CHAPTER XXII

YAMBUK

Once upon a time, in a "kingdom by the sea," known to men as Port Fairy, "Yambuk" was a choice and precious exemplar of the old-fashioned cattle station. What a haven of peace--what a restful elysium, would it be in these degenerate days of hurry and pressure and progress, and all that--could one but fall upon it! If one could only gallop up now to that garden gate, receive the old cordial welcome, and turn his horse into the paddock, what a _fontaine de jouvence_ would bubble up! Should one ride forth and essay the deed? It could hardly be managed. We should not be able to find our way. There would be roads and fences, with obtrusive shingled cottages, and wheat-fields, barns, and threshing machines--in short, all the hostile emblems of agricultural settlement, as it is called.

I like it not; I would the plain Lay in its tall old groves again.

Fronting the farther side of the Shaw River, down to a bank of which the garden sloped, were broad limestone flats, upon which rose clumps of the beautiful blackwood or hickory tree, some of Australia's noblest growth, when old and umbrageous.

The bungalow, low-roofed, verandah-protected, was thatched at the early period which I recall, the rafters the strongest of the slender ti-tree saplings in the brush which bordered the river-side. The mansion was not imposing, but what of that? The rooms were of fair size, the hospitality refined, spontaneous, and pervading every look and tone; and we, who in old days were wont to share it on our journeys to and from the metropolis of the district, would not have exchanged it for a palace.

People were not so ambitious then as of late years. Nor was the transcendent future of stock-holding visible to the mental eye, when companies and syndicates would compete for the possession of mammoth holdings, with more sheep and cattle de-pasturing thereon than we then believed the whole colony could carry.

No! a man with a thousand head of well-bred cattle, on a run capable of holding half as many more, so as to leave a reserve in case of bush-fires and bad seasons, was thought fairly endowed with this world's goods. If prudent, he was able to afford himself a trip to Melbourne twice a year or so, and to save money in reason. He generally kept a few brood mares, and so was enabled to rear a superior hackney for himself or friend. As it was not the custom to keep more than a stock-rider, and one other man for general purposes, he had a reasonable share of daily work cut out for himself.

"Yambuk" was then an extremely picturesque station, combining within its limits unusual variety of soil and scenery, land and water. The larger grazing portion consisted of open undulating limestone ridges, which ran parallel with the sea-beach. The River Shaw, deepening as it debouched on the ocean, was the south-eastern boundary of the run. All the country for some miles up its course, past the village of Orford, then only known as The Crossing Place, and along the coast-line towards Portland Bay, was originally within the bounds of the "Yambuk" run.

Between the limestone ridges and the sea were sand-hills, thickly covered with the forest oak, which, growing almost to the beach, braved the stern sea blasts. Very sound and well sheltered were they, affording advantageous quarters to the herd in the long winters of the West.

When our dreamy summer-time was o'er, a truly Arcadian season, with "blue and golden days" and purple-shadowed eves, wild wrathful gales hurtled over the ocean waste, rioting southward to the Pole. Mustering in stormy weather was a special experience. Gathering amid the sea-woods, the winter's day darkening fast, a drove of heavy bullocks, perhaps, lumbering over the sands before us, amid the flying spume, their hoofs in the surf ever and anon,--it was a season study, worth riding many a mile to see. No cove or bay restrained the angry waters. A misty cloud-rack formed the horizon, to which stretched the boundless ocean-plain of the Pacific, while giant billows, rank on rank, foamed fiercely landward, to meet in wrath and impotently rage on the lonely shore below us.

How often has that picture been recalled to me in later years amid the arid plains of Australia Deserta! The sad-toned, far-stretching shore--the angry storm-voices of the terrible deep--the little band of horsemen--the lowing, half-wild drove--the red-litten cloud prison, wherein the sun lay dying!

Pleasant exceedingly, in contrast, when the cattle were yarded and rails securely pegged, to unsaddle and walk into the house, where lights and glowing fires, with a well-appointed table, awaited us, presided over by a Chatelaine whose soft voice and ever-varied converse, mirthful or mournful, serious or satirical, practical or poetic, never failed to soothe and interest.

