Chapter 4

For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength, And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length; Round Denver's grave that Christmas day rough bushmen's eyes were dim -- The western bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him; But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star, Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar.

_They knelt around, He raised his head And faintly gasped, 'Jack Denver's dead, Roll up at Talbragar!'_

But one short hour before he died he woke to understand, They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was 'grand'; And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light, He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight. And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.

_And far and wide When Duggan died, The bushmen of the western side Rode in to Talbragar._

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'.

. . . . .

But, oh! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was wide, 'Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men in that glorious race to ride And strike for all that is true and strong, for all that is grand and brave, And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save. He must lift the saddle, and close his 'wings', and shut his angels out, And steel his heart for the end of things, who'd ride with a stockman scout, When the race they ride on the battle track, and the waning distance hums, And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack like stockwhip amongst the gums -- And the 'straight' is reached and the field is 'gapped' and the hoof-torn sward grows red With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead; And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes, with the spirit and with the shades Of the world-wide rebel dead who'll rise and rush with the Bush Brigades.

. . . . .

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.'

. . . . .

They'll tell the tales of the nights before and the tales of the ship and fort Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to sport, Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright at the tales of our chivalry, And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it be -- When the children run to the doors and cry: 'Oh, mother, the troops are come!' And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of the drum. They'll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at last, When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches past. And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend's clutch, no matter how low or mean, Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch of the man that he might have been. 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.

The Great Grey Plain

Out West, where the stars are brightest, Where the scorching north wind blows, And the bones of the dead gleam whitest, And the sun on a desert glows -- Yet within the selfish kingdom Where man starves man for gain, Where white men tramp for existence -- Wide lies the Great Grey Plain.

No break in its awful horizon, No blur in the dazzling haze, Save where by the bordering timber The fierce, white heat-waves blaze, And out where the tank-heap rises Or looms when the sunlights wane, Till it seems like a distant mountain Low down on the Great Grey Plain.

No sign of a stream or fountain, No spring on its dry, hot breast, No shade from the blazing noontide Where a weary man might rest. Whole years go by when the glowing Sky never clouds for rain -- Only the shrubs of the desert Grow on the Great Grey Plain.

From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming, Come the 'traveller' and his mate, In the ghastly dawnlight seeming Like a swagman's ghost out late; And the horseman blurs in the distance, While still the stars remain, A low, faint dust-cloud haunting His track on the Great Grey Plain.

And all day long from before them The mirage smokes away -- That daylight ghost of an ocean Creeps close behind all day With an evil, snake-like motion, As the waves of a madman's brain: 'Tis a phantom NOT like water Out there on the Great Grey Plain.

There's a run on the Western limit Where a man lives like a beast, And a shanty in the mulga That stretches to the East; And the hopeless men who carry Their swags and tramp in pain -- The footmen must not tarry Out there on the Great Grey Plain.

Out West, where the stars are brightest, Where the scorching north wind blows, And the bones of the dead seem whitest, And the sun on a desert glows -- Out back in the hungry distance That brave hearts dare in vain -- Where beggars tramp for existence -- There lies the Great Grey Plain.

'Tis a desert not more barren Than the Great Grey Plain of years, Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men -- Dries up the fount of tears: Where the victims of a greed insane Are crushed in a hell-born strife -- Where the souls of a race are murdered On the Great Grey Plain of Life!

The Song of Old Joe Swallow

When I was up the country in the rough and early days, I used to work along ov Jimmy Nowlett's bullick-drays; Then the reelroad wasn't heered on, an' the bush was wild an' strange, An' we useter draw the timber from the saw-pits in the range -- Load provisions for the stations, an' we'd travel far and slow Through the plains an' 'cross the ranges in the days of long ago.

_Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow, An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go, To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin', Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin' Days o' long ago._

Once me and Jimmy Nowlett loaded timber for the town, But we hadn't gone a dozen mile before the rain come down, An' me an' Jimmy Nowlett an' the bullicks an' the dray Was cut off on some risin' ground while floods around us lay; An' we soon run short of tucker an' terbacca, which was bad, An' pertaters dipped in honey was the only tuck we had.

An' half our bullicks perished when the drought was on the land, An' the burnin' heat that dazzles as it dances on the sand; When the sun-baked clay an' gravel paves for miles the burnin' creeks, An' at ev'ry step yer travel there a rottin' carcase reeks -- But we pulled ourselves together, for we never used ter know What a feather bed was good for in those days o' long ago.

But in spite ov barren ridges an' in spite ov mud an' heat, An' dust that browned the bushes when it rose from bullicks' feet, An' in spite ov cold and chilblains when the bush was white with frost, An' in spite of muddy water where the burnin' plain was crossed, An' in spite of modern progress, and in spite of all their blow, 'Twas a better land to live in, in the days o' long ago.

When the frosty moon was shinin' o'er the ranges like a lamp, An' a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin' on the camp, When the fire was blazin' cheery an' the pipes was drawin' well, Then our songs we useter chorus an' our yarns we useter tell; An' we'd talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we useter know, For there always was behind us OTHER days o' long ago.

Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the plain, But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again: Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer, Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin'-ground is near; Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an' Jimmy useter throw O'er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long ago.

I have been a-driftin' back'ards with the changes ov the land, An' if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn't understand, But when Mary wakes me sudden in the night I'll often say: 'Come here, Spot, an' stan' up, Bally, blank an' blank an' come-eer-way.' An' she says that, when I'm sleepin', oft my elerquince 'ill flow In the bullick-drivin' language ov the days o' long ago.

Well, the pub will soon be closin', so I'll give the thing a rest; But if you should drop on Nowlett in the far an' distant west -- An' if Jimmy uses doubleyou instead of ar an' vee, An' if he drops his aitches, then you're sure to know it's he. An' yer won't forgit to arsk him if he still remembers Joe As knowed him up the country in the days o' long ago.

_Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow, An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go, To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin', Nigger, digger, roarin', rovin' Days o' long ago._

Corny Bill

His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, His hat pushed from his brow, His dress best fitted for the South -- I think I see him now; And when the city streets are still, And sleep upon me comes, I often dream that me an' Bill Are humpin' of our drums.

I mind the time when first I came A stranger to the land; And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lame When Bill took me in hand. Old Bill was what a chap would call A friend in poverty, And he was very kind to all, And very good to me.

We'd camp beneath the lonely trees And sit beside the blaze, A-nursin' of our wearied knees, A-smokin' of our clays. Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far, An' clouds were in the skies, We'd camp in some old shanty bar, And sit a-tellin' lies.

Though time had writ upon his brow And rubbed away his curls, He always was -- an' may be now -- A favourite with the girls; I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall -- I've see'd 'em laugh until They could not do their work at all, Because of Corny Bill.

He was the jolliest old pup As ever you did see, And often at some bush kick-up They'd make old Bill M.C. He'd make them dance and sing all night, He'd make the music hum, But he'd be gone at mornin' light A-humpin' of his drum.

Though joys of which the poet rhymes Was not for Bill an' me, I think we had some good old times Out on the wallaby. I took a wife and left off rum, An' camped beneath a roof; But Bill preferred to hump his drum A-paddin' of the hoof.

The lazy, idle loafers what In toney houses camp Would call old Bill a drunken sot, A loafer, or a tramp; But if the dead should ever dance -- As poets say they will -- I think I'd rather take my chance Along of Corny Bill.

His long life's-day is nearly o'er, Its shades begin to fall; He soon must mount his bluey for The last long tramp of all; I trust that when, in bush an' town, He's lived and learnt his fill, They'll let the golden slip-rails down For poor old Corny Bill.

