Part 4

And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ still Beside the same old soak Where we pitched camp twelve years agone, Played out and stony broke; And after work I think right back, And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.

We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int, And toiled and starved and spreed; But one ’ud watch around the stump When t’other one was treed; The same when Luck was in full bloom, As when she run to seed.

But now I’m getting old and hipped, And kick against the ruts, I often think I’ll have a pray, But can’t sit down fer nuts— And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea, He’s never got no guts!”

D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere report That parson blokes kin tell As who is bound fer parrydise, And who is booked fer ’ell? Fer I’ve got dust enough to pay If they’ve the noos to sell.

Y’ see, us partners never ’ad Religion much in mind, And didn’t think to make no plan Fer ’im who stopped behind— But ’course you tumble to my graft: I’ve got an axe to grind.

D’ye think now if I went to town, Got up all smart and sleek, A short-necked shammy, just like that, ’Ud make them pilots speak And say which track the battlers took Who pegged on Bummer’s Creek!

Fer Dave an’ me, we never knoo The rights of any sect, Or ’ow these different pads cris-crossed, And things in that respect; Or, if we’d heer’d it years afore, We didn’t ricollect.

I don’t say as I’d lift my ’at, And cringe, and beg, and crave, Nor don’t want them to speechify About no soul ter save; But there’s the dust! if they’ll pint out Which track was took by Dave.

[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]

AT PENNYWEIGHT FLAT.

“Do you have any luck at the diggins?” I said To a dryblower grizzled and grey— “Does the nebulous fossicker’s star ever shed On your shaker, one flickering ray? Does Dame Fortune e’er toddle your way?”

But he deigned not a look nor an answer—not then— And I felt most decidedly hurt, And I marked, as he leaned o’er the hopper again, To examine the rubble and dirt, He had sugar-bag sleeves to his shirt.

Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string, And his beard swept his chest like a mat, And I noted his eyes were as clear as the Spring— (That is, Springtime at Pennyweight Flat)— He had corks, also, strung to his hat.

But I flushed to the hair, as he tossed in his hand A large slug, from the gravel he mined, And a midwinter smile I did not understand Lit his weatherworn dial and lined, As he carelessly toyed with his find.

Then I hurried across to congratulate Dad, (Oh the slug! and its wondrous gold-red!) And I spoke of the marvellous fortune he had, When he wakened that sprite from its bed— “Pshaw! A fly-speck—a fly-speck!”—he said.

And he sighed as he spoke, and his eyes gathered damp (Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!) “I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp, And because you’re true grit to the core You may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”

Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin, Ere I greedily gathered my prize— Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they join And our eyes met as brotherly eyes— Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!

“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried, As I came through the door at a run, And I brushed seven customers waiting aside, And the banker chap calmly begun, “I should say about nine pounds a ton.”

I will swear that my hair turned a peony red, And my visage an emerald green, As he scraped off the gilt from a pound weight of lead; And a sadness fell over the scene That but late wore a holiday sheen.

Then I rushed like a mad thing, on homicide bent; And with anger that cut to the bone I demolished the shaker, and ravaged the tent, —But the hardened old sinner had flown; And I sank to the earth with a groan.

Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string, And his beard swept his chest like a mat— I remarked that his eyes were as clear as the Spring, (That is, Springtime at Pennyweight Flat) He had corks, also, strung to his hat.

[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]

I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO.

