human
Can you write me a poem about bloemfontein?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about bloemfontein:
  Original 1902 Sydney edition
in Bloemfontein; others in Sydney.
Contents with First Lines:
Rio Grande's Last Race
Now this was what Macpherson told
By the Grey Gulf-water
Far to the Northward there lies a land,
The drought is down on field and flock,
'The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor and all!
Mulga Bill's Bicycle
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke --
Saltbush Bill's Gamecock
'You come and see me, boys,' he said;
The sun strikes down with a blinding glare,
Father Riley's Horse
'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
With eyes that searched in the dark,
'Tis strange that in a land so strong,
Out in the wastes of the West countrie,
A Disqualified Jockey's Story
You see, the thing was this way -- there was me,
The mountain road goes up and down,
Saltbush Bill's Second Fight
I left the course, and by my side
As the nations sat together, grimly waiting --
The London lights are far abeam
By the far Samoan shore,
Do they know?  At the turn to the straight
'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said,
Wargeilah town is very small,
All of us play our very best game --
'You led the trump,' the old man said
Oh! the circus swooped down
It's Grand
It's grand to be a squatter
They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
The Road to Old Man's Town
The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
The Old Timer's Steeplechase
The sheep were shorn and the wool went down
The long day passes with its load of sorrow:
'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight;
There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down
Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day,
With never a sound of trumpet,
The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun;
Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run,
What have the cavalry done?
'Where 'ave you been this week or more,
'Twas in the days of front attack,
I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,
There's a soldier that's been doing of his share
Halt!  Who goes there?  The sentry's call
Rio Grande's Last Race
Now this was what Macpherson told
While waiting in the stand;
A reckless rider, over-bold,
The only man with hands to hold
The rushing Rio Grande.
He said, 'This day I bid good-bye
To bit and bridle rein,
To ditches deep and fences high,
For I have dreamed a dream, and I
Shall never ride again.
'I dreamt last night I rode this race
That I to-day must ride,
And cant'ring down to take my place
I saw full many an old friend's face
Come stealing to my side.
'Dead men on horses long since dead,
They clustered on the track;
The champions of the days long fled,
They moved around with noiseless tread --
Bay, chestnut, brown, and black.
'And one man on a big grey steed
Rode up and waved his hand;
Said he, "We help a friend in need,
And we have come to give a lead
'"For you must give the field the slip,
So never draw the rein,
But keep him moving with the whip,
And if he falter -- set your lip
And rouse him up again.
'"But when you reach the big stone wall,
Put down your bridle hand
And let him sail -- he cannot fall --
But don't you interfere at all;
You trust old Rio Grande."
'We started, and in front we showed,
The big horse running free:
Right fearlessly and game he strode,
And by my side those dead men rode
Whom no one else could see.
'As silently as flies a bird,
They rode on either hand;
At every fence I plainly heard
The phantom leader give the word,
"Make room for Rio Grande!"
'I spurred him on to get the lead,
I chanced full many a fall;
But swifter still each phantom steed
Kept with me, and at racing speed
We reached the big stone wall.
'And there the phantoms on each side
Drew in and blocked his leap;
"Make room! make room!" I loudly cried,
But right in front they seemed to ride --
I cursed them in my sleep.
'He never flinched, he faced it game,
He struck it with his chest,
And every stone burst out in flame,
And Rio Grande and I became
As phantoms with the rest.
'And then I woke, and for a space
All nerveless did I seem;
For I have ridden many a race,
But never one at such a pace
As in that fearful dream.
'And I am sure as man can be
That out upon the track,
Those phantoms that men cannot see
Are waiting now to ride with me,
And I shall not come back.
'For I must ride the dead men's race,
And follow their command;
'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace
If I should fear to take my place
To-day on Rio Grande.'
He mounted, and a jest he threw,
With never sign of gloom;
But all who heard the story knew
That Jack Macpherson, brave and true,
Was going to his doom.
They started, and the big black steed
Came flashing past the stand;
All single-handed in the lead
He strode along at racing speed,
The mighty Rio Grande.
But on his ribs the whalebone stung,
A madness it did seem!
And soon it rose on every tongue
That Jack Macpherson rode among
The creatures of his dream.
He looked to left and looked to right,
As though men rode beside;
And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white,
Raced at his jumps in headlong flight
And cleared them in his stride.
But when they reached the big stone wall,
Down went the bridle-hand,
And loud we heard Macpherson call,
'Make room, or half the field will fall!
Make room for Rio Grande!'
.    .    .    .    .
'He's down! he's down!'  And horse and man
Lay quiet side by side!
No need the pallid face to scan,
We knew with Rio Grande he ran
The race the dead men ride.
By the Grey Gulf-water
Far to the Northward there lies a land,
A wonderful land that the winds blow over,
And none may fathom nor understand
The charm it holds for the restless rover;
A great grey chaos -- a land half made,
Where endless space is and no life stirreth;
And the soul of a man will recoil afraid
From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.
But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves
Her dole of death and her share of slaughter;
Many indeed are the nameless graves
Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.
Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide,
Drifting along with a languid motion,
Lapping the reed-beds on either side,
Wending their way to the Northern Ocean.
Grey are the plains where the emus pass
Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour;
Over the dead men's graves the grass
Maybe is waving a trifle greener.
Down in the world where men toil and spin
Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her;
Only the dead men her smiles can win
In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.
For the strength of man is an insect's strength
In the face of that mighty plain and river,
And the life of a man is a moment's length
To the life of the stream that will run for ever.
And so it cometh they take no part
In small-world worries; each hardy rover
Rideth abroad and is light of heart,
With the plains around and the blue sky over.
And up in the heavens the brown lark sings
The songs that the strange wild land has taught her;
Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings --
And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.
The drought is down on field and flock,
The river-bed is dry;
And we must shift the starving stock
Before the cattle die.
We muster up with weary hearts
At breaking of the day,
And turn our heads to foreign parts,
To take the stock away.
And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em,
And it's get the whip and flog 'em,
For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day;
By stock-routes bare and eaten,
On dusty roads and beaten,
With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.
We cannot use the whip for shame
On beasts that crawl along;
We have to drop the weak and lame,
And try to save the strong;
The wrath of God is on the track,
The drought fiend holds his sway,
With blows and cries and stockwhip crack
We take the stock away.
As they fall we leave them lying,
With the crows to watch them dying,
Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey;
By the fiery dust-storm drifting,
And the mocking mirage shifting,
In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.
In dull despair the days go by
With never hope of change,
But every stage we draw more nigh
Towards the mountain range;
And some may live to climb the pass,
And reach the great plateau,
And revel in the mountain grass,
By streamlets fed with snow.
As the mountain wind is blowing
It starts the cattle lowing,
And calling to each other down the dusty long array;
And there speaks a grizzled drover:
'Well, thank God, the worst is over,
The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away.'
They press towards the mountain grass,
They look with eager eyes
Along the rugged stony pass,
That slopes towards the skies;
Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones,
But though the blood-drop starts,
They struggle on with stifled groans,
For hope is in their hearts.
And the cattle that are leading,
Though their feet are worn and bleeding,
Are breaking to a kind of run -- pull up, and let them go!
For the mountain wind is blowing,
And the mountain grass is growing,
They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow.
.    .    .    .    .
The days are done of heat and drought
Upon the stricken plain;
The wind has shifted right about,
And brought the welcome rain;
The river runs with sullen roar,
All flecked with yellow foam,
And we must take the road once more,
To bring the cattle home.
And it's 'Lads! we'll raise a chorus,
There's a pleasant trip before us.'
And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track;
And the drovers canter, singing,
Through the sweet green grasses springing,
Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back.
Are these the beasts we brought away
That move so lively now?
They scatter off like flying spray
Across the mountain's brow;
And dashing down the rugged range
We hear the stockwhip crack,
Good faith, it is a welcome change
To bring such cattle back.
And it's 'Steady down the lead there!'
And it's 'Let 'em stop and feed there!'
And they'll travel nice and steady,
With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home.
We have to watch them close at night
For fear they'll make a rush,
And break away in headlong flight
Across the open bush;
And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze,
With mellow voice and strong,
We hear the lonely watchman raise
The Overlander's song:
'Oh! it's when we're done with roving,
With the camping and the droving,
Like the eyes of those who love us --
The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home.