Stock-riding in those days, half real business, half sport, as we youngsters held it to be, was certainly not one of those games into which, as Lindsay Gordon sings--"No harm could possibly find its way."

Part of the "Yambuk" run was distinctly dangerous riding. Where the wombats dug their treacherous shafts and galleries, how many a good steed and horseman have I seen o'erthrown! These peculiar night-feeding animals, akin to the badger of the old country, burrowed much among the coast hummocks. Their open shafts, though not particularly nice to ride among at speed, with your horse's head close behind the hard-pressed steer, were trifling drawbacks compared to the horizontal "drives" into which, when mined too near the surface, your horse's feet often broke. The solid turf would disappear, and letting your horse into a concealed pitfall up to the shoulder, gave a shock that often told tales in a strained joint or a broken collar-bone. We fell lightly in those days, however, and, even when our nags rolled over us, scorned to complain of the trifling occurrence.

The limestone country, too, held cavities and sudden appearing fissures of alarming depth, which caused the fiery steed to tremble and the ardent rider to pale temporarily when suddenly confronted. At the south-eastern boundary of the run the forests were dense, the marshes deeper, the country generally more difficult, than on the coast-line. The ruder portion of the herd "made out" that way, and many a hard gallop they cost us at muster-time.

The run had been "taken up" for and on account of Captain Baxter, formerly of Her Majesty's 50th Regiment, about a year before my time, that is in 1843, by Mr. George Dumoulin, acting as overseer. This gentleman, a son of one of the early Imperial officials, and presumably of Huguenot descent, was a most amusing and energetic person. Inheriting the _legerete_ of his Gallic ancestors, his disposition led him to be _toujours gai_, even under the most unpromising circumstances. A capital manager, in the restricted sense then most appreciated, he spent no money, save on the barest necessaries, and did all the stock-keeping himself, with the occasional aid of a black boy. When I first set eyes on Yambuk station there were but two small thatched huts, no garden, no horse-paddock, and a very indifferent stock-yard. The rations had run out lately--there was no salt, for one thing--and as the establishment had then been living upon fresh veal for a fortnight, it was impressed upon me, forcibly, that no one here would look at fillets or cutlets of that "delicate meat that the soul loveth," under ordinary culinary conditions, for at least a year afterwards.

Mr. Dumoulin, though wonderfully cheery as a general rule, was subject to occasional fits of despondency. They were dark, in proportion to his generally high standard of spirits. When this lowered tone set in, he generally alluded to his want of success hitherto in life, the improbability of his attaining to a station of his own, the easiest thing in those days if you had a very little money or stock. But capital being scarce and credit wanting for the use of enterprising speculators who had nothing but pluck and experience, it was hard, mostly impossible, to procure that necessary fulcrum. Regarding those things, and mourning over past disappointments, he generally wound up by affirming that "all the world would come right, but that poor Dumoulin would be left on his--beam ends--at the last." And yet what splendid opportunities lay in the womb of Time for him, for all of us! So when Captain Baxter and his wife came from their New England home to take possession and live at Yambuk "for good," there was no necessity for Mr. Dumoulin to abide there longer, the profits of a station of that size rarely permitting the proprietor and overseer to jointly administer. When the gold came we heard of him in a position of responsibility and high pay, but whether he rose to his proper status, or malignant destiny refused promotion, we have no knowledge. He was a good specimen of the pioneers to whom Australia owes so much--brave to recklessness, patient of toil, hardy, and full of endurance--a good bushman and first-class stock-rider.

The captain and Mrs. Baxter drove tandem overland the whole distance from New England to Yambuk, some hundreds of miles, encamping regularly with a few favourite horses and dogs. Their journal, faithfully kept, of each day's progress and the road events was a most interesting one, and would show that even before the days of Miss Bird and Miss Gordon-Cumming there were lady travellers who dared the perils of the wilderness and its wilder denizens. A fine horsewoman, passionately fond of her dumb favourites, Mrs. Baxter was as happy in the company of her nice old roan Arab "Kaffir," the beautiful greyhound "Ada," and the collie "Rogue," as more _exigeantes_, though not more gently nurtured dames, would have been with all the materials of a society picnic.

