Chapter 4

The sound of a whip comes faint and far, A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, In all their tameless pride. The fleet wild horses snort with fear, And wheel and break as the yard draws near. Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow, As under the whip the horses go Adown the mountain side. And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, On a horse that never has failed him yet, Is after them down the range. Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel--whoa back! And long and loud the stockwhips crack, Their flying course they change, “Steadily does it--let Sambo go! Open those sliprails down below. Smart! or you'll be too late. They'll follow old Sambo up--look out! Wheel that black horse--give Sam a clout. They're in! Make fast the gate.”

. . . . .

The mob is safely in the yard! The old man mounts delighted guard. No thought has he but for his prize. Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes. “Will you come after all? the job is done, And Crazy Jane is fit to run For a prince's life--now don't say no; Slip on while the old man's down below At the inner yard, and away we'll go. Will you come, my girl?” “I will, you bet, We'll manage this here elopement yet.”

. . . . .

By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim. And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him. He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run.

The Pannikin Poet

There's nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pass the time, With nought titanic in The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It's bare of golden thoughts-- It's just a pannikin.

I think it's rather hard That each Australian bard-- Each wan, poetic card-- With thoughts galvanic in His fiery soul alight, In wild aerial flight, Will sit him down and write About a pannikin.

He makes some new-chum fare From out his English lair To hunt the native bear, That curious mannikin; And then when times get bad That wandering English lad Writes out a message sad Upon his pannikin:

“Oh, mother, think of me Beneath the wattle tree” (For you may bet that he Will drag the wattle in) “Oh, mother, here I think That I shall have to sink, There ain't a single drink The water-bottle in.”

The dingo homeward hies, The sooty crows uprise And caw their fierce surprise A tone Satanic in; And bearded bushmen tread Around the sleeper's head-- “See here--the bloke is dead! Now where's his pannikin?”

They read his words and weep, And lay him down to sleep Where wattle-branches sweep, A style mechanic in; And, reader, that's the way The poets of to-day Spin out their little lay About a pannikin.

Not on It

The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet-- The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet He was on it.

The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by, The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi! Are you on it?”

They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told-- The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold Was not on it.

The Protest

I say 'e _isn't_ Remorse! 'Ow do I know? Saw 'im on Riccarton course Two year ago! Think I'd forget any 'orse? _Course_ 'e's The Crow!

Bumper Maginnis and I, After a “go”, Walkin' our 'orses to dry, I says, “Hello! What's that old black goin' by?” Bumper says “Oh! That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's-- Runs as The Crow!”

Now they make out 'e's Remorse. Well, but I _know_. Soon as I came on the course I says “'Ello! 'Ere's the old Crow.” Once a man's seen any 'orse, 'Course 'e must know. Sure as there's wood in this table, I say 'e's The Crow.

(Cross-examined by the Committee.)

'Ow do I know the moke After one sight? S'posin' you met a bloke Down town at night, Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? That's '_I'm_ all right!

What was the brand on 'is 'ide? _I_ couldn't say, Brands can be transmogrified. That ain't the way-- It's the _look_ of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves That I'd know any day.

What was the boy on 'is back? Why, 'e went past All of a minute, and off down the track. --“The 'orse went as fast?” True, so 'e did! But, my eyes, what a treat! 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? Lor'! What a question to ast!

(Protest dismissed.)

The Scapegoat

We have all of us read how the Israelites fled From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put “in the soup” When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was “had” That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo-- Whence comes the expression “to buck against faro”.

For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, The Israelite horde went roaming abroad Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, Was dying, he murmured “A rorty old hoss you are: I give you command of the whole of the band”-- And handed the Government over to Joshua.

. . . . .

But Moses told 'em before he died, “Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people, the worst and the least. Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer, Because all your sins are “his troubles” in future. Then lead him away to the wilderness black To die with the weight of your sins on his back: Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!”

'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. (Just here let us note--_DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT?_ It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a “stag” makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) Be that as it may, as each year passed away, A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) And left there--to die as his fancy dictated.

. . . . .

The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: On every hand a reverend band, Prophets and preachers and elders stand And the oldest rab_bi_, with a tear in his eye, Delivers a sermon to all standing by. (We haven't his name--whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the “poisonest” kind of a Pharisee.) The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst-- “Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!” Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go.

The animal, freed from all restraint Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, And charged straight at that elderly saint. So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the--no, not the back--but just near it. The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, A light-hearted antelope “out on the ramp”, Then stopped, looked around, got the “lay of the ground”, And made a bee-line back again to the camp. The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast So gallantly making his way to the East, Says he: “From the tents may I never more roam again If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. He's hurrying, too! This never will do. Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins--it'll burst up the Synagogue!”

He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. “Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you-- Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him.

The crowd with great eagerness studied the race-- “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace-- And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring--I'll lay six to four! He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!” But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. ['Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), “It's a hard race,” said he, “and I think it would be A good thing for someone to take up the running.” As soon said as done, they started to run-- The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. And then it came out, as the rabble and rout Streamed over the desert with many a shout-- The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, “Any price Abraham! Evens the field!” Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, And Abraham proved him an “even-time” man, But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon.

Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, And paling and wall he plasters them all, “I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat,” he says, Then pulls out his bills, “Use Solomon's Pills”: “Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all Must each bring a stone--Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children, and all, For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!” Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! One shriek from him burst--“You creature accurst!” And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him--and “scoffed up” the paste.

