Part 3

Oh, the days go by like drinkin’—for it’s entertainin’ graft, And you hear your mate discoursin’ to the crowd around the brace, As he tugs away the hide, and it goes skimmin’ up the shaft, While a smile ’ud trip a bullock jest illumernates his face—

_Hello, on top! Hello! Ease off, and have a blow! We’ve a crushin’ in the paddock, and there’s more below!_

Then you don’t dine any more on sodden flapjacks in the pan; And you don’t back under cover when you see a bit of skirt; For there’s something in the atmosphere that bulges out a man When he’s drivin’ on the gutter, and there’s pay-gold in the dirt—

_Hello, on top! Hello! Jest rosin up your bow! For we’ve got no time for sleepin’ when there’s corn to hoe!_

But I’ll bet old Bill is dreamin’, and he’s driftin’ on the tide, Where his wife and kids is waitin’ for a dozen lengthy years On their cocky-patch, and hopin’ till the last hope nearly died— And it’s safe to lay a dollar as his eyes is dim with tears—

_Hello, on top! Hello! This is boshter sile to grow, F’r I guess our plotch ’ll answer mor’n a ’tater to the row!_

But a man ain’t got no time to dream with plenty work in sight, When he’s got the cream of all the lead right through from pay to pay; For you can’t get rich on dreamin’, and you can’t shift dirt with skite, And the gold stream only dribbles in a keg-o’-treacle way—

_Hello, on top! Hello! Is’t frost up there or snow? I’d back you ’gainst a fun’ral any day for goin’ slow!_

Some day when we’ve her bones picked bare, and got her gutted clean, We’ll travel over East, and see what yaller dust can buy; And old Bill and me, I reckon, will be right and all serene, If we only keep our thirst at bay, and keep our powder dry—

_Hello, on top! Hello! Let down the rope, and throw The sling; you’d keep a man all night ’thout singin’ out “Yo, ho!”_

[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]

OUR GOLDFIELDS SPRING.

You come not with the dainty air and grace, And wreathing smiles, that clothe the Eastern season— A maiden lithe of form, and fair of face, To wheedle lovers from the ranks of reason: You do not come in riots of pink lace, For Western bards to perpetrate a wheeze on, And cover, in a frenzy, page on page With all the rhymer’s threadbare persiflage.

We seek in vain the fern-wreaths on your gown, The dew-drop jewels in your carpet spreading— Those pæans from the bush-land and the town, Suggestive, quaintly, of a fairy wedding: We wait expectantly—then truckle down To sleep on bags—no rose leaves for our bedding! And wring our hands, and weep like anything ... There is no copy in a Western Spring.

For here you are, thus early soiled and tanned, A sorry subject for a verse creator; A damned inverted pewter in your hand, Some draggled immortelles around your crater: They speak, somehow, of drought, and dust, and sand, And summer’s hell, that’s waiting for us later, And flies innumerable, and small black ants, And several thousand other irritants.

I do not like your rude, precocious stare; Your torrid temperature is disconcerting; And, Lord! the frowsy draperies you wear Might well be made of gunnybags, or shirting; And one could bet you never learned the rare And subtle art of scientific flirting— To set the tune, and lead the boys a dance, Through many a labyrinth of sweet romance.

Yet still our own! though scoffers mock and mar; And at your feet I lay this sapless jingle, That, if too dry, may moisten at the bar Where sundry goddesses and groundlings mingle— Where modest Martha’s conduct grows bizarre, And Virtue’s self is often short a shingle: And soaked, thus, in the dregs of beer and wine, Once more I shy the garland at your shrine!

Yet, after all, the joyous feet of Spring Trip to the tune the pipes of Pan are playing In every clime where Youth may have its fling, And Love, unweighted by life’s cares, goes straying. Look not where last year’s rose lies withering! Heed not the pessimistic asses braying! But fetch your gauds, and place them on Her brow— Life’s best delusion is beside you now.

[Decoration: Man leading camel]

NEARLY A PESSIMIST.

