Chapter I: Part 1

[Cover Illustration]

=AROUND THE BOREE=
=LOG=

AND OTHER VERSES

By
“JOHN O’BRIEN”

ANGUS AND ROBERTSON

_First published in 1921 by_

ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD

89 Castlereagh Street, Sydney
54 Bartholomew Close, London
107 Elizabeth Street, Melbourne

_This impression 1964_

_Copyright_

Registered in Australia for transmission by post as a book
PRINTED IN AUSTRALIA BY HALSTEAD PRESS, SYDNEY

CONTENTS

AROUND THE BOREE LOG
Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind 1
and rain,....

CALLING TO ME
Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its 4
dreaming....

THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER
Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, 6
dusty street,....

ONE BY ONE
With trust in God and her good man.... 10

TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS
There were ten little Steps and Stairs,.... 12

THE TRIMMIN’S ON THE ROSARY
Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is 14
turning gray,....

THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN
She saw The Helper standing near.... 21

THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL
’Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs 23
to other years;....

SIX BROWN BOXER HATS
The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside 29
the fence,....

THE LIBEL
“The flowers have no scent, and the birds have no 31
song,”....

WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN
When the circus came to town.... 33

HIS FATHER
We meet him first in frills immersed,.... 36

THE KOOKABURRAS
Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple 41
from the mountain;....

PETER NELSON’S FIDDLE
Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the 43
lonely track?....

THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL
A simple thing of knotted pine.... 46

CURRAJONG
Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with 49
mingled love and pride....

THE HELPING HAND
When that hour comes when I shall sit alone,.... 54

_VALE_, FATHER PAT
Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my 57
frosted head—....

JOSEPHINE
The presbytery has gone to pot since this 64
house-keeper came;....

THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN
I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty 70
years,....

PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH
On the Sunday morning mustered,.... 78

SAID HANRAHAN
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,.... 80

THE TIDY LITTLE BODY
Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy 84
little body,....

THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH
Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell 86
for Mass is flingin’....

TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED
Times I think I’m not the man—.... 92

NORAH O’NEILL
That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel,.... 96

THE PRESBYT’RY DOG
Now of all the old sinners in mischief 98
immersed,....

TANGMALANGALOO
The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap 100
sublime,....

THE ALTAR-BOY
Now McEvoy was altar-boy.... 103

AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS
There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track 105
turns towards the west,....

ST. PATRICK’S DAY
’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through 112
all my retrospection....

THE CAREYS
Their new house stood just off the road,.... 119

WHEN OLD MAN CAREY DIED
A night of wind and driving rain,.... 125

THE PARTING ROSARY
They have brought the news, my darlin’, that I’ve 128
waited for so long....

OWNERLESS
He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the 134
gloaming....

LAUGHING MARY
With cheeks that paled the rosy morn.... 137

MORYAH
“Wisha, where is he goin’ to now.... 139

A STRANGER IN THE CHURCH
’Twas Callagan who jerked the thumb—.... 141

TELL ME, WHAT’S A GIRL TO DO?
Tell me, what’s a girl to do.... 143

THE WIREE’S SONG
The Wiree sang that Christmas Day,.... 145

WISHA, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH JIM?
“Wisha, what is the matter with Jim, I dunno?.... 147

SAID THE WHITE-HAIRED PRIEST
Said the white-haired priest, “So the boy has 149
come,....

HONEYMOONING FROM THE COUNTRY
To the rooms where I am dining in the glaring 152
city’s day....

MAKING HOME
No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun 156
is at its height....

COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN
May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is 162
over?....

COME, SING AUSTRALIAN SONGS TO ME!
Come, Little One, and sing to me.... 165

AROUND THE BOREE LOG

Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind and rain,
And let the doves of fancy loose to bill and coo again.
I want to feel the pulse of love that warmed the blood like wine;
I want to see the smile above this kind old land of mine.

So come you by your parted ways that wind the wide world through,
And make a ring around the blaze the way we used to do;
The “fountain” on the sooted crane will sing the old, old song
Of common joys in homely vein forgotten, ah, too long.

_The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,_
_Yet spend another night with me around the boree log._[1]

Now someone driving through the rain will happen in, I bet;
So fill the fountain up again, and leave the table set.
For this was ours with pride to say—and all the world defy—
No stranger ever turned away, no neighbour passed us by.

Bedad, he’ll have to stay the night; the rain is going to pour—
So make the rattling windows tight, and close the kitchen door,
And bring the old lopsided chair, the tattered cushion, too—
We’ll make the stranger happy there, the way we used to do.

_The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,_
_Yet spend another night with me around the boree log._

He’ll fill his pipe, and good and well, and all aglow within
We’ll hear the news he has to tell, the yarns he has to spin;
Yarns—yes, and super-yarns, forsooth, to set the eyes agog,
And freeze the blood of trusting youth around the boree log.

Then stir it up and make it burn; the poker’s next to you;
Come, let us poke it all in turn, the way we used to do.
There’s many a memory bright and fair will tingle at a name—
But leave unstirred the embers there we cannot fan to flame.

_For years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog;_
_Still, spend this fleeting night with me around the boree log._

[1] Boree (sometimes accented on the last syllable) is the aboriginal name for the Weeping Myall—the best firewood in Australia except Gidgee.

