Chapter 5

True, the bush 'hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too, For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you; But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee -- And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be. For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street; And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall, And it's doubtful if his spirit will be 'loyal thro' it all'.

Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about, There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without -- Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn, Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest, And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West; Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks From the people of a country in possession of the Banks.

And the 'rise and fall of seasons' suits the rise and fall of rhyme, But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time; For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry, Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky -- Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight. It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best, But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West; There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring, There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything.

In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird, But the 'carol of the magpie' was a thing I never heard. Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true, But I only heard him asking, 'Who the blanky blank are you?' And the bell-bird in the ranges -- but his 'silver chime' is harsh When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh.

Yes, I heard the shearers singing 'William Riley', out of tune, Saw 'em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon, But the bushman isn't always 'trapping brumbies in the night', Nor is he for ever riding when 'the morn is fresh and bright', And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run -- And the camp-fire's 'cheery blazes' are a trifle overdone; We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days, When the smoke would blind a bullock and there wasn't any blaze, Save the blazes of our language, for we cursed the fire in turn Till the atmosphere was heated and the wood began to burn. Then we had to wring our blueys which were rotting in the swags, And we saw the sugar leaking through the bottoms of the bags, And we couldn't raise a chorus, for the toothache and the cramp, While we spent the hours of darkness draining puddles round the camp.

Would you like to change with Clancy -- go a-droving? tell us true, For we rather think that Clancy would be glad to change with you, And be something in the city; but 'twould give your muse a shock To be losing time and money through the foot-rot in the flock, And you wouldn't mind the beauties underneath the starry dome If you had a wife and children and a lot of bills at home.

Did you ever guard the cattle when the night was inky-black, And it rained, and icy water trickled gently down your back Till your saddle-weary backbone fell a-aching to the roots And you almost felt the croaking of the bull-frog in your boots -- Sit and shiver in the saddle, curse the restless stock and cough Till a squatter's irate dummy cantered up to warn you off? Did you fight the drought and pleuro when the 'seasons' were asleep, Felling sheoaks all the morning for a flock of starving sheep, Drinking mud instead of water -- climbing trees and lopping boughs For the broken-hearted bullocks and the dry and dusty cows?

Do you think the bush was better in the 'good old droving days', When the squatter ruled supremely as the king of western ways, When you got a slip of paper for the little you could earn, But were forced to take provisions from the station in return -- When you couldn't keep a chicken at your humpy on the run, For the squatter wouldn't let you -- and your work was never done; When you had to leave the missus in a lonely hut forlorn While you 'rose up Willy Riley' -- in the days ere you were born?

Ah! we read about the drovers and the shearers and the like Till we wonder why such happy and romantic fellows strike. Don't you fancy that the poets ought to give the bush a rest Ere they raise a just rebellion in the over-written West? Where the simple-minded bushman gets a meal and bed and rum Just by riding round reporting phantom flocks that never come; Where the scalper -- never troubled by the 'war-whoop of the push' -- Has a quiet little billet -- breeding rabbits in the bush; Where the idle shanty-keeper never fails to make a draw, And the dummy gets his tucker through provisions in the law; Where the labour-agitator -- when the shearers rise in might -- Makes his money sacrificing all his substance for The Right; Where the squatter makes his fortune, and 'the seasons rise and fall', And the poor and honest bushman has to suffer for it all; Where the drovers and the shearers and the bushmen and the rest Never reach the Eldorado of the poets of the West.

And you think the bush is purer and that life is better there, But it doesn't seem to pay you like the 'squalid street and square'. Pray inform us, City Bushman, where you read, in prose or verse, Of the awful 'city urchin who would greet you with a curse'. There are golden hearts in gutters, though their owners lack the fat, And we'll back a teamster's offspring to outswear a city brat. Do you think we're never jolly where the trams and buses rage? Did you hear the gods in chorus when 'Ri-tooral' held the stage? Did you catch a ring of sorrow in the city urchin's voice When he yelled for Billy Elton, when he thumped the floor for Royce? Do the bushmen, down on pleasure, miss the everlasting stars When they drink and flirt and so on in the glow of private bars?

You've a down on 'trams and buses', or the 'roar' of 'em, you said, And the 'filthy, dirty attic', where you never toiled for bread. (And about that self-same attic -- Lord! wherever have you been? For the struggling needlewoman mostly keeps her attic clean.) But you'll find it very jolly with the cuff-and-collar push, And the city seems to suit you, while you rave about the bush.

. . . . .

You'll admit that Up-the Country, more especially in drought, Isn't quite the Eldorado that the poets rave about, Yet at times we long to gallop where the reckless bushman rides In the wake of startled brumbies that are flying for their hides; Long to feel the saddle tremble once again between our knees And to hear the stockwhips rattle just like rifles in the trees! Long to feel the bridle-leather tugging strongly in the hand And to feel once more a little like a native of the land. And the ring of bitter feeling in the jingling of our rhymes Isn't suited to the country nor the spirit of the times. Let us go together droving, and returning, if we live, Try to understand each other while we reckon up the div.