One advantage of this sort of overland-route work is that when the goal _is_ reached the humblest surroundings suffice for a home, all luxury and privilege being comprehended in the idea that you have not to move on next day.

Once arrived, the abode _en permanence_ is the great matter for thankfulness. The building may be unfinished and inadequate, not boasting even of a chimney, yet rugs are spread as by Moslems in a caravanserai, and all thank Allah fervently in that we are permitted to stay and abide there indefinitely.

With the arrival of the master and mistress speedy alteration for the better took place. The cottage was built--an Indian bungalow in architecture--with wooden walls, the roof and verandahs thatched with the long tussock grass. A garden with fruit trees and flowers was planted, the fertile chocolate-coloured loam responding eagerly. Furniture arrived, including a piano and other lady adjuncts. A detached kitchen was constructed. Mr. Dumoulin's "improvements" were abandoned to the stock-rider, and the new era of "Yambuk" was inaugurated. Far pleasanter in every way, to my mind, than any which have succeeded it. The _locale_ certainly had many advantages. It was only twelve miles from that fascinatingly pleasant little country town of Port Fairy--we didn't call it Belfast then, and didn't want to. The road was good, and admitted of riding in and out the same day. As it was a seaport town, stores were cheap, and everything needful could be procured from Sydney or Melbourne. There was then not an acre of land sold, west of the Shaw, before you reached Portland, and very little to the east, except immediately around the town. One cannot imagine a more perfect country residence, having regard to the period, and the necessities of the early squatting community. The climate was delightful. Modified Tasmanian weather prevailed, nearly as cold in winter, quite sufficiently bracing, but without frost, the proximity to the coast so providing. English fruits grew and bore splendidly. Finer apples and pears, gooseberries and cherries, no rejoicing schoolboy ever revelled in. The summers were surpassingly lovely, cooled with the breezes that swept over the long rollers of the Pacific, and lulled the sleeper to rest with the measured roll of the surge upon the broad beaches which stretched from the Moyne to Portland Bay. Talking of beaches, what a glorious sensation is that of riding over one at midnight!

Ah! well do I remember That loved and lonely hour

when a party of us started one moonlight night to ride from Port Fairy to Portland (fifty miles) for the purpose of boarding an emigrant vessel, from which we hoped to be able to hire men-servants and maid-servants, then, as now, exceeding scarce. My grand little horse "Hope" had carried me from home, thirty miles, that day, but, fed and rested, he was not particular about a few miles farther. We dined merrily, and at something before ten o'clock set forth. Lloyd Rutledge, who was my companion, rode his well-known black hackney and plater, "Molonglo Jack." As we started at a canter along the Portland road--the low moon nearly full, and just rising, the sky cloudless--it was an Arabian Night, one for romance and adventure. The other horses had been in their stalls all day, but as I touched my lower bridle rein my gallant little steed--one of the most awful pullers that ever funked a Christian--rose on his hind legs and made as though about to jump on to the adjoining houses. This was only a trick I had taught him; at a sign he would rear and plunge "like all possessed," but it showed that he was keen for business, and I did not fear trying conclusions with the best horse there. Like Mr. Sawyer's Jack-a-dandy, he would have won the Derby if it had not been more than half a mile. He did win the Port Fairy Steeplechase next year, over stiff timber, with Johnny Gorrie on his back, and in good company too.

Away we went. The sands were some miles past Yambuk. When we rode down upon them, what wonders lay before us! The tide was out. For leagues upon leagues stretched the ocean shore--a milk-white beach, wide as a parade-ground, level as a tennis-court, and so hard under foot that our horses' hoofs rang sharp and clear. Excited by the night, the moon, the novelty, they tore at their bits and raced one another in a succession of heats, which it took all our skill, aided by effective double bridles of the Weymouth pattern, to moderate. As for our companions, they were left miles behind.

