168m
'Twas there I marked the jetty coil
That crowned her classic head—
The perfumes of macassar oil
Were all around her shed.
And o'er the meaner spirits there
Her mighty soul arose;
Her intellect and genius were
Aspiring—like her nose.
And Polly was the fairest there—
'The goddess of the class—
Among thepolysyllables
Unscathed I saw her pass.
Examiners with piercing eye,
And terror-striking frown
In vain to trip her up might try—
In vain to take her down.
She triumphs, and the loud applause
From roof to basement rings—
Each other girl with envy gnaws
Her hat and bonnet strings.
Sometimes (regardless of expense)
I dressed and went to church;
One glimpse of her would recompense
My eager longing search.
And, while the swelling organ rent
The air with solemn tunes,
On spelling-bees my thoughts were bent
And happy honeymoons.
And where I brooding sat alone
The wildest dreams I dreamt,
And swore to win her for my own
Or "bust' in the attempt.
We met at parties, and our toes
Whirl in the dreamy waltz,
And if at times a thought arose—
Could hair like that be false?
I sniffed the reassuring coil
That shamed the damask rose,
And could not breathe a thought disloyal
While that was near my nose.
171m
At length her aunt—the summer gone—
The influenza got;
To see my Polly to her home
It oft became my lot.
And if I took the longest way
The fraud was never known,
For organ of "locality"
My darling she had none.
One night, about the supper hour,
Thanks to some kindly fate,
We reached the entrance to her bower—
I mean the garden gate.
It was a gloomy night and wet
With rain and driving sleet,
And more than common risk beset
Pedestrians in the street.
From harm from wheel of cab or cart
I'd kept my darling free,
And in the fulness of her heart
She asked me in to tea.
Her aunt, that stately dame and grand,
Looked knives and forks at me;
She'd "Butter's Spelling" in her hand,
And "Webster" on her knee.
Her bead-like eyes gleamed bright behind
The spectacles she wore;
Of intellect and strength of mind
She had enough for four.
And tall her figure was, and spare,
And bony were her joints;
Orthography and grammar were
The strongest of her points.
A morbid taste this virgin chaste
For dictionaries had;
Though Polly C. might perfect be,
Her aunt was spelling mad.
I felt that if an angel bright
To earth from Oether fell,
She'd either give that Son of Light
Some heavy word to spell,
Or else she'd get him on to parse,
'Till sick of earthly things,
He'd work his passage to the stars
Upon his downy wings.
174m
At Dr. Blank's academy,
I never took the lead;
My grammar and orthography
Were very weak indeed,
And oft those academic walls
Have echoed to my howls,
Responsive to the Doctor's calls
For consonants and vow'ls.
His rules respecting "Q's" and "P's"
Were graven on our backs,
And though we had no spelling-bees,
I got my share ofwhacks.
For what the Doctor failed to see
Impressed upon the mind,
Was certain very soon to be
Impressed in fullbehind.
But still, despite the scathing look,
And cane of Dr. Blank.
My spelling powers never took
An elevated rank.
And if my hopes of Polly hung
Upon so frail a thread,
My life was blighted 'ere begun—
My hopes, scarce born, were dead.
All silent through that evening meal
I sat with bended head,
And now and then a glance I steal
At Polly while she fed;
But though her eyes I often seek,
I only look at most;
My heart's too full of love to speak,
My mouth too full of toast.
Oh! sweet love-feast!—too sweet to last—
Oh! bitter after-cud!
Oh! spinster grim why didst thou blast
Love's blossom in the bud?
For, ere one happy hour could pass,
That virgin grim and fell
Invited me to join the class
Where Polly went to spell;
And though I trembled in my shoes,
In hopeless agony,
Could I the aunt of her refuse
Whosespellwas over me?
At length arrived the dreaded hour,
And primed witheau de vie,
I sought that orthographic bower
Where met the spelling-bee.
No hope of prizes lured me toward
Those hundred gleaming eyes,
For me there was but one reward,
And Polly was the prize.
For her my dull ambition leapt,
In literary lists
To cope with lunatics who slept
With "Webster" in their fists.
Vague dread forebodings cloud my brow,
And make my cheek grow pale,
Oh! Dr. Johnson help me now—
My hopes are in the scale!
