THE ALTAR-BOY

Now McEvoy was altar-boyAs long as I remember;He was, bedad, a crabbéd lad,And sixty come December.Faith, no one dared to “interfare”In things the which concernin’’Twas right and just to him to trustWho had the bit o’ learnin’To serve the priest; and here at leastHe never proved defaulter;So, wet or dry, you could relyTo find him on the Altar.The acolyte in surplice whiteSome admiration rouses:But McEvoy was altar-boyIn “Sund’y coat-’n-trouses.”And out he’d steer, the eye severeThe depths behind him plumbin’,In dread, I wot (he once was “cot”),The priest might not be comin’:Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,No more he’d fail or falter,But set likewise with hands and eyesHe’d move about the Altar.A master-stroke of other folkMight start the opposition,And some, mebbe, in jealousyBedoubt their erudition;But McEvoy was altar-boyAnd, spite of all their chattin’,It “put the stuns” on lesser onesTo hear him run the Latin.And faith, he knew the business through,The rubrics and the psalter;You never met his “aikals” yetWhen servin’ on the Altar.The priest, indeed, might take the leadBy right of Holy Orders,But McEvoy was altar-boy,And just upon the borders.So sermons dry he’d signifyWith puckered brows behoovin’,An’, if you please, at homiliesHe’d nod the head approvin’;And all the while a cute old smilePicked out the chief defaulter;Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eyeWould “vet” you from the Altar.

Now McEvoy was altar-boy

As long as I remember;

He was, bedad, a crabbéd lad,

And sixty come December.

Faith, no one dared to “interfare”

In things the which concernin’

’Twas right and just to him to trust

Who had the bit o’ learnin’

To serve the priest; and here at least

He never proved defaulter;

So, wet or dry, you could rely

To find him on the Altar.

The acolyte in surplice whiteSome admiration rouses:But McEvoy was altar-boyIn “Sund’y coat-’n-trouses.”And out he’d steer, the eye severeThe depths behind him plumbin’,In dread, I wot (he once was “cot”),The priest might not be comin’:Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,No more he’d fail or falter,But set likewise with hands and eyesHe’d move about the Altar.

The acolyte in surplice white

Some admiration rouses:

But McEvoy was altar-boy

In “Sund’y coat-’n-trouses.”

And out he’d steer, the eye severe

The depths behind him plumbin’,

In dread, I wot (he once was “cot”),

The priest might not be comin’:

Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,

No more he’d fail or falter,

But set likewise with hands and eyes

He’d move about the Altar.

A master-stroke of other folkMight start the opposition,And some, mebbe, in jealousyBedoubt their erudition;But McEvoy was altar-boyAnd, spite of all their chattin’,It “put the stuns” on lesser onesTo hear him run the Latin.And faith, he knew the business through,The rubrics and the psalter;You never met his “aikals” yetWhen servin’ on the Altar.

A master-stroke of other folk

Might start the opposition,

And some, mebbe, in jealousy

Bedoubt their erudition;

But McEvoy was altar-boy

And, spite of all their chattin’,

It “put the stuns” on lesser ones

To hear him run the Latin.

And faith, he knew the business through,

The rubrics and the psalter;

You never met his “aikals” yet

When servin’ on the Altar.

The priest, indeed, might take the leadBy right of Holy Orders,But McEvoy was altar-boy,And just upon the borders.So sermons dry he’d signifyWith puckered brows behoovin’,An’, if you please, at homiliesHe’d nod the head approvin’;And all the while a cute old smilePicked out the chief defaulter;Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eyeWould “vet” you from the Altar.

The priest, indeed, might take the lead

By right of Holy Orders,

But McEvoy was altar-boy,

And just upon the borders.

So sermons dry he’d signify

With puckered brows behoovin’,

An’, if you please, at homilies

He’d nod the head approvin’;

And all the while a cute old smile

Picked out the chief defaulter;

Faith, wet or dry, the crabbéd eye

Would “vet” you from the Altar.

AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS

There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west,Through the tall, white, slender timber, in the land I love the best.Short its message is—“To Casey’s”—for it points the road to Casey’s;And my homing heart goes bushwards on an idle roving quest,Down the old, old road contented, o’er the gum-leaves crisp and scented,Where a deft hand splashed the purple on the big hill’s sombre crest.Ah, it’s long, long years and dreary, many, many steps and weary,Back to where the lingering dew of morn bedecked the barley-grass,When I watched the wild careering of the neighbours through the clearingDown that sweet bush track to Casey’s, o’er the paddock down to Casey’s;Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees,Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees;Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s—Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease.With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle,Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze;Hearts as buoyant as a feather in the mellow autumn weather,While the noisy minahs cheered to see the glad procession pass—All the Regans and the Ryans, and the whole mob of O’BriensBringing up the rear to Casey’s—in the Shandrydan to Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.Past the kitchen door they rattled and they took the horses out;While the women went inside at once, the menfolk hung aboutRound the stable down at Casey’s, waiting dinner down at Casey’s;And they talked about the Government, and blamed it for the drought,Sitting where the sunlight lingers, picking splinters from their fingers,Settling all the problems of the world beyond a chance of doubt.From inside there came the bustle of the cheerful wholesome hustle,As dear old Mrs. Casey tried all records to surpass;Oh, there’s many a memory blesses her sweet silver-braided tresses;They were “lovely” down at Casey’s—always joking down at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.So they called us in to dinner, five-and-twenty guests—and more—At the longest kitchen-table ever stood upon a floor.There was plenty down at Casey’s—ay, an open house was Casey’s,Where the neighbour and his missus never, never passed the door;Where they counted kindly giving half the joy and pride of livingAnd the seasons came full-handed, and the angels blessed the store;While the happy Laughing Mary flitted round us like a fairy.And the big, shy boys stopped business, and looked up to watch her pass—Ah, but when she caught them staring at the ribbons she was wearing!Well, they spilled their tea at Casey’s—on the good clean cloth at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.Then the reckless feats of daring, and the bushman’s fierce delightWhen the brumby squealed and rooted, and the saddle-girths were tight!They could ride ’em down at Casey’s—stick like plasters down at Casey’s—When they noticed Mary looking, they would go with all their might;Ho! they belted, and they clouted, and they yelled, and whooped, and shouted,“Riding flash” to “ketch” the ladies, spurring, flogging, left and right!And the lad with manners airy risked his neck for Laughing MaryWhen he summoned all his courage up a rival to surpass;Oh, the fun went fast and faster, as he landed in disasterIn the puddle-hole at Casey’s—with his brand new suit at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.Hoary, hale, bewhiskered veterans, perched like mopokes in a row,Out of danger on the top-rail, gave advice to those below;They were wonders down at Casey’s, were the old men at the Caseys’—They’re the boys could ride the “bad ’uns” in the days of long ago!Faith, and old man Casey told ’em of a way he had to hold ’em.Man, “the deuce an outlaw thrun him,” when he “got a proper show”;Ay, and each man “upped and showed ’em” how he “handled ’em, an’ rode ’em”—Pshaw! there never was a native these old riders could outclass.Once again they were “among ’em,” and they “roped ’em” and they “slung ’em”On the stockyard fence at Casey’s—smoking, “pitchin’,” down at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.Hard and cold is youth to fancies which around the old men cling;So they left them perched upon the rail to swap their vapouring,Took a seat inside at Casey’s, on the good chairs at the Caseys’;While the Caseys’ new piano made the old house rock and ring.There their mild eyes stared and glistened, as they sat around and listenedTo the tuneful little ditties Laughing Mary used to sing;There they rubbed their chins and reckoned that to no one was she second—“Cripes, she’d sing the blooming head off any singer in her class!”And the banter and the laughter when the chorus hit the rafter!It was “great” to be at Casey’s—healthy, wholesome fun at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget;There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet—Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s,Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet,Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner,And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret.Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty,Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they passSimple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure.There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew;Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew;We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s—Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two.Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the fingerDown the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew.But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder,Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass;Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreamingThat I’m back again at Casey’s, with the old, old friends at Casey’s;Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west,

Through the tall, white, slender timber, in the land I love the best.

