Chapter III: Preface (3)

But ‘Baby,’ the barmaid, her evidence gave--
A poor, timid darling who tried to be brave--
‘Now, _don’t_ be afraid--if it’s frightened ye be--
Speak out, my good girl,’ said O’Hara, J.P.

Her hair was so golden, her eyes were so blue,
Her face was so fair and her words seemed so true--
So green in the ways of sweet women was he
That she jolted the heart of O’Hara, J.P.

He turned to the other grave Justice of Peace,
And whispered, ‘You can’t always trust the police;
‘_I’ll visit the premises during the day,
And see for myself_,’ said O’Hara, Jay Pay.
(_Case postponed._)

* * * * *

’Twas early next morning, or late the same night--
‘’Twas early next morning’ we think would be right--
And sounds that betokened a breach of the law
Escaped through the cracks of the Axe-and-the-Saw.

And Constable Dogherty, out in the street,
Met Constable Clancy a bit off his beat;
He took him with finger and thumb by the ear,
And led him around to a lane in the rear.

He pointed a blind where strange shadows were seen--
Wild pantomime hinting of revels within--
‘We’ll drop on M‘Fly, if you’ll listen to me,
And prove we are right to O’Hara, J.P.’

But Clancy was up to the lay of the land,
He cautiously shaded his mouth with his hand--
‘Wisht, man! Howld yer whisht! or it’s ruined we’ll be,
It’s the justice himself--it’s O’Hara, J.P.’

They hish’d and they whishted, and turned themselves round,
And got themselves off like two cats on wet ground;
Agreeing to be, on their honour as men,
A deaf-dumb-and-blind institution just then.

Inside on a sofa, two barmaids between,
With one on his knee was a gentleman seen;
And any chance eye at the keyhole could see
In less than a wink ’twas O’Hara, J.P.

The first in the chorus of songs that were sung,
The loudest that laughed at the jokes that were sprung,
The guest of the evening, the soul of the spree--
The daddy of all was O’Hara, J.P.

And hard-cases chuckled, and hard-cases said
That Baby and Alice conveyed him to bed--
In subsequent storms it was painful to see
Those hard-cases side with the sinful J.P.

Next day, in the court, when the case came in sight,
O’Hara declared he was satisfied quite;
The case was dismissed--it was destined to be
The final ukase of O’Hara, J.P.

The law and religion came down on him first--
The Christian was hard but his wife was the worst!
Half ruined and half driven crazy was he--
It made an old man of O’Hara, J.P.

Now, young men who come from the bush, do you hear?
Who know not the power of barmaids and beer--
_Don’t see for yourself!_ from temptation steer free,
Remember the fall of O’Hara, J.P.

BILL AND JIM FALL OUT

Bill and Jim are mates no longer--they would scorn the name of mate--
Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;
Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):
Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.

Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die--
Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.
They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flat
And at times in lurid language--they were mates in spite of that.

Bill believed the Bible story _re_ the origin of him--
He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,
Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,
Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.

Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;
Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,
And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white--
And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.

They battled round in Maoriland--they saw it through and through--
And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;
Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up--
Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.
Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,
And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,
Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out--
Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.
They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,
_Re_ conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars
Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’
Jim declared it was too thick, if anything--yet they were mates
Bill for Freetrade--Jim, Protection--argued as to which was best
For the welfare of the workers--and their mateship stood the test!
They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,
And what they said and didn’t--and were mates in spite of all.
Till one night _the two together_ tried to light a fire in camp,
When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.
And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:
_One_ alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.

THE PAROO

It was a week from Christmas-time,
As near as I remember,
And half a year since in the rear
We’d left the Darling Timber.
The track was hot and more than drear;
The long day seemed forever;
But now we knew that we were near
Our camp--the Paroo River.

With blighted eyes and blistered feet,
With stomachs out of order,
Half mad with flies and dust and heat
We’d crossed the Queensland Border.
I longed to hear a stream go by
And see the circles quiver;
I longed to lay me down and die
That night on Paroo River.

’Tis said the land out West is grand--
I do not care who says it--
It isn’t even decent scrub,
Nor yet an honest desert;
It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,
A curse is on it ever;
I really think that God forgot
The country round that river.

