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In youth he met with sad rebuffs,
Hard, hard was William's lot,
And most unnecessary cuffs
And kicks he often got.
At length one night both dark and black
A window he got through,
And with freshwealsupon his back
He joined a whaler's crew.
He learnt to "hand," and "reef," and steer,
And knew the compass pat;
He learnt to honour and revere
The boatswain and his "cat."
He went to every coral isle
Down in the Southern seas,
Where dark-eyed beauties beam and smile
Beneath the bread-fruit trees.
His foot was firm upon the deck
As Norval's on his heath;
He dared the tempest and the wreck
For whale and walrus teeth.
He braved Pacific foam and spray,
For oil and bêche-le-mer,
Till he grew ugly, old, and grey,
An ancient mariner.
His face got red, and blue, and pink
With grog and weather stains;
He looked much like themissinlink
When in themizenchains.
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Bill Blubber's gone, and he'll be missed
By all on British soil;
Be aisy now and hold yourwhist,
He'll go no more forHoyle!
No more he'll see the billows curl
In north Atlantic gales;
No more the keen harpoon he'll hurl
At spermaceti whales.
Ah! never more he'll heave the log—
A harsh decree was Fate's;
He took an over-dose of grog
When up inBe(e)hringStraits.
Death blew a bitter blast and chill
Which struck his sails aback,
And round the corse of Workhouse Bill
They wound aUnionJack.
A "longing, lingering look" they cast,
Then sewed him in a bag,
And half way up the lofty mast
They hoist the drooping flag.
His mess-mates crossways tossed the yards,
Askew they hung the sails,
Eschewed tobacco, rum, and cards,
And filled the ship with wails
The grief-struck skipper drank some grog,
Of solace he had need,
And made an entry in the log
No livin' soul could read.
And then a ghastly laugh he laughed
His spirits to exhalt,
And then he called the boatswain aft
Andmusteredeverysalt
The whalers gave one final howl,
And cursed their hard, hard lucks;
They came, and though the wind wasfoul,
They wore their whitestducks.
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The captain—kindest, best of men—
Strove hard his breath to catch;
(Crouched like an incubating hen,
Upon the after-hatch).
He said as how the time was come
To Bill to say good-bye;
And tears of water and of rum,
Stood in each manly eye.
Said he, "My lads, dispel this gloom,
"Bid grief and sorrow halt;
"For if the sea must be his tomb,
"D'ye see it aint hisf(v)ault.
"' Tis true we'll never see his like
"At 'cutting in' a whale—
"At usin knife an' marlin-spike,
"Butblubberwon'tavail.
"Soh! steady lads, belay all that!
"'Vast heaving sobs and sighs;
"Don't never go to 'whip the cat'
"For William, bless his eyes!
"I knew him lads when first he shipped,
"And this is certain, that
"Though William by the 'cat ' was whipped,
"He never 'whipped the cat!"
The skipper read the service through,
And snivelled in his sleeve,
While calm and still, old work'us Bill
Awaits the final heave.
He had no spicy hearse and three,
No gay funereal car;
But, at the word, souse in the sea
Theypitchthat lucklesstar.
Short-handed then those whalemen toil
Upon their oily cruise,
And many and many acruseof oil
For want of Bill they lose.
The mate and captain in despair
His cruel fate deplore;
His mess-mates swore they never were
In such amessbefore.
The crew, who had a bitter cup
To drink with their salt-horse,
When next they hauled the mainsel up,
Bewailed hismissin corse. *
* Mizen-course o' course.
Alas! his corpse had downward sunk,
His soul hath upward sped,
And Will hath left a sailor's 'bunk'
To share an oyster's bed.
We hope his resting place will suit—
We trust he's happy now—
Laid where the pigs can never root,
Lulled by the ocean's sough.
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088m
ThisChristmas-eve? This stifling night?
The leaves upon the trees?
The temperature by Farenheit
Some ninety odd degrees?
Ah me! my thoughts were off at score
To Christmases I've passed,
Before upon this Southern shore
My weary lot was cast.
To Christmases of ice and snow,
And stormy nights and dark;
To holly-boughs and mistletoe,
And skating in the Park
To vast yule-logs and yellow fogs
Of the vanished days of yore—
To the keen white frost, and the home that's lost,
The home that's mine no more.
'Twas passing nice through snow and ice
To drive to distant "hops,"
But here, alas! the only ice
Is in the bars and shops!
I've Christmased since those palmy days
In many a varied spot,
And suffered many a weary phase
Of Christmas cold and hot.
When cherished hopes were stricken down-
Hopes born but to be lost—
And when the world's chill blighting frown
Seemed colder than the frost.
'Tis hard to watch—when from within
The heart all hope has flown—
The old year out, the new year in,
Unfriended and alone
When whispers seem to rise and tell
Of scenes you used to know—
You almost hear the very bells
You heard so long ago.
I've Christmased in a leaky tub
Where briny billows roll,
And Christmased in the Mulga scrub
Beside a water-hole.
