Part 4

And his hat was like a Quaker’s; but some fifteen hundred acres More than evened up the lee-way of the said deficiency (Faith, he had a tidy cottage on the little property). So, when Mass at length was over, round his jinker he would hover, While the women teased the Tidy Little Body merrily (And my hero was unconscious of their jesting, homely glee);

There he’d fool about, and truckle with a strap or with a buckle, And tighten this, and loosen that, a-gammon he do be (With the eye out for the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see). And the more they used to tease her, well, the more it seemed to please her; And she wriggled and she giggled, and she tittered girlishly— “Oh, it’s all so very silly. Picture Mr. Hallissey!”

_But, bedad, for all her stricture on the paintin’ of the picture,_ _There were some of ’em a-bouncin’ in the swithers—true for me—_ _When the Tidy Little Body married Lanty Hallissey._

THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH

Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’ Gladsome golden notes appealin’ on the Sabbath-softened air, Sweet compellin’ invitations to the congregation stringin’ Up the road to old St. Michael’s, on the blessed day of prayer. You might seek the boundin’ gait of him in any youth or maiden With the rhythmic pulse of summer, and in vain would be the search; Steppin’ on with fine importance, like a general paradin’ In his Sunday regimentals, comes the Pillar of the Church.

There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’— Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see; There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’, And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery, There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours; Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear; Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours, Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.

But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’, Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore, Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’, Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door. What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’, He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch, Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’ In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him; Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear, For it’s never parish-priest there’s been could carry on without him, Since St. Michael’s been a parish church—it’s goin’ on fifty year. Don’t we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin’, Superintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much? Don’t we see him with “the gentlemen,” the officer commandin’, Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?

Ain’t he present all occasions when there’s grave deliberatin’ On important parish matters at the school or presbyt’ry? With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’— He, the sole survivin’ member of the first church “Komitee”? And maintainin’ which distinction, don’t it make stonewallin’ sweeter?— And a heap of “argyfyin’” cannot shift him from his perch— Don’t he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter? Faith, he shows ’em there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.

Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation, “With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell; ’Twas he “seen the danger comin’,” he that “med the suggestation.” He that “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well. He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’, Nor afraid to be upstandin’ his opinions for to state. Times the priest he’s flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin’; That he did, Man—“ups and ats” him, “lets him have it purty straight.”

Och, ’twould do you good to hear him, with an “audjunce” round him gawkin’, Tell of openin’s here and “big days,” puttin’ modern feats to scorn; And the banquets and the speeches, and the “Arrah, don’t be talkin’, Sure the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born.” And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin’ and the strivin’, And the failure starin’ at ’em, had he left ’em in the lurch; Times and times he travelled with ’em, and “tremenjus” was the drivin’— Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin’ to the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’ There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view. And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’ With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew; See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’, And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hare While His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’ For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.

Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him— And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”; But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for “the venyum” isn’t in him, Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope, Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter; Him alone the grim marauder ne’er has chanced on in the search; But we’d miss him were he taken, as we’d miss the holy water— He’s the feature of the Sunday, is the Pillar of the Church.

TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED

Times I think I’m not the man— Must be some mistake. Me among the also ran? Cute and wideawake! Old and beat and crotchety— Sixty-five, at least— Knockin’ round the presbytery, Groomin’ for the priest, Choppin’ wood, and ringin’ bells, Dodgin’ work and takin’ spells! Me all right, one Ed’ard Wells (Late Teddo Wells, deceased)— Wheelin’ barrows round the yard, Gammon to be workin’ hard, A-groomin’ for the priest!

Trainin’ prads was Teddo’s game; Made a tidy bit. Everybody knew the name, Teddo Wells was “It.” Bought that bit of property (Value since increased), Gettin’ on tremendously, Married by the priest. Papers full of Teddo Wells, Trainin’ horses for the swells; Since redooced to ringin’ bells (Teddo Wells, deceased) Shinin’ boots and learnin’ sense, Nailin’ palin’s on the fence, A-groomin’ for the priest.

Lost that bit of property, Ended up in smoke— Too much “Jimmie Hennessy”— Down, and stony-broke. Used to think he knew the game Till they had him fleeced. “Mud” is this ’ere hero’s name, Workin’ for the priest— Unbeknown to sports and swells; They’ve no time for Ed’ard Wells. Up the spout and ringin’ bells As “Teddo Wells, deceased”; Never noticed up the town, Never asked to keep one down— Groomin’ for the priest.

Times I stops a cove to chat, One as gamed and spieled; Chips me in the curate’s hat, “Six to four the field.” “What-o! Teddo Wells,” sez he, “Him that horses leased, Owned that bit of property, Groomin’ for the priest?” “Guessin’ eggs and seen the shells; Brains,” sez I, “and breedin’ tells, This old gent is Ed’ard Wells, Late Teddo Wells, deceased. Ringin’ bells is Ed’ard’s game, Openin’ doors and closin’ same, Called ‘groomin’’ for the priest.”

