Chapter 3

'There, that is for Harry,' he said, 'and it's queer, 'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year; His name's on the glass, you can read it like print, He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint; I remember his drink -- it was always Three Star' -- And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.

He looked at the horses, and counted but three: 'You were always together -- where's Harry?' cried he. Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said, 'You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;' But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar, Said, 'We owe him a shout -- leave the glass on the bar.'

They thought of the far-away grave on the plain, They thought of the comrade who came not again, They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said: 'We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.' And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.

And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen, It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean; And often the strangers will read as they pass The name of a bushman engraved on the glass; And though on the shelf but a dozen there are, That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.

The Shanty on the Rise

When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood 'The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- Just a quiet little shanty kept by 'Something-in-Disguise', As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.

City swells who 'do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again. You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.

'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night; And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.

And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire. Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size, When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.

They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago, While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below; Poor old Jim was in his glory -- they'd elected him M.C., For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he. 'Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise, As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.

There is little real pleasure in the city where I am -- There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham; But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls In a party up the country with the jolly country girls. Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies, When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.

Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, 'Go along!' But he shouted, 'Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!' And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too, Till the girls began to whisper, 'Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!' So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies, And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.

Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his tent; Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn't come, he said, But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed; And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that Something-in-Disguise Had a cure for Joe's lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise.

Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home, 'Neath the stars that hung in clusters, near and distant, from the dome; And we walked so very silent -- being lost in reverie -- That we heard the settlers'-matches rustle softly on the tree; And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet good-byes -- But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise.

I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago, And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know; My old chums are in the distance -- some have crossed the border-line, But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine. And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.

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!

Sweeney

It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down, When I came, in search of 'copy', to a Darling-River town; 'Come-and-have-a-drink' we'll call it -- 'tis a fitting name, I think -- And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-and-have-a-drink.

'Neath the public-house verandah I was resting on a bunk When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk; He apologised for speaking; there was no offence, he swore; But he somehow seemed to fancy that he'd seen my face before.

'No erfence,' he said. I told him that he needn't mention it, For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a bit, And I knew a lot of fellows in the bush and in the streets -- But a fellow can't remember all the fellows that he meets.

Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore, Just a shirt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing more; He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight, And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.

His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh, And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache; (His hairy chest was open to what poets call the 'wined', And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).

He agreed: 'Yer can't remember all the chaps yer chance to meet,' And he said his name was Sweeney -- people lived in Sussex-street. He was campin' in a stable, but he swore that he was right, 'Only for the blanky horses walkin' over him all night.'

He'd apparently been fighting, for his face was black-and-blue, And he looked as though the horses had been treading on him, too; But an honest, genial twinkle in the eye that wasn't hurt Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and dirt.

It appeared that he mistook me for a long-lost mate of his -- One of whom I was the image, both in figure and in phiz -- (He'd have had a letter from him if the chap were living still, For they'd carried swags together from the Gulf to Broken Hill.)

Sweeney yarned awhile and hinted that his folks were doing well, And he told me that his father kept the Southern Cross Hotel; And I wondered if his absence was regarded as a loss When he left the elder Sweeney -- landlord of the Southern Cross.

He was born in Parramatta, and he said, with humour grim, That he'd like to see the city ere the liquor finished him, But he couldn't raise the money. He was damned if he could think What the Government was doing. Here he offered me a drink.

I declined -- 'TWAS self-denial -- and I lectured him on booze, Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use; Things I'd heard in temperance lectures (I was young and rather green), And I ended by referring to the man he might have been.

Then a wise expression struggled with the bruises on his face, Though his argument had scarcely any bearing on the case: 'What's the good o' keepin' sober? Fellers rise and fellers fall; What I might have been and wasn't doesn't trouble me at all.'

But he couldn't stay to argue, for his beer was nearly gone. He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he'd see me later on; He guessed he'd have to go and get his bottle filled again, And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain.

. . . . .

And of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land, Visions come to me of Sweeney with his bottle in his hand, With the stormy night behind him, and the pub verandah-post -- And I wonder why he haunts me more than any other ghost.

Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub, And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub, And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west -- But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest.

Well, perhaps, it isn't funny; there were links between us two -- He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo; And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be.

. . . . .

I suppose he's tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags, Cadging round the wretched stations with his empty tucker-bags; And I fancy that of evenings, when the track is growing dim, What he 'might have been and wasn't' comes along and troubles him.

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 Ballad of the Drover

Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune.

Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise.

The thunder from above him Goes rolling o'er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain. And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud.

Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes; 'We've breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!'

The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er!

When flashes next the lightning, The flood's grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain -- He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again.

The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length.

Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home. And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily.

