[87][Illustration: Men observing fantastic creatures]WE TOOK THE PLEDGE TILL MAY.

[85][Illustration: New chum talking with old gold miner]OLD BILL BATES

OLD BILL BATES

[86]No, thanks, Mister, I’ve no message—since I’ve opened out my drum,Where a suit o’ tailor’s clobber pulls the strings;But (I wouldn’t say it public) I am feelin’ pretty glumWhen I start a-cogitatin’ about things:But you’ll find a hearty welcome where the sky begins ter dip,Out where mates is mostly men, and men is mates,And I wish yer luck ... and say!If yer chance upon his way,Jest remember me to Old Bill Bates.[Decoration: Black Swan][87][Illustration: Men observing fantastic creatures]WE TOOK THE PLEDGE TILL MAY.Dave Barkeris a mate of mine,A solid mate and chum,And when we’re out upon the wineI guess we make things hum:We go the pace all fair and square,But rapid, I’ll allow;And start from—well, just anywhere,And wind up—anyhow.[88]When Dave and me’s out on the looseWe follers close and keen,And samples every kind of juiceFrom rum to kerosene.It’s all good fish comes to our net,To Barker’s net and mine,And our intentions are, you bet!Most strictly genuwine.We beats about upon the ramp,And does up all our tin;Then Dave—well, Dave strikes out for camp,And I—well, I jines in.And then the panoramystarts—The queerest kind offakes—Fat little blokes and smaller tarts,And funny bob-tailed snakes.And presently, a big galootDrops down the chimbly flue,And takin’ up Dave’s blucher boot,Sez, “Lads! Here’s luck to you!”But all the time it’s bilin’ hot,And, spare me (crimson) days!You never heerd such blanky rotAs what them fantods says.[89]Well, comin’ on this last old year,I sez to David B.,“Old chap, we pays a lot too dearThese fan-tod fakes ter see.“We grafts and grinds and stints our grub,But if we socked our rentWe soon couldbuya blanky pub,Or stand for Parlyment.“What say to puttin’ in the peg?Swear off, old man!—what say?”Sez Dave, “I’m on—we’ll spike the kegFer good and all, till May.”And then our two right hands we claspsThe ’greement fer to bind;And felt like them there “Army” chapsWot’s left all sin behind.If any tries to pull our legThis coming HogmanayWe’ll shout, “No, no! we’ve driv’ the pegHome flush and fast till May.”Well, Dave and me, we saunters downAlong the bloomin’ street,And every ’quaintance in the town’Ud want to stand us treat.[90]They’d pull and press, and chaff and beg,Till ’t last we’d break away,A-shoutin’ “No! we’ve spiked thekeg—No booze for us, till May!”Well, Dave, he comes from Aberdeen,And Sandy Mac. was tight:Sez Mac., “Old Scotland’s hills are green!One drink on Scotia’s night!”Then Dave he looks acrost at me,And I looks ’crost atDave—It allus after seemed to beA kind of mootual “cave.”For Barker sidles to’rds the bar:“A whisky from the bin,”Sez he, “my gay young Lochinvar!”And I—well, I chimes in.Thatwasa night—we drank and stept,And joined the Scotchy’s lilt,Till all the rest were drunk or slept,And all the casks a-tilt.Then, as we staggered home at four,It was a sight ter seeA-troopin’ from our “rubby” doorOur fan-tod familee![91]They tended on us jest like kings,And darnced around the bunk,And seemed, the ’fectionate little things,So glad to see us drunk!One smilin’ dwarf with flowin’ beard,He sang (as sure as sin)The sweetest song you everheerd—“Our dad’s kem home agin!”And you may all take this from me,For gorspel truthto-day—The best way to injy a spreeIs, Take the pledge till May.[Decoration: Mining with a windsail][92]TOO OLD.Itis durned hard lines, when a man grows sereAnd his whiskers are flecked with grey,And he wears the boots that he wore last yearWhen he worked for a miner’s pay,To be brushed aside, with a callous word,By the arms of sturdier men,As they rush and crush, with a hope deferred,For the coveted three-pound-ten!Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health,And he bartered his manhood’s primeAs he toiled and moiled, in the stores ofwealth—Where they banter the whole crib-time;And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokesTo the tune that the “banjos” play;For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokesWhile they work for a miner’s pay![93]And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s selfTo provide for as best it can;For there comes no dream of a workless shelfTo the brain of the minerman—Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!Not a cramp in the open hand!As they play and pay—and they drift and driftTo the ranks where the grey-heads stand.But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,And the prospect is bleak and brown,And the missus has never a hat to wearThat’s fit to be seen in the town;And the spectres flock—that were held last year,With the rattle of coin, at bay:When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fearWhile he worked for a miner’s pay.There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blameBut the curse of a gambler’s quest!And the men pass out, as they lose the gameThat we play in the Golden West:But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late.In a dream, to some “cocky” patchWhere the old folk stand at their homestead gate,And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.