Short its message is—“To Casey’s”—for it points the road to Casey’s;

And my homing heart goes bushwards on an idle roving quest,

Down the old, old road contented, o’er the gum-leaves crisp and scented,

Where a deft hand splashed the purple on the big hill’s sombre crest.

Ah, it’s long, long years and dreary, many, many steps and weary,

Back to where the lingering dew of morn bedecked the barley-grass,

When I watched the wild careering of the neighbours through the clearing

Down that sweet bush track to Casey’s, o’er the paddock down to Casey’s;

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees,Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees;Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s—Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease.With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle,Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze;Hearts as buoyant as a feather in the mellow autumn weather,While the noisy minahs cheered to see the glad procession pass—All the Regans and the Ryans, and the whole mob of O’BriensBringing up the rear to Casey’s—in the Shandrydan to Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees,

Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees;

Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s—

Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease.

With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle,

Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze;

Hearts as buoyant as a feather in the mellow autumn weather,

While the noisy minahs cheered to see the glad procession pass—

All the Regans and the Ryans, and the whole mob of O’Briens

Bringing up the rear to Casey’s—in the Shandrydan to Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Past the kitchen door they rattled and they took the horses out;While the women went inside at once, the menfolk hung aboutRound the stable down at Casey’s, waiting dinner down at Casey’s;And they talked about the Government, and blamed it for the drought,Sitting where the sunlight lingers, picking splinters from their fingers,Settling all the problems of the world beyond a chance of doubt.From inside there came the bustle of the cheerful wholesome hustle,As dear old Mrs. Casey tried all records to surpass;Oh, there’s many a memory blesses her sweet silver-braided tresses;They were “lovely” down at Casey’s—always joking down at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Past the kitchen door they rattled and they took the horses out;

While the women went inside at once, the menfolk hung about

Round the stable down at Casey’s, waiting dinner down at Casey’s;

And they talked about the Government, and blamed it for the drought,

Sitting where the sunlight lingers, picking splinters from their fingers,

Settling all the problems of the world beyond a chance of doubt.

From inside there came the bustle of the cheerful wholesome hustle,

As dear old Mrs. Casey tried all records to surpass;

Oh, there’s many a memory blesses her sweet silver-braided tresses;

They were “lovely” down at Casey’s—always joking down at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

So they called us in to dinner, five-and-twenty guests—and more—At the longest kitchen-table ever stood upon a floor.There was plenty down at Casey’s—ay, an open house was Casey’s,Where the neighbour and his missus never, never passed the door;Where they counted kindly giving half the joy and pride of livingAnd the seasons came full-handed, and the angels blessed the store;While the happy Laughing Mary flitted round us like a fairy.And the big, shy boys stopped business, and looked up to watch her pass—Ah, but when she caught them staring at the ribbons she was wearing!Well, they spilled their tea at Casey’s—on the good clean cloth at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

So they called us in to dinner, five-and-twenty guests—and more—

At the longest kitchen-table ever stood upon a floor.

There was plenty down at Casey’s—ay, an open house was Casey’s,

Where the neighbour and his missus never, never passed the door;

Where they counted kindly giving half the joy and pride of living

And the seasons came full-handed, and the angels blessed the store;

While the happy Laughing Mary flitted round us like a fairy.

And the big, shy boys stopped business, and looked up to watch her pass—

Ah, but when she caught them staring at the ribbons she was wearing!

Well, they spilled their tea at Casey’s—on the good clean cloth at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Then the reckless feats of daring, and the bushman’s fierce delightWhen the brumby squealed and rooted, and the saddle-girths were tight!They could ride ’em down at Casey’s—stick like plasters down at Casey’s—When they noticed Mary looking, they would go with all their might;Ho! they belted, and they clouted, and they yelled, and whooped, and shouted,“Riding flash” to “ketch” the ladies, spurring, flogging, left and right!And the lad with manners airy risked his neck for Laughing MaryWhen he summoned all his courage up a rival to surpass;Oh, the fun went fast and faster, as he landed in disasterIn the puddle-hole at Casey’s—with his brand new suit at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Then the reckless feats of daring, and the bushman’s fierce delight

When the brumby squealed and rooted, and the saddle-girths were tight!

They could ride ’em down at Casey’s—stick like plasters down at Casey’s—

When they noticed Mary looking, they would go with all their might;

Ho! they belted, and they clouted, and they yelled, and whooped, and shouted,

“Riding flash” to “ketch” the ladies, spurring, flogging, left and right!

And the lad with manners airy risked his neck for Laughing Mary

When he summoned all his courage up a rival to surpass;

Oh, the fun went fast and faster, as he landed in disaster

In the puddle-hole at Casey’s—with his brand new suit at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hoary, hale, bewhiskered veterans, perched like mopokes in a row,Out of danger on the top-rail, gave advice to those below;They were wonders down at Casey’s, were the old men at the Caseys’—They’re the boys could ride the “bad ’uns” in the days of long ago!Faith, and old man Casey told ’em of a way he had to hold ’em.Man, “the deuce an outlaw thrun him,” when he “got a proper show”;Ay, and each man “upped and showed ’em” how he “handled ’em, an’ rode ’em”—Pshaw! there never was a native these old riders could outclass.Once again they were “among ’em,” and they “roped ’em” and they “slung ’em”On the stockyard fence at Casey’s—smoking, “pitchin’,” down at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hoary, hale, bewhiskered veterans, perched like mopokes in a row,

Out of danger on the top-rail, gave advice to those below;

They were wonders down at Casey’s, were the old men at the Caseys’—

They’re the boys could ride the “bad ’uns” in the days of long ago!

Faith, and old man Casey told ’em of a way he had to hold ’em.

Man, “the deuce an outlaw thrun him,” when he “got a proper show”;

Ay, and each man “upped and showed ’em” how he “handled ’em, an’ rode ’em”—

Pshaw! there never was a native these old riders could outclass.

Once again they were “among ’em,” and they “roped ’em” and they “slung ’em”

On the stockyard fence at Casey’s—smoking, “pitchin’,” down at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hard and cold is youth to fancies which around the old men cling;So they left them perched upon the rail to swap their vapouring,Took a seat inside at Casey’s, on the good chairs at the Caseys’;While the Caseys’ new piano made the old house rock and ring.There their mild eyes stared and glistened, as they sat around and listenedTo the tuneful little ditties Laughing Mary used to sing;There they rubbed their chins and reckoned that to no one was she second—“Cripes, she’d sing the blooming head off any singer in her class!”And the banter and the laughter when the chorus hit the rafter!It was “great” to be at Casey’s—healthy, wholesome fun at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hard and cold is youth to fancies which around the old men cling;

So they left them perched upon the rail to swap their vapouring,

Took a seat inside at Casey’s, on the good chairs at the Caseys’;

While the Caseys’ new piano made the old house rock and ring.

There their mild eyes stared and glistened, as they sat around and listened

To the tuneful little ditties Laughing Mary used to sing;

There they rubbed their chins and reckoned that to no one was she second—

“Cripes, she’d sing the blooming head off any singer in her class!”

And the banter and the laughter when the chorus hit the rafter!

It was “great” to be at Casey’s—healthy, wholesome fun at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget;There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet—Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s,Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet,Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner,And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret.Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty,Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they passSimple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure.There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s—Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget;

There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet—

Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s,

Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet,

Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner,

And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret.

Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty,

Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they pass

Simple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure.

There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew;Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew;We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s—Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two.Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the fingerDown the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew.But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder,Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass;Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreamingThat I’m back again at Casey’s, with the old, old friends at Casey’s;Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew;

Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew;

We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s—

Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two.

Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the finger

Down the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew.