My mate--a native of the land--
In fiery speech and vulgar,
Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,
And doubly damned the mulga.
He peered ahead, he peered about--
A bushman he, and clever--
‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;
‘We must be near the river.’

The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest
(God bless one kindly squatter!)
With grateful weight our hearts they pressed--
We only wanted water.
The sun was setting (in the west)
In colour like a liver--
We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest
That night on Paroo River.

A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,
And once I heard him mutter:
‘I’d like to see the Darling now,
‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’
And now and then he stopped and said
In tones that made me shiver--
‘It cannot well be on ahead,
‘_I think we’ve crossed the river._’

But soon we saw a strip of ground
That crossed the track we followed--
No barer than the surface round,
But just a little hollowed.
His brows assumed a thoughtful frown--
This speech he did deliver:
‘I wonder if we’d best go down
‘Or up the blessed river?’

‘But where,’ said I, ‘’s the blooming stream?’
And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’
I stood awhile, as in a dream,
‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘is _that_ it?
‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’
He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!
‘It’s nearly time you came out-back--
‘This _is_ the Paroo River!’

No place to camp--no spot of damp--
No moisture to be seen there;
If e’er there was it left no sign
That it had ever been there.
But ere the morn, with heart and soul
We’d cause to thank the Giver--
We found a muddy water-hole
Some ten miles down the river.

THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT

Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!--you don’t know what it means.
(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you--mine is beef and greens.
Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes--a bucketful.)
I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’

Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;
Bread or brownie, tea or coffee--two hours’ graft in front of that;
Legs of mutton boiled for dinner--mutton greasy-warm for tea--
Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)

Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,
And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.
All day long with living mutton--bits and belly-wool and fleece;
Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,
And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.

* * * * *

Dusty patch in baking mulga--glaring iron hut and shed--
Feel and smell of rain forgotten--water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise--all-pervading sheep-yard smell--
Stiff and aching green-hand stretches--‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell--
Pint of tea and hunk of brownie--sinners string towards the shed--
Great, black, greasy crows round carcass--screen behind of dust-cloud red.

Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,
Picking up for seven devils out of Hades--for my sins;
Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!
Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep--half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from--too damned hot for men or brutes;
Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!

Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;
Blasphemy of five-and-forty--prickly heat--and stink of rams!
‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;
When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.
Injury with insult added--trial of our cursing powers--
Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.

‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’
‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot--just jump down and pick it up.’
‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’
‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’
‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’
‘Fetch my pipe--the cook’ll show yer--and I’ll let yer have a cut.’

Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:
‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) WOOL!!’

* * * * *

Pound a week and station prices--mustn’t kick against the pricks--
Seven weeks of lurid mateship--ruined soul and four pounds six.

* * * * *

What’s that? waiter? _me?_ stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,
I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef--moo-cow--Roast Bullock--BEEF!

THE MAN FROM WATERLOO

(_With kind regards to “Banjo.”_)

It was the Man from Waterloo,
When work in town was slack,
Who took the track as bushmen do,
And humped his swag out back.
He tramped for months without a bob,
For most the sheds were full,
Until at last he got a job
At picking up the wool.
He found the work was rather rough,
But swore to see it through,
For he was made of sterling stuff--
The Man from Waterloo.

The first remark was like a stab
That fell his ear upon,
’Twas--‘There’s another something scab
‘The boss has taken on!’
They couldn’t let the towny be--
They sneered like anything;
They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’
In words that end in ‘ing.’

There came a man from Ironbark,
And at the shed he shore;
He scoffed his victuals like a shark,
And like a fiend he swore.
He’d shorn his flowing beard that day--
He found it hard to reap--
Because ’twas hot and in the way
While he was shearing sheep.
His loaded fork in grimy holt
Was poised, his jaws moved fast,
Impatient till his throat could bolt
The mouthful taken last.
He couldn’t stand a something toff,
Much less a jackaroo;
And swore to take the trimmings off
The Man from Waterloo.

The towny saw he must be up
Or else be underneath,
And so one day, before them all,
He dared to clean his teeth.

The men came running from the shed,
And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’
‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ said
The man from Ironbark.
His feeble joke was much enjoyed;
He sneered as bullies do,
And with a scrubbing-brush he guyed
The Man from Waterloo.