Cherry-Tree Inn

The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star, Thistles and nettles grow high in the bar -- The chimneys are crumbling, the log fires are dead, And green mosses spring from the hearthstone instead. The voices are silent, the bustle and din, For the railroad hath ruined the Cherry-tree Inn.

Save the glimmer of stars, or the moon's pallid streams, And the sounds of the 'possums that camp on the beams, The bar-room is dark and the stable is still, For the coach comes no more over Cherry-tree Hill. No riders push on through the darkness to win The rest and the comfort of Cherry-tree Inn.

I drift from my theme, for my memory strays To the carrying, digging, and bushranging days -- Far back to the seasons that I love the best, When a stream of wild diggers rushed into the west, But the 'rushes' grew feeble, and sluggish, and thin, Till scarcely a swagman passed Cherry-tree Inn.

Do you think, my old mate (if it's thinking you be), Of the days when you tramped to the goldfields with me? Do you think of the day of our thirty-mile tramp, When never a fire could we light on the camp, And, weary and footsore and drenched to the skin, We tramped through the darkness to Cherry-tree Inn?

Then I had a sweetheart and you had a wife, And Johnny was more to his mother than life; But we solemnly swore, ere that evening was done, That we'd never return till our fortunes were won. Next morning to harvests of folly and sin We tramped o'er the ranges from Cherry-tree Inn.

. . . . .

The years have gone over with many a change, And there comes an old swagman from over the range, And faint 'neath the weight of his rain-sodden load, He suddenly thinks of the inn by the road. He tramps through the darkness the shelter to win, And reaches the ruins of Cherry-tree Inn.

Up the Country

I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast. Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town, Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

'Sunny plains'! Great Scott! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies, Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass.

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy water-holes In the place of 'shining rivers' -- 'walled by cliffs and forest boles.' Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies -- Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes! Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees Nothing -- Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees! Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer.

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there! Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake, And the sinister 'gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake. Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June. Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all.

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again: Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place, Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell -- And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call -- And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all!

I am back from up the country, up the country where I went Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back. I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

Knocked Up

I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out; I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin' brow -- I'm too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.

_Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an' heat, Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin' through mud and slush 'n sleet; It's tramp an' tramp for tucker -- one everlastin' strife, An' wearin' out yer boots an' heart in the wastin' of yer life._

They whine o' lost an' wasted lives in idleness and crime -- I've wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore -- But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.

A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day, All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away; There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year, An' fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin' here.

The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot -- 'n that's the truth; I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth; I'm stung between my shoulder-blades -- my blessed back seems broke; I'm too knocked out to eat a bite -- I'm too knocked up to smoke.

The blessed rain is comin' too -- there's oceans in the sky, An' I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly; The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse, The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned -- but rheumatism's worse.

I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath, Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death; But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse -- What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.

_For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain, And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' slush 'n mud 'n rain -- A livin' worse than any dog -- without a home 'n wife, A-wearin' out yer heart 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life._

The Blue Mountains

Above the ashes straight and tall, Through ferns with moisture dripping, I climb beneath the sandstone wall, My feet on mosses slipping.

Like ramparts round the valley's edge The tinted cliffs are standing, With many a broken wall and ledge, And many a rocky landing.

And round about their rugged feet Deep ferny dells are hidden In shadowed depths, whence dust and heat Are banished and forbidden.

The stream that, crooning to itself, Comes down a tireless rover, Flows calmly to the rocky shelf, And there leaps bravely over.

Now pouring down, now lost in spray When mountain breezes sally, The water strikes the rock midway, And leaps into the valley.

Now in the west the colours change, The blue with crimson blending; Behind the far Dividing Range, The sun is fast descending.

And mellowed day comes o'er the place, And softens ragged edges; The rising moon's great placid face Looks gravely o'er the ledges.

The City Bushman

It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went, For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent; And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push, Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush; But we lately heard you singing of the 'plains where shade is not', And you mentioned it was dusty -- 'all was dry and all was hot'.