But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder,

Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass;

Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreaming

That I’m back again at Casey’s, with the old, old friends at Casey’s;

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through all my retrospectionOn the days when fairies brought me golden dreams without alloy,When I gazed across the gum-trees round about the old selectionTo the big things far beyond them, with the yearning of a boy.Drab the little world we lived in; like the sheep, in slow processionDown the track along the mountain, went the hours upon their way,Bringing hopes and idle longings that could only find expressionIn the riot of our bounding hearts upon St. Patrick’s Day.There were sports in Casey’s paddock, and the neighbours would assembleOn the flat below the homestead, where the timber fringed the creek;With Australian skies above them, and Australian trees a-trembleAnd the colours of the autumn set in hat and hair and cheek.Mighty things were done at Casey’s; mighty bouts anticipatedMade the Sunday church-door topic for a month ahead at least;On the cheerless Sundays after, with misguided hope deflated,We explained away our failures as we waited for the priest.So when morning Mass was over, it was trot and break and canterHelter-skelter down to Casey’s, banging, pounding all the way,And the greetings flung in Irish, and the flood of Celtic banter,And the hectic flush of racial pride upon St. Patrick’s Day.Everywhere was emerald flashing from the buggies, traps, and jinkers,There was green in every garment, and a splash in every hat,In the bows upon the cart-whips, in the ribbons on the winkers,In the wealth of woven carpet neath the gums on Casey’s Flat.There the new dress faced the critics, and the little beaded bonnetAnd the feather flowing freely like a sapling in a gale;And “himself” inside his long black coat that bore a bulge upon itWhere for twelve forgotten months its weight had hung upon the nail;And the “splather” of a necktie only once a year paraded,And the scarf that came from Ireland, “ere a one of you were born,”And the treasured bunch of shamrock—old and withered now, and faded,Blessed by every tear that stained it since the cruel parting morn.Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Men of solid reputation,Ringing bells and giving orders, kept the programme moving by;And they made you sickly conscious of your humble situationWhen they glared upon your meanness with a cold official eye.Every “maneen” with a broken voice and backers there beside him,And his socks outside his breeches, was a hero in his way;Every nag around the country with a raw bush lad astride himWas a racehorse with an Irish name upon St. Patrick’s Day.Oh, the cheering that betokened those I knew so well competing,With their long legs throwing slip-knots, and the look of men in pain—Put me back into the reach-me-downs, and let me hear the greeting,Set me loose in Casey’s paddock, where I’d be a boy again!Yes, ’twas good to be a pilgrim in a world that held such wonders,Though eternal bad behaviour put me neath parental ban,Though the staring, and the wandering, and a score of general blundersGot me gaoled behind the taffrail of the Old Mass Shandrydan.“Yerra, Johnnie, stop that gawkin.” Is it—with the pulses pumping,And the little heart high-stepping to the music of the drum—Is it “stop it,” with a something in the young blood madly thumpingWith a foreword of the purpose of the pregnant years to come?Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Mighty impulse was behind them,’Twas the sacred spark enkindled that was burning to the bone;Never yet were men more loyal to the holy ties that bind them,And the love they gave their country made me conscious of my own.Never yet were men more loyal. Be they met in thousands teeming,Be they gathered down at Casey’s with their kindred and their kind;They are marching on for Ireland, with the beauteous vision gleamingOf the altar-fires of Freedom in the land they left behind.Not a torch was ever lighted at a tomb where Freedom slumbered,But it smouldered—grimly smouldered—till the stone was rolled away;When it flashed across the half-light, rallying rocket glares unnumbered,Like the spangled blades of morning that bespeak the march of day.Not a voice was ever lifted, but an echo never dyingFlung the slogan once repeated when the hand was on the gun;Though the prophet tongue was ashes, came the conquering banners flyingWith a dazzling watchword flashing, blazing signals in the sun.Yes, the world has ever seen it in its journey down the ages,Seen it writ in living scarlet in the blood that has been shed;And a hand re-writes the head-line deep across the lurid pages,When the stricken, fearless living meet the deathless, martyred dead.Thrills a leaping thought within me, when I see a land around meThat has never seen the foeman’s steel, nor heard the foeman’s shot,At whose shrine I lit the tapers, when her witching sweetness bound meWith an iron vow of service of a pulsing pride begot;To that big free land I’ve given all the love that courses through me;That her hands have rocked my cradle stirs my heart in every beat.An Australian, ay, Australian—oh, the word is music to me,And the craven who’d deny her would I spurn beneath my feet.Thrills the thought that, did the traitor stretch a tainted hand to foil her,Did I see her flag of silver stars a tattered thing and torn,Did I see her trampled, breathless, neath the shod heel of the spoiler,And her bleeding wounds a byword, and her name a thing of scorn,There would flash the living bayonets in the strong hands of my brothers,And the blood that coursed for nationhood, through all the years of pain,In the veins of patriot fathers and of Little Irish MothersWould be hot as hissing lava streams to thrill the world again.

’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through all my retrospection

On the days when fairies brought me golden dreams without alloy,

When I gazed across the gum-trees round about the old selection

To the big things far beyond them, with the yearning of a boy.

Drab the little world we lived in; like the sheep, in slow processionDown the track along the mountain, went the hours upon their way,Bringing hopes and idle longings that could only find expressionIn the riot of our bounding hearts upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Drab the little world we lived in; like the sheep, in slow procession

Down the track along the mountain, went the hours upon their way,

Bringing hopes and idle longings that could only find expression

In the riot of our bounding hearts upon St. Patrick’s Day.

There were sports in Casey’s paddock, and the neighbours would assembleOn the flat below the homestead, where the timber fringed the creek;With Australian skies above them, and Australian trees a-trembleAnd the colours of the autumn set in hat and hair and cheek.

There were sports in Casey’s paddock, and the neighbours would assemble

On the flat below the homestead, where the timber fringed the creek;

With Australian skies above them, and Australian trees a-tremble

And the colours of the autumn set in hat and hair and cheek.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s; mighty bouts anticipatedMade the Sunday church-door topic for a month ahead at least;On the cheerless Sundays after, with misguided hope deflated,We explained away our failures as we waited for the priest.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s; mighty bouts anticipated

Made the Sunday church-door topic for a month ahead at least;

On the cheerless Sundays after, with misguided hope deflated,

We explained away our failures as we waited for the priest.

So when morning Mass was over, it was trot and break and canterHelter-skelter down to Casey’s, banging, pounding all the way,And the greetings flung in Irish, and the flood of Celtic banter,And the hectic flush of racial pride upon St. Patrick’s Day.

So when morning Mass was over, it was trot and break and canter

Helter-skelter down to Casey’s, banging, pounding all the way,

And the greetings flung in Irish, and the flood of Celtic banter,

And the hectic flush of racial pride upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Everywhere was emerald flashing from the buggies, traps, and jinkers,There was green in every garment, and a splash in every hat,In the bows upon the cart-whips, in the ribbons on the winkers,In the wealth of woven carpet neath the gums on Casey’s Flat.

Everywhere was emerald flashing from the buggies, traps, and jinkers,

There was green in every garment, and a splash in every hat,

In the bows upon the cart-whips, in the ribbons on the winkers,

In the wealth of woven carpet neath the gums on Casey’s Flat.

There the new dress faced the critics, and the little beaded bonnetAnd the feather flowing freely like a sapling in a gale;And “himself” inside his long black coat that bore a bulge upon itWhere for twelve forgotten months its weight had hung upon the nail;

There the new dress faced the critics, and the little beaded bonnet

And the feather flowing freely like a sapling in a gale;

And “himself” inside his long black coat that bore a bulge upon it

Where for twelve forgotten months its weight had hung upon the nail;

And the “splather” of a necktie only once a year paraded,And the scarf that came from Ireland, “ere a one of you were born,”And the treasured bunch of shamrock—old and withered now, and faded,Blessed by every tear that stained it since the cruel parting morn.

And the “splather” of a necktie only once a year paraded,

And the scarf that came from Ireland, “ere a one of you were born,”

And the treasured bunch of shamrock—old and withered now, and faded,

Blessed by every tear that stained it since the cruel parting morn.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Men of solid reputation,Ringing bells and giving orders, kept the programme moving by;And they made you sickly conscious of your humble situationWhen they glared upon your meanness with a cold official eye.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Men of solid reputation,

Ringing bells and giving orders, kept the programme moving by;

And they made you sickly conscious of your humble situation

When they glared upon your meanness with a cold official eye.