I want to be out where the battlers are, Away from the tyrant pen, Where the bell-bird sits on the morning star To waken the mulga men; I want to stand on the crazy brace, Or hammer away below, While Luck waits by with a shining face So long as the “leader” pans a trace— _But I haven’t the guts to go!_

I want to be fixed in the same old camp, And sit by the sandal fire— I can see it now in the flickering lamp: It looks like a funeral pyre. I want to be with the gods of graft, The stars of an out-back sky, Or follow on with a bushman’s craft, With my bag and bundle before and aft— _But I haven’t the guts to try!_

Oh, I know a place where the gold went down, The spot where the “country” broke: And the shaft is there near the ridge’s crown, By the foot of an old bull-oak. I know the metal is waiting still For a lusty heart to buy, For a trusty arm, and a tireless will, Till the slug rolls out from the public mill— _But I haven’t the guts to try!_

There’s a shanty, too, and a lodestone there— A girl of the out-back type— The midnight sleeps in her vagrant hair And her lips are cherry-ripe: The battlers vie at the kipsy bar, And many a mulga beau; And I want to be where the battlers are, And bask in the light of my out-back star— _But I haven’t the guts to go!_

There’s a fell disease in the touch of ink— The shriek of a coastal train— There’s a subtle curse in the draught we drink That softens the bushman’s brain: We weary fast of the gauds and guile, Though strong are the bonds they weave, And the glamour that circles the Golden Mile— _But we haven’t the guts to leave!_

I want to up with my swag and hence, Away from the tyrant pen, Where the bell-bird calls from the morning’s fence To waken the mulga men! I want to stand on a crazy brace, Or hammer away below, While Luck looks on with a beaming face, So long as the “leader” pans a trace— _But I haven’t the guts to go!_

ANOTHER SONG OF THE STAMPS.

There’s another and brighter song to sing That is caught on the writer’s quill, Though ’tis told all day with a rhythmic swing By the stamps of the ten-head mill: They repeat no burden of cankered greed, And they echo no anguished moan, When they rattle the roofs With their iron hoofs, As they pound on your two-ounce stone!

There’s never a beat for the filching crew, Not a chip from the workman’s crust; There’s never a turn for the London Jew, Nor a “weight” for the London “trust”; There’s never a sigh for the wretched gnomes Below in the seething stope, And the walls resound, As the cams go round, With the clamour of new-born Hope!

There’s a battler seeing the parcel through; And he stands in the lamplight dim, And he bends his ear to the voice anew For the message that comes to him: And his bronzed cheek glows as the words grow clear. For they quicken his pulse and thrill, And memories stir To the whizz and whir Of the wheels of the ten-head mill.

There’s a king to-night in his dungarees, And he’s quaffing an old, old wine— Oh, he doffs no cap and he bends no knees To the boss of the Bull-owned mine! And he gives no thought to the fruitless quest Where his years and his toil were cast, While the stampers sing The awakening Of his Luck—that has come at last!

So the sky grows clear and the world grows wide, And there’s melody in the air: There’s a waiting ship for the Eastern side, And a woman that’s waiting there: There’s a proud disdain for the things that were, And this planet is all his own— And there’s good red blood In the stamper’s thud As it pounds on his two-ounce stone!

POINTING EAST

A WISH—FOR SYDNEY-SIDE.

I wish you a happy New Year, O, faithful old mother of me! May it come with a smile, not a tear, Where Sydney looks out on the sea— On the wings of some wind, blowing free, Where the heads of Port Jackson rise sheer— From the heart in my breast And the heart of the West I wish you a happy New Year!

While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin And Fortune is ever a-fret, From the voices of homeland and kin, Come the clearest of messages yet: And the nose of my dinghy is set For the time the gods give me a win! And I waft you a line, Dear old mother of mine! While the hands of Luck’s jenny-wheel spin.

But, though Fortune be good or be ill! Though the guerdon be ashes or gold! When the crushing has gone to the mill And the tale of life’s effort is told, Though the world be grown never so cold There’s a heart that will beat for me still! And a prayer to fend, And a trust without end, And an old hand to cancel the bill.

So I wish you a happy New Year, O, well-loved old mother of me! May it come with no trace of a tear When it trips from Eternity’s sea! Oh, for mine! and for thine! and for thee! With a love that is deep and sincere, From the heart in my breast, In the heart of the West, I wish you “A Happy New Year!”

AMONGST THE RICKS OF HAY.

