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.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about. So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog, And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.

I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm, He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm; The landlord owns the country side — man, woman, dog, and cat, They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.

It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; Was I to touch my hat to him? — was I his bloomin' dog? So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.

But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down, And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.

So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt We've got to make a shift to the stations further out; The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.



How Gilbert Died



There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied, But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died.

For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn To the hut at the Stockman's Ford, In the waning light of the sinking sun They peered with a fierce accord. They were outlaws both — and on each man's head Was a thousand pounds reward.

They had taken toll of the country round, And the troopers came behind With a black that tracked like a human hound In the scrub and the ranges blind: He could run the trail where a white man's eye No sign of a track could find.

He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill And over the Old Man Plain, But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, And they made for the range again. Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, They rode with a loosened rein.

And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: 'Come in and rest in peace, No safer place does the country hold — With the night pursuit must cease, And we'll drink success to the roving boys, And to hell with the black police.'

But they went to death when they entered there, In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, For their grandsire's words were as false as fair — They were doomed to the hangman's cord. He had sold them both to the black police For the sake of the big reward.

In the depth of night there are forms that glide As stealthy as serpents creep, And around the hut where the outlaws hide They plant in the shadows deep, And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn Shall waken their prey from sleep.

But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark — A restless sleeper, aye, He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark, And his horse's warning neigh, And he says to his mate, 'There are hawks abroad, And it's time that we went away.'

Their rifles stood at the stretcher head, Their bridles lay to hand, They wakened the old man out of his bed, When they heard the sharp command: 'In the name of the Queen lay down your arms, Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!'

Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true That close at his hand he kept, He pointed it straight at the voice and drew, But never a flash outleapt, For the water ran from the rifle breech — It was drenched while the outlaws slept.

Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath, And he turned to his comrade Dunn: 'We are sold,' he said, 'we are dead men both, But there may be a chance for one; I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here, You take to your heels and run.'

So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees In the dim, half-dawning light, And he made his way to a patch of trees, And vanished among the night, And the trackers hunted his tracks all day, But they never could trace his flight.

But Gilbert walked from the open door In a confident style and rash; He heard at his side the rifles roar, And he heard the bullets crash. But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand, And he fired at the rifle flash.

Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed At his voice and the pistol sound, With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed, He staggered and spun around, And they riddled his body with rifle balls As it lay on the blood-soaked ground.

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied, But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died.



The Flying Gang



I served my time, in the days gone by, In the railway's clash and clang, And I worked my way to the end, and I Was the head of the 'Flying Gang'. 'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand In case of an urgent need, Was it south or north we were started forth, And away at our utmost speed. If word reached town that a bridge was down, The imperious summons rang — 'Come out with the pilot engine sharp, And away with the flying gang.'

Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam As the engine moved ahead, With a measured beat by the slum and street Of the busy town we fled, By the uplands bright and the homesteads white, With the rush of the western gale, And the pilot swayed with the pace we made As she rocked on the ringing rail. And the country children clapped their hands As the engine's echoes rang, But their elders said: 'There is work ahead When they send for the flying gang.'

Then across the miles of the saltbush plain That gleamed with the morning dew, Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain The pilot engine flew, A fiery rush in the open bush Where the grade marks seemed to fly, And the order sped on the wires ahead, The pilot MUST go by. The Governor's special must stand aside, And the fast express go hang, Let your orders be that the line is free For the boys of the flying gang.



Shearing at Castlereagh



The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot, There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot, So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along, The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong, And make your collie dogs speak up — what would the buyers say In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?

The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here, That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear. They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes, And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.

The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage — 'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick, You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day, It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.'

The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'.



The Wind's Message



There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow; It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume.

It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard — The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow, Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.

But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast, Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand, But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland.

Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home. The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland.



Johnson's Antidote



Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.

Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite. Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.' 'That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,' But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time. Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.

. . . . .

Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat; 'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.'

'Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me — Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote. It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stare At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.'

Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man — 'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float; Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.'

Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die, Go ahead — but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would. So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. 'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.'

Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents; Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. 'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round, While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.' But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well. And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote.

. . . . .

Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'. And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote.



Ambition and Art



Ambition

I am the maid of the lustrous eyes Of great fruition, Whom the sons of men that are over-wise Have called Ambition.

And the world's success is the only goal I have within me; The meanest man with the smallest soul May woo and win me.

For the lust of power and the pride of place To all I proffer. Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race For what I offer?

The choice is thine, and the world is wide — Thy path is lonely. I may not lead and I may not guide — I urge thee only.