Every “maneen” with a broken voice and backers there beside him,And his socks outside his breeches, was a hero in his way;Every nag around the country with a raw bush lad astride himWas a racehorse with an Irish name upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Every “maneen” with a broken voice and backers there beside him,

And his socks outside his breeches, was a hero in his way;

Every nag around the country with a raw bush lad astride him

Was a racehorse with an Irish name upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Oh, the cheering that betokened those I knew so well competing,With their long legs throwing slip-knots, and the look of men in pain—Put me back into the reach-me-downs, and let me hear the greeting,Set me loose in Casey’s paddock, where I’d be a boy again!

Oh, the cheering that betokened those I knew so well competing,

With their long legs throwing slip-knots, and the look of men in pain—

Put me back into the reach-me-downs, and let me hear the greeting,

Set me loose in Casey’s paddock, where I’d be a boy again!

Yes, ’twas good to be a pilgrim in a world that held such wonders,Though eternal bad behaviour put me neath parental ban,Though the staring, and the wandering, and a score of general blundersGot me gaoled behind the taffrail of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

Yes, ’twas good to be a pilgrim in a world that held such wonders,

Though eternal bad behaviour put me neath parental ban,

Though the staring, and the wandering, and a score of general blunders

Got me gaoled behind the taffrail of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

“Yerra, Johnnie, stop that gawkin.” Is it—with the pulses pumping,And the little heart high-stepping to the music of the drum—Is it “stop it,” with a something in the young blood madly thumpingWith a foreword of the purpose of the pregnant years to come?

“Yerra, Johnnie, stop that gawkin.” Is it—with the pulses pumping,

And the little heart high-stepping to the music of the drum—

Is it “stop it,” with a something in the young blood madly thumping

With a foreword of the purpose of the pregnant years to come?

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Mighty impulse was behind them,’Twas the sacred spark enkindled that was burning to the bone;Never yet were men more loyal to the holy ties that bind them,And the love they gave their country made me conscious of my own.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Mighty impulse was behind them,

’Twas the sacred spark enkindled that was burning to the bone;

Never yet were men more loyal to the holy ties that bind them,

And the love they gave their country made me conscious of my own.

Never yet were men more loyal. Be they met in thousands teeming,Be they gathered down at Casey’s with their kindred and their kind;They are marching on for Ireland, with the beauteous vision gleamingOf the altar-fires of Freedom in the land they left behind.

Never yet were men more loyal. Be they met in thousands teeming,

Be they gathered down at Casey’s with their kindred and their kind;

They are marching on for Ireland, with the beauteous vision gleaming

Of the altar-fires of Freedom in the land they left behind.

Not a torch was ever lighted at a tomb where Freedom slumbered,But it smouldered—grimly smouldered—till the stone was rolled away;When it flashed across the half-light, rallying rocket glares unnumbered,Like the spangled blades of morning that bespeak the march of day.

Not a torch was ever lighted at a tomb where Freedom slumbered,

But it smouldered—grimly smouldered—till the stone was rolled away;

When it flashed across the half-light, rallying rocket glares unnumbered,

Like the spangled blades of morning that bespeak the march of day.

Not a voice was ever lifted, but an echo never dyingFlung the slogan once repeated when the hand was on the gun;Though the prophet tongue was ashes, came the conquering banners flyingWith a dazzling watchword flashing, blazing signals in the sun.

Not a voice was ever lifted, but an echo never dying

Flung the slogan once repeated when the hand was on the gun;

Though the prophet tongue was ashes, came the conquering banners flying

With a dazzling watchword flashing, blazing signals in the sun.

Yes, the world has ever seen it in its journey down the ages,Seen it writ in living scarlet in the blood that has been shed;And a hand re-writes the head-line deep across the lurid pages,When the stricken, fearless living meet the deathless, martyred dead.

Yes, the world has ever seen it in its journey down the ages,

Seen it writ in living scarlet in the blood that has been shed;

And a hand re-writes the head-line deep across the lurid pages,

When the stricken, fearless living meet the deathless, martyred dead.

Thrills a leaping thought within me, when I see a land around meThat has never seen the foeman’s steel, nor heard the foeman’s shot,At whose shrine I lit the tapers, when her witching sweetness bound meWith an iron vow of service of a pulsing pride begot;

Thrills a leaping thought within me, when I see a land around me

That has never seen the foeman’s steel, nor heard the foeman’s shot,

At whose shrine I lit the tapers, when her witching sweetness bound me

With an iron vow of service of a pulsing pride begot;

To that big free land I’ve given all the love that courses through me;That her hands have rocked my cradle stirs my heart in every beat.An Australian, ay, Australian—oh, the word is music to me,And the craven who’d deny her would I spurn beneath my feet.

To that big free land I’ve given all the love that courses through me;

That her hands have rocked my cradle stirs my heart in every beat.

An Australian, ay, Australian—oh, the word is music to me,

And the craven who’d deny her would I spurn beneath my feet.

Thrills the thought that, did the traitor stretch a tainted hand to foil her,Did I see her flag of silver stars a tattered thing and torn,Did I see her trampled, breathless, neath the shod heel of the spoiler,And her bleeding wounds a byword, and her name a thing of scorn,

Thrills the thought that, did the traitor stretch a tainted hand to foil her,

Did I see her flag of silver stars a tattered thing and torn,

Did I see her trampled, breathless, neath the shod heel of the spoiler,

And her bleeding wounds a byword, and her name a thing of scorn,

There would flash the living bayonets in the strong hands of my brothers,And the blood that coursed for nationhood, through all the years of pain,In the veins of patriot fathers and of Little Irish MothersWould be hot as hissing lava streams to thrill the world again.

There would flash the living bayonets in the strong hands of my brothers,

And the blood that coursed for nationhood, through all the years of pain,

In the veins of patriot fathers and of Little Irish Mothers

Would be hot as hissing lava streams to thrill the world again.

