human
Can you write me a poem about roundabout in the style of John Richard Green?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about roundabout in the style of John Richard Green:
  reissued as Roundabout (1935)
A very charming gentleman, as old as old could be,
Stared a while, and glared a while, and then he said to me:
"Read your books, and heed your books, and put your books away,
For you will surely need your books upon a later day."
And then he wheezed and then he sneezed, and gave me such a look.
A very charming gentleman, indeed, he seemed to be.
He heaved a sigh and wiped his eye, and then he said to me:
"Take your books and make your books companions--never toys;
For they who so forsake their books grow into gawky boys."
I don't know who he was. Do you? he snuffled at the end;
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Your book should be your friend."
To all good children over four
And under four-and-eighty
Be you not over-prone to pore
On matters grave and weighty.
Mayhap you'll find within this book
Some touch of Youth's rare clowning,
If you will condescend to look
And not descend to frowning.
The mind of one small boy may hold
Odd fancies and inviting,
To guide a hand unsure and old
That moves, these days, to writing.
For hair once bright, in days of yore,
Grows grey (or somewhat slaty),
And now, alas, he's over four,
Though under four-and-eighty.
You and I
The Boy who Rode into the Sunset
The Tram-man
The Axe-man
I'd like to be a baker, and come when morning breaks,
Calling out, "Beeay-ko!" (that's the sound he makes)--
Riding in a rattle-cart that jogs and jolts and shakes,
Selling all the sweetest things a baker ever bakes;
Currant-buns and brandy-snaps, pastry all in flakes;
But I wouldn't be a baker if . . .
I couldn't eat the cakes.
Would you?
What do you think I saw to-day when I arose at dawn?
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn!
Bobbing here, and bowing there, gossiping away,
And how I wished that you were there to see the merry play!
But you were snug abed, my boy, blankets to your chin,
Nor dreamed of dancing birds without or sunbeams dancing in.
Merry little fairy folk, dancing up and down,
Blue bonnet, yellow skirt, cloaks of grey and brown,
Underneath the wattle-tree, silver in the dawn,
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn.
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, where go you to-day?'
I go to Cuppacumalonga, fifty miles away;
Over plains where Summer rains have sung a song of glee,
Over hills where laughing rills go seeking for the sea,
I go to Cuppacumalonga, to my brother Bill.
Then come along, ah, come along!
Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga!
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, how do you get there?'
For twenty miles I amble on upon my pony mare,
The walk awhile and talk awhile to country men I know,
Then up to ride a mile beside a team that travels slow,
And last to Cuppacumalonga, riding with a will.
Then come along, ah, come along!
Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga!
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, what do you do then?'
I camp beneath a kurrajong with three good cattle-men;
Then off away at break of day, with strong hands on the reins,
To laugh and sing while mustering the cattle on the plains--
For up to Cuppacumalonga life is jolly still.
Then come along, ah, come along!
Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga!
'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, how may I go too?'
I'll saddle up my creamy colt and he shall carry you--
My creamy colt who will not bolt, who does not shy nor kick--
We'll pack the load and take the road and travel very quick.
And if the day brings work or play we'll meet it with a will.
Come Along, ah, come along!
Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!
Oh, he was old and he was spare;
His bushy whiskers and his hair
Were all fussed up and very grey
He said he'd come a long, long way
And had a long, long way to go.
Each boot was broken at the toe,
And he'd a swag upon his back.
His billy-can, as black as black,
Was just the thing for making tea
At picnics, so it seemed to me.
'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread,
He told me.  Then he shook his head,
And all the little corks that hung
Around his hat-brim danced and swung
And bobbed about his face; and when
I laughed he made them dance again.
He said they were for keeping flies--
"The pesky varmints"--from his eyes.
He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see
The best days of your life," said he.
"But days will come to bend your back,
And, when they come, keep off the track.
Keep off, young codger, if you can."
He seemed a funny sort of man.
He told me that he wanted work,
But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke,
And he supposed he'd have to go
Another fifty mile or so.
"Nigh all my life the track I've walked,"
He said.  I liked the way he talked.
And oh, the places he had seen!
I don't know where he had not been--
On every road, in every town,
All through the country, up and down.
"Young codger, shun the track," he said.
And put his hand upon my head.
I noticed, then, that his old eyes
Were very blue and very wise.
"Ay, once I was a little lad,"
He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.
I sometimes think: When I'm a man,
I'll get a good black billy-can
And hang some corks around my hat,
And lead a jolly life like that.
Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam--
To fare away far away, far away from home.
