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He really was so old and grim,
The thought was in my mind,
That any gin to marry him
Would have to be stone blind.
'Twould make an undertaker smile:
What tickled me was this,
The thought of such an ancient file
Indulging in a kiss!
And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,
That equal justice whirls,
He ought to think of Nick instead
Of thinking of the girls.
Then drooped his grim and aged head,
And closed that glaring eye,
And not another word he said
.Except a grunt or sigh.
More lean he looks and still more lank
Such changes o'er him pass,
And down his ancient body sank
In slumber on the grass.
I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,
And not the sort of coon
To lead a blushing bride about,
Or spend a honeymoon;
Or if, indeed, there were a bride
For such a withered stick,
With such a tough and wrinkled hide,
That bride should be old Nick.
As streaks of faintish light began
To mark the coming day,
I left that grim and aged man
And slowly stole away.
And when the winter nights are rough,
And shrieking is the wind,
Or when I've eaten too much duff
And dreams afflict my mind,
I see that lean and withered hand,
And, 'mid the gloom of night,
I see the face of that old man,
And horrid is the sight:
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While on my head in agony
Up rises every hair,
I see again his glaring eye—
In fancy hear him swear.
At breakfast time, when I come down
To take that pleasant meal,
With pallid face, and haggard frown,
Into my place I steal;
And when they say I'm far from bright,
The truth I dare not tell:
I say I've passed a sleepless night,
And don't feel very well.
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Oh! Mother, say, for I long to know,
Where doth the tree of Freedom grow,
And strike its roots in the heart of man
As deep and far as the famed banyan?
Is it 'mid those groups in the Southern Seas,
In the Coral Isles, or the far Fijis,
Where the restless billows seeth and toss
'Neath the gleaming light of the Southern Cross?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Then tell me, mother, can it be where
The cry of "Liberty" rends the air?
Where grow the maize and the maple tree,
In the fertile "bottoms" of Tennessee?
Or is it up where the north winds roar,
Away by the fair Canadian shore,
Where the Indians shriek with insane halloos—
As drunk as owls in their bark canoes?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Or is it back in the Western States,
Where Colt's revolver rules the fates,
And Judges lounge in a liquor shop
While Dean and Adams's pistols pop?
Where Justice is but a shrivelled ghost
As deaf and blind as a stockyard post,
And License sits upon Freedom's chair—
Oh, say, dear mother, can it be there?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it on the banks of the wild Paroo,
Where the emu stalks, and the kangaroo
Bounds o'er the sand-hills free and light,
And the dingo howls through the sultry night;
Where the native gathers the nardoo-seed
For his frugal meal; and the centipede—
While the worn-out traveller lies inert,
Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it where yon death-like stillness reigns
O'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,
Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewes
For the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,
And the most enchanting visions come
To his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,
While the sun rays strike through his garments scant—
Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Or Southward, down where our brethren hold
Those keys of power, rich mines of gold—
That land of rumour and vague reports,
Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz—
Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"
And let in in the way of "scrip;"
Where all men vapour, and vaunt, and boast,
And manhood suffrage rules the roast?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Is it where the blasts of the simoom fan,
The blazing valleys of Hindustan;
Where the Dervish howls, and their dupes are fleeced
By the swarth Parsee, and the Brahmin priest;
Where men believe in their toddy-bowls,
And the transmigration of human souls,
And the monkeys battle with countless fleas
On the twisted boughs of the tamarind trees?
"Not there—not there, my child."
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Or is it more to the northward, more
Toward the ice-bound rivers of Labrador,
Where the glittering curtain of gleaming snow
Enshrouds the home of the Esquimaux;
Or further still to the north, away
Where the bones of the Artic heroes lay
Long, long on the icy surface bare,
To bleach and dry in the frosty air?
"Not there—not there, my child."
Then is it, mother, among the trees
That shade the paths in the Tuilleries,
Where the students walk with the pale grisettes,
And scent the air with their cigarettes?
Or doth it bloom in that atmosphere
Of mild tobacco and lager beer,
Where gutteral curses mingle too
With the croupiers patter of "faites votre jeu?"
"Not there—not there, my child."
"Boy, 'tis a plant that loves to blow
Where the fading rays of the sunset go;
Up where the sun-light never sets,
And angels tootle their flageolets;
Up through the fleecy clouds, and far
Beyond the track of the farthest star,
Where the silvery echoes catch no tone
Of a simmering sinner's stifling groan:
'Tis there—'tis there, my child!"
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Countless sheep and countless cattle
O'er his vast enclosures roam;
But you heard no children prattle
'Round that squatter's hearth and home.
Older grew that squatter, older,
Solitary and alone,
And they said his heart was colder
Than a granite pavin'-stone.
Other squatters livin handy,
Wot had daughters in their prime.
For that squatter "shouted" brandy
In the Township many a time;
And those gals kept introdoocin'
In their toilets every art
With the object of sedoocin'
That old sinner's stony heart.
Thus they often made exposures
Of their ankles, I'll be bound,
When they, in his vast enclosures,
Met that squatter ridin' round.
Their advances he rejected,
Scornin' both their hands and hearts,
'Till one day a cove selected
Forty acres in those parts.
And that stalwart free-selector
Had the handsomest of gals;
Conduct couldn't be correcter
Than his youngest daughter Sal's.
Prettily her head she tosses—
Loves a thing she don't regard;
Rides the most owdacious hosses
Wot was ever in a yard.
She was lithe and she was limber—
Farmers daughter every inch—
Not averse to sawin' timber
With her father at a pinch.
In remotest dells and dingles,
Where most gals would be afraid,
There she went a-splittin shingles,
Pretty tidy work she made.
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And that free selector's daughter,
Driving of her father's cart,
Made the very wildest slaughter
In that wealthy squatter's heart.
He proposed, and wasn't blighted,
Took her to his residence,
With his bride he was delighted
For she saved him much expense.
Older grew that aged squatter,
White and grizzly grew his pate,
'Till his weak rheumatic trotters
Couldn't bear their owner's weight.
Then he grew more helpless, 'till he
Couldn't wash and couldn't shave,
And one evening cold and chilly
He was carried to his grave.
Then that free selector's daughter
Came right slap "out of her shell;"
Calm and grave as folks had thought her,
She becomes a howling swell.
To the neighb'ring township drove she
In her chariot and pair,
Splendid dreams and visions wove she
While she braided up her hair.
She peruses Sydney papers,
Sees a paragraph which tells
Her benighted soul the capers
Cut down there by nobs and swells;
Then she couldn't stop contented
In a region such as this,
While the atmosphere she scented
Of the great metropolis.
Her intention she imparted
To the neighbours round about;
Packed her duds, farewell'd, and started,
And for Sydney she set out.
Now her pantin' bosom hankers
Spicily her form to deck,
So she sought her husband's bankers
And she drew a heavy cheque.
She, of course, in dress