The Jackaroo made no remark
But peeled and waded in,
And soon the Man from Ironbark
Had three teeth less to grin!
And when they knew that he could fight
They swore to see him through,
Because they saw that he was right--
The Man from Waterloo.

Now in a shop in Sydney, near
The Bottle on the Shelf,
The tale is told--with trimmings--by
The Jackaroo himself.
‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;
‘They wouldn’t let me be;
‘They set the bully of the shed
‘To take it out of me.

‘The dirt was on him like a sheath,
‘He seldom washed his phiz;
‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth--
‘I guess I dusted his!
‘I treated them as they deserved--
‘I signed on one or two!
‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observed
The Man from Waterloo.

SAINT PETER

Now, I think there is a likeness
’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,
For he did a lot of trampin’
Long ago in Palestine.
He was ‘union’ when the workers
First began to organise,
And--I’m glad that old St. Peter
Keeps the gate of Paradise.

When the ancient agitator
And his brothers carried swags,
I’ve no doubt he very often
Tramped with empty tucker-bags;
And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,
For I hate explainin’ things,
And he’ll think a union ticket
Just as good as Whitely King’s.

He denied the Saviour’s union,
Which was weak of him, no doubt;
But perhaps his feet was blistered
And his boots had given out.
And the bitter storm was rushin’
On the bark and on the slabs,
And a cheerful fire was blazin’,
And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’

* * * * *

When I reach the great head-station--
Which is somewhere ‘off the track’--
I won’t want to talk with angels
Who have never been out back;
They might bother me with offers
Of a banjo--meanin’ well--
And a pair of wings to fly with,
When I only want a spell.

I’ll just ask for old St. Peter,
And I think, when he appears,
I will only have to tell him
That I carried swag for years.
‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,
‘An’ I done the best I could,’
And he’ll understand me better
Than the other angels would.

He won’t try to get a chorus
Out of lungs that’s worn to rags,
Or to graft the wings on shoulders
That is stiff with humpin’ swags.
But I’ll rest about the station
Where the work-bell never rings,
Till they blow the final trumpet
And the Great Judge sees to things.

THE STRANGER’S FRIEND

The strangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,
To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;
Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts
discard--
But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.

I met him in Bourke in the Union days--with which we have nought to do
(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’
like glue).
He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’
And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s
Friend.’

It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’
For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,
To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul
bakes--
Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were
filled
with snakes.

In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood--in his cynical stages too--
In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was
blue--
From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful
end,
He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.

‘The feller as knows, _he_ can battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d
say--
‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know--send the hard-up bloke this
way;
Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the
bushman
spoke,
The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.’

And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they
scored,
For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the
stranger’s
board--
The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s
bunk,
And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk.

And the chaps and the fellers would speculate--by way of a ghastly joke--
As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first?--the Friend or the hard-up
bloke?
And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned
in the end,
When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s
Friend.

It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think,
He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink,
To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way,
And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say.

At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as
ice,
He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice;
Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose
like smoke,
Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up
bloke.’

They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true.
I have ‘battled’ myself, and _you_ know, you chaps, what a man in the bush
goes through;
Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and
his strength
are done,
That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend has
_one_.

THE GOD-FORGOTTEN ELECTION

Pat M‘Durmer brought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:
‘There are lively days before ye--commin Parlymint’s dissolved!’
And the boys were all excited, for the State, of course, was ‘rotten,’
And, in subsequent elections, God-Forgotten was involved.
There was little there to live for save in drinking beer and eating;
But we rose on this occasion ere the news appeared in print,
For the boys of God-Forgotten, at a wild, uproarious meeting,
Nominated Billy Blazes for the commin Parlymint.

Other towns had other favourites, but the day before the battle
Bushmen flocked to God-Forgotten, and the distant sheds were still;
Sheep were left to go to glory, and neglected mobs of cattle
Went a-straying down the river at their sweet bucolic will.
William Spouter stood for Freetrade (and his votes were split by Nottin),
He had influence behind him and he also had the tin,
But across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God-Forgotten,
‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re living in!’