He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent
To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went--
Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone,
Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone,
Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high,
Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky,
Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss,
Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across.
'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread,
He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed.
His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent,
And so he turned around again and here's the way he went--
Back away from desert lands feet and feet across,
Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss,
Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky,
Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high,
Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone,
Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone.
A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam,
He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.
Flippity-flop!  Flippity-flop!
Here comes the butcher to bring us a chop
Cantering, cantering down the wide street
On his little bay mare with the funny white feet;
Cantering, cantering out to the farm,
Stripes on his apron and basket on arm.
Run to the window and tell him to stop--
Flippity-flop!  Flippity-flop!
Harry was a funny man, Harry was a hatter;
He ate his lunch at breakfast time and said it didn't matter.
He made a pot of melon jam and put it on a shelf,
For he was fond of sugar things and living by himself.
He built a fire of bracken and a blue-gum log,
And he sat all night beside it with his big--black--dog.
I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street,
Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet,
Ringing every door-bell all along my beat,
In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat.
Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat;
But I wouldn't be a postman if . . .
The walking hurt my feet.
Would you?
As I rode in to Burrumbeet,
I met a man with funny feet;
And, when I paused to ask him why
His feet were strange, he rolled his eye
And said the rain would spoil the wheat;
So I rode on to Burrumbeet.
As I rode in to Beetaloo,
I met a man whose nose was blue;
And when I asked him how he got
A nose like that, he answered, "What
Do bullocks mean when they say 'Moo'?"
So I rode on to Beetaloo.
As I rode in to Ballarat,
I met a man who wore no hat;
And, when I said he might take cold,
He cried, "The hills are quite as old
As yonder plains, but not so flat."
So I rode on to Ballarat.
As I rode in to Gundagai,
I met a man and passed him by
Without a nod, without a word.
He turned, and said he'd never heard
Or seen a man so wise as I.
But I rode on to Gundagai.
As I rode homeward, full of doubt,
I met a stranger riding out:
A foolish man he seemed to me;
But, "Nay, I am yourself," said he,
"Just as you were when you rode out."
So I rode homeward, free of doubt.
In our street, the main street
Running thro' the town,
You see a lot of busy folk
Going up and down:
Bag men and basket men,
Men with loads of hay,
Buying things and selling things
And carting things away.
The butcher is a funny man,
The baker is a cross man,
I think he's often sick;
The fruiterer's a nice man,
He gives me apples, too;
The grocer says, "Good morning, boy,
What can I do for you?"
Of all the men in our street
I like the cobbler best,
Tapping, tapping at his last
Without a minute's rest;
Talking all the time he taps,
Driving in the nails,
Smiling with his old grey eyes--
(Hush) . . .  telling fairy tales.
This is the rhyme:
A great mother mountain, and kindly is she,
Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea.
And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap,
Is a little red house, with a little straw cap
That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high,
And a bunch of red roses cocked over one eye.
Now, Sym was a tinker--a travelling tinker. He would do a little
company, but now and then Emily Ann went with Sym for a trip, and
But the Little Red House wouldn't say a word.
"You certainly do seem as if you had a pain somewhere," said the
Blue-gum. "And you look funny. You ought to see yourself!"
"I hope they aren't ill-treating you," said the Blue-gum.
"They are going to leave me!" sighed the Little Red House.
"Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
All the broad earth is the tinkering man's--
The green leafy lane or the fields are his home,
The road or the river, where'er he way roam.
He roves for a living and rests where he can.
Then bring out your kettle! ho! kettle or pan!"
But the Little Red House wouldn't say a word.
But the Little Red House wouldn't say a word.
The Little Red House watched them go down the mountain.
"Cheer up!" said the big Blue-gum.
But the Little Red House couldn't say a word.
Presently the big Blue-gum groaned loudly.
"Oo! Ah! Ah! Golly!" groaned the Blue-gum in a strange voice.
"I beg your pardon? said the Little Red House.
Birds came and perched in the branches of the big Blue-gum, and
Just as it was growing dark, the big Blue-gum said Suddenly, "It
Then three more big drops fell--Plop! Plop! Plop!
But--Crash! came rain before he could finish; and in two seconds
everything was sopping wet. The noise of it was deafening,
"I tell you I'm crying!" wailed the Little Red House. "I'm crying
because I'm cold and lonely and miserable."
Very late that night the rain eased a little and then stopped
altogether. The tears ceased to run from the eyes of the Little
"It's a hard world!" sobbed the Little Red House, squeezing out
another tear.
