Part 1

[Cover Illustration]

=AROUND THE BOREE= =LOG=

AND OTHER VERSES

By “JOHN O’BRIEN”

Now someone driving through the rain will happen in, I bet; So fill the fountain up again, and leave the table set. For this was ours with pride to say—and all the world defy— No stranger ever turned away, no neighbour passed us by.

Bedad, he’ll have to stay the night; the rain is going to pour— So make the rattling windows tight, and close the kitchen door, And bring the old lopsided chair, the tattered cushion, too— We’ll make the stranger happy there, the way we used to do.

_The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,_ _Yet spend another night with me around the boree log._

He’ll fill his pipe, and good and well, and all aglow within We’ll hear the news he has to tell, the yarns he has to spin; Yarns—yes, and super-yarns, forsooth, to set the eyes agog, And freeze the blood of trusting youth around the boree log.

Then stir it up and make it burn; the poker’s next to you; Come, let us poke it all in turn, the way we used to do. There’s many a memory bright and fair will tingle at a name— But leave unstirred the embers there we cannot fan to flame.

_For years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog;_ _Still, spend this fleeting night with me around the boree log._

[1] Boree (sometimes accented on the last syllable) is the aboriginal name for the Weeping Myall—the best firewood in Australia except Gidgee.

CALLING TO ME

Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreaming Comes the song of a bush boy glad-hearted and free; Oh, the gullies are green where the sunlight is streaming, And the voice of that youngster is calling to me.

It is calling to me with a haunting insistence, And my feet wander off on a hoof-beaten track, Till I hear the old magpies away in the distance With a song of the morning that’s calling me back.

It is calling me back, for the dew’s on the clover, And the colours are mellow on mountain and tree; Oh, the gold has gone gray in the heart of the rover, And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me.

It is calling to me, though the breezes are telling Gay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam; For the tapers are lit in the humble old dwelling, And the love that it sheltered is calling me home.

It is calling me home—but the white road lies gleaming, And afar from it all must I tarry and dree; Just an echo far off, in the hush of my dreaming, Is the voice of a youngster that’s calling to me.

THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER

Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street, Where the roses swing their censers by the door? Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor? Did you wonder why the wiree[2] comes to sing his sweetest song? Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall? Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?— There’s a Little Irish Mother there; that’s all.

When you watched the children toiling at their lessons in the school, Did you pick a winsome girleen from the rest, With her wealth of curl a-cluster as she smiled upon the stool, In a simple Monday-morning neatness dressed? Did you mark the manly bearing of a healthy-hearted boy As he stood erect his well-conned task to tell? Did you revel in the freshness with a pulse of wholesome joy?— There a Little Irish Mother there as well.

There’s a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps In the settler’s hut where seldom stranger comes, Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums, Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again, And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share, Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid men— There’s a Little Irish Mother always there.

There’s a Little Irish Mother—and her head is bowed and gray, And she’s lonesome when the evening shadows fall; Near the fire she “do be thinkin’,” all the “childer” are away, And their silent pictures watch her from the wall. For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women now, In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams; But she runs her fingers, dozing, o’er a tousled baby brow— It is “little Con” or “Bridgie” in her dreams.

There’s a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last Where the tangled grass is creeping all around; And the shades of unsung heroes troop about her from the past While the moonlight scatters diamonds on the mound. And a good Australian’s toiling in the world of busy men Where the strife and sordid grinding cramp and kill; But his eyes are sometimes misted, and his heart grows brave again— She’s the Little Irish Mother to him still.

When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be, And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled, Then the Judge shall call to honour—not the “stars,” it seems to me, Who have posed behind the footlights of the world; But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown, And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown Shall receive the crown too long to her denied.

[2] Also known as the Chocolate Wiree (pronounced “wiry”): a very fine songster, called by ornithologists “Rufous-breasted Whistler.”

ONE BY ONE

With trust in God and her good man She settled neath the spur; The old slab dwelling, spick and span, Was world enough for her; The lamp-light kissed her raven hair As, when her work was done, She lined us up beside her chair And taught us one by one.

And weaving memories, haunting sweet, With threads of weal and woe, The years went by on velvet feet— We did not hear them go. The world was calling everywhere Beneath the golden sun; When silver streaked her raven hair, We left her one by one.