Pat M‘Durmer said, ‘Ye schaymers, please to shut yer ugly faces,
Lend yer dirty ears a momint while I give ye all a hint:
_Keep ye sober till to-morrow and record yer vote for Blazes_
If ye want to send a ringer to the commin Parlymint.
‘As a young and growin’ township God-Forgotten’s been neglected,
And, if we’d be ripresinted, _now’s_ the moment to begin--
Have the local towns encouraged, local industries purtected:
Vote for Blazes, and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in.

‘I don’t say that William Blazes is a perfect out-an’ outer,
I don’t say he have the larnin’, for he never had the luck;
I don’t say he have the logic, or the gift of gab, like Spouter,
I don’t say he have the practice--BUT I SAY HE HAVE THE PLUCK!
Now the country’s gone to ruin, and the Governments are rotten,
But he’ll save the public credit and purtect the public tin;
To the iverlastin’ glory of the name of God-Forgotten
Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in!’

Pat M‘D. went on the war-path, and he worked like salts and senna,
For he organised committees full of energy and push;
And those wild committees riding through the whisky-fed Gehenna
Routed out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush.
Everything on wheels was ‘rinted,’ and half-sobered drunks were shot in;
Said M‘Durmer to the driver, ‘If ye want to save yer skin,
Never stop to wet yer whistles--drive like hell to God-Forgotten,
Make the villains plump for Blazes, and the land they’re livin’ in.’

Half the local long-departed (for the purpose resurrected)
Plumped for Blazes and Protection, and the country where they died;
So he topped the poll by sixty, and when Blazes was elected
There was victory and triumph on the God-Forgotten side.
Then the boys got up a banquet, and our chairman, Pat M‘Durmer,
Was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker’s bin--
All the dough had risen round him, but we heard a smothered murmur,
‘Vote for Blazes--and Protection--and the land ye’re livin’ in.’

Now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London, ’cross the waters,
And they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End,
But I very often wonder if his toney sons and daughters
Ever heard of Billy Blazes who was once the ‘people’s friend.’
Does his biassed memory linger round that wild electioneering
When the men of God-Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin?
Does he ever, in his dreaming, hear the cry above the cheering:
‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re livin’ in?’

* * * * *

Ah, the bush was grand in those days, and the Western boys were daisies,
And their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print;
Still my recollection lingers round the time when Billy Blazes
Was returned by God-Forgotten to the ‘Commin Parlymint’:
Still I keep a sign of canvas--’twas a mate of mine that made it--
And its paint is cracked and powdered, and its threads are bare and thin,
Yet upon its grimy surface you can read in letters faded:
‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the Land you’re livin’ in.’

THE BOSS’S BOOTS

The shearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’
The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;
They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,
But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware.

_The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!
And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out;
And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots--
But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots._

The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do--
And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe;
And though he changed his pants at times--some worn-out and some neat--
No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet.

The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,
And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;
And tigers might have _heard_ the boss ere any harm was done--
For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one.

But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,
And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe.
He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,
And never dreamed of Boss’s boots--much less of Bogan Bill.

_Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,
Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs,
And keep away from handicaps--for so your sugar scoots--
And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots._

And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:
‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere--
He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots,
He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’

Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat;
He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;
He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,
He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot.

He thought that he’d be fined all right--he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’
The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go;
And Bogan swore amenfully--beneath his breath he swore--
And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before.

And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace,
The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face;
He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,
He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe.

But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,
He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet:
The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,
And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye.

Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt--
You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt--
For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),
And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook.

And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout;
And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out;
He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot--
‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’

The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,
And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots.
They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare,
But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware.

_The rouser has no soul to lose--it’s blarst the rouseabout!
And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out,
And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,--
But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots._

‘Rouseabout’ and ‘picker-up’ are interchangeable terms in above
rhymes, as also ‘boss’ and ‘super’; the shed-name for the latter is
‘Boss-over-the-board.’ The shearer is paid by the hundred, the
rouser by the week. ‘Pink ’em pretty’: to shear clean to the skin.
‘Bell-sheep’: shearers are not supposed to take another sheep out
of pen when ‘Smoke-ho,’ breakfast or dinner bell goes, but some
time themselves to get so many sheep out, and _one as the bell
goes_, which makes more work for the rouser and entrenches on his
‘smoke-ho,’ as he must leave his ‘board’ clean. Shearers are seldom
or never fined now.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE PUSH

As the night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,
From a slum in Jones’ Alley sloped the Captain of the Push;
And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South,
As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth.
Then his whistle, loud and shrill, woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’
And a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks.