"Listen!" cried the Big Blue-gum. "Do you hear THAT?"
"That's wind," said the Blue-gum; "and a big wind, too."
"Let it come!" sighed the Little Red House. "I couldn't be more
miserable than I am."
"What's that thumping?" asked the little House.
"Not on me!" cried the Little House.
The Blue-gum said that he didn't know; but he hoped not.
"If you DID fall on me," said the Little Red House, "I suppose it
"Then don't! Please don't," yelled the Little Red House.
"As long as I've lived upon this mountain, tree and sapling," he
But the big Blue-gum said, "There is just one little root holding
"Be brave! Oh, be brave!" shrieked the Little Red House.
Then slowly, very slowly, the big Blue-gum began to straighten up
"I have stood upon this mountain, tree and sapling, for over a
But it did not blow like that again; though the wind howled and
Then, towards evening, the wind fell; the heavy clouds went away
But the Little Red House was miserable still; and the beauty of
the evening didn't cheer him up one bit.
But as he was talking he fell fast asleep.
Then the big Blue-gum began to get uneasy.
"I do hope your troubles haven't turned you silly," he said. "You
"I?" cried the Little Red House. "Why, look down the valley! See
who's coming!"
"It's them--I mean those are they!" shouted the Little Red House
happily. "Sym and Emily Ann! And here comes our little dog."
singing his Tinker's song.
But it was not quite the same song this time:
"Kettles and pans! Ho, kettles and pans!
Where's there a home like the tinkering man's?
Weary of wandering, home is the place--
The Little Red House with the smile on his face--
Weary and hungry, my Emily Ann.
Then put on the kettle! Ho, put on the pan!"
"The storm did that," said Emily Ann. "Now hurry and get the fire
in order.
"Now I suppose you're happy," said the big Blue-gum to the Little
"Happy?" cried the Little House. "Of course I am. Why, I'm a home
I'd like to be a pieman, and ring a little bell,
Calling out, "Hot pies! Hot pies to sell!"
Apple-pies and Meat-pies, Cherry-pies as well,
Lots and lots and lots of pies--more than you can tell.
Big, rich Pork-pies! Oh, the lovely smell!
But I wouldn't be a pieman if . . .
I wasn't very well.
Would you?
There's a very funny insect that you do not often spy,
And it isn't quite a spider, and it isn't quite a fly;
It is something like a beetle, and a little like a bee,
But nothing like a wooly grub that climbs upon a tree.
Its name is quite a hard one, but you'll learn it soon, I hope.
So try:
Tri-anti-wonti-
It lives on weeds and wattle-gum, and has a funny face;
Its appetite is hearty, and its manners a disgrace.
When first you come upon it, it will give you quite a scare,
But when you look for it again, you find it isn't there.
And unless you call it softly it will stay away and mope.
So try:
Tri-anti-wonti-
It trembles if you tickle it or tread upon its toes;
It is not an early riser, but it has a snubbish nose.
If you snear at it, or scold it, it will scuttle off in shame,
But it purrs and purrs quite proudly if you call it by its name,
And offer it some sandwiches of sealing-wax and soap.
So try:
Tri-anti-wonti-
But of course you haven't seen it; and I truthfully confess
That I haven't seen it either, and I don't know its address.
Tri-anti-wonti-
Hey, there!  Hoop-la! the circus is in town!
Have you seen the elephant?  Have you seen the clown?
Have you seen the dappled horse gallop round the ring?
Have you seen the acrobats on the dizzy swing?
Have you seen the tumbling men tumble up and down?
Hoop-la!  Hoop-la! the circus is in town!
Hey, there!  Hoop-la!  Here's the circus troupe!
Here's the educated dog, jumping through the hoop.
See the lady Blondin with the parasol and fan,
The lad upon the ladder and the india-rubber man.
See the joyful juggler and the boy who loops the loop.
Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Here's the circus troupe!
They say the eagle is a bird
That sees some splendid sights
When he soars high into the sky
Upon his dizzy flights:
He sees the ground for miles around
Our house, and Billy Johnson's;
But we cannot be eagles, for
That would, of course, be nonsense.
But you and I, some summer day,
Providing we're allowed,
Will go up in an aeroplane
And sail right through a cloud.
But, if they say we may not go,
We'll stay upon the ground
With other things that have no wings,
And watch them walk around.
They say the bottom of the sea
Is beautiful to view;
They say the fish, whene'er they wish,
Can sail and see it, too;
The shining pearls, the coral curls,
The sharks, the squids, the schnappers,
And fish with fins (though not in tins)
And fish with funny flappers.
