Chapter 2

Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set-- And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret. But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack, And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall, And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all. But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun, For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done.

There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels, And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals. For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree, And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we. Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush; And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer, And we'll slip across to England--it's a nicer place than here;

For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store, And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more. But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye, We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I; So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may, And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day, And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars, And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars.

T.Y.S.O.N.

Across the Queensland border line The mobs of cattle go; They travel down in sun and shine On dusty stage, and slow. The drovers, riding slowly on To let the cattle spread, Will say: “Here's one old landmark gone, For old man Tyson's dead.”

What tales there'll be in every camp By men that Tyson knew; The swagmen, meeting on the tramp, Will yarn the long day through, And tell of how he passed as “Brown”, And fooled the local men: “But not for me--I struck the town, And passed the message further down; That's T.Y.S.O.N.!”

There stands a little country town Beyond the border line, Where dusty roads go up and down, And banks with pubs combine. A stranger came to cash a cheque-- Few were the words he said-- A handkerchief about his neck, An old hat on his head.

A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed-- “Know me? Of course you do?” “It's not my work,” the boss replied, “To know such tramps as you.” “Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,” Replied the stranger then, “I never care to make a splash, I'm simple--but I've got the cash, I'm T.Y.S.O.N.”

But in that last great drafting-yard, Where Peter keeps the gate, And souls of sinners find it barred, And go to meet their fate, There's one who ought to enter in, For good deeds done on earth; Such deeds as merit ought to win, Kind deeds of sterling worth.

Not by the strait and narrow gate, Reserved for wealthy men, But through the big gate, opened wide, The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed, Will travel through--and then Old Peter'll say: “We pass him through; There's many a thing he used to do, Good-hearted things that no one knew; That's T.Y.S.O.N.”

As Long as your Eyes are Blue

Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? When the charms of youth shall have passed away, Will your love as of old prove true?

For the looks may change, and the heart may range, And the love be no longer fond; Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth And away to the years beyond?

Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown And the blush on your cheek that lies-- But I love you most for the kindly heart That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

For the eyes are signs of the soul within, Of the heart that is leal and true, And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, Just as long as your eyes are blue.

For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach May be reft of their golden hue; But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still, Just as long as your eyes are blue.

Bottle-O!

I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; I drives me bottle cart around the town; A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob-- I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, And little dogs what comes and barks--we take 'em off their guard And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!

Chorus--

So it's any “Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. And you'll see the women rushing To take in the Monday's washing When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!”

I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; I stops the cart and walks across to see. “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;” “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!”

I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”, There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap” There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O!

The Story of Mongrel Grey

This is the story the stockman told, On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; The moon rose up like a globe of gold And flooded the plain with her mellow light. We watched the cattle till dawn of day And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.

. . . . .

He was a knock-about station hack, Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; Ridden all day with a sore on his back, Left all night with nothing to eat. That was a matter of every-day Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey.

We might have sold him, but someone heard He was bred out back on a flooded run, Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,-- Midnight or midday were all as one. In the flooded ground he could find his way, Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey.

'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; When the floods are out they will splash along In girth-deep water, and twist and turn From hidden channel and billabong. Never mistaking the road to go, For a man may guess--but the horses _know_.

I was camping out with my youngest son-- Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak-- In an empty hut on the lower run, Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. The youngster toddled about all day, And with our horses was Mongrel Grey.

All of a sudden the flood came down Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, Over the flats and across the plain. Rising and rising--at fall of night Nothing but water appeared in sight!

'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, Even in daylight; for all around Channels and billabongs twist about, Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. And to move was a hopeless thing to try In the dark with the water just racing by.

I had to try it. I heard a roar, And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; And the water rose till it reached the floor Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain The way the water was sweeping down We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown.

Off to the stable I splashed, and found The horses shaking with cold and fright; I led them down to the lower ground, But never a yard would they swim that night! They reared and snorted and turned away, And none would face it but Mongrel Grey.

I bound the child on the horse's back, And we started off with a prayer to heaven, Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, For I knew that the instinct God has given To guide His creatures by night and day Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey.

He struck deep water at once and swam-- I swam beside him and held his mane-- Till we touched the bank of the broken dam In shallow water--then off again, Swimming in darkness across the flood, Rank with the smell of the drifting mud.

He turned and twisted across and back, Choosing the places to wade or swim, Picking the safest and shortest track, The pitchy darkness was clear to him. Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? The Lord that led him alone could tell!

He dodged the timber whene'er he could, But the timber brought us to grief at last; I was partly stunned by a log of wood, That struck my head as it drifted past; And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, And in half a second he swept away.

