Chapter 4

The wind is in the barley-grass, The wattles are in bloom; The breezes greet us as they pass With honey-sweet perfume; The parakeets go screaming by With flash of golden wing, And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry Their long-drawn note of revelry, Rejoicing at the Spring.

So throw the weary pen aside And let the papers rest, For we must saddle up and ride Towards the blue hill's breast; And we must travel far and fast Across their rugged maze, To find the Spring of Youth at last, And call back from the buried past The old Australian ways.

When Clancy took the drover's track In years of long ago, He drifted to the outer back Beyond the Overflow; By rolling plain and rocky shelf, With stockwhip in his hand, He reached at last, oh lucky elf, The Town of Come-and-help-yourself In Rough-and-ready Land.

And if it be that you would know The tracks he used to ride, Then you must saddle up and go Beyond the Queensland side -- Beyond the reach of rule or law, To ride the long day through, In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe You then might see what Clancy saw And know what Clancy knew.

The Ballad of the 'Calliope'

By the far Samoan shore, Where the league-long rollers pour All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, Riding lightly at their ease, In the calm of tropic seas, The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay.

Riding lightly, head to wind, With the coral reefs behind, Three Germans and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue; And on one ship unfurled Was the flag that rules the world -- For on the old 'Calliope' the flag of England flew.

When the gentle off-shore breeze, That had scarcely stirred the trees, Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall, Away across the main Lowered the coming hurricane, And far away to seaward hung the cloud wrack like a pall.

If the word had passed around, 'Let us move to safer ground; Let us steam away to seaward' -- then this tale were not to tell! But each Captain seemed to say 'If the others stay, I stay!' And they lingered at their moorings till the shades of evening fell.

Then the cloud wrack neared them fast, And there came a sudden blast, And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main! Like a lion on its prey, Leapt the storm fiend on the bay, And the vessels shook and shivered as their cables felt the strain.

As the surging seas came by, That were running mountains high, The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee; And the darkness of the night Hid the coral reefs from sight, And the Captains dared not risk the chance to grope their way to sea.

In the dark they dared not shift! They were forced to wait and drift; All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no. But the men on deck could see If a chance of hope might be -- There was little chance of safety for the men who were below.

Through that long, long night of dread, While the storm raged overhead, They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar. So they waited, staunch and true, Though they knew, and well they knew, They must drown like rats imprisoned if the vessel touched the shore.

When the grey dawn broke at last, And the long, long night was past, While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away, On the rocks, all smashed and strewn, Were the German vessels thrown, While the Yankees, swamped and helpless, drifted shorewards down the bay.

Then at last spoke Captain Kane, 'All our anchors are in vain, And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee! Cut the cables at the bow! We must trust the engines now! Give her steam, and let her have it, lads, we'll fight her out to sea!'

And the answer came with cheers From the stalwart engineers, From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below; And above the sullen roar Of the breakers on the shore Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro.

If the strain should find a flaw, Should a bolt or rivet draw, Then -- God help them! for the vessel were a plaything in the tide! With a face of honest cheer, Quoth an English engineer, 'I will answer for the engines that were built on old Thames side!

'For the stays and stanchions taut, For the rivets truly wrought, For the valves that fit their faces as a glove should fit the hand. Give her every ounce of power, If we make a knot an hour Then it's way enough to steer her and we'll drive her from the land.'

Like a foam flake tossed and thrown, She could barely hold her own, While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee. Through the smother and the rout The 'Calliope' steamed out -- And they cheered her from the Trenton that was foundering in the sea.

Aye! drifting shoreward there, All helpless as they were, Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled. Without a thought of fear The Yankees raised a cheer -- A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world.

Do They Know

Do they know? At the turn to the straight Where the favourites fail, And every atom of weight Is telling its tale; As some grim old stayer hard-pressed Runs true to his breed, And with head just in front of the rest Fights on in the lead; When the jockeys are out with the whips, With a furlong to go; And the backers grow white to the lips -- Do you think THEY don't know?

Do they know? As they come back to weigh In a whirlwind of cheers, Though the spurs have left marks of the fray, Though the sweat on the ears Gathers cold, and they sob with distress As they roll up the track, They know just as well their success As the man on their back. As they walk through a dense human lane, That sways to and fro, And cheers them again and again, Do you think THEY don't know?

The Passing of Gundagai

'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said, And if you've got a vacant pen You'd better take him in the shed And start him shearing straight ahead, He's one of these here quiet men.

'He never strikes -- that ain't his game; No matter what the others try HE goes on shearing just the same. I never rightly knew his name -- We always call him "Gundagai"!'