The plains are all awave with grass,
The skies are deepest blue;
And leisurely the cattle pass
And feed the long day through;
But when we sight the station gate,
We make the stockwhips crack,
A welcome sound to those who wait
To greet the cattle back:
And through the twilight falling
We hear their voices calling,
As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam;
And the children run to meet us,
And our wives and sweethearts greet us,
Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home.
'The opening of the railway line! -- the Governor and all!
With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball.
Hark to 'em at the station now!  They're raising cheer on cheer!
'They cheer HIS pluck and enterprise and engineering skill!
'Twas my old husband found the pass behind that big Red Hill.
Before the engineer was grown we settled with our stock
Behind that great big mountain chain, a line of range and rock --
With ne'er a track across the range to let the cattle out.
He vanished in the wilderness, God knows where he was gone,
He hunted till his food gave out, but still he battled on.
'He followed up and blazed the trees, to show the safest track,
Then drew his belt another hole and turned and started back.
'Then others came across the range and built the township here,
And then there came the railway line and this young engineer.
He drove about with tents and traps, a cook to cook his meals,
A bath to wash himself at night, a chain-man at his heels.
'My poor old husband, dead and gone with never feast nor cheer;
He's buried by the railway line! -- I wonder can he hear
When down the very track he marked, and close to where he's laid,
I wonder does he hear them pass and can he see the sight,
When through the dark the fast express goes flaming by at night.
The hard old fare we've often shared together, him and me,
Some damper and a bite of beef, a pannikin of tea:
We'll do without the bands and flags, the speeches and the fuss,
We know who OUGHT to get the cheers and that's enough for us.
Well, just you tell his Excellence and put the thing polite,
I'm sorry, but I can't come down -- I'm dining out to-night!'
Mulga Bill's Bicycle
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?'
I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk -- I HATE a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.
'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one,
Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none;
Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun.
Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye:
This was his formula always, 'All man go dead by-and-bye --
Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five;
Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive:
Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go,
Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain;
Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain:
Sailed once again to the Darnleys -- laughed and descended again!
.    .    .    .    .
Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch,
Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay,
Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day:
Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', finding the profits grow small,
Said, 'Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul!
If we get caught, go to prison -- let them take lugger and all!'
Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant --
Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content,
Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton,
When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun.
Once that the diver was sighted pearl-shell and lugger must go.
Joe Nagasaki decided -- quick was the word and the blow --
Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below!
Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand,
Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', smiling a sanctified smile,
'Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree;
Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea:
.    .    .    .    .
Joe Nagasaki, his 'tender', is owner and diver instead.
Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can,
The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke --
'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.
'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm --
Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm --
We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,
'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!"
But -- if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst --
That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.
'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.
'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst.
The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.
'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side
Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.
'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie,
But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die.
But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work
Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.
It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst
.    .    .    .    .
We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half;
He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff;
And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red,
And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead,
The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line,
That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.
Saltbush Bill's Gamecock
It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out.
his fowls were his sole delight;
.    .    .    .    .
'you'll need 'em, without a doubt!'
Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game.
McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo.
Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court,
With Father D. as a picker-up -- a regular all-round Sport!
'Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill,
'and wait till you see the fight;
There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare --
there's game-fowl stew to-night!
that he's tramped with the travelling stock.'
'You come and see me, boys,' he said;
'You'll find a welcome and a bed
And whisky any time you call;
Although our township hasn't got
The name of quite a lively spot --
You see, I live in Booligal.
'And people have an awful down
Upon the district and the town --
Which worse than hell itself they call;
In fact, the saying far and wide
Along the Riverina side
'No doubt it suits 'em very well
To say it's worse than Hay or Hell,
But don't you heed their talk at all;
Of course, there's heat -- no one denies --
And sand and dust and stacks of flies,
And rabbits, too, at Booligal.
'But such a pleasant, quiet place,
You never see a stranger's face --
They hardly ever care to call;
The drovers mostly pass it by;
They reckon that they'd rather die
Than spend a night in Booligal.
'The big mosquitoes frighten some --
You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum --
And snakes about the township crawl;
But shearers, when they get their cheque,
They never come along and wreck
The blessed town of Booligal.
'But down in Hay the shearers come
And fill themselves with fighting-rum,
And chase blue devils up the wall,
And fight the snaggers every day,
Until there is the deuce to pay --
There's none of that in Booligal.
'Of course, there isn't much to see --
The billiard-table used to be
The great attraction for us all,
Until some careless, drunken curs
Got sleeping on it in their spurs,
And ruined it, in Booligal.
'Just now there is a howling drought
That pretty near has starved us out --
It never seems to rain at all;
But, if there SHOULD come any rain,
You couldn't cross the black-soil plain --
You'd have to stop in Booligal.'
.    .    .    .    .
'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!'  With bated breath
We prayed that both in life and death
Our fate in other lines might fall:
'Oh, send us to our just reward
In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord,
Deliver us from Booligal!'
The sun strikes down with a blinding glare,
The skies are blue and the plains are wide,
The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare
By Walgett out on the Barwon side --
The Barwon river that wanders down
In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.
There came a stranger -- a 'Cockatoo' --
The word means farmer, as all men know
Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo
Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow
Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence
As he watches the lambkins passing hence.
The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown,
But it soon appeared that he meant to flout
The iron law of the country town,
Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout:
'If he will not shout we must take him down,'
Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.
They baited a trap with a crafty bait,
With a crafty bait, for they held discourse
Concerning a new chum who of late
Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse;
They would wager that no one could ride him down
The length of the city of Walgett Town.
The stranger was born on a horse's hide;
So he took the wagers, and made them good
With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died,
For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! --
'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down
Full many a stranger in Walgett Town.
The stranger smiled with a sickly smile --
'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins --
And he said he had travelled for quite a while
In trying to sell some marsupial skins.
'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down,
You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!'
He said that his home was at Wingadee,
At Wingadee where he had for sale
Some fifty skins and would guarantee
They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail
Complete, and he sold them for money down
To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town.
Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf,
'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose:
You can fetch them in when it suits yourself,
And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!'
Then he left -- and the silence settled down
Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.
Father Riley's Horse
'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
By the troopers of the Upper Murray side,
They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log,
Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late
And a whisper 'Father Riley -- come across!'
So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate
And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse!
'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say,
For its close upon my death I am to-night.
With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day
In the gullies keeping close and out of sight.
So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die,
'Tis the only way I see to save my life.
'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next
An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course,
I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed
He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear
That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare
And his dam was close related to The Roe.
He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep,
A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop!
You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain
If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!
'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye,
For the stars above the East are growing pale.
And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die!
But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol!
You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip
Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead.
Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip
So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights,
In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill;
There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub,
And their riders flogged each other all the while.
And the lashins of the liquor!  And the lavins of the grub!
Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style.
Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all,
For the folk were mostly Irish round about,
And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall,
They were training morning in and morning out.
But they never started training till the sun was on the course
For a superstitious story kept 'em back,
That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse,
Had been training by the starlight on the track.
And they read the nominations for the races with surprise
And amusement at the Father's little joke,
For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize,
And they found that it was Father Riley's moke!
He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay!
But his owner's views of training were immense,
For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day,
And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence.
All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse,
While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin!
It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise,
Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag,
And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise,
That the race would go to Father Riley's nag.
And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track,
I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back!
.    .    .    .    .
But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view,
For the finish down the long green stretch of course,
And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo,
Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse!
Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post!
For he left the others standing, in the straight;
And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost,
And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight!
And old Hogan muttered sagely, 'If it wasn't for the beard
They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!'
There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died,
And they wondered who on earth he could have been.
But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about,
'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course,
That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out
For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!
With eyes that searched in the dark,
Peering along the line,
Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark,
Driver of 'Forty-nine',
And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead,
Like a blood-red beacon sign.
There was word of a fight to the north,
And a column hard-pressed,
So they started the Highlanders forth,
Without food, without rest.
But the pipers gaily played,
Chanting their fierce delight,
And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed,
Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade,
Hurrying up to the fight,
And the grim, grey Highland engineer,
Driving them into the night.
Then a signal light glowed red,
And a picket came to the track.
'Enemy holding the line ahead,
Three of our mates we have left for dead,
Only we two got back.'
And far to the north through the still night air,
They heard the rifles crack.