[94][Illustration: An old gold miner]DAN THE HATTER.An Old North Country Identity.I trampedagain ’neath a blazing sky,In a Western land where the deserts lie:But the rush and roar, and the life we knew,When the ’Nineties echoed the whole world through,Were silent, or uttered their speech aloneWith a drab and dreary monotone.[95]I sought a field where a thousand men,Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then;But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps,And the rust was eating the silent stamps;And of all the throng of that mildewed pastThere was only one who stuck to the last.Just one old man, and his beard of greyKept time with his chatter the live-long day.“What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around,Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound;And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side,With the air of a man when the world waswide—And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow,For the hermits talk of their cronies so.He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest,Of the early days of the Golden West:Of a surging wave, of a seething tide,That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side;Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty menWho answer not to the call again.“And I was right in their midst,” said he,“For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.”Then he led the way, and he led me farWith the changing trend of each dip and bar,And he pointed out with a palsied hand[96]All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned;“For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street,At the spot where the slate and granite meet.”I chanced that track on my way once more,And I sought my friend of a year before;But his shaker cracked in the midday sun,And the old man’s search for the joint was done,For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake.And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake.Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priestsinsist—Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed;And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre,From the trusty strands of his shaker wire;And they’ll let him fossick for dip and barIn the likely places ’twixt star and star.It will please old Dan, for a man was heNot planned for an angel minstrelsy.[97][Illustration: By a Kopi Hill]Herests at the foot of a kopi hillBy the old Coolgardie track;But whether his name was Claude, or Bill,Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,”There isn’t a legend at all tosay—And what does it signify, anyway?There’s nought of funereal pomp orshow—Just a rough-hewn slab that states,The leisurely chap that lies belowHad honestly paid his ratesSomewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four;And then he came hither—to pay no more.[98]So he wearied soon of the storm and strife,And he cast his swag aside,When men were strong with the lust of lifeAnd the world seemed opened wide.Were the castles fair, that he built that day,Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,Now the tale of his life is told?Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,Or a sigh strike through the mould?Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?However it be, by the wind-swept hillsOf leisure he nothing lacks;And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fillsFor ever his earthly tracks.—Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayerIn the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.[99]AT BUMMER’S CREEK.I plantedDave at Bummer’s CreekSomewhere in ’Ninety-five,When all the country round aboutWas like a busyhive—And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep,And wasters stopped alive.And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ stillBeside the same old soakWhere we pitched camp twelve years agone,Played out and stony broke;And after work I think right back,And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int,And toiled and starved and spreed;But one ’ud watch around the stumpWhen t’other one was treed;The same when Luck was in full bloom,As when she run to seed.[100]But now I’m getting old and hipped,And kick against the ruts,I often think I’ll have a pray,But can’t sit down fernuts—And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea,He’s never got no guts!”D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere reportThat parson blokes kin tellAs who is bound fer parrydise,And who is booked fer ’ell?Fer I’ve got dust enough to payIf they’ve the noos to sell.Y’ see, us partners never ’adReligion much in mind,And didn’t think to make no planFer ’im who stoppedbehind—But ’course you tumble to my graft:I’ve got an axe to grind.D’ye think now if I went to town,Got up all smart and sleek,A short-necked shammy, just like that,’Ud make them pilots speakAnd say which track the battlers tookWho pegged on Bummer’s Creek!