When Western roads are rough and long, and days are hot and dry: When mulga branches cast no shade against the brazen sky: I throw “Matilda” by the pad and let my fancy play— A-skipping o’er the fields once more, amongst the ricks of hay.

Oh, here they come! there’s Joe and Dan! and May, and Kate, and Min.! The old swing gate flies open wide to let the rompers in: For I am friends with all the lot, and trusty chums are they, And all a-troop for hide-a-hoop amongst the ricks of hay.

We mashers dress in father’s pants— our sweethearts’ trilbies bare— For we are jolly farmer’s kids with hayseeds in our hair! And Joe Tresize takes after Kate, and I takes after May, And Dan and Min. like whirlies spin amongst the ricks of hay.

And when the rush and romp are o’er we go in twos and twos— And oh! the undermining arts we simple urchins use; And oh, the saucy tricks and ways of Kate, and Min., and May! While life’s begun and hearts are won amongst the ricks of hay.

Then safe behind the sheltering wing these friendly ricks afford, We swear we’re “deep as deep” in love! we are “as true as Gord”! And linked together Jack and Jill, beneath the moonlight grey, With hearts ablaze, we spoon our ways amongst the ricks of hay.

Alas! just then a startling voice through dream and mistland broke: “A dozen weary mulga miles to Jerry Hogan’s soak!” A fig for that! The miles fly past to spryer steps and gay— I’ve spent a boyish hour or two amongst the ricks of hay.

KILDEA’S FLOWER FARM.

I live where the shade is, And rusted Life’s blade is— The sand-drifts from Hades Have tarnished each charm: But, sober or shicker, My heart-pulse beats quicker Whenever I think of Kildea’s flower farm!

’Twas not the green sward, or The spangled disorder Along the path border That led to their gate; Nor mazes and mazes Of heartsease and daisies, That blossomed so early And lingered so late:

It was not the ringing Of crimson bells swinging— It was not the singing Of elves in the corn— Nor fairy beds, laden With rose-wreaths from Aidenn, That smiled like a child, in The face of the morn!

Ah, the roses so bloomy That held me and drew me— The thrill that shot through me, ’Neath blue skies or grey— The fear that oppressed me, The hope that caressed me, All dwelt ’neath the bonnet Of Katy Kildea!

With callous years flying, And Youth’s fountains drying, One memory undying Lives always attuned: And, if plucked from its setting, Forgot and forgetting, The best of my being Would flow through the wound!

I live where the shade is— And rusted Life’s blade is— The sand-drifts from Hades Have tarnished its charm: But, sober or shicker, My heart-pulse beats quicker Whenever I think of Kildea’s flower farm.

HIS LETTER FROM W.A.

Dear Kitty, I’ve just read the letter you sent— It was brought by the man from the store; And I’m writin’ straight back, as I lay in my tent, Sprawlin’ out at full length on the floor. But the pen ’ll scarce write for the thinkin’ of you— Oh, I’m sorry that ever I went! And I have to knock off every minute or two, Just to glance through the letter you sent.

It is scarcely six months since I left Cooranbean, But seems longer than all of last year; And the moon ain’t so bright, and the grass ain’t so green, And the sky, somehow, isn’t so clear: Oh, I’d give all their towns, to the very last brick, And their mines, with the forchins they yield, Just to hear the old ripple of Cooranbean crick, And the rustle of corn in the field.

There isn’t no “skirts” like the Cooranbean “skirts”! Or no boys like the Cooranbean boys! And there isn’t no parties for fellers and flirts, And there isn’t no dance at Mulroy’s! And there isn’t no chance for a couple to spin Like the wind acrost Cherrytree Plain! Where the best of the prizes were kisses to win— And ... there isn’t no Kitty M‘Lean.

I can’t find no nuggets, and can’t see no charm, As I wander about in the street; And I long to be back once again on the farm, With the rabbits and rust in the wheat. Oh, then life would want neither a whip or a spur— With a “string,” and a trigger to pull, And just you at my side, and the possums astir, And the moon, our old moon! at the full ...

