Chapter 3

'Tis then that--forced to roam-- You come to where I keep, Here in my mountain home, A boarding-house for sheep.

Around me where I sit The wary wombat goes-- A beast of little wit, But what he knows, he _knows_.

The very same remark Applies to me also; I don't give out a spark, But what I know, I _know_.

My brain perhaps would show No convolutions deep, But anyhow I know The way to handle sheep.

These Riverina cracks, They do not care to ride The half-inch hanging tracks Along the mountain side.

Their horses shake with fear When loosened boulders go, With leaps, like startled deer, Down to the gulfs below.

Their very dogs will shirk, And drop their tails in fright When asked to go and work A mob that's out of sight.

My little collie pup Works silently and wide; You'll see her climbing up Along the mountain side.

As silent as a fox You'll see her come and go, A shadow through the rocks Where ash and messmate grow.

Then, lost to sight and sound Behind some rugged steep, She works her way around And gathers up the sheep;

And, working wide and shy, She holds them rounded up. The cash ain't coined to buy That little collie pup.

And so I draw a screw For self and dog and keep To boundary-ride for you, O Riverina Sheep!

And when the autumn rain Has made the herbage grow, You travel off again, And glad--no doubt--to go.

But some are left behind Around the mountain's spread, For those we cannot find We put them down as dead.

But when we say adieu And close the boarding job, I always find a few Fresh ear-marks in my mob.

So what with those I sell, And what with those I keep, You pay me pretty well, O Riverina Sheep!

It's up to me to shout Before we say good-bye-- “Here's to a howlin' drought All west of Gundagai!”

Pioneers

They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years As those explorers of the bush--the brave old pioneers.

'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.

But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest.

Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years-- The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers.

Santa Claus in the Bush

It chanced out back at the Christmas time, When the wheat was ripe and tall, A stranger rode to the farmer's gate-- A sturdy man and a small.

“Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, And bid the stranger stay; And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, For the morn is Christmas Day.”

“Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife, “But ye should let him be; He's maybe only a drover chap Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.

“Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst To swiggle the hail nicht through; Or he's maybe a life assurance carle To talk ye black and blue.”

“Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, For their swags are neat and thin; And he's never a life assurance carle, Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin.

“Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, For the wheat stands ripe and tall, And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, Ewes and weaners and all.

“There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, So we maun ask him in.

“Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, And gi' him a bite tae eat; An omelette made of a new-laid egg, Or a tasty bit of meat.”

“But the native cats hae taen the fowls, They havena left a leg; And he'll get nae omelette here at a' Till the emu lays an egg!”

“Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, To whaur the emus bide, Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, While the auld cock sits beside.

“But speak them fair, and speak them saft, Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails Or a rusty carriage bolt.”

So little son Jack ran blithely down, With the rusty nails in hand, Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched By their nest in the open sand.

And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, 'Twould feed three men or four, And the emus came for the half-inch nails Right up to the settler's door.

“A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife, As she took the egg, with a frown, “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin A paddy-melon down.”

“Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, Then come nae back at a'.”

So little son Jack he raced and he ran, And he was bare o' the feet, And soon he captured a paddy-melon, Was gorged with the stolen wheat.

“Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, To the best that the hoose can do-- An omelette made of the emu egg And a paddy-melon stew.”

“'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man; “I have eaten the wide world's meat, And the food that is given with right good will Is the sweetest food to eat.

“But the night draws on to the Christmas Day And I must rise and go, For I have a mighty way to ride To the land of the Esquimaux.

“And it's there I must load my sledges up, With reindeers four-in-hand, That go to the North, South, East, and West, To every Christian land.”

“Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife, “Ye suit my husband well! For when he gets up on his journey horse He's a bit of a liar himsel'.”

Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man To his old horse grazing nigh, And away like a meteor flash they went Far off to the Northern sky.

. . . . .

When the children woke on the Christmas morn They chattered with might and main-- For a sword and gun had little son Jack, And a braw new doll had Jane, And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; But the dour good-wife got nane.

“In Re a Gentleman, One”

When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”, or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”.

We see it each day in the paper, And know that there's mischief in store; That some unprofessional caper Has landed a shark on the shore. We know there'll be plenty of trouble Before they get through with the fun, Because he's been coming the double On clients, has “Gentleman, One”.

Alas! for the gallant attorney, Intent upon cutting a dash, Sets out on life's perilous journey With rather more cunning than cash. And fortune at first is inviting-- He struts his brief hour in the sun-- But, lo! on the wall is the writing Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”.