But you and I, some sunny day,
When weather's in condition,
Will go there in a submarine,
Providing we've permission.
But if they say we may not go
We must respect their wishes;
And you and I will just keep dry
Because we are not fishes.
The earth is quite a jolly place,
And we don't care for flying;
And things that creep down in the deep
Are sometimes rather trying.
So, if they'll grant a holiday
Or even only half,
We'll lie upon some grassy place,
And think of things, and laugh.
Did you see them pass to-day, Billy, Kate and Robin,
All astride upon the back of old grey Dobbin?
Jigging, jogging off to school, down the dusty track--
What must Dobbin think of it--three upon his back?
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Billy holding on behind, his legs out straight.
Now they're coming back from school, jig, jog, jig.
See them at the corner where the gums grow big;
Dobbin flicking off the flies and blinking at the sun--
Having three upon his back he thinks is splendid fun:
Robin at the bridle-rein, in the middle Kate,
Little Billy up behind, his legs out straight.
The night is very dark,
And we've to go a mile or so
Keeping to the right;
If we delay, and lose our way,
We'll be out half the night.
The clouds are low and gloomy. Oh!
It's just begun to mist!
We haven't any overcoats
Who was that that spoke?
This is not a fitting spot
To make a silly joke.
A mopoke in a tree!
It jarred me so, I didn't know
Whatever it could be.
But come along; creep along;
Soon we shall be missed.
They'll get a scare and wonder where
I've told you oft and oft
We should not stray so far away
Without a moon aloft.
Goodness! What was that?
Upon my word, it's quite absurd,
It's only just a cat.
But come along; haste along;
Soon we'll have to rush,
Or we'll be late and find the gate
Oh! I've had a shock!
I hope and trust it's only just
A frog behind a rock.
We've had enough of you;
Scaring folk just for a joke
Is not the thing to do.
But come along, slip along--
Isn't it a lark
Just to roam so far from home
Shining through the tree,
The window-light is glowing bright
To welcome you and me.
There's someone round about,
And through the door I see some more
And supper all laid out.
Now, run! Run! Run!
Oh, we've had such splendid fun--
Through the park in the dark,
As brave as anyone.
Laughed, we did, and chaffed, we did,
And whistled all the way,
And we're home again! Home again!
I am friendly with the sparrow
Though his mind is rather narrow
And his manners--well, the less we say the better.
But as day begins to peep,
When I hear his cheery "Cheep"
I am ready to admit I am his debtor
I delight in red-browed finches
And all birds of scanty inches.
Willie wagtail is a pleasant bird, and coy.
All the babblers, chats and wrens,
Are my very special friends, and bring me joy.
A vase upon the mantelpiece,
A ship upon the sea,
A goat upon a mountain-top
Are much the same to me;
But when you mention melon jam,
Or picnics by the creek,
Or apple pies, or pantomimes,
I love to hear you speak.
The date of Magna Charta or
The doings of the Dutch,
Or capes, or towns, or verbs, or nouns
Do not excite me much;
But when you mention motor rides--
Down by the sea for choice
Or chasing games, or chocolates,
I love to hear your voice.
animal shapes in the clouds. The sky was almost as good as a Zoo.
"You'd better be careful who you're talking to," said Neville,
suddenly losing his fear. (Little boys do not always talk good
"But I don't want to stroke you," said Neville.
"Who's frightened?" said Neville again.
So Neville walked right up to the white horse and stroked his
Neville ceased to stroke the white horse and drew back a little.
"That's not fair! Whoa back! Whoa back!" he shouted to the white
"I?" cried the little yellow man. "Why, I'm the Last Sunbeam, of
believe it? I've never seen a dawn or a bright mid-day in all my
"Now then! Now then!" roared the man with the large ears. "Move
"Certainly, sir," replied the little yellow man very humbly.
"Just a little boy," said the yellow man--for Neville was far too
either. I'm not going to have the sunset upset by any such silly
nonsense. You mind what I say and attend to your work."
"Well," said he, "you heard what the head scene-shifter said. You
"Round the world, of course," replied the little yellow man.
directions."
With that the wee yellow man went behind a pink cloud and came
back with a beautiful blue flower in his hand.
"Simple!" cried Neville. "Why I don't understand it at all."
minutes."
"A few minutes!" gasped Neville.