And the boom of a gun rang out,
Like the sound of a deep appeal,
And the picket stood in doubt
By the side of the driving-wheel.
But the Engineer looked down,
With his hand on the starting-bar,
'Ride ye back to the town,
Ye know what my orders are,
Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade
Up on those hills afar.
'I am no soldier at all,
Only an engineer,
But I could not bear that the folk should say,
That Hector Clark stayed here
With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone,
With ever a rail to run her on.
Ready behind!  Stand clear!
'Fireman, get you gone
Into the armoured train,
I will drive her alone;
One more trip -- and perhaps the last --
With a well-raked fire and an open blast --
Hark to the rifles again.'
.    .    .    .    .
On through the choking dark,
Never a lamp nor a light,
Never an engine spark,
Showing her hurried flight.
Over the lonely plain
Rushed the great armoured train,
Hurrying up to the fight.
Then with her living freight
On to the foe she came,
And the rifles snapped their hate,
And the darkness spouted flame.
Over the roar of the fray
The hungry bullets whined,
As she dashed through the foe that lay
Loading and firing blind,
Till the glare of the furnace burning clear
Showed them the form of the engineer,
Sharply and well defined.
Through!  They were safely through!
Hark to the column's cheer!
Surely the driver knew
He was to halt her here;
But he took no heed of the signals red,
And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead,
There on the floor of his engine -- dead,
'Tis strange that in a land so strong,
So strong and bold in mighty youth,
We have no poet's voice of truth
To sing for us a wondrous song.
Our chiefest singer yet has sung
In wild, sweet notes a passing strain,
All carelessly and sadly flung
To that dull world he thought so vain.
'I care for nothing, good nor bad,
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
I am but sifting sand,' he said:
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!
And yet, not always sad and hard;
In cheerful mood and light of heart
He told the tale of Britomarte,
And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard.
And some have said that Nature's face
To us is always sad; but these
Have never felt the smiling grace
Of waving grass and forest trees
On sunlit plains as wide as seas.
'A land where dull Despair is king
O'er scentless flower and songless bird!'
But we have heard the bell-birds ring
Their silver bells at eventide,
Like fairies on the mountain side,
The sweetest note man ever heard.
The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth;
The bronzewing pigeons call and coo
Beside their nests the long day through;
The magpie warbles clear and strong
A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song,
For all God's mercies upon earth.
And many voices such as these
Are joyful sounds for those to tell,
Who know the Bush and love it well,
With all its hidden mysteries.
We cannot love the restless sea,
That rolls and tosses to and fro
Like some fierce creature in its glee;
For human weal or human woe
It has no touch of sympathy.
For us the bush is never sad:
Its myriad voices whisper low,
In tones the bushmen only know,
Its sympathy and welcome glad.
For us the roving breezes bring
From many a blossom-tufted tree --
Where wild bees murmur dreamily --
The honey-laden breath of Spring.
.    .    .    .    .
We have no tales of other days,
No bygone history to tell;
Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze
At midnight, when the solemn hush
Of that vast wonderland, the Bush,
Hath laid on every heart its spell.
Although we have no songs of strife,
Of bloodshed reddening the land,
We yet may find achievements grand
Within the bushman's quiet life.
Lift ye your faces to the sky
Ye far blue mountains of the West,
Who lie so peacefully at rest
Enshrouded in a haze of blue;
'Tis hard to feel that years went by
Before the pioneers broke through
Your rocky heights and walls of stone,
And made your secrets all their own.
For years the fertile Western plains
Were hid behind your sullen walls,
Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls
All weatherworn with tropic rains.
Between the mountains and the sea,
Like Israelites with staff in hand,
The people waited restlessly:
They looked towards the mountains old
And saw the sunsets come and go
With gorgeous golden afterglow,
That made the West a fairyland,
And marvelled what that West might be
Of which such wondrous tales were told.
For tales were told of inland seas
Like sullen oceans, salt and dead,
And sandy deserts, white and wan,
Where never trod the foot of man,
Nor bird went winging overhead,
Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze
To wake the silence with its breath --
A land of loneliness and death.
At length the hardy pioneers
By rock and crag found out the way,
And woke with voices of to-day,
A silence kept for years and years.
Upon the Western slope they stood
And saw -- a wide expanse of plain
As far as eye could stretch or see
Go rolling westward endlessly.
The native grasses, tall as grain,
Were waved and rippled in the breeze;
From boughs of blossom-laden trees
The parrots answered back again.
They saw the land that it was good,
A land of fatness all untrod,
And gave their silent thanks to God.
The way is won!  The way is won!
And straightway from the barren coast
There came a westward-marching host,
That aye and ever onward prest
With eager faces to the West,
Along the pathway of the sun.
The mountains saw them marching by:
They faced the all-consuming drought,
They would not rest in settled land:
But, taking each his life in hand,
Their faces ever westward bent
Beyond the farthest settlement,
Responding to the challenge cry
Of 'better country further out.'
And lo a miracle! the land
But yesterday was all unknown,
The wild man's boomerang was thrown
Where now great busy cities stand.
It was not much, you say, that these
Should win their way where none withstood;
In sooth there was not much of blood
No war was fought between the seas.
It was not much! but we who know
The strange capricious land they trod --
At times a stricken, parching sod,
At times with raging floods beset --
Through which they found their lonely way,
Are quite content that you should say
It was not much, while we can feel
That nothing in the ages old,
In song or story written yet
On Grecian urn or Roman arch,
Though it should ring with clash of steel,
Could braver histories unfold
Than this bush story, yet untold --
The story of their westward march.
.    .    .    .    .
But times are changed, and changes rung
From old to new -- the olden days,
The old bush life and all its ways
Are passing from us all unsung.
The freedom, and the hopeful sense
Of toil that brought due recompense,
Of room for all, has passed away,
And lies forgotten with the dead.
Within our streets men cry for bread
In cities built but yesterday.
About us stretches wealth of land,
A boundless wealth of virgin soil
As yet unfruitful and untilled!
Our willing workmen, strong and skilled
Within our cities idle stand,
And cry aloud for leave to toil.
The stunted children come and go
In squalid lanes and alleys black;
We follow but the beaten track
Of other nations, and we grow
In wealth for some -- for many, woe.
And it may be that we who live
In this new land apart, beyond
The hard old world grown fierce and fond
And bound by precedent and bond,
May read the riddle right and give
New hope to those who dimly see
That all things may be yet for good,
And teach the world at length to be
One vast united brotherhood.
.    .    .    .    .
So may it be, and he who sings
In accents hopeful, clear, and strong,
The glories which that future brings
Shall sing, indeed, a wond'rous song.
Out in the wastes of the West countrie,
Out where the white stars shine,
Grim and silent as such men be,
Rideth a man with a history --
For the ways of men they are manifold
As their differing views in life;
For some are sold for the lust of gold
And some for the lust of strife:
But this man counted the world well lost
For the love of his neighbour's wife.
They fled together, as those must flee
Whom all men hold in blame;
Each to the other must all things be
Who cross the gulf of iniquity
And live in the land of shame.
But a light-o'-love, if she sins with one,
She sinneth with ninety-nine:
The rule holds good since the world begun --
Since ever the streams began to run
And the stars began to shine.
The rule holds true, and he found it true --
A nobler spirit had turned in scorn
From a love that was stained with mire;
A weaker being might mourn and mourn
For the loss of his Heart's Desire:
But the anger of Anthony Considine
Blazed up like a flaming fire.
And she, with her new love, presently
Came past with her eyes ashine;
And God so willed it, and God knows why,
She turned and laughed as they passed him by --
Her laughter stung as a whip might sting;
And mad with his wounded pride
He turned and sprang with a panther's spring
And struck at his rival's side:
And only the woman, shuddering,
Could tell how the dead man died!
She dared not speak -- and the mystery
Is buried in auld lang syne,
But out on the wastes of the West countrie,
Grim and silent as such men be,
Rideth a man with a history --
We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we'll sink it deeper down:
As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,
If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil;
Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot,
She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter,
But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow,
And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below,
And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shift
Till we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down
But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go,
Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below.
Sinking down, deeper down,
Oh, we're going deeper down:
Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down.
But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast,
Till it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow.
And it's down, deeper down --
Oh, it comes from deeper down;
It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure
And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run:
How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun!
By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plain
It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again.