Our flashest shearer then had gone To train a racehorse for a race, And while his sporting fit was on He couldn't be relied upon, So 'Gundagai' shore in his place.

Alas for man's veracity! For reputations false and true! This 'Gundagai' turned out to be, For strife and all-round villainy, The very worst I ever knew!

He started racing Jack Devine, And grumbled when I made him stop. The pace he showed was extra fine, But all those pure-bred ewes of mine Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.

He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed, From roof to rafter, floor to shelf; As for my mongrel ewes, he said, I ought to get a razor blade And shave the blooming things myself.

On Sundays he controlled a 'school', And played 'two-up' the livelong day; And many a young confiding fool He shore of his financial wool; And when he lost he would not pay.

He organised a shearers' race, And 'touched' me to provide the prize. His packhorse showed surprising pace And won hands down -- he was The Ace, A well-known racehorse in disguise.

Next day the bruiser of the shed Displayed an opal-tinted eye, With large contusions on his head. He smiled a sickly smile, and said He'd 'had a cut at "Gundagai"!'

But just as we were getting full Of 'Gundagai' and all his ways, A telegram for 'Henry Bull' Arrived. Said he, 'That's me -- all wool! Let's see what this here message says.'

He opened it, his face grew white, He dropped the shears and turned away. It ran, 'Your wife took bad last night; Come home at once -- no time to write, We fear she may not last the day.'

He got his cheque -- I didn't care To dock him for my mangled ewes; His store account -- we 'called it square'. Poor wretch! he had enough to bear, Confronted by such dreadful news.

The shearers raised a little purse To help a mate, as shearers will, 'To pay the doctor and the nurse, And if there should be something worse -- To pay the undertaker's bill.'

They wrung his hand in sympathy, He rode away without a word, His head hung down in misery. A wandering hawker passing by Was told of what had just occurred.

'Well! that's a curious thing,' he said, 'I've known that feller all his life -- He's had the loan of this here shed! I know his wife ain't nearly dead, Because he HASN'T GOT A WIFE!'

. . . . .

You should have heard the whipcord crack As angry shearers galloped by, In vain they tried to fetch him back. A little dust along the track Was all they saw of 'Gundagai'.

The Wargeilah Handicap

Wargeilah town is very small, There's no cathedral nor a club, In fact the township, all in all, Is just one unpretentious pub; And there, from all the stations round, The local sportsmen can be found.

The sportsmen of Wargeilah side Are very few but very fit: There's scarcely any sport been tried But what they held their own at it In fact, to search their records o'er, They held their own and something more.

'Twas round about Wargeilah town An English new-chum did infest: He used to wander up and down In baggy English breeches drest -- His mental aspect seemed to be Just stolid self-sufficiency.

The local sportsmen vainly sought His tranquil calm to counteract, By urging that he should be brought Within the Noxious Creatures Act. 'Nay, harm him not,' said one more wise, 'He is a blessing in disguise!

'You see, he wants to buy a horse, To ride, and hunt, and steeplechase, And carry ladies, too, of course, And pull a cart and win a race. Good gracious! he must be a flat To think he'll get a horse like that!

'But since he has so little sense And such a lot of cash to burn, We'll sell him some experience By which alone a fool can learn. Suppose we let him have The Trap To win Wargeilah Handicap!'

And here, I must explain to you That, round about Wargeilah run, There lived a very aged screw Whose days of brilliancy were done: A grand old warrior in his prime -- But age will beat us all in time.

A trooper's horse in seasons past He did his share to keep the peace, But took to falling, and at last Was cast for age from the Police. A publican at Conroy's Gap Then bought and christened him The Trap.

When grass was good, and horses dear, He changed his owner now and then At prices ranging somewhere near The neighbourhood of two pound ten: And manfully he earned his keep By yarding cows and ration sheep.

They brought him in from off the grass And fed and groomed the old horse up; His coat began to shine like glass -- You'd think he'd win the Melbourne Cup. And when they'd got him fat and flash They asked the new-chum -- fifty -- cash!

And when he said the price was high, Their indignation knew no bounds. They said, 'It's seldom you can buy A horse like that for fifty pounds! We'll refund twenty if The Trap Should fail to win the handicap!'

The deed was done, the price was paid, The new-chum put the horse in train: The local sports were much afraid That he would sad experience gain, By racing with some shearer's hack, Who'd beat him half-way round the track.

So, on this guileless English spark They did most fervently impress That he must keep the matter dark, And not let any person guess That he was purchasing The Trap To win Wargeilah Handicap.