With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread. “The goat--was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?” In very short order they got plenty word of him, In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, “The trail of the serpent was over them all.” A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a “butter”. The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, But his latest achievement most anger arouses, For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums.

Moral:

The moral is patent to all the beholders-- Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; Take their lives if needs must--when it comes to the worst, But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. Remember, no matter how far you may roam, That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens Their talent stupendous for “getting back home”. Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it-- But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it!

An Evening in Dandaloo

It was while we held our races-- Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases-- Up in Dandaloo, That a crowd of Sydney stealers, Jockeys, pugilists and spielers Brought some horses, real heelers, Came and put us through.

Beat our nags and won our money, Made the game by no means funny, Made us rather blue; When the racing was concluded, Of our hard-earned coin denuded Dandaloonies sat and brooded There in Dandaloo.

. . . . .

Night came down on Johnson's shanty Where the grog was no means scanty, And a tumult grew Till some wild, excited person Galloped down the township cursing, “Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, Roll up, Dandaloo!”

Great St. Denis! what commotion! Like the rush of stormy ocean Fiery horsemen flew. Dust and smoke and din and rattle, Down the street they spurred their cattle To the war-cry of the battle, “Wade in, Dandaloo!”

So the boys might have their fight out, Johnson blew the bar-room light out, Then, in haste, withdrew. And in darkness and in doubting Raged the conflict and the shouting, “Give the Sydney push a clouting, Go it, Dandaloo!”

Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, Every head he saw he struck it-- Struck in earnest, too; And a man from Lower Wattle, Whom a shearer tried to throttle, Hit out freely with a bottle, There in Dandaloo.

Skin and hair were flying thickly, When a light was fetched, and quickly Brought a fact to view-- On the scene of the diversion Every single, solid person Come along to help Macpherson-- _All_ were Dandaloo!”

When the list of slain was tabled, Some were drunk and some disabled, Still we found it true. In the darkness and the smother We'd been belting one another; Jack Macpherson bashed his brother There in Dandaloo.

So we drank, and all departed-- How the “mobbing” yarn was started No one ever knew-- And the stockmen tell the story Of that conflict fierce and gory, How we fought for love and glory Up in Dandaloo.

It's a proverb now, or near it-- At the races you can hear it, At the dog-fights, too! Every shrieking, dancing drover As the canines topple over Yells applause to Grip or Rover, “Give him 'Dandaloo'!”

And the teamster slowly toiling Through the deep black country, soiling Wheels and axles, too, Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, Rouses Tarboy with a flanker-- “Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her! Wade in, Dandaloo!”

A Ballad of Ducks

The railway rattled and roared and swung With jolting carriage and bumping trucks. The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told This terrible tale of the days of old, And the party that ought to have kept the ducks.

“Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; And the rabbits have pretty well took command; But the hardest thing for a man to stand Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so! You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'-- I could lay a bait for a man like that.

“The grasshoppers struck us in ninety-one And what they leave--well, it ain't 'de luxe'. But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun Who'd lent some money to stock our run-- I said they'd eaten what grass we had-- Says he, 'Your management's very bad, You had a right to have kept some ducks!'

“To have kept some ducks! And the place was white! Wherever you went you had to tread On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night; And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly Like bullets into your open eye And knock it out of the back of your head.

“There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, Can make a difference on a run When a grasshopper plague has once begun; 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy Ten thousand emus and have a try; The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks!

“'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; A great big duck--a Muscovy toff-- Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; And if the grasshoppers come our way You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, And I'd be ready to make a match That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off!'

“He came to visit us by and by, And it just so happened one day in Spring A kind of a cloud came over the sky-- A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high, And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, Flyin' in regiments, side by side, And eatin' up every living thing.

“All day long, like a shower of rain, You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, And they'd rise and jump at the house again Till their crippled carcases piled outside. But what did it matter if thousands died-- A million wouldn't be missed at all.

“We were drinkin' grasshoppers--so to speak-- Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; And they fell so thick in the station creek They choked the waterholes all the week. There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, And they'd only take artificial flies-- They got so sick of the real thing.

“An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags When the hoppers rose for their morning flight With a flapping noise like a million flags: And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry Till the cook sat down and began to cry-- And never a duck or a fowl in sight!

“We strolled across to the railroad track-- Under a cover, beneath some trucks, I sees a feather and hears a quack; I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back-- Every duck in the place was there, No good to them was the open air. 'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'”

Tommy Corrigan

(Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.)

You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat-- When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet?

When any slip means sudden death--with wife and child to keep-- It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap-- But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race.

He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all-- But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall. But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand.

They were, indeed, a glorious pair--the great upstanding horse, The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, “You follow Tommy Corrigan” was passed to one and all. And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand.

But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. We'll drink to him in silence, boys--he's followed down the track Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again.

The Maori's Wool

_Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au._

. . . . .

The Maoris are a mighty race--the finest ever known; Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, Prepared to smoke or drink or talk--or anything but work. The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au.

'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name-- (The word Rerenga means a “snag”--but until he was gone This didn't strike the folk he met--it struck them later on). He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”, And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. The Bold Bank Manager looked grave--the price of wool was high. He said, “We'll lend you what you need--we're not disposed to buy. You ship the wool to England, Chief!--You'll find it's good advice, And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.” The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au.

They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. They called themselves poetic names--“lost children in a wood”; They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai--extra good! And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow, A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au.

It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark-- You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark-- But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, “I'll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!” The haka is a striking dance--the sort they don't allow In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au.