What’s the use o’ laughter, What’s the use o’ strife, To a gloomy shafter In this team of Life? Hear the whips a-crackin’ Through the atmosphere, When the traces slacken— Let us have a beer.

What’s the use o’ flayin’ Loathsome gads and drills? What’s the use o’ payin’ Other people’s bills? Let the missus hustle, Let the kinchins clear; I’m not goin’ to bustle— Let us have a beer.

What’s the use o’ prayin’? ’Taint no use to curse; What’s the use o’ layin’ ’Gainst the winning hearse? Man at best’s a rotter, Fried and frizzled here; Hell can’t be no hotter— Let us have a beer.

What’s the use o’ sittin’ Dry as blessed chips? What’s the use o’ spittin’ Through our corn-beef lips? What’s the use o’ drinkin’? Well, that ain’t so clear To my way of thinkin’— Let us have a beer.

What’s the use o’ frettin’ Cos you missed the pot? What’s the use o’ gettin’ In a tied-up knot Bet you can’t unravel If you tried a year? No, that cop don’t travel— Let us have a beer.

What’s the——? Oh, _I’m_ toilin’ Down the Boulder way— Only just been spoilin’ Arf a quid a day. Now you bet I’m chargin’ Homewards at my top.

* * * * *

What’s the use o’ bargin’ With a white-eyed slop?

HELL FOR LEATHER

What though the day Be dull and grey, The earth bestrewn with ashes— Hope’s magic lamp Lights up his camp With rainbow-tinted flashes! His eyes, with some unwonted beam, Grow soft as any feather, Since Luck slid through The kipsy flue, To smile on “Hell for Leather”!

The jade and he, Since ’Ninety-three, Had not so much as spoken: The goods she sold Were gilt—not gold— And promises were broken; But “Hell for Leather” scratched along As desperation scratches, A harlequin, Beclobbered in A rig of shreds and patches!

When Hunger grim Shaped up to him, He’d scorn to take it sitting; But answered back, With crack for crack, Nor ever thought of quitting; And oft he’d say, though buckled belt And backbone came together, “Some day, I’ll bet, Will Fortune yet Chum in with ‘Hell for Leather’!”

His frame was lean: His eyes shone keen Beneath their shaggy awning: Somewhere ahead, He always said, A brighter day was dawning! And oft, around the hatter’s camp, Would fact with fancy scamper, What time he’d munch His frugal lunch Of potted dog and damper.

But years, at last, Must win the cast, And locks grow white and whiter; For Time is tough To belt and cuff, Though sturdy be the fighter: Yet so it happed, ere Winter fell, Like frost on Highland heather, Good luck slid through His chimney flue, To smile on “Hell for Leather”!

And so the tale With cakes and ale Is garnished, ere ’tis ended; And so the stress And bitterness With soothing oil are blended; And far away, by out-back pads, Where battlers stretch the tether, And starve or roast, They’ll drink the toast Of “Good old ‘Hell for Leather’!”

SCRATCHIN’ FOR A CRUST.

Got no time to ruminate! Got no time to read! Got no time to foller on! Got no time to lead! Got no time to stoop and pluck daisies by the pad! Got no time for triflin’ with hobby horse or fad! Got no time to pass remarks! Got no time to write! Got no time to sky the wipe!—only time to fight— Only time for graft and grind, dog and dough and dust; That’s the toon the music plays: scratchin’ for a crust.

Got no time to whine and pray! Got no time to curse! Got no time for trickin’ thoughts out in shreds of verse! Got no time to wear a smile—no, nor raise a laugh! Got no time for siftin’ grains out of tons of chaff! Got no time to touch the Muse on the funny bone! (Got no chance indeed, at all, catchin’ her alone!) Got no time to reason why—takin’ things on trust— That’s the way we whistle it: scratchin’ for a crust.

Got no time to do a smoodge! Got no time to wed! (Anyway it wouldn’t do—not on soda bread!) Got no coin to treat a pal! Got no face to hum! Nigh forgettin’ how they taste—tanglefoot and rum! Got no time for feelin’ bad! Got no time to peg! Got no time to shake a paw—let alone a leg! Stoo-pan’s fallin’ out of use! brain-pan’s gone to rust! That is how our programme reads: scratchin’ for a crust.