Flowing down, further down;
It is flowing further down
To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going;
A Disqualified Jockey's Story
You see, the thing was this way -- there was me,
That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare,
And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret,
And that long bloke from Wagga -- him what rode
Veronikew, the Snowy River horse.
Well, none of them had chances -- not a chance
Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead
Or wasn't trying -- for a blind man's dog
Could see Enchantress was a certain cop,
And all the books was layin' six to four.
They brought her out to show our lot the road,
Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know,
You can't believe 'em, though they took an oath
On forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth.
But anyhow, an amateur was up
On this Enchantress, and so Ike and me,
We thought that we might frighten him a bit
By asking if he minded riding rough --
'Oh, not at all,' says he, 'oh, not at all!
I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comes
To bumping I'm your Moses!  Strike me blue!'
Says he, 'I'll bump you over either rail,
The inside rail or outside -- which you choose
Is good enough for me' -- which settled Ike;
For he was shaky since he near got killed
From being sent a buster on the rail,
When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down
At Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it best
To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.
So all the books was layin' six to four
Against the favourite, and the amateur
Was walking this Enchantress up and down,
And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought
We might as well get something for ourselves,
Because we knew our horses couldn't win.
But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob;
Because he said he reckoned he was stiff,
And all the books was layin' six to four.
Well, anyhow, before the start, the news
Got round that this here amateur was stiff,
And our good stuff was blued, and all the books
Was in it, and the prices lengthened out,
And every book was bustin' of his throat,
And layin' five to one the favourite.
So there was we that couldn't win ourselves,
And this here amateur that wouldn't try,
And all the books was layin' five to one.
So Smithy says to me, 'You take a hold
Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn
Come up behind Enchantress with the whip
And let her have it; that long bloke and me
Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us
We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight,
And Ikey'll flog her home, because his boss
Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what,
And so he won't be touched -- and, as for us,
We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!'
And all the books was layin' five to one.
Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn
I saw the amateur was holding back
And poking into every hole he could
To get her blocked, and so I pulled behind
And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare --
I let her have it twice, and then she shot
Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out
And let her up beside him on the rails,
And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke
Until she struggled past him pullin' hard
And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip
And hit her on the nose and sent her back
And won the race himself -- for, after all,
It seems he had a fiver on the Dook
And never told us -- so our stuff was lost.
And then they had us up for ridin' foul,
And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each,
To get our livin' any way we could;
But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss
Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what.
But Mister -- if you'll lend us half-a-crown,
I know three certain winners at the Park --
Three certain cops as no one knows but me;
And -- thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer
(I always like a beer about this time) . . .
Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.
The mountain road goes up and down,
And branching off there runs a track,
Across the foothills grim and black,
Across the plains and ranges grey
To Sydney city far away.
.    .    .    .    .
It came by chance one day that I
From Tumut rode to Gundagai.
And reached about the evening tide
The crossing where the roads divide;
And, waiting at the crossing place,
I saw a maiden fair of face,
With eyes of deepest violet blue,
And cheeks to match the rose in hue --
The fairest maids Australia knows
Are bred among the mountain snows.
Then, fearing I might go astray,
I asked if she could show the way.
Her voice might well a man bewitch --
Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.
'The tracks are clear,' she made reply,
'And this goes down to Sydney town,
And that one goes to Gundagai.'
Then slowly, looking coyly back,
She went along the Sydney track.
And I for one was well content
To go the road the lady went;
But round the turn a swain she met --
The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!
.    .    .    .    .
I turned and travelled with a sigh
The lonely road to Gundagai.
Saltbush Bill's Second Fight
and wished they were well away:
and the dodges and tricks he tried.
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route,
and stray to the squatters' grass;
.    .    .    .    .
and asked could he camp the night;
as he looked at him up and down --
what's lived on the game for years;
and they tried for it every night --
and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE!
said Smith, 'for you waste your breath;
You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight,
of talking your man to death.
.    .    .    .    .
on their six-mile stage a day;
and strayed from their camp at night,
and never a sound was heard
and their hearts with fear were filled,
in fact, he could scarcely speak --
.    .    .    .    .
Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man:
for there isn't the slightest doubt
and divided your five-pound note.
'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise --
'twill save you a lot of pelf --
.    .    .    .    .
and the clamour of men and dogs --
when he read that neighbour's note.
I left the course, and by my side
There walked a ruined tout --
A hungry creature evil-eyed,
Who poured this story out.
'You see,' he said, 'there came a swell
To Kensington to-day,
And if I picked the winners well,
A crown at least he'd pay.
'I picked three winners straight, I did,
I filled his purse with pelf,
And then he gave me half-a-quid,
To back one for myself.
'A half-a-quid to me he cast,
I wanted it indeed.
So help me Bob, for two days past
I haven't had a feed.
'But still I thought my luck was in,
I couldn't go astray,
And lost it straightaway.
'I haven't got a bite or bed,
I'm absolutely stuck,
So keep this lesson in your head:
Don't over-trust your luck!'
The folks went homeward, near and far,
The tout, Oh! where was he?
Ask where the empty boilers are,
As the nations sat together, grimly waiting --
The fierce old nations battle-scarred --
Grown grey in their lusting and their hating,
Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard,
Through the tumult of their warlike preparation
And the half-stilled clamour of the drums
Came a voice crying, 'Lo! a new-made nation,
To her place in the sisterhood she comes!'
And she came -- she was beautiful as morning,
With the bloom of the roses in her mouth,
Like a young queen lavishly adorning
Her charms with the splendours of the South.
And the fierce old nations, looking on her,
Said, 'Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown,
Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her,
Hath she power to protect and guard her own?
Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing
In the ears of the nations old and gray,
Saying, 'Hark, and ye shall hear my children singing
Their war-song in countries far away.
They are strangers to the tumult of the battle,
They are few but their hearts are very strong,
'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle,
But they now sing Australia's marching song.'
For the honour of Australia, our mother,
Side by side with our kin from over sea,
We have fought and we have tested one another,
And enrolled among the brotherhood are we.
There was never post of danger but we sought it
In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood.
There was never prize so costly but we bought it,
Though we paid for its purchase with our blood.
Was there any road too rough for us to travel?
Was there any path too far for us to tread?
You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel
On the roads that we milestoned with our dead!
And for you, oh our young and anxious mother,
O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward,
Neither fearing nor despising any other,
We will hold your possessions with the sword.
.    .    .    .    .
Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping,
The grey-clad figures with their dead,
To the sound of their women softly weeping
And the Dead March moaning at their head:
And the Nations, as the grim procession ended,
Whispered, 'Child!  But ye have seen the price we pay,
From War may we ever be defended,
Kneel ye down, new-made Sister -- Let us Pray!'
The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind --
The good old land of 'never mind',
And old Australian ways.
The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns.
The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies,
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
That whispers in the wheat.
Our fathers came of roving stock
That could not fixed abide:
And we have followed field and flock
Since e'er we learnt to ride;
By miner's camp and shearing shed,
In land of heat and drought,
We followed where our fortunes led,
With fortune always on ahead
And always further out.
The wind is in the barley-grass,
The wattles are in bloom;
The breezes greet us as they pass
With honey-sweet perfume;
The parakeets go screaming by
With flash of golden wing,
And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry
Their long-drawn note of revelry,
So throw the weary pen aside
And let the papers rest,
For we must saddle up and ride
Towards the blue hill's breast;
And we must travel far and fast
Across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last,
And call back from the buried past
The old Australian ways.
When Clancy took the drover's track
In years of long ago,
He drifted to the outer back
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
With stockwhip in his hand,
He reached at last, oh lucky elf,
The Town of Come-and-help-yourself
In Rough-and-ready Land.
And if it be that you would know
The tracks he used to ride,
Then you must saddle up and go
Beyond the Queensland side --
Beyond the reach of rule or law,
To ride the long day through,
In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe
You then might see what Clancy saw
And know what Clancy knew.
By the far Samoan shore,
Where the league-long rollers pour
All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay,
Riding lightly at their ease,
In the calm of tropic seas,
The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay.
Riding lightly, head to wind,
With the coral reefs behind,
Three Germans and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue;
And on one ship unfurled
Was the flag that rules the world --
For on the old 'Calliope' the flag of England flew.