I am just a whip and a spur that smites To fierce endeavour. In the restless days and the sleepless nights I urge thee ever.

Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, In fright upleaping At a rival's step as it passes by Whilst thou art sleeping.

Honour and truth shall be overthrown In fierce desire; Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone To mount thee higher.

When the curtain falls on the sordid strife That seemed so splendid, Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life That thou hast ended.

Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small In fitful flashes; There has been reward — but the end of all Is dust and ashes.

For the night has come and it brings to naught Thy projects cherished, And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought — 'He lived and perished.'

Art

I wait for thee at the outer gate, My love, mine only; Wherefore tarriest thou so late While I am lonely.

Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, In thee implanted Is the love of Art and the greatest gift That God has granted.

And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs Shall seem but small things — Poet or painter, a singer of songs, Thine art is all things.

For the wine of life is a woman's love To keep beside thee; But the love of Art is a thing above — A star to guide thee.

As the years go by with thy love of Art All undiminished, Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart — Thy work is finished.

So the painter fashions a picture strong That fadeth never, And the singer singeth a wond'rous song That lives for ever.



The Daylight is Dying



The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to its bondage — The kingdom of sleep. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night.

When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, 'Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? Beyond all denials The stars in their glories The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune.

But, as one half-hearing An old-time refrain, With memory clearing, Recalls it again, These tales, roughly wrought of The bush and its ways, May call back a thought of The wandering days, And, blending with each In the mem'ries that throng, There haply shall reach You some echo of song.



In Defence of the Bush



So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear That it wasn't cool and shady — and there wasn't plenty beer, And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bush-land — they are loyal through it all.

. . . . .

But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night? Did they 'rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze? Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet — Were their faces sour and saddened like the 'faces in the street', And the 'shy selector children' — were they better now or worse Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of 'the push'? Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band Where the 'blokes' might take their 'donahs', with a 'public' close at hand? You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the 'push', For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush.



Last Week



Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, But he should have gone there last week. He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, But of turkey or duck he saw never a one, For he should have been there last week, They said, There were flocks of 'em there last week.

He wended his way to a waterfall, And he should have gone there last week. He carried a camera, legs and all, But the day was hot, and the stream was small, For he should have gone there last week, They said. They drowned a man there last week.

He went for a drive, and he made a start, Which should have been made last week, For the old horse died of a broken heart; So he footed it home and he dragged the cart — But the horse was all right last week, They said. He trotted a match last week.

So he asked the bushies who came from far To visit the town last week, If they'd dine with him, and they said 'Hurrah!' But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar — You should have been here last week, He said, I drank it all up last week!



Those Names



The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along: The 'ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. There were men from the inland stations where the skies like a furnace glow, And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand.

He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees, And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong — Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong; He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind A thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind. Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose; Said he, 'I've travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those. Out in the western districts, out on the Castlereagh Most of the names are easy — short for a man to say.

'You've heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine, Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine, Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo —' But the rest of the shearers stopped him: 'For the sake of your jaw, go slow, If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail, Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.' And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed.



A Bush Christening



On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, And men of religion are scanty, On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.' But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole was listenin', And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, 'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, And it seemed to his small understanding, If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush, While the tears in his eyelids they glistened — ''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me, I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'

Like a young native dog he ran into a log, And his father with language uncivil, Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste, 'Come out and be christened, you divil!'

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, And his parents in vain might reprove him, Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) 'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'

'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him, 'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand, As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name — Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?' Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout — 'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., And the one thing he hates more than sin is To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!



How the Favourite Beat Us



'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir, I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself.

''Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, But found she was favourite all of a rush, The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, And several bookies were killed in the crush.

'It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep.

'We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, And old Manumission was out of condition, And most of the others were running off weight.

'No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it, The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite 'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her, Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.'

'I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky, You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, You're only to win if I lift up my hand.'

'I then tried to back her — 'What price is the Cracker?' 'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up I bet every shilling against my own mare.

'I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around.

'They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out.

'I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted Away to the front when the flag was let fall, For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her — She finished a furlong in front of them all.

'You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for The moment he weighed and came out of the stand — 'Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.' 'Lord love yer,' said he, 'why you lifted your hand.'

''Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter' Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses To win when you're able, and KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN.



The Great Calamity



MacFierce'un came to Whiskeyhurst When summer days were hot, And bided there wi' Jock McThirst, A brawny brother Scot. Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, Like Highland chieftains true, And when they'd drunk the beaker dry They sang 'We are nae fou!'

'There is nae folk like oor ain folk, Sae gallant and sae true.' They sang the only Scottish joke Which is, 'We are nae fou.'

Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jaw Aboot their great concerns, But bonny Scotland beats them a', The land o' cakes and Burns, The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse, Fill up your glass, I beg, There's muckle whusky i' the house, Forbye what's in the keg.'

And here a hearty laugh he laughed, 'Just come wi' me, I beg.' MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daft A fifty-gallon keg.

'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried, 'Saw ever man the like, Now, wi' the daylight, I maun ride To meet a Southron tyke, But I'll be back ere summer's gone, So bide for me, I beg, We'll make a grand assault upon Yon deevil of a keg.'

. . . . .

MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst, When summer days were gone, And there he met with Jock McThirst Was greetin' all alone. 'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? Have all yer wits gane daft? Has that accursed Southron bank Called up your overdraft? Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth? Is wool and hides gone flat?' McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth, 'Tis muckle waur than that.'

'Has sair misfortune cursed your life That you should weep sae free? Is harm upon your bonny wife, The children at your knee? Is scaith upon your house and hame?' McThirst upraised his head: 'My bairns hae done the deed of shame — 'Twere better they were dead.

'To think my bonny infant son Should do the deed o' guilt — HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!'

. . . . .

Upon them both these words did bring A solemn silence deep, Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing To see two strong men weep.



Come-by-Chance



As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary — For the plot was void of interest — 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.

And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.

But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, Quite by chance I came across it — 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read; No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.

I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down, For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry Where the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town.

And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week, And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weeping Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.

But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city, For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, 'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.

. . . . .

Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.

All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'.



Under the Shadow of Kiley's Hill



This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead, Every one from the old nest fled, Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Better it is that they ne'er came back — Changes and chances are quickly rung; Now the old homestead is gone to rack, Green is the grass on the well-worn track Down by the gate where the roses clung.

Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

Where are the children that throve and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die.

One in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil, Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.

What of the parents? That unkept mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as on holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.



Jim Carew



Born of a thoroughbred English race, Well proportioned and closely knit, Neat of figure and handsome face, Always ready and always fit, Hard and wiry of limb and thew, That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.

One of the sons of the good old land — Many a year since his like was known; Never a game but he took command, Never a sport but he held his own; Gained at his college a triple blue — Good as they make them was Jim Carew.

Came to grief — was it card or horse? Nobody asked and nobody cared; Ship him away to the bush of course, Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared; Only of women a tolerable few Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew.

Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, Sitting his horse with an easy grace; But the reckless living has left its stamp In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, And a harder look in those eyes of blue: Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.

Billy the Lasher was out for gore — Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, When he opened out with a hungry roar On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; But his wife was wise if his face she knew By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.

Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut Works with them, toils with them, side by side; As to his past — well, his lips are shut. 'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride; And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew.

What should he live for? A dull despair! Drink is his master and drags him down, Water of Lethe that drowns all care. Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.

Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well — Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; But he straightens up when he's asked to tell His name and race, and a flash of steel Still lightens up in those eyes of blue — 'I am, or — no, I WAS — Jim Carew.'



The Swagman's Rest



We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave, For fear that his ghost might walk; We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, With the date of his sad decease, And in place of 'Died from effects of spree', We wrote 'May he rest in peace'.

For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and 'fish for whales'. 'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said, 'And I never shall find the rails.'

But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place — or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near.

But he spoke in a cultured voice and low — 'I fancy they've "sent the route"; I once was an army man, you know, Though now I'm a drunken brute; But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, And if ever you're fairly stuck, Just take and shovel me out of the grave And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.

'For I've always heard —' here his voice fell weak, His strength was well-nigh sped, He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, Then fell in a moment — dead. Thus ended a wasted life and hard, Of energies misapplied — Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard' And over the Great Divide.

. . . . .

The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave When he went to the Great Unseen — We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave To see what his hint might mean.

We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, We shovelled away the mould, When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare All gleaming with yellow gold. 'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk That ran from the range's crest, And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk Is known as 'The Swagman's Rest'.

[The End.]



[From the section of Advertisements at the end of the 1911 printing.]

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES.

By A. B. Paterson.

THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: "The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling."

SPECTATOR: "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent verses."

ATHENAEUM: "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure. ... Stirring and entertaining ballads about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses."

THE TIMES: "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'."

Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): "In my opinion, it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation."

WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland."

THE SCOTSMAN: "A book like this... is worth a dozen of the aspiring, idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real tears in its composition."

GLASGOW HERALD: "These ballads... are full of such go that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle.... But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome."

LITERARY WORLD: "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones and capital subjects... We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse with instantaneous gratitude."

THE END