Eurunderee

There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, On the desolate flats where gaunt appletrees rot. Where the brooding old ridge rises up to the breeze From his dark lonely gullies of stringy-bark trees, There are voice-haunted gaps, ever sullen and strange, But Eurunderee lies like a gem in the range.

Still I see in my fancy the dark-green and blue Of the box-covered hills where the five-corners grew; And the rugged old sheoaks that sighed in the bend O'er the lily-decked pools where the dark ridges end, And the scrub-covered spurs running down from the Peak To the deep grassy banks of Eurunderee Creek.

On the knolls where the vineyards and fruit-gardens are There's a beauty that even the drought cannot mar; For I noticed it oft, in the days that are lost, As I trod on the siding where lingered the frost, When the shadows of night from the gullies were gone And the hills in the background were flushed by the dawn.

I was there in late years, but there's many a change Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range, For the curse of the town with the railroad had come, And the goldfields were dead. And the girl and the chum And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek.

And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold, When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold, And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks, Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks; For the years waste away like the waters that leak Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek.

Mount Bukaroo

Only one old post is standing -- Solid yet, but only one -- Where the milking, and the branding, And the slaughtering were done. Later years have brought dejection, Care, and sorrow; but we knew Happy days on that selection Underneath old Bukaroo.

Then the light of day commencing Found us at the gully's head, Splitting timber for the fencing, Stripping bark to roof the shed. Hands and hearts the labour strengthened; Weariness we never knew, Even when the shadows lengthened Round the base of Bukaroo.

There for days below the paddock How the wilderness would yield To the spade, and pick, and mattock, While we toiled to win the field. Bronzed hands we used to sully Till they were of darkest hue, 'Burning off' down in the gully At the back of Bukaroo.

When we came the baby brother Left in haste his broken toys, Shouted to the busy mother: 'Here is dadda and the boys!' Strange it seems that she was able For the work that she would do; How she'd bustle round the table In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!

When the cows were safely yarded, And the calves were in the pen, All the cares of day discarded, Closed we round the hut-fire then. Rang the roof with boyish laughter While the flames o'er-topped the flue; Happy days remembered after -- Far away from Bukaroo.

But the years were full of changes, And a sorrow found us there; For our home amid the ranges Was not safe from searching Care. On he came, a silent creeper; And another mountain threw O'er our lives a shadow deeper Than the shade of Bukaroo.

All the farm is disappearing; For the home has vanished now, Mountain scrub has choked the clearing, Hid the furrows of the plough. Nearer still the scrub is creeping Where the little garden grew; And the old folks now are sleeping At the foot of Bukaroo.

The Fire at Ross's Farm

The squatter saw his pastures wide Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west Selected on his run; Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round; The best grass-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.

Now many schemes to shift old Ross Had racked the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood Of Scotland in his veins; He held the land and fenced it in, He cleared and ploughed the soil, And year by year a richer crop Repaid him for his toil.

Between the homes for many years The devil left his tracks: The squatter pounded Ross's stock, And Sandy pounded Black's. A well upon the lower run Was filled with earth and logs, And Black laid baits about the farm To poison Ross's dogs.

It was, indeed, a deadly feud Of class and creed and race; But, yet, there was a Romeo And a Juliet in the case; And more than once across the flats, Beneath the Southern Cross, Young Robert Black was seen to ride With pretty Jenny Ross.

One Christmas time, when months of drought Had parched the western creeks, The bush-fires started in the north And travelled south for weeks. At night along the river-side The scene was grand and strange -- The hill-fires looked like lighted streets Of cities in the range.

The cattle-tracks between the trees Were like long dusky aisles, And on a sudden breeze the fire Would sweep along for miles; Like sounds of distant musketry It crackled through the brakes, And o'er the flat of silver grass It hissed like angry snakes.

It leapt across the flowing streams And raced o'er pastures broad; It climbed the trees and lit the boughs And through the scrubs it roared. The bees fell stifled in the smoke Or perished in their hives, And with the stock the kangaroos Went flying for their lives.

The sun had set on Christmas Eve, When, through the scrub-lands wide, Young Robert Black came riding home As only natives ride. He galloped to the homestead door And gave the first alarm: 'The fire is past the granite spur, 'And close to Ross's farm.'

'Now, father, send the men at once, They won't be wanted here; Poor Ross's wheat is all he has To pull him through the year.' 'Then let it burn,' the squatter said; 'I'd like to see it done -- I'd bless the fire if it would clear Selectors from the run.

'Go if you will,' the squatter said, 'You shall not take the men -- Go out and join your precious friends, And don't come here again.' 'I won't come back,' young Robert cried, And, reckless in his ire, He sharply turned his horse's head And galloped towards the fire.

And there, for three long weary hours, Half-blind with smoke and heat, Old Ross and Robert fought the flames That neared the ripened wheat. The farmer's hand was nerved by fears Of danger and of loss; And Robert fought the stubborn foe For the love of Jenny Ross.

But serpent-like the curves and lines Slipped past them, and between, Until they reached the bound'ry where The old coach-road had been. 'The track is now our only hope, There we must stand,' cried Ross, 'For nought on earth can stop the fire If once it gets across.'