Got no time to argify! Politics is dead— Happy Jack and Texas Green sittin’ on its head! Got no time for livin’, scarce!—eatin’ dog and dirt; Feel’s if ants was in my block, buzz-flies in my shirt! (Got no time to shake ’em out! Got no time to scratch!) Got no blanky oof to board! Got no guts to batch! Guess there’ll have to be a change, else somethin’s bound to bust— Sinkin’, drivin’, beltin’, blastin’, battlin’ for a crust.

[Decoration: Mining equipment]

A BEER BOOST.

Well, as you’re so pressing, don’t mind if I do— What, a pint? Yes, a pint! I should smile at your query— There’s a wonderful balm in the cream of a brew For a soul that is fagged in a case that is weary.

It beats all your juggling illusions a mile, Whilst it clear overshadows the magic of Moses, And it clothes the grey plains of existence awhile With the sunshine of spring and an odour of roses.

A pint! I should guess—we’ll increase it to two— I will ne’er be a bigot where beer is in question, For if merely you take a sound practical view, It enhances the health and improves the digestion.

It smoothes the deep lines from the forehead of care, Till your enemy looms in the light of a brother, And there’s peace—that strange peace that is lisped in the prayer Of the sleepy-eyed brat at the knee of his mother.

The old world chips in, in the guise of a friend, As the solvent of hops humanises and mellows, And the limits of brotherhood stretch and extend Till the Devil himself seems the best of good fellows.

Then bring me a glass, or a tankard, or tank— And the last, if permitted a voice in the choosing: For, in all the crimes’ calendar, none is so rank As the sin, the nigh obsolete sin, of refusing.

[Decoration: Gold mining camp]

THE CURSE OF THE LAUNDRIED SHIRT.

I came down here from the ’Back, last year, For a spell and a high-toned drunk, But I back and fill with a palsied will As I lounge on a kapok bunk. I laze and laze where a man’s life pays For a kiss and a pint of squirt, Like a weak-kneed slop in a draper’s shop— ’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!

I tire to death of the town’s close breath— Of the pave, and the lighted street: Its silken tiles, and its threadbare smiles— Of the patter of kid-shod feet; And thoughts tramp back where I lost the track Of a “leader” of five-ounce dirt, Before I knelt with a “Scheme”-cleansed pelt At the shrine of a laundried shirt!

I came down here for a spell, last year, And a brush with the town-bred folk— For a bit of a change from my “moated grange” (A camp by an outback soak): But drift I still with a flagging will And a spirit that grows inert— A sagging jaw and a bleaching paw— ’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!

I’ve lit my camp with the moon’s soft lamp And the light of the outback stars, And drunk my fill of the Out-Back swill, As I breasted the shanty bars: I’ve made my bit, and have squandered it In an island of dreams, rum-girt— To fall at last with my flag half-mast, ’Neath the curse of a laundried shirt!

The stampers roar to the tune no more Of “Aboard for the Sydney-side!” The merry hum of the windlass drum ’S like the song of the swan—that died: My mulga maid, in whose eyes hope played— With jewels adown her skirt, She’s sailed a trip on some desert ship From the chap in a laundried shirt!

OLD BILL BATES.

No, Mister, I’ve no messages ter send along the track But I thank y’ fer enquiring, jest the same; Fer it’s mighty near an age agone I wandered from Out-back, And I dessay they’re forgettin’ this old frame: But you’ll find a hearty welcome at the far end o’ the pad, Where the rank and file is nothin’—only mates; And I wish yer luck ... but stay! If yer chance along his way, Jest remember me to Old Bill Bates.

We both battled on together since the year o’ ’Ninety-two, And we mostly hung around the outer rim, And we drank, and fought, and made-up friends, as good as gold, and true, Till the camp took us for brothers—me and him: You will find him crush to sample, if you try him by the bulk, And you’ll find the ’malgam ribbed along the plates; Fer he’s pretty high-grade rock From his flannel to his sock, Is that sun-dried salamander, Old Bill Bates!