[86]No, thanks, Mister, I’ve no message—since I’ve opened out my drum,

Where a suit o’ tailor’s clobber pulls the strings;

But (I wouldn’t say it public) I am feelin’ pretty glum

When I start a-cogitatin’ about things:

But you’ll find a hearty welcome where the sky begins ter dip,

Out where mates is mostly men, and men is mates,

And I wish yer luck ... and say!

If yer chance upon his way,

Jest remember me to Old Bill Bates.

[Decoration: Black Swan]

Dave Barkeris a mate of mine,A solid mate and chum,And when we’re out upon the wineI guess we make things hum:We go the pace all fair and square,But rapid, I’ll allow;And start from—well, just anywhere,And wind up—anyhow.[88]When Dave and me’s out on the looseWe follers close and keen,And samples every kind of juiceFrom rum to kerosene.It’s all good fish comes to our net,To Barker’s net and mine,And our intentions are, you bet!Most strictly genuwine.We beats about upon the ramp,And does up all our tin;Then Dave—well, Dave strikes out for camp,And I—well, I jines in.And then the panoramystarts—The queerest kind offakes—Fat little blokes and smaller tarts,And funny bob-tailed snakes.And presently, a big galootDrops down the chimbly flue,And takin’ up Dave’s blucher boot,Sez, “Lads! Here’s luck to you!”But all the time it’s bilin’ hot,And, spare me (crimson) days!You never heerd such blanky rotAs what them fantods says.[89]Well, comin’ on this last old year,I sez to David B.,“Old chap, we pays a lot too dearThese fan-tod fakes ter see.“We grafts and grinds and stints our grub,But if we socked our rentWe soon couldbuya blanky pub,Or stand for Parlyment.“What say to puttin’ in the peg?Swear off, old man!—what say?”Sez Dave, “I’m on—we’ll spike the kegFer good and all, till May.”And then our two right hands we claspsThe ’greement fer to bind;And felt like them there “Army” chapsWot’s left all sin behind.If any tries to pull our legThis coming HogmanayWe’ll shout, “No, no! we’ve driv’ the pegHome flush and fast till May.”Well, Dave and me, we saunters downAlong the bloomin’ street,And every ’quaintance in the town’Ud want to stand us treat.[90]They’d pull and press, and chaff and beg,Till ’t last we’d break away,A-shoutin’ “No! we’ve spiked thekeg—No booze for us, till May!”Well, Dave, he comes from Aberdeen,And Sandy Mac. was tight:Sez Mac., “Old Scotland’s hills are green!One drink on Scotia’s night!”Then Dave he looks acrost at me,And I looks ’crost atDave—It allus after seemed to beA kind of mootual “cave.”For Barker sidles to’rds the bar:“A whisky from the bin,”Sez he, “my gay young Lochinvar!”And I—well, I chimes in.Thatwasa night—we drank and stept,And joined the Scotchy’s lilt,Till all the rest were drunk or slept,And all the casks a-tilt.Then, as we staggered home at four,It was a sight ter seeA-troopin’ from our “rubby” doorOur fan-tod familee![91]They tended on us jest like kings,And darnced around the bunk,And seemed, the ’fectionate little things,So glad to see us drunk!One smilin’ dwarf with flowin’ beard,He sang (as sure as sin)The sweetest song you everheerd—“Our dad’s kem home agin!”And you may all take this from me,For gorspel truthto-day—The best way to injy a spreeIs, Take the pledge till May.

Dave Barkeris a mate of mine,A solid mate and chum,And when we’re out upon the wineI guess we make things hum:

Dave Barkeris a mate of mine,

A solid mate and chum,

And when we’re out upon the wine

I guess we make things hum:

We go the pace all fair and square,But rapid, I’ll allow;And start from—well, just anywhere,And wind up—anyhow.