We were at the turn, just abreast of "Lady Julia Percy Island," which lay on the slumbering ocean's breast like some cloud fallen from the sky, or an enchanted isle, where the fairy princess might be imprisoned until the Viking's galley arrived, or the prince was conveniently cast away on the adjacent rocks.

Far as eye could see shone the illimitable ocean, "still as a slave before his lord," star-brightened here and there. Southward a lengthening silver pathway rippled in the moon-gleam, shimmering and glowing far away towards the soft cloudland of the horizon. Tiny capes ran in from the forest border, and barred the line of vision from time to time. Sweeping around these, our excited horses speeding as they had become winged, we entered upon a fresh bay, another milk-white beach, fitted for fairy revels. While over all the broad and yellow moon shed a flood of radiance in which each twig and leaf of the forest fringe was visible. So still was the night that even "the small ripple spilt upon the beach" fell distinctly upon the ear.

As the pale dawn cloud rose in the east, the slumbering ocean began to stir and moan. A land breeze came sighing forth from the dense forest like a reproachful dryad as we charged the steep side of Lookout Hill, and saw the roofs of Portland town before us. It was a longish stage--fifty miles--but our horses still pressed gaily forward as if the distance had been passed in a dream. We had no time to sentimentalise. Labour was scarce. We stabled our good steeds, and transferred ourselves to a waterman's boat. When the employers of Portland came on board in leisurely fashion some hours later, the flower of the farm labourers were under written agreement to proceed to Port Fairy. It rather opened the eyes of the Portlanders, whom, in the sauciness of youth, we of the rival township who called William Rutledge our mercantile chief were wont to hold cheap. They needed servants for farm and station, as did we, but there was no help for it; they had to content themselves with what were left.

Personally, I had done well. The brothers Michael and Patrick Horan--two fine upstanding Carlow men as one would wish to see--were indentured safely to me for a year. They served me well in the after-time. Their brother-in-law, with his wife, as a "married couple," and a smart "colleen" about sixteen, a younger sister, came with them. It was a "large order," but all our hands had cleared for Ballarat and Forest Creek; we had hardly a soul in the place but the overseer and myself. These immigrants were exactly of the class we wanted. I know a place where a few such shiploads would be of great and signal utility now. They were willing, well-behaved, and teachable. I broke in Pat Horan to the stock-riding business, and within a twelvemonth he could ride a buck-jumper, rope, brand, and draft with any old hand in the district. He repeatedly took cattle to market in sole charge, and was always efficient and trustworthy. Mick showed a gift for ploughing and bullock-driving, and generally preferred farming. They both remained with me for years--Pat, indeed, till the station was sold. They are thriving farmers, I believe, within a few miles of Squattlesea Mere, at this present day. I waited until nightfall, making arrangements to receive our _engages_ when they should arrive in Port Fairy, and then mounted "Hope," in order to ride the thirty miles which lay between me and home. The old horse was as fresh as paint, and landed me there well on the hither side of midnight. One feels inclined to say there are no such horses nowadays, but there is a trifling difference in the rider's "form," I fancy, which accounts for much of this apparent equine degeneracy. Anyhow, Hope was a "plum," and so was his mother before him. Didn't she give me a fall over a fence at Yambuk one day, laming me for a week and otherwise knocking me about--the only time I ever knew her make a mistake? But wasn't a lady looking on, and wouldn't I have broken my neck cheerfully, or any other important vertebra, for the sake of being pitied and petted after the event?

When the gold discovery, and the consequent rise in prices, took place, Captain Baxter was tempted to sell Yambuk with a good herd of cattle, and so departed for the metropolis. Our society began to break up--its foundations to loosen. People got so rich that they voted station life a bore, and promoted their stock-riders to be overseers in charge. Many of these were worthy people. But the charm of bush life had departed when the proprietor no longer greeted you on dismounting, when there was no question of books or music or cheery talk with which to while away the evening. And thinking over those pleasant homes in the dear old forest days, where one was always sure of sympathy and society, I know one wayworn pilgrim who will ever in fancy recur to the _bon vieux temps_ whereof a goodly proportion--sometimes for one reason, sometimes for another--was passed at Yambuk.