Then, turning back on cogs of pain, The spool that ran so fast Unwound before her eyes again The pictures of the past. The shadows played around her chair, Where fancy’s web was spun; When time had bleached her raven hair, She called us one by one.

Oh, say not that we loved her less! But write them to our shame, The silence and the loneliness; And then the summons came— We found the dark clouds banking there To hide the setting sun. Ah, white threads in her children’s hair!— We gathered one by one.

How quaintly sere, how small and strange The old home and the spur; But stranger this—the only change Was wrought in us and her. The lamp-light kissed her faded chair, Where, ere the sands had run, The sheen still on her raven hair, She’d nursed us one by one.

Oh, vain the word that each could tell With full heart brimming o’er, That we, who ever loved her well, Might still have loved her more! Then back into the world of care— To bless till life is done— A memory crowned with milk-white hair We carried one by one.

TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS

There were ten little Steps and Stairs. Round through the old bush home all day Romping about in the old bush way. They were ten little wild March hares, Storming the kitchen in hungry lines, With their naked feet, doing mud designs, “All over the place like punkin vines.” There were ten little Steps and Stairs.

There were ten little Steps and Stairs. In their home-made frocks and their Sunday suits, Up through the church with their squeaky boots, While the folk went astray in their prayers, They hustled along, all dressed and neat— Oh, they bustled a bit as they filled the seat; From the first to the last, the lot complete. There were ten little Steps and Stairs.

There were ten little Steps and Stairs. But the years have shuffled them all about, Have worn them thin, and straightened them out With the tramp of a hundred cares; Ay, and each grim scar has a tale to tell Of a knock and a blow and a hand that fell, And a break in the line, and a gap. Ah, well— There _were_ ten little Steps and Stairs.

THE TRIMMIN’S ON THE ROSARY

Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is turning gray, Drifting in like painted butterflies from paddocks far away; Dripping dainty wings in fancy—and the pictures, fading fast, Stand again in rose and purple in the album of the past. There’s the old slab dwelling dreaming by the wistful, watchful trees, Where the coolabahs are listening to the stories of the breeze; There’s a homely welcome beaming from its big, bright friendly eyes, With The Sugarloaf behind it blackened in against the skies; There’s the same dear happy circle round the boree’s cheery blaze With a little Irish mother telling tales of other days. She had one sweet, holy custom which I never can forget, And a gentle benediction crowns her memory for it yet; I can see that little mother still and hear her as she pleads, “Now it’s getting on to bed-time; all you childer get your beads.” There were no steel-bound conventions in that old slab dwelling free; Only this—each night she lined us up to say the Rosary; E’en the stranger there, who stayed the night upon his journey, knew He must join the little circle, ay, and take his decade too. I believe she darkly plotted, when a sinner hove in sight Who was known to say no prayer at all, to make him stay the night. Then we’d softly gather round her, and we’d speak in accents low, And pray like Sainted Dominic so many years ago; And the little Irish mother’s face was radiant, for she knew That “where two or three are gathered” He is gathered with them too. O’er the paters and the aves how her reverent head would bend! How she’d kiss the cross devoutly when she counted to the end! And the visitor would rise at once, and brush his knees—and then He’d look very, very foolish as he took the boards again. She had other prayers to keep him. They were long, long prayers in truth; And we used to call them “Trimmin’s” in my disrespectful youth. She would pray for kith and kin, and all the friends she’d ever known, Yes, and everyone of us could boast a “trimmin’” all his own. She would pray for all our little needs, and every shade of care That might darken o’er The Sugarloaf, she’d meet it with a prayer. She would pray for this one’s “sore complaint,” or that one’s “hurted hand,” Or that someone else might make a deal and get “that bit of land”; Or that Dad might sell the cattle well, and seasons good might rule, So that little John, the weakly one, might go away to school. There were trimmin’s, too, that came and went; but ne’er she closed without Adding one for something special “none of you must speak about.” Gentle was that little mother, and her wit would sparkle free, But she’d murder him who looked around while at the Rosary: And if perchance you lost your beads, disaster waited you, For the only one she’d pardon was “himself”—because she knew He was hopeless, and ’twas sinful what excuses he’d invent, So she let him have his fingers, and he cracked them as he went, And, bedad, he wasn’t certain if he’d counted five or ten, Yet he’d face the crisis bravely, and would start around again; But she tallied all the decades, and she’d block him on the spot, With a “Glory, Daddah, Glory!” and he’d “Glory” like a shot. She would portion out the decades to the company at large; But when she reached the trimmin’s she would put herself in charge; And it oft was cause for wonder how she never once forgot, But could keep them in their order till she went right through the lot. For that little Irish mother’s prayers embraced the country wide; If a neighbour met with trouble, or was taken ill, or died, We could count upon a trimmin’—till, in fact, it got that way That the Rosary was but trimmin’s to the trimmin’s we would say. Then “himself” would start keownrawning[3]—for the public good, we thought— “Sure you’ll have us here till mornin’. Yerra, cut them trimmin’s short!” But she’d take him very gently, till he softened by degrees— “Well, then, let us get it over. Come now, all hands to their knees.” So the little Irish mother kept her trimmin’s to the last, Ever growing as the shadows o’er the old selection passed; And she lit our drab existence with her simple faith and love, And I know the angels lingered near to bear her prayers above, For her children trod the path she trod, nor did they later spurn To impress her wholesome maxims on their children in their turn. Ay, and every “sore complaint” came right, and every “hurted hand”; And we made a deal from time to time, and got “that bit of land”; And Dad did sell the cattle well; and little John, her pride, Was he who said the Mass in black the morning that she died; So her gentle spirit triumphed—for ’twas this, without a doubt, Was the very special trimmin’ that she kept so dark about.