When the gentle off-shore breeze,
That had scarcely stirred the trees,
Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall,
Away across the main
Lowered the coming hurricane,
And far away to seaward hung the cloud wrack like a pall.
If the word had passed around,
'Let us move to safer ground;
Let us steam away to seaward' -- then this tale were not to tell!
'If the others stay, I stay!'
Then the cloud wrack neared them fast,
And there came a sudden blast,
And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main!
Like a lion on its prey,
Leapt the storm fiend on the bay,
As the surging seas came by,
That were running mountains high,
The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee;
And the darkness of the night
Hid the coral reefs from sight,
In the dark they dared not shift!
They were forced to wait and drift;
All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no.
But the men on deck could see
If a chance of hope might be --
There was little chance of safety for the men who were below.
Through that long, long night of dread,
While the storm raged overhead,
They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar.
Though they knew, and well they knew,
When the grey dawn broke at last,
And the long, long night was past,
While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away,
On the rocks, all smashed and strewn,
Were the German vessels thrown,
Then at last spoke Captain Kane,
'All our anchors are in vain,
And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee!
Cut the cables at the bow!
We must trust the engines now!
And the answer came with cheers
From the stalwart engineers,
From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below;
And above the sullen roar
Of the breakers on the shore
Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro.
If the strain should find a flaw,
Should a bolt or rivet draw,
Quoth an English engineer,
'For the stays and stanchions taut,
For the rivets truly wrought,
If we make a knot an hour
Like a foam flake tossed and thrown,
She could barely hold her own,
While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee.
Through the smother and the rout
The 'Calliope' steamed out --
Aye! drifting shoreward there,
All helpless as they were,
Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled.
Without a thought of fear
The Yankees raised a cheer --
A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world.
Do they know?  At the turn to the straight
Where the favourites fail,
And every atom of weight
Is telling its tale;
As some grim old stayer hard-pressed
Runs true to his breed,
And with head just in front of the rest
Fights on in the lead;
When the jockeys are out with the whips,
With a furlong to go;
And the backers grow white to the lips --
Do you think THEY don't know?
Do they know?  As they come back to weigh
In a whirlwind of cheers,
Though the spurs have left marks of the fray,
Though the sweat on the ears
Gathers cold, and they sob with distress
As they roll up the track,
They know just as well their success
As the man on their back.
As they walk through a dense human lane,
That sways to and fro,
And cheers them again and again,
Do you think THEY don't know?
'I'll introdooce a friend!' he said,
And if you've got a vacant pen
You'd better take him in the shed
And start him shearing straight ahead,
He's one of these here quiet men.
'He never strikes -- that ain't his game;
No matter what the others try
HE goes on shearing just the same.
I never rightly knew his name --
We always call him "Gundagai"!'
Our flashest shearer then had gone
To train a racehorse for a race,
And while his sporting fit was on
He couldn't be relied upon,
So 'Gundagai' shore in his place.
Alas for man's veracity!
For reputations false and true!
This 'Gundagai' turned out to be,
For strife and all-round villainy,
The very worst I ever knew!
He started racing Jack Devine,
And grumbled when I made him stop.
The pace he showed was extra fine,
But all those pure-bred ewes of mine
Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.
He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,
From roof to rafter, floor to shelf;
As for my mongrel ewes, he said,
I ought to get a razor blade
And shave the blooming things myself.
On Sundays he controlled a 'school',
And played 'two-up' the livelong day;
And many a young confiding fool
He shore of his financial wool;
And when he lost he would not pay.
He organised a shearers' race,
And 'touched' me to provide the prize.
His packhorse showed surprising pace
And won hands down -- he was The Ace,
A well-known racehorse in disguise.
Next day the bruiser of the shed
Displayed an opal-tinted eye,
With large contusions on his head.
He smiled a sickly smile, and said
He'd 'had a cut at "Gundagai"!'
But just as we were getting full
Of 'Gundagai' and all his ways,
A telegram for 'Henry Bull'
Arrived.  Said he, 'That's me -- all wool!
Let's see what this here message says.'
He opened it, his face grew white,
He dropped the shears and turned away.
It ran, 'Your wife took bad last night;
Come home at once -- no time to write,
We fear she may not last the day.'
He got his cheque -- I didn't care
To dock him for my mangled ewes;
His store account -- we 'called it square'.
Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,
Confronted by such dreadful news.
The shearers raised a little purse
To help a mate, as shearers will,
'To pay the doctor and the nurse,
And if there should be something worse --
To pay the undertaker's bill.'
They wrung his hand in sympathy,
He rode away without a word,
His head hung down in misery.
A wandering hawker passing by
Was told of what had just occurred.
'Well! that's a curious thing,' he said,
'I've known that feller all his life --
He's had the loan of this here shed!
I know his wife ain't nearly dead,
Because he HASN'T GOT A WIFE!'
.    .    .    .    .
You should have heard the whipcord crack
As angry shearers galloped by,
In vain they tried to fetch him back.
A little dust along the track
Was all they saw of 'Gundagai'.
Wargeilah town is very small,
There's no cathedral nor a club,
In fact the township, all in all,
Is just one unpretentious pub;
And there, from all the stations round,
The local sportsmen can be found.
The sportsmen of Wargeilah side
Are very few but very fit:
There's scarcely any sport been tried
But what they held their own at it
In fact, to search their records o'er,
They held their own and something more.
'Twas round about Wargeilah town
An English new-chum did infest:
He used to wander up and down
In baggy English breeches drest --
His mental aspect seemed to be
Just stolid self-sufficiency.
The local sportsmen vainly sought
His tranquil calm to counteract,
By urging that he should be brought
'Nay, harm him not,' said one more wise,
'He is a blessing in disguise!
'You see, he wants to buy a horse,
To ride, and hunt, and steeplechase,
And carry ladies, too, of course,
And pull a cart and win a race.
Good gracious! he must be a flat
To think he'll get a horse like that!
'But since he has so little sense
And such a lot of cash to burn,
We'll sell him some experience
By which alone a fool can learn.
Suppose we let him have The Trap
And here, I must explain to you
That, round about Wargeilah run,
There lived a very aged screw
Whose days of brilliancy were done:
A grand old warrior in his prime --
But age will beat us all in time.
A trooper's horse in seasons past
He did his share to keep the peace,
But took to falling, and at last
Was cast for age from the Police.
A publican at Conroy's Gap
Then bought and christened him The Trap.
When grass was good, and horses dear,
He changed his owner now and then
At prices ranging somewhere near
The neighbourhood of two pound ten:
And manfully he earned his keep
By yarding cows and ration sheep.
They brought him in from off the grass
And fed and groomed the old horse up;
His coat began to shine like glass --
You'd think he'd win the Melbourne Cup.
And when they'd got him fat and flash
They asked the new-chum -- fifty -- cash!
And when he said the price was high,
Their indignation knew no bounds.
They said, 'It's seldom you can buy
A horse like that for fifty pounds!
We'll refund twenty if The Trap
Should fail to win the handicap!'
The deed was done, the price was paid,
The new-chum put the horse in train:
The local sports were much afraid
That he would sad experience gain,
By racing with some shearer's hack,
Who'd beat him half-way round the track.
So, on this guileless English spark
They did most fervently impress
That he must keep the matter dark,
And not let any person guess
That he was purchasing The Trap
They spoke of 'spielers from The Bland',
And 'champions from the Castlereagh',
And gave the youth to understand
That all of these would stop away,
And spoil the race, if they should hear
That they had got The Trap to fear.
'Keep dark!  They'll muster thick as flies
When once the news gets sent around
We're giving such a splendid prize --
A Snowdon horse worth fifty pound!
They'll come right in from Dandaloo,
And find -- that it's a gift to you!'
.    .    .    .    .
The race came on -- with no display,
Nor any calling of the card,
But round about the pub all day
A crowd of shearers, drinking hard,
And using language in a strain
'Twere flattery to call profane.
Our hero, dressed in silk attire --
Blue jacket and a scarlet cap --
With boots that shone like flames of fire,
Now did his canter on The Trap,
And walked him up and round about,
Until the other steeds came out.
He eyed them with a haughty look,
But saw a sight that caught his breath!
It was!  Ah John!  The Chinee cook!
In boots and breeches!  Pale as death!
Tied with a rope, like any sack,
Upon a piebald pony's back!
The next, a colt -- all mud and burrs!