There was nought to rouse their anger; yet the oath that each one swore
Seemed less fit for publication than the one that went before.
For they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comes
Only to the men whose childhood knew the brothels and the slums.
Then they spat in turns, and halted; and the one that came behind,
Spitting fiercely on the pavement, called on Heaven to strike him blind.

Let us first describe the captain, bottle-shouldered, pale and thin,
For he was the beau-ideal of a Sydney larrikin;
E’en his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live,
With a gallows-tilt that no one, save a larrikin, can give;
And the coat, a little shorter than the writer would desire,
Showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire.

That which tailors know as ‘trousers’--known by him as ‘bloomin’ bags’--
Hanging loosely from his person, swept, with tattered ends, the flags;
And he had a pointed sternpost to the boots that peeped below
(Which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe),
And he wore his shirt uncollar’d, and the tie correctly wrong;
But I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long.

And the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the kerb,
Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb,
And he begged the Gory Bleeders that they wouldn’t interrupt
Till he gave an introduction--it was painfully abrupt--
‘Here’s the bleedin’ push, me covey--here’s a (something) from the bush!
Strike me dead, he wants to join us!’ said the captain of the push.

Said the stranger: ‘I am nothing but a bushy and a dunce;
But I read about the Bleeders in the WEEKLY GASBAG once:
Sitting lonely in the humpy when the wind began to “whoosh,”
How I longed to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push!
Gosh! I hate the swells and good ’uns--I could burn ’em in their beds;
I am with you, if you’ll have me, and I’ll break their blazing heads.’

‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush,
‘Now, look here--suppose a feller was to split upon the push,
Would you lay for him and fetch him, even if the traps were round?
Would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground?
Would you jump upon the nameless--kill, or cripple him, or both?
Speak? or else I’ll--SPEAK!’ The stranger answered, ‘My kerlonial oath!’

‘Now, look here,’ exclamed the captain to the stranger from the bush,
‘Now, look here--suppose the Bleeders let you come and join the push,
Would you smash a bleedin’ bobby if you got the blank alone?
Would you break a swell or Chinkie--split his garret with a stone?
Would you have a “moll” to keep yer--like to swear off work for good?’
‘Yes, my oath!’ replied the stranger. ‘My kerlonial oath! I would!’

‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush,
‘Now, look here--before the Bleeders let yer come and join the push,
You must prove that you’re a blazer--you must prove that you have grit
Worthy of a Gory Bleeder--you must show your form a bit--
Take a rock and smash that winder?’ and the stranger, nothing loth,
Took the rock and--smash! They only muttered ‘My kerlonial oath!’

So they swore him in, and found him sure of aim and light of heel,
And his only fault, if any, lay in his excessive zeal;
He was good at throwing metal, but we chronicle with pain
That he jumped upon a victim, damaging the watch and chain,
Ere the Bleeders had secured them; yet the captain of the push
Swore a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush.

Late next morn the captain, rising, hoarse and thirsty from his lair,
Called the newly-feather’d Bleeder, but the stranger wasn’t there!
Quickly going through the pockets of his ‘bloomin’ bags,’ he learned
That the stranger had been through him for the stuff his ‘moll’ had earned;
And the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell
(Stars! and notes of exclamation!! blank and dash will do as well).

In the night the captain’s signal woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’
Brought the Gory Bleeders sloping thro’ the shadows of the blocks;
And they swore the stranger’s action was a blood-escaping shame,
While they waited for the nameless, but the nameless never came.
And the Bleeders soon forgot him; but the captain of the push
Still is ‘laying’ round, in ballast, for the nameless ‘from the bush.’

BILLY’S ‘SQUARE AFFAIR’

Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,
And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;
’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declare
That he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’

He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;
The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;
(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’
I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)

He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;
His girl had earned a quid or two--he wouldn’t part with that;
And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper there
He ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’

Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,
And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;
Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,
And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’

She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’
She dressed in style that suited Bill--he could not wish for more.
While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear,
He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair.