But if I am dull, and my letters are crook, It is certain that you should know why: For you’ll find Charley’s heart, if you’re carin’ to look, At the gate where he kissed you “Good-bye!” And say, if in a month, on the home-comin’ track, There is anyone’s eyes charnster skim, And they see a young chap with a “port” on his back— That most likely, Dear Kit., ’ll be him.

ANSWER TO “HIS LETTER FROM W.A.”

Dear Charley, I dreamt of a letter last night With the postmark of W.A., And it’s wonderful, reely, how soon it came right, And I ought to feel happy to-day— For your letter came home from that far-away shore, But no matter however I try, The difference, somehow, it always seems more And I cannot do nothing but cry.

They’re all gone to Hogan’s to see their noo plough, But I’m stayin’ behind from the rest, For there doesn’t seem anything happenin’ now Like before you cleared out to the West. The voice from the crick’s like a human in pain And a sigh seems ter come from the trees, And there’s somethin’ I don’t understand on the plain With the grass wavin’ up to your knees.

You mind the moss rose that grew over our gate, Our old gate where we whispered, “Good-bye”? Oh, how often I go there and wonder if Fate Has one blessing a girl’s wish could buy— I am wearin’ a bunch in your favourite dress With the flounces and streamers of blue, And though pr’aps it is silly, I have to confess I am wearin’ my heart out for you.

All the country around is as green as a leaf And there’s never no fires or no drought, And they say it’s old weatherwise Riley’s belief That the seasons is goin’ to hang out; And they say that young fellers is fools to go West When there’s whips of good land on the run— And the stick-at-home policy’s always the best When the summin’-up comes to be done.

Oh, Charley! come back to your sweetheart again! She’s as dull as a girl in a trance: And she hasn’t been out for a flutter since then And she don’t care a dump for a dance; And she’s watchin’ for someone who kissed her, and cried “But a few little months for to wait! When the time’ll pass by, and I’ll stand by your side Where the roses twine over the gate.”

A-WHIZZING TOWARDS THE EAST.

Hurrah! at last Ill luck is past; My shammy weighs a ton! A drink or two, A shake for you, A smile for everyone! My number’s up— A stirrup cup! No Death’s head at the feast! As off I go With veins aglow, A-whizzing towards the East!

Yet, wait a shake! Put on the brake, And shut the damper down! A kiss for you With eyes of blue! And you with eyes of brown! ’Tis oft declared A joy that’s shared Is seven-fold increased— Then jump aboard And trust the Lord, A-whizzing towards the East!

The breezes tell— The stars as well— The tales I love to hear: Their voices seem As in a dream, Those missed for many a year. Then here with you! My cronies true! The nearest and the least! I’ll clink a glass, Then skim the grass, A-whizzing towards the East!

With love and loot, And youth to boot, I’ll plough the ocean blue— They’re waiting me Upon the quay, And gaze the mistland through: Then shout afar, “Hurrah! Hurrah!” Like prisoners released— With sails outspread And “Steam ahead,” We’re whizzing towards the East!

[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]

THE OLD FARM GATE.

There’s an all-pervading glamour and a glitter in the West; There’s a market here for muscle or for brain: And Success stands ever near us, with a blossom at her breast, And a galaxy of beauty in her train! There are prizes worth the winning, for the daring hearts and bold, There are gauds and gear for those who work and wait, But I’m often drifting, drifting, from the palling gleam of gold Till I stand beside the old farm gate.

How the roses bloomed that Summer! with their petals white and red: How the honeysuckle clustered near the porch! The soft warm glow of sympathy around the place was shed, For the god of sweet Contentment held the torch! There were mountains in the distance, and a river at their base, And when Summer evening fancies re-create Then I go a-drifting, drifting, with a smile upon my face Till I stand beside the old farm gate!

Ere the mocking days that hover ’twixt the dreams of then and now: Ere the fevered years, that withered with their touch: There was Hope! that never ceased to wear a flush upon her brow, And that Hope still struggles onward—with a crutch! But the harvest days are over, and asleep their merry men, And I glean the ears of fantasy or Fate, As I go a-drifting, drifting, till I find Eileen again As I left her by the old farm gate.

[Decoration: Man leading camel]

TO THOSE WHO LOVE US MOST.

Oh, fill the sparkling crystal up A beaker to the brim! We sing no lays of fulsome praise Of white-lipped seraphim: No universal hymn of peace— No puling, puking toast— But clink a glass to those we love! And those who love us most.

A love for love! a hate for hate! Good old Mohammed’s creed— That sears and brands the hearts and hands Of every human breed: We join in greetings to our foes— No false-tongued canting host; But drink a health to those we love! And those who love us most!

To him whose hand would bear us down— Whose fluent lie would mar— We bear no hate inveterate, No gall-tipped scimitar; And little care, though glory crown, Or hottest hell may roast— But drain a glass to those we love And those who love us most!

A white-haired woman o’er the sea— A group within her gate, Who bend to read the halting screed, But half articulate— Yet bearing on its blotted page, From Austral coast to coast, A word of love to those we love And those who love us most.

To-night! oh, let no follies sway! No gas-lit, luring eyes Glint through the clear God’s atmosphere That links eternities! Wave back each wizened witch of care! Wave back each peering ghost! And breathe a heathen prayer for them— “_The hearts that love us most!_”

NOR’WEST CORNER

BEER IS ENOUGH.

Beer is enough. Let us be satisfied, Nor fret our hearts with longing after gin, And bob saloons, and vanities beside, That lead one to the shelving edge of sin ... For wights who sit a-row along the pave, With crackling skins, and drooping lives to save, Beer is enough.

Beer is enough. Let Love roost on his perch, And coo and coo his breath away at will ... The bride in orange blooms—the ivied church— The two-roomed kipsy sheltered by the hill ... Sweep them aside, and fetch the frothing bowl To warm the cockles of one’s inmost-soul. Beer is enough.

Beer is enough. Though dreamers sigh and sigh Of melting love, did love e’er quench a thirst? Did ever Cupid, ’neath a brazen sky, Hand out a pint to taper off a burst? Can Daphne’s lips allay the wild desire To wade in hops, when coppers are afire? Beer is enough.

Beer is enough. The brightest and the best Of all the gifts the gods have handed down! A Nautch girl she! who graces all the West, Dressed in her picture hat, and amber gown ... There is no canker in her love—no lees To weight one’s ghost through dim eternities. Beer is enough.

[Decoration: Mining equipment]

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.

The loungers eyed the Wreck askance, —A seedy bloke was he, Who bore upon his countenance A boozer’s historee— He wore a small pea-dodger hat Upon his massive brow, And everywhere His sandy hair Spread round the rim like tow.

“Oh! Charles Adolphus,” Hebe chipped (The belle of Bung’s saloon) “Old chap! you’re got me fairly hipped— I’m dying for a spoon!” “Stand off! Stand off!” the boozer yelled, And dashed his pewter down: “_Her_ eyes of grey, Though dimmed to-day, Glow warm from Sydney town!”

“Cheer up!” the barmaid cried, “Cheer up! You’ll be a long time dead.” “Ah! we have drained the bitter cup, My girl and I,” he said; “For she is ’neath the morning sun, And I am where it sets— On Sydney quay She waits for me, My bunch of vio-lets!”

“Girl! we were raised together, where The Namoi winds along— Corn tassels were not like her hair! Or magpies like her song!” —And so he waxed poetic, while The barmaid bent her ear (As women do To listen to The eloquence of beer.)

“Oh! shut your head, and do a get!” The irate loungers cried: “Last month I saw your Violet Upon the Sydney side. She wore a pretty rakish hat; A Chow on either fin; And loaded thus, She wanted us To fill her up with gin.”