THE CAREYS

Their new house stood just off the road,A fine big brick two-storey,All gabled, tiled, and porticoed,To flaunt its owners’ glory.We never had, to tell the truth,At Carey’s door alighted,We had good reasons too, forsooth—We hadn’t been invited.But down to Mass we passed the gate,And passed it, too, returning,And hid away in mien sedateThe grievance in us burning.But in the Old Mass Shandrydan—Well, envy little varies—We heard “herself” and her good manDiscourse about the Careys:“Wisha, that big house of Carey’s with its power of fal-de-daries.”“Faith, he’s in the bank to build it, so I hear the people say.”“It will break him now to clear it; and it’s grieved I am to hear it;Wisha, I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day!”They came here in the early days,And settled down as neighbours;With tilted carts and bullock-draysThey shared our griefs and labours.We tramped it to the old bush school,In fine or rainy weather;And there upon the dunce’s stoolWe took our knocks together.But now they stood for “class” amongOur little congregation;And, as they passed us by, they flungMere scraps of toleration.And sometimes down to Mass they’d bringFine strangers holidaying,Who laughed and gushed at everythingWithin their orbit straying.By soft white hands and modish gownsThey sought the world to measure,And seemed to think our reach-me-downsWere staged to give them pleasure.And, faith, it set the tongues a-wagAnd entertained the flippantsTo see the fifteen-guinea bagThat held the little “thrippence,”While in the church they plied the fanAnd practised like vagaries;So in the Old Mass ShandrydanWe gave it to the Careys:“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-falutin fairies.”“Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?”“Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s-on and gigglin’—Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day!”They sometimes drove a spanking pair,Which brought them speed and honour;They sometimes drove a pacing-mareWith straps and pads upon her;They covered us with clouds of dust,As thick as we could wear it;And we could plod, as needs we must,And keep the faith and bear it.When skies were blue and days were bright,And leaf and bud were sprouting,They came to Mass in splendour dight,To make a Sunday’s outing;But when the morn was blank with stormAnd winter blasts complaining,The Careys kept devotion warmBeside their fire remaining.So, while the chilling torrents ranAnd soaked our best figaries,Within the Old Mass ShandrydanWe pummelled at the Careys:“Wisha, where were all the Careys? Sure the rain might melt the fairies!”“Faith, and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.”“That’d be another story; there they’d be in all their glory—Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day!”And when we held the big bazaar—A fine and lively meeting—And people came from near and far,In buoyant zeal competing,’Twas rush and gush and fulsomenessAnd Careys superintending;They raced about in evening dress,And deftly dodged the spending.We might have been in Amsterdam,Or somewhere out in Flanders;We sold some tickets for “the ham,”And stalked about like ganders.So when we gathered up the clan,And sought our distant eyries,Within the Old Mass ShandrydanWe blazed it at the Careys:“Wisha, did you see the Careys, like some wild things from the prairies?”“Faith, I never met ‘the bate’ of that for many ’n many a day.”“Sure it’s pounds we would have taken with them tickets for the bacon,If them thuckeens[10]of the Careys were not always in the way.”And when the little choir we hadIn tender hope was springing,And nervous lass and awkward ladWere mobilized for singing,We all went down our own to hear,As holy triumph crowned them,But Careys sailed in shrill and clear,And silenced all around them;Our Nellie’s range they quite outran,And even Laughing Mary’s;So in the Old Mass ShandrydanWe pitched into the Careys:“Wisha, did you hear the Careys? Don’t they think they’re fine canaries?”“Yerra, wouldn’t you think they’d hold the tongues, and let the people pray!”“Faith, my head is all a-reelin’ from them Careys and their squealin’—Wisha, did you hear them shoutin’ there to-day!”The angels, in their peaceful skiesThrough starry paddocks straying,Must sometimes smile with kindly eyesTo see the tricks we’re playing.Now rosy-cheeked and smart and fairWas Carey’s youngest daughter;And lo, our Morgan did his hairWith mutton-fat and water;But days and days the lovers spentOn thorns (and roses) treading,Till down to Carey’s house we went,Invited to the wedding.For life’s a fine comedian,Whose programme shifts and varies,And in the Old Mass ShandrydanWe smoodged a bit to Careys:“Wisha, now we’ll see the Careys in their weddin’ fal-de-daries!”“Faith, I mind the time the Careys slep’ beneath their bullock-dray.”“Sure, I wouldn’t hurt their feelin’s, though I never liked their dealin’s;“An’ if just to please poor Morgan, I’ll be nice to them to-day.”

Their new house stood just off the road,

A fine big brick two-storey,

All gabled, tiled, and porticoed,

To flaunt its owners’ glory.

We never had, to tell the truth,

At Carey’s door alighted,

We had good reasons too, forsooth—

We hadn’t been invited.

But down to Mass we passed the gate,

And passed it, too, returning,

And hid away in mien sedate

The grievance in us burning.

But in the Old Mass Shandrydan—

Well, envy little varies—

We heard “herself” and her good man

Discourse about the Careys:

“Wisha, that big house of Carey’s with its power of fal-de-daries.”“Faith, he’s in the bank to build it, so I hear the people say.”“It will break him now to clear it; and it’s grieved I am to hear it;Wisha, I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day!”

“Wisha, that big house of Carey’s with its power of fal-de-daries.”

“Faith, he’s in the bank to build it, so I hear the people say.”

“It will break him now to clear it; and it’s grieved I am to hear it;

Wisha, I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day!”

They came here in the early days,And settled down as neighbours;With tilted carts and bullock-draysThey shared our griefs and labours.We tramped it to the old bush school,In fine or rainy weather;And there upon the dunce’s stoolWe took our knocks together.But now they stood for “class” amongOur little congregation;And, as they passed us by, they flungMere scraps of toleration.And sometimes down to Mass they’d bringFine strangers holidaying,Who laughed and gushed at everythingWithin their orbit straying.By soft white hands and modish gownsThey sought the world to measure,And seemed to think our reach-me-downsWere staged to give them pleasure.And, faith, it set the tongues a-wagAnd entertained the flippantsTo see the fifteen-guinea bagThat held the little “thrippence,”While in the church they plied the fanAnd practised like vagaries;So in the Old Mass ShandrydanWe gave it to the Careys:

They came here in the early days,

And settled down as neighbours;

With tilted carts and bullock-drays

They shared our griefs and labours.

We tramped it to the old bush school,

In fine or rainy weather;

And there upon the dunce’s stool

We took our knocks together.

But now they stood for “class” among

Our little congregation;

And, as they passed us by, they flung

Mere scraps of toleration.

And sometimes down to Mass they’d bring

Fine strangers holidaying,

Who laughed and gushed at everything

Within their orbit straying.

By soft white hands and modish gowns

They sought the world to measure,

And seemed to think our reach-me-downs

Were staged to give them pleasure.

And, faith, it set the tongues a-wag

And entertained the flippants

To see the fifteen-guinea bag

That held the little “thrippence,”

While in the church they plied the fan

And practised like vagaries;

So in the Old Mass Shandrydan

We gave it to the Careys:

“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-falutin fairies.”“Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?”“Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s-on and gigglin’—Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day!”

“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-falutin fairies.”

“Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?”

“Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s-on and gigglin’—

Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day!”

They sometimes drove a spanking pair,Which brought them speed and honour;They sometimes drove a pacing-mareWith straps and pads upon her;They covered us with clouds of dust,As thick as we could wear it;And we could plod, as needs we must,And keep the faith and bear it.When skies were blue and days were bright,And leaf and bud were sprouting,They came to Mass in splendour dight,To make a Sunday’s outing;But when the morn was blank with stormAnd winter blasts complaining,The Careys kept devotion warmBeside their fire remaining.So, while the chilling torrents ranAnd soaked our best figaries,Within the Old Mass ShandrydanWe pummelled at the Careys:

They sometimes drove a spanking pair,

Which brought them speed and honour;

They sometimes drove a pacing-mare

With straps and pads upon her;

They covered us with clouds of dust,

As thick as we could wear it;

And we could plod, as needs we must,

And keep the faith and bear it.

When skies were blue and days were bright,

And leaf and bud were sprouting,

They came to Mass in splendour dight,

To make a Sunday’s outing;

But when the morn was blank with storm

And winter blasts complaining,

The Careys kept devotion warm

Beside their fire remaining.

So, while the chilling torrents ran

And soaked our best figaries,

Within the Old Mass Shandrydan

We pummelled at the Careys:

“Wisha, where were all the Careys? Sure the rain might melt the fairies!”“Faith, and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.”“That’d be another story; there they’d be in all their glory—Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day!”

“Wisha, where were all the Careys? Sure the rain might melt the fairies!”

“Faith, and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.”

“That’d be another story; there they’d be in all their glory—

Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day!”

And when we held the big bazaar—A fine and lively meeting—And people came from near and far,In buoyant zeal competing,’Twas rush and gush and fulsomenessAnd Careys superintending;They raced about in evening dress,And deftly dodged the spending.We might have been in Amsterdam,Or somewhere out in Flanders;We sold some tickets for “the ham,”And stalked about like ganders.So when we gathered up the clan,And sought our distant eyries,Within the Old Mass ShandrydanWe blazed it at the Careys:

And when we held the big bazaar—

A fine and lively meeting—

And people came from near and far,

In buoyant zeal competing,

’Twas rush and gush and fulsomeness

And Careys superintending;

They raced about in evening dress,

And deftly dodged the spending.

We might have been in Amsterdam,

Or somewhere out in Flanders;

We sold some tickets for “the ham,”

And stalked about like ganders.

So when we gathered up the clan,

And sought our distant eyries,

Within the Old Mass Shandrydan

We blazed it at the Careys:

“Wisha, did you see the Careys, like some wild things from the prairies?”“Faith, I never met ‘the bate’ of that for many ’n many a day.”“Sure it’s pounds we would have taken with them tickets for the bacon,If them thuckeens[10]of the Careys were not always in the way.”

“Wisha, did you see the Careys, like some wild things from the prairies?”

“Faith, I never met ‘the bate’ of that for many ’n many a day.”

“Sure it’s pounds we would have taken with them tickets for the bacon,

If them thuckeens[10]of the Careys were not always in the way.”