To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin,
And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in.
The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take care
In case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair.

He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’
He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods.
They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there--
But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair!

‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash!
I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’--
In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair,
And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair.

And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim,
She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him.
That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air--
The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair.

The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park,
And they, of course, were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark;
A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declare
Gor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’

* * * * *

Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d,
And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard;
Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair,
And in the Sydney ‘Orspital lies Billy’s square affair.

A DERRY ON A COVE

’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;
His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too;
He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap--
‘It’s orful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.

‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as any bloke can see,
It’s just because the p’leece has got a derry, sir, on me;
Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain’t no joke--
It’s cruel when the p’leece has got a derry on a bloke.’

‘Why don’t you go to work?’ he said (he muttered, ‘Why don’t you?’).
‘Yer honer knows as well as me there ain’t no work to do.
And when I try to find a job I’m shaddered by a trap--
It’s awful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.’

I sigh’d and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred,
But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months’ hard.
He only said, ‘Beyond the grave you’ll cop it hot, by Jove!
There ain’t no angel p’leece to get a derry on a cove.’

RISE YE! RISE YE!

Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!
Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!
They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than
brutes!
Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed
boots!
Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!

Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!
Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye? _will_ ye still be
sl-a-a-ves?!!!
Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!
Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!
Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!

Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!
He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;
See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!

Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!
Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!
March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Erwake! er-r-rise!

THE BALLAD OF MABEL CLARE

Ye children of the Land of Gold,
I sing a song to you,
And if the jokes are somewhat old,
The main idea’s new.
So be it sung, by hut and tent,
Where tall the native grows;
And understand, the song is meant
For singing through the nose.

There dwelt a hard old cockatoo
On western hills far out,
Where everything is green and blue,
Except, of course, in drought;
A crimson Anarchist was he--
Held other men in scorn--
Yet preached that ev’ry man was free,
And also ‘ekal born.’

He lived in his ancestral hut--
His missus wasn’t there--
And there was no one with him but
His daughter, Mabel Clare.
Her eyes and hair were like the sun;
Her foot was like a mat;
Her cheeks a trifle overdone;
She was a democrat.

A manly independence, born
Among the trees, she had,
She treated womankind with scorn,
And often cursed her dad.
She hated swells and shining lights,
For she had seen a few,
And she believed in ‘women’s rights’
(She mostly got ’em, too).

A stranger at the neighb’ring run
Sojourned, the squatter’s guest,
He was unknown to anyone,
But like a swell was dress’d;
He had an eyeglass to his eye,
A collar to his ears,
His feet were made to tread the sky,
His mouth was formed for sneers.

He wore the latest toggery,
The loudest thing in ties--
’Twas generally reckoned he
Was something in disguise.
But who he was, or whence he came,
Was long unknown, except
Unto the squatter, who the name
And noble secret kept.

And strolling in the noontide heat,
Beneath the blinding glare,
This noble stranger chanced to meet
The radiant Mabel Clare.
She saw at once he was a swell--
According to her lights--
But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell,
She met him oft of nights.

And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,
She chatted all the while
Of Ingersoll, and Henry George,
And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:
In short, he learned to love the girl,
And things went on like this,
Until he said he was an Earl,
And asked her to be his.

‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,
Oh, say no more!’ she said;
‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,
I wish that I was dead;
My head is in a hawful whirl,
The truth I dare not tell--
I am a democratic girl,
And cannot wed a swell!’

‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forget
That you are most unjust;
’Twas not my fault that I was set
Within the upper crust.
Heed not the yarns the poets tell--
Oh, darling, do not doubt
A simple lord can love as well
As any rouseabout!

‘For you I’ll give my fortune up--
I’d go to work for you!
I’ll put the money in the cup
And drop the title, too.
Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with me
Across the mountains blue!
Hoh, fly with me! _Hoh, fly with me!_----’
That very night she flew.

They took the train and journeyed down--
Across the range they sped--
Until they came to Sydney town,
Where shortly they were wed.
And still upon the western wild
Admiring teamsters tell
How Mabel’s father cursed his child
For clearing with a swell.