I reached a tree, where I had to stay, And did a perish for two days hard; And lived on water--but Mongrel Grey, He walked right into the homestead yard At dawn next morning, and grazed around, With the child on top of him safe and sound.

We keep him now for the wife to ride, Nothing too good for him now, of course; Never a whip on his fat old hide, For she owes the child to that old grey horse. And not Old Tyson himself could pay The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.

Gilhooley's Estate

(A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.)

Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, As most of us do, soon or late; And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, So they took him Gilhooley's Estate.

Gilhooley in life had been living so free 'Twas thought his possessions were great, So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee For me in Gilhooley's Estate.”

They made out a list of his property fine, It totalled a thousand-and-eight; But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine-- The debts of Gilhooley's Estate.

So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, my dear man, My childer have little to ait: Just keep the expenses as low as you can Against poor Gilhooley's Estate.”

But Jones says, “The will isn't clear in its terms, I fear it will need some debate, And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms) To appear in Gilhooley's Estate.”

So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head, And a brief in his hand quite elate, Went up to the Court where they bury the dead, Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate.

But his Honor the Judge said, “I think that the joint Legatees must be called to pro_bate_-- Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point-- The point of Gilhooley's Estate.

“I order a suit to be brought just to try If this is correct that I state-- A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by, Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate.”

So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, you'll appear! Thim barristers' fees is too great; The suit is but friendly.” “Attorneys, my dear, Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate.”

From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah Arises both early and late: It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar Dividing Gilhooley's Estate.

The Road to Hogan's Gap

Now look, you see, it's this way like, You cross the broken bridge And run the crick down till you strike The second right-hand ridge.

The track is hard to see in parts, But still it's pretty clear; There's been two Injin hawkers' carts Along that road this year.

Well, run that right-hand ridge along-- It ain't, to say, too steep-- There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong Where blokes went out with sheep.

But keep the crick upon your right, And follow pretty straight Along the spur, until you sight A wire and sapling gate.

Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare Fell off and broke her back; You'll see her carcase layin' there, Jist down below the track.

And then you drop two mile, or three, It's pretty steep and blind; You want to go and fall a tree And tie it on behind.

And then you pass a broken cart Below a granite bluff; And that is where you strike the part They reckon pretty rough.

But by the time you've got that far It's either cure or kill, So turn your horses round the spur And face 'em up the hill.

For look, if you should miss the slope And get below the track, You haven't got the whitest hope Of ever gettin' back.

An' half way up you'll see the hide Of Hogan's brindled bull; Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, The left's too steep a pull.

And both the banks is full of cracks; An' just about at dark You'll see the last year's bullock tracks Where Hogan drew the bark.

The marks is old and pretty faint And grown with scrub and such; Of course the track to Hogan's ain't A road that's travelled much.

But turn and run the tracks along For half a mile or more, And then, of course, you can't go wrong-- You're right at Hogan's door.

When first you come to Hogan's gate He mightn't show, perhaps; He's pretty sure to plant and wait To see it ain't the traps.

I wouldn't call it good enough To let your horses out; There's some that's pretty extra rough Is livin' round about.

It's likely if your horses did Get feedin' near the track, It's goin' to cost at least a quid Or more to get them back.

So, if you find they're off the place, It's up to you to go And flash a quid in Hogan's face-- He'll know the blokes that know.

But listen, if you're feelin' dry, Just see there's no one near, And go and wink the other eye And ask for ginger beer.

The blokes come in from near and far To sample Hogan's pop; They reckon once they breast the bar They stay there till they drop.

On Sundays you can see them spread Like flies around the tap. It's like that song “The Livin' Dead” Up there at Hogan's Gap.

They like to make it pretty strong Whenever there's a charnce; So when a stranger comes along They always holds a darnce.

There's recitations, songs, and fights-- A willin' lot you'll meet. There's one long bloke up there recites, I tell you--he's a treat.

They're lively blokes all right up there, It's never dull a day. I'd go meself if I could spare The time to get away.

. . . . .

The stranger turned his horses quick. He didn't cross the bridge; He didn't go along the crick To strike the second ridge;

He didn't make the trip, because He wasn't feeling fit. His business up at Hogan's was To serve him with a writ.

He reckoned if he faced the pull And climbed the rocky stair, The next to come might find his hide A land-mark on the mountain side, Along with Hogan's brindled bull And Hogan's old grey mare!