My frame with apprehension shook;
To nerve me for the task,
With tender, longing, yearning look
I eyed my pocket-flask,
And tempted by the spirit bright
That dwelt within its lips,
I put the contents out of sight
In two convulsive sips.
A stony-eyed examiner
Came in and took the chair;
I knew a place that's spelt with "H,"
And wished that he was there.
I softly cursed his form erect,
His "specs" with golden rim,
And prayed that doctors might dissect
His body limb from limb.
But soon the spirit's subtle fume
Obfusticates my view;
The common objects of the room
Seem multiplied by two.
My breast, the late abode of funk,
With courage was embued;
I was a little less than drunk,
And something more than screwed.
And while my heart beat loud and fast
With wild convulsive pants,
I sawtwoPollys, and alas!
Apairof Polly's Aunts!
I fail to solve the mystery
Which Polly I prefer,
But thought I'd likePolygamy
With duplicates of her.
Involved in intellectual gloom,
I found the A. B. C.
Had vanished, vanquished by the fumes
Of Henessey's P. B.
And when that stony-looking one
Applied at length to me,
I spelt "consumption" with a "K,"
And "kangaroo" with "C"!
I will not paint these harrowing scenes,
Nor keep thee, reader, long,
Nor tell thee how I shocked the "Bee"
By breaking forth in song.
180m
Two orthographic youths arose,
And dragged me from the room,
Despite my wild and aimless blows,
Into the outer gloom.
181m
With force, and tender soothing tones
They led me from the hall,
And laid me on the cold, cold stones
Beneath the bare brick wall.
They spread for me no blanket warm.
No cloak or 'possum-rug,
And peelers bore my helpless form
In triumph to the "Jug."
Next day I found the "summons-sheet"
Ablanketcold indeed;
I felt that liberty was sweet,
I wanted to be freed:
But peelers' hearts are solid rock,
They wouldn't hear me speak,
They dragged me to the felon's dock
Before a hook-nosed "beak."
He offered me—that hook-nosed "beak"—
The option of a fine,
In place of many a weary week
Of punishment condign.
I mutely pointed to my Sire,
The fount of my supplies,
And then bereft of joy I left
The court with tearful eyes.
I could not read again and live
The note I got 'ere long,
From Polly's single relative
Anent my goings on.
She told me it would be as well
Our intercourse should cease—
That one who drank, and couldn't spell
Should never have her niece.
She recommended frugal fare,
And lexicons, and pumps,
But when I think of Polly's hair
My own comes out in lumps!
Oh! tell me not a "spelling-bee's"
A sweet and pleasant thing;
I've drunk of sorrow's bitter lees—
I've felt that insect's sting.
My hopes are dead, despair hath spread
O'er me its blackest pall;
The honey and the wine of life.
Are turned to bitter gall.
Although I'm barely twenty-one
My crop of care is ripe!
No joy have I in moon or sun,
Or in my meerchaum pipe.
Oh! where are now the happy days,
When first I learnt to smoke?
When life seemed one long holiday—
Existence but a joke?
When I'd no other thought or care
Except my cane to gnaw,
And train the soft incipient hair
That grew upon my jaw?
They've passed away those happy day
And now I only crave
A brief, brief life—an early death,
A requiem, and a grave.
And billiards now I never play;
Not long my father will
Be troubled by me to defray
That tailor's lengthened bill.
I never wink at bar-maids now,
But soberly I tread
As walketh one whose home's among
The cold and silent dead.
One debt lies heavy on my breast
I'd like to pay but can't;
I'd like, before I go to rest,
To settle Polly's aunt.
I hope they'll take her where the time
Counts not by days and weeks—
The place of which 'tis wrong to rhyme,
And no one ever speaks!
'Tis where the letters that she loves—
The consonants and vow'ls—
Aremelted down in patent stoves,
And moulded into howls!
186m
187m
Iwas a peeler of a kind
That's seldom met with now;
I used to part my hair behind,
It clustered o'er my brow
In glossy ringlets, crisp and dark;
I had a massive chest,
And oft I lit love's fatal spark
Within the female breast.