We go the pace all fair and square,

But rapid, I’ll allow;

And start from—well, just anywhere,

And wind up—anyhow.

[88]When Dave and me’s out on the looseWe follers close and keen,And samples every kind of juiceFrom rum to kerosene.

[88]When Dave and me’s out on the loose

We follers close and keen,

And samples every kind of juice

From rum to kerosene.

It’s all good fish comes to our net,To Barker’s net and mine,And our intentions are, you bet!Most strictly genuwine.

It’s all good fish comes to our net,

To Barker’s net and mine,

And our intentions are, you bet!

Most strictly genuwine.

We beats about upon the ramp,And does up all our tin;Then Dave—well, Dave strikes out for camp,And I—well, I jines in.

We beats about upon the ramp,

And does up all our tin;

Then Dave—well, Dave strikes out for camp,

And I—well, I jines in.

And then the panoramystarts—The queerest kind offakes—Fat little blokes and smaller tarts,And funny bob-tailed snakes.

And then the panoramystarts—

The queerest kind offakes—

Fat little blokes and smaller tarts,

And funny bob-tailed snakes.

And presently, a big galootDrops down the chimbly flue,And takin’ up Dave’s blucher boot,Sez, “Lads! Here’s luck to you!”

And presently, a big galoot

Drops down the chimbly flue,

And takin’ up Dave’s blucher boot,

Sez, “Lads! Here’s luck to you!”

But all the time it’s bilin’ hot,And, spare me (crimson) days!You never heerd such blanky rotAs what them fantods says.

But all the time it’s bilin’ hot,

And, spare me (crimson) days!

You never heerd such blanky rot

As what them fantods says.

[89]Well, comin’ on this last old year,I sez to David B.,“Old chap, we pays a lot too dearThese fan-tod fakes ter see.

[89]Well, comin’ on this last old year,

I sez to David B.,

“Old chap, we pays a lot too dear

These fan-tod fakes ter see.

“We grafts and grinds and stints our grub,But if we socked our rentWe soon couldbuya blanky pub,Or stand for Parlyment.

“We grafts and grinds and stints our grub,

But if we socked our rent

We soon couldbuya blanky pub,

Or stand for Parlyment.

“What say to puttin’ in the peg?Swear off, old man!—what say?”Sez Dave, “I’m on—we’ll spike the kegFer good and all, till May.”

“What say to puttin’ in the peg?

Swear off, old man!—what say?”

Sez Dave, “I’m on—we’ll spike the keg

Fer good and all, till May.”

And then our two right hands we claspsThe ’greement fer to bind;And felt like them there “Army” chapsWot’s left all sin behind.

And then our two right hands we clasps

The ’greement fer to bind;

And felt like them there “Army” chaps

Wot’s left all sin behind.

If any tries to pull our legThis coming HogmanayWe’ll shout, “No, no! we’ve driv’ the pegHome flush and fast till May.”

If any tries to pull our leg

This coming Hogmanay

We’ll shout, “No, no! we’ve driv’ the peg

Home flush and fast till May.”

Well, Dave and me, we saunters downAlong the bloomin’ street,And every ’quaintance in the town’Ud want to stand us treat.

Well, Dave and me, we saunters down

Along the bloomin’ street,

And every ’quaintance in the town

’Ud want to stand us treat.

[90]They’d pull and press, and chaff and beg,Till ’t last we’d break away,A-shoutin’ “No! we’ve spiked thekeg—No booze for us, till May!”

[90]They’d pull and press, and chaff and beg,

Till ’t last we’d break away,

A-shoutin’ “No! we’ve spiked thekeg—

No booze for us, till May!”

Well, Dave, he comes from Aberdeen,And Sandy Mac. was tight:Sez Mac., “Old Scotland’s hills are green!One drink on Scotia’s night!”

Well, Dave, he comes from Aberdeen,

And Sandy Mac. was tight:

Sez Mac., “Old Scotland’s hills are green!

