Chapter 4

At dawn of day we would feel the breeze That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, And brought a breath of the fragrance rare That comes and goes in that scented air; For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain. For those that love it and understand, The saltbush plain is a wonderland. A wondrous country, where Nature's ways Were revealed to me in the droving days.

We saw the fleet wild horses pass, And the kangaroos through the Mitchell grass, The emu ran with her frightened brood All unmolested and unpursued. But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub When the dingo raced for his native scrub, And he paid right dear for his stolen meals With the drover's dogs at his wretched heels. For we ran him down at a rattling pace, While the packhorse joined in the stirring chase. And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -- We were light of heart in the droving days.

'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again Made a move to close on a fancied rein. For I felt the swing and the easy stride Of the grand old horse that I used to ride In drought or plenty, in good or ill, That same old steed was my comrade still; The old grey horse with his honest ways Was a mate to me in the droving days.

When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, Over the flats and across the plain, With my head bent down on his waving mane, Through the boughs above and the stumps below On the darkest night I could let him go At a racing speed; he would choose his course, And my life was safe with the old grey horse. But man and horse had a favourite job, When an outlaw broke from a station mob, With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise, We could use the whip in the droving days.

. . . . .

'Only a pound!' and was this the end -- Only a pound for the drover's friend. The drover's friend that had seen his day, And now was worthless, and cast away With a broken knee and a broken heart To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart. Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame And the memories dear of the good old game.

'Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! Against you there in the curly hat! Only a guinea, and one more chance, Down he goes if there's no advance, Third, and the last time, one! two! three!' And the old grey horse was knocked down to me. And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; I dare not ride him for fear he'd fall, But he does a journey to beat them all, For though he scarcely a trot can raise, He can take me back to the droving days.

Lost

'He ought to be home,' said the old man, 'without there's something amiss. He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this. He _WOULD_ ride the Reckless filly, he _WOULD_ have his wilful way; And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?

'He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died; And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride. But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?'

The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track, And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back; And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright: 'What has become of my Willie? -- why isn't he home to-night?'

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark, The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark; For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb, And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks, Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks; And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die, 'Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply; And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair, God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell; For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well. The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by, And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.

But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest, And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest. Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away, But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

'I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said. But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead, And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd, Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.

Over the Range

Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed, Playing alone in the creek-bed dry, In the small green flat on every side Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high; Tell us the tale of your lonely life, 'Mid the great grey forests that know no change. 'I never have left my home,' she said, 'I have never been over the Moonbi Range.

'Father and mother are both long dead, And I live with granny in yon wee place.' 'Where are your father and mother?' we said. She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face, Then a light came into the shy brown eye, And she smiled, for she thought the question strange On a thing so certain -- 'When people die They go to the country over the range.'

'And what is this country like, my lass?' 'There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers, And shining creeks where the golden grass Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers. They never need work, nor want, nor weep; No troubles can come their hearts to estrange. Some summer night I shall fall asleep, And wake in the country over the range.'

Child, you are wise in your simple trust, For the wisest man knows no more than you Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust: Our views by a range are bounded too; But we know that God hath this gift in store, That when we come to the final change, We shall meet with our loved ones gone before To the beautiful country over the range.

Only a Jockey

'Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tell in his training, was thrown and killed. The horse is luckily uninjured.' -- Melbourne Wire.

Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, Out on the track where the night shades still lurk; Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light, Round come the race-horses early at work.

Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, 'Steady the stallion there -- canter him steadily, Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.'

Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him Goes to the ground with a terrible fall.

'Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, Now let us pick up this poor little fool.

'Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' -- No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead.

Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, What did you do for him? -- bad was the best.

Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you; Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you, 'Feed ye, my little ones' -- what said the Lord?

Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, Left him to die in his ignorant sin; Have you no principles, humanitarian? Have you no precept -- 'go gather them in?'

. . . . .

Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity, That name was an oath -- out of many but one -- What did he get from our famed Christianity? Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone?

Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? What did he know of God's infinite grace? Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it, Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face.

How M'Ginnis Went Missing

Let us cease our idle chatter, Let the tears bedew our cheek, For a man from Tallangatta Has been missing for a week.

Where the roaring flooded Murray Covered all the lower land, There he started in a hurry, With a bottle in his hand.

And his fate is hid for ever, But the public seem to think That he slumbered by the river, 'Neath the influence of drink.

And they scarcely seem to wonder That the river, wide and deep, Never woke him with its thunder, Never stirred him in his sleep.

As the crashing logs came sweeping, And their tumult filled the air, Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping, ''Tis a wake in ould Kildare.'

So the river rose and found him Sleeping softly by the stream, And the cruel waters drowned him Ere he wakened from his dream.

And the blossom-tufted wattle, Blooming brightly on the lea, Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle Going drifting out to sea.

A Voice from the Town

A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] 'A Voice from the Bush'

I thought, in the days of the droving, Of steps I might hope to retrace, To be done with the bush and the roving And settle once more in my place. With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, In the long, lonely rides on the plain, I thought of the pleasure of taking The hand of a lady again.

I am back into civilisation, Once more in the stir and the strife, But the old joys have lost their sensation -- The light has gone out of my life; The men of my time they have married, Made fortunes or gone to the wall; Too long from the scene I have tarried, And, somehow, I'm out of it all.

For I go to the balls and the races A lonely companionless elf, And the ladies bestow all their graces On others less grey than myself; While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one 'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, And they call me 'the Man who was Someone Way back in the year Sixty-eight.'