They spoke of 'spielers from The Bland', And 'champions from the Castlereagh', And gave the youth to understand That all of these would stop away, And spoil the race, if they should hear That they had got The Trap to fear.

'Keep dark! They'll muster thick as flies When once the news gets sent around We're giving such a splendid prize -- A Snowdon horse worth fifty pound! They'll come right in from Dandaloo, And find -- that it's a gift to you!'

. . . . .

The race came on -- with no display, Nor any calling of the card, But round about the pub all day A crowd of shearers, drinking hard, And using language in a strain 'Twere flattery to call profane.

Our hero, dressed in silk attire -- Blue jacket and a scarlet cap -- With boots that shone like flames of fire, Now did his canter on The Trap, And walked him up and round about, Until the other steeds came out.

He eyed them with a haughty look, But saw a sight that caught his breath! It was! Ah John! The Chinee cook! In boots and breeches! Pale as death! Tied with a rope, like any sack, Upon a piebald pony's back!

The next, a colt -- all mud and burrs! Half-broken, with a black boy up, Who said, 'You gim'me pair o' spurs, I win the bloomin' Melbourne Cup!' These two were to oppose The Trap For the Wargeilah Handicap!

They're off! The colt whipped down his head, And humped his back and gave a squeal, And bucked into the drinking shed, Revolving like a Cath'rine wheel! Men ran like rats! The atmosphere Was filled with oaths and pints of beer!

But up the course the bold Ah John Beside The Trap raced neck and neck: The boys had tied him firmly on, Which ultimately proved his wreck, The saddle turned, and, like a clown, He rode some distance upside down.

His legs around the horse were tied, His feet towards the heavens were spread, He swung and bumped at every stride And ploughed the ground up with his head! And when they rescued him, The Trap Had won Wargeilah Handicap!

And no enquiries we could make Could tell by what false statements swayed Ah John was led to undertake A task so foreign to his trade! He only smiled and said, 'Hoo Ki! I stop topside, I win all 'li!'

But never, in Wargeilah Town, Was heard so eloquent a cheer As when the President came down, And toasted, in Colonial Beer, 'The finest rider on the course! The winner of the Snowdon Horse!'

'You go and get your prize,' he said, 'He's with a wild mob, somewhere round The mountains near The Watershed; He's honestly worth fifty pound, A noble horse, indeed, to win, But none of US can run him in!

'We've chased him poor, we've chased him fat, We've run him till our horses dropped, But by such obstacles as that A man like you will not be stopped, You'll go and yard him any day, So here's your health! Hooray! Hooray!'

. . . . .

The day wound up with booze and blow And fights till all were well content, But of the new-chum, all I know Is shown by this advertisement -- 'For Sale, the well-known racehorse Trap, He won Wargeilah Handicap!'

Any Other Time

All of us play our very best game -- Any other time. Golf or billiards, it's all the same -- Any other time. Lose a match and you always say, 'Just my luck! I was 'off' to-day! I could have beaten him quite half-way -- Any other time!'

After a fiver you ought to go -- Any other time. Every man that you ask says 'Oh, Any OTHER time. Lend you a fiver! I'd lend you two, But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due, Wish you'd ask me -- now, mind you do -- Any other time!'

Fellows will ask you out to dine -- Any other time. 'Not to-night, for we're twenty-nine -- Any other time. Not to-morrow, for cook's on strike, Not next day, I'll be out on the bike -- Just drop in whenever you like -- Any other time!'

Seasick passengers like the sea -- Any other time. 'Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me! Any other time Ocean-trav'lling is . . simply bliss, Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . . Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this -- Any other time.'

. . . . .

Most of us mean to be better men -- Any other time: Regular upright characters then -- Any other time. Yet somehow as the years go by Still we gamble and drink and lie, When it comes to the last we'll want to die -- Any other time!

The Last Trump

'You led the trump,' the old man said With fury in his eye, 'And yet you hope my girl to wed! Young man! your hopes of love are fled, 'Twere better she should die!

'My sweet young daughter sitting there, So innocent and plump! You don't suppose that she would care To wed an outlawed man who'd dare To lead the thirteenth trump!

'If you had drawn their leading spade It meant a certain win! But no! By Pembroke's mighty shade The thirteenth trump you went and played And let their diamonds in!

'My girl! Return at my command His presents in a lump! Return his ring! For understand No man is fit to hold your hand Who leads a thirteenth trump!

'But hold! Give every man his due And every dog his day. Speak up and say what made you do This dreadful thing -- that is, if you Have anything to say!'