CALLING TO ME

Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreaming
Comes the song of a bush boy glad-hearted and free;
Oh, the gullies are green where the sunlight is streaming,
And the voice of that youngster is calling to me.

It is calling to me with a haunting insistence,
And my feet wander off on a hoof-beaten track,
Till I hear the old magpies away in the distance
With a song of the morning that’s calling me back.

It is calling me back, for the dew’s on the clover,
And the colours are mellow on mountain and tree;
Oh, the gold has gone gray in the heart of the rover,
And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me.

It is calling to me, though the breezes are telling
Gay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam;
For the tapers are lit in the humble old dwelling,
And the love that it sheltered is calling me home.

It is calling me home—but the white road lies gleaming,
And afar from it all must I tarry and dree;
Just an echo far off, in the hush of my dreaming,
Is the voice of a youngster that’s calling to me.

THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER

Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street,
Where the roses swing their censers by the door?
Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet
As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor?
Did you wonder why the wiree[2] comes to sing his sweetest song?
Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall?
Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?—
There’s a Little Irish Mother there; that’s all.

When you watched the children toiling at their lessons in the school,
Did you pick a winsome girleen from the rest,
With her wealth of curl a-cluster as she smiled upon the stool,
In a simple Monday-morning neatness dressed?
Did you mark the manly bearing of a healthy-hearted boy
As he stood erect his well-conned task to tell?
Did you revel in the freshness with a pulse of wholesome joy?—
There a Little Irish Mother there as well.

There’s a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps
In the settler’s hut where seldom stranger comes,
Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps
While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums,
Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again,
And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share,
Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid men—
There’s a Little Irish Mother always there.

There’s a Little Irish Mother—and her head is bowed and gray,
And she’s lonesome when the evening shadows fall;
Near the fire she “do be thinkin’,” all the “childer” are away,
And their silent pictures watch her from the wall.
For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women now,
In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams;
But she runs her fingers, dozing, o’er a tousled baby brow—
It is “little Con” or “Bridgie” in her dreams.

There’s a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last
Where the tangled grass is creeping all around;
And the shades of unsung heroes troop about her from the past
While the moonlight scatters diamonds on the mound.
And a good Australian’s toiling in the world of busy men
Where the strife and sordid grinding cramp and kill;
But his eyes are sometimes misted, and his heart grows brave again—
She’s the Little Irish Mother to him still.

When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be,
And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled,
Then the Judge shall call to honour—not the “stars,” it seems to me,
Who have posed behind the footlights of the world;
But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown,
And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside
While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown
Shall receive the crown too long to her denied.

[2] Also known as the Chocolate Wiree (pronounced “wiry”): a very fine songster, called by ornithologists “Rufous-breasted Whistler.”

ONE BY ONE

With trust in God and her good man
She settled neath the spur;
The old slab dwelling, spick and span,
Was world enough for her;
The lamp-light kissed her raven hair
As, when her work was done,
She lined us up beside her chair
And taught us one by one.

And weaving memories, haunting sweet,
With threads of weal and woe,
The years went by on velvet feet—
We did not hear them go.
The world was calling everywhere
Beneath the golden sun;
When silver streaked her raven hair,
We left her one by one.

Then, turning back on cogs of pain,
The spool that ran so fast
Unwound before her eyes again
The pictures of the past.
The shadows played around her chair,
Where fancy’s web was spun;
When time had bleached her raven hair,
She called us one by one.

Oh, say not that we loved her less!
But write them to our shame,
The silence and the loneliness;
And then the summons came—
We found the dark clouds banking there
To hide the setting sun.
Ah, white threads in her children’s hair!—
We gathered one by one.

How quaintly sere, how small and strange
The old home and the spur;
But stranger this—the only change
Was wrought in us and her.
The lamp-light kissed her faded chair,
Where, ere the sands had run,
The sheen still on her raven hair,
She’d nursed us one by one.

Oh, vain the word that each could tell
With full heart brimming o’er,
That we, who ever loved her well,
Might still have loved her more!
Then back into the world of care—
To bless till life is done—
A memory crowned with milk-white hair
We carried one by one.

TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS

There were ten little Steps and Stairs.
Round through the old bush home all day
Romping about in the old bush way.
They were ten little wild March hares,
Storming the kitchen in hungry lines,
With their naked feet, doing mud designs,
“All over the place like punkin vines.”
There were ten little Steps and Stairs.

There were ten little Steps and Stairs.
In their home-made frocks and their Sunday suits,
Up through the church with their squeaky boots,
While the folk went astray in their prayers,
They hustled along, all dressed and neat—
Oh, they bustled a bit as they filled the seat;
From the first to the last, the lot complete.
There were ten little Steps and Stairs.

There were ten little Steps and Stairs.
But the years have shuffled them all about,
Have worn them thin, and straightened them out
With the tramp of a hundred cares;
Ay, and each grim scar has a tale to tell
Of a knock and a blow and a hand that fell,
And a break in the line, and a gap. Ah, well—
There _were_ ten little Steps and Stairs.