For soon he runs short of the dollars, He fears he must go to the wall; So Peter's trust-money he collars To pay off his creditor, Paul; Then robs right and left--for he goes it In earnest when once he's begun. Descensus Averni--he knows it; It's easy for “Gentleman, One”.

The crash comes as sure as the seasons; He loses his coin in a mine, Or booming in land, or for reasons Connected with women and wine. Or maybe the cards or the horses A share of the damage have done No matter; the end of the course is The same: “Re a Gentleman, One”.

He struggles awhile to keep going, To stave off detection and shame; But creditors, clamorous growing, Ere long put an end to the game. At length the poor soldier of Satan His course to a finish has run-- And just think of Windeyer waiting To deal with “A Gentleman, One”!

And some face it boldly, and brazen The shame and the utter disgrace; While others, more sensitive, hasten Their names and their deeds to efface. They snap the frail thread which the Furies And Fates have so cruelly spun. May the great Final Judge and His juries Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”!

The Melting of the Snow

There's a sunny Southern land, And it's there that I would be Where the big hills stand, In the South Countrie! When the wattles bloom again, Then it's time for us to go To the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

To the East or to the West, Or wherever you may be, You will find no place Like the South Countrie. For the skies are blue above, And the grass is green below, In the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

Now the team is in the plough, And the thrushes start to sing, And the pigeons on the bough Sit a-welcoming the Spring. So come my comrades all, Let us saddle up and go To the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

(1886)

Bring me a quart of colonial beer And some doughy damper to make good cheer, I must make a heavy dinner; Heavily dine and heavily sup, Of indigestible things fill up, Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, And I have to dream the winner.

Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, The rich ragout and the charming cham., I've got to mix my liquor; Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, Hard and tough as a wooden peg, And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, 'Twill make me dream the quicker.

Now I am full of fearful feed, Now I may dream a race indeed, In my restless, troubled slumber; While the night-mares race through my heated brain And their devil-riders spur amain, The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, And I'll spot the winning number.

. . . . .

Thousands and thousands and thousands more, Like sands on the white Pacific shore, The crowding people cluster; For evermore it's the story old, While races are bought and backers are sold, Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, In their thousands still they muster.

And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, “I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!” “Five monkeys, Little John, sir!” “Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!” And so they shout through the livelong day, And stick to the game that is sure to pay, While fools put money on, sir!

And now in my dream I seem to go And bet with a “book” that I seem to know-- A Hebrew money-lender; A million to five is the price I get-- Not bad! but before I book the bet The horse's name I clean forget, Its number and even gender.

Now for the start, and here they come, And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum Beat by a hand unsteady; They come like a rushing, roaring flood, Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; For Acme is making the pace so good There are some of 'em done already.

But round the back she begins to tire, And a mighty shout goes up “Crossfire!” The magpie jacket's leading; And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, But at length gives way to the black and gold, Which away to the front is speeding.

Carry them on and keep it up-- A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, You must race and stay to win it; And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, Now takes the lead with his raking stride, And a mighty roar goes far and wide-- “There's only Commotion in it!”

But one draws out from the beaten ruck And up on the rails by a piece of luck He comes in a style that's clever; “It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!” “Go at 'em now while their courage fails;” “Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!” “The blue and white for ever!”

Under the whip! with the ears flat back, Under the whip! though the sinews crack, No sign of the base white feather; Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, Stick to it now though your hearts should break, While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, They come down the straight together.

Trident slowly forges ahead, The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, The pace is undiminished; Now for the Panics that never fail! But many a backer's face grows pale As old Commotion swings his tail And swerves--and the Cup is finished.

. . . . .

And now in my dream it all comes back: I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, A million I've won, no question! “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog! Give me my money, bookmaking dog!” But he disappeared in a kind of fog, And I woke with “the indigestion”.

The Gundaroo Bullock

Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone, And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo.

Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.

There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride, For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo-- He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.”

“Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, “I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.”

That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed. “Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew-- The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.”

They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool. “What's this?” exclaimed the trooper--“an infant, I declare;” Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo.

“The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; We can't afford a bullock--such expense would never do-- So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.”

And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo.

Lay of the Motor-Car

We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd In our whiskers and teeth; And the granite-like grey of the road Seems to slide underneath. As an eagle might sweep through the sky, So we sweep through the land; And the pallid pedestrians fly When they hear us at hand.

We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! Not the fast-fleeing hare, Nor the racehorses under the whip, Nor the birds of the air Can compete with our swiftness sublime, Our ease and our grace. We annihilate chickens and time And policemen and space.

Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? How he dropped down to pray In the road when he saw he was lost; How he melted away Underneath, and there rang through the fog His earsplitting squeal As he went---- Is that he or a dog, That stuff on the wheel?