Never see a horse nohow, Just an old machine; Always in a tearin’ row With this Josephine. Got an eye that makes you feel Well and truly p’liced, Follerin’ out upon your heels, A-goin’ to tell the priest. “Can’t smoke here now, Ed’ard Wells, That old pipe offensive smells; Go and smoke outside,” she yells. So Teddo Wells, deceased, Him that once was in the boom, Wood-heap has for smokin’ room— A-groomin’ for the priest.

Times I says it’s all a joke Someone’s puttin’ up; Me dead-beat and stony-broke, Me that won a cup, Owned that bit of property, Them good horses leased! Kickin’ round the presbytery A-groomin’ for the priest! Choppin’ wood and ringin’ bells, Curby-hocked and takin’ spells! Me it is, one Ed’ard Wells, (Late Teddo Wells, deceased) Smokin’ hard and talkin’ free Of the man he used to be, And groomin’ for the priest.

NORAH O’NEILL

That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel,[9] And I’m talking the way that I feel, With her dowdy old hat, and her hair pasted flat, And her skirt bobbing after her heel; And there to the church she will steal, And under the lamp she will kneel When confessions are done, and there’s never a one To be heard but that Norah O’Neill.

It annoys the priest’s man a great deal, And it makes every one boogathiel At him scraping the floor, yes, and rattlin’ the door Just to hurry my lady O’Neill. But there she will squat on her heel, While over the forms he will steal; He would put out the light, and close up for the night— But he can’t for that keershuch O’Neill.

I believe (and I talk as I feel) When there at the Judgment we kneel, And, each in his place, is the whole human race— One half to be sent to the deil— That, just as they’re setting the seal, A dust-cloud a glance will reveal At the end of the day, Jerusalem way; And you’ll find ’twill be Norah O’Neill, With her skirt bobbing after her heel, And we’ll have to go through the whole business anew; Och, Norah O’Neill is a sthreel.

[9] Slattern; also spelt streel. In the next verse boogathiel means uncomfortable, and keershuch much the same as sthreel.

THE PRESBYT’RY DOG

Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed, From the ages of Gog and Magog, At the top of the list, from the last to the first, And by every good soul in the parish accursed, Is that scamp of a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He’s a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin, He’s a demon that travels incog., With a classical name, and an ignorant grin, And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin, And the rest of him merely a dog.

He is like a young waster of fortune possessed, As he rambles the town at a jog; For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest, While the comp’ny he keeps—well, it must be confessed It’s unfit for a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He is out on the street at the sound of a fight, With the eyes on him standing agog, And the scut of a tail—well, bedad, it’s a fright; Faith, you’d give him a kick that would set him alight, But you can’t with the Presbyt’ry Dog.

His rotundity now to absurdity runs, Like a blackfellow gone to the grog; For the knowing old shaver the presbyt’ry shuns When it’s time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns, Who’re deceived in the Presbyt’ry Dog.

When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war. He inspects the whole place at a jog, And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore, While he chases the sheep till we’re after his gore, Though he may be the Presbyt’ry Dog.

’Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went ahead With an ill-bred and loud monologue, And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead, And I’m with him in every last word that he said— Ah, but wait—’twas the Presbyt’ry Dog.

TANGMALANGALOO

The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime, And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time; And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around, With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound. Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?

A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling, And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring; Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin’s rim, And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb; There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too— But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.

The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can; He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man. But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat; He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn’t sure of that. The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do, And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.

“Come, tell me, boy,” his lordship said in crushing tones severe, “Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year? “How is it that around the world we celebrate that day “And send a name upon a card to those who’re far away? “Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?” A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.

He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf, He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself. And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say, “That’s good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?” The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew— “It’s the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.”

THE ALTAR-BOY

Now McEvoy was altar-boy As long as I remember; He was, bedad, a crabbéd lad, And sixty come December. Faith, no one dared to “interfare” In things the which concernin’ ’Twas right and just to him to trust Who had the bit o’ learnin’ To serve the priest; and here at least He never proved defaulter; So, wet or dry, you could rely To find him on the Altar.

The acolyte in surplice white Some admiration rouses: But McEvoy was altar-boy In “Sund’y coat-’n-trouses.” And out he’d steer, the eye severe The depths behind him plumbin’, In dread, I wot (he once was “cot”), The priest might not be comin’: Then, stepping slow on heel and toe, No more he’d fail or falter, But set likewise with hands and eyes He’d move about the Altar.