THE TRIMMIN’S ON THE ROSARY

Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is turning gray, Drifting in like painted butterflies from paddocks far away; Dripping dainty wings in fancy—and the pictures, fading fast, Stand again in rose and purple in the album of the past. There’s the old slab dwelling dreaming by the wistful, watchful trees, Where the coolabahs are listening to the stories of the breeze; There’s a homely welcome beaming from its big, bright friendly eyes, With The Sugarloaf behind it blackened in against the skies; There’s the same dear happy circle round the boree’s cheery blaze With a little Irish mother telling tales of other days. She had one sweet, holy custom which I never can forget, And a gentle benediction crowns her memory for it yet; I can see that little mother still and hear her as she pleads, “Now it’s getting on to bed-time; all you childer get your beads.” There were no steel-bound conventions in that old slab dwelling free; Only this—each night she lined us up to say the Rosary; E’en the stranger there, who stayed the night upon his journey, knew He must join the little circle, ay, and take his decade too. I believe she darkly plotted, when a sinner hove in sight Who was known to say no prayer at all, to make him stay the night. Then we’d softly gather round her, and we’d speak in accents low, And pray like Sainted Dominic so many years ago; And the little Irish mother’s face was radiant, for she knew That “where two or three are gathered” He is gathered with them too. O’er the paters and the aves how her reverent head would bend! How she’d kiss the cross devoutly when she counted to the end! And the visitor would rise at once, and brush his knees—and then He’d look very, very foolish as he took the boards again. She had other prayers to keep him. They were long, long prayers in truth; And we used to call them “Trimmin’s” in my disrespectful youth. She would pray for kith and kin, and all the friends she’d ever known, Yes, and everyone of us could boast a “trimmin’” all his own. She would pray for all our little needs, and every shade of care That might darken o’er The Sugarloaf, she’d meet it with a prayer. She would pray for this one’s “sore complaint,” or that one’s “hurted hand,” Or that someone else might make a deal and get “that bit of land”; Or that Dad might sell the cattle well, and seasons good might rule, So that little John, the weakly one, might go away to school. There were trimmin’s, too, that came and went; but ne’er she closed without Adding one for something special “none of you must speak about.” Gentle was that little mother, and her wit would sparkle free, But she’d murder him who looked around while at the Rosary: And if perchance you lost your beads, disaster waited you, For the only one she’d pardon was “himself”—because she knew He was hopeless, and ’twas sinful what excuses he’d invent, So she let him have his fingers, and he cracked them as he went, And, bedad, he wasn’t certain if he’d counted five or ten, Yet he’d face the crisis bravely, and would start around again; But she tallied all the decades, and she’d block him on the spot, With a “Glory, Daddah, Glory!” and he’d “Glory” like a shot. She would portion out the decades to the company at large; But when she reached the trimmin’s she would put herself in charge; And it oft was cause for wonder how she never once forgot, But could keep them in their order till she went right through the lot. For that little Irish mother’s prayers embraced the country wide; If a neighbour met with trouble, or was taken ill, or died, We could count upon a trimmin’—till, in fact, it got that way That the Rosary was but trimmin’s to the trimmin’s we would say. Then “himself” would start keownrawning[3]—for the public good, we thought— “Sure you’ll have us here till mornin’. Yerra, cut them trimmin’s short!” But she’d take him very gently, till he softened by degrees— “Well, then, let us get it over. Come now, all hands to their knees.” So the little Irish mother kept her trimmin’s to the last, Ever growing as the shadows o’er the old selection passed; And she lit our drab existence with her simple faith and love, And I know the angels lingered near to bear her prayers above, For her children trod the path she trod, nor did they later spurn To impress her wholesome maxims on their children in their turn. Ay, and every “sore complaint” came right, and every “hurted hand”; And we made a deal from time to time, and got “that bit of land”; And Dad did sell the cattle well; and little John, her pride, Was he who said the Mass in black the morning that she died; So her gentle spirit triumphed—for ’twas this, without a doubt, Was the very special trimmin’ that she kept so dark about.

* * * * *

But the years have crowded past us, and the fledglings all have flown, And the nest beneath The Sugarloaf no longer is their own; For a hand has written “_finis_” and the book is closed for good— There’s a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood; There the stranger has her “evenings,” and the formal supper’s spread, But I wonder has she “trimmin’s” now, or is the Rosary said? Ah, those little Irish mothers passing from us one by one! Who will write the noble story of the good that they have done? All their children may be scattered, and their fortunes windwards hurled, But the Trimmin’s on the Rosary will bless them round the world.

[3] Grumbling, “grousing.”

THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN

She saw The Helper standing near
When grief and care oppressed;
“A Great, Big God,” Who wiped the tear,
And soothed the aching breast.
So, in the stress of sorrows piled,
The gloom was lifted when
She pointed up and sweetly smiled
“A Great, Big God; be brave, my child,
The birds will sing again.”

When dark misfortune, hovering o’er,
Brought woes on every hand;
And care was camping by the door,
And drought was on the land;
When lingering hope in rags was clad,
Her faith shone brightest then—
“A Great, Big God; so cheer up, Dad.
Don’t mope about and take it bad,
The birds will sing again.”

And always some soft silver ray
Athwart the gloom would burst
To chase the heavy clouds away,
When things were at their worst.
Her “Great, Big God” would justify
The trembling trust of men;
For, when the cheerless night passed by,
The sun would wink his golden eye,
And birds would sing again.

THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL

’Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years; With the dog-leg fence around it, and its hat about its ears, And the cow-bell in the gum-tree, and the bucket on the stool, There’s a motley host of memories round that old bush school—

With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name Carved in agricultural letters—’twas my only bid for fame; And the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set, Lined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet), And the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool And a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.

