Chapter I: Part 1

SOUTHERLY BUSTERS,

By Ironbark

Illustrated By Alfred Clint

With Additional Illustrations by Montagu Scott.

Many of these Scraps were originally contributed by the Author to "The Town and Country Journal,"

"Sydney Punch,"

"The Illustrated Sydney News," and other Australian newspapers and magazines.

JOHN SANDS, PRINTER

1878

NOTES.

a. "Billy," a tin pot for making tea in.

b. Young gentlemen getting their "colonial experience" in the bush are called "jackeroos" by the station-hands. The term is seldom heard except in the remote "back-blocks" of the interior.

c. It was formerly the practice of squatters to give a ration of flour, mutton, and, occasionally, tea and sugar, to all persons travelling ostensibly in search of work. The custom, however, as might have been expected, became frightfully abused by loafers, and has of late fallen into disuse, to the intense disgust of the tramping fraternity in general.

d. The Yanko is a noted sheep-station in the Murrumbidge district (the Paradise of loafers), where travellers were, and, I believe, still are, feasted at the expense of the owners, on a scale of great magnificence, and somewhat mistaken liberality.

e. The utterly refined and unsophisticated reader is informed that to "whip the cat" signifies, in nautical parlance, to weep or lament.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

|I AM assured that something in the way of an apologetic preface is always expected from a "new-chum" author who has had the hardihood to jump his Pegasus over the paddock fence (so to speak), and drop, uninvited, into the field of letters; and so, having induced a publisher, in a moment of weakness, to bring me before the public, it behoves me to conciliate that long-suffering body by conforming to all established rules. I am aware that my excuse for inflicting this work on mankind is somewhat "thin" but, such as it is, I will proceed to state it, as a "plea in bar" against all active and offensive expressions of indignation on the part of outraged humanity.

Having "got me some ideas," as Mr Emmett says in the character of "Fritz," and feeling the necessity for inflicting them on somebody imminent, I tried their effect on my own immediate circle of friends. It was not satisfactory. They listened, indeed, for a while, thinking that I was suffering from a slight mental derangement which would be best treated by judicious humouring. Some even affected to be entertained, and laughed (what a hollow mockery of merriment it was! ) at atrocious puns; but I could see the look of hate steal over countenances which had hitherto beamed on me with interest and affection, and was not deceived.

I saw that friendship would not long survive such a test and desisted; but it was too late. They perceived I had what Artemus Ward calls the "poetry disease;" feared that it might be infectious; knew that it was an insufferable bore to the afflicted party's circle of acquaintances; and--forgot to visit me.

When their familiar knocks no longer resounded on the door of my lodging in -------- street, and their familiar footsteps ceased to crush the cockroaches on the dark and winding staircase leading to my apartment, I bethought me of that institution which I had always heard alluded to as the "kind and generous public." Here, I thought (for I was unsophisticated), is the very friend I am in need of, which will receive me with its thousand arms, laugh with me with its thousand mouths, weep with me with its thousand eyes, and whose thousand hearts will beat in unison with mine whether my mood be one of sadness or of joy; behave itself, in fact, like a species of benevolent and sympathetic Hydra, shorn of its terrors, and fit to take part in the innocent and arcadian recreations of the millenium, when the (literary) lion shall lie down with the critic, and newspapers shall not lie any more--even for money.

During my hunt for that all essential auxiliary, a publisher, without whom the first step on the road to literary distinction (or extinction) cannot be taken, I learnt a few plain truths about my hydra-headed friend; amongst others that he was not to be hoodwinked, and would neither laugh, weep, nor sympathise unless he saw good and sufficient cause. I am in consequence not quite so sanguine as I was. However, I have gone too far to recede, and have concluded to throw myself on the bosom or bosoms of that animal and take my chances of annihilation.

One of my unsympathising friends assured me the other day that my book would certainly send anyone to sleep who should attempt its perusal. I gave him a ballad to read, and watched him anxiously while he skimmed a page or two. _He_ did not sleep--not he, but a raging thirst overcame him at the fourteenth verse, and he begged me to send for a jug of "half-and-half" with such earnestness that a new and dreadful apprehension filled my breast. If this was to be the effect of my work on the Public at large, I should empty the Temperance Hall, and fill the Inebriate Asylum in six months! As I had hitherto prided myself that my work was entirely free from any immoral tendency, I earnestly hoped that his organization was a peculiar one, and that its effect on him was exceptional, and not; likely to happen again.

Sleep, indeed! Would that these pages might be found to possess the subtle power of inducing "tired Nature's sweet restorer" to visit the weary eyelids of knocked-up humanity; that they might become a domestic necessity, like Winslows "soothing-syrup," and "a blessing to mothers;" that the critic--pausing midway in a burst of scathing invective against their literary and metrical deficiencies--overcome by their drowsy influence--might sink in dreamless slumber, and wake to sing in praise of their narcotic properties, and chaunt their merits as a soporific.

In conclusion, I would fain ask thee, gentlest of gentle readers, to look with leniency on the many defects and shortcomings of this volume, and to remember that the writer was long, if not an outcast, a homeless wanderer among the saltbush plains and and sandhills of Australia, and the kauri and pouriri forests of New Zealand; that, for seven years, the prototypes of "Ancient Bill," hereinafter mentioned, were his associates; and that, if these experiences have enabled him to touch with some degree of accuracy on matters relating to the Bush, they have at the same time militated against the cultivation of those refinements of style and language which commend the modern author to his reader, and which are Only to be acquired in the civilized atmosphere of a city.

N.B.--I desire here to thank my friend, Mr. Henry Wise, of Sydney, to whom I am indebted for the design which adorns the cover of the book.

|I beheld a shadow dodging, on the pavement 'neath my

``lodging,

'Neath my unpretending lodging--opposite the very door:

"'Tis that prodigal," I muttered, "who enjoys the second

``floor--

```He it is, and nothing more."=

Answering my thoughts, I stated, "'Tis the artist that's located

Here, returning home belated, seeking entrance at the door--

Coming back from where he's revelled, and, like me, with locks

``dishevelled,

Wits besotted and bedevilled, oft I've seen him so before;

'Tis no rare unknown occurrence, but a customed thing of

``yore--

```Jones it is, and nothing more."=

Certain then 'twas no illusion, "Sir," I said, in some

``confusion,

"Pardon my abrupt intrusion--Mr. Jones, we've met before;

Potent drinks have o'er me bubbled, and the fact is I was

``troubled,

For your form seemed strangely doubled, and my brain is sick

``and sore--

Let us seek my room and cupboard, and its mystery explore--

```There is gin, if nothing more."=

Deep into the darkness glaring, I beheld a radiance flaring,

And a pair of eyes were staring--eyes I'd never seen before--

And, my fear and dread enhancing, towards me came a form

``advancing,

And the rays of light were dancing from a lantern which it

``bore--

'Twas a regulation bull's-eye--"'Tis a (something) Trap," I

``swore --

```"'Tis a Trap, and nothing more."=

Glittering with the P. C. button, redolent of recent mutton,

(Fitting raiment for a glutton) was the garment which he

``wore;

And his vast colossal figure, in the pride of manly vigour,

Looming larger, looming bigger, came betwixt me and the

``door--

Cutting off my hopes of entrance to my home at number four--

```Stood, and stared, and nothing more.=

And his features, grimly smiling, calm, unmoved, (intensely

``riling)

I betake me to reviling, and a stream of chaff out*pour--

"Say, thou grim and stately brother, has thy fond and doting

``mother

Got at home like thee another? Art thou really one of four?

Did she, did she sell the mangle? Tell me truly, I implore!"

```Quoth the Peeler, "Hold your jawr!"=

Long I stood there fiercely glaring, most profanely cursing,

``swearing-- .

And my right arm I was baring, meaning thus the Trap to

``floor--

Straight he grabbed me by the collar, said 'twas worse than

``vain to holler,

That his person I must foller to the gloomy prison door;

"'Tell me, Robert," said I sadly, "must I go the Bench

``before?"

```Quoth the Peeler, "'Tis the lawr!"=

"Shall I be with felons banded, by the 'beak' be reprimanded,

And with infamy be branded?--thou art versed in prison

``lore--

Say not, Robert, that my bread will 'ere be earned upon the

``tread-mill,

That a filthy prison bed will echo to my fevered snore--

Ever echo to the music of my wild unearthly snore!"

```Quoth the Peeler, "'Tis the lawr!"=

Thought on thought of bitter sadness, dissipating hope and

``gladness,

Goading me to worse than madness, crowded on me by the

``score;

Ne'er before incarcerated, how that Peeler's form I hated,

Cries for freedom, unabated--'wrenched from out my bosom's

``core'--

Broke upon the midnight stillness, "Robert, set me free

``once more!"

```Quoth the Peeler, "Never more!"=

Never since the days of Julian was there such a mass

herculean

Clad in garments so cerulean, with so little brains in store;

And I cursed his name, and number, and his form as useless

``lumber

Only fit to snore and slumber on a greasy kitchen floor--

On the slime bespattered boarding of a greasy kitchen floor--

```Fit for this and nothing more!=

And my heart was heavy loaded with a sorrow which

``corroded,

And my expletives exploded with a deep and muffled roar;

But a sudden inspiration checked the clammy perspiration

That 'till now, without cessation, streaming ran from every pore,

And what checked the perspiration that ran streaming from

``each pore

```Was a thought, and nothing more.=

In my pocket was a shilling! Could that giant form be

``willing,

Tempted by the hope of swilling beer, to set me free once

``more?

Tempted by the lust of riches, and the silver shilling

``which is

In the pocket in my breeches, and my liberty restore?

Hastily that garment searching, from its depths I fiercely tore

```But a 'Bob,' and nothing more.=

Wrenched it from my trousers' pocket,

While his eye within the socket gleamed and sparkled like a

``rocket,

```Grimly rolled, and gloated o'er,

Glared upon me--vainly mining in my pockets' depths--

``repining

That its worn and threadbare lining

```_IT_ should press, ah! never more.=

Said I, while the coin revealing, "Robert, I've a tender

``feeling

For the Force there's no concealing, and thy manly form

``adore;

Thee I ne'er to hurt or slay meant; take, oh! take this

``humble payment--

Take thy grasp from off my raiment, and thy person from

``my door;

Though I like thee past expression, though I venerate the

``corps,

```Fain I'd bid thee '_Au revoir!_'=

And I view with approbation that official's hesitation,

For his carnal inclination with his duty was at war;

But that Peeler, though he muttered, knew which side his

``bread was buttered,

But a word or two he uttered, and his choking grasp fore-

``bore--

And he, when his clutching fingers from their choking grasp

``forebore,

```Vanished, and was seen no more.=

Oft at night when I'm returning, and the foot-path scarce

``discerning--

Whiskey-fumes within me burning like a molten reservoir--

In imagination kneeling, oft in fancy I'm appealing

To the kind and manly feeling of that giant Trap once more--

To the tender kindly feeling of the Trap I saw before--

```Vanished now for ever more!=

LINES BY A (PAWN)BROKEN-HEARTED YOUTH.

Oh! take back the ticket thou gavest,

And give me my watch and my ring,

And may every sixpence thou savest

Be armed with a centipede's sting!

O ! uncle, I never expected

`Such grief would result from my calls,

When, hard-up, depressed, and dejected,

`I came to the Three Golden Balls.=

I noticed thy free invitation--

`Enticing (though brief)--"Money Lent

I came to thee, oh, my relation,

`For succour, for mine was all spent.=

Thine int'rest in me was affecting--

`I noticed a tear in thine eye,

Without for a moment suspecting

`How _int'rest_ would tell by and bye.=

It's true I'd been doing the heavy,

`And going a trifle too fast;

I've been a most dutiful 'nevvy,'--

`But, uncle, I know thee at last;=

I brought thee a gun, and a pistol,

`And borrowed a couple of pound,

Then exit, and cheerfully whistle

`In time to my heart's happy bound.=

I thought thee a regular "trimmer,"

`I thought thee a generous man;

I drank to thy health in a brimmer,

`And pretty nigh emptied the can.=

I went with a mob "to do evil,"

`I laughed, and I danced, and I sang;

Bid sorrow fly off to the Devil,

`And care and depression go hang.=

I looked on the vintage that's ruby,

`I "looked on the wine" that "is red,"

But 'twasn't mere looking o'erthrew me,

`Or made it get into my head.=

In spite of the Israelite's warning,

`In spite of what Solomon said,

You may _look_ from the dusk to the dawning,

`And still toddle sober to bed.=

Away with such hollow pretences!

`It wasn't from _watching_ the cup

I lost the control of my senses,

`Or, falling, I couldn't get up.=

Destruction again was before me,

`And empty once more was my purse,

But thoughts of mine uncle came o'er me,

`And withered my half-uttered curse.=

I thought that the mines of Australia

`I'd found in the meanest of men,

And, smoking a fearful "regalia,"

`I sought thine iniquitous den.=

My walk, though a little unsteady,

`Was dignity tempered with grace;

I playfully asked for the "ready,"

`And smiled in thy villainous face.=

I brought thee my best Sunday beaver,

`And gorgeous habiliments new;

My watch--such a fine English lever!--

`I left, unbe_liever_, with you.=

I brought thee a coat--such a vestment!

`'Twas newly constructed by Poole;

I've found it a losing in_vestment_--

`Oh! how could I be such a fool?=

I told thee I hadn't a "stiver;"

`I said I'd been "cutting it fat,"

And coolly demanded a "fiver,"--

`How thou must have chuckled at that!=

Thou wee can'st remember the morning

`Succeeding thy Sabbath, thou Jew!

When cursing the year I was born in,

`I felt the first turn of the screw.=

And, hope from my bosom departing,

`Like dew from the rays of the sun,

My wits the sad news were imparting

`How I'd been deluded and done.=

And, borne on the telegraph wire,

`A message came swiftly to me;

It said that my grey-headed sire

`Was pining his offspring to see.=

How face my infuriate father--

`My property mortgaged and gone?

For darkly his anger will gather;

`I've hardly a rag to put on.=

Thine int'rest I cannot repay thee,

`And gone are my coat and my hat;

Thou hast all my duds--I could slay thee!

`Oh! how could I be such a flat?=

I brought thee each gift of my mother,

`Each gift of my generous aunt;

The pistol belonged to my brother--

`I'd like to restore it, but can't:=

For, uncle, thy fingers are sticky,

`And, if the sad truth be confessed,

Thy heart is as false as the "dicky,"

`Which covers my sorrowful breast.=

I've managed the needful to borrow,

`My watch and my ring to redeem;

I hope that the sight of my sorrow

`May cause thee a horrible dream.=

'Twere joy should I hear that the pistol

`Had burst in thy villainous hand--

While smoking the "bird's eye" of Bristol,

`My breast would dilate and expand.=

I leave thee, for vain is resistance,

`And little thou heedest my slang,

But I'd barter ten years of existence

`For power to cause thee a pang.=

O! had I the wand of a wizard,

`A Nemesis cruel I'd bribe

To torture that Israelite's gizzard,

`And caution the rest of his tribe.=

O! ye who are fond of excitement,

`Ye students of Med'cine and Law,

Be warned by this awful indictment,

`And never give Moses your paw!=

From Moses who spoiled the Egyptian,

`To Moses who buys your old clo',

They're all of the self-same description--

`They take, but they never let go.=

Ye sons of the Man on the Barrel

`(That's Bacchus)--ye "Monks of the Screw!"

Don't mortgage your wearing apparel,

`Or have any truck with a Jew;=

But take to cold water and virtue,

`And never, whatever befalls,

Let any false logic convert you

`To visit the "Three Golden Balls."=

THE ANCIENT SHEPHERD

|The shadows of the River Gums

`Were stretching long and black,

As, far from Sydney's busy hum,

`I trod the narrow track.=

I watched the coming twilight spread,

`And thought on many a plan;

I saw an object on ahead--

`It seemed to be a man.=

A venerable party sat

`Upon a fallen log;

Upon him was a battered hat,

`And near him was a dog.=

The look that o'er his features hung

`Was anything but sweet;

His swag and "billy"a lay among

`The grass beneath his feet.=

And white and withered was his hair,

`And white and wan his face;

I'd rather not have ipet the pair

`In such a lonely place.=

I thought misfortune's heavy hand

`Had done what it could do;

Despair seemed branded on the man,

`And on the dingo too.=

A hungry look that dingo wore--

`He must have wanted prog--

I think I never saw before

`So lean and lank a dog.=

I said--"Old man, I fear that you

`Are down upon your luck;

You very much resemble, too,

`A pig that has been stuck."=

His answer wasn't quite distinct--

`(I'm sure it wasn't true):

He said I was (at least, I think,)

`"A"--something--"jackeroo!"=

He said he didn't want my chaff,

`And (with an angry stamp)

Declared I made too free by half

`"A-rushing of his camp."=

I begged him to be calm, and not

`Apologise to me;

He told me I might "go to pot"

`(Wherever that may be);=

And growled a muttered curse or two

`Expressive of his views

Of men and things, and squatters too,

`New chums and jackeroos.=

But economical he was

`With his melodious voice;

I think the reason was because

`His epithets were choice.=

I said--"Old man, I fain would know

`The cause of thy distress;

What sorrows cloud thine aged brow

`I cannot even guess.=

"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,

`And passion in thine eye,

Expressing anything but grace,

`But why, old man, oh! why?=

"A sympathising friend you'll find

`In me, old man, d'ye see?

So if you've aught upon your mind

`Just pour it into me."=

He gravely shook his grizzled head

`I rather touched him there--

And something indistinct he said

`(I think he meant to swear).=

He made a gesture with his hand,

`He saw I meant him well;

He said he was a shepherd, and

`"A takin' of a spell."=

He said he was an ill-used bird,

`And squatters they might be ------

(He used a very naughty word

`Commencing with a D.)=

I'd read of shepherds in the lore

`Of Thessaly and Greece,

And had a china one at home

`Upon the mantelpiece.=

I'd read about their loves and hates,

`As hot as Yankee stoves,

And how they broke each other's pates

`In fair Arcadian groves;=

But nothing in my ancient friend

`Was like Arcadian types:

No fleecy flocks had he to tend,

`No crook or shepherds' pipes.=

No shepherdess was near at hand,

`And, if there were, I guessed

She'd never suffer that old man

`To take her to his breast!=

No raven locks had he to fall,

`And didn't seem to me

To be the sort of thing at all

`A shepherd ought to be.=

I thought of all the history.

`I'd studied when a boy--

Of Paris and Ænone, and

`The siege of ancient Troy.=

I thought, could Helen contemplate

`This party on the log,

She would the race of shepherds' hate

`Like Brahmins hate a dog.=

It seemed a very certain thing

`That, since the world began,

No shepherd ever was like him,

`From Paris down to Pan.=

I said--"Old man, you've settled now

`Another dream of youth;

I always understood, I vow,

`Mythology was truth=

"Until I saw thy bandy legs

`And sorrow-laden brow,

But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,

`I cannot think so now.=

"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,

`Then very sure am I

The man who wrote mythology

`Was guilty of a lie.=

"But never mind, old man," I said,

`"To sorrow we are born,

So tell us why thine aged head

`Is bended and forlorn?"=

With face as hard as Silas Wegg's

`He said, "Young man, here goes."

He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,

`And told me all his woes.=

He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"

`A flock of maiden-ewes,

And then he'd had a trip to town

`To gather up the news;=

But while in Bathurst's busy streets

`He got upon the spree,

And publicans was awful cheats

`For soon "lamm'd down" was he.=

He said he'd "busted up his cheque"

`(What's that, I'd like to know?)

And now his happiness was wrecked,

`To work he'd got to go.=

He'd known the time, not long ago,

`When half the year he'd spend

In idleness, and comfort too,

`A-camping in a "bend."=

No need to tread the weary track,

`Or work his strength away;

He lay extended on his back

`Each happy summer day.=

When sun-set comes and day-light flags,

`And dusky looms the scrub,

He'd bundle up his ration-bags

`And toddle for his grub,=

And to some station-store he'd go

`And get the traveller's dower--

"A pint o' dust"--that was his low

`Expression meaning flour;=

But now he couldn't cadge about,

`For squatters wasn't game

To give their tea and sugar out

`To every tramp that came.=

The country's strength, he thought, was gone,

`Or going very fast,

And feeding tramps now ranked among

`The glories of the past.=

He'd seen the "Yanko" in its pride,

`When every night a host

Of hungry tramps at supper tried

`For who could eat the most.=

A squatter then had feelin's strong

`And tender in his breast,

And if a trav'ller came along

`He'd ask him in to rest.=

"But squatters now!"----he stamped the soil,

`And muttered in his beard,

He wished they'd got a whopping boil

`For every sheep they sheared!=

His language got so very bad--

`It couldn't well be worse,

For every second word he had

`Now seemed to be a curse.=

And shaking was his withered hand

`With passion, not with age--

I never thought so old a man

`Could get in such a rage.=

His eyes seemed starting from his head,

`They glared in such a way;

And half the wicked words he said

`I shouldn't like to say;=

But from his language I inferred

`There wasn't one in three,

Of squatters worth that little word

`Commencing with a "D."=

Alas! for my poetic lore,

`I fear it was astray,

It never said that shepherds swore,

`Or talked in such a way.=

The knotted cordage of his brow

`Was tightened in a frown--

He seemed the sort of party, now,

`To burn a wool-shed down.=

He told me, further, and his voice

`Grew very plaintive here,

That now he'd got to make the choice

`And _work_, or give up beer!=

From heavy toil he'd always found

`'Twas healthiest to keep,

And mostly stuck to cadgin' round,

`And lookin' after sheep.=

But shepherdin' was nearly "cooked"--

`I think he meant to say

That shepherds' prospects didn't look

`In quite a hopeful way.=

A new career he must begin,

`(And fresh it roused his ire)

For squatters they was fencin' in

`With that infernal wire;=

And sheep was paddocked everywhere--

`'Twas like them squatters' cheek!--

And shepherds now, for all they'd care,

`Might go to Cooper's Creek.=

He said he couldn't use an axe,

`And wouldn't if he could;

He'd see 'em blistered on their backs

`'Fore he'd go choppin' wood;=

That nappin' stones, or shovellin',

`Warn't good enough for he,

And work it was a cussed thing

`As didn't ought to be.=

He'd known the Lachlan, man and boy,

`For close on forty year,

But now they'd pisoned every joy,

`He thought it time to clear.=

They gave him sorrow's bitter cup,

`And filled his heart with woe,

And now at last his back was up,

`He felt he ought to go.=

He'd heard of regions far away

`Across the barren plains,

Where shepherds might be blythe and gay

`And bust the squatters' chains.=

To reach that land he meant to try,

`He didn't care a cuss,

If 'twasn't any better, why,

`It couldn't be much wuss.=

Amongst the blacks, though old and grey,

`Existence he'd begin,

And give his ancient hand away

`In marriage to a "gin."=

He really was so old and grim,

`The thought was in my mind,

That any gin to marry him

`Would have to be stone blind.=

'Twould make an undertaker smile:

`What tickled me was this,

The thought of such an ancient file

`Indulging in a kiss!=

And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,

`That equal justice whirls,

He ought to think of Nick instead

`Of thinking of the girls.=

Then drooped his grim and aged head,

`And closed that glaring eye,

And not another word he said

`.Except a grunt or sigh.=

More lean he looks and still more lank

`Such changes o'er him pass,

And down his ancient body sank

`In slumber on the grass.=

I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,

`And not the sort of coon

To lead a blushing bride about,

`Or spend a honeymoon;=

Or if, indeed, there were a bride

`For such a withered stick,

With such a tough and wrinkled hide,

`That bride should be old Nick.=

As streaks of faintish light began

`To mark the coming day,

I left that grim and aged man

`And slowly stole away.=

And when the winter nights are rough,

`And shrieking is the wind,

Or when I've eaten too much duff

`And dreams afflict my mind,=

I see that lean and withered hand,

`And, 'mid the gloom of night,

I see the face of that old man,

`And horrid is the sight:=

While on my head in agony

`Up rises every hair,

I see again his glaring eye--

`In fancy hear him swear.=

At breakfast time, when I come down

`To take that pleasant meal,

With pallid face, and haggard frown,

`Into my place I steal;=

And when they say I'm far from bright,

`The truth I dare not tell:

I say I've passed a sleepless night,

`And don't feel very well.=

WHERE IS FREEDOM?

|Oh! Mother, say, for I long to know,

Where doth the tree of Freedom grow,

And strike its roots in the heart of man

As deep and far as the famed banyan?

Is it 'mid those groups in the Southern Seas,

In the Coral Isles, or the far Fijis,

Where the restless billows seeth and toss

'Neath the gleaming light of the Southern Cross?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Then tell me, mother, can it be where

The cry of "Liberty" rends the air?

Where grow the maize and the maple tree,

In the fertile "bottoms" of Tennessee?

Or is it up where the north winds roar,

Away by the fair Canadian shore,

Where the Indians shriek with insane halloos--

As drunk as owls in their bark canoes?

``"Not there--not there, my child."

Or is it back in the Western States,

Where Colt's revolver rules the fates,

And Judges lounge in a liquor shop

While Dean and Adams's pistols pop?

Where Justice is but a shrivelled ghost

As deaf and blind as a stockyard post,

And License sits upon Freedom's chair--

Oh, say, dear mother, can it be there?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Is it on the banks of the wild Paroo,

Where the emu stalks, and the kangaroo

Bounds o'er the sand-hills free and light,

And the dingo howls through the sultry night;

Where the native gathers the nardoo-seed

For his frugal meal; and the centipede--

While the worn-out traveller lies inert,

Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Is it where yon death-like stillness reigns

O'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,

Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewes

For the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,

And the most enchanting visions come

To his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,

While the sun rays strike through his garments scant--

Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Or Southward, down where our brethren hold

Those keys of power, rich mines of gold--

That land of rumour and vague reports,

Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz--

Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"

And let in in the way of "scrip;"

Where all men vapour, and vaunt, and boast,

And manhood suffrage rules the roast?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Is it where the blasts of the simoom fan,

The blazing valleys of Hindustan;

Where the Dervish howls, and their dupes are fleeced

By the swarth Parsee, and the Brahmin priest;

Where men believe in their toddy-bowls,

And the transmigration of human souls,

And the monkeys battle with countless fleas

On the twisted boughs of the tamarind trees?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Or is it more to the northward, more

Toward the ice-bound rivers of Labrador,

Where the glittering curtain of gleaming snow

Enshrouds the home of the Esquimaux;

Or further still to the north, away

Where the bones of the Artic heroes lay

Long, long on the icy surface bare,

To bleach and dry in the frosty air?

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

Then is it, mother, among the trees

That shade the paths in the Tuilleries,

Where the students walk with the pale grisettes,

And scent the air with their cigarettes?

Or doth it bloom in that atmosphere

Of mild tobacco and lager beer,

Where gutteral curses mingle too

With the croupiers patter of "_faites votre jeu?_"

``"Not there--not there, my child."=

"Boy, 'tis a plant that loves to blow

Where the fading rays of the sunset go;

Up where the sun-light never sets,

And angels tootle their flageolets;

Up through the fleecy clouds, and far

Beyond the track of the farthest star,

Where the silvery echoes catch no tone

Of a simmering sinner's stifling groan:

'Tis there--'tis there, my child!"

Countless sheep and countless cattle

``O'er his vast enclosures roam;

But you heard no children prattle

``'Round that squatter's hearth and home.=

Older grew that squatter, older,

``Solitary and alone,

And they said his heart was colder

``Than a granite pavin'-stone.=

Other squatters livin handy,

``Wot had daughters in their prime.

For that squatter "shouted" brandy

``In the Township many a time;=

And those gals kept introdoocin'

``In their toilets every art

With the object of sedoocin'

``That old sinner's stony heart.=

Thus they often made exposures

``Of their ankles, I'll be bound,

When they, in his vast enclosures,

``Met that squatter ridin' round.=

Their advances he rejected,

``Scornin' both their hands and hearts,

'Till one day a cove selected

``Forty acres in those parts.=

And that stalwart free-selector

``Had the handsomest of gals;

Conduct couldn't be correcter

``Than his youngest daughter Sal's.=

Prettily her head she tosses--

``Loves a thing she don't regard;

Rides the most owdacious hosses

``Wot was ever in a yard.=

She was lithe and she was limber--

``Farmers daughter every inch--

Not averse to sawin' timber

``With her father at a pinch.=

In remotest dells and dingles,

``Where most gals would be afraid,

There she went a-splittin shingles,

``Pretty tidy work she made.=

And that free selector's daughter,

``Driving of her father's cart,

Made the very wildest slaughter

``In that wealthy squatter's heart.=

He proposed, and wasn't blighted,

``Took her to his residence,

With his bride he was delighted

``For she saved him much expense.=

Older grew that aged squatter,

``White and grizzly grew his pate,

'Till his weak rheumatic trotters

``Couldn't bear their owner's weight.=

Then he grew more helpless, 'till he

``Couldn't wash and couldn't shave,

And one evening cold and chilly

``He was carried to his grave.=

Then that free selector's daughter

``Came right slap "out of her shell;"

Calm and grave as folks had thought her,

``She becomes a howling swell.=

To the neighb'ring township drove she

``In her chariot and pair,

Splendid dreams and visions wove she

``While she braided up her hair.=

She peruses Sydney papers,

``Sees a paragraph which tells

Her benighted soul the capers

``Cut down there by nobs and swells;=

Then she couldn't stop contented

``In a region such as this,

While the atmosphere she scented

``Of the great metropolis.=

Her intention she imparted

``To the neighbours round about;

Packed her duds, farewell'd, and started,

``And for Sydney she set out.=

Now her pantin' bosom hankers

``Spicily her form to deck,

So she sought her husband's bankers

``And she drew a heavy cheque.=

She, of course, in dress a part spent,

``Satins, sables, silk and grebe,

And she took some swell apartments

``Situated near the Glebe.=

With the very highest classes

``In her heart she longed to jine--

Her opinion placed the masses

``Lower in the scale than swine.=

But she found it wasn't easy

``Climbin' up ambition's slope;

Slippy was the road, and greasy,

``To the summit of her hope.=

If into a "set" she wriggled,

``She'd capsize some social rule,

Then those parties mostly giggled,

``Loadin' her with ridicule.=

Many an awkward solecism--

``Many a breach of etiquette,

(Though she knew her catechism)

``Often made her eyelids wet.=

Her plebeian early trainin'

``Was a precious pull-back then,

Which prevented her from gainin'

``Footin' with the "upper ten."=

Strugglin' after social fame was

``Simply killin' her out-right,

So she settled that the game was

``Hardly worth the candle-light.=

Things got worse and things got worser,

``'Till she had a vision strange,

The forerunner and precurser

``Of a most decided change.=

In a dream she saw the station

``Where her father now was boss,

And his usual occupation

``Was to ride a spavined hoss.=

Round inspectin' every shepherd

``With his penetratin' sight,

And those underlings got peppered

``If he found things wasn't right.=

When she saw her grey-haired sire

``"Knockin' round" among the sheep,

For her home a strong desire

``Made her yell out in her sleep.=

Then she saw herself in fancy

``In her strange fantastic dream,

With her elder sister Nancy,

``Yokin up the bullock team.=

Up out of her sleep she started,

``And the tears came to her eyes;

She was almost broken-hearted,

``To her waitin' maid's surprise.=

She was sad and penitential,

``Like the Prodigal of old,

So she got a piece of pencil

``And her state of mind she told=

To her grey and aged father

``In that far outlandish place;

And she told him that she'd rather

``Like to see his wrinkled face.=

Then that quondam free-selector

``Shed the biggest tears of joy;

When he knew he might expect her

``His was bliss without alloy.=

Home came Sarah, just as one fine

``Day in May was near its close,

And the fadin' rays of sunshine

``Glinted oil her father's nose.=

She beheld it glowing brightly;

``Filial yearning was intense;

So she made a rush and lightly

``Cleared the four-foot paddock fence.

Hugged he her in fond embraces;

``Kissed she him with many a kiss;

And she busted her stay-laces

``In an ecstasy of bliss.=

Then she wept with sorrow, thinkin',

``From the colour of his face,

That her parent had been drinkin',

``Which was probably the case.=

But he, when he found his coat all

``Wet with many a filial tear,

Took a solemn pledge tee-total

``To abstain from rum and beer.=

Then she went and sought her sisters,

``Judy, Nancy, and the rest;

On their faces she raised blisters

``With the kisses she impressed.=

And she once more _con amore_

``"Cottoned " to the calves and sheep,

Likewise for her parent hoary

``She professed affection deep.=

Lavished on him fond caresses,

``Stuck to him like cobbler's-wax,

Cut up all her stylish dresses

``Into garments for the blacks.=

All her talents were befitted

``To a rough-and-tumble life,

And from sheep to sheep she flitted

``When the "scab" and "fluke" were rife.=

Sarah's heart was soft and tender,

``Her repentance was complete,

Never sighed she more for splendour,

``For the "Block" or George's-street.=

Many a "back-block" lady-killer,

``Many a wealthy squatter's son,

Wanted her to "douse the wilier,"

``But she wasn't to be won.=

For that free-selector's daughter

``Said, when settled in her home,

She'd be (somethinged) if they caught Her

``Venturin' again to roam.=

THE CATTLE MUSTER.

THE NIGHT CAMP.

|The song goes round, we yarn and chaff,

And cheerily the bushman's laugh

Rolls through the forest glade.

The hobbled horses feed around,

We hear the horse-bell's tinkling sound;

The sand beneath their feet is ground,

As in the creek they wade.

We hear them crunch the juicy grass--

The water gleams like polished glass,

Beneath the moon's bright ray.

Mosquitos form in solid cloud--

They sting and sing, both sharp and loud;

Around the prostrate forms they crowd,

And keep repose at bay.

We watch the stars shine over head,

And lounge upon the bushman's bed--

A blanket on the ground.

Each feels himself Dame Nature's guest,

Our heads upon our saddles rest;

At length, with weariness oppressed,

We sink in sleep profound.

We sleep as only weary ones

Among hard-handed labour's sons,

With minds at rest from debts and duns--

As only these can do--

Until the daylight's first faint streak

Has lightly touched the distant peak,

And o'er us where the branches creak,

Is slowly creeping through.

Reluctantly with sleep we strive,

And hear the call to "look alive"!

We soon desert the camp.

The horses caught and blankets rolled,

The "Super's" brief instructions told--

We mount, and scarce our steeds can hold,

Impatiently they stamp.=

THE MUSTER.

|We ford the creek and need no bridge,

And climb a steep and scrubby ridge,

And then, boys, there's a sight!--

The "gully," by the sun unkist,

Beneath lies rolled in gleaming mist

And flowing waves of light;

As yet untouched by noon-tide heat,

Like rocks where broken waters meet,

'Tis wrapped as by a winding sheet

In billows fleecy white.

Onward, and soon the sun's fierce rays

Will dissipate the morning haze--

He soars in fiery pomp.

We skirt the shallow "clay-pan's" marge,

Force "lignum" thickets, dense and large,

And often-times we briskly charge

Some dark "Yapunya-swamp."

We gather first a quiet lot,

Then off again with hurried trot

Upon our toilsome tramp.

Each gully, range, and hill we beat,

Charge every horned thing we meet--

With ringing shout and gallop fleet--

And "run" then "on the camp."

The shaggy herd increases fast;

We know by lengthened shadows cast

Time too has galloped hard;

'Twill try our powers, howe'er we strive,

This most rebellious mob to drive,

E're night-fall, to the yard.=

THE RUN HOME.

|The order comes,--"Each to his place!"

And homeward now at length we face.

The frightened monsters roar;

Some tear the unresisting ground,

And some with frantic rush and bound

(Half maddened by the stockwhip's sound)

Each other fiercely gore!

We spread along the scattered line,

Some on the "wings," and some behind,

And steer them as we can.

There's but one pass through yonder hill;

To guide them there will need some skill,

And try both horse and man.

Some hidden object checks them there;

The leaders snuff the wind, and glare,

Then bellowing with their tails in air,

Swerve madly to the right.

A stockman hears our voices ring;

With easy stretch and supple spring,

His horse bears down along their wing,

The living mass he wheels:

Too close he presses; at the sight

One "breaks" and bellows with affright;

Dick swoops upon him, like a kite;

The cutting thong he deals;

It falls with heavy sounding thwack--

Such din those mountain gullies black

Have scarce or never heard.

He knows his work, that well-trained hack,

Nor heeds the stockwhip's echoing crack,

And sullenly the bull turns back,

To join the hurrying herd.

"Look out!" a warning voice has said,

"There's 'Mulga,' boys, and right ahead!"

And now begins the rub;

From some their garments will be stripped,

And saddle-flaps and "knee-pads" ripped,

And horses' feet in holes be tripped,

Before they clear the scrub.

You, stockmen from the Murray's side,

Who through the "Mallee" boldly ride,

Beware the "mulga-stake!"

'Tis strong and tough as bullock-hide,

Nor will, like "mallee," turn aside;

But, in its savage, sylvan pride,

Will neither _bend_ nor _break!_

Once through the scrub, we don't care how

Things go; we've got them steadied now

And haven't lost a beast--

And, far as ranges human eye,

The plains are level as a die--

Our toil has nearly ceased.

The Sun goes down, the day-light fails,

But now we near the Stockyard rails--

We've one sharp struggle more.

One half the mob have never been

(Forced from those gullies cool and green)

In "branding-yard" before!

We jam them at the open space;

They ring around, and fear to face

The widely open gate.

Whips crack, and voices shout in vain;

The cattle "ring," and strive again

To force a passage to the plain.

Impatiently we wait,

Till one old charger glares around,

And snuffing cautiously the ground

Stalks through between the posts.

With lowered heads the others "bore"

And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;

And with a hollow muttered roar

Pour in those horned hosts!

Those posts are fourteen inches through--

They creak, and groan, and tremble too,

Before that pouring rush!

They're in at last, the gates are shut;

And falls o'er paddock, yard, and hut,

A calm nocturnal hush.=

In youth he met with sad rebuffs,

``Hard, hard was William's lot,

And most unnecessary cuffs

``And kicks he often got.=

At length one night both dark and black

``A window he got through,

And with fresh _weals_ upon his back

``He joined a whaler's crew.=

He learnt to "hand," and "reef," and steer,

``And knew the compass pat;

He learnt to honour and revere

``The boatswain and his "cat."=

He went to every coral isle

``Down in the Southern seas,

Where dark-eyed beauties beam and smile

``Beneath the bread-fruit trees.=

His foot was firm upon the deck

``As Norval's on his heath;

He dared the tempest and the wreck

``For whale and walrus teeth.=

He braved Pacific foam and spray,

``For oil and bêche-le-mer,

Till he grew ugly, old, and grey,

``An ancient mariner.=

His face got red, and blue, and pink

``With grog and weather stains;

He looked much like the _missin_ link

``When in the _mizen_ chains.=

II.

|Bill Blubber's gone, and he'll be missed

``By all on British soil;

Be aisy now and hold your _whist_,

``He'll go no more for _Hoyle!_=

No more he'll see the billows curl

``In north Atlantic gales;

No more the keen harpoon he'll hurl

``At spermaceti whales.=

Ah! never more he'll heave the log--

``A harsh decree was Fate's;

He took an over-dose of grog

``When up in _Be(e)hring_ Straits.=

Death blew a bitter blast and chill

``Which struck his sails aback,

And round the corse of Workhouse Bill

``They wound a _Union_ Jack.=

A "longing, lingering look" they cast,

``Then sewed him in a bag,

And half way up the lofty mast

``They hoist the drooping flag.=

His mess-mates crossways tossed the yards,

``Askew they hung the sails,

Eschewed tobacco, rum, and cards,

``And filled the ship with wails=

The grief-struck skipper drank some grog,

``Of solace he had need,

And made an entry in the log

``No livin' soul could read.=

And then a ghastly laugh he laughed

``His spirits to exhalt,

And then he called the boatswain aft

``And _mustered_ every _salt_=

The whalers gave one final howl,

``And cursed their hard, hard lucks;

They came, and though the wind was _foul,_

``They wore their whitest _ducks._=

The captain--kindest, best of men--

``Strove hard his breath to catch;

(Crouched like an incubating hen,

``Upon the after-_hatch_).=

He said as how the time was come

``To Bill to say good-bye;

And tears of water and of rum,

``Stood in each manly eye.=

Said he, "My lads, dispel this gloom,

``"Bid grief and sorrow halt;

"For if the sea must be his tomb,

``"D'ye see it aint his _f(v)ault_.=

"' Tis true we'll never see his like

``"At 'cutting in' a whale--

"At usin knife an' marlin-spike,

``"But _blubber_ won't _avail_.=

"Soh! steady lads, belay all that!

``"'Vast heaving sobs and sighs;

"Don't never go to 'whip the cat'

``"For William, bless his eyes!=

"I knew him lads when first he shipped,

``"And this is certain, that

"Though William by the 'cat ' was whipped,

``"He never '_whipped the cat!_" =

The skipper read the service through,

``And snivelled in his sleeve,

While calm and still, old work'us Bill

``Awaits the final heave.=

He had no spicy hearse and three,

``No gay funereal car;

But, at the word, souse in the sea

``They _pitch_ that luckless _tar_.=

Short-handed then those whalemen toil

``Upon their oily cruise,

And many and many a _cruse_ of oil

``For want of Bill they lose.=

The mate and captain in despair

``His cruel fate deplore;

His mess-mates swore they never were

``In such a _mess_ before.=

The crew, who had a bitter cup

``To drink with their salt-horse,

When next they hauled the mainsel up,

``Bewailed his _missin corse_. *=

```*Mizen-course o' course.

Alas! his corpse had downward sunk,

``His soul hath upward sped,

And Will hath left a sailor's 'bunk'

``To share an oyster's bed.=

We hope his resting place will suit--

``We trust he's happy now--

Laid where the pigs can never root,

``Lulled by the ocean's sough.=

_This_ Christmas-eve? This stifling night?

``The leaves upon the trees?

The temperature by Farenheit

``Some ninety odd degrees?=

Ah me! my thoughts were off at score

``To Christmases I've passed,

Before upon this Southern shore

``My weary lot was cast.=

To Christmases of ice and snow,

``And stormy nights and dark;

To holly-boughs and mistletoe,

``And skating in the Park=

To vast yule-logs and yellow fogs

``Of the vanished days of yore--

To the keen white frost, and the home that's lost,

``The home that's mine no more.=

'Twas passing nice through snow and ice

``To drive to distant "hops,"

But here, alas! the only ice

``Is in the bars and shops!=

I've Christmased since those palmy days

``In many a varied spot,

And suffered many a weary phase

``Of Christmas cold and hot.=

When cherished hopes were stricken down-

``Hopes born but to be lost--

And when the world's chill blighting frown

``Seemed colder than the frost.=

'Tis hard to watch--when from within

``The heart all hope has flown--

The old year out, the new year in,

``Unfriended and alone=

When whispers seem to rise and tell

``Of scenes you used to know--

You almost hear the very bells

``You heard so long ago.=

I've Christmased in a leaky tub

``Where briny billows roll,

And Christmased in the Mulga scrub

``Beside a water-hole.=

With ague in my aching joints,

``And in my quivering bones;

My bed, the rough uneven points

``Of sharp and jaggèd stones.=

Where life a weary burden was

``With all the varied breeds

Of creeping things with pointed stings,

``And snakes, and centipedes.=

'Twas not a happy Christmas that:

``How can one happy be

With bull-dog ants inside your hat,

``And black ants in your tea?=

Australian child, what cans't thou know

``Of Christmas in its prime?

Not flower-wreathed, but wreathed in snow,

``As in yon northern clime.=

Thou hast not seen the vales and dells

``Arrayed in gleaming white,

Nor heard the sledge's silver bells

``Go tinkling through the night.=

For thee no glittering snow-storm whirls;

``Thou hast instead of this

Only the dust-storm's eddying swirls--

``The hot-wind's scalding kiss!=

What can'st thou know of frozen lakes,

``Or Hyde--that Park divine?

For, though by no means lacking _snakes_,

``Thou hast no "_Serpentine_."=

Thou hast not panted, yearned to cut

``Strange figures out with skates,

Nor practised in the water-butt,

``Nor heard those dismal "waits."=

For thee no "waits" lugubrious voice

``Breaks forth in plaintive wail;

Rejoice, Australian child, rejoice!

``That balances the scale.=

*****

I see in fancy once again

``The London streets at night--

Trafalgar square, St. Martin's Lane--

``Each well remembered sight.=

Past twelve! and Nature's winding-sheet

``Is over street and square,

And silently now fall the feet,

``Of those who linger there.=

I see a wretch with hunger bold

``(An Ishmaelite 'mong men)

Crawl from some hovel dark and cold--

``Some foul polluted den--=

A wretch who never learnt to pray,

``And wearily he drags

His life along from day to day

``In wretchedness and rags.=

I see a wandering carriage lamp

``Glide silently and slow;

The night-policeman's heavy tramp

``Is muffled by the snow.=

I hear the mournful chaunt ascend

``('Tis meaningless to you)

"We're frozen out, hard-working men,

``We've got no work to do!"=

All, all the many sounds and sights

``Come trooping through my brain

Of London streets, and winter nights,

``And pleasure mixed with pain.=

Be happy you who have a home,

``Be happy while you may,

For sorrow's ever quick to come,

``And slow to pass away.=

Your churches and your dwellings deck

``With ferns and flowers fair;

I would not breathe a word to check

``The mirth I cannot share.=

For, though my barque's a shattered hull,

``And I could be at best

But like the famed Egyptian skull,

``A mirth-destroying guest,=

I would not play the cynic's part,

``Nor at _thy_ pleasure sneer--

I wish thee, Reader, from my heart,

``A happy, glad New year.=

ECHO VERSES.

|Some years ago I chanced upon a magazine article containing a dissertation upon a now almost obsolete kind of versification, much affected by Ben Jonson and some of the last century poets, in which the first two or three lines of each verse ask a question, and the echo of the concluding words gives an answer more or less appropriate. An amusing example was given in the article above mentioned, which was equally rough on the great violinist of the past and his audience, thus:

``"What are they who pay six guineas

``To hear a string of Paganini's?"

```(Echo) "_Pack 'o ninnies!_"

I read this and a few other examples, and was straightway stricken with a desire to emulate this eccentric and somewhat difficult species of versification, and now with considerable diffidence, and a choking prayer for mercy at the hands of the critic, I lay my attempt before the reader. The following echo-verses are not on any account whatever to be understood as reflecting on the present or any past Government of this Colony. They are merely to be taken as shadowing forth a state of things possible in the remote future.

WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE AUTHOR.

Author, musing:

`Our land hath peace, prosperity, and rhino,

``And Legislators true, and staunch, and tried--

`What trait have they, that is not pure--divine oh?

```(Echo interposing) "_I know!_"

``What is it, if thus closely thou hast pried?

```"_Pride!_"

`If thus into their hearts thou hast been prying,

``Thy version of the matter prithee paint;

`Tell us, I pray, on what are they relying?

```"_Lying!_"

``I thought their honour was without a taint--

```"' _Taint!_"

`Have they forgotten all their former glories?

``Their virtue--what hath chanced its growth to stunt?

`Oh! wherefore should they change their ancient mores?

```"_More ease!_"

``What weapon makes the sword of Justice blunt?

```"_Blunt!_" *

```* Coin

Thou would'st not speak thus, wert thou now before 'em:

``Why do I heed, why listen to thy tale?

Can'st purchase, then, the honour of the Forum?

```_For Rum!_"

``And what would blind Dame Justice with her scale?

```"_Ale!"_

Beware! the fame of Senators thou'rt crushing!

``Too flippantly thou givest each retort.

What are they doing while for their shame I'm blushing?

```"_Lushing!_"

``And drinking?--pray continue thy report--

```_Port_

Curse on these seeds of death, and those who sow them

`But there's another thing I'd fain be told--

What of the masses, the canaille below them?

```"_B-low them!_"

`Thou flippant one! how is the mob consoled?

"_Sold!_"

Now, by stout Alexander's sword, or

`Rather by his Holiness the Pope!

``By what means keep they matters in this order?

```"_Sawder!_"

``With what do they sustain the people's hope?

```"_Soap!_"

Take they indeed no passing thought, no care or

`Heed of what for safety should be done?

What brought about this modern Reign of Terror?

```"_Error!_"

`Is there no hope for thee, my land, mine own?

```"_None!"_

Base love of liquor, ease, and lucre, this it

`Is which coileth round her, link on link;

Dark is her hope, e'en as the grave we visit!

```"`_Is it?_"

`Of what black illustration can I think?

```"_Ink!_"

Alas my country! shall I not undeceive her?