One drink on Scotia’s night!”

Then Dave he looks acrost at me,And I looks ’crost atDave—It allus after seemed to beA kind of mootual “cave.”

Then Dave he looks acrost at me,

And I looks ’crost atDave—

It allus after seemed to be

A kind of mootual “cave.”

For Barker sidles to’rds the bar:“A whisky from the bin,”Sez he, “my gay young Lochinvar!”And I—well, I chimes in.

For Barker sidles to’rds the bar:

“A whisky from the bin,”

Sez he, “my gay young Lochinvar!”

And I—well, I chimes in.

Thatwasa night—we drank and stept,And joined the Scotchy’s lilt,Till all the rest were drunk or slept,And all the casks a-tilt.

Thatwasa night—we drank and stept,

And joined the Scotchy’s lilt,

Till all the rest were drunk or slept,

And all the casks a-tilt.

Then, as we staggered home at four,It was a sight ter seeA-troopin’ from our “rubby” doorOur fan-tod familee!

Then, as we staggered home at four,

It was a sight ter see

A-troopin’ from our “rubby” door

Our fan-tod familee!

[91]They tended on us jest like kings,And darnced around the bunk,And seemed, the ’fectionate little things,So glad to see us drunk!

[91]They tended on us jest like kings,

And darnced around the bunk,

And seemed, the ’fectionate little things,

So glad to see us drunk!

One smilin’ dwarf with flowin’ beard,He sang (as sure as sin)The sweetest song you everheerd—“Our dad’s kem home agin!”

One smilin’ dwarf with flowin’ beard,

He sang (as sure as sin)

The sweetest song you everheerd—

“Our dad’s kem home agin!”

And you may all take this from me,For gorspel truthto-day—The best way to injy a spreeIs, Take the pledge till May.

And you may all take this from me,

For gorspel truthto-day—

The best way to injy a spree

Is, Take the pledge till May.

[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]

Itis durned hard lines, when a man grows sereAnd his whiskers are flecked with grey,And he wears the boots that he wore last yearWhen he worked for a miner’s pay,To be brushed aside, with a callous word,By the arms of sturdier men,As they rush and crush, with a hope deferred,For the coveted three-pound-ten!Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health,And he bartered his manhood’s primeAs he toiled and moiled, in the stores ofwealth—Where they banter the whole crib-time;And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokesTo the tune that the “banjos” play;For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokesWhile they work for a miner’s pay![93]And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s selfTo provide for as best it can;For there comes no dream of a workless shelfTo the brain of the minerman—Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!Not a cramp in the open hand!As they play and pay—and they drift and driftTo the ranks where the grey-heads stand.But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,And the prospect is bleak and brown,And the missus has never a hat to wearThat’s fit to be seen in the town;And the spectres flock—that were held last year,With the rattle of coin, at bay:When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fearWhile he worked for a miner’s pay.There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blameBut the curse of a gambler’s quest!And the men pass out, as they lose the gameThat we play in the Golden West:But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late.In a dream, to some “cocky” patchWhere the old folk stand at their homestead gate,And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.

Itis durned hard lines, when a man grows sere

And his whiskers are flecked with grey,

And he wears the boots that he wore last year

When he worked for a miner’s pay,

To be brushed aside, with a callous word,

By the arms of sturdier men,

As they rush and crush, with a hope deferred,

For the coveted three-pound-ten!

Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health,And he bartered his manhood’s primeAs he toiled and moiled, in the stores ofwealth—Where they banter the whole crib-time;And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokesTo the tune that the “banjos” play;For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokesWhile they work for a miner’s pay!

Oh! he sold his strength, and he sold his health,

And he bartered his manhood’s prime

As he toiled and moiled, in the stores ofwealth—

Where they banter the whole crib-time;

And they sweat, and sweat, and they crack their jokes

To the tune that the “banjos” play;

For the world wags fine with the bow-yanged blokes

While they work for a miner’s pay!

[93]And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s selfTo provide for as best it can;For there comes no dream of a workless shelfTo the brain of the minerman—Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!Not a cramp in the open hand!As they play and pay—and they drift and driftTo the ranks where the grey-heads stand.