There I see the boots in order—“’lastic-sides” we used to wear— With a pair of “everlastin’s” cracked and dusty here and there; And we marched with great “high action”—hands behind and eyes before— While we murdered “Swanee River” as we tramped around the floor.

Still the scholars pass before me with their freckled features grave, And a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave; Tousled hair and vacant faces, and their garments every one Shabby heirlooms in the family, handed down from sire to son. Ay, and mine were patched in places, and half-masted, as a rule— They were fashionable trousers at the old bush school.

There I trudged it from the Three-mile, like a patient, toiling brute, With a stocking round my ankle, and my heart within my boot, Morgan, Nell and Michael Joseph, Jim and Mary, Kate and Mart Tramping down the sheep-track with me, little rebels at the heart; Shivery grasses round about us nodding bonnets in the breeze, Happy Jacks and Twelve Apostles[4] hurdle-racing up the trees, Peewees calling from the gullies, living wonders in the pool— Hard bare seats and drab gray humdrum at the old bush school.

Early rising in the half-light, when the morn came, bleak and chill; For the little mother roused us ere the sun had topped the hill, “Up, you children, late ’tis gettin’.” Shook the house beneath her knock, And she wasn’t always truthful, and she tampered with the clock.

Keen she was about “the learnin’,” and she told us o’er and o’er Of our luck to have “the schoolin’” right against our very door. And the lectures—Oh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed! “Don’t be mixin’ with the Regans and the Ryans and the rest”— “Don’t be pickin’ up with Carey’s little talkative kanats”—[5] Well, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats. But we found our level early—in disaster, as a rule— For they knocked “the notions” sideways at the old bush school.

Down the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode Was Maloney’s sorry piebald she had found beside the road; Straight we scrambled up behind her, and as many as could fit Clung like circus riders bare-back without bridle-rein or bit, On that corrugated backbone in a merry row we sat— We propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her hat— And we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool, “Making butter,” so we called it, to the old bush school.

What a girl was Mary Casey in the days of long ago! She was queen among the scholars, or at least we thought her so; She was first in every mischief and, when overwhelmed by fate, She could make delightful drawings of the teacher on her slate. There was rhythm in every movement, as she gaily passed along With a rippling laugh that lilted like the music of a song; So we called her “Laughing Mary,” and a fitful fancy blessed E’en the bashful little daisies that her dainty feet caressed.

She had cheeks like native roses in the fullness of their bloom, And she used to sing the sweetest as we marched around the room; In her eyes there lurked the magic, maiden freshness of the morn, In her hair the haunting colour I had seen upon the corn; Round her danced the happy sunshine when she smiled upon the stool— And I used to swap her dinners at the old bush school.

Hard the cobbled road of knowledge to the feet of him who plods After fragile fragments fallen from the workshop of the gods; Long the quest, and ever thieving pass the pedlars o’er the hill With the treasures in their bundles, but to leave us questing still. Mystic fires horizons redden, but each crimson flash in turn Only lights the empty places in the bracken and the fern; So in after years I’ve proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool, Very much the way I found it at the old bush school.

[4] These names are often applied to the same bird; but Happy Jacks (_alias_ Gray-crowned Babblers) are brown with white markings; Twelve Apostles (_alias_ Apostle-Birds) are gray with brown wings. Peewees, in the next line, are of course Magpie Larks.

[5] The essential kanat (possibly a corruption of gnat) is undersized, mischievous, useless and perky.

SIX BROWN BOXER HATS

The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside the fence, And opened out his wondrous mart with startling eloquence; All sorts of toys for girls and boys upon the grass he spread, And dolls, dirt-cheap, that went to sleep when stood upon their head; But our male hearts were beating high for balls and cricket-bats When mother, with the business eye, bought six brown boxer hats.

Six out-of-date extinguishers that fitted us too soon— Six ugly, upturned canisters—but through the afternoon Our rage and scorn were overborne to see swift fingers flit With pad and trim, around the rim, to make the stove-pipes fit. So Monday morning came, and six “ungrateful young kanats” Went off to school like lunatics in six brown boxer hats.

Then friends at every meeting showed an interest all too rare Or chilled our faltered greetings with the silence of a stare; And comrades who, we thought, were true indulged in vulgar jeers, While willing fists of humorists slambanged them round our ears; But worst of all the social smart from taunting plutocrats— “Yez pinched them from the hawker’s cart, them six brown boxer hats.”

(Dress how we will, we feel it still, when friends will stop to chat, To see a broad good-humoured smile is trained upon the hat.) We could not fight with wonted might, for bitter black distress Was in our souls, and on our polls the hateful ugliness. We faced a fine barrage of sticks; and six “broke-up” kanats Went home to meet the storm in six brown battered boxer hats.

THE LIBEL

“The flowers have no scent, and the birds have no song,”
We read in the lesson before us,
While carols enchanted came floating along,
And lifted our hearts in the chorus.

“The landscape is sombre, and dreary, and gray,
No colour its mantle adorning”;
O’er carpets spread far in a golden array
We tramped it to school in the morning.

“The flowers have no scent,” but the wattle we brought
From hill-sides and glens where we found it
Was filling the room with its glory, we thought,
And wafting its sweetness around it.

And fragrant the greeting the eucalypts threw
From branches of amber and sorrel;
While hard by the door a pittosporum grew—
We called it “The Japanese Laurel.”