The buttons on my coat of blue
Shone with effulgent light,
And cooks with eyes of dazzling hue
Fell prostrate at the sight.
188m
At almost every kitchen door
They met me with a smile;
But then in modest pride I wore
The regulation tile.
No more they come with outstretched arms
My person to enwrap;
No more they hold the mutton cold
As sacred to the trap.
They never asks me into sup;
No smoking joints they bile;
They hates this cursed new-come-up—
This 'elmet mean and vile.
189m
The boys what vends the "Evenin' News,'"
When I comes stalkin' by,
Awakes each alley, lane and mews,
With, "Crikey! 'ere's a guy!"
The cabbies stare so hard at me,
No wonder I gets huffed;
They grins, and axes who I be,
And if I'm "real or stuffed"
190m
And when I walks about my beat
The hosses dreads the sight;
They stands up endways in the street
A snortin' with affright.
The 'bus-conductors winks and leers,
And holds their sides and splits;
And kids of very tender years
I frightens into fits.
I once was right at forty-four
For supper, lunch, and tea;
Upon this bosom Susan swore
She'd never love but me.
Alas! for that inconstant cook
The 'elmet 'ad no charms;
A most sanguineous butcher took
My Susan to his arms.
My Susan's cheeks were fair and sleek—
So were the chops she cooked;
But on her chops, and on her cheek,
My last I fear I've looked.
192m
That butcher said as how 'twasmeat
That me and she should part,
And never more for me will beat
That culinary 'eart.
Now listen you who've got to fix
What bobbies is to wear,
And if your 'earts aim 'ard as bricks,
Oh! 'ear a peelers prayer.
195m
Oh! take the elmet from my brow—
The curse from off my 'ed;
You aint no sort o' notion ow
I wishes I wos dead.
There's nothing calculated more
A cove's good looks to spile;
Oh! if you've 'carts, restore, restore,
The regulation tile!
You can't give back that cook's fond 'eart—
Her chops, her cheek, her smile;
But if you'd make amends in part,
Restore, restore my tile!
196m
THE following verses will probably be more intelligible to the bush reader than the metropolitan one. The latter is at liberty to "pass":—
197m
I'm forty years in New South Wales,
And knows a thing or two;
Can build a hut, and train a slut,
And chaff a "Jackeroo." *
* See reference b.
I chiefly sticks to splittin' rails—
It's contract work, d'ye see;
I hates to ave a station-boss
A-overlookin' me.
I left my country for its good,
But not my own, I fear;
I makes big cheques a splittin' wood,
And knocks 'em down in beer.
I knows the Murrumbidgee's bends,
Though not a "whaler" * now,
And many a score of sheep I've shore
For good old Jacky Dow.
I used to knock about on farms,
And plough a "land" or two;
But now for me that has no charms—
I hates a "Cockatoo." **
* Murrumbidgee whalers are a class of loafers who work forabout six months in the year—i.e. during shearing andharvest, and camp the rest of the time in bends of rivers,and live by fishing and begging.** A small farmer.
I'm splittin' for a squatter now
Down here upon the creek;
He often says as how I've got
A sight too much o' cheek.
They've got a new-chum over there—
I hates new-chums, I do;
I often tries to take a rise
Out of that Jackeroo.
One day when we was in the yard
A draftin' out some ewes,
We axed him for to lend a hand,
He couldn't well refuse.
I watched 'un for a minute just
To see what he would do;
Bless'd if he warn't a chuckin' out
A lot o' wethers too!
He keeps the store and sarves the "dust"—*
I only wish he'd slope;
I knows he often books to me
Too many bars o' soap.
In them it ain't no sort o' use
Instruction to infuse;
There ain t a gleam o' intellect
In new-chum Jackeroos.
As soon as July fogs is gone
I chucks my axe up there,
And gets a stock of Ward and Payne's*
At six and six a pair.
I've been a shearin' off an' on
For such a precious while,
I knows most every shearin' shed,
And each partickler style.
I'm able for to shear 'em clean,
And level as a die;
But I prefers to 'tommy-hawk,"
And make the "daggers" fly.
They mostly says that to the skin
They means to have 'em shore;
I alius knocks off skin an' all
When they begins to jawr.