‘What ails my bird this bridal night,’
Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee;
‘What ails my own this bridal night--
O love, confide in me!’
‘Oh now,’ she said, ‘that I am yaws
You’ll let me weep--I must--
I did desert the people’s cause
To join the upper crust.’

O proudly smiled his lordship then--
His chimney-pot he floor’d--
‘Look up, my love, and smile again,
For I am not a lord!’
His eye-glass from his eye he tore,
The dickey from his breast,
And turned and stood his bride before
A rouseabout--confess’d!

‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said,
‘And I have loved you true--
A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shed
I learned to worship you.
I do not care for place or pelf,
For now, my love, I’m sure
That you will love me for myself
And not because I’m poor.

‘To prove your love I spent my cheque
To buy this swell rig-out;
So fling your arms about my neck
For I’m a rouseabout!’
At first she gave a startled cry,
Then, safe from care’s alarms,
She sigh’d a soul-subduing sigh
And sank into his arms.

He pawned the togs, and home he took
His bride in all her charms;
The proud old cockatoo received
The pair with open arms.
And long they lived, the faithful bride,
The noble rouseabout--
And if she wasn’t satisfied
She never let it out.

CONSTABLE M‘CARTY’S INVESTIGATIONS

Most unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower orders
Stood a ‘terrace’ in the city when the current year began,
And a notice indicated there were vacancies for boarders
In the middle house, and lodgings for a single gentleman.
Now, a singular observer could have seen but few attractions
Whether in the house, or ‘missus, or the notice, or the street,
But at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actions
Puzzled Constable M‘Carty, the policeman on the beat.

He (the single gent) was wasted almost to emaciation,
And his features were the palest that M‘Carty ever saw,
And these indications, pointing to a past of dissipation,
Greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law.
He (the lodger--hang the pronoun!) seemed to like the stormy weather,
When the elements in battle kept it up a little late;
Yet he’d wander in the moonlight when the stars were close together,
Taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state.

He would walk the streets at midnight, when the storm-king raised
his banner,
Walk without his old umbrella,--wave his arms above his head:
Or he’d fold them tight, and mutter, in a wild, disjointed manner,
While the town was wrapped in slumber and he should have been in bed.
Said the constable-on-duty: ‘Shure, Oi wonther phwat his trade is?’
And the constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall,
But he never picked a pocket, and he ne’er accosted ladies,
And the constable was puzzled what to make of him at all.

Now, M‘Carty had arrested more than one notorious dodger,
He had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads,
But he couldn’t fix the station or the business of the lodger,
Who at times would chum with cadgers, and at other times with cads.
And the constable would often stand and wonder how the gory
Sheol the stranger got his living, for he loafed the time away
And he often sought a hillock when the sun went down in glory,
Just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day.

Mac. had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking,
And could ‘stow away a long ’un,’ never winking, so he could;
And M‘Carty once, at midnight, came upon the lodger poking
Round about suspicious alleys where the common houses stood.
Yet the constable had seen him in a class above suspicion--
Seen him welcomed with effusion by a dozen ‘toney gents’--
Seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politician
Thro’ the gateway of the member’s toney private residence.

And the constable, off duty, had observed the lodger slipping
Down a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide,
Where he’d stand for hours gazing at the distant anchor’d shipping,
But he never took his coat off, so it wasn’t suicide.
For the constable had noticed that a man who’s filled with loathing
For his selfish fellow-creatures and the evil things that be,
Will, for some mysterious reason, shed a portion of his clothing,
Ere he takes his first and final plunge into eternity.

And M‘Carty, once at midnight--be it said to his abasement--
Left his beat and climbed a railing of considerable height,
Just to watch the lodger’s shadow on the curtain of his casement
While the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night.
Now, at first the shadow hinted that the substance sat inditing;
Now it indicated toothache, or the headache; and again,
’Twould exaggerate the gestures of a dipsomaniac fighting
Those original conceptions of a whisky-sodden brain.

Then the constable, retreating, scratched his head and muttered ‘Sorra
Wan of me can undershtand it. But Oi’ll keep me Oi on him,
Divil take him and his tantrums; he’s a lunatic, begorra!
Or, if he was up to mischief, he’d be sure to douse the glim.’
But M‘Carty wasn’t easy, for he had a vague suspicion
That a ‘skame’ was being plotted; and he thought the matter down
Till his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition,
And the man, in league with others, sought to overthrow the Crown.

