left her a land of many homes, The pearl of the world where the sea wind roams, And New Zealand went mourning all the way.

Henry Lawson.

Andy's gone with Cattle

Our Andy's gone to battle now 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; Our Andy's gone with cattle now Across the Queensland border.

He's left us in dejection now; Our hearts with him are roving. It's dull on this selection now, Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are slackest? And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling? His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy cross'd the Darling.

The gates are out of order now, In storms the "riders" rattle; For far across the border now Our Andy's gone with cattle.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall, And all the tanks run over; And may the grass grow green and tall In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain On desert stretches sandy; And when the summer comes again God grant 'twill bring us Andy.

Out Back

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought, The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out; The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black -- And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

~For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track -- With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags Out Back.~

He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot, With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not. The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack, But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more, And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore; But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack -- The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year Out Back.

In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the air seemed dead, And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead, Or in times of flood, when plains were seas, and the scrubs were cold and black, He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

He blamed himself in the year "Too Late" -- in the heaviest hours of life -- 'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife; There are times when wrongs from your kindred come, and treacherous tongues attack -- When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim; He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him. As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track, With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

It chanced one day, when the north wind blew in his face like a furnace-breath, He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death; For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack, And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile; He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while. The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track, Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag Out Back.

~For time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains and scrubs are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide; All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track With stinted stomachs and blistered feet must carry their swags Out Back.~

The Star of Australasia

We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time. From grander clouds in our "peaceful skies" than ever were there before I tell you the Star of the South shall rise -- in the lurid clouds of war. It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase; For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace. There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong, And man will fight on the battle-field while passion and pride are strong -- So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours, And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like ours.

. . . . .

There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool, Who'll stick to their guns when the mountains quake to the tread of a mighty war, And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before; When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack till the furthest hills vibrate, And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate.

. . . . .

There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride Who'll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side, Who'll hold the cliffs 'gainst the armoured hells that batter a coastal town, Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down. And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day, Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away -- Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun, And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, -- As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white, And pray to God in her darkened home for the "men in the fort to-night."

. . . . .

All creeds and trades will have soldiers there -- give every class its due -- And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo. They'll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold, For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of old; And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed, For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride; The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the grim retreat -- They'll know the glory of victory -- and the grandeur of defeat.

The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun. And many a rickety "son of a gun", on the tides of the future tossed, Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost, Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk the facts that are hard to explain, As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again -- How "this was our centre, and this a redoubt, and that was a scrub in the rear, And this was the point where the guards held out, and the enemy's lines were here."

. . . . .

And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame, Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman's shame, Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a friend's expense, Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence. And this you learn from the libelled past, though its methods were somewhat rude -- A nation's born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed. We in part atone for the ghoulish strife, and the crimes of the peace we boast, And the better part of a people's life in the storm comes uppermost.

The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime Will do the deeds in the heroes' van that live till the end of time. The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town, And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry -- upside down. 'Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong, The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long. And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease, Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.

Middleton's Rouseabout

Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout.

Type of a coming nation, In the land of cattle and sheep, Worked on Middleton's station, "Pound a week and his keep."

On Middleton's wide dominions Plied the stockwhip and shears; Hadn't any opinions, Hadn't any "idears".

Swiftly the years went over, Liquor and drought prevailed; Middleton went as a drover, After his station had failed.

Type of a careless nation, Men who are soon played out, Middleton was: -- and his station Was bought by the Rouseabout.

Flourishing beard and sandy, Tall and robust and stout; This is the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout.

Now on his own dominions Works with his overseers; Hasn't any opinions, Hasn't any "idears".

The Vagabond

White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier As we glide to the grand old sea -- But the song of my heart is for none to hear If one of them waves for me. A roving, roaming life is mine, Ever by field or flood -- For not far back in my father's line Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.

Flax and tussock and fern, Gum and mulga and sand, Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn Ever away from land; Strange wild cities in ancient state, Range and river and tree, Snow and ice. But my star of fate Is ever across the sea.

A god-like ride on a thundering sea, When all but the stars are blind -- A desperate race from Eternity With a gale-and-a-half behind. A jovial spree in the cabin at night, A song on the rolling deck, A lark ashore with the ships in sight, Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck.

A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, When life is a waking dream, And care and trouble so far away That out of your life they seem. A roving spirit in sympathy, Who has travelled the whole world o'er -- My heart forgets, in a week at sea, The trouble of years on shore.

A rolling stone! -- 'tis a saw for slaves -- Philosophy false as old -- Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, Or rot in your bed of mould! But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies And the wildest seas that roar, Or die, where the stars of Nations rise, In the stormy clouds of war.

Cleave to your country, home, and friends, Die in a sordid strife -- You can count your friends on your finger ends In the critical hours of life. Sacrifice all for the family's sake, Bow to their selfish rule! Slave till your big soft heart they break -- The heart of the family fool.

Domestic quarrels, and family spite, And your Native Land may be Controlled by custom, but, come what might, The rest of the world for me. I'd sail with money, or sail without! -- If your love be forced from home, And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, The world is your own to roam.

I've never a love that can sting my pride, Nor a friend to prove untrue; For I leave my love ere the turning tide, And my friends are all too new. The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours, With its greed and its treachery -- A stranger's hand, and a stranger land, And the rest of the world for me!

But why be bitter? The world is cold To one with a frozen heart; New friends are often so like the old, They seem of the past a part -- As a better part of the past appears, When enemies, parted long, Are come together in kinder years, With their better nature strong.

I had a friend, ere my first ship sailed, A friend that I never deserved -- For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed As soon as my turn was served. And the memory haunts my heart with shame -- Or, rather, the pride that's there; In different guises, but soul the same, I meet him everywhere.

I had a chum. When the times were tight We starved in Australian scrubs; We froze together in parks at night, And laughed together in pubs. And I often hear a laugh like his From a sense of humour keen, And catch a glimpse in a passing phiz Of his broad, good-humoured grin.

And I had a love -- 'twas a love to prize -- But I never went back again . . . I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes In many a face since then.

. . . . .

The sailors say 'twill be rough to-night, As they fasten the hatches down, The south is black, and the bar is white, And the drifting smoke is brown. The gold has gone from the western haze, The sea-birds circle and swarm -- But we shall have plenty of sunny days, And little enough of storm.

The hill is hiding the short black pier, As the last white signal's seen; The points run in, and the houses veer, And the great bluff stands between. So darkness swallows each far white speck On many a wharf and quay. The night comes down on a restless deck, -- Grim cliffs -- and -- The Open Sea!

The Sliprails and the Spur