. . . . .

The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain. But someone's eyes are saddened, And someone's heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.

Taking His Chance

They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; May Carney looked up in the bushranger's eyes: 'Oh! why did you come? -- it was mad of you, Jack; You know that the troopers are out on your track.' A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head -- 'I wanted a dance, and I'll chance it,' he said.

Some twenty-odd bushmen had come to the 'ball', But Jack from his youth had been known to them all, And bushmen are soft where a woman is fair, So the love of May Carney protected him there; And all the short evening -- it seems like romance -- She danced with a bushranger taking his chance.

'Twas midnight -- the dancers stood suddenly still, For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill! Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside Came riding as only a bushman can ride. He sprang from his horse, to the shanty he sped -- 'The troopers are down in the gully!' he said.

Quite close to the homestead the troopers were seen. 'Clear out and ride hard for the ranges, Jack Dean! Be quick!' said May Carney -- her hand on her heart -- 'We'll bluff them awhile, and 'twill give you a start.' He lingered a moment -- to kiss her, of course -- Then ran to the trees where he'd hobbled his horse.

She ran to the gate, and the troopers were there -- The jingle of hobbles came faint on the air -- Then loudly she screamed: it was only to drown The treacherous clatter of slip-rails let down. But troopers are sharp, and she saw at a glance That someone was taking a desperate chance.

They chased, and they shouted, 'Surrender, Jack Dean!' They called him three times in the name of the Queen. Then came from the darkness the clicking of locks; The crack of the rifles was heard in the rocks! A shriek and a shout, and a rush of pale men -- And there lay the bushranger, chancing it then.

The sergeant dismounted and knelt on the sod -- 'Your bushranging's over -- make peace, Jack, with God!' The bushranger laughed -- not a word he replied, But turned to the girl who knelt down by his side. He gazed in her eyes as she lifted his head: 'Just kiss me -- my girl -- and -- I'll -- chance it,' he said.

When the 'Army' Prays for Watty

When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar; When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub, Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub.

Now, I often sit at Watty's when the night is very near, With a head that's full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer, For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there When the Army prays for Watty, I'm included in the prayer.

Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place, With a fatherly expression on his round and passive face; And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way, And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray.

And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim, Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him? Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below, Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go?

But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast, Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest; And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came, And the loafers wait for 'shouters' and -- they get there just the same.

It would take a lot of praying -- lots of thumping on the drum -- To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come; But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole, That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty's soul.

The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle'

Day of ending for beginnings! Ocean hath another innings, Ocean hath another score; And the surges sing his winnings, And the surges shout his winnings, And the surges shriek his winnings, All along the sullen shore.

Sing another dirge in wailing, For another vessel sailing With the shadow-ships at sea; Shadow-ships for ever sinking -- Shadow-ships whose pumps are clinking, And whose thirsty holds are drinking Pledges to Eternity.

Pray for souls of ghastly, sodden Corpses, floating round untrodden Cliffs, where nought but sea-drift strays; Souls of dead men, in whose faces Of humanity no trace is -- Not a mark to show their races -- Floating round for days and days.

. . . . .

Ocean's salty tongues are licking Round the faces of the drowned, And a cruel blade seems sticking Through my heart and turning round.

Heaven! shall HIS ghastly, sodden Corpse float round for days and days? Shall it dash 'neath cliffs untrodden, Rocks where nought but sea-drift strays?

God in heaven! hide the floating, Falling, rising, face from me; God in heaven! stay the gloating, Mocking singing of the sea!

Ben Duggan

Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man; Jack Denver's wife bowed down her head -- her daughter's grief was wild, And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child. But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far, To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.

_By station home And shearing shed Ben Duggan cried, 'Jack Denver's dead! Roll up at Talbragar!'_

He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve, And scarcely paused a moment's time the mournful news to leave; He rode by lonely huts and farms, and when the day was done He turned his panting horse's head and rode to Ross's Run. No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.

_By diggers' camps Ben Duggan sped -- At each he cried, 'Jack Denver's dead! Roll up at Talbragar!'_

That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge, And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante's Bridge; And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise; The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes; He dashed the rebel drops away -- for blinding things they are -- But 'twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.

_At Blackman's Run Before the dawn, Ben Duggan cried, 'Poor Denver's gone! Roll up at Talbragar!'_

At all the shanties round the place they'd heard his horse's tramp, He took the track to Wilson's Luck, and told the diggers' camp; But in the gorge by Deadman's Gap the mountain shades were black, And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track -- He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof's sudden jar, And big Ben Duggan ne'er again rode home to Talbragar.

_'The wretch is drunk, And Denver's dead -- A burning shame!' the people said Next day at Talbragar._