[93]And To-morrow’s left for To-morrow’s self

To provide for as best it can;

For there comes no dream of a workless shelf

To the brain of the minerman—

Not a whining call from the voice of Thrift!

Not a cramp in the open hand!

As they play and pay—and they drift and drift

To the ranks where the grey-heads stand.

But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,And the prospect is bleak and brown,And the missus has never a hat to wearThat’s fit to be seen in the town;And the spectres flock—that were held last year,With the rattle of coin, at bay:When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fearWhile he worked for a miner’s pay.

But his kids are cold, and their feet are bare,

And the prospect is bleak and brown,

And the missus has never a hat to wear

That’s fit to be seen in the town;

And the spectres flock—that were held last year,

With the rattle of coin, at bay:

When the old man smiled at his old wife’s fear

While he worked for a miner’s pay.

There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blameBut the curse of a gambler’s quest!And the men pass out, as they lose the gameThat we play in the Golden West:But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late.In a dream, to some “cocky” patchWhere the old folk stand at their homestead gate,And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.

There are none to heckle; there’s nought to blame

But the curse of a gambler’s quest!

And the men pass out, as they lose the game

That we play in the Golden West:

But their thoughts must turn as the days grow late.

In a dream, to some “cocky” patch

Where the old folk stand at their homestead gate,

And they laugh ’neath their whitening thatch.

I trampedagain ’neath a blazing sky,In a Western land where the deserts lie:But the rush and roar, and the life we knew,When the ’Nineties echoed the whole world through,Were silent, or uttered their speech aloneWith a drab and dreary monotone.[95]I sought a field where a thousand men,Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then;But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps,And the rust was eating the silent stamps;And of all the throng of that mildewed pastThere was only one who stuck to the last.Just one old man, and his beard of greyKept time with his chatter the live-long day.“What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around,Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound;And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side,With the air of a man when the world waswide—And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow,For the hermits talk of their cronies so.He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest,Of the early days of the Golden West:Of a surging wave, of a seething tide,That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side;Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty menWho answer not to the call again.“And I was right in their midst,” said he,“For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.”Then he led the way, and he led me farWith the changing trend of each dip and bar,And he pointed out with a palsied hand[96]All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned;“For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street,At the spot where the slate and granite meet.”I chanced that track on my way once more,And I sought my friend of a year before;But his shaker cracked in the midday sun,And the old man’s search for the joint was done,For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake.And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake.Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priestsinsist—Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed;And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre,From the trusty strands of his shaker wire;And they’ll let him fossick for dip and barIn the likely places ’twixt star and star.It will please old Dan, for a man was heNot planned for an angel minstrelsy.

I trampedagain ’neath a blazing sky,

In a Western land where the deserts lie:

But the rush and roar, and the life we knew,

When the ’Nineties echoed the whole world through,

Were silent, or uttered their speech alone

With a drab and dreary monotone.

[95]I sought a field where a thousand men,Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then;But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps,And the rust was eating the silent stamps;And of all the throng of that mildewed pastThere was only one who stuck to the last.Just one old man, and his beard of greyKept time with his chatter the live-long day.

[95]I sought a field where a thousand men,

Stout-limbed, strong-hearted, toiled madly then;

But the hessian flapped on the rotting camps,

And the rust was eating the silent stamps;

And of all the throng of that mildewed past

There was only one who stuck to the last.

Just one old man, and his beard of grey

Kept time with his chatter the live-long day.

“What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around,Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound;And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side,With the air of a man when the world waswide—And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow,For the hermits talk of their cronies so.

“What luck, old friend?”—and he turned around,

Where his hopperings fell in a cone-shaped mound;

And he rested his arm on the shaker’s side,

With the air of a man when the world waswide—

And his tongue ran off with a ceaseless flow,

For the hermits talk of their cronies so.