A Singer of the Bush

There is waving of grass in the breeze And a song in the air, And a murmur of myriad bees That toil everywhere. There is scent in the blossom and bough, And the breath of the Spring Is as soft as a kiss on a brow-- And Spring-time I sing.

There is drought on the land, and the stock Tumble down in their tracks Or follow--a tottering flock-- The scrub-cutter's axe. While ever a creature survives The axes shall swing; We are fighting with fate for their lives-- And the combat I sing.

“Shouting” for a Camel

It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator, Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink, Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator, And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink. Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink. He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.

So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye. Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.

But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water, And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need; For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter, And the miners muttered softly, “Yes, he's very dry indeed! But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.”

So he drank up twenty buckets--it was weird to watch him suck it, (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown) Till the speculator stopped him, saying, “Not another bucket-- If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town. Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town.” He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go.

There's a moral to this story--in your hat you ought to paste it, Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about, And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it, Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout; If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout, You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go.

The Lost Drink

I had spent the night in the watch-house-- My head was the size of three-- So I went and asked the chemist To fix up a drink for me; And he brewed it from various bottles With soda and plenty of ice, With something that smelt like lemon, And something that seemed like spice.

It fell on my parching palate Like the dew on a sun-baked plain, And my system began to flourish Like the grass in a soft spring rain; It wandered throughout my being, Suffusing my soul with rest, And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid That life had a new-found zest.

I have been on the razzle-dazzle Full many a time since then But I never could get the chemist To brew me that drink again. He says he's forgotten the notion-- 'Twas only by chance it came-- He's tried me with various liquids But oh! they are not the same.

We have sought, but we sought it vainly, That one lost drink divine; We have sampled his various bottles, But somehow they don't combine: Yet I know when I cross the River And stand on the Golden Shore I shall meet with an angel-chemist Who'll brew me that drink once more.

Mulligan's Mare

Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race; The height of choice spirits from near and from far Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar.

There was “Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned, “Dog-bite-me”--so called from the shape of his head-- And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang, Designed as the “Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang”.

Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show, A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go; Whenever they backed her you safely might swear She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare.

But Mulligan, having some radical views, Neglected his business and got on the booze; He took up with runners--a treacherous troop-- Who gave him away and he “fell in the soup”.

And so it turned out on a fine summer day, A bailiff turned up with a writ of “fi. fa.”; He walked to the bar with a manner serene, “I levy,” said he, “in the name of the Queen.”

Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law, To pay out the bailiff with “_one_ on the jaw”; He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink, He changed his intentions and stood him a drink.

A great consultation there straightway befel 'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell, And the man with the head, who remarked “Why, you bet! Dog-bite-me!” said he, “but we'll diddle 'em yet.

“We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack, And put in her place the old broken-down hack; The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare.

“So out with the racer and in with the screw, We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do; And if he gets nasty and dares to say much, I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.”

Then off to the town went the mare and the lad; The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was “had”; But marched to the stall with a confident air-- “I levy,” said he, “upon Mulligan's mare.”

He watched her by day and he watched her by night, She was never an instant let out of his sight, For races were coming away in the West And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best.

“Here's a chance,” thought the bailiff, “to serve my own ends, I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends: Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.”

The races came round, and a crowd on the course Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse, And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense, They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence.

And think of the grief of the bookmaking host At the sound of the summons to go to the post-- For down to the start with her thorough-bred air As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare!

They started, and off went the boy to the front, He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt; He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled, Then gave her her head and she smothered the field.

The race put her owner right clear of his debts, He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets, He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf, And gave him a hiding to keep for himself.

So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray, Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay; For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week-- Is never to bet on a thing that can speak.

And whether you're lucky or whether you lose, Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze, And fortune in season will answer your prayer And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare.

The Matrimonial Stakes

I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall; Well, she simply _had_ to have me after that!

It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse; And, although she _looked_ indifferent when I landed--on my head-- In the water, it appealed to her, of course!

When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was “all Sir Garneo”, For she praised the way I made my final run. And she thought the riding did it--for how _could_ the poor girl know That a monkey could have ridden it and won!

Then they “weighed me in” a winner--it's not often that occurs! So I didn't let my golden chances slip, For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs, And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip.

Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk For a moment, so I took her by the head (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red.

She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart; I could worship every little step she takes; And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start, Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes!

The Mountain Squatter

Here in my mountain home, On rugged hills and steep, I sit and watch you come, O Riverina Sheep!

You come from fertile plains Where saltbush (sometimes) grows, And flats that (when it rains) Will blossom like the rose.

But, when the summer sun Gleams down like burnished brass, You have to leave your run And hustle off for grass.