"But," began Neville, "I can't understand--"
Of course, now that aeroplanes have been invented, flying is not
Almost before he knew what had happened, he had left evening far
"Ah, you have the talisman," said he. "Pass in! and don't stop to
After that, Neville began to feel a little drowsy. Perhaps he did
The bald hill was beneath him as he came slowly down, down, down.
He could see the Cloud Horse--now little more than a small white
Then, quite suddenly, Neville remembered the Cloud horse and the
I'd like to be a Tram-man, and ride about all day,
Calling out, "Fares, please!" in quite a 'ficious way,
With pockets full of pennies which I'd make the people pay.
But in the hottest days I'd take my tram down to the Bay;
And when I saw the nice cool sea I'd shout "Hip, hip, hooray!"
But I wouldn't be a Tram-man if. . . .
I couldn't stop and play.
Would you?
High on the hills, where the tall trees grow,
There lives an axeman that I know.
From his little hut by a ferny creek,
Day after day, week after week,
He goes each morn with his shining axe,
Trudging along by the forest tracks;
And he chops and he chops     till the daylight goes--
High on the hills, where the blue-gum grows.
There's a log to move and a branch to lop.
Now to the felling!  His sharp axe bites
Into a tree on the forest heights,
And scarce for a breath does the axeman stop--
Bell-birds watch him; and in the fern
Wallabies listen awhile, and turn
Back through the bracken, and off they hop.
Patient and tireless, blow on blow
The axeman swings as the minutes go;
While the echoes ring from the mountain-top.
Round about him the rabbits play,
Skipping and scampering all the day,
And the sweet young grass by the logs they crop.
Crimson parrots above him climb,
Chattering, chattering all the time,
As down from the branches the twigs they drop.
Steadily, surely, on he goes,
Shaking the tree with his mighty blows:
There's never a pause and there's never a stop.
Out from the bush beyond is heard
The swaggering song of the butcher-bird
Seeking a joint for his butcher's shop.
Deeper and deeper the cut creeps in,
While the parrots shriek with a deafening din,
And the chips fly out with a flip and a flop.
Yellow robins come  flocking round,
Watching the chips  as they fall to ground,
Darting to catch the grubs that drop.
The blows come quicker. The   axe-biade hums,
Stand well back, there, before she comes!
Hark! How the splinters crack and pop--
Listen!  Listen!  She's creaking now!
Look, high up, at that trembling bough!
Another second, and down she'll smash,
Shaking the earth with a mighty crash;
Look at her! Look at her! (Chip!      Chop!
Out across the spinifex, out across the sand,
Out across the saltbush to Never Never land
That's the way the drovers go, jogging down the track--
That's the way the drovers go. But how do they come back?
Back across the saltbush from Never Never land.
Back across the spinifex, back across the sand.
When I go back from Billy's place I always have to roam
Ma always says, "Why don't you come through Mr Donkin's land?
The footbridge track will bring you back." Ma doesn't understand.
So I set forth and travel north, and cross the fallen log.
Last week, when I was coming by, that log had lizards in it;
And you can't say I stop to play if I just search a minute.
I look around upon the ground and, if there are no lizards,
I go right on and reach the turn in front of Mrs Blizzard's.
I do not seek to cross the creek, because it's deep and floody,
And Ma would be annoyed with me if I came home all muddy.
Perhaps I throw a stone or so at Mrs Blizzard's tank,
Except, perhaps, at Mr Knapp's, to swing upon his gate.
So up the hill I go, until I reach the little paddock
That Mr Jones at present owns and rents to Mr Craddock.
For boys my size the sudden rise is quite a heavy pull,
And yet I fear a short-cut here because of Craddock's bull;
So I just tease the bull till he's as mad as he can get,
And then I face the corner place that's been so long to let.
It's very well for Ma to tell about my dawdling habits.
I do not stay for half a day, as Ma declares I do.
No, not for more than half-an-hour--perhaps an hour--or two.
A moment I might tarry by the fence to watch them hammer,
And, I must say, learn more that way than doing sums and grammar.
And, if I do sometimes climb through, I do not mean to linger.
Though I did stay awhile the day Bill Homer burst his finger.
I just stand there to see the pair bang some hot iron thing
And watch Bill Horner swing the sledge and hit the anvil--Bing!
(For Mr Horner and his son are great big brawny fellows:
A while I stop beside the shop, and talk to Mr Horner;
Then off I run, and race like fun around by Duggan's Corner.
It's getting late, and I don't wait beside the creek a minute,
Except to stop, maybe, and drop a few old pebbles in it.
One day, you know, a year ago, a man gave me a penny,
And Mr Whittle sold me sweets (but not so very many).