Then came a cruel gust of wind, And, with a fiendish rush, The flames leapt o'er the narrow path And lit the fence of brush. 'The crop must burn!' the farmer cried, 'We cannot save it now,' And down upon the blackened ground He dashed the ragged bough.

But wildly, in a rush of hope, His heart began to beat, For o'er the crackling fire he heard The sound of horses' feet. 'Here's help at last,' young Robert cried, And even as he spoke The squatter with a dozen men Came racing through the smoke.

Down on the ground the stockmen jumped And bared each brawny arm, They tore green branches from the trees And fought for Ross's farm; And when before the gallant band The beaten flames gave way, Two grimy hands in friendship joined -- And it was Christmas Day.

The Teams

A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves.

He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite; He shouts at 'Bally', and flicks at 'Scot', And raises dust from the back of 'Spot', And spits to the dusty right.

He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settler's door, And ask for a drink, and remark 'It's warm, Or say 'There's signs of a thunder-storm'; But he seldom utters more.

But the rains are heavy on roads like these; And, fronting his lonely home, For weeks together the settler sees The teams bogged down to the axletrees, Or ploughing the sodden loam.

And then when the roads are at their worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips reversed While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear.

And thus with little of joy or rest Are the long, long journeys done; And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- Is distance fought in the mighty West, And the lonely battles won.

Cameron's Heart

The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson 'at hame'; He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant -- The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt. The meenister called him 'ungodly -- a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord', And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, 'a rebel at hame and abroad'.

He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same); That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name. He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect of his kirk; He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work. And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent, Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.

He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof to the dart -- That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart; He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last, And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past: A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl, A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.

. . . . .

It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine. The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full, Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull. He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart, I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.

One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay, When Alister cried, 'Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.' He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and hung still. I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: 'Climb up for your life by the footholes. I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!'

And those were the last words he uttered. He groaned, for I heard him quite plain -- There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain. The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath, But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death. And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate, And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.

I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim, When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him? He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate -- His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate; He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart, And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.

The Shame of Going Back

When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault -- When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack, There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back; Crawling home with empty pockets, Going back hard-up; Oh! it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.

When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone, And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known; When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black, There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back.

When we've fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the wall, 'Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of us all; And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack, And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.

When a beaten man's discovered with a bullet in his brain, They POST-MORTEM him, and try him, and they say he was insane; But it very often happens that he'd lately got the sack, And his onward move was owing to the shame of going back.

Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense, and your upper lip is curled, I can see that you have never worked your passage through the world; But when fortune rounds upon you and the rain is on the track, You will learn the bitter meaning of the shame of going back; Going home with empty pockets, Going home hard-up; Oh, you'll taste the bitter poison in humiliation's cup.

Since Then

I met Jack Ellis in town to-day -- Jack Ellis -- my old mate, Jack -- Ten years ago, from the Castlereagh, We carried our swags together away To the Never-Again, Out Back.

But times have altered since those old days, And the times have changed the men. Ah, well! there's little to blame or praise -- Jack Ellis and I have tramped long ways On different tracks since then.

His hat was battered, his coat was green, The toes of his boots were through, But the pride was his! It was I felt mean -- I wished that my collar was not so clean, Nor the clothes I wore so new.

He saw me first, and he knew 'twas I -- The holiday swell he met. Why have we no faith in each other? Ah, why? -- He made as though he would pass me by, For he thought that I might forget.

He ought to have known me better than that, By the tracks we tramped far out -- The sweltering scrub and the blazing flat, When the heat came down through each old felt hat In the hell-born western drought.

The cheques we made and the shanty sprees, The camps in the great blind scrub, The long wet tramps when the plains were seas, And the oracles worked in days like these For rum and tobacco and grub.

Could I forget how we struck 'the same Old tale' in the nearer West, When the first great test of our friendship came -- But -- well, there's little to praise or blame If our mateship stood the test.

'Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) -- 'Tails!' and a friendly oath; We loved her fair, we had much to learn -- And each was stabbed to the heart in turn By the girl who -- loved us both.

Or the last day lost on the lignum plain, When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead, With a burning throat and a tortured brain; And the tank when we came to the track again Was seventeen miles ahead.

Then life seemed finished -- then death began As down in the dust I sank, But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can, Till I heard him saying, 'Bear up, old man!' In the shade by the mulga tank.

. . . . .

He took my hand in a distant way (I thought how we parted last), And we seemed like men who have nought to say And who meet -- 'Good-day', and who part -- 'Good-day', Who never have shared the past.

I asked him in for a drink with me -- Jack Ellis -- my old mate, Jack -- But his manner no longer was careless and free, He followed, but not with the grin that he Wore always in days Out Back.

I tried to live in the past once more -- Or the present and past combine, But the days between I could not ignore -- I couldn't help notice the clothes he wore, And he couldn't but notice mine.

He placed his glass on the polished bar, And he wouldn't fill up again; For he is prouder than most men are -- Jack Ellis and I have tramped too far On different tracks since then.