But in case yer fail ter reckernise his features at the pub, (Fer he might be outer luck, or off the spree) Yer can fossick through the workin’s till y’ find his rub-a-dub, And then all yer got to do, is mention me: And yer won’t want any witness to identerfy yer phiz. Nor yer won’t need to projoos no days or dates, If he doesn’t claim yer straight F’r a white man and a mate, Then that party isn’t Old Bill Bates!

Y’ might guess him fer a chap what wears a pretty stiffish lip, And he user ter own a one-eyed spotted bitch, And he’s mostly rags and air-holes—jest the picter of his kip— So it’s hard ter tell (fer strangers) which is which; But he’s grit right to the bottom, and the mate what’s tried his sand, He ’ud swag it back from them ’ere Pearly Gates With a longish stride, I’ll swear, If they kep’ no lodger there By the monniker of “Old Bill Bates.”

No, thanks, Mister, I’ve no message—since I’ve opened out my drum, Where a suit o’ tailor’s clobber pulls the strings; But (I wouldn’t say it public) I am feelin’ pretty glum When I start a-cogitatin’ about things: But you’ll find a hearty welcome where the sky begins ter dip, Out where mates is mostly men, and men is mates, And I wish yer luck ... and say! If yer chance upon his way, Jest remember me to Old Bill Bates.

[Decoration: Black swan]

WE TOOK THE PLEDGE TILL MAY.

Dave Barker is a mate of mine, A solid mate and chum, And when we’re out upon the wine I guess we make things hum:

We go the pace all fair and square, But rapid, I’ll allow; And start from—well, just anywhere, And wind up—anyhow.

When Dave and me’s out on the loose We follers close and keen, And samples every kind of juice From rum to kerosene.

It’s all good fish comes to our net, To Barker’s net and mine, And our intentions are, you bet! Most strictly genu_wine_.

We beats about upon the ramp, And does up all our tin; Then Dave—well, Dave strikes out for camp, And I—well, I jines in.

And then the panoramy starts— The queerest kind of fakes— Fat little blokes and smaller tarts, And funny bob-tailed snakes.

And presently, a big galoot Drops down the chimbly flue, And takin’ up Dave’s blucher boot, Sez, “Lads! Here’s luck to you!”

But all the time it’s bilin’ hot, And, spare me (crimson) days! You never heerd such blanky rot As what them fantods says.

Well, comin’ on this last old year, I sez to David B., “Old chap, we pays a lot too dear These fan-tod fakes ter see.

“We grafts and grinds and stints our grub, But if we socked our rent We soon could _buy_ a blanky pub, Or stand for Parlyment.

“What say to puttin’ in the peg? Swear off, old man!—what say?” Sez Dave, “I’m on—we’ll spike the keg Fer good and all, till May.”

And then our two right hands we clasps The ’greement fer to bind; And felt like them there “Army” chaps Wot’s left all sin behind.

If any tries to pull our leg This coming Hogmanay We’ll shout, “No, no! we’ve driv’ the peg Home flush and fast till May.”

Well, Dave and me, we saunters down Along the bloomin’ street, And every ’quaintance in the town ’Ud want to stand us treat.

They’d pull and press, and chaff and beg, Till ’t last we’d break away, A-shoutin’ “No! we’ve spiked the keg— No booze for us, till May!”

Well, Dave, he comes from Aberdeen, And Sandy Mac. was tight: Sez Mac., “Old Scotland’s hills are green! One drink on Scotia’s night!”

Then Dave he looks acrost at me, And I looks ’crost at Dave— It allus after seemed to be A kind of mootual “cave.”

For Barker sidles to’rds the bar: “A whisky from the bin,” Sez he, “my gay young Lochinvar!” And I—well, I chimes in.

That _was_ a night—we drank and stept, And joined the Scotchy’s lilt, Till all the rest were drunk or slept, And all the casks a-tilt.

