Saltbush Bill, J. P.

  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!

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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!

  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.

  '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!”

  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.

  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.

      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”!

  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.

      (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”.

  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.

  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?

  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.

  '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.

  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.

       .    .    .    .    .

  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.

  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.