POEMS

BALLAARAT

A VISION OF GOLD

I see a lone stream, rolling down Through valleys green, by ranges brown Of hills that bear no name, The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes Is traced on palest blue, as breaks The morn in Orient flame.

I see--whence comes that eager gaze? Why rein the steed, in wild amaze? The water's hue is gold! Golden its wavelets foam and glide, Through tenderest green to ocean-tide The fairy streamlet rolled.

"Forward, 'Hope!' forward! truest steed, Of tireless hoof and desert speed, Up the weird water bound, Till, echoing far and sounding deep, I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep O'er this enchanted ground?"

The sea!--wild fancy! Many a mile Of changeful Nature's frown and smile Ere stand we on the shore. And, yet! that murmur, hoarse and deep, None save the ocean-surges keep? It is--"the cradles' roar!"

Onward! we pass the grassy hill, Around the base the waters still Shimmer in golden foam; O wanderer of the voiceless wild, Of this far southern land the child, How changed thy quiet home!

For, close as bees in countless hive, Like emmet hosts that earnest strive, Swarmed, toiled, a vast, strange crowd: Haggard each worker's features seem, Bright, fever-bright, each eye's wild gleam, Nor cry, nor accent loud.

But each man dug, or rocked, or bore, As if salvation with the ore Of the mine-monarch lay. Gold strung each arm to giant might, Gold flashed before each aching sight, Gold turned the night to day.

Where Eblis reigns o'er boundless gloom, And, in his halls of endless doom Lost souls for ever roam, They wander (says the Eastern tale), Nor ever startles moan or wail Despair's eternal home.

Less silent scarce than that pale host These toiled, as if each moment lost Were the red life-drop spilt; While, heavy, rough, and darkly bright, In every shape, rolled to the light Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.

All ranks, all ages! Every land Had sent its conscripts forth, to stand In the gold-seekers' rank: The stalwart bushman's sinewy limb, The pale-faced son of trade--e'en him Who knew the fetters' clank.

* * * * *

'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills The busy valley, the dun hills, 'Tis a battle host's repose! A thousand watch-fires redly gleam, While ceaseless fusillades would seem To warn approaching foes.

The night is older. On the sward Stretched, I behold the heavens broad, When--a Shape rises dim, Then, clearer, fuller, I descry, By the swart brow, the star-bright eye, The Gnome-king's presence grim!

He stands upon a time-worn block; His dark form shades the snowy rock As cypress marble tomb: Nor fierce yet wild and sad his mien, His cloud-black tresses wave and stream, His deep tones break the gloom.

"Son of a tribe accursed, of those Whose greed has broken our repose Of the long ages dead, Think ye, for nought our ancient race Leaves olden haunts, the sacred place Of toils for ever fled?

"List while I tell of days to come, When men shall wish the hammers dumb That ring so ceaseless now; That every arm were palsy-tied, Nor ever wet on grey hillside Was the gold-seeker's brow.

"I see the old world's human tide Set southward on the ocean wide. I see a wood of masts, While crime or want, disease or death, With each sigh of the north-wind's breath, He on this fair shore casts.

"I see the murderer's barrel gleam, I hear the victim's hopeless scream Ring through these crimeless wastes; While each base son of elder lands Each witless dastard, in vast bands To the gold-city hastes.

"Disease shall claim her ready toll, Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole Of life shall ne'er deny; Danger and death shall stalk your streets, While staggering idiocy greets The horror-stricken eye!

"All men shall roll in the gold mire-- The height, the depth of man's desire-- Till come the famine years; Then all the land shall curse the day When first they rifled the dull clay, With deep remorseful tears.

"Fell want shall wake to fearful life The fettered demons. Civil strife Rears high a gory hand! I see a blood-splashed barricade, While dimly lights the twilight glade The soldier's flashing brand.