Half-broken, with a black boy up,
Who said, 'You gim'me pair o' spurs,
I win the bloomin' Melbourne Cup!'
These two were to oppose The Trap
They're off!  The colt whipped down his head,
And humped his back and gave a squeal,
And bucked into the drinking shed,
Revolving like a Cath'rine wheel!
Men ran like rats!  The atmosphere
Was filled with oaths and pints of beer!
But up the course the bold Ah John
Beside The Trap raced neck and neck:
The boys had tied him firmly on,
Which ultimately proved his wreck,
The saddle turned, and, like a clown,
He rode some distance upside down.
His legs around the horse were tied,
His feet towards the heavens were spread,
He swung and bumped at every stride
And ploughed the ground up with his head!
And when they rescued him, The Trap
And no enquiries we could make
Could tell by what false statements swayed
Ah John was led to undertake
A task so foreign to his trade!
He only smiled and said, 'Hoo Ki!
I stop topside, I win all 'li!'
But never, in Wargeilah Town,
Was heard so eloquent a cheer
As when the President came down,
And toasted, in Colonial Beer,
'The finest rider on the course!
The winner of the Snowdon Horse!'
'You go and get your prize,' he said,
'He's with a wild mob, somewhere round
The mountains near The Watershed;
He's honestly worth fifty pound,
A noble horse, indeed, to win,
But none of US can run him in!
'We've chased him poor, we've chased him fat,
We've run him till our horses dropped,
But by such obstacles as that
A man like you will not be stopped,
You'll go and yard him any day,
So here's your health!  Hooray!  Hooray!'
.    .    .    .    .
The day wound up with booze and blow
And fights till all were well content,
But of the new-chum, all I know
Is shown by this advertisement --
'For Sale, the well-known racehorse Trap,
All of us play our very best game --
Any other time.
Golf or billiards, it's all the same --
Any other time.
Lose a match and you always say,
'Just my luck!  I was 'off' to-day!
I could have beaten him quite half-way --
Any other time!'
After a fiver you ought to go --
Any other time.
Every man that you ask says 'Oh,
Any OTHER time.
Lend you a fiver!  I'd lend you two,
But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due,
Wish you'd ask me -- now, mind you do --
Any other time!'
Fellows will ask you out to dine --
Any other time.
'Not to-night, for we're twenty-nine --
Any other time.
Not to-morrow, for cook's on strike,
Not next day, I'll be out on the bike --
Just drop in whenever you like --
Any other time!'
Seasick passengers like the sea --
Any other time.
'Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me!
Any other time
Ocean-trav'lling is . . simply bliss,
Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . .
Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this --
Any other time.'
.    .    .    .    .
Most of us mean to be better men --
Any other time:
Regular upright characters then --
Any other time.
Yet somehow as the years go by
Still we gamble and drink and lie,
When it comes to the last we'll want to die --
Any other time!
'You led the trump,' the old man said
With fury in his eye,
'And yet you hope my girl to wed!
Young man! your hopes of love are fled,
'Twere better she should die!
'My sweet young daughter sitting there,
So innocent and plump!
You don't suppose that she would care
To wed an outlawed man who'd dare
To lead the thirteenth trump!
It meant a certain win!
But no!  By Pembroke's mighty shade
The thirteenth trump you went and played
And let their diamonds in!
'My girl!  Return at my command
His presents in a lump!
Return his ring!  For understand
No man is fit to hold your hand
Who leads a thirteenth trump!
'But hold!  Give every man his due
And every dog his day.
Speak up and say what made you do
This dreadful thing -- that is, if you
Have anything to say!'
He spoke.  'I meant at first,' said he,
Or lead the hearts, but then you see
I thought against us there might be,
Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!'
.    .    .    .    .
They buried him at dawn of day
Beside a ruined stump:
And there he sleeps the hours away
And waits for Gabriel to play
The last -- the fourteenth -- trump.
Oh! the circus swooped down
On the Narrabri town,
For the Narrabri populace moneyed are;
And the showman he smiled
At the folk he beguiled
To come all the distance from Gunnedah.
But a juvenile smart,
Who objected to 'part',
Went in 'on the nod', and to do it he
Crawled in through a crack
In the tent at the back,
For the boy had no slight ingenuity.
And says he with a grin,
'That's the way to get in;
But I reckon I'd better be quiet or
They'll spiflicate me,'
And he chuckled, for he
Had the loan of the circus proprietor.
But the showman astute
On that wily galoot
Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him --
Not he; with a grim
Sort of humorous whim,
He took him and tarred him and feathered him.
Round the world with a show,
And knock every Injun and Arab wry;
With your name and your trade,
On the posters displayed,
The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.'
Next day for his freak,
By a Narrabri beak,
He was jawed with a deal of verbosity;
For his only appeal
Was 'professional zeal' --
He wanted another monstrosity.
Said his worship, 'Begob!
You are fined forty bob,
And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says.
And the Narrabri joy,
Half bird and half boy,
Has a 'down' on himself and on circuses.
It's Grand
It's grand to be a squatter
And sit upon a post,
And watch your little ewes and lambs
A-giving up the ghost.
It's grand to be a 'cockie'
With wife and kids to keep,
And find an all-wise Providence
Has mustered all your sheep.
It's grand to be a Western man,
With shovel in your hand,
To dig your little homestead out
From underneath the sand.
It's grand to be a shearer,
Along the Darling side,
And pluck the wool from stinking sheep
That some days since have died.
It's grand to be a rabbit
And breed till all is blue,
And then to die in heaps because
There's nothing left to chew.
It's grand to be a Minister
And travel like a swell,
And tell the Central District folk
It's grand to be a Socialist
And lead the bold array
That marches to prosperity
At seven bob a day.
It's grand to be an unemployed
And wake up every second day
And go to sleep again.
It's grand to borrow English tin
To pay for wharves and Rocks,
And then to find it isn't in
The little money-box.
It's grand to be a democrat
And toady to the mob,
For fear that if you told the truth
They'd hunt you from your job.
It's grand to be a lot of things
In this fair Southern land,
But if the Lord would send us rain,
That would, indeed, be grand!
They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'.
They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure,
The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
The rest would never see him go -- he'd finish out of sight.
So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'.
And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence,
Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right --
For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'.
The Road to Old Man's Town
The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
The wine of youth is strong:
What need have we to count the hours?
The summer days are long.
But soon we find to our dismay
That we are drifting down
The barren slopes that fall away
Towards the foothills grim and grey
That lead to Old Man's Town.
And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those that dropped behind.
But God forbid a fate so dread --
ALONE to travel down
The dreary road we all must tread,
With faltering steps and whitening head,
The road to Old Man's Town!
The Old Timer's Steeplechase
The sheep were shorn and the wool went down
At the time of our local racing:
And I'd earned a spell -- I was burnt and brown --
So I rolled my swag for a trip to town
And a look at the steeplechasing.
'Twas rough and ready -- an uncleared course
As rough as the blacks had found it;
With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse,
And a water-jump that would drown a horse,
And the steeple three times round it.
There was never a fence the tracks to guard, --
Some straggling posts defined 'em:
And the day was hot, and the drinking hard,
Till none of the stewards could see a yard
Before nor yet behind 'em!
But the bell was rung and the nags were out,
Excepting an old outsider
Whose trainer started an awful rout,
For his boy had gone on a drinking bout
And left him without a rider.
'Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried,
'In the whole of the crowd so clever,
Is there not one man that will take a ride
On the old white horse from the Northern side
That was bred on the Mooki River?'
'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow,
And a cow would look well beside him;
But I was pluckier then than now
(And I wanted excitement anyhow),
So at last I agreed to ride him.
And the trainer said, 'Well, he's dreadful slow,
And he hasn't a chance whatever;
But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show
A trick or two that the trainers know
Who train by the Mooki River.
'The first time round at the further side,
With the trees and the scrub about you,
Just pull behind them and run out wide
And then dodge into the scrub and hide,
And let them go round without you.
'At the third time round, for the final spin
With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em,
They'll never notice if you chip in
For the last half-mile -- you'll be sure to win,
And they'll think you raced behind 'em.
'At the water-jump you may have to swim --
He hasn't a hope to clear it --
Unless he skims like the swallows skim
At full speed over, but not for him!
He'll never go next or near it.