And when the little choir we hadIn tender hope was springing,And nervous lass and awkward ladWere mobilized for singing,We all went down our own to hear,As holy triumph crowned them,But Careys sailed in shrill and clear,And silenced all around them;Our Nellie’s range they quite outran,And even Laughing Mary’s;So in the Old Mass ShandrydanWe pitched into the Careys:

And when the little choir we had

In tender hope was springing,

And nervous lass and awkward lad

Were mobilized for singing,

We all went down our own to hear,

As holy triumph crowned them,

But Careys sailed in shrill and clear,

And silenced all around them;

Our Nellie’s range they quite outran,

And even Laughing Mary’s;

So in the Old Mass Shandrydan

We pitched into the Careys:

“Wisha, did you hear the Careys? Don’t they think they’re fine canaries?”“Yerra, wouldn’t you think they’d hold the tongues, and let the people pray!”“Faith, my head is all a-reelin’ from them Careys and their squealin’—Wisha, did you hear them shoutin’ there to-day!”

“Wisha, did you hear the Careys? Don’t they think they’re fine canaries?”

“Yerra, wouldn’t you think they’d hold the tongues, and let the people pray!”

“Faith, my head is all a-reelin’ from them Careys and their squealin’—

Wisha, did you hear them shoutin’ there to-day!”

The angels, in their peaceful skiesThrough starry paddocks straying,Must sometimes smile with kindly eyesTo see the tricks we’re playing.Now rosy-cheeked and smart and fairWas Carey’s youngest daughter;And lo, our Morgan did his hairWith mutton-fat and water;But days and days the lovers spentOn thorns (and roses) treading,Till down to Carey’s house we went,Invited to the wedding.For life’s a fine comedian,Whose programme shifts and varies,And in the Old Mass ShandrydanWe smoodged a bit to Careys:

The angels, in their peaceful skies

Through starry paddocks straying,

Must sometimes smile with kindly eyes

To see the tricks we’re playing.

Now rosy-cheeked and smart and fair

Was Carey’s youngest daughter;

And lo, our Morgan did his hair

With mutton-fat and water;

But days and days the lovers spent

On thorns (and roses) treading,

Till down to Carey’s house we went,

Invited to the wedding.

For life’s a fine comedian,

Whose programme shifts and varies,

And in the Old Mass Shandrydan

We smoodged a bit to Careys:

“Wisha, now we’ll see the Careys in their weddin’ fal-de-daries!”“Faith, I mind the time the Careys slep’ beneath their bullock-dray.”“Sure, I wouldn’t hurt their feelin’s, though I never liked their dealin’s;“An’ if just to please poor Morgan, I’ll be nice to them to-day.”

“Wisha, now we’ll see the Careys in their weddin’ fal-de-daries!”

“Faith, I mind the time the Careys slep’ beneath their bullock-dray.”

“Sure, I wouldn’t hurt their feelin’s, though I never liked their dealin’s;

“An’ if just to please poor Morgan, I’ll be nice to them to-day.”

[10]Celtic for “flapper.”

[10]

Celtic for “flapper.”

WHEN OLD MAN CAREY DIED

A night of wind and driving rain,No light on land or sky—The sharp squalls shook the window-paneAnd scurried loudly by,When sped abroad the message sternOn cantering hoofbeats borneThat old man Carey “took a turn,”And might not see the morn.What though debarred from Carey’s set,What though ’twas plainly seenThe new house and its etiquetteHad made a gulf between,What matter if they passed us byAnd scorned us heretofore—We could not spurn a neighbour’s cryWhen trouble found his door.So through the dark, a swinging lightBeneath the axle tied,The neighbours braved the stormy nightWhen old man Carey died.All blank was Carey’s new brick placeAs, entering through the gloomWith noiseless step, we just might traceWithin a darkened roomThe purple stole that purifies,The old wife’s stricken head,The Carey girls, with swollen eyes,All kneeling round the bed—We’d move the world to help them, then:Our feuds were laid aside,For all were neighbours once againWhen old man Carey died.And, when he’d paid the debt perforceThat every man must pay,We came again with hearse and horseTo bear him on his way.We left behind the new brick placeSo strangely silent now,The death-mask on its staring face,The ashes on its brow;Slow straggling down the winding road,Past ripening crops a-sweepWhich old man Carey’s hands had sowedBut other hands would reap,With slap and tap of unshod heelsWe followed one by one,And fifty sets of idling wheelsWere twinkling in the sun.With many a tale of deeds unguessed,Deeds of the early years,We brought him to his long, long restAmong the pioneers.

A night of wind and driving rain,No light on land or sky—The sharp squalls shook the window-paneAnd scurried loudly by,

A night of wind and driving rain,

No light on land or sky—

The sharp squalls shook the window-pane

And scurried loudly by,

When sped abroad the message sternOn cantering hoofbeats borneThat old man Carey “took a turn,”And might not see the morn.

When sped abroad the message stern

On cantering hoofbeats borne

That old man Carey “took a turn,”

And might not see the morn.

What though debarred from Carey’s set,What though ’twas plainly seenThe new house and its etiquetteHad made a gulf between,

What though debarred from Carey’s set,

What though ’twas plainly seen

The new house and its etiquette

Had made a gulf between,

What matter if they passed us byAnd scorned us heretofore—We could not spurn a neighbour’s cryWhen trouble found his door.

What matter if they passed us by

And scorned us heretofore—

We could not spurn a neighbour’s cry

When trouble found his door.

So through the dark, a swinging lightBeneath the axle tied,The neighbours braved the stormy nightWhen old man Carey died.

So through the dark, a swinging light

Beneath the axle tied,

The neighbours braved the stormy night

When old man Carey died.

All blank was Carey’s new brick placeAs, entering through the gloomWith noiseless step, we just might traceWithin a darkened room

All blank was Carey’s new brick place

As, entering through the gloom

With noiseless step, we just might trace

Within a darkened room

The purple stole that purifies,The old wife’s stricken head,The Carey girls, with swollen eyes,All kneeling round the bed—

The purple stole that purifies,

The old wife’s stricken head,

The Carey girls, with swollen eyes,

All kneeling round the bed—

We’d move the world to help them, then:Our feuds were laid aside,For all were neighbours once againWhen old man Carey died.

We’d move the world to help them, then:

Our feuds were laid aside,

For all were neighbours once again

When old man Carey died.

And, when he’d paid the debt perforceThat every man must pay,We came again with hearse and horseTo bear him on his way.

And, when he’d paid the debt perforce

That every man must pay,

We came again with hearse and horse

To bear him on his way.

We left behind the new brick placeSo strangely silent now,The death-mask on its staring face,The ashes on its brow;

We left behind the new brick place

So strangely silent now,

The death-mask on its staring face,

The ashes on its brow;

Slow straggling down the winding road,Past ripening crops a-sweepWhich old man Carey’s hands had sowedBut other hands would reap,

Slow straggling down the winding road,

Past ripening crops a-sweep

Which old man Carey’s hands had sowed

But other hands would reap,

With slap and tap of unshod heelsWe followed one by one,And fifty sets of idling wheelsWere twinkling in the sun.

With slap and tap of unshod heels

We followed one by one,

And fifty sets of idling wheels

Were twinkling in the sun.

With many a tale of deeds unguessed,Deeds of the early years,We brought him to his long, long restAmong the pioneers.

With many a tale of deeds unguessed,

Deeds of the early years,

We brought him to his long, long rest

Among the pioneers.