With ague in my aching joints,
And in my quivering bones;
My bed, the rough uneven points
Of sharp and jaggèd stones.
Where life a weary burden was
With all the varied breeds
Of creeping things with pointed stings,
And snakes, and centipedes.
'Twas not a happy Christmas that:
How can one happy be
With bull-dog ants inside your hat,
And black ants in your tea?
Australian child, what cans't thou know
Of Christmas in its prime?
Not flower-wreathed, but wreathed in snow,
As in yon northern clime.
Thou hast not seen the vales and dells
Arrayed in gleaming white,
Nor heard the sledge's silver bells
Go tinkling through the night.
For thee no glittering snow-storm whirls;
Thou hast instead of this
Only the dust-storm's eddying swirls—
The hot-wind's scalding kiss!
What can'st thou know of frozen lakes,
Or Hyde—that Park divine?
For, though by no means lackingsnakes,
Thou hast no "Serpentine."
Thou hast not panted, yearned to cut
Strange figures out with skates,
Nor practised in the water-butt,
Nor heard those dismal "waits."
For thee no "waits" lugubrious voice
Breaks forth in plaintive wail;
Rejoice, Australian child, rejoice!
That balances the scale.
I see in fancy once again
The London streets at night—
Trafalgar square, St. Martin's Lane—
Each well remembered sight.
Past twelve! and Nature's winding-sheet
Is over street and square,
And silently now fall the feet,
Of those who linger there.
I see a wretch with hunger bold
(An Ishmaelite 'mong men)
Crawl from some hovel dark and cold—
Some foul polluted den—
A wretch who never learnt to pray,
And wearily he drags
His life along from day to day
In wretchedness and rags.
I see a wandering carriage lamp
Glide silently and slow;
The night-policeman's heavy tramp
Is muffled by the snow.
I hear the mournful chaunt ascend
('Tis meaningless to you)
"We're frozen out, hard-working men,
We've got no work to do!"
All, all the many sounds and sights
Come trooping through my brain
Of London streets, and winter nights,
And pleasure mixed with pain.
Be happy you who have a home,
Be happy while you may,
For sorrow's ever quick to come,
And slow to pass away.
Your churches and your dwellings deck
With ferns and flowers fair;
I would not breathe a word to check
The mirth I cannot share.
For, though my barque's a shattered hull,
And I could be at best
But like the famed Egyptian skull,
A mirth-destroying guest,
I would not play the cynic's part,
Nor atthypleasure sneer—
I wish thee, Reader, from my heart,
A happy, glad New year.
Some years ago I chanced upon a magazine article containing a dissertation upon a now almost obsolete kind of versification, much affected by Ben Jonson and some of the last century poets, in which the first two or three lines of each verse ask a question, and the echo of the concluding words gives an answer more or less appropriate. An amusing example was given in the article above mentioned, which was equally rough on the great violinist of the past and his audience, thus:
"What are they who pay six guineas
To hear a string of Paganini's?"
(Echo) "Pack 'o ninnies!"
I read this and a few other examples, and was straightway stricken with a desire to emulate this eccentric and somewhat difficult species of versification, and now with considerable diffidence, and a choking prayer for mercy at the hands of the critic, I lay my attempt before the reader. The following echo-verses are not on any account whatever to be understood as reflecting on the present or any past Government of this Colony. They are merely to be taken as shadowing forth a state of things possible in the remote future.
Our land hath peace, prosperity, and rhino,
And Legislators true, and staunch, and tried—
What trait have they, that is not pure—divine oh?
(Echo interposing) "I know!"
What is it, if thus closely thou hast pried?
"Pride!"
If thus into their hearts thou hast been prying,
Thy version of the matter prithee paint;
Tell us, I pray, on what are they relying?
"Lying!"
I thought their honour was without a taint—
"Taint!"
Have they forgotten all their former glories?
Their virtue—what hath chanced its growth to stunt?
Oh! wherefore should they change their ancient mores?
"More ease!"
What weapon makes the sword of Justice blunt?
"Blunt!" *
* Coin
Thou would'st not speak thus, wert thou now before 'em:
Why do I heed, why listen to thy tale?
Can'st purchase, then, the honour of the Forum?
For Rum!"
And what would blind Dame Justice with her scale?
"Ale!"
Beware! the fame of Senators thou'rt crushing!
Too flippantly thou givest each retort.
What are they doing while for their shame I'm blushing?
"Lushing!"
And drinking?—pray continue thy report—
Port
Curse on these seeds of death, and those who sow them
But there's another thing I'd fain be told—
What of the masses, the canaille below them?
"B-low them!"
Thou flippant one! how is the mob consoled?
"Sold!"
Now, by stout Alexander's sword, or
Rather by his Holiness the Pope!
By what means keep they matters in this order?
"Sawder!"
With what do they sustain the people's hope?
"Soap!"
Take they indeed no passing thought, no care or
Heed of what for safety should be done?
What brought about this modern Reign of Terror?
"Error!"
Is there no hope for thee, my land, mine own?
"None!"