But, in spite of observation, Mac. received no information
And was forced to stay inactive, being puzzled for a charge.
That the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation,
Tho’ the house would scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large.
His appearance failed to warrant apprehension as a vagrant,
Tho’ ’twas getting very shabby, as the constable could see;
But M‘Carty in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrant
Breach of peace, or the intention to commit a felony.

(For digression there is leisure, and it is the writer’s pleasure
Just to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal fact,
Being forced to say in sorrow, and a line of doubtful measure,
That there’s nothing so elastic as the cruel Vagrant Act)
Now, M‘Carty knew his duty, and was brave as any lion,
But he dreaded being ‘landed’ in an influential bog--
As the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye on
Was a person of importance who was travelling _incog._

Want of sleep and over-worry seemed to tell upon M‘Carty:
He was thirsty more than ever, but his appetite resigned;
He was previously reckoned as a jolly chap and hearty,
But the mystery was lying like a mountain on his mind.
Tho’ he tried his best, he couldn’t get a hold upon the lodger,
For the latter’s antecedents weren’t known to the police--
They considered that the ‘devil’ was a dark and artful dodger
Who was scheming under cover for the downfall of the peace.

’Twas a simple explanation, though M‘Carty didn’t know it,
Which with half his penetration he might easily have seen,
_For the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet,_
_Who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been._
And the constable grew thinner, till one morning, ‘little dhramin’
Av the sword of revelation that was leapin’ from its sheath,’
He alighted on some verses in the columns of the FRAYMAN,
‘_Wid the christian name an’ surname av the lodger onderneath!_’

Now, M‘Carty and the poet are as brother is to brother,
Or, at least, as brothers should be; and they very often meet
On the lonely block at midnight, and they wink at one another--
Disappearing down the by-way of a shanty in the street.
And the poet’s name you’re asking?--well, the ground is very tender,
You must wait until the public put the gilt upon the name,
Till a glorious, sorrow-drowning, and, perhaps, a final ‘bender,’
Heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder-halls of Fame.

AT THE TUG-OF-WAR

’Twas in a tug-of-war where I--the guvnor’s hope and pride--
Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side;
Old dad was in his glory there--it gave the old man joy
To fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy.

A friend came up and said to me, ‘Put out your muscles, John,
And pull them to eternity--your guvnor’s looking on.’
I paused before I grasped the rope, and glanced around the place,
And, foremost in the waiting crowd, I saw the old man’s face.

My mates were strong and plucky chaps, but very soon I knew
That our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through;
The boys were losing surely and defeat was very near,
When, high above the mighty roar, I heard the old man cheer!

I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheer’d for me,
I felt as though I’d burst my heart, or gain the victory!
I shouted, ‘Now! Together!’ and a steady strain replied,
And, with a mighty heave, I helped to beat the other side!

Oh! how the old man shouted in his wild, excited joy!
I thought he’d burst his boiler then, a-cheering for his boy;
The chaps, oh! how they cheered me, while the girls all smiled so kind,
They praised me, little dreaming, how the old man pulled behind.

* * * * *

He barracks for his boy no more--his grave is old and green,
And sons have grown up round me since he vanished from the scene;
But, when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory,
In fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me.

HERE’S LUCK!

Old Time is tramping close to-day--you hear his bluchers fall,
A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;
Some dust’ll fly from beery coats--at least it’s been declared.
I’m glad that wimin has the votes--but just a trifle scared.

I’m just a trifle scared--For why? The wimin mean to rule;
It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.
The days of men is nearly dead--of double moons and stars--
They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars.

No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,
An’ chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.
We’ll laugh an’ joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,
An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes.

Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-sense
Or legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?
Did we prohibit bustles--or the hoops when they was here?
The wimin never think of this--they want to stop our beer.

The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,
But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut;
When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,
An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week.

For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’--in years gone past ’n’ far--
Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;
An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints--
I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.

’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;
And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.
But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant--’n’ buck,
I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’