'But don't you worry -- just plunge across,
For he swims like a well-trained setter.
Then hide away in the scrub and gorse
The rest will be far ahead of course --
The further ahead the better.
'You must rush the jumps in the last half-round
For fear that he might refuse 'em;
He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound,
Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound,
And don't be afraid to use 'em.
'At the final round, when the field are slow
And you are quite fresh to meet 'em,
Sit down, and hustle him all you know
With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go --
Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!'
.    .    .    .    .
The flag went down and we seemed to fly,
And we made the timbers shiver
Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by,
And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry:
I jammed him in with a well-packed crush,
And recklessly -- out for slaughter --
Like a living wave over fence and brush
We swept and swung with a flying rush,
Till we came to the dreaded water.
Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think
Of the way I contrived to work it.
Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink,
He found himself on the water's brink,
With never a chance to shirk it!
The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles
The heart of this grizzled rover!
He gave a snort you could hear for miles,
And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles
And carried me safely over!
Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back
In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver:
And I waited there in the shadows black
While the rest of the horses, round the track,
Went on like a rushing river!
At the second round, as the field swept by,
I saw that the pace was telling;
But on they thundered, and by-and-bye
As they passed the stand I could hear the cry
Of the folk in the distance, yelling!
Then the last time round!  And the hoofbeats rang!
And I said, 'Well, it's now or never!'
And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,
And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang
As I rode!  For the Mooki River!
We raced for home in a cloud of dust
And the curses rose in chorus.
'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!
And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust
There was one got home before us.
'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen
In the part of the race I'd ridden;
And his coat was cool and his rider clean,
And I thought that perhaps I had not been
The only one that had hidden.
.    .    .    .    .
And the trainer came with a visage blue
With rage, when the race concluded:
Said he, 'I thought you'd have pulled us through,
But the man on the black horse planted too,
Alas to think that those times so gay
Have vanished and passed for ever!
You don't believe in the yarn you say?
Why, man!  'Twas a matter of every day
When we raced on the Mooki River!
Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide
.    .    .    .    .
Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days,
Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank.
Go!  She went mad!  She went tearing
and screaming with fear through the trees,
One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm:
Then we heard they were gone from the district;
they stuck up a coach in the West,
And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest,
Riding this colt as a youngster -- awkward, half-broken and shy,
'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead --
bad going, with plenty of trees --
by Heavens we FLEW down the hill!
Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer
And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me --
a bullet sang close to my ear --
And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it:
but I saw as we raced through the gap
That the rails at the homestead were fastened --
I was caught like a rat in a trap.
Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock --
barbed wire that would cut like a knife --
barbed wire on the top of the post,
But you can talk about riding -- I've ridden a lot in the past --
but I think the most dashing of all
The long day passes with its load of sorrow:
In slumber deep
I lay me down to rest until to-morrow --
Thank God for sleep.
Thank God for all respite from weary toiling,
From cares that creep
Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling
God's kindly sleep.
We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later,
We strive to reap,
And build our barns, and hope to build them greater
Before we sleep.
We toil and strain and strive with one another
In hopes to heap
Some greater share of profit than our brother
Before we sleep.
What will it profit that with tears or laughter
Our watch we keep?
Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter!
Thank God for sleep!
For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us,
We turn with deep
Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us
'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight;
'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din,
It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in --
So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip,
'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.'
and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind,
Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face.
They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large,
He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro,
and he jumped for him straight away.
He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O.,
'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go;
And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed,
There's Another Blessed Horse Fell Down
And there's nothing to disturb you but the engines going round,
And you're dreaming of the girl you left behind;
In the middle of your joys you'll be wakened by a noise,
And a clatter on the deck above your crown,
And you'll hear the corporal shout as he turns the picket out,
'There's another blessed horse fell down.'
And you reckon by the evening they'll be pretty sure to fall,
And you curse them as you tumble into bed.
Oh, you'll hear it pretty soon, 'Pass the word for Denny Moon,
There's a horse here throwing handsprings like a clown;
And it's 'Shove the others back or he'll cripple half the pack,
There's another blessed horse fell down.'
And when the war is over and the fighting all is done,
And you're all at home with medals on your chest,
And you've learnt to sleep so soundly that the firing of a gun
At your bedside wouldn't rob you of your rest;
As you lie in slumber deep, if your wife walks in her sleep,
And tumbles down the stairs and breaks her crown,
Oh, it won't awaken you, for you'll say, 'It's nothing new,
It's another blessed horse fell down.'
Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day,
With sun above and silent veldt below;
And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away,
And the homestead where the climbing roses grow.
Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again,
For we're going on a long job now.
In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep,
With the endless line of waggons stretching back,
While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep,
Plodding silent on the never-ending track,
While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see
Makes you wonder will your turn come -- when and how?
As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee --
Oh! we're going on a long job now.
When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead,
And you've seen a load of wounded once or twice,
And down along Monaro now they're starting out to shear,
I can picture the excitement and the row;
With never a sound of trumpet,
With never a flag displayed,
The last of the old campaigners
Lined up for the last parade.
Weary they were and battered,
Shoeless, and knocked about;
From under their ragged forelocks
Their hungry eyes looked out.
And they watched as the old commander
Read out, to the cheering men,
The Nation's thanks and the orders
To carry them home again.
And the last of the old campaigners,
Sinewy, lean, and spare --
He spoke for his hungry comrades:
'Have we not done our share?
'Starving and tired and thirsty
We limped on the blazing plain;
And after a long night's picket
You saddled us up again.
'We froze on the wind-swept kopjes
When the frost lay snowy-white.
Never a halt in the daytime,
Never a rest at night!
'We knew when the rifles rattled
From the hillside bare and brown,
And over our weary shoulders
We felt warm blood run down,
'As we turned for the stretching gallop,
Crushed to the earth with weight;
But we carried our riders through it --
Carried them p'raps too late.
'Steel!  We were steel to stand it --
We that have lasted through,
We that are old campaigners
Pitiful, poor, and few.
'Over the sea you brought us,
Over the leagues of foam:
Now we have served you fairly
Will you not take us home?
To the flats where the lucerne grows;
Home where the Murrumbidgee
Runs white with the melted snows.
'This is a small thing surely!
Will not you give command
That the last of the old campaigners
Go back to their native land?'
.    .    .    .    .
They looked at the grim commander,
But never a sign he made.
'Dismiss!' and the old campaigners
Moved off from their last parade.
The Boers were down on Kimberley with siege and Maxim gun;
The Boers were down on Kimberley, their numbers ten to one!
Faint were the hopes the British had to make the struggle good,
Defenceless in an open plain the Diamond City stood.
For French was off to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
He made no march along the line; he made no front attack
Upon those Magersfontein heights that drove the Scotchmen back;
But eastward over pathless plains by open veldt and vley,
Across the front of Cronje's force his troopers held their way.
The springbuck, feeding on the flats where Modder River runs,
Were startled by his horses' hoofs, the rumble of his guns.
The Dutchman's spies that watched his march from every rocky wall
With easy stride across the plain their long, lean Walers went.
Unknown, untried, those squadrons were, but proudly out they drew
From every coast, from every clime, they met in proud array,
To go with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
He crossed the Reit and fought his way towards the Modder bank.
The foemen closed behind his march, and hung upon the flank.
The boldest man might well turn pale before that pass he tried,
For if the first attack should fail then every hope was gone:
With rifle fire and lancer charge their squadrons back we threw;
And through the pass between the hills we swept in furious fray,
And French was through to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
Ay, French was through to Kimberley!  And ere the day was done
We saw the Diamond City stand, lit by the evening sun:
Above the town the heliograph hung like an eye of flame:
Around the town the foemen camped -- they knew not that we came;
And French rode into Kimberley; the people cheered amain,
The women came with tear-stained eyes to touch his bridle rein,
The starving children lined the streets to raise a feeble cheer,
The bells rang out a joyous peal to say 'Relief is here!'
Ay! we that saw that stirring march are proud that we can say
We went with French to Kimberley to drive the Boers away.
Men fight all shapes and sizes as the racing horses run,
And no man knows his courage till he stands before a gun.
At mixed-up fighting, hand to hand, and clawing men about
They reckon Fuzzy-wuzzy is the hottest fighter out.