Base love of liquor, ease, and lucre, this it
Is which coileth round her, link on link;
Dark is her hope, e'en as the grave we visit!
"Is it?"
Of what black illustration can I think?
"Ink!"
Alas my country! shall I not undeceive her?
Shall I not strike one patriotic blow?
I'd help her had I but the means, the lever—
"Leave her!"
May we not hope? speak Echo, thou must know—
"No!"
Then shall be heard—when, round us slowly creeping,
Shall come this adverse blast to fill our sails—
Instead of mirth, while hope aside 'tis sweeping—
"Weeping!"
Instead of songs of praise in New South Wales—
"Wails!"
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THE following ballad suggested itself to the Author while in the remote interior and suffering from a severe attack of indigestion, he having rashly partaken of some damper made by a remorseless and inexperienced new-chum. Those who do not know what ponderous fare this particular species of bush-luxury is when ill-made may possibly think the sub-joined incidents a little over-drawn. If a somewhat gloomy atmosphere be found pervading the narrative, it is to be attributed to the fact that all the horrors of dyspepsia shadowed the Author's soul at the time it was written, and, if further extenuation be required, it may be stated that he had previously been going through a course of gloomy and marrow-freezing literature, commencing with Edgar Poe's "Raven," and winding up with the crowning atrocity (oralbatrossity) which saddened the declining years of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.
The squatter kings of New South Wales—
The squatter kings who reign
O'er rocky hill, and scrubby ridge,
O'er swamp, and salt-bush plain—
Fenced in their runs, and coves applied
For shepherding in vain.
The squatters said that closed should be
To tramps each station-store;
That parties on the "cadging suit"
Should ne'er have succour more;
And when Bill the shepherd heard the same
He bowed his neck and swore.
Now, though that ancient shepherd felt
So mad he couldn't speak,
No sighs escape his breast, no tears
From out his eyelids leak,
But he swore upon the human race
A black revenge to wreak.
He brooded long, and a fiendish light
Lit up the face of Bill;
He saw the way to work on men
A dark and grievous ill,
And place them far beyond the aid
Of senna, salts, or pill.
He hied him to his lonely hut
By a deep dark, lakelet's shore;
He passed beneath its lowly roof—
He shut and locked the door;
And he emptied out his flour bag
Upon the hard clay floor.
Awhile he eyed the mighty mound
With dark, malignant zeal,
And then, a shovel having found,
"Their fates," said he, "I'll seal";
And he made a "damper" broad and round
As a Roman chariot-wheel.
He soddened it with water drawn
From out that black lagoon,
And he smiled to think that those who ate
A piece of it would soon
Be where they'd neither see the light
Of sun, nor stars, nor moon.
For when that damper came to be
Dug from its glowing bed,
Its fell specific gravity
Was far o'er gold or lead,
And a look of satisfaction o'er
That shepherd's features spread.
The shepherd sat by the gloomy shore
Of the black and dark lagoon;
His face was lit, and his elf-locks hoar
By the rays of the rising moon.
106m
His hand was clenched, and his visage wore
A deadly frown and black,
And his eye-balls glare, for a stranger fair
Is wending down the track.
The shepherd hath bidden the stranger halt
With courtesy and zeal,
And hath welcomed him to his low roof-tree,
And a share of his evening meal.
As the fare he pressed on his hungry guest,
And thought of its deadly weight,
With savage glee he smiled for he
Imagined his after fate.
The stranger hath eaten his fill I ween
Of that fell and gruesome cake,
And hath hied him away in the moon-light's sheen
For a stroll by the deep, dark lake;
For he thought he'd lave each stalwart limb
In the wavelet's curling crest,
And take a dive and a pleasant swim
'Ere he laid him down to rest.
The coat that covered his ample chest
On the lakelet's marge he threw;
His hat, his boots, and his flannel-vest,
And his moleskin trowsers too.
He hummed a tune, and he paused awhile
To hear the night-owl sing;
His ears were cocked, and his palms were locked,
Prepared for the final spring.
An unsuspecting look he cast
At the objects on the shore—
A splash! a thud! and beneath the flood
He sank to rise no more!
The shepherd saw from his lonely hut
The dread catastrophé;
A notch on a withered stick he cut—
"That's number one," said he,
"But, if I live 'till to-morrow's sun
"Shall gild the blue-gum tree,
"With more, I'll stake my soul, that cake
"Of mine will disagree."
Then down he sat by his lonely hut
That stood by the lonely track,
To the lakelet nigh, and a horse came by
With a horse-man on his back.
And lean and lank was the traveller's frame
That sat on that horse's crup:
'Twas long I ween since the wight had seen
The ghost of a bite or sup.
"Oh! give me food!" to the shepherd old
With plaintive cry he cried;
A mildewed crust or a pint o'dust *
Or a mutton cutlet fried.
"In sooth in evil case am I,
Fatigue and hunger too
Have played the deuce with my gastric juice,
It's 'got no work to do.'
"I've come o'er ridges of burning sand
That gasp for the cooling rain,
Where the orb of day with his blinding ray
Glares down on the salt-bush plain