He spoke. 'I meant at first,' said he, 'To give their spades a bump: Or lead the hearts, but then you see I thought against us there might be, Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!'

. . . . .

They buried him at dawn of day Beside a ruined stump: And there he sleeps the hours away And waits for Gabriel to play The last -- the fourteenth -- trump.

Tar and Feathers

Oh! the circus swooped down On the Narrabri town, For the Narrabri populace moneyed are; And the showman he smiled At the folk he beguiled To come all the distance from Gunnedah.

But a juvenile smart, Who objected to 'part', Went in 'on the nod', and to do it he Crawled in through a crack In the tent at the back, For the boy had no slight ingenuity.

And says he with a grin, 'That's the way to get in; But I reckon I'd better be quiet or They'll spiflicate me,' And he chuckled, for he Had the loan of the circus proprietor.

But the showman astute On that wily galoot Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him -- Not he; with a grim Sort of humorous whim, He took him and tarred him and feathered him.

Says he, 'You can go Round the world with a show, And knock every Injun and Arab wry; With your name and your trade, On the posters displayed, The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.'

Next day for his freak, By a Narrabri beak, He was jawed with a deal of verbosity; For his only appeal Was 'professional zeal' -- He wanted another monstrosity.

Said his worship, 'Begob! You are fined forty bob, And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says. And the Narrabri joy, Half bird and half boy, Has a 'down' on himself and on circuses.

It's Grand

It's grand to be a squatter And sit upon a post, And watch your little ewes and lambs A-giving up the ghost.

It's grand to be a 'cockie' With wife and kids to keep, And find an all-wise Providence Has mustered all your sheep.

It's grand to be a Western man, With shovel in your hand, To dig your little homestead out From underneath the sand.

It's grand to be a shearer, Along the Darling side, And pluck the wool from stinking sheep That some days since have died.

It's grand to be a rabbit And breed till all is blue, And then to die in heaps because There's nothing left to chew.

It's grand to be a Minister And travel like a swell, And tell the Central District folk To go to -- Inverell.

It's grand to be a Socialist And lead the bold array That marches to prosperity At seven bob a day.

It's grand to be an unemployed And lie in the Domain, And wake up every second day And go to sleep again.

It's grand to borrow English tin To pay for wharves and Rocks, And then to find it isn't in The little money-box.

It's grand to be a democrat And toady to the mob, For fear that if you told the truth They'd hunt you from your job.

It's grand to be a lot of things In this fair Southern land, But if the Lord would send us rain, That would, indeed, be grand!

Out of Sight

They held a polo meeting at a little country town, And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'.

They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure, The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight The rest would never see him go -- he'd finish out of sight.

So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up, Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'. The horse was known as 'Who's Afraid', by Panic from 'The Fright'. But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight.

And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence, Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence; And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right -- For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'.

The Road to Old Man's Town

The fields of youth are filled with flowers, The wine of youth is strong: What need have we to count the hours? The summer days are long.

But soon we find to our dismay That we are drifting down The barren slopes that fall away Towards the foothills grim and grey That lead to Old Man's Town.

And marching with us on the track Full many friends we find: We see them looking sadly back For those that dropped behind.

But God forbid a fate so dread -- ALONE to travel down The dreary road we all must tread, With faltering steps and whitening head, The road to Old Man's Town!

The Old Timer's Steeplechase

The sheep were shorn and the wool went down At the time of our local racing: And I'd earned a spell -- I was burnt and brown -- So I rolled my swag for a trip to town And a look at the steeplechasing.

'Twas rough and ready -- an uncleared course As rough as the blacks had found it; With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse, And a water-jump that would drown a horse, And the steeple three times round it.

There was never a fence the tracks to guard, -- Some straggling posts defined 'em: And the day was hot, and the drinking hard, Till none of the stewards could see a yard Before nor yet behind 'em!

But the bell was rung and the nags were out, Excepting an old outsider Whose trainer started an awful rout, For his boy had gone on a drinking bout And left him without a rider.

'Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried, 'In the whole of the crowd so clever, Is there not one man that will take a ride On the old white horse from the Northern side That was bred on the Mooki River?'

'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow, And a cow would look well beside him; But I was pluckier then than now (And I wanted excitement anyhow), So at last I agreed to ride him.

And the trainer said, 'Well, he's dreadful slow, And he hasn't a chance whatever; But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show A trick or two that the trainers know Who train by the Mooki River.

'The first time round at the further side, With the trees and the scrub about you, Just pull behind them and run out wide And then dodge into the scrub and hide, And let them go round without you.