The birds have no song,” so they told us at school;
But sweet in our souls was the ringing
Of notes soft and clear from the edge of the pool,
Where dainty gay thrushes were singing.

The magpie, the spink,[6] and the pretty blue wren,
The butcher-bird up in his eyrie,
The trills! Oh, I wish I could hear you again,
My dear little Chocolate Wiree!

To the ears of a stranger our birds may lack song,
Our flowers have no scent for the alien;
But we, who have rambled the gullies along
Bedecked in soft colours Australian,

We laugh them to scorn as we read the old phrase—
We’ve laughed, since, at many another—
And bless in our hearts in a chorus of praise
The face of our happy young mother.

[6] No apology is needed for using this name to replace White-shouldered Caterpillar.

WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN

When the circus came to town
With its coaches and four, and its steeds galore,
And a band and a painted clown,
Out to the road with a shout we’d fly
To gape at the elephants trudging by,
And our hearts beat fast and our hopes ran high,
As we followed it up and down;
For nought in the air, the sea, or sky
Could fill a spot in our youthful eye,
When the circus came to town.

So after the show we went,
And we got in the way of the men when they
Were rigging the circus tent,
And we knew that we stood on holy ground,
As we followed an empty van around—
And got for ourselves a belting sound,
Which a charm to the business lent.
But we wagged it from school behind the pound,
Till some Jack Pudding our shelter found
And word to headquarters sent.

When the circus came to town,
We swallowed hot tea with tears of glee,
And rushed in a tumult down;
We took quite the full of our shilling’s worth,
And roared at the dummy’s ponderous girth,
Or yelled in a salvo of noisy mirth
At the tricks of the painted clown.
Oh, wondrous thoughts in our minds had birth,
And we felt that the band was the best on earth,
When the circus came to town.

We fondly recalled the scene,
Horses that pranced, and eyes entranced,
And the smell of the kerosene;
The mule, and the monkey, and tall giraffe,
The “juggerlin’-man” with his magic staff,
The girl who went round with her photograph
(And oh, but we thought her a queen!)
We started a show on our own behalf,
“Performed” on the back of a poddy calf,
And sighed for the might-have-been.

Now the circus comes to town,
And it rattles along, and a bare-foot throng
Is pacing it up and down;
And the elephants trudge as they trudged of yore,
With the shabby shebangs, and the steeds galore;
But the glee of the youngsters who shout and roar
At the tricks of the painted clown
Is balm to my soul, and I call _encore_
To the frowsy old jokes I’ve heard before,
When the circus came to town.

HIS FATHER

We meet him first in frills immersed,
By everyone caressed and nursed,
A bonny baby—rather!
But, though they please his every whim,
Fill up his comforts to the brim,
And “ketchie ketchie” say to him,
He whimpers for his father;
Nor any plan of all the clan,
Nor fiction _re_ the bogie-man
Can coax him from his father.

Then, done with frocks and curly locks,
Promoted into knickerbocks,
This wholesome, healthy laddie
Will entertain the other kid
With tales of what his Daddy did;
He lives a splendid dream amid
Heroic deeds of Daddy.
In grief or mirth he’s proved his worth;
The greatest man in all this earth
Is Knickerbocker’s Daddy.

Long pants at last, and stretching fast—
Said pants are what is termed “half-mast.”
And most attenuated—
Great notions now his head doth hold,
And schemes of mischief manifold.
He talks as though he had a cold
In slang adulterated.
He has the shy and shifty eye,
He burns tobacco on the sly,
In black butts immolated.

Now mark his ways these latter days;
He sounds no more his father’s praise
With fervent admiration;
In fact, his father’s got to be
An out-of-date necessity,
A clog upon his destiny
And youthful recreation.
As like as not, in anger hot,
He’ll speak of him as “my old pot”—
A homely appellation.

Another page, the dandy stage
That starts at eighteen years of age.
His talk is all of horses;
He now selects his socks and ties
To match the colour of his eyes;
He’s learnt the art of looking wise,
And on his Dad’s resources
He gaily goes in Yankee clothes,
And backs the ponies through his nose
At most suburban courses.

He swaggers when amongst the men,
And takes a “tonic” now and then
To make a good impression;
And by the hour he will relate
The deeds that made him truly great,
Just pausing to expectorate
By way of a digression.
And here, mayhap, to fill a gap
He’ll just allude to his “old chap”—
A valueless possession.

Next, older grown, the rolling-stone
Is out in business on his own.
We find him somewhat later
With this new burden to his song,
“Your old contraptions all are wrong.”
He’s going to move the world along,
His fortune’s own dictator.
And, all the while, he can but smile
About the antiquated style
That ruled the poor old Pater.

We meet him next somewhat perplexed,
By business problems badly vexed—
The other fellow’s caught him.
Then, while he’s chafing in the thrall,
Dad in some ways, he can recall,
Was not so hopeless after all
As in the past he thought him;
At any rate, he’s free to state
The old man’s head was “screwed on straight,”
And knocking round had taught him.

We come again to find him when
He’s stood within the lion’s den,
And trembled at disaster.
It was the Dad who pulled him through,
And now he will admit to you
The old man knows a thing or two;
Then, troubles coming faster,
He’s very glad to mount his prad
And go and have a word with Dad,
For Dad is now the Master.