THE PARTING ROSARY

They have brought the news, my darlin’, that I’ve waited for so long.Faith, ’twas little news they brought me; every story, every songThat I’ve heard since you enlisted seemed to bear the one refrain,Till the whole world used to tell me that you’d never come again.They’ve been cruel times, alannah, since you left us for the fight,Potterin’ dazed-like all the daytime, thinkin’, thinkin’ through the night;Yerra, what’s the use complainin’, when the world is all amiss,When the hopin’ and the strivin’ ever come to dust like this.’Twas the green months when you left me; now the brown, brown months have come,Stand the ripe crops in the paddocks, but the harvesters are dumb.There’ll be flowers again in plenty, and a carpet o’er the plain—Oh, it’s hard you won’t be comin’ when the green months come again!Still, I’m thankful, oh, I’m thankful for one golden memory,That the last time spent together was to say The Rosary.Don’t you mind it, boy? we said it in my own room there beyond,Where I have the little altar where your early prayers you conned,By the statue that I cherish of the Holy Mother fair,With the blue cloak round her shoulders, and her white hands crossed in prayer.They were singin’ in the parlour, them that came to say good-bye;And they sang their gay songs to me—och, I knew the reason why!They are always land in trouble in this big warm-hearted land;Ah, but their way wasn’t my way, and they mightn’t understand.So I lit the little candles, and I beckoned you away,And you came—God bless you for it, boy—the partin’ prayer to say.Ay, the partin’ Rosary, darlin’—I can see you kneelin’ there,With your big broad shoulders bendin’, and your hands joined on the chair,And your man’s voice like an organ rollin’ out its soul apart—Och, to-night, boy, in my dreamin’ it is dronin’ in my heart.Yes, we said it with the music strummin’ ragtime songs throughout,Just our two selves there together, answerin’ t’other turn about.’Tis a quare, quare world, alannah, when the storm can work its stressOn the strong limb, while the withered leaf is left in loneliness.“Lay your treasure up in Heaven,” for there’s nothing here below;Och, we Irish mothers learned it in the old land long ago!Short life’s springtime with its blossom; and it comes not back again,Only haggard trees in winter stretchin’ naked limbs in pain.Oh, I’m thankin’ God, my bouhal,[11]though the achin’s in my breast,’Twas He took you from me, darlin’, and He knoweth what is best:And His Holy Mother Mary, with her Baby on her knee,Sure she lost Him in His manhood, for He died at thirty-three.There’s a numbin’ in my heart, boy; like a cold, cold hand it grips—Oh, I’m thankful that we parted with the Rosary on your lips.It has ever been my refuge; it has been my hope and stay,Been my hymn of sweet thanksgivin’ for what good there came my way.It has been my only comfort when the heart was sick and sore,When the bad days past the countin’ flung their troubles round my door.I was taught it by my mother; ay, and when we crossed the seaFor to seek the gold we never found—the old man there and me(Sure he stood six feet and higher then, and coal-black was his hair—Och, you’d never know ’twas him at all, that bent old man in there)—We have said it in the slab hut, strong and clear in flood and drought,Just our two selves there together “answerin’ up” and “givin’ out.”We have said it by the cradle, we have said it by the cot;When the babes the angels brought us made us happy in our lot,When the house was full of childer, and the pride of livin’ glowed,Och, we said it till the neighbours heard us, passin’ on the road.But ye’ve gone and left me lonely; one by one, my doves, ye flew;One by one the circle’s dwindled, till the Rosary’s said by two—Said by two old husky voices, old and weak and wearin’ out,Just our two old selves together, answerin’ t’other turn about.Sure it won’t be long, alannah, till the troubled sea is calm,And the beads drop from my fingers, and they bind them on my arm.You would tease me with the “trimmin’s” in the dear days that are dead,There’s another trimmin’ now, boy, every time the Rosary’s said.But there won’t be many Rosaries, for the singin’s in my earsAnd the Holy Mother’s beckonin’—I can see her through my tears.These old feet have done their journey, better leave them restin’, then;They will bring me to the hill-side ere the green months come again.Sure I’ll tread the House of Glory, where the soul is free from harm,And you’ll know ’tis me, alannah, by the Rosary on my arm.

They have brought the news, my darlin’, that I’ve waited for so long.

Faith, ’twas little news they brought me; every story, every song

That I’ve heard since you enlisted seemed to bear the one refrain,

Till the whole world used to tell me that you’d never come again.

They’ve been cruel times, alannah, since you left us for the fight,

Potterin’ dazed-like all the daytime, thinkin’, thinkin’ through the night;

Yerra, what’s the use complainin’, when the world is all amiss,

When the hopin’ and the strivin’ ever come to dust like this.

’Twas the green months when you left me; now the brown, brown months have come,

Stand the ripe crops in the paddocks, but the harvesters are dumb.

There’ll be flowers again in plenty, and a carpet o’er the plain—

Oh, it’s hard you won’t be comin’ when the green months come again!

Still, I’m thankful, oh, I’m thankful for one golden memory,

That the last time spent together was to say The Rosary.

Don’t you mind it, boy? we said it in my own room there beyond,

Where I have the little altar where your early prayers you conned,

By the statue that I cherish of the Holy Mother fair,

With the blue cloak round her shoulders, and her white hands crossed in prayer.

They were singin’ in the parlour, them that came to say good-bye;

And they sang their gay songs to me—och, I knew the reason why!

They are always land in trouble in this big warm-hearted land;

Ah, but their way wasn’t my way, and they mightn’t understand.

So I lit the little candles, and I beckoned you away,

And you came—God bless you for it, boy—the partin’ prayer to say.

Ay, the partin’ Rosary, darlin’—I can see you kneelin’ there,

With your big broad shoulders bendin’, and your hands joined on the chair,

And your man’s voice like an organ rollin’ out its soul apart—

Och, to-night, boy, in my dreamin’ it is dronin’ in my heart.

Yes, we said it with the music strummin’ ragtime songs throughout,

Just our two selves there together, answerin’ t’other turn about.

’Tis a quare, quare world, alannah, when the storm can work its stress

On the strong limb, while the withered leaf is left in loneliness.

“Lay your treasure up in Heaven,” for there’s nothing here below;

Och, we Irish mothers learned it in the old land long ago!

Short life’s springtime with its blossom; and it comes not back again,

Only haggard trees in winter stretchin’ naked limbs in pain.

Oh, I’m thankin’ God, my bouhal,[11]though the achin’s in my breast,

’Twas He took you from me, darlin’, and He knoweth what is best:

And His Holy Mother Mary, with her Baby on her knee,

Sure she lost Him in His manhood, for He died at thirty-three.

There’s a numbin’ in my heart, boy; like a cold, cold hand it grips—

Oh, I’m thankful that we parted with the Rosary on your lips.

It has ever been my refuge; it has been my hope and stay,

Been my hymn of sweet thanksgivin’ for what good there came my way.

It has been my only comfort when the heart was sick and sore,

When the bad days past the countin’ flung their troubles round my door.

I was taught it by my mother; ay, and when we crossed the sea

For to seek the gold we never found—the old man there and me

(Sure he stood six feet and higher then, and coal-black was his hair—

Och, you’d never know ’twas him at all, that bent old man in there)—

We have said it in the slab hut, strong and clear in flood and drought,

Just our two selves there together “answerin’ up” and “givin’ out.”

We have said it by the cradle, we have said it by the cot;

When the babes the angels brought us made us happy in our lot,

When the house was full of childer, and the pride of livin’ glowed,

Och, we said it till the neighbours heard us, passin’ on the road.

But ye’ve gone and left me lonely; one by one, my doves, ye flew;

One by one the circle’s dwindled, till the Rosary’s said by two—

Said by two old husky voices, old and weak and wearin’ out,

Just our two old selves together, answerin’ t’other turn about.

Sure it won’t be long, alannah, till the troubled sea is calm,

And the beads drop from my fingers, and they bind them on my arm.

You would tease me with the “trimmin’s” in the dear days that are dead,

There’s another trimmin’ now, boy, every time the Rosary’s said.

But there won’t be many Rosaries, for the singin’s in my ears

And the Holy Mother’s beckonin’—I can see her through my tears.

These old feet have done their journey, better leave them restin’, then;

They will bring me to the hill-side ere the green months come again.

Sure I’ll tread the House of Glory, where the soul is free from harm,

And you’ll know ’tis me, alannah, by the Rosary on my arm.

[11]Boy; also spelt bouchal.

[11]

Boy; also spelt bouchal.