"But thou, son of the forest free! Thou art not, wert not foe to me, Frank tamer of the wild! Thou hast not sought the sunless home Where darkly delves the toiling Gnome, The mid-earth's swarthy child.

"Then, be thou ever, as of yore, A dweller in the woods, and o'er Fresh plains thy herds shall roam. Join not the vain and reckless crowd Who swell the city's pageant proud, But prize thy forest home."

He said: and, with an eldritch scream, The Gnome-king vanished--and my dream: Dawn's waking hour returned; Yet still the wild tones echoed clear, For many a day in reason's ear, And my heart inly burned.

THE DEATH OF WELFORD[1]

Out by the far west-waters, On the sea-land of the South, Untombed the bones of a white man lay, Slowly crumbling to kindred clay-- Sad prayer from Death's mute mouth!

Alone, far from his people, The sun of his life went down. A cry for help? No time--not a prayer: As red blood splashed thro' riven hair, His soul rose to Heaven's throne.

Ah! well for those felon hands Which the strong man foully slew, The cry from the Cross when our Saviour died "Father, forgive"--as they pierced His side-- "For they know not what they do."

_They_ have souls, say the teachers Hereafter, the same as we: If so, it is hid from human grace By blood-writ crimes of savage race So deep, that we cannot see.

Fear than love is far stronger: The cruel have seldom to rue: The neck is bowed 'neath the heavy heel, Love's covenant with _Death_ they seal; "For they know not what they do."

This Dead, by the far sun-down, This man whom they idly slew, Was lover and friend to those who had slain With him all human love, like Cain; But "they know not what they do."

'Twixt laws Divine and human To judge, if we only knew, When the blood is hot, to part wrong from right, When to forgive and when to smite Foes who "know not what they do."

The wronger and wronged shall meet For judgment, to die, or live; And the heathen shall cry, in anguish fell, At sight of the Bottomless Pit of Hell-- "We knew not, O Lord! Forgive."

[1] A young Englishman, "killed by blacks on the Barcoo."

SUNSET IN THE SOUTH

It is Autumn, it is sunset, magic shower of tint and hue; All the west is hung with banners, white with golden, crimson, blue; Drooping folds! far floating, mingling, falling on the river's face; Upturned, placid, silver-mirrored, gazing into endless space.

Faint the breath of eve, low-sighing for bright summer's fading charms; Woodland cries are echoing, chiming with the sounds from distant farms; And the stubble fires are gleaming red athwart the wood's deep shade, While the marsh mist, slowly rising, shrouds the greenery of the glade.

Redly still the day is dying, as if o'er the desert waste, And we pictured camels, Arabs, and the solemn outline traced Of a pillared lonely Fane, clear against the crimson rim, Voiceless, but of empire telling, and the lore of ages dim.

Low the deep voice of the ocean, whispering to the silent strand; Gleam the stars, in silver ripples; stretches broad the milk-white sand; And a long, low bark is lying underneath the island shore Weird and dream-like, darksome, soundless, spell-struck now, and evermore.

Deeper, darker fall the shadows, and the charmed colours wane, Fading, as the fay-gold changes into earth and dross again, Wildfowl stream in swaying files landward to the marshy plain; Louder sound the forest voices and the deep tones of the main.

"BALACLAVA"

The word is "Charge," the meaning "Death," Yet, welcome falls the sound On every ear in the listening host, Whose pennons flutter, zephyr-tossed, That messenger around.

Among them Nolan reins a steed Frost-white with gathered foam, And pale and stern points to the foe, In heavy mass, receding slow-- "Charge, comrades, charge them home!"

There rides one with fearless brow, By time and sorrow scarred. For him life knows no tale untold, But empty names, love, hope, and gold,-- Cool player of Fate's last card!

Beside him, he whose golden youth Is in its pride and bloom. His thoughts are with a dear old home, Its loved ones, and that _other one_, And will she mourn his doom?

Another knows of a sweet fond face That will fade into ashy pale As she hears the tale of that day of tears; And a prayer rises to Him who hears The widow and orphan's wail.