Then, as we staggered home at four, It was a sight ter see A-troopin’ from our “rubby” door Our fan-tod familee!

They tended on us jest like kings, And darnced around the bunk, And seemed, the ’fectionate little things, So glad to see us drunk!

One smilin’ dwarf with flowin’ beard, He sang (as sure as sin) The sweetest song you ever heerd— “Our dad’s kem home agin!”

And you may all take this from me, For gorspel truth to-day— _The best way to injy a spree Is, Take the pledge till May._

[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]

TOO OLD.

It is durned hard lines, when a man grows sere And his whiskers are flecked with grey, And he wears the boots that he wore last year When he worked for a miner’s pay, To be brushed aside, with a callous word, By the arms of sturdier men, As they rush and crush, with a hope deferred, For the coveted three-pound-ten!

Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health, And he bartered his manhood’s prime As he toiled and moiled, in the stores of wealth— Where they banter the whole crib-time; And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokes To the tune that the “banjos” play; For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokes While they work for a miner’s pay!

And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s self To provide for as best it can; For there comes no dream of a workless shelf To the brain of the miner man— Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift! Not a cramp in the open hand! As they play and pay—and they drift and drift To the ranks where the grey-heads stand.

But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare, And the prospect is bleak and brown, And the missus has never a hat to wear That’s fit to be seen in the town; And the spectres flock—that were held last year, With the rattle of coin, at bay: When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fear While he worked for a miner’s pay.

There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blame But the curse of a gambler’s quest! And the men pass out, as they lose the game That we play in the Golden West: But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late. In a dream, to some “cocky” patch Where the old folk stand at their homestead gate, And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.

DAN THE HATTER.

An Old North Country Identity.

I tramped again ’neath a blazing sky, In a Western land where the deserts lie: But the rush and roar, and the life we knew, When the ’Nineties echoed the whole world through, Were silent, or uttered their speech alone With a drab and dreary monotone.

I sought a field where a thousand men, Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then; But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps, And the rust was eating the silent stamps; And of all the throng of that mildewed past There was only one who stuck to the last. Just one old man, and his beard of grey Kept time with his chatter the live-long day.

“What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around, Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound; And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side, With the air of a man when the world was wide— And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow, For the hermits talk of their cronies so.

He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest, Of the early days of the Golden West: Of a surging wave, of a seething tide, That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side; Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty men Who answer not to the call again. “And I was right in their midst,” said he, “For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.”

Then he led the way, and he led me far With the changing trend of each dip and bar, And he pointed out with a palsied hand All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned; “For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street, At the spot where the slate and granite meet.”

I chanced that track on my way once more, And I sought my friend of a year before; But his shaker cracked in the midday sun, And the old man’s search for the joint was done, For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake. And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake.

Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priests insist— Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed; And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre, From the trusty strands of his shaker wire; And they’ll let him fossick for dip and bar In the likely places ’twixt star and star. It will please old Dan, for a man was he Not planned for an angel minstrelsy.

BY A KOPI HILL

He rests at the foot of a kopi hill By the old Coolgardie track; But whether his name was Claude, or Bill, Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,” There isn’t a legend at all to say— And what does it signify, anyway?

There’s nought of funereal pomp or show— Just a rough-hewn slab that states, The leisurely chap that lies below Had honestly paid his rates Somewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four; And then he came hither—to pay no more.

So he wearied soon of the storm and strife, And he cast his swag aside, When men were strong with the lust of life And the world seemed opened wide. Were the castles fair, that he built that day, Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?

Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill, Now the tale of his life is told? Does a fear disturb his dreaming still, Or a sigh strike through the mould? Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait, Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?

However it be, by the wind-swept hills Of leisure he nothing lacks; And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fills For ever his earthly tracks. —Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayer In the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.

AT BUMMER’S CREEK.

I planted Dave at Bummer’s Creek Somewhere in ’Ninety-five, When all the country round about Was like a busy hive— And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep, And wasters stopped alive.