* * * * *

But the years have crowded past us, and the fledglings all have flown, And the nest beneath The Sugarloaf no longer is their own; For a hand has written “_finis_” and the book is closed for good— There’s a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood; There the stranger has her “evenings,” and the formal supper’s spread, But I wonder has she “trimmin’s” now, or is the Rosary said? Ah, those little Irish mothers passing from us one by one! Who will write the noble story of the good that they have done? All their children may be scattered, and their fortunes windwards hurled, But the Trimmin’s on the Rosary will bless them round the world.

[3] Grumbling, “grousing.”

THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN

She saw The Helper standing near When grief and care oppressed; “A Great, Big God,” Who wiped the tear, And soothed the aching breast. So, in the stress of sorrows piled, The gloom was lifted when She pointed up and sweetly smiled “A Great, Big God; be brave, my child, The birds will sing again.”

When dark misfortune, hovering o’er, Brought woes on every hand; And care was camping by the door, And drought was on the land; When lingering hope in rags was clad, Her faith shone brightest then— “A Great, Big God; so cheer up, Dad. Don’t mope about and take it bad, The birds will sing again.”

And always some soft silver ray Athwart the gloom would burst To chase the heavy clouds away, When things were at their worst. Her “Great, Big God” would justify The trembling trust of men; For, when the cheerless night passed by, The sun would wink his golden eye, And birds would sing again.

THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL

’Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years; With the dog-leg fence around it, and its hat about its ears, And the cow-bell in the gum-tree, and the bucket on the stool, There’s a motley host of memories round that old bush school—

With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name Carved in agricultural letters—’twas my only bid for fame; And the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set, Lined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet), And the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool And a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.

There I see the boots in order—“’lastic-sides” we used to wear— With a pair of “everlastin’s” cracked and dusty here and there; And we marched with great “high action”—hands behind and eyes before— While we murdered “Swanee River” as we tramped around the floor.

Still the scholars pass before me with their freckled features grave, And a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave; Tousled hair and vacant faces, and their garments every one Shabby heirlooms in the family, handed down from sire to son. Ay, and mine were patched in places, and half-masted, as a rule— They were fashionable trousers at the old bush school.

There I trudged it from the Three-mile, like a patient, toiling brute, With a stocking round my ankle, and my heart within my boot, Morgan, Nell and Michael Joseph, Jim and Mary, Kate and Mart Tramping down the sheep-track with me, little rebels at the heart; Shivery grasses round about us nodding bonnets in the breeze, Happy Jacks and Twelve Apostles[4] hurdle-racing up the trees, Peewees calling from the gullies, living wonders in the pool— Hard bare seats and drab gray humdrum at the old bush school.

Early rising in the half-light, when the morn came, bleak and chill; For the little mother roused us ere the sun had topped the hill, “Up, you children, late ’tis gettin’.” Shook the house beneath her knock, And she wasn’t always truthful, and she tampered with the clock.