He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest,Of the early days of the Golden West:Of a surging wave, of a seething tide,That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side;Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty menWho answer not to the call again.“And I was right in their midst,” said he,“For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.”

He spoke, with a digger’s quenchless zest,

Of the early days of the Golden West:

Of a surging wave, of a seething tide,

That rolled to the fields from the Eastern side;

Of the wondrous slugs and the mighty men

Who answer not to the call again.

“And I was right in their midst,” said he,

“For I followed Bayley in ’Ninety-three.”

Then he led the way, and he led me farWith the changing trend of each dip and bar,And he pointed out with a palsied hand[96]All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned;“For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street,At the spot where the slate and granite meet.”

Then he led the way, and he led me far

With the changing trend of each dip and bar,

And he pointed out with a palsied hand

[96]All the work he’d done, all the plans he’d planned;

“For there’s gold,” he yelled, “that would pave a street,

At the spot where the slate and granite meet.”

I chanced that track on my way once more,And I sought my friend of a year before;But his shaker cracked in the midday sun,And the old man’s search for the joint was done,For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake.And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake.

I chanced that track on my way once more,

And I sought my friend of a year before;

But his shaker cracked in the midday sun,

And the old man’s search for the joint was done,

For he’d stacked his tools, and had drawn his stake.

And had followed the army in Bayley’s wake.

Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priestsinsist—Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed;And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre,From the trusty strands of his shaker wire;And they’ll let him fossick for dip and barIn the likely places ’twixt star and star.It will please old Dan, for a man was heNot planned for an angel minstrelsy.

Oh, I trust he’s gone—as the priestsinsist—

Where the streets are paved with the gold he missed;

And they’ll weave his crown, and they’ll string his lyre,

From the trusty strands of his shaker wire;

And they’ll let him fossick for dip and bar

In the likely places ’twixt star and star.

It will please old Dan, for a man was he

Not planned for an angel minstrelsy.

Herests at the foot of a kopi hillBy the old Coolgardie track;But whether his name was Claude, or Bill,Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,”There isn’t a legend at all tosay—And what does it signify, anyway?There’s nought of funereal pomp orshow—Just a rough-hewn slab that states,The leisurely chap that lies belowHad honestly paid his ratesSomewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four;And then he came hither—to pay no more.[98]So he wearied soon of the storm and strife,And he cast his swag aside,When men were strong with the lust of lifeAnd the world seemed opened wide.Were the castles fair, that he built that day,Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,Now the tale of his life is told?Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,Or a sigh strike through the mould?Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?However it be, by the wind-swept hillsOf leisure he nothing lacks;And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fillsFor ever his earthly tracks.—Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayerIn the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.

Herests at the foot of a kopi hill

By the old Coolgardie track;

But whether his name was Claude, or Bill,

Or Clarence, or “Hell-fire Jack,”

There isn’t a legend at all tosay—

And what does it signify, anyway?

There’s nought of funereal pomp orshow—Just a rough-hewn slab that states,The leisurely chap that lies belowHad honestly paid his ratesSomewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four;And then he came hither—to pay no more.

There’s nought of funereal pomp orshow—

Just a rough-hewn slab that states,

The leisurely chap that lies below

Had honestly paid his rates

Somewhere in the summer of ’Ninety-four;

And then he came hither—to pay no more.

[98]So he wearied soon of the storm and strife,And he cast his swag aside,When men were strong with the lust of lifeAnd the world seemed opened wide.Were the castles fair, that he built that day,Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?

[98]So he wearied soon of the storm and strife,

And he cast his swag aside,

When men were strong with the lust of life

And the world seemed opened wide.

Were the castles fair, that he built that day,

Ere the Fever came in its cloak of grey?

Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,Now the tale of his life is told?Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,Or a sigh strike through the mould?Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?

Does he rest well there, by his kopi hill,

Now the tale of his life is told?

Does a fear disturb his dreaming still,

Or a sigh strike through the mould?

Does a mother weep, or a sweetheart wait,

Where they said “Good-bye,” at the old farm gate?

However it be, by the wind-swept hillsOf leisure he nothing lacks;And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fillsFor ever his earthly tracks.—Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayerIn the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.

