Chapter II: Part 2

My study was my sanctum once—a castle all my own— But this one with her natty ways can’t leave the place alone. Her fingers ache to tidy up; and, when she’s extra clean, I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.

She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair; Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there— I know where every paper is, each book and magazine. That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.

This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer, And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore. She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been— Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.

And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to note My native country’s colour coming gently through my coat; I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green; She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.

She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too, Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view. I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seen A tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.

I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring. We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing; Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean, Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.

My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I wore Had creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store. I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene; I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.

She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat, His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat; I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen; She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!

It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all: Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical, In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene, And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.

She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through, And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew; The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine— And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.

She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried; She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died; She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen; God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!

The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear; They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear. They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been; But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.

Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her track Along the beaten road of life that knows no turning back. I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene, And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.

She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines, And haply in their breeze-swept song a requiem divines: The people raised a little stone to keep her memory green, And handed to the winds and rain the name of Josephine.

How quickly have the days gone by! she’s dead—now, let me see— She’s dead twelve months: to-morrow is her anniversary: Now who’s the Saint to-morrow? Ah, a semi—“Hedwig, Queen.” I’ll use the black—and may God rest the soul of Josephine!

[8] A person who exaggerates his or her religious devotion.

THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN

I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years, And the rattle of its boxes still is music in my ears: With a bow to family vanity it rises from the past As the pride of the selection where my humble youth was cast. It was fashioned in a nightmare by some wandering genius, And it wasn’t quite a waggon, and it wasn’t quite a ’bus; ’Twas an old four-wheeled gazabo that was something in between, And the wheels were painted yellow, and the rest was painted green (It would waken lively interest in the antiquarian) And ’twas known to all the country as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more, And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for; It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn, And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern. But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan, For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own. She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too), And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new. There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke; One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke: Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake, While the Dad went searching rubbish-heaps for old boots for the brake: So we rubbed and scrubbed and hammered up, and beat the rattertan Till it stood in all its glory as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

When at last, with velvet sandals shod, the Holy Morning crept Through the mists above The Sugarloaf, that silent vigil kept O’er a little old slab dwelling which the years have brushed away, You would hear the Little Mother stirring round before the day, Rousing sleepy heads from blankets, washing faces, doing hair, Scolding, coaxing, bustling, breathless in her hurry everywhere. Half the night before she laboured, and we’d hear her come and go With the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row. There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend; She would see to every single thing before her work would end, To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!— There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad. And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make, When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake. Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone; Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?” While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood, Shouting “Mother,” as he wrastled with a fractious collar-stud. But she kept the tumult under till she had us spick and span, Packed like pickles in a bottle in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

We had ten good miles to drive to Mass—and Mass was sharp at eight; But we’d never hear the end of it if something kept us late; So we started ere the morning hung its bunting in the sky, And the kookaburras chortled as we rumbled slowly by. For the frost was on the barley, and the rime was on the trees, And our little faces smarted with the whip-lash of the breeze, Still we watched the branches redden to the first kiss of the sun And we counted all the cart-wheels that the busy spiders spun, Then the magpies sang to greet us, and our little hearts began To forget that we were shivering in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

So the old contraption lumbered, safely towed, as Dad knew how, By a pair of hefty elephants promoted from the plough, And it rattled like a saw-mill, and it thundered like a dray; Faith, you’d hear the circus coming a half-a-dozen miles away! All along the road the neighbours used to take the time from us, For they never made a start until they heard our omnibus; Then a shrill soprano shouted, “Put the horses in the van, “Them’s The Sugarloaf O’Briens in the Old Mass Shandrydan.”

We were first to Carey’s Crossing, first to reach Moloney’s Mill, But the opposition caught us as we laboured up the hill; Then the air became electric as they tried to pass us by, For “Himself” for family reasons (which I needn’t specify) Kept the road in deadly earnest, and would never seem to hear The abuse of the procession that was gathering in the rear. Oh, they whistled and they shouted till their feelings overflowed, But the old man in the Dreadnought was the master of the road. It was suicide to bump it, and the horses wouldn’t shy, So he trundled on before them with a bad look in his eye. Then, as suddenly the whistling and the bantering shouting ceased And a solemn hush denoted the arrival of the priest, Would a fine “good Catholic” thunder “Yerra, shame upon you, man! Pull one side there, Pat O’Brien, with your Old Mass Shandrydan.”

Pull! Bedad, he’d pull the town down when His Reverence hove in sight, Pulled his hat off with the left hand, and pipe out with the right; Pulled his family in the gutter, pulled the horses off their feet, And a shower of small O’Briens went skedaddling from the seat. Then they rattled loudly past us, and a wild stampede began, For they all had family reasons to outpace the other man. There were buggies, traps, and turnouts there of every shape and rig; There were Murphys in a spring-cart, and the Caseys in a gig; There were Barnes’ ponies pounding twixt a gallop and a trot, While the Careys with their pacing-mare went sailing past the lot. Faith, we had it in for Carey, and our disrespect increased At the cheek of “them there Careys who would try to beat the priest.” No, we wouldn’t stoop to things like that; we’d act the gentleman Half a mile behind the others in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It’s a long way back I’m gazing, and the stage has changed since then; Just an echo finds me sometimes, bringing back the scene again. Oh, the heart beats slower measure than it used to beat, alas, When a Little Irish Mother dressed us all in time for Mass. I have lounged in fast expresses, I have travelled first saloon, I have heard the haunting music that the winds and waters croon, I have seen the road careering from a whirring motor-car, Where the Careys couldn’t pass us, or our sense of fitness jar; But the world is somehow smaller, somehow less enchanting than When I saw it o’er the tail-board of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH

On the Sunday morning mustered,
Yarning at our ease;
Buggies, traps and jinkers clustered
Underneath the trees,
Horses tethered to the fences;
Thus we hold our conferences
Waiting till the priest commences—
Pitchin’ at the Church.

Sheltering in the summer’s shining
Where the shadows fall;
When the winter’s sun is pining,
Lined along the wall;
Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,
“Yeos” and lambs and wool debating,
Squatting, smoking, idly waiting—
Pitchin’ at the Church.

Young bloods gathered from the others
Tell their dreamings o’er;
Beaded-bonneted old mothers
Grouped around the door:
Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,
All that’s neat and sweet and airy—
Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary—
Pitchin’ at the Church.

Up comes someone briskly driving,
“Cutting matters fine”:
All his “fam’ly lot” arriving
Wander in a line
Off in some precise direction,
Till they find their proper section,
Greet it with an interjection—
Pitchin’ at the Church.

“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.”
“Keepin’ pretty dry!”
“When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?”
“Prices ain’t too high?”
Round about the yarnin’ strayin’—
Dances, sickness—frocks surveyin’—
Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’”—
Pitchin’ at the Church.

SAID HANRAHAN

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.

“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke;
“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad.”

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran
“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan
“Before the year is out.

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o’-Bourke
They’re singin’ out for rain.

“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,
“And all the tanks are dry.”
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.

“There won’t be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There’s not a blade on Casey’s place
As I came down to Mass.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak—
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If rain don’t come this week.”

A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

“We want a inch of rain, we do,”
O’Neil observed at last;
But Croke “maintained” we wanted two
To put the danger past.

“If we don’t get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”

In God’s good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And stop it did, in God’s good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”

THE TIDY LITTLE BODY

Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body,
Just as trim and prim and handy as you’d ever wish to see
(She was well upon the weather-beaten side of thirty-three);
And she’d chuckle and she’d titter when the people used to twit her
On the most pronounced attentions of one Lanty Hallissey
(Now this Lanty was a bachelor of some antiquity).

Well, he’d said good-bye to fifty; he was solemn, he was thrifty,
And he’d come to Mass each Sunday decorated handsomely
(With an eye upon the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see);
And you’d see him titivated in a much abbreviated
Kind o’ sort o’ style of swallow-tail that flogged him viciously
(Which it needed the judicious use of treacle at the knee);

And his hat was like a Quaker’s; but some fifteen hundred acres
More than evened up the lee-way of the said deficiency
(Faith, he had a tidy cottage on the little property).
So, when Mass at length was over, round his jinker he would hover,
While the women teased the Tidy Little Body merrily
(And my hero was unconscious of their jesting, homely glee);

There he’d fool about, and truckle with a strap or with a buckle,
And tighten this, and loosen that, a-gammon he do be
(With the eye out for the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see).
And the more they used to tease her, well, the more it seemed to please
her;
And she wriggled and she giggled, and she tittered girlishly—
“Oh, it’s all so very silly. Picture Mr. Hallissey!”

_But, bedad, for all her stricture on the paintin’ of the picture,_
_There were some of ’em a-bouncin’ in the swithers—true for me—_
_When the Tidy Little Body married Lanty Hallissey._

THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH

Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’ Gladsome golden notes appealin’ on the Sabbath-softened air, Sweet compellin’ invitations to the congregation stringin’ Up the road to old St. Michael’s, on the blessed day of prayer. You might seek the boundin’ gait of him in any youth or maiden With the rhythmic pulse of summer, and in vain would be the search; Steppin’ on with fine importance, like a general paradin’ In his Sunday regimentals, comes the Pillar of the Church.

There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’— Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see; There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’, And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery, There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours; Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear; Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours, Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.

But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’, Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore, Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’, Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door. What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’, He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch, Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’ In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him; Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear, For it’s never parish-priest there’s been could carry on without him, Since St. Michael’s been a parish church—it’s goin’ on fifty year. Don’t we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin’, Superintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much? Don’t we see him with “the gentlemen,” the officer commandin’, Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?

Ain’t he present all occasions when there’s grave deliberatin’ On important parish matters at the school or presbyt’ry? With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’— He, the sole survivin’ member of the first church “Komitee”? And maintainin’ which distinction, don’t it make stonewallin’ sweeter?— And a heap of “argyfyin’” cannot shift him from his perch— Don’t he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter? Faith, he shows ’em there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.

Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation, “With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell; ’Twas he “seen the danger comin’,” he that “med the suggestation.” He that “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well. He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’, Nor afraid to be upstandin’ his opinions for to state. Times the priest he’s flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin’; That he did, Man—“ups and ats” him, “lets him have it purty straight.”

Och, ’twould do you good to hear him, with an “audjunce” round him gawkin’, Tell of openin’s here and “big days,” puttin’ modern feats to scorn; And the banquets and the speeches, and the “Arrah, don’t be talkin’, Sure the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born.” And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin’ and the strivin’, And the failure starin’ at ’em, had he left ’em in the lurch; Times and times he travelled with ’em, and “tremenjus” was the drivin’— Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin’ to the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’ There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view. And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’ With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew; See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’, And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hare While His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’ For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.

Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him— And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”; But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for “the venyum” isn’t in him, Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope, Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter; Him alone the grim marauder ne’er has chanced on in the search; But we’d miss him were he taken, as we’d miss the holy water— He’s the feature of the Sunday, is the Pillar of the Church.

TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED

Times I think I’m not the man—
Must be some mistake.
Me among the also ran?
Cute and wideawake!
Old and beat and crotchety—
Sixty-five, at least—
Knockin’ round the presbytery,
Groomin’ for the priest,
Choppin’ wood, and ringin’ bells,
Dodgin’ work and takin’ spells!
Me all right, one Ed’ard Wells
(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)—
Wheelin’ barrows round the yard,
Gammon to be workin’ hard,
A-groomin’ for the priest!

Trainin’ prads was Teddo’s game;
Made a tidy bit.
Everybody knew the name,
Teddo Wells was “It.”
Bought that bit of property
(Value since increased),
Gettin’ on tremendously,
Married by the priest.
Papers full of Teddo Wells,
Trainin’ horses for the swells;
Since redooced to ringin’ bells
(Teddo Wells, deceased)
Shinin’ boots and learnin’ sense,
Nailin’ palin’s on the fence,
A-groomin’ for the priest.

Lost that bit of property,
Ended up in smoke—
Too much “Jimmie Hennessy”—
Down, and stony-broke.
Used to think he knew the game
Till they had him fleeced.
“Mud” is this ’ere hero’s name,
Workin’ for the priest—
Unbeknown to sports and swells;
They’ve no time for Ed’ard Wells.
Up the spout and ringin’ bells
As “Teddo Wells, deceased”;
Never noticed up the town,
Never asked to keep one down—
Groomin’ for the priest.

Times I stops a cove to chat,
One as gamed and spieled;
Chips me in the curate’s hat,
“Six to four the field.”
“What-o! Teddo Wells,” sez he,
“Him that horses leased,
Owned that bit of property,
Groomin’ for the priest?”
“Guessin’ eggs and seen the shells;
Brains,” sez I, “and breedin’ tells,
This old gent is Ed’ard Wells,
Late Teddo Wells, deceased.
Ringin’ bells is Ed’ard’s game,
Openin’ doors and closin’ same,
Called ‘groomin’’ for the priest.”

Never see a horse nohow,
Just an old machine;
Always in a tearin’ row
With this Josephine.
Got an eye that makes you feel
Well and truly p’liced,
Follerin’ out upon your heels,
A-goin’ to tell the priest.
“Can’t smoke here now, Ed’ard Wells,
That old pipe offensive smells;
Go and smoke outside,” she yells.
So Teddo Wells, deceased,
Him that once was in the boom,
Wood-heap has for smokin’ room—
A-groomin’ for the priest.

Times I says it’s all a joke
Someone’s puttin’ up;
Me dead-beat and stony-broke,
Me that won a cup,
Owned that bit of property,
Them good horses leased!
Kickin’ round the presbytery
A-groomin’ for the priest!
Choppin’ wood and ringin’ bells,
Curby-hocked and takin’ spells!
Me it is, one Ed’ard Wells,
(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)
Smokin’ hard and talkin’ free
Of the man he used to be,
And groomin’ for the priest.

NORAH O’NEILL

That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel,[9]
And I’m talking the way that I feel,
With her dowdy old hat, and her hair pasted flat,
And her skirt bobbing after her heel;
And there to the church she will steal,
And under the lamp she will kneel
When confessions are done, and there’s never a one
To be heard but that Norah O’Neill.

It annoys the priest’s man a great deal,
And it makes every one boogathiel
At him scraping the floor, yes, and rattlin’ the door
Just to hurry my lady O’Neill.
But there she will squat on her heel,
While over the forms he will steal;
He would put out the light, and close up for the night—
But he can’t for that keershuch O’Neill.

I believe (and I talk as I feel)
When there at the Judgment we kneel,
And, each in his place, is the whole human race—
One half to be sent to the deil—
That, just as they’re setting the seal,
A dust-cloud a glance will reveal
At the end of the day, Jerusalem way;
And you’ll find ’twill be Norah O’Neill,
With her skirt bobbing after her heel,
And we’ll have to go through the whole business anew;
Och, Norah O’Neill is a sthreel.

[9] Slattern; also spelt streel. In the next verse boogathiel means uncomfortable, and keershuch much the same as sthreel.

THE PRESBYT’RY DOG

Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed,
From the ages of Gog and Magog,
At the top of the list, from the last to the first,
And by every good soul in the parish accursed,
Is that scamp of a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He’s a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin,
He’s a demon that travels incog.,
With a classical name, and an ignorant grin,
And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin,
And the rest of him merely a dog.

He is like a young waster of fortune possessed,
As he rambles the town at a jog;
For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest,
While the comp’ny he keeps—well, it must be confessed
It’s unfit for a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,
With the eyes on him standing agog,
And the scut of a tail—well, bedad, it’s a fright;
Faith, you’d give him a kick that would set him alight,
But you can’t with the Presbyt’ry Dog.

His rotundity now to absurdity runs,
Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;
For the knowing old shaver the presbyt’ry shuns
When it’s time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns,
Who’re deceived in the Presbyt’ry Dog.

When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war.
He inspects the whole place at a jog,
And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore,
While he chases the sheep till we’re after his gore,
Though he may be the Presbyt’ry Dog.

’Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went ahead
With an ill-bred and loud monologue,
And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead,
And I’m with him in every last word that he said—
Ah, but wait—’twas the Presbyt’ry Dog.

TANGMALANGALOO

The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,
And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time;
And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,
With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.
Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too
An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?

A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,
And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;
Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin’s rim,
And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;
There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too—
But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.

The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;
He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.
But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;
He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn’t sure of that.
The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,
And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.

“Come, tell me, boy,” his lordship said in crushing tones severe,
“Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?
“How is it that around the world we celebrate that day
“And send a name upon a card to those who’re far away?
“Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?”
A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.

He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,
He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.
And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,
“That’s good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?”
The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew—
“It’s the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.”

THE ALTAR-BOY

Now McEvoy was altar-boy
As long as I remember;
He was, bedad, a crabbéd lad,
And sixty come December.
Faith, no one dared to “interfare”
In things the which concernin’
’Twas right and just to him to trust
Who had the bit o’ learnin’
To serve the priest; and here at least
He never proved defaulter;
So, wet or dry, you could rely
To find him on the Altar.

The acolyte in surplice white
Some admiration rouses:
But McEvoy was altar-boy
In “Sund’y coat-’n-trouses.”
And out he’d steer, the eye severe
The depths behind him plumbin’,
In dread, I wot (he once was “cot”),
The priest might not be comin’:
Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,
No more he’d fail or falter,
But set likewise with hands and eyes
He’d move about the Altar.

A master-stroke of other folk
Might start the opposition,
And some, mebbe, in jealousy
Bedoubt their erudition;
But McEvoy was altar-boy
And, spite of all their chattin’,
It “put the stuns” on lesser ones
To hear him run the Latin.
And faith, he knew the business through,
The rubrics and the psalter;
You never met his “aikals” yet
When servin’ on the Altar.

The priest, indeed, might take the lead
By right of Holy Orders,
But McEvoy was altar-boy,
And just upon the borders.
So sermons dry he’d signify
With puckered brows behoovin’,
An’, if you please, at homilies
He’d nod the head approvin’;
And all the while a cute old smile
Picked out the chief defaulter;
Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eye
Would “vet” you from the Altar.

AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS

There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west, Through the tall, white, slender timber, in the land I love the best. Short its message is—“To Casey’s”—for it points the road to Casey’s; And my homing heart goes bushwards on an idle roving quest, Down the old, old road contented, o’er the gum-leaves crisp and scented, Where a deft hand splashed the purple on the big hill’s sombre crest. Ah, it’s long, long years and dreary, many, many steps and weary, Back to where the lingering dew of morn bedecked the barley-grass, When I watched the wild careering of the neighbours through the clearing Down that sweet bush track to Casey’s, o’er the paddock down to Casey’s; Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees, Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees; Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s— Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease. With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle, Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze; Hearts as buoyant as a feather in the mellow autumn weather, While the noisy minahs cheered to see the glad procession pass— All the Regans and the Ryans, and the whole mob of O’Briens Bringing up the rear to Casey’s—in the Shandrydan to Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Past the kitchen door they rattled and they took the horses out; While the women went inside at once, the menfolk hung about Round the stable down at Casey’s, waiting dinner down at Casey’s; And they talked about the Government, and blamed it for the drought, Sitting where the sunlight lingers, picking splinters from their fingers, Settling all the problems of the world beyond a chance of doubt. From inside there came the bustle of the cheerful wholesome hustle, As dear old Mrs. Casey tried all records to surpass; Oh, there’s many a memory blesses her sweet silver-braided tresses; They were “lovely” down at Casey’s—always joking down at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

So they called us in to dinner, five-and-twenty guests—and more— At the longest kitchen-table ever stood upon a floor. There was plenty down at Casey’s—ay, an open house was Casey’s, Where the neighbour and his missus never, never passed the door; Where they counted kindly giving half the joy and pride of living And the seasons came full-handed, and the angels blessed the store; While the happy Laughing Mary flitted round us like a fairy. And the big, shy boys stopped business, and looked up to watch her pass— Ah, but when she caught them staring at the ribbons she was wearing! Well, they spilled their tea at Casey’s—on the good clean cloth at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Then the reckless feats of daring, and the bushman’s fierce delight When the brumby squealed and rooted, and the saddle-girths were tight! They could ride ’em down at Casey’s—stick like plasters down at Casey’s— When they noticed Mary looking, they would go with all their might; Ho! they belted, and they clouted, and they yelled, and whooped, and shouted, “Riding flash” to “ketch” the ladies, spurring, flogging, left and right! And the lad with manners airy risked his neck for Laughing Mary When he summoned all his courage up a rival to surpass; Oh, the fun went fast and faster, as he landed in disaster In the puddle-hole at Casey’s—with his brand new suit at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hoary, hale, bewhiskered veterans, perched like mopokes in a row, Out of danger on the top-rail, gave advice to those below; They were wonders down at Casey’s, were the old men at the Caseys’— They’re the boys could ride the “bad ’uns” in the days of long ago! Faith, and old man Casey told ’em of a way he had to hold ’em. Man, “the deuce an outlaw thrun him,” when he “got a proper show”; Ay, and each man “upped and showed ’em” how he “handled ’em, an’ rode ’em”— Pshaw! there never was a native these old riders could outclass. Once again they were “among ’em,” and they “roped ’em” and they “slung ’em” On the stockyard fence at Casey’s—smoking, “pitchin’,” down at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hard and cold is youth to fancies which around the old men cling; So they left them perched upon the rail to swap their vapouring, Took a seat inside at Casey’s, on the good chairs at the Caseys’; While the Caseys’ new piano made the old house rock and ring. There their mild eyes stared and glistened, as they sat around and listened To the tuneful little ditties Laughing Mary used to sing; There they rubbed their chins and reckoned that to no one was she second— “Cripes, she’d sing the blooming head off any singer in her class!” And the banter and the laughter when the chorus hit the rafter! It was “great” to be at Casey’s—healthy, wholesome fun at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget; There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet— Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s, Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet, Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner, And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret. Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty, Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they pass Simple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure. There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s— Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew; Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew; We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s— Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two. Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the finger Down the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew. But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder, Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass; Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreaming That I’m back again at Casey’s, with the old, old friends at Casey’s; Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through all my retrospection
On the days when fairies brought me golden dreams without alloy,
When I gazed across the gum-trees round about the old selection
To the big things far beyond them, with the yearning of a boy.

Drab the little world we lived in; like the sheep, in slow procession
Down the track along the mountain, went the hours upon their way,
Bringing hopes and idle longings that could only find expression
In the riot of our bounding hearts upon St. Patrick’s Day.

There were sports in Casey’s paddock, and the neighbours would assemble
On the flat below the homestead, where the timber fringed the creek;
With Australian skies above them, and Australian trees a-tremble
And the colours of the autumn set in hat and hair and cheek.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s; mighty bouts anticipated
Made the Sunday church-door topic for a month ahead at least;
On the cheerless Sundays after, with misguided hope deflated,
We explained away our failures as we waited for the priest.

So when morning Mass was over, it was trot and break and canter
Helter-skelter down to Casey’s, banging, pounding all the way,
And the greetings flung in Irish, and the flood of Celtic banter,
And the hectic flush of racial pride upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Everywhere was emerald flashing from the buggies, traps, and jinkers,
There was green in every garment, and a splash in every hat,
In the bows upon the cart-whips, in the ribbons on the winkers,
In the wealth of woven carpet neath the gums on Casey’s Flat.

There the new dress faced the critics, and the little beaded bonnet
And the feather flowing freely like a sapling in a gale;
And “himself” inside his long black coat that bore a bulge upon it
Where for twelve forgotten months its weight had hung upon the nail;

And the “splather” of a necktie only once a year paraded,
And the scarf that came from Ireland, “ere a one of you were born,”
And the treasured bunch of shamrock—old and withered now, and faded,
Blessed by every tear that stained it since the cruel parting morn.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Men of solid reputation,
Ringing bells and giving orders, kept the programme moving by;
And they made you sickly conscious of your humble situation
When they glared upon your meanness with a cold official eye.

Every “maneen” with a broken voice and backers there beside him,
And his socks outside his breeches, was a hero in his way;
Every nag around the country with a raw bush lad astride him
Was a racehorse with an Irish name upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Oh, the cheering that betokened those I knew so well competing,
With their long legs throwing slip-knots, and the look of men in pain—
Put me back into the reach-me-downs, and let me hear the greeting,
Set me loose in Casey’s paddock, where I’d be a boy again!

Yes, ’twas good to be a pilgrim in a world that held such wonders,
Though eternal bad behaviour put me neath parental ban,
Though the staring, and the wandering, and a score of general blunders
Got me gaoled behind the taffrail of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

“Yerra, Johnnie, stop that gawkin.” Is it—with the pulses pumping,
And the little heart high-stepping to the music of the drum—
Is it “stop it,” with a something in the young blood madly thumping
With a foreword of the purpose of the pregnant years to come?

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Mighty impulse was behind them,
’Twas the sacred spark enkindled that was burning to the bone;
Never yet were men more loyal to the holy ties that bind them,
And the love they gave their country made me conscious of my own.

Never yet were men more loyal. Be they met in thousands teeming,
Be they gathered down at Casey’s with their kindred and their kind;
They are marching on for Ireland, with the beauteous vision gleaming
Of the altar-fires of Freedom in the land they left behind.

Not a torch was ever lighted at a tomb where Freedom slumbered,
But it smouldered—grimly smouldered—till the stone was rolled away;
When it flashed across the half-light, rallying rocket glares unnumbered,
Like the spangled blades of morning that bespeak the march of day.

Not a voice was ever lifted, but an echo never dying
Flung the slogan once repeated when the hand was on the gun;
Though the prophet tongue was ashes, came the conquering banners flying
With a dazzling watchword flashing, blazing signals in the sun.

Yes, the world has ever seen it in its journey down the ages,
Seen it writ in living scarlet in the blood that has been shed;
And a hand re-writes the head-line deep across the lurid pages,
When the stricken, fearless living meet the deathless, martyred dead.

Thrills a leaping thought within me, when I see a land around me
That has never seen the foeman’s steel, nor heard the foeman’s shot,
At whose shrine I lit the tapers, when her witching sweetness bound me
With an iron vow of service of a pulsing pride begot;

To that big free land I’ve given all the love that courses through me;
That her hands have rocked my cradle stirs my heart in every beat.
An Australian, ay, Australian—oh, the word is music to me,
And the craven who’d deny her would I spurn beneath my feet.

Thrills the thought that, did the traitor stretch a tainted hand to foil
her,
Did I see her flag of silver stars a tattered thing and torn,
Did I see her trampled, breathless, neath the shod heel of the spoiler,
And her bleeding wounds a byword, and her name a thing of scorn,

There would flash the living bayonets in the strong hands of my brothers,
And the blood that coursed for nationhood, through all the years of
pain,
In the veins of patriot fathers and of Little Irish Mothers
Would be hot as hissing lava streams to thrill the world again.

THE CAREYS

Their new house stood just off the road,
A fine big brick two-storey,
All gabled, tiled, and porticoed,
To flaunt its owners’ glory.
We never had, to tell the truth,
At Carey’s door alighted,
We had good reasons too, forsooth—
We hadn’t been invited.
But down to Mass we passed the gate,
And passed it, too, returning,
And hid away in mien sedate
The grievance in us burning.
But in the Old Mass Shandrydan—
Well, envy little varies—
We heard “herself” and her good man
Discourse about the Careys:

“Wisha, that big house of Carey’s with its power of fal-de-daries.”
“Faith, he’s in the bank to build it, so I hear the people say.”
“It will break him now to clear it; and it’s grieved I am to hear it;
Wisha, I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day!”

They came here in the early days,
And settled down as neighbours;
With tilted carts and bullock-drays
They shared our griefs and labours.
We tramped it to the old bush school,
In fine or rainy weather;
And there upon the dunce’s stool
We took our knocks together.
But now they stood for “class” among
Our little congregation;
And, as they passed us by, they flung
Mere scraps of toleration.
And sometimes down to Mass they’d bring
Fine strangers holidaying,
Who laughed and gushed at everything
Within their orbit straying.
By soft white hands and modish gowns
They sought the world to measure,
And seemed to think our reach-me-downs
Were staged to give them pleasure.
And, faith, it set the tongues a-wag
And entertained the flippants
To see the fifteen-guinea bag
That held the little “thrippence,”
While in the church they plied the fan
And practised like vagaries;
So in the Old Mass Shandrydan
We gave it to the Careys:

“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-falutin fairies.”
“Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?”
“Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s-on and gigglin’—
Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day!”

They sometimes drove a spanking pair,
Which brought them speed and honour;
They sometimes drove a pacing-mare
With straps and pads upon her;
They covered us with clouds of dust,
As thick as we could wear it;
And we could plod, as needs we must,
And keep the faith and bear it.
When skies were blue and days were bright,
And leaf and bud were sprouting,
They came to Mass in splendour dight,
To make a Sunday’s outing;
But when the morn was blank with storm
And winter blasts complaining,
The Careys kept devotion warm
Beside their fire remaining.
So, while the chilling torrents ran
And soaked our best figaries,
Within the Old Mass Shandrydan
We pummelled at the Careys:

“Wisha, where were all the Careys? Sure the rain might melt the fairies!”
“Faith, and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.”
“That’d be another story; there they’d be in all their glory—
Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day!”

And when we held the big bazaar—
A fine and lively meeting—
And people came from near and far,
In buoyant zeal competing,
’Twas rush and gush and fulsomeness
And Careys superintending;
They raced about in evening dress,
And deftly dodged the spending.
We might have been in Amsterdam,
Or somewhere out in Flanders;
We sold some tickets for “the ham,”
And stalked about like ganders.
So when we gathered up the clan,
And sought our distant eyries,
Within the Old Mass Shandrydan
We blazed it at the Careys:

“Wisha, did you see the Careys, like some wild things from the prairies?”
“Faith, I never met ‘the bate’ of that for many ’n many a day.”
“Sure it’s pounds we would have taken with them tickets for the bacon,
If them thuckeens[10] of the Careys were not always in the way.”

And when the little choir we had
In tender hope was springing,
And nervous lass and awkward lad
Were mobilized for singing,
We all went down our own to hear,
As holy triumph crowned them,
But Careys sailed in shrill and clear,
And silenced all around them;
Our Nellie’s range they quite outran,
And even Laughing Mary’s;
So in the Old Mass Shandrydan
We pitched into the Careys:

“Wisha, did you hear the Careys? Don’t they think they’re fine canaries?”
“Yerra, wouldn’t you think they’d hold the tongues, and let the people
pray!”
“Faith, my head is all a-reelin’ from them Careys and their squealin’—
Wisha, did you hear them shoutin’ there to-day!”

The angels, in their peaceful skies
Through starry paddocks straying,
Must sometimes smile with kindly eyes
To see the tricks we’re playing.
Now rosy-cheeked and smart and fair
Was Carey’s youngest daughter;
And lo, our Morgan did his hair
With mutton-fat and water;
But days and days the lovers spent
On thorns (and roses) treading,
Till down to Carey’s house we went,
Invited to the wedding.
For life’s a fine comedian,
Whose programme shifts and varies,
And in the Old Mass Shandrydan
We smoodged a bit to Careys:

“Wisha, now we’ll see the Careys in their weddin’ fal-de-daries!”
“Faith, I mind the time the Careys slep’ beneath their bullock-dray.”
“Sure, I wouldn’t hurt their feelin’s, though I never liked their
dealin’s;
“An’ if just to please poor Morgan, I’ll be nice to them to-day.”

[10] Celtic for “flapper.”

WHEN OLD MAN CAREY DIED

A night of wind and driving rain,
No light on land or sky—
The sharp squalls shook the window-pane
And scurried loudly by,

When sped abroad the message stern
On cantering hoofbeats borne
That old man Carey “took a turn,”
And might not see the morn.

What though debarred from Carey’s set,
What though ’twas plainly seen
The new house and its etiquette
Had made a gulf between,

What matter if they passed us by
And scorned us heretofore—
We could not spurn a neighbour’s cry
When trouble found his door.

So through the dark, a swinging light
Beneath the axle tied,
The neighbours braved the stormy night
When old man Carey died.

All blank was Carey’s new brick place
As, entering through the gloom
With noiseless step, we just might trace
Within a darkened room

The purple stole that purifies,
The old wife’s stricken head,
The Carey girls, with swollen eyes,
All kneeling round the bed—

We’d move the world to help them, then:
Our feuds were laid aside,
For all were neighbours once again
When old man Carey died.

And, when he’d paid the debt perforce
That every man must pay,
We came again with hearse and horse
To bear him on his way.

We left behind the new brick place
So strangely silent now,
The death-mask on its staring face,
The ashes on its brow;

Slow straggling down the winding road,
Past ripening crops a-sweep
Which old man Carey’s hands had sowed
But other hands would reap,

With slap and tap of unshod heels
We followed one by one,
And fifty sets of idling wheels
Were twinkling in the sun.

With many a tale of deeds unguessed,
Deeds of the early years,
We brought him to his long, long rest
Among the pioneers.

THE PARTING ROSARY