And I look, sour and old, at the dancers That swing to the strains of the band, And the ladies all give me the Lancers, No waltzes -- I quite understand. For matrons intent upon matching Their daughters with infinite push, Would scarce think him worthy the catching, The broken-down man from the bush.

New partners have come and new faces, And I, of the bygone brigade, Sharply feel that oblivion my place is -- I must lie with the rest in the shade. And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, They live as we lived -- fairly fast; But I doubt if the men of the present Are as good as the men of the past.

Of excitement and praise they are chary, There is nothing much good upon earth; Their watchword is _NIL ADMIRARI_, They are bored from the days of their birth. Where the life that we led was a revel They 'wince and relent and refrain' -- I could show them the road -- to the devil, Were I only a youngster again.

I could show them the road where the stumps are The pleasures that end in remorse, And the game where the Devil's three trumps are, The woman, the card, and the horse. Shall the blind lead the blind -- shall the sower Of wind reap the storm as of yore? Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, They march where we hurried before.

For the world never learns -- just as we did, They gallantly go to their fate, Unheeded all warnings, unheeded The maxims of elders sedate. As the husbandman, patiently toiling, Draws a harvest each year from the soil, So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, And a new crop of thieves for the spoil.

But a truce to this dull moralising, Let them drink while the drops are of gold, I have tasted the dregs -- 'twere surprising Were the new wine to me like the old; And I weary for lack of employment In idleness day after day, For the key to the door of enjoyment Is Youth -- and I've thrown it away.

A Bunch of Roses

Roses ruddy and roses white, What are the joys that my heart discloses? Sitting alone in the fading light Memories come to me here to-night With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.

Memories come as the daylight fades Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, And I see the face of a queen of maids Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.

Visions arise of a scene of mirth, And a ball-room belle that superbly poses -- A queenly woman of queenly worth, And I am the happiest man on earth With a single flower from a bunch of roses.

Only her memory lives to-night -- God in His wisdom her young life closes; Over her grave may the turf be light, Cover her coffin with roses white -- She was always fond of the big white roses.

. . . . .

Such are the visions that fade away -- Man proposes and God disposes; Look in the glass and I see to-day Only an old man, worn and grey, Bending his head to a bunch of roses.

Black Swans

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one.

Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Through the cooling air of the glorious night. As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light.

From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days.

Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand.

Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.

I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now in our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.

There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken -- We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

. . . . .

In the silent park is a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more as the swans fly over Their far-off clamour from overhead. They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread.

The All Right 'Un

He came from 'further out', That land of heat and drought And dust and gravel. He got a touch of sun, And rested at the run Until his cure was done, And he could travel.

When spring had decked the plain, He flitted off again As flit the swallows. And from that western land, When many months were spanned, A letter came to hand, Which read as follows:

'Dear sir, I take my pen In hopes that all your men And you are hearty. You think that I've forgot Your kindness, Mr. Scott, Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not That sort of party.

'You sometimes bet, I know, Well, now you'll have a show The 'books' to frighten. Up here at Wingadee Young Billy Fife and me We're training Strife, and he Is a all right 'un.

'Just now we're running byes, But, sir, first time he tries I'll send you word of. And running 'on the crook' Their measures we have took, It is the deadest hook You ever heard of.

'So when we lets him go, Why, then, I'll let you know, And you can have a show To put a mite on. Now, sir, my leave I'll take, Yours truly, William Blake. P.S. -- Make no mistake, _HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN_.'

. . . . .

By next week's _RIVERINE_ I saw my friend had been A bit too cunning. I read: 'The racehorse Strife And jockey William Fife Disqualified for life -- Suspicious running.'

But though they spoilt his game, I reckon all the same I fairly ought to claim My friend a white 'un. For though he wasn't straight, His deeds would indicate His heart at any rate Was 'a all right 'un'.

The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'

Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other day Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. It seems that he didn't suit 'em -- they thought that they'd like a change, So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. They seemed to be restless people -- and, judging by what you hear, They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year; And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary _QUICK_, For there isn't no vote by ballot -- it's bullets that does the trick. And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared, And they fight till there's one side beaten and then there's a truce declared,

And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword, And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite -- This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight. For the pris'ners they took -- they shot 'em; no odds were they small or great, If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight. A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were -- but there ain't a doubt They must have been real plucked 'uns -- the way that they fought it out, And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch, Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat. They called her the 'Admiral Lynch'.

Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done, And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run, The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown, He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town. Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road, Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showed Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay, And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag, And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag. Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em -- it just took away their breath, For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death. An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea, So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay.

Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done, And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run; And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decide If he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side. He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite, That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race _MUST_ fight! A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run, And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun: The odds were a trifle heavy -- but he wasn't the sort to flinch, So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'.

They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun, And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run; And it don't say whether they shot him -- it don't even give his name -- But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game. I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite, They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight. There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt, And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front; But the king of 'em all, I reckon -- the man that could stand a pinch -- Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat 'Admiral Lynch'.

A Bushman's Song

I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand, I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh.

So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out, With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog, We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.

This old black horse I'm riding -- if you'll notice what's his brand, He wears the crooked R, you see -- none better in the land. He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried, For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out; But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog -- He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.

I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy: 'We shear non-union here,' says he. 'I call it scab,' says I. I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go -- There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row.