However it be, by the wind-swept hills

Of leisure he nothing lacks;

And he laughs, perchance, at the dust that fills

For ever his earthly tracks.

—Peace, Peace, old chap! It is half a prayer

In the name of a friend—Someone—Somewhere.

I plantedDave at Bummer’s CreekSomewhere in ’Ninety-five,When all the country round aboutWas like a busyhive—And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep,And wasters stopped alive.And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ stillBeside the same old soakWhere we pitched camp twelve years agone,Played out and stony broke;And after work I think right back,And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int,And toiled and starved and spreed;But one ’ud watch around the stumpWhen t’other one was treed;The same when Luck was in full bloom,As when she run to seed.[100]But now I’m getting old and hipped,And kick against the ruts,I often think I’ll have a pray,But can’t sit down fernuts—And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea,He’s never got no guts!”D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere reportThat parson blokes kin tellAs who is bound fer parrydise,And who is booked fer ’ell?Fer I’ve got dust enough to payIf they’ve the noos to sell.Y’ see, us partners never ’adReligion much in mind,And didn’t think to make no planFer ’im who stoppedbehind—But ’course you tumble to my graft:I’ve got an axe to grind.D’ye think now if I went to town,Got up all smart and sleek,A short-necked shammy, just like that,’Ud make them pilots speakAnd say which track the battlers tookWho pegged on Bummer’s Creek!

I plantedDave at Bummer’s CreekSomewhere in ’Ninety-five,When all the country round aboutWas like a busyhive—And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep,And wasters stopped alive.

I plantedDave at Bummer’s Creek

Somewhere in ’Ninety-five,

When all the country round about

Was like a busyhive—

And good blokes pegged like rotten sheep,

And wasters stopped alive.

And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ stillBeside the same old soakWhere we pitched camp twelve years agone,Played out and stony broke;And after work I think right back,And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.

And here, to-day, I’m t’ilin’ still

Beside the same old soak

Where we pitched camp twelve years agone,

Played out and stony broke;

And after work I think right back,

And smoke, and smoke, and smoke.

We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int,And toiled and starved and spreed;But one ’ud watch around the stumpWhen t’other one was treed;The same when Luck was in full bloom,As when she run to seed.

We two were fitted, j’int fer j’int,

And toiled and starved and spreed;

But one ’ud watch around the stump

When t’other one was treed;

The same when Luck was in full bloom,

As when she run to seed.

[100]But now I’m getting old and hipped,And kick against the ruts,I often think I’ll have a pray,But can’t sit down fernuts—And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea,He’s never got no guts!”

[100]But now I’m getting old and hipped,

And kick against the ruts,

I often think I’ll have a pray,

But can’t sit down fernuts—

And Dave ’ud say, “A prayin’ pea,

He’s never got no guts!”

D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere reportThat parson blokes kin tellAs who is bound fer parrydise,And who is booked fer ’ell?Fer I’ve got dust enough to payIf they’ve the noos to sell.

D’ye think it’s true, this ’ere report

That parson blokes kin tell

As who is bound fer parrydise,

And who is booked fer ’ell?

Fer I’ve got dust enough to pay

If they’ve the noos to sell.

Y’ see, us partners never ’adReligion much in mind,And didn’t think to make no planFer ’im who stoppedbehind—But ’course you tumble to my graft:I’ve got an axe to grind.

Y’ see, us partners never ’ad

Religion much in mind,

And didn’t think to make no plan

Fer ’im who stoppedbehind—

But ’course you tumble to my graft:

I’ve got an axe to grind.

D’ye think now if I went to town,Got up all smart and sleek,A short-necked shammy, just like that,’Ud make them pilots speakAnd say which track the battlers tookWho pegged on Bummer’s Creek!

D’ye think now if I went to town,

Got up all smart and sleek,

A short-necked shammy, just like that,

’Ud make them pilots speak

And say which track the battlers took

Who pegged on Bummer’s Creek!

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