Off the Blue Bush | Project Gutenberg

[106]
I will swear that my hair turned a peony red,

And my visage an emerald green,

As he scraped off the gilt from a pound weight of lead;

And a sadness fell over the scene

That but late wore a holiday sheen.

Then I rushed like a mad thing, on homicide bent;

And with anger that cut to the bone

I demolished the shaker, and ravaged the tent,

—But the hardened old sinner had flown;

And I sank to the earth with a groan.

Oh, his boot soles were tied to the uppers with string,

And his beard swept his chest like a mat—

I remarked that his eyes were as clear as the Spring,

(That is, Springtime at Pennyweight Flat)

He had corks, also, strung to his hat.

[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]

[107]
[Illustration: Despondent miner sitting on swag]
I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO.

I want to be out where the battlers are,

Away from the tyrant pen,

Where the bell-bird sits on the morning star

To waken the mulga men;

I want to stand on the crazy brace,

Or hammer away below,

While Luck waits by with a shining face

So long as the “leader” pans a trace—

But I haven’t the guts to go!

[108]
I want to be fixed in the same old camp,

And sit by the sandal fire—

I can see it now in the flickering lamp:

It looks like a funeral pyre.

I want to be with the gods of graft,

The stars of an out-back sky,

Or follow on with a bushman’s craft,

With my bag and bundle before and aft—

But I haven’t the guts to try!

Oh, I know a place where the gold went down,

The spot where the “country” broke:

And the shaft is there near the ridge’s crown,

By the foot of an old bull-oak.

I know the metal is waiting still

For a lusty heart to buy,

For a trusty arm, and a tireless will,

Till the slug rolls out from the public mill—

But I haven’t the guts to try!

There’s a shanty, too, and a lodestone there—

A girl of the out-back type—

The midnight sleeps in her vagrant hair

And her lips are cherry-ripe:

The battlers vie at the kipsy bar,

And many a mulga beau;

And I want to be where the battlers are,

And bask in the light of my out-back star—

But I haven’t the guts to go!

[109]
There’s a fell disease in the touch of ink—

The shriek of a coastal train—

There’s a subtle curse in the draught we drink

That softens the bushman’s brain:

We weary fast of the gauds and guile,

Though strong are the bonds they weave,

And the glamour that circles the Golden Mile—

But we haven’t the guts to leave!

I want to up with my swag and hence,

Away from the tyrant pen,

Where the bell-bird calls from the morning’s fence

To waken the mulga men!

I want to stand on a crazy brace,

Or hammer away below,

While Luck looks on with a beaming face,

So long as the “leader” pans a trace—

But I haven’t the guts to go!

[110]
ANOTHER SONG OF THE STAMPS.

There’s another and brighter song to sing

That is caught on the writer’s quill,

Though ’tis told all day with a rhythmic swing

By the stamps of the ten-head mill:

They repeat no burden of cankered greed,

And they echo no anguished moan,

When they rattle the roofs

With their iron hoofs,

As they pound on your two-ounce stone!

There’s never a beat for the filching crew,

Not a chip from the workman’s crust;

There’s never a turn for the London Jew,

Nor a “weight” for the London “trust”;

There’s never a sigh for the wretched gnomes

Below in the seething stope,

And the walls resound,

As the cams go round,

With the clamour of new-born Hope!

[111]
There’s a battler seeing the parcel through;

And he stands in the lamplight dim,

And he bends his ear to the voice anew

For the message that comes to him:

And his bronzed cheek glows as the words grow clear.

For they quicken his pulse and thrill,

And memories stir

To the whizz and whir

Of the wheels of the ten-head mill.

There’s a king to-night in his dungarees,

And he’s quaffing an old, old wine—

Oh, he doffs no cap and he bends no knees

To the boss of the Bull-owned mine!

And he gives no thought to the fruitless quest

Where his years and his toil were cast,

While the stampers sing

The awakening

Of his Luck—that has come at last!

So the sky grows clear and the world grows wide,

And there’s melody in the air:

There’s a waiting ship for the Eastern side,

And a woman that’s waiting there:

There’s a proud disdain for the things that were,

And this planet is all his own—

And there’s good red blood

In the stamper’s thud

As it pounds on his two-ounce stone!

[107] [Illustration: Despondent miner sitting on swag] I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO.

[110] ANOTHER SONG OF THE STAMPS.

[107]
[Illustration: Despondent miner sitting on swag]
I HAVEN’T THE GUTS TO GO.

[110]
ANOTHER SONG OF THE STAMPS.