A master-stroke of other folk Might start the opposition, And some, mebbe, in jealousy Bedoubt their erudition; But McEvoy was altar-boy And, spite of all their chattin’, It “put the stuns” on lesser ones To hear him run the Latin. And faith, he knew the business through, The rubrics and the psalter; You never met his “aikals” yet When servin’ on the Altar.

The priest, indeed, might take the lead By right of Holy Orders, But McEvoy was altar-boy, And just upon the borders. So sermons dry he’d signify With puckered brows behoovin’, An’, if you please, at homilies He’d nod the head approvin’; And all the while a cute old smile Picked out the chief defaulter; Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eye Would “vet” you from the Altar.

AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS

There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west, Through the tall, white, slender timber, in the land I love the best. Short its message is—“To Casey’s”—for it points the road to Casey’s; And my homing heart goes bushwards on an idle roving quest, Down the old, old road contented, o’er the gum-leaves crisp and scented, Where a deft hand splashed the purple on the big hill’s sombre crest. Ah, it’s long, long years and dreary, many, many steps and weary, Back to where the lingering dew of morn bedecked the barley-grass, When I watched the wild careering of the neighbours through the clearing Down that sweet bush track to Casey’s, o’er the paddock down to Casey’s; Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees, Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees; Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s— Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease. With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle, Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze; Hearts as buoyant as a feather in the mellow autumn weather, While the noisy minahs cheered to see the glad procession pass— All the Regans and the Ryans, and the whole mob of O’Briens Bringing up the rear to Casey’s—in the Shandrydan to Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Past the kitchen door they rattled and they took the horses out; While the women went inside at once, the menfolk hung about Round the stable down at Casey’s, waiting dinner down at Casey’s; And they talked about the Government, and blamed it for the drought, Sitting where the sunlight lingers, picking splinters from their fingers, Settling all the problems of the world beyond a chance of doubt. From inside there came the bustle of the cheerful wholesome hustle, As dear old Mrs. Casey tried all records to surpass; Oh, there’s many a memory blesses her sweet silver-braided tresses; They were “lovely” down at Casey’s—always joking down at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

So they called us in to dinner, five-and-twenty guests—and more— At the longest kitchen-table ever stood upon a floor. There was plenty down at Casey’s—ay, an open house was Casey’s, Where the neighbour and his missus never, never passed the door; Where they counted kindly giving half the joy and pride of living And the seasons came full-handed, and the angels blessed the store; While the happy Laughing Mary flitted round us like a fairy. And the big, shy boys stopped business, and looked up to watch her pass— Ah, but when she caught them staring at the ribbons she was wearing! Well, they spilled their tea at Casey’s—on the good clean cloth at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Then the reckless feats of daring, and the bushman’s fierce delight When the brumby squealed and rooted, and the saddle-girths were tight! They could ride ’em down at Casey’s—stick like plasters down at Casey’s— When they noticed Mary looking, they would go with all their might; Ho! they belted, and they clouted, and they yelled, and whooped, and shouted, “Riding flash” to “ketch” the ladies, spurring, flogging, left and right! And the lad with manners airy risked his neck for Laughing Mary When he summoned all his courage up a rival to surpass; Oh, the fun went fast and faster, as he landed in disaster In the puddle-hole at Casey’s—with his brand new suit at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hoary, hale, bewhiskered veterans, perched like mopokes in a row, Out of danger on the top-rail, gave advice to those below; They were wonders down at Casey’s, were the old men at the Caseys’— They’re the boys could ride the “bad ’uns” in the days of long ago! Faith, and old man Casey told ’em of a way he had to hold ’em. Man, “the deuce an outlaw thrun him,” when he “got a proper show”; Ay, and each man “upped and showed ’em” how he “handled ’em, an’ rode ’em”— Pshaw! there never was a native these old riders could outclass. Once again they were “among ’em,” and they “roped ’em” and they “slung ’em” On the stockyard fence at Casey’s—smoking, “pitchin’,” down at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hard and cold is youth to fancies which around the old men cling; So they left them perched upon the rail to swap their vapouring, Took a seat inside at Casey’s, on the good chairs at the Caseys’; While the Caseys’ new piano made the old house rock and ring. There their mild eyes stared and glistened, as they sat around and listened To the tuneful little ditties Laughing Mary used to sing; There they rubbed their chins and reckoned that to no one was she second— “Cripes, she’d sing the blooming head off any singer in her class!” And the banter and the laughter when the chorus hit the rafter! It was “great” to be at Casey’s—healthy, wholesome fun at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget; There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet— Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s, Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet, Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner, And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret. Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty, Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they pass Simple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure. There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew; Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew; We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s— Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two. Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the finger Down the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew. But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder, Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass; Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreaming That I’m back again at Casey’s, with the old, old friends at Casey’s; Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY