Chapter II: Preface (2)

And Jim exclaimed: ‘You can smoke, you chaps, but me--Gor’ bli’ me, no!
The push that ran from the George-street traps won’t run from a foreign
foe.
I’ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I’ll stick to what’s
left of Bill.’
And they hiss through their blackened teeth: ‘We’ll stick! by the blazing
flame, we will!’
And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush
How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push;
How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their
rifle-stocks,
And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons--‘rocks.’

* * * * *

In the western camps it was ever our boast, when ’twas bad for the kangaroo:
‘If the enemy’s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too;
They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track,
But they won’t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out
back!’
When we burst the enemy’s ironclads and won by a run of luck,
We whooped as loudly as Nelson’s lads when a French three-decker struck;
And when the enemy’s troops prevailed the truth was never heard--
We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred.

You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the newchum jackeroo,
But ‘cuffs-’n’-collers’ were out that day, and they stuck to their posts
like
glue;
I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then;
We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street
men.
And Jim the Ringer--he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim,
‘Old Heads a Caser’ and ‘Heads a Quid,’ but it never was ‘tails’ with him.
The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished
grand;
He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand!

* * * * *

I’ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade,
With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we
made.
And Billy died--he was full of sand--he said, as I raised his head:
‘I’m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead.
Tell ’em,’ said Billy, ‘and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;’
But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held
him up:
‘I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong,
Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I’d loved so long.
Far out on the southern seas I’ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam,
And oft, when all on the station failed, I’ve driven the outlaw home.
I’ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I’ve made a cheque as quick;
I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our
tick.
I’ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still,
When mother and sister and _she_ were there, and the old man yelled for
Bill;
But, save for _her_, could I live my while again in the old bush way,
I’d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!’
And he passed away as the stars came out--he died as old heroes die--
I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high.

THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER

The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar,
Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown,
Too old and too odd to be drunk with, by far;
And he glides to the end where the lunch baskets are
And they say that he tipples alone.

His frock-coat is green and the nap is no more,
And the style of his hat is at rest.
He wears the peaked collar our grandfathers wore,
The black-ribboned tie that was legal of yore,
And the coat buttoned over his breast.

When first he came in, for a moment I thought
That my vision or wits were astray;
For a picture and page out of Dickens he brought,
’Twas an old file dropped in from the Chancery Court
To a wine-vault just over the way.

But I dreamed as he tasted his bitters to-night,
And the lights in the bar-room grew dim,
That the shades of the friends of that other day’s light,
And of girls that were bright in our grandfathers’ sight,
Lifted shadowy glasses to him.

And I opened the door as the old man passed out,
With his short, shuffling step and bowed head;
And I sighed, for I felt as I turned me about,
An odd sense of respect--born of whisky no doubt--
For the life that was fifty years dead.

And I thought--there are times when our memory trends
Through the future, as ’twere, on its own--
That I, out of date ere my pilgrimage ends,
In a new fashioned bar to dead loves and dead friends
Might drink like the old man alone:
While they whisper, ‘He boozes alone.’

THE CHRIST OF THE ‘NEVER’

With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce
To the awful horizons of land,
Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce
White heat-waves that flow on the sand;
Through the Never Land westward and nor’ward,
Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track,
Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward
The Christ of the Outer Out-back.

For the cause that will ne’er be relinquished
Spite of all the great cynics on earth--
In the ranks of the bush undistinguished
By manner or dress--if by birth--
God’s preacher, of churches unheeded--
God’s vineyard, though barren the sod--
Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed--
Rough link ’twixt the bushman and God.

He works where the hearts of all nations
Are withered in flame from the sky,
Where the sinners work out their salvations
In a hell-upon-earth ere they die.
In the camp or the lonely hut lying
In a waste that seems out of God’s sight,
_He’s_ the doctor--the mate of the dying
Through the smothering heat of the night.

By his work in the hells of the shearers,
Where the drinking is ghastly and grim,
Where the roughest and worst of his hearers
Have listened bareheaded to him.
By his paths through the parched desolation
Hot rides and the terrible tramps;
By the hunger, the thirst, the privation
Of his work in the furthermost camps;

By his worth in the light that shall search men
And prove--ay! and justify each--
I place him in front of all churchmen
Who feel not, who _know_ not--but preach!

THE CATTLE-DOG’S DEATH

The plains lay bare on the homeward route,
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land,
And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.

The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last,
His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,
And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid
His languid limbs in the nearest shade.

He saved our lives in the years gone by,
When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,
And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept
On the silent camp where the drovers slept.

‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said,
As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head;
‘’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near,
And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’

But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’
As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair;
And, strangely vivid, each man descried
The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide.

We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across
The camping pack of the lightest horse,
And raised the dog to his deathbed high,
And brought him far ’neath the burning sky.

At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude
His eyes grew human with gratitude;
And though we parched in the heat that fags,
We gave him the last of the water-bags.

The super’s daughter we knew would chide
If we left the dog in the desert wide;
So we brought him far o’er the burning sand
For a parting stroke of her small white hand.

But long ere the station was seen ahead,
His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead;
And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom
’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.

THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER

The only national work of the blacks was a dam or dyke of stones
across the Darling River at Brewarrina. The stones they carried
from Lord knows where--and the Lord knows how. The people of Bourke
kept up navigation for months above the town by a dam of sand-bags.
The Darling rises in blazing droughts from the Queensland rains.
There are banks and beds of good clay and rock along the river.

The skies are brass and the plains are bare,
Death and ruin are everywhere--
And all that is left of the last year’s flood
Is a sickly stream on the grey-black mud;
The salt-springs bubble and quagmires quiver,
And--this is the dirge of the Darling River:

‘I rise in the drought from the Queensland rain,
I fill my branches again and again;
I hold my billabongs back in vain,
For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain;
And the land grows old and the people never
Will see the worth of the Darling River.

‘I drown dry gullies and lave bare hills,
I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills--
I form fair island and glades all green
Till every bend is a sylvan scene.
I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide!
But in vain I have tried, ah! in vain I have tried
To show the sign of the Great All Giver,
The Word to a people: O! lock your river.

‘I want no blistering barge aground,
But racing steamers the seasons round;
I want fair homes on my lonely ways,
A people’s love and a people’s praise--
And rosy children to dive and swim--
And fair girls’ feet in my rippling brim;
And cool, green forests and gardens ever’--
Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River.

_The sky is brass and the scrub-lands glare,
Death and ruin are everywhere;
Thrown high to bleach, or deep in the mud
The bones lie buried by last year’s flood.
And the Demons dance from the Never Never
To laugh at the rise of the Darling River._

RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS

The valley’s full of misty cloud,
Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud,
The mountain fronts are frowning.

The mist is hanging like a pall
From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall
Starts o’er the valley’s edges.

The sky is of a leaden grey,
Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away,
And night comes o’er us early.

But, love, the rain will pass full soon,
Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon
The sun may set to-morrow.

A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS

’Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin,
These long ‘small hours’ of night,
When grass is crisp, and the air is thin,
And the stars come close and bright.
The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil,
From clouds of a steely grey,
And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale
In the wonderful Milky Way.

There is something wrong with this star of ours,
A mortal plank unsound,
That cannot be charged to the mighty powers
Who guide the stars around.
Though man is higher than bird or beast,
Though wisdom is still his boast,
He surely resembles Nature least,
And the things that vex her most.

Oh, say, some muse of a larger star,
Some muse of the Universe,
If they who people those planets far
Are better than we, or worse?
Are they exempted from deaths and births,
And have they greater powers,
And greater heavens, and greater earths,
And greater Gods than ours?

Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth,
Are they cursed for pleasure’s sake,
Do they make their hells in their reckless youth
Ere they know what hells they make?
And do they toil through each weary hour
Till the tedious day is o’er,
For food that gives but the fleeting power
To toil and strive for more?

THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO

Let bushmen think as bushmen will,
And say whate’er they choose,
I hate to hear the stupid sneer
At New Chum Jackaroos.

He may not ride as you can ride,
Or do what you can do;
But sometimes you’d seem small beside
The New Chum Jackaroo.

His share of work he never shirks,
And through the blazing drought,
He lives the old things down, and works
His own salvation out.

When older, wiser chums despond
He battles brave of heart--
’Twas he who sailed of old beyond
The margin of the chart.

’Twas he who proved the world was round--
In crazy square canoes;
The lands you’re living in were found
By New Chum Jackaroos.

He crossed the deserts hot and bare,
From barren, hungry shores--
The plains that you would scarcely dare
With all your tanks and bores.

He fought a way through stubborn hills
Towards the setting sun--
Your fathers all and Burke and Wills
Were New Chums, every one.

When England fought with all the world
In those brave days gone by,
And all its strength against her hurled,
He held her honour high.

By Southern palms and Northern pines--
Where’er was life to lose--
She held her own with thin red lines
Of New Chum Jackaroos.

Through shot and shell and solitudes,
Wherever feet have gone,
The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes
And Johnnies led them on.

And though he wear a foppish coat,
And these old things forget,
In stormy times I’d give a vote
For Cuffs and Collars yet.

THE DONS OF SPAIN

The Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, as the world goes round,
Must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of the land she found;
For, as in the days when the buccaneer was abroad on the Spanish Main,
The national honour is one thing dear to the hearts of the Dons of Spain.

She has slaughtered thousands with fire and sword, as the Christian world
might know;
We murder millions, but, thank the Lord! we only starve ’em slow.
The times have changed since the days of old, but the same old facts
remain--
We fight for Freedom, and God, and Gold, and the Spaniards fight for
Spain.

_We_ fought with the strength of the moral right, and they, as their ships
went down,
They only fought with the grit to fight and their armour to help ’em drown.
It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their path was plain,
The Church was the Church, and the Pope the Pope--but the Spaniards fought
for Spain.

If Providence struck for the honest thief at times in the battle’s din--
If ever it struck at the hypocrite--well, that’s where the Turks came in;
But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it through in vain--
There’s something great in the wrong that dies as the Spaniards die
for Spain.

The foes of Spain may be kin to us who are English heart and soul,
And proud of our national righteousness and proud of the lands we stole;
But we yet might pause while those brave men die and the death-drink pledge
again--
For the sake of the past, if you’re doomed, say I, may your death be a
grand one, Spain!

Then here’s to the bravest of Freedom’s foes who ever with death have
stood--
For the sake of the courage to die on steel as their fathers died on wood;
And here’s a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless cause again,
For the sake of the days when the Christian world was saved by the Dons of
Spain.

THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM

The shipping-office clerks are ‘short,’ the manager is gruff--
‘They cannot make reductions,’ and ‘the fares are low enough.’
They ship us West with cattle, and we go like cattle too;
And fight like dogs three times a day for what we get to chew....
We’ll have the pick of empty bunks and lots of stretching room,
And go for next to nothing at the Bursting of the Boom.

So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a show:
Then when the Boom bursts is our time to go.
We’ll meet ’em coming back in shoals, with looks of deepest gloom,
But we’re the sort that battle through at the Bursting of the Boom.

The captain’s easy-going when Fremantle comes in sight;
He can’t say when you’ll get ashore--‘perhaps to-morrow night;’
Your coins are few, the charges high; you must not linger here--
You’ll get your boxes from the hold ‘when she’s ’longside the pier.’ ...
The launch will foul the gangway, and the trembling bulwarks loom
Above a fleet of harbour craft--at the Bursting of the Boom.

So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a show;
He’ll ‘take you for a bob, sir,’ and where you want to go.
He’ll ‘take the big portmanteau, sir, if he might so presume’--
You needn’t hump your luggage at the Bursting of the Boom.

It’s loafers--Customs-loafers--and you pay and pay again;
They hinder you and cheat you from the gangway to the train;
The pubs and restaurants are full--they haven’t room for more;
They charge us each three shillings for a shakedown on the floor;
But, ‘Show this gentleman upstairs--the first front parlour room.
_We’ll_ see about your luggage, sir’--at the Bursting of the Boom.

So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a show;
And wait till the Boom bursts, and swear mighty low.
‘We mostly charge a pound a week. How do you like the room?’
And ‘Show this gentleman the bath’--at the Bursting of the Boom.

I go down to the timber-yard (I cannot face the rent)
To get some strips of oregon to frame my hessian tent;
To buy some scraps of lumber for a table or a shelf:
The boss comes up and says I might just look round for myself;
The foreman grunts and turns away as silent as the tomb--
The boss himself will wait on me at the Bursting of the Boom.

So wait till the Boom bursts!--we’ll all get a load.
‘You had better take those scraps, sir, they’re only in the road.’
‘Now, where the hell’s the carter?’ you’ll hear the foreman fume;
And, ‘Take that timber round at once!’ at the Bursting of the Boom.

Each one-a-penny grocer, in his box of board and tin,
Will think it condescending to consent to take you in;
And not content with twice as much as what is just and right,
They charge and cheat you doubly, for the Boom is at its height.
It’s ‘Take it now or leave it now;’ ‘your money or your room;’--
But ‘Who’s attending Mr. Brown?’ at the Bursting of the Boom.

So wait till the Boom bursts!--and take what you can get,
‘There’s not the slightest hurry, and your bill ain’t ready yet.’
They’ll call and get your orders until the crack o’ doom,
And send them round directly, at the Bursting of the Boom.

* * * * *

No Country and no Brotherhood--such things are dead and cold;
A camp from all the lands or none, all mad for love of gold;
Where T’othersider number one makes slave of number two,
And the vilest women of the world the vilest ways pursue;
And men go out and slave and bake and die in agony
In western hells that God forgot, where never man should be.
I feel a prophet in my heart that speaks the one word ‘Doom!’
And aye you’ll hear the Devil laugh at the Bursting of the Boom.

ANTONY VILLA

_A Ballad of Ninety-three_

Over there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of the Vardens,
With a tennis ground and terrace, and a flagstaff in the gardens:
They are gentlemen and ladies--they’ve been ‘toffs’ for generations,
But old Varden’s been unlucky--lost a lot in speculations.

Troubles gathered fast upon him when the mining bubble ‘busted,’
Then the bank suspended payment, where his little all he trusted;
And the butcher and the baker sent their bills in when they read it,
Even John, the Chow that served him, has refused to give him ‘cledit.’

And the daughters of the Vardens--they are beautiful as Graces--
But the balcony’s deserted, and they rarely show their faces;
And the swells of their acquaintance never seem to venture near them,
And the bailiff says they seldom have a cup of tea to cheer them.

They were butterflies--I always was a common caterpillar,
But I’m sorry for the ladies over there in ’Tony Villa,
Shut up there in ’Tony Villa with the bailiff and their trouble;
And the dried-up reservoir, where my tears were seems to bubble.

Mrs. Rooney thinks it nothing when she sends a brat to ‘borry’
Just a pinch of tea and sugar till the grocer comes temorry;’
But it’s dif’rent with the Vardens--they would starve to death as soon as
Knuckle down. You know, they weren’t raised exactly like the Rooneys!

* * * * *

There is gossip in the ‘boxes’ and the drawing-rooms and gardens--
‘Have you heard of Varden’s failure? Have you heard about the Vardens?’
And no doubt each toney mother on the Point across the water’s
Mighty glad about the downfall of the rivals of her daughters.

(Tho’ the poets and the writers say that man to man’s inhuman,
I’m inclined to think it’s nothing to what woman is to woman,
More especially, the ladies, save perhaps a fellow’s mother;
And I think that men are better--they are kinder to each other.)

* * * * *

There’s a youngster by the jetty gathering cinders from the ashes,
He was known as ‘Master Varden’ ere the great financial crashes.
And his manner shows the dif’rence ’twixt the nurs’ry and gutter--
But I’ve seen him at the grocer’s buying half a pound of butter.

And his mother fights her trouble in the house across the water,
She is just as proud as Varden, though she was a ‘cocky’s’ daughter;
And at times I think I see her with the flick’ring firelight o’er her,
Sitting pale and straight and quiet, gazing vacantly before her.

There’s a slight and girlish figure--Varden’s youngest daughter, Nettie--
On the terrace after sunset, when the boat is near the jetty;
She is good and pure and pretty, and her rivals don’t deny it,
Though they say that Nettie Varden takes in sewing on the quiet.

(How her sister graced the ‘circle,’ all unconscious of a lover
In the seedy ‘god’ who watched her from the gallery above her!
Shade of Poverty was on him, and the light of Wealth upon her,
But perhaps he loved her better than the swells attending on her.)

* * * * *

There’s a white man’s heart in Varden, spite of all the blue blood in him,
There are working men who wouldn’t stand and hear a word agin’ him;
But his name was never printed by the side of his ‘donations,’
Save on hearts that have--in this world--very humble circulations.

He was never stiff or hoggish--he was affable and jolly,
And he’d always say ‘Good morning’ to the deck hand on the ‘Polly;’
He would ‘barrack’ with the newsboys on the Quay across the ferry,
And he’d very often tip ’em coming home a trifle merry.

But his chin is getting higher, and his features daily harden
(He will not ‘give up possession’--there’s a lot of fight in Varden);
And the way he steps the gangway! oh, you couldn’t but admire it!
Just as proud as ever hero walked the plank aboard a pirate!

He will think about the hardships that his girls were never ‘useter,’
And it must be mighty heavy on the thoroughbred old rooster;
But he’ll never strike his colours, and I tell a lying tale if
Varden’s pride don’t kill him sooner than the bankers or the bailiff.

You remember when we often had to go without our dinners,
In the days when Pride and Hunger fought a finish out within us;
And how Pride would come up groggy--Hunger whooping loud and louder--
And the swells are proud as we are; they are just as proud--and prouder.

Yes, the toffs have grit, in spite of all our sneering and our scorning--
What’s the crowd? What’s that? God help us!-- Varden shot himself this
morning!...
There’ll be gossip in the ‘circle,’ in the drawing-rooms and gardens;
But I’m sorry for the family; yes--I’m sorry for the Vardens.

SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE

On suburban railway stations--you may see them as you pass--
There are signboards on the platforms saying, ‘Wait here second class;’
And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of running gear
Seem to be for ever saying, saying ‘Second class wait here’--
‘Wait here second class,
Second class wait here.’
Seem to be for ever saying, saying ‘Second class wait here.’

And the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince,
And the second class are waiting--they’ve been waiting ever since.
There are gardens in the background, and the line is bare and drear,
Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering ‘Second class wait here.’

I have waited oft in winter, in the mornings dark and damp,
When the asphalt platform glistened underneath the lonely lamp.
Ghastly on the brick-faced cutting ‘Sellum’s Soap’ and ‘Blower’s Beer;’
Ghastly on enamelled signboards with their ‘Second class wait here.’

And the others seemed like burglars, slouched and muffled to the throats,
Standing round apart and silent in their shoddy overcoats,
And the wind among the wires, and the poplars bleak and bare,
Seemed to be for ever snarling, snarling ‘Second class wait there.’

Out beyond the further suburb, ’neath a chimney stack alone,
Lay the works of Grinder Brothers, with a platform of their own;
And I waited there and suffered, waited there for many a year,
Slaved beneath a phantom signboard, telling our class to wait here.

Ah! a man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine.
God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line;
And the smell of railway stations, and the roar of running gear,
And the scornful-seeming signboards, saying ‘Second class wait here.’

There’s a train with Death for driver, which is ever going past,
And there are no class compartments, and we all must go at last
To the long white jasper platform with an Eden in the rear;
And there won’t be any signboards, saying ‘Second class wait here.’

THE SHIPS THAT WON’T GO DOWN

We hear a great commotion
’Bout the ship that comes to grief,
That founders in mid-ocean,
Or is driven on a reef;
Because it’s cheap and brittle
A score of sinners drown.
But we hear but mighty little
Of the ships that won’t go down.

Here’s honour to the builders--
The builders of the past;
Here’s honour to the builders
That builded ships to last;
Here’s honour to the captain,
And honour to the crew;
Here’s double-column head-lines
To the ships that battle through.

They make a great sensation
About famous men that fail,
That sink a world of chances
In the city morgue or gaol,
Who drink, or blow their brains out,
Because of ‘Fortune’s frown.’
But we hear far too little
Of the men who won’t go down.

The world is full of trouble,
And the world is full of wrong,
But the heart of man is noble,
And the heart of man is strong!
They say the sea sings dirges,
But I would say to you
That the wild wave’s song’s a pæan
For the men that battle through.

THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN

When God’s wrath-cloud is o’er me,
Affrighting heart and mind;
When days seem dark before me,
And days seem black behind;
Those friends who think they know me--
Who deem their insight keen--
They ne’er forget to show me
The man I might have been.

He’s rich and independent,
Or rising fast to fame;
His bright star is ascendant,
The country knows his name;
His houses and his gardens
Are splendid to be seen;
His fault the wise world pardons--
The man I might have been.

His fame and fortune haunt me;
His virtues wave me back;
His name and prestige daunt me
When I would take the track;
But you, my friend true-hearted--
God keep our friendship green!--
You know how I was parted
From all I might have been.

But what avails the ache of
Remorse or weak regret?
We’ll battle for the sake of
The men we might be yet!
We’ll strive to keep in sight of
The brave, the true, and clean,
And triumph yet in spite of
The men we might have been.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

When fairer faces turn from me,
And gayer friends grow cold,
And I have lost through poverty
The friendship bought, with gold;
When I have served the selfish turn
Of some all-worldly few,
And Folly’s lamps have ceased to burn,
Then I’ll come back to you.

When my admirers find I’m not
The rising star they thought,
And praise or blame is all forgot
My early promise brought;
When brighter rivals lead a host
Where once I led a few,
And kinder times reward their boast,
Then I’ll come back to you.

You loved me, not for what I had
Or what I might have been.
You saw the good, but not the bad,
Was kind, for that between.
I know that you’ll forgive again--
That you will judge me true;
I’ll be too tired to explain
When I come back to you.

THE BATTLING DAYS

So, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your pipe and your wife
content,
And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach of the ‘days
mis-spent;’
Grown fat and moral apace, old man! you prate of the change ‘since then’--
In spite of all, I’d as lief be back in those hard old days again.

They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel at
times--but
then,
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard old days again.
The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days when we sowed our own--
(‘Twas little we thought or our friends believed that ours would ever
be sown)
But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and they speak of the hearts
of men--
I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old days again.

We travel first, or we go saloon--on the planned-out trips we go,
With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we find that the life
is slow;
It’s ‘a pleasant trip’ where they cried, ‘Good luck!’
There was fun in the steerage then--
In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vagabond days again.

On Saturday night we’ve a pound to spare--a pound for a trip down town--
We took more joy in those hard old days for a hardly spared half-crown;
We took more pride in the pants we patched than the suits we have had since
then--
In spite of all, I would rather be back in those comical days again.

’Twas We and the World--and the rest go hang--as the Outside tracks we trod;
Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not as a martyred god;
The world goes wrong when your heart is strong--and this is the way
with men--
The world goes right when your liver is white, and you preach of the change
‘since then.’

They were hard old days; they were battling days; they were cruel times--but
then,
In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard old days again.

WRITTEN AFTERWARDS

So the days of my tramping are over,
And the days of my riding are done--
I’m about as content as a rover
Will ever be under the sun;
I write, after reading your letter--
My pipe with old memories rife--
And I feel in a mood that had better
Not meet the true eyes of the wife.

You must never admit a suggestion
That old things are good to recall;
You must never consider the question:
‘Was I happier then, after all?’
You must banish the old hope and sorrow
That make the sad pleasures of life,
You must live for To-day and To-morrow
If you want to be just to the wife.

I have changed since the first day I kissed her.
Which is due--Heaven bless her!--to her;
I’m respected and trusted--I’m ‘Mister,’
Addressed by the children as ‘Sir.’
And I feel the respect without feigning--
But you’d laugh the great laugh of your life
If you only saw me entertaining
An old lady friend of the wife.

By-the-way, when you’re writing, remember
That you never went drinking with me,
And forget our last night of December,
Lest our sev’ral accounts disagree.
And, for my sake, old man, you had better
Avoid the old language of strife,
For the technical terms of your letter
May be misunderstood by the wife.

Never hint of the girls appertaining
To the past (when you’re writing again),
For they take such a lot of explaining,
And you know how I hate to explain.
There are some things, we know to our sorrow,
That cut to the heart like a knife,
And your past is To-day and To-morrow
If you want to be true to the wife.

I believe that the creed we were chums in
Was grand, but too abstract and bold,
And the knowledge of life only comes in
When you’re married and fathered and old.
And it’s well. You may travel as few men,
You may stick to a mistress for life;
But the world, as it is, born of woman
Must be seen through the eyes of the wife.

No doubt you are dreaming as _I_ did
And going the careless old pace,
While my future grows dull and decided,
And the world narrows down to the Place.
Let it be. If my ‘treason’s’ resented,
_You_ may do worse, old man, in your life;
Let me dream, too, that I am contented--
For the sake of a true little wife.

THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS CULTURED CRITICS

Fight through ignorance, want, and care--
Through the griefs that crush the spirit;
Push your way to a fortune fair,
And the smiles of the world you’ll merit.
Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn--
For the chance that Fate denies you;
Win degrees where the Life-lights burn,
And scores will teach and advise you.

My cultured friends! you have come too late
With your bypath nicely graded;
I’ve fought thus far on my track of Fate,
And I’ll follow the rest unaided.
Must I be stopped by a college gate
On the track of Life encroaching?
Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate,
For the lack of a college coaching?

You grope for Truth in a language dead--
In the dust ’neath tower and steeple!
What know you of the tracks we tread?
And what know you of our people?
‘I must read this, and that, and the rest,’
And write as the cult expects me?--
I’ll read the book that may please me best,
And write as my heart directs me!

You were quick to pick on a faulty line
That I strove to put my soul in:
Your eyes were keen for a ‘dash’ of mine
In the place of a semi-colon--
And blind to the rest. And is it for such
As you I must brook restriction?
‘I was taught too little?’ I learnt too much
To care for a pedant’s diction!

Must I turn aside from my destined way
For a task your Joss would find me?
I come with strength of the living day,
And with half the world behind me;
I leave you alone in your cultured halls
To drivel and croak and cavil:
Till your voice goes further than college walls,
Keep out of the tracks we travel!

THE WRITER’S DREAM

A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold--yet the world was dear to him;--
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.

And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and
wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and
gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were
free--
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.

And the last that were born of a noble race--when the page of the South was
fair--
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient
lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such--ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these--and the wise who read shall
learn.

‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows
all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with
glee--
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’

The lines ran on as he dipped his pen--ran true to his heart and ear--
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light--
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book _you’ll_ read!’ he
cried.

He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified--with its pitiful shams--was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could--but they hated the stranger most.

The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate--
I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride--
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)--
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be
passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.

The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland
yet--
‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’

But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth
returned:--
‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn--the rebellious hate
of youth
From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
‘I’ll write my book and it _shall_ be true--the truth of a writer’s heart.

‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale--who never knew want or care--
A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
You may starve the writer and buy the pen--you may drive it with want and
fear--
But the lines run false in the hearts of men--and false to the writer’s ear.
The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,
Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.

* * * * *

‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.
And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish
rule;
Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.
Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!

‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the
World
go west;
For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet--for a roving folk are mine--
‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set--and the camp-fire glow the sign!
‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!)

‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to
me;
‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should
be!
‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve
trod--
‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that _their_
hearts
deem “white,”
‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden
tears!--I’ll write!

‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret--
‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct
yet!
For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the _world_, not _he_,
to blame,
And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the
same;
And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s
right!”’

THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH

If I ever be worthy or famous--
Which I’m sadly beginning to doubt--
When the angel whose place ’tis to name us
Shall say to my spirit, ‘Pass out!’
I wish for no sniv’lling about me
(My work was the work of the land),
But I hope that my country will shout me
The price of a decent brass band.

Thump! thump! of the drum and ‘Ta-ra-rit,’
Thump! thump! and the music--it’s grand,
If only in dreams, or in spirit,
To ride or march after the band!
And myself and my mourners go straying,
And strolling and drifting along
With a band in the front of us playing
The tune of an old battle song!

I ask for no ‘turn-out’ to bear me;
I ask not for railings or slabs,
And spare me! my country--oh, spare me!
The hearse and the long string of cabs!
I ask not the baton or ‘starts’ of
The bore with the musical ear,
But the music that’s blown from the hearts of
The men who work hard and drink beer.

And let ’em strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’
And let them burst out with ‘Lang Syne’--
Twin voices of sadness and glory,
That have ever been likings of mine.
And give the French war-hymn deep-throated
The Watch of the Germans between,
And let the last mile be devoted
To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’

And if, in the end--more’s the pity--
There is fame more than money to spare--
There’s a van-man I know in the city
Who’ll convey me, right side up with care.
True sons of Australia, and noble,
Have gone from the long dusty way,
While the sole mourner fought down his trouble
With his pipe on the shaft of the dray.
But let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’ &c.

And my spirit will join the procession--
Will pause, if it may, on the brink--
Nor feel the least shade of depression
When the mourners drop out for a drink;
It may be a hot day in December,
Or a cold day in June it may be,
And the drink will but help them remember
The good points the world missed in me.
And help ’em to love ‘Annie Laurie,’
And help ’em to raise ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ &c.

‘Unhook the West Port’ for an orphan,
An old digger chorus revive--
If you don’t hear a whoop from the coffin,
I am _not_ being buried alive.
But I’ll go with a spirit less bitter
Than mine own on the earth may have been,
And, perhaps, to save trouble, Saint Peter
Will pass me, two comrades between.

And let them strike up ‘Annie Laurie,’
And let ’em burst out with ‘Lang Syne,’
Twin voices of sadness and glory
That have ever been likings of mine.
Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated
(And I’ll not buck at ‘God Save the Queen’),
But let the last mile be devoted
To ‘Britannia’ and ‘Wearing the Green.’

_Thump! thump! of the drums we inherit_--
War-drums of my dreams! Oh it’s grand,
If only in fancy or spirit,
To ride or march after a band!
And we, the World-Battlers, go straying
And loving and laughing along--
With Hope in the lead of us playing
The tune of a life-battle song!

MY LITERARY FRIEND

Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,
And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine,
First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault;
‘The ideas are good,’ he muttered, ‘but the rhythm seems to halt.’

So I straighten’d up the rhythm where he marked it with his pen,
And I copied it and showed it to my clever friend again.
‘You’ve improved the metre greatly, but the rhymes are bad,’ he said,
As he read it slowly, scratching surplus wisdom from his head.

So I worked as he suggested (I believe in taking time),
And I burnt the ‘midnight taper’ while I straightened up the rhyme.
‘It is better now,’ he muttered, ‘you go on and you’ll succeed,
It has got a ring about it--the ideas are what you need.’

So I worked for hours upon it (I go on when I commence),
And I kept in view the rhythm and the jingle and the sense,
And I copied it and took it to my solemn friend once more--
It reminded him of something he had somewhere read before.

* * * * *

Now the people say I’d never put such horrors into print
If I wasn’t too conceited to accept a friendly hint,
And my dearest friends are certain that I’d profit in the end
If I’d always show my copy to a literary friend.

MARY CALLED HIM ‘MISTER’

They’d parted but a year before--she never thought he’d come,
She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘_Mister_ Gum.’
How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John.’
He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and asked how she was getting on.

They’d parted but a year before; they’d loved each other well,
But he’d been to the city, and he came back _such_ a swell.
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss--
But Mary called him ‘Mister,’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’

He stood and lean’d against the door--a stupid chap was he--
And, when she asked if he’d come in and have a cup of tea,
He looked to left, he looked to right, and then he glanced behind,
And slowly doffed his cabbage-tree, and said he ‘didn’t mind.’

She made a shy apology because the meat was tough,
And then she asked if he was sure his tea was sweet enough;
He stirred the tea and sipped it twice, and answer’d ‘plenty, quite;’
And cut the smallest piece of beef and said that it was ‘right.’

She glanced at him at times and cough’d an awkward little cough;
He stared at anything but her and said, ‘I must be off.’
That evening he went riding north--a sad and lonely ride--
She locked herself inside her room, and there sat down and cried.

They’d parted but a year before, they loved each other well--
But she was such a country girl and he was such a swell;
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss--
But Mary called him ‘Mister’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’

REJECTED

She says she’s very sorry, as she sees you to the gate;
You calmly say ‘Good-bye’ to her while standing off a yard,
Then you lift your hat and leave her, walking mighty stiff and straight--
But you’re hit, old man--hit hard.

In your brain the words are burning of the answer that she gave,
As you turn the nearest corner and you stagger just a bit;
But you pull yourself together, for a man’s strong heart is brave
When it’s hit, old man--hard hit.

You might try to drown the sorrow, but the drink has no effect;
You cannot stand the barmaid with her coarse and vulgar wit;
And so you seek the street again, and start for home direct,
When you’re hit, old man--hard hit.

You see the face of her you lost, the pity in her smile--
Ah! she is to the barmaid as is snow to chimney grit;
You’re a better man and nobler in your sorrow, for a while,
When you’re hit, old man--hard hit.

And, arriving at your lodgings, with a face of deepest gloom,
You shun the other boarders and your manly brow you knit;
You take a light and go upstairs directly to your room--
But the whole house knows you’re hit.

You clutch the scarf and collar, and you tear them from your throat,
You rip your waistcoat open like a fellow in a fit;
And you fling them in a corner with the made-to-order coat,
When you’re hit, old man--hard hit.

You throw yourself, despairing, on your narrow little bed,
Or pace the room till someone starts with ‘Skit! cat!--skit!’
And then lie blindly staring at the plaster overhead--
You are hit, old man--hard hit.

It’s doubtful whether vanity or love has suffered worst,
So neatly in our nature are those feelings interknit,
Your heart keeps swelling up so bad, you wish that it would burst,
When you’re hit, old man--hard hit.

You think and think, and think, and think, till you go mad almost;
Across your sight the spectres of the bygone seem to flit;
The very girl herself seems dead, and comes back as a ghost,
When you’re hit, like this--hard hit.

You know that it’s all over--you’re an older man by years,
In the future not a twinkle, in your black sky not a split.
Ah! you’ll think it well that women have the privilege of tears,
When you’re hit, old man--hard hit.

You long and hope for nothing but the rest that sleep can bring,
And you find that in the morning things have brightened up a bit;
But you’re dull for many evenings, with a cracked heart in a sling,
When you’re hit, old man--hard hit.

O’HARA, J.P.

James Patrick O’Hara, the Justice of Peace,
He bossed the P.M. and he bossed the police;
A parent, a deacon, a landlord was he--
A townsman of weight was O’Hara, J.P.

He gave out the prizes, foundation-stones laid,
He shone when the Governor’s visit was paid;
And twice re-elected as Mayor was he--
The flies couldn’t roost on O’Hara, J.P.

Now Sandy M‘Fly, of the Axe-and-the-Saw,
Was charged with a breach of the licensing law--
He sold after hours whilst talking too free
On matters concerning O’Hara, J.P.

And each contradicted the next witness flat,
Concerning back parlours, side-doors, and all that;
’Twas very conflicting, as all must agree--
Ye’d betther take care!’ said O’Hara, J.P.