But further on, life’s springtime gone,
The winter snow his brows upon,
Adown the current carried,
He’ll show you with a tender glance
A photo framed with elegance—
The old man in the “bell-bot” pants,
The suit in which he tarried
That day in town a joy to crown
(Most likely ’twas a “reach-me-down”),
The day the Dad was married.

His dreams dispersed, the bubble burst,
We find him where we found him first.
Right proud about his father;
And now again he writes in sooth
The head-line of his early youth,
But he observes—unwelcome truth,
At times he’s worried, rather—
His hopeful son has just begun
The same old devious course to run:
And now it’s he’s the father.

THE KOOKABURRAS

Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple from the mountain; And the day that’s passing outwards down the stairways of the sky, With its kindly deeds and sordid on its folded page recorded, Waves a friendly hand across the range to bid the world “good-bye.” Comes a buoyant peal of laughter from the tall, white, slender timber, Rugged mirth that floods the bushland with the joy of brotherhood, With the rustic notes sonorous of a happy laughing chorus, When the kookaburras bless the world because the world is good.

Oh, ’tis good and clean and wholesome when we take the sheep-track homewards, And the kindly kitchen chimney flaps its homely bannerets; All our twigs of effort, shooting golden promise for the fruiting, Bring a night in peace enfolded that a useful day begets. Hopeful dreams, their visions weaving, steel our hearts against to-morrow, And we dare the challenge, strengthened by to-day’s assaults withstood; Beam the pregnant days before us; and another laughing chorus Wraps the world in rippling revelry, because the world is good.

Loving eyes to watch our coming, loving arms to twine around us— Tender tendrils, soft and silken, firmer far than iron stay— All our little world upholding, gentle hearts and home enfolding, And a cheery, friendly neighbour dropping in upon his way: Mellow joy the soul refreshes with the scented breath of heaven, With the whispered songs of other spheres, hereafter understood: Angels keep their sure watch o’er us: and another laughing chorus Flings a vesper blessing round the world, because the world is good.

PETER NELSON’S FIDDLE

Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the lonely track?
Do you ever hear its simple melodies
Tossing round deserted beaches, with the flotsam and the wrack,
When the moonlight sprinkles silver on the trees?

Do you hearken now, I wonder, when the birds have gone to rest,
And the blotted book of day once more is shut?
When the saffron stains have faded, and the swans have vanished west,
Does your heart remember Peter Nelson’s hut?

Lonely, stooped old Peter Nelson, with his “most peculiar” ways,
With the clean-cut face, and hair as white as snow!
Something lingering round the old man seemed to tell of better days,
Seemed to hint of love and laughter long ago.

Kindly silence wrapped the bushland; every warring note was still;
Soft heart-tremors stirred, and smiling eyes grew dim.
Weaving fancies went the fiddle; dreams prophetic made us thrill—
From the grave the visions stretched their hands to him.

There was rapture in the stillness; there were voices in the night;
Trooped the angels with a beat of velvet wings;
And the stars stood still and listened, and the moon’s face, strangely
white,
Kissed the sleeping world to dreams of better things.

Joy was lit in every corner, love was smiling at our side,
Golden glamour o’er the dawning days was cast;
Gaily, gaily sang the fiddle, while we marched with swinging stride
Through the flowers that hid the failures of the past.

Do you ever dream you hear it? Does it bring the vision back,
With the curlew, and the moonlight on the trees?
Do the wavelets ripple shoreward with the flotsam as the wrack,
When a fiddle plays the simple melodies?

Lonely, bent old Peter Nelson with the quaint, uncommon ways,
“Spruced and tidied” when the book of day was shut,
With the dim light in the window, and the friends of better days
Summoned round him by the fiddle in the hut.

THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL

A simple thing of knotted pine
And corrugated tin;
But still, to those who read, a sign,
A fortress on the farthest line
Against the march of sin.

Though rich man’s gold was lacking quite,
We built it strong and sure,
With willing hands and (Faith’s delight)
The savings spared, the widow’s mite,
The shillings of the poor.

Nor could it fail to meet the eye
And reverent thoughts instil,
As there above the township high,
And pointing always to the sky,
It stood upon the hill.

And through our lives in wondrous ways
Its holy purpose led
From limpid lisping cradle-days
To where the silent moonlight lays
White hands upon the dead.

For when the Holy Morning strung
Its beads upon the grass,
You’d see us driving—old and young—
The tall white graceful trees among,
On every road to Mass.

It brought the brave young mother there,
Surrounded by her brood,
To wrap their tiny hearts in prayer,
And teach them how to cast their care
Upon the Holy Rood.

It watched the little bush girl grow,
And kept her life from harm,
Till, spotless as the virgin snow
In wreath and veil, it saw her go
Upon her husband’s arm.

It blessed strong, trembling shoulders bent:
Helped many a soul in thrall
To climb again the steep ascent,
And reft the grim entanglement
That brought about the fall.

It soothed the gray old mother’s pain,
A-swaying while she told
Her rosary o’er and o’er again,
For griefs that rent her heart in twain—
So new, and ah, so old!

(There’s “that poor boy who went astray,”
And lined her gentle brow;
There’s “them that’s wand’rin’ fur away,”
And “them that’s in their grave to-day”
And “beck’nin’” to her now.)

Refuge it gave the weary heart,
Beyond the sordid din
And conflict of the crowded mart,
One sweet, sequestered nook apart,
Where all might enter in.