You never know your luck, and so I look to see what's new
In Mr Whittle's window.  There's a peppermint or two,
Some buttons and tobacco (Mr Whittle calls it "baccy"),
"I'm coming, Ma.  I've been so far-around by Duggan's Corner.
I had to stay awhile to say 'Good day' to Mr Horner.
Hey, there!  Listen awhile!  Listen awhile, and come.
Isn't it grand?  The band!  The band!  The band is marching by!
Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay.
Tah, rah!  We don't go home--
Oom, pah!  We won't go home--
Oh, see them swinging along, swinging along the street!
Left, right! buttons so bright, jackets and caps so neat.
Boom, Bumph!  We won't go home--
The band is in the street!
Bessie met a bunyip down along the track,
In his hand a billy and a swag upon his back.
And you will hardly believe it, but when Bessie shouted,"Shoo!"
He turned a double somersault and went quite blue.
I do not think there ever was,
Or ever will, or ever could be,
A little girl or little boy
As good as she or as he should be.
But still, I think, you will agree,
Though perfect very, very few are,
They're not so bad when "pretty good"--
That's just about as good as you are.
I'd like to be a porter, and always on the run,
Calling out, "Stand aside!" and asking leave of none.
Shoving trucks on people's toes, and having splendid fun,
Slamming all the carriage doors and locking every one--
And, when they asked to be let in, I'd say, "It can't be done."
But I wouldn't be a porter if . . .
The luggage weighed a ton.
Would you?
Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail;
And his mother didn't know him as he wept upon a log,
For he wasn't Tommy Tadpole, but Mr. Thomas Frog.
Willie spied a wallaby hopping through the fern--
Here a jump, here a thump, there a sudden turn.
Willie called the wallaby, begging him to stop,
But he went among the wattles with a
flip,
flap,
flop!
I wonder whether, all together, you and I and father
Could eat a bun that weighs a ton. I'd like to try it, rather.
I want to know why roosters crow at dawning of the day.
Is it because they cannot think of something else to say?
Come, let us sing with a right good ring
(Sing hey for lifting lay, sing hey!)
Of any old, sunny old, silly old thing.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
The sun shone brightly overhead,
And the shearers stood by the shearing shed;
But "The run wants rain," the stockman said
(Sing di-dum, wattle-gum, Narrabori Ned.
For a lifting lay sing hey!)
The colts were clipped and the sheep were shorn
(Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!)
But the stockman stood there all forlorn.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
The rails were up and the gate was tied,
And the big black bull was safe inside;
But "The wind's gone West!" the stockman sighed
(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, rally for a ride.
For a lifting lay sing hey!)
The cook came out as the clock struck one
(Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!)
And the boundary rider got his gun.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
He fired it once at an old black crow;
But the shot went wide, for he aimed too low;
And the stockman said, "Fat stock is low."
(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Jerridiiii Joe.
For a lifting lay sing hey!)
They spread their swags in the gum-tree's shade
(Sing hey for a lilting lay, sing hey!)
For the work was done and the cheques were paid.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
The overseer rode in at three,
But his horse pulled back and would not gee,
And the stockman said, "We're up a tree!"
(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, Johnny-cake for tea.
For a lilting lay sing hey!)
The sun sank down and the stars shone out
(Sing hey for a lifting lay, sing hey!)
And the old book-keeper moped about.
(Sing ho for the ballad of a backblock day!)
The dingo wailed to the mopoke's call,
But the stockman groaned, "it's bunk for all."
(Sing, di-dum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum, wattle-gum,
Hey for a backblock day!
Sing hey!
Sing hey for a lifting lay!)
Down by the sliprails stands our cow
Chewing, chewing, chewing,
She does not care what folks out there
In the great, big world are doing.
She sees the small cloud-shadows pass
And green grass shining under.
If she does think, what does she think
About it all, I wonder?
She sees the swallows skimming by
Above the sweet young clover,
The light reeds swaying in the wind
And tall trees bending over.
Far down the track she hears the crack
of bullock-whips, and raving
Of angry men where, in the sun,
Her fellow-beasts are slaving.
Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold,
And boys will fight and wrangle,
And big, grown men, just now and then,
Fret o'er some fingle-fangle,
Vexing the earth with grief or mirth,
Longing, rejoicing, rueing--
But by the sliprails stands our cow,
I'd like to be a teacher, and have a clever brain,
Calling out, "Attention, please!" and "Must I speak in vain?"
I couldn't use the cane.
Would you?