"We die," passed through each warrior's heart, "And vainly, but the care Rests not with us; 'tis ours to show The world, old England, and the foe, What Englishmen can dare."

Then bridle-reins are gathered up, And sabres blaze on high, And as each charger bounds away Doubts flee like ghosts at opening day, And each man joys to die.

St. George! it is a glorious sight A splendid page of war, To mark yon gorgeous, matchless troop, Like some bright falcon, wildly swoop On the sullen prey before.

CAPTAIN MARTINET (_loquitur_).

"Hurrah for the hearts of Englishmen, And the thoroughbred's long stride, As the vibrating, turf-tearing hoof-thunder rolled, 'Twas worth a year of one's life, all told, To have seen our fellows ride!"

But what avails the sabre sweep? There rolls the awful sound, Telling through heart, and limb, and brain, That the cannon mows its ghastly lane, And corses strew the ground.

Ha! Nolan flings his arms apart, And a death-cry rings in air; And see, may Heaven its mercy yield! His charger from a hopeless field Doth a _dead rider_ bear.

The gunners lie by their linstocks dead, While deep on every brow, In the bloody scroll of our island swords, Is the tale of each horseman's dying words, "Our memory is deathless now."

Staggering back goes a broken band, With standards soiled and torn, With gory saddles and reeling steeds, And ranks that are swaying like surging reeds On a wild autumn morn.

Despair has gazed on many a field Won by our fearless race; And well the night wind, sighing low, Knows where, with breast broad to the foe, Is the dead Briton's place.

But never living horsemen rode So near the eternal marge, As those who ran the tilt that day With Death, and bore their lives away From the Balaclava charge.

THE BUSHMAN'S LULLABY

Lift me down to the creek bank, Jack, It must be fresher outside; The long hot day is well-nigh done; It's a chance if I see another one; I should like to look on the setting sun, And the water, cool and wide.

We didn't think it would be like this Last week, as we rode together; True mates we've been in this far land For many a year, since Devon's strand We left for these wastes of sun-scorched sand In the blessed English weather.

We left when the leafy lanes were green And the trees met overhead, The rippling brooks ran clear and gay, The air was sweet with the scent of hay, How well I remember the very day And the words my mother said!

We have toiled and striven and fought it out Under the hard blue sky, Where the plains glowed red in tremulous light, Where the haunting mirage mocked the sight Of desperate men from morn till night,-- And the streams had long been dry.

Where we dug for gold on the mountain-side, Where the ice-fed river ran; In frost and blast, through fire and snow, Where an Englishman could live and go, We've followed our luck through weal and woe, And never asked help from man.

And now it's over, it's hard to die Ere the summer of life is o'er, When the pulse beats high and the limbs are stark, Ere time has printed one warning mark, To quit the light for the unknown dark, And, O God! to see home no more!

No more! no more! I that always vowed That, whether or rich or poor, Whatever the years might bring or change, I would one day stand by the grey old grange, And the children would gather, all shy and strange, As I entered the well-known door.

You will go home to the old place, Jack; Then tell my mother for me, That I thought of the words she used to say, Her looks, her tones, as I dying lay, That I prayed to God, as I used to pray When I knelt beside her knee.

By the lonely water they made their couch, And the southern night fast fled; They heard the wildfowl splash and cry, They heard the mourning reeds' low sigh, Such was the Bushman's lullaby,-- With the dawn his soul was sped.

MORNING

Morn on the waters! the glad bird flings The diamond spray from his glittering wings. Old ocean lieth in dreamless sleep, As the slumber of childhood calmly deep, Light falls the stroke of the fisher's oar, As he leaves his cot by the shingly shore; While the young wife's gaze, half sad, half bright, Follows the frail bark's flashing flight.

Noon on the waters! O rustling breeze, Sweet stealer 'mid old forest trees, Wilt thou not thy sweet whisper keep Nigh him who journeys the shadeless deep? The wanderer dreams of the shadowy dell, And the green-turfed, fairy-haunted well, While the shafts of the noon-king's merciless might Mingle day with sorrow, and death with light.