Though high and grand cathedrals shine,
To my mind grander still
Is that wee church of knotted pine,
That rampart on the outer line
That stood upon the hill.

CURRAJONG

Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with mingled love and pride Of stirring deeds that live and thrill the quiet country-side; And when they praise his _tours-de-force_, be sure it won’t be long Before they talk about his horse—the old gray Currajong.

For twenty years he drove him through the bush and round the town, Until the old white stager knew the parish upside down; He’d take his time, and calculate, and have his wilful way, And stop at every Catholic gate to bid them all good day.

But well I mind the stories told when Father Pat was young— At least, when he was not so old—his scattered flock among; When health and strength were on his side, you’d see him swing along With that clean, easy, sweeping stride that marked old Currajong.

Through all the years he ne’er was late the second Mass to say, And twenty miles he’d “duplicate,” and pass us on the way. Hard-held and beating clean tattoos, the old gray, stepping kind, Like gravel from his twinkling shoes would fling the miles behind.

And often some too daring lad, a turn of speed to show, Would straighten up his sleepy prad and give the priest a “go”; But, faith, he found what others found, and held the lesson long, That nothing in the country round could move with Currajong.

And, oh, the din! and, oh, the fuss! mere words were vain to tell Of how they stopped the night with us; and don’t I mind it well? The boree log ablaze “inside,” and gay with rug and mat; The “front-room,” to the world denied, made snug for Father Pat.

We knew his distant hoof-beats; ay, and grief they could forebode; So, when we heard a horse go by, clean-stepping down the road, Round many a log-fire burning bright there passed the word along, “There’s someone sick and sore the night; I’ll bet that’s Currajong.”

Whereat you’d hear the old men tell—perhaps a trifle add— Of some sick-call remembered well, when “so-and-so took bad.” “You couldn’t see your hand in front.” “’Twas rainin’ pitchforks, too.” “The doctor jibbed, to put it blunt—but Father Pat went through.”

Ay, he went through in shine or shade; so, when the days were fair, And at our simple sports we played, ’twas good to see him there; And under troubled, angry skies, when all the world went wrong, With aching hearts and misted eyes we watched for Currajong.

We watched, and never watched in vain, whatever might befall. When summoned to the bed of pain, he answered to the call.

He came through rain or storm or heat; and in the darkest night We heard his hoofs the music beat, we saw the welcome light.

And when again, with plumes ahead and horses stepping slow, We followed on, behind our dead, the road all men must go, A loitering line, with knots and gaps, the funeral passed along, And half a mile of lurching traps was led by Currajong.

But, as the good priest older grew, and aches and troubles came, His buggy and the white horse, too, were stricken much the same. The springs went down the side he sat, and altar-boys and such Kept sliding in on Father Pat, and woke him at the touch.

Then, pensioned off at last and done, a sorry thing it stood, With sagging cobwebs round it spun, and nest-eggs in the hood. Just once a year it lived again, and groaned and creaked along To fetch the bishop from the train with limping Currajong.

Ah, newer methods, younger men! the times are moving fast, And but in dreams we tread again the wheel-ruts of the past; The eyes are filmed that watched of old, the kindly hearts are still, And silent tombstones white and cold are glimmering on the hill.

While scorching up the road, belike, with singing gears alive The curate on his motor-bike hits up his forty-five; But tender, tingling memories swell, and love will linger long In all the stirring yarns they tell about Old Currajong.

THE HELPING HAND

When that hour comes when I shall sit alone,
And ponder on the things that were, but are no more,
The while the weird night-breeze’s dirge-like monotone
Is sobbing fitful anthems round the door;

When homing billows moan and croon unchecked,
And no light glimmers on the ocean’s broad expanse;
When all my anxious hopes are safe in port, or wrecked
On sharp uncharted rocks of circumstance;

When I have lived my life, and Time at last
Displays the mottled fate the sisters three have spun,
When the night’s mystic, sombre, starless cloak is cast
Around the naked shoulders of the sun;

I shall be tired, I know, and long to rest,
And o’er the past sleep’s veil of sweet oblivion draw,
To feel myself drawn softly, dream-like on the breast
Of life’s ebb-tide that laps the Eternal Shore.

When that hour comes, and I am drifting slow
To azure distance stretching on, and on, and on;
When earth’s coast-lights are dim and blurred and burning low,
And other stars rise other worlds upon;

I shall not fear to meet my Master’s gaze,
Nor, like an idling child, His Searching Presence shun,
E’en though no herald trumpet-voice pronounce my praise,
And earth-won hero garlands wear I none.

E’en though the best the world shall know of me,
When mouldering clay is laid with kindred clay again,
Is but a stone on which the stars shine carelessly
Smooth-polished by the fingers of the rain:

I shall not fear to stand before His Face
And answer for the schemes I reared on shifting sand,
Whereon the waves are trailing albs of pointed lace,
If on my way I’ve lent the helping hand

To fellow-pilgrims toiling at my side,
Who, worn and weary, faint and fall beside the road,
If here betimes the blinding, scalding tear I’ve dried,
Or soothed a heart, or eased a galling load,

For He shall say “Your name in dust is hid,
No thought or word has earned you immortality;
Immortal only are the kindly things you did—
Amen I say, you did them unto me.”

VALE, FATHER PAT

Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head— That telegram that brought the news that Father Pat is dead— I cannot grip its message yet; we were such cronies, that The world is not a world to-night without poor Father Pat.

Nigh eighty years I’ve known him now. Since ever we were boys Across the sea in Ireland, each other’s cares and joys We’ve shared as with their leaden step they strode across the mat; The kindest heart that ever beat is stilled in Father Pat.

They knew him round the country wide; from here to Carrathool The teamster toiling by his dray, the youngsters home from school, Would greet him with a curt “good day,” and shyly pull the hat Down farther on the forehead in respect for Father Pat.

I see him in my mind to-night, a diamond in the rough, A kindly soul that hid the gold, but showed the sterner stuff— The wise old eye, the homely face, the scant hairs pasted flat Across the wide wise baldness of the head of Father Pat;

The collar caught with honest tape when fleeting studs had gone; The suit that said good-bye to cut the day he put it on; The handsome stock the sisters built, the tassels on the hat, The stout umbrella in the hand of manly Father Pat.

I see the ordered sitting-room he’ll never enter more, The ivory bead-crowned crucifix, the font behind the door, The parish books, the registers and, handy where he sat, The well-thumbed breviary that warmed the heart of Father Pat.

A man of method all the time—the pigeon-holes a-line, A dozen keys upon a chain, his pockets filled with twine. His actions told the time of day, and rivalled e’en in that The sober clock that ticked away the life of Father Pat.

He used to run the curate on the lines he ran himself; A list of parish duties stood upon the mantel-shelf, As binding as the decalogue, so all-embracing that The bishop had to keep the step, when guest of Father Pat.

He’d argue till the cows came home, and never know a doubt; But when he “showed the p’liteness,” it was then, my boy, look out! He’d lay the shoneen[7] by the heels, and shake him like a rat; He wasn’t worth a straw, bedad, when trimmed by Father Pat.

His sermons were tremendous things, and thunder-bolts would drop; The trouble with poor Father Pat was when and how to stop. Theology? don’t mention it! he’d talk the bishop flat; One half was Father Gury, and the rest was Father Pat.

I’d quoted him so often to the young lads round about To show that we old fellows still were far from petered out, Could take a hand at ceremonies, could sing a Mass and that; So when we had a big day here I called on Father Pat.

He came—but didn’t conquer, faith, though every nerve was strained; He’d waved his hand to rubrics on the day he was ordained; He went along his old, old way in broken notes and flat— To tell the truth, I felt ashamed for once of Father Pat.

These young lads build their castles up, and fancy’s beacons glow. Ah well, poor Father Pat and I went through that years ago; And some of those ideals are dead, and some we’ve jested at, And some are where the failures wait for me and Father Pat.

Though brighter far the morning seems than does the setting sun, Still, they but carry on the work by such as us begun. We blazed the tracks they tread to-day—at least they’ll grant us that— The men who sailed in sixty-five along with Father Pat.

We left the friendly stars astern, the Irish lights agleam, We dared the seas in sailing-ships before the days of steam, We faced a weird wild waste of world that brave men trembled at: No shipside welcome met the men who came with Father Pat.

We turned our horses’ heads out west, beyond the farthest track, With nothing but an alien star to light the journey back. The echoes mocked us as we went, and silence startled sat When out beyond the rim of things we marched with Father Pat.

We said our Mass in canvas tents, and neath the gnarléd trees; Of red-gum slabs and sheets of bark we built our sanctuaries; Our axes rang on timbered slopes above the mining flat, And church and school and convent mark the path of Father Pat.

We made our bow to wild and waste, and hardships worse than those; We leave a gracious golden land that blossoms like the rose. Far defter hands may now adorn the work we laboured at, But granite base and buttressed wall were built by Father Pat.

Well may his arms drop idly down at eighty years of age; His story goes behind him with no stain upon its page. I’ll bet he played the innings through and carried out his bat, And none dare hint “retiring hurt” in front of Father Pat.

And with him goes the little band that sailed in sixty-five; A dreamer by his lamp to-night is all that’s left alive. Poor Father James, and Father Ned, and jovial Father Mat Are waiting out beyond the dark to welcome Father Pat.

I’ll not attend the obsequies: I feel I could not face The office that I know so well, and see his vacant place: We saw a generation pass while side by side we sat: Another starts its march to-day—without us, Father Pat.

They’ll wonder why I am not there—I, last of all the band— To take farewell of him that’s gone; but he will understand. We’ll have a little requiem my own loved altar at, And just ourselves—alive and dead—shall chant it, Father Pat.

[7] An over-smart would-be gentleman; a term of contempt.

JOSEPHINE

The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came; She’s up-to-date and stylish, but the place is not the same Since Death’s hard summons robbed me of the sterling old machine, That wore out in my service here—my faithful Josephine.

Poor Josephine, she knew me well—and, faith, she ought to know; For since the bishop sent me here, some thirty years ago, My one and only manager, my right-hand man she’d been; I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.

She pottered round the place herself for thirty years and more— This new one has a thuckeen now to sweep and mind the door And entertain with parish chat each gossiping voteen[8] She’d have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbéd Josephine.

They tell me this one’s up-to-date—too up-to-date for me; I tremble at her polished floors, and modern cookery, The old man finds the old ways best—old springs were twice as green— I’ve heard His Lordship praise the stews of clever Josephine.