Owned a pair of spotted heifers
These he sold for two pounds ten
Who reared them in the lucerne paddocks
And sold them, when they grew to cows,
A grazier, Mr Egbert Innes,
Bought them then for twenty guineas,
Milked the cows, and sold the milk
Who rents a butter factory
Here, once a week, come for his butter
The grocer, Mr Roland Rutter,
Who keeps a shop in Sunny Street
Next door to Mr Peter Peat.
He every afternoon at two
Sent his fair daughter, Lucy Loo,
To Mr Rutter's shop to buy
Such things as were not priced too high,
Especially a shilling tin
Of "Fuller's Food for Folk Too Thin."
This food was bought for Lucy Loo--
A girl of charming manners, who
Was much too pale and much too slight
To be a very pleasant sight.
When Lucy Loo beheld the butter
She said, "I'll have a pound of that."
She had it, and thenceforth grew fat.
We now go back to Mr Jeffers,
Who sold the pair of spotted heifers.
He had a son, James Edgar John,
A handsome lad to gaze upon,
Who had now reached that time of life
When young men feel they need a wife;
But no young girl about the place
Exactly had the kind of face
That seemed to suit James Edgar John--
A saddening thing to think upon,
For he grew sad and sick of life
Because he could not find a wife.
One day young James was passing by
(A look of sorrow in his eye)
The shop of Mr Roland Rutter,
When Lucy Loo came out with butter.
At once James Edgar John said, "That
Is just the girl for me!  She's fat."
He offered her his heart and hand
And prospects of his father's land.
Performed the simple marriage rite.
The happy couple went their way,
And lived and loved unto this day.
Events cannot be far foreseen;
And all ths joy might not have been
Had kept his pair of spotted heifers.
'Excuse me if I sit on you,' the cup said to the saucer.
'I fear I've been here all the afternoon.'
'Now, the most important question is my chronic indigestion.'
'Ah, you've taken too much tannin,' jeered the jug.
'Hey, hey, hey!' sang the silver-plated tray,
'It's time you had your faces washed.  I've come to clear away!'
When I look into the looking glass
I'm always sure to see--
No matter how I dodge about--
Me, looking out at me.
I often wonder as I look,
And those strange features spy,
If I, in there, think I'm as plain
As I, out here, think I.
Here's a ridiculous riddle for you:
How many o's are there in Woolloomooloo?
Two for the W, two for the m,
Four for the l's, and that's plenty for them.
I wonder what the Jacks have got to laugh and laugh about
I'm sure the worms don't see the joke when Jacky digs them out.
I wonder which is best: a rich plum-pudding stuffed with plums,
Or lemon ice, or plain boiled rice, or long-division sums.
I'd like to be a barber, and learn to shave and clip,
Calling out, "Next please!" and pocketing my tip.
All day I'd hear my scissors going, "Snip, Snip, Snip;"
I'd lather people's faces, and their noses I would grip
While I shaved most carefully along the upper lip.
But I wouldn't be a barber if . . .
The razor was to slip.
Would you?
Old farmer Jack gazed on his wheat,
And feared the frost would nip it.
Said he, "it's nearly seven feet--
I must begin to strip it."
He stripped it with a stripper and
He bagged it with a bagger;
The bags were all so lumpy that
They made the lumper stagger.
The lumper staggered up the stack
Where he was told to stack it;
And Jack was paid and put the cash
Inside his linen jacket.
Smokes tobacco
In his little pipe of clay.
Puff, puff, puff,
He never has enough
Though he smokes it all day.
But his lubra says, "Mine tink dat Jacky
Him shmoke plenty too much baccy."
I detest the Carrion Crow!
(He's a raven, don't you know?)
He's a greedy glutton, also, and a ghoul,
And his sanctimonious caw
Rubs my temper on the raw.
He's a demon, and a most degraded fowl.
I admire the pert Blue-wren
And his dainty little hen--
Though she hasn't got a trace of blue upon her;
But she's pleasing, and she's pretty,
And she sings a cheerful ditty;
While her husband is a gentleman of honour.
I despise the Pallid Cuckoo,
A disreputable "crook" who
Shirks her duties for a lazy life of ease.
I abhor her mournful call,
Which is not a song at all
But a cross between a whimper and a wheeze.
I'd like to be a sailor--a sailor bold and bluff--
Calling out, "Ship ahoy!" in manly tones and gruff.
I'd learn to box the compass, and to reef and tack and luff;
I'd sniff and snifff the briny breeze and never get enough.