But Fuzzy gives himself away -- his style is out of date,
He charges like a driven grouse that rushes on its fate;
You've nothing in the world to do but pump him full of lead:
But when you're fighting Johnny Boer you have to use your head;
He don't believe in front attacks or charging at the run,
He fights you from a kopje with his little Maxim gun.
For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear,
He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer,
Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own --
Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone.
And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out.
It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun
Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun.
On rocks a goat could scarcely climb, steep as the walls of Troy,
At night you mark her right ahead, you see her clean and clear,
He's lying hidden in the rocks to let the leaders pass;
But when the main guard comes along he opens up the fun,
There's lots of ammunition for the little Maxim gun.
But after all the job is sure, although the job is slow,
We have to see the business through, the Boer has got to go.
With Nordenfeldt and lyddite shell it's certain, soon or late,
We'll hunt him from his kopjes and across the Orange State;
And then across those open flats you'll see the beggar run,
And we'll be running after with OUR little Maxim gun.
What have the cavalry done?
Cantered and trotted about,
Routin' the enemy out,
Causin' the beggars to run!
And we tramped along in the blazin' heat,
Over the veldt on our weary feet.
Tramp, tramp, tramp
Under the blazin' sun,
With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer,
'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before --
That's what the cavalry done!
What have the gunners done
Battlin' every day,
Battlin' any way.
Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they?
'Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.!
See! when the fight grows hot,
Under the rifles or not,
Always the order runs,
'Fetch up the bloomin' guns!'
And you'd see them great gun-horses spring
To the 'action front' -- and around they'd swing.
Find the range with some queer machine
'At four thousand with fuse fourteen.
Ready!  Fire number one!'
Handled the battery neat and quick!
Stick to it, too!  How DID they stick!
Never a gunner was seen to run!
Never a gunner would leave his gun!
Not though his mates dropped all around!
Always a gunner would stand his ground.
Take the army -- the infantry,
Mounted rifles, and cavalry,
Twice the numbers I'd give away,
And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A.,
For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run,
That's what the gunners done!
'Where 'ave you been this week or more,
'Aven't seen you about the war?
Thought perhaps you was at the rear
Guarding the waggons.'  'What, us?  No fear!
Where have we been?  Why, bless my heart,
Where have we been since the bloomin' start?
Right in the front of the army,
Battling day and night!
Right in the front of the army,
Teaching 'em how to fight!'
Every separate man you see,
Sapper, gunner, and C.I.V.,
Every one of 'em seems to be
Right in the front of the army!
Most of the troops to the camp had gone,
When we met with a cow-gun toiling on;
And we said to the boys, as they walked her past,
'Well, thank goodness, you're here at last!'
'Here at last!  Why, what d'yer mean?
Ain't we just where we've always been?
Right in the front of the army,
Battling day and night!
Right in the front of the army,
Teaching 'em how to fight!'
Correspondents and vets. in force,
Mounted foot and dismounted horse,
All of them were, as a matter of course,
Right in the front of the army.
Old Lord Roberts will have to mind
If ever the enemy get behind;
For they'll smash him up with a rear attack,
Because his army has got no back!
Think of the horrors that might befall
An army without any rear at all!
Right in the front of the army,
Battling day and night!
Right in the front of the army,
Teaching 'em how to fight!
Swede attaches and German counts,
Yeomen (known as De Wet's remounts),
All of them were by their own accounts
Right in the front of the army!
'Twas in the days of front attack,
This glorious truth we'd yet to learn it --
That every 'front' had got a back,
And French was just the man to turn it.
A wounded soldier on the ground
Was lying hid behind a hummock;
He proved the good old proverb sound --
An army travels on its stomach.
He lay as flat as any fish,
His nose had worn a little furrow;
He only had one frantic wish,
That like an antbear he could burrow.
The bullets whistled into space,
The pom-pom gun kept up its braying,
The four-point-seven supplied the bass --
You'd think the devil's band was playing.
A valiant comrade crawling near
Observed his most supine behaviour,
And crept towards him, 'Hey! what cheer?
Buck up,' said he, 'I've come to save yer.
'You get up on my shoulders, mate,
And if we live beyond the firing,
I'll get the V.C. sure as fate,
Because our blokes is all retiring.
'It's fifty pounds a year,' says he,
'I'll stand you lots of beer and whisky.'
'No,' says the wounded man, 'not me,
I'll not be saved, it's far too risky.
'I'm fairly safe behind this mound,
I've worn a hole that seems to fit me;
But if you lift me off the ground,
It's fifty pounds to one they'll hit me.'
So back towards the firing line
Our friend crept slowly to the rear oh!
Remarking 'What a selfish swine!
He might have let me be a hero.'
I ain't a timid man at all, I'm just as brave as most,
I'll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;
But riding round the 'ole day long as target for a Krupp,
A-drawing fire from Koppies -- well, I'm fair fed up.
It's wonderful how few get hit, it's luck that pulls us through;
Their rifle fire's no class at all, it misses me and you;
But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup
From that there blooming pom-pom gun -- well, I'm fed up.
We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut,
I'll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.
But after all -- What's Mounted Fut?  I saw them t'other day,
They occupied a Koppie when the Boers had run away.
The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights,
Well! after that on Mounted Fut I'm fair fed up.
And tramping with the Footies ain't as easy as it looks,
They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.
They do a march of twenty mile that leaves 'em nearly dead,
And then they find the bloomin' Boers is twenty miles ahead.
Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,
But walking forty miles to fight -- well, I'm fed up!
So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry
I'll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.;
They've always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup,
But Bully Beef and Biscuits -- well! I'm fair fed up!
There's a soldier that's been doing of his share
In the fighting up and down and round about.
He's continually marching here and there
And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.
The Boer, you see, he generally runs;
But sometimes when he hides behind a rock,
And we can't make no impression with the guns,
Oh, then you'll hear the order, 'Send for Jock!'
Yes, it's Jock -- Scotch Jock.
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
For he's hairy and he's hard,
And his feet are by the yard,
And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry --
The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance,
Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance
By holding of their helmets on their head.
And when the Boer has dug himself a trench
And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock,
These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French --
They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!
With their music that'd terrify an ox!
When the bullets kick the sand
You can hear the sharp command --
'Forty-Second!  At the double!  Charge the rocks!'
And the charge is like a flood
When they've warmed the Highland blood
Halt!  Who goes there?  The sentry's call
Rose on the midnight air
Above the noises of the camp,
The roll of wheels, the horses' tramp.
The challenge echoed over all --
Halt!  Who goes there?
A quaint old figure clothed in white,
He bore a staff of pine,
An ivy-wreath was on his head.
'Advance, oh friend,' the sentry said,
Advance, for this is Christmas night,
And give the countersign.'
'No sign nor countersign have I,
Through many lands I roam
The whole world over far and wide,
To exiles all at Christmastide,
From those who love them tenderly
I bring a thought of home.
'From English brook and Scottish burn,
From cold Canadian snows,
From those far lands ye hold most dear
I bring you all a greeting here,
A frond of a New Zealand fern,
A bloom of English rose.
'From faithful wife and loving lass
I bring a wish divine,
For Christmas blessings on your head.'
'I wish you well,' the sentry said,
But here, alas! you may not pass
Without the countersign.'
He vanished -- and the sentry's tramp
Re-echoed down the line.
It was not till the morning light
The soldiers knew that in the night
Old Santa Claus had come to camp
Without the countersign.
From a section of Advertisements, 1909.
*  "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them.
Eloquent and ardent verses."
*  "Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos,
and crowding adventure.  . . .  Stirring and entertaining ballads
of the horses."
*  "At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author
*  Mr. A. Patchett Martin (London):  "In my opinion,
*  "Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet
*  "A book like this . . . is worth a dozen of the aspiring,
idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter
and a dash of real tears in its composition."
in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing,
*  "He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music,
*  "There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Paterson's verse;
there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human interest
which moves in it."
*  "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo from the older,
*  "Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied sympathies,
coupled with a genuine lyrical impulse, and some skill,
*  "These are all entertaining, their rough and ready wit
and virility of expression making them highly acceptable,
while the dash of satire gives point to the humour."
*  "Will be welcome to that too select class at home who follow
*  "Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that sings as it goes along.
The subjects are capital, and some of the refrains haunt one.
There is always room for a book of unpretentious, vigorous verse
of this sort."
finding entertainment upon each."