The Corner Man

I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep, When fancies come and go To vex a man in his soothing sleep With thoughts of awful woe-- I dreamed that I was a corner-man Of a nigger minstrel show.

I cracked my jokes, and the building rang With laughter loud and long; I hushed the house as I softly sang An old plantation song-- A tale of the wicked slavery days Of cruelty and wrong.

A small boy sat on the foremost seat-- A mirthful youngster he; He beat the time with his restless feet To each new melody, And he picked me out as the brightest star Of the black fraternity.

“Oh father,” he said, “what _would_ we do If the corner-man should die? I never saw such a man--did you? He makes the people cry, And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.” The old man made reply--

“We each of us fill a very small space In the great creation's plan, If a man don't keep his lead in the race There's plenty more that can; The world can very soon fill the place Of even a corner-man.”

. . . . .

I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find Myself at home in bed, And I framed a moral in my mind From the words the old man said. The world will jog along just the same When its corner-men are dead.

When Dacey Rode the Mule

'Twas to a small, up-country town, When we were boys at school, There came a circus with a clown, Likewise a bucking mule. The clown announced a scheme they had Spectators for to bring-- They'd give a crown to any lad Who'd ride him round the ring.

And, gentle reader, do not scoff Nor think a man a fool-- To buck a porous-plaster off Was pastime to that mule.

The boys got on; he bucked like sin; He threw them in the dirt, What time the clown would raise a grin By asking, “Are you hurt?” But Johnny Dacey came one night, The crack of all the school; Said he, “I'll win the crown all right, Bring in your bucking mule.”

The elephant went off his trunk, The monkey played the fool, And all the band got blazing drunk When Dacey rode the mule.

But soon there rose a galling shout Of laughter, for the clown From somewhere in his pants drew out A little paper crown. He placed the crown on Dacey's head While Dacey looked a fool; “Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said, “For riding of the mule!”

The band struck up with “Killaloe”, And “Rule Britannia, Rule”, And “Young Man from the Country”, too, When Dacey rode the mule.

Then Dacey, in a furious rage, For vengeance on the show Ascended to the monkeys' cage And let the monkeys go; The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee He turned abroad to roam; Good faith! It was a sight to see The people step for home.

For big baboons with canine snout Are spiteful, as a rule-- The people didn't sit it out When Dacey rode the mule.

And from the beasts that made escape, The bushmen all declare, Were born some creatures partly ape And partly native-bear. They're rather few and far between, The race is nearly spent; But some of them may still be seen In Sydney Parliament.

And when those legislators fight, And drink, and act the fool, Just blame it on that torrid night When Dacey rode the mule.

The Mylora Elopement

By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun, Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run.

Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath. Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; And Amelia loved him truly--but the course of love, if true, Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.

Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild. Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges--off goes Jim to see his child;

Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob. Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know, And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.

“I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, One more kiss--don't think I'm greedy--good-bye, lass, before I'm seen-- Just one more--God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.”

. . . . .

The daylight shines on figures twain That ride across Mylora plain, Laughing and talking--Jim and Jane. “Steadily, darling. There's lots of time, Didn't we slip the old man prime! I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, I reckon he'll find it too big a job. They've beaten us all. I had a try, But the warrigal devils seem to fly. That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff No doubt, but not quite good enough. He'll have to gallop the livelong day, To cut and come, to race and stay. I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; To see us going I don't think would.” A turn in the road and, fair and square, They meet the old man standing there. “What's up?” “Why, running away, of course,” Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned, His eye with wild excitement burned. “I've raced all day through the scorching heat After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat. But over that range I think you'll find The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind. Will you go and leave the mob behind? Which will you do? Take the girl away, Or ride like a white man should to-day, And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?” Says Jim, “I can't throw this away, We can bolt some other day, of course, Amelia Jane, get off that horse. Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo. Here goes to put old Bowneck through!” Two distant specks on the mountain side, Two stockwhips echoing far and wide. Amelia Jane sat down and cried.

. . . . .

“Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, And him dead beat. Where have you been? “Bolted with Jim! What _do_ you mean?” “Met the old man with Sambo licked From running old Bowneck.” “Well, I'm kicked-- Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped? What did Jim do when you were stopped? Did you bolt from father across the plain? Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! And father got on, and away again The two of 'em went to the ranges grim. Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim! They're sure to get them now, of course, That Tambourine is a spanking horse. And Crazy Jane is good as gold. And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; Not like your father, but very fair. Jim will have to follow the mare.” “It never was yet in father's hide To best my Jim on the mountain-side. Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” But here again Amelia cried.

. . . . .