OWNERLESS

He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloamingAnd limelights are trained on the tops of the gums,To stand at the sliprails, awaiting the homingOf one who marched off to the beat of the drums.So handsome he looked in the putties and khaki,Light-hearted he went like a youngster to play;But why comes he never to speak to his Darkie,Around at the rails at the close of the day?And why have the neighbours foregathered so gently,Their horses a-doze at the fence in a row?And what are they talking of, softly, intently?And why are the women-folk lingering so?One hand, soft and small, that so often caressed him,Was trembling just now as it fondled his head;But what was that trickling warm drop that distressed him?And what were those heart-broken words that she said?Ne’er brighter the paddocks that bushmen rememberThe green and the gold and the pink have displayed,When Spring weaves a wreath for the brows of September,Enrobed like a queen, and a-blush like a maid.The gums are a-shoot and the wattles a-cluster,The cattle are roaming the ranges astray;But why are they late with the hunt and the muster?And why is the black horse unsaddled to-day?Hard by at the station the training commences,In circles they’re schooling the hacks for the shows;The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,And satins and dapples the brushes disclose.Sound-winded and fit and quite ready is Darkie,Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight;But what can be keeping the rider in khaki?And why does the silence hang heavy to-night?Ah, surely he’ll come, when the waiting is ended,To fly the stiff fences and take him in hand,Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,Hard-held for the cheers from the fence and the stand.Still there on the cross-beam the saddle hangs idle,The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun;The rust’s on the spurs, and the dust on the bridle,And gathering mould on the badges he won.We’ll take the old horse to the paddocks to-morrow,Where grasses are waving breast-high on the plain;And there with the clean-skins we’ll turn him in sorrowAnd muster him never, ah, never, again.The bush bird will sing when the shadows are creepingA sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell’s—Oh, would it might ring where the bush boy is sleeping,And colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.

He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloamingAnd limelights are trained on the tops of the gums,To stand at the sliprails, awaiting the homingOf one who marched off to the beat of the drums.

He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming

And limelights are trained on the tops of the gums,

To stand at the sliprails, awaiting the homing

Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums.

So handsome he looked in the putties and khaki,Light-hearted he went like a youngster to play;But why comes he never to speak to his Darkie,Around at the rails at the close of the day?

So handsome he looked in the putties and khaki,

Light-hearted he went like a youngster to play;

But why comes he never to speak to his Darkie,

Around at the rails at the close of the day?

And why have the neighbours foregathered so gently,Their horses a-doze at the fence in a row?And what are they talking of, softly, intently?And why are the women-folk lingering so?

And why have the neighbours foregathered so gently,

Their horses a-doze at the fence in a row?

And what are they talking of, softly, intently?

And why are the women-folk lingering so?

One hand, soft and small, that so often caressed him,Was trembling just now as it fondled his head;But what was that trickling warm drop that distressed him?And what were those heart-broken words that she said?

One hand, soft and small, that so often caressed him,

Was trembling just now as it fondled his head;

But what was that trickling warm drop that distressed him?

And what were those heart-broken words that she said?

Ne’er brighter the paddocks that bushmen rememberThe green and the gold and the pink have displayed,When Spring weaves a wreath for the brows of September,Enrobed like a queen, and a-blush like a maid.

Ne’er brighter the paddocks that bushmen remember

The green and the gold and the pink have displayed,

When Spring weaves a wreath for the brows of September,

Enrobed like a queen, and a-blush like a maid.

The gums are a-shoot and the wattles a-cluster,The cattle are roaming the ranges astray;But why are they late with the hunt and the muster?And why is the black horse unsaddled to-day?

The gums are a-shoot and the wattles a-cluster,

The cattle are roaming the ranges astray;

But why are they late with the hunt and the muster?

And why is the black horse unsaddled to-day?

Hard by at the station the training commences,In circles they’re schooling the hacks for the shows;The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,And satins and dapples the brushes disclose.

Hard by at the station the training commences,

In circles they’re schooling the hacks for the shows;

The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,

And satins and dapples the brushes disclose.

Sound-winded and fit and quite ready is Darkie,Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight;But what can be keeping the rider in khaki?And why does the silence hang heavy to-night?

Sound-winded and fit and quite ready is Darkie,

Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight;

But what can be keeping the rider in khaki?

And why does the silence hang heavy to-night?

Ah, surely he’ll come, when the waiting is ended,To fly the stiff fences and take him in hand,Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,Hard-held for the cheers from the fence and the stand.

Ah, surely he’ll come, when the waiting is ended,

To fly the stiff fences and take him in hand,

Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,

Hard-held for the cheers from the fence and the stand.

Still there on the cross-beam the saddle hangs idle,The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun;The rust’s on the spurs, and the dust on the bridle,And gathering mould on the badges he won.

Still there on the cross-beam the saddle hangs idle,

The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun;

The rust’s on the spurs, and the dust on the bridle,

And gathering mould on the badges he won.

We’ll take the old horse to the paddocks to-morrow,Where grasses are waving breast-high on the plain;And there with the clean-skins we’ll turn him in sorrowAnd muster him never, ah, never, again.

We’ll take the old horse to the paddocks to-morrow,

Where grasses are waving breast-high on the plain;

And there with the clean-skins we’ll turn him in sorrow

And muster him never, ah, never, again.

The bush bird will sing when the shadows are creepingA sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell’s—Oh, would it might ring where the bush boy is sleeping,And colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.

The bush bird will sing when the shadows are creeping

A sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell’s—

Oh, would it might ring where the bush boy is sleeping,

And colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.

LAUGHING MARY

With cheeks that paled the rosy mornShe bounded o’er the heather,And romped with us among the cornWhen we were kids together.Her mother’s help, her mother’s mate.Her mother’s darling daughter,When riper mind and more sedateThe rapid years had brought her.As pure as air from mountain snows,As dainty as a fairy,As fetching as the native rose,And always—Laughing Mary.A little mother round about,The happy sunshine bringing—You’d see her bustle in and out,A-working and a-singing;And then the soul of Casey’s place.The love, the light, the laughter,When friendship showed its cheery face,And music shook the rafter;And many a lad went home to findA haunting sweet vagaryWas rambling softly through his mindBecause of Laughing Mary.But when the smiling stars were blurred,And someone’s heart was bleeding,She flew as flies the homing bird,With balms of comfort speeding.An angel in a sweet disguise,She filled the measure over,While tears stood sparkling in her eyesLike rain-drops on the clover;And many a head bowed low to pray,Howe’er her skies might vary,The years would bless her on her wayAnd keep her Laughing Mary.

With cheeks that paled the rosy morn

She bounded o’er the heather,

And romped with us among the corn

When we were kids together.

Her mother’s help, her mother’s mate.

Her mother’s darling daughter,

When riper mind and more sedate

The rapid years had brought her.

As pure as air from mountain snows,

As dainty as a fairy,

As fetching as the native rose,

And always—Laughing Mary.

A little mother round about,The happy sunshine bringing—You’d see her bustle in and out,A-working and a-singing;And then the soul of Casey’s place.The love, the light, the laughter,When friendship showed its cheery face,And music shook the rafter;And many a lad went home to findA haunting sweet vagaryWas rambling softly through his mindBecause of Laughing Mary.

A little mother round about,

The happy sunshine bringing—

You’d see her bustle in and out,

A-working and a-singing;

And then the soul of Casey’s place.

The love, the light, the laughter,

When friendship showed its cheery face,

And music shook the rafter;

And many a lad went home to find

A haunting sweet vagary

Was rambling softly through his mind

Because of Laughing Mary.

But when the smiling stars were blurred,And someone’s heart was bleeding,She flew as flies the homing bird,With balms of comfort speeding.An angel in a sweet disguise,She filled the measure over,While tears stood sparkling in her eyesLike rain-drops on the clover;And many a head bowed low to pray,Howe’er her skies might vary,The years would bless her on her wayAnd keep her Laughing Mary.

But when the smiling stars were blurred,

And someone’s heart was bleeding,

She flew as flies the homing bird,

With balms of comfort speeding.

An angel in a sweet disguise,

She filled the measure over,

While tears stood sparkling in her eyes

Like rain-drops on the clover;

And many a head bowed low to pray,

Howe’er her skies might vary,

The years would bless her on her way

And keep her Laughing Mary.

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