Perhaps I'd chew tobacco, or an old black pipe I'd puff,
But I wouldn't be a sailor if . . .
The sea was very rough.
Would you?
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
None in the manger, and none in the shed,
None in the box where the chickens are fed,
None in the tussocks and none in the tub,
And only a little one out in the scrub.
Oh, I say!  Dumplings to-day.
I fear that the hens must be laying away.
Cackle and lay, cackle and lay!
How many eggs did you get to-day?
Two in the manger, and four in the shed,
Six in the box where the chickens are fed,
Two in the tussocks and ten in the tub,
And nearly two dozen right out in the scrub.
Hip, hooray!  Pudding to-day!
I think that the hens are beginning to lay.
Upon the road to Rockabout
I came upon some sheep--
A large and woolly flock about
As wide as it was deep.
I was about to turn about
To ask the man to tell
Some things I wished to learn about
Both sheep and wool as well,
When I beheld a rouseabout
Who lay upon his back
Beside a little house about
A furlong from the track.
I had a lot to talk about,
And said to him "Good day."
But he got up to walk about,
And so I went away--
He grew fat, and he grew fatter,
Though he hardly had a thing to eat for dinner;
Often sat and wondered how he
Could prevent himself from growing any thinner.
So the man from Oodnadatta
He came down to Booboorowie,
Where he rapidly grew flatter;
And the folk will tell you how he
Urged the man from Booboorowie
Where he lived awhile, and now he
Is considerably fatter.
Standing at a tub,
Washing other people's clothes--
Poor, old, skinny arms
White with soapy foam--
At night she takes her shabby hat
And goes off home.
Is not very rich.
She goes abroad all day to scrub,
And home at night to stitch.
She wears her shabby hat awry,
Perched on a silly comb;
And people laugh at Polly Dibbs
As she goes home.
Growing very old,
Says, "it's a hard world!"
And sniffs and drats the cold.
She says it is a cruel world,
A weary world to roam.
But God will smile on Polly Dibbs
When she goes Home.
I suspect the Kookaburra,
For his methods are not thorough
In his highly praised campaign against the snakes.
And the small birds, one and all,
Curse him for a cannibal--
Though he certainly is cheerful when he wakes.
You are much too big to dandle,
And I will not leave the candle.
Go to sleep.
You are growing naughty, rather,
And I'll have to speak to father.
Go to sleep!
If you're good I shall not tell, then.
Oh, a story?  Very well, then.
Once upon a time, a king, named Crawley Creep,
Had a very lovely daughter . . . .
You don't want a drink of water!
Go to sleep! There! There! Go to sleep.
I wonder why I wear a tie. It is not warm to wear;
But if I left it off someone would say it was not there.
I wonder, if I took a whiff of father's pipe for fun,
Would I be big and strong like him, or just his small, sick son?
I wonder when our old white hen will know her squawk betrays her.
I'd like to be a publisher, And publish massive tomes
Written in a massive style by blokes with massive domes--
Books of psycho-surgery to mine the minds of momes,
And solemn pseudo-psychic stuff to tell where Topsy roams
When her poor clay is put away beneath the spreading holms;
Books about electrocuting little seeds with ohms
To sternly show them how to grow in sands, and clays, and loams,
And bravely burst infinitives, like angry agronomes;
Books on breeding aeroplanes and airing aerodromes,
On bees that buzz in bonnets and the kind that build the combs,
I'd set the scientists to work like superheated gnomes,
And make them write and write and write until the printer foams
And lino men, made "loony", go to psychopathic homes.
I'd publish books, I would--large books on ants and antinomes
And palimpsests and palinodes and pallid pallindromes:
But I wouldn't be a publisher if . . . .
I got many "pomes."
Would you?
And so, Good Night. I'm rather tired.
I hardly thought I'd be required
To draw a lot of pictures, too,
When I arranged to write for you.
I found it hard, but did my best;
And now I need a little rest.
If you are pleased, why, that's all right.
I'm rather tired. And so
This very charming gentleman, extremely old and gruff,
He slowly shook his head and took a great big pinch of snuff,
Then he spluttered and he muttered and he loudly shouted "Fie!
To tear your books is wicked sir! and likewise all my eye!"
I don't know what he meant by that. He had such piercing eyes.
And, he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Books will make you wise."
This very charming gentleman said, "Hum," and "Hoity, Toit!
A book is not a building block, a cushion or a quoit.
Soil your books and spoil your books? Is that the thing to do?
Gammon, sir! and Spinach, sir! And Fiddle-faddle, too!"