Night on the waters! murmuring hoarse, The vexed deep threatens the bold bark's course, The thunder-growl and the tempest moan Sound like spirits that watch for the dying groan. The storm-fiend sweeps o'er the starless waste, And the unchained blasts to the gathering haste; Man alone, unshaken, his course retains, While the elements combat and chaos reigns.

WANTED

A young Lady of twenty-three years of age, as a teacher in a Ladies' School. Satisfactory references required.--"TIMES" _Advertisement_.

Why should I be _twenty-three_? What are the virtues they can see Just about to bloom in me In the magical year of _twenty-three_? Does a maiden, fair and free, Get prudent just at _twenty-three_? Whatever can the reason be That they want a girl just _twenty-three_?

Dignified matron, whoever you be, Would not twenty-two do for thee? Would twenty-one be shown to the door, And twenty told to come no more? Nineteen, perhaps, would hardly be fit, Eighteen strikes one as rather a chit. Why must you search o'er land and sea For the golden age of _twenty-three_?

Still the years glide on--for you and for me, We're nearer, or farther from, _twenty-three_. Oft, as I sit over my five o'clock tea, I think, did she get her? age _twenty-three_! When friends are cold and unkind to me, I think there's a refuge when _twenty-three_. On my birthday I'll write, unknown friend, to thee, Exclaiming, "Here, take me, I'm _twenty-three_!"

PERDITA

She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair And eyes that are stormy with fitful light, The delicate hues of brow and cheek Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright; That matchless frame yet holds at bay The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.

There is no fear in her great dark eyes-- No hope, no love, no care, Stately and proud she looks around With a fierce, defiant stare; Wild words deform her reckless speech, Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.

Whom should she fear on earth? Can fate One direr torment lend To her few little years of glitter and gloom With the sad old story to end, When the spectres of Loneliness, Want, and Pain Shall arise one night with Death in their train?

I see in a vision a woman like her Trip down an orchard slope, With rosy prattlers that shout a name In tones of rapture and hope; While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife, Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life.

* * * * * *

Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt? Who pays at the final day For a wasted body, a murdered soul, And how shall he answer, I say, For her outlawed years, her early doom, And despair--despair--beyond the tomb?

"PRIEZ POUR ELLE"

AN INCIDENT OF THE INDIAN MUTINY

In the old tower they stand at bay, Where the Moslem fought of old; True to their race, in that sad day Their lives are dearly sold.

They are but three; a woman fair, A boy of fearless brow, He, whom she vowed to love is there-- God help her! then and now.

With fiercer leaguer never did Those rugged stones resound, As the swarthy yelling masses swayed The time-worn keep around.

Our death-doomed brothers fired fast, Our sister loaded well; With each rifle-crack a spirit passed; By scores the rebels fell.

Though corses choke the narrow way, Still swarms the demon hive; Like a tolling bell each heart _will_ say "We ne'er go forth alive!"

Undaunted still--the leaden rain Slacks not one moment's space-- With a crashing bullet through his brain, The boy drops on his face!

With outstretched arms, with death-clutched hands, His mother's darling lies, No more, till rent the grave's dark bands, To glad her loving eyes.

Gone the last hope! faint gleam of light-- Death stalks before their eyes-- While yells and screams of wild delight From the frenzied crowd arise.

O God of mercy! can it be? It is a hideous dream-- No!--nearer rolls the human sea, Arms flash, and eyeballs gleam.

He thinks of her, pale, tender, fair-- To nameless tortures given, Gore-stained and soiled the bright brown hair-- His very soul is riven.

He lifts the weapon. Did he think Of a happy summer time-- Of the village meadow--river brink, Of the merry wedding chime?

Little he dreamed of this dreary Now, Or that ever he should stand With the pistol-muzzle at her brow, The trigger in _his_ hand!

They kissed--they clung in a last embrace, They prayed a last deep prayer-- Then proudly she raised her tearful face, And----a corse lay shuddering there!

He stooped, his love's soft eyes to close, He smoothed the bright brown hair, Smiled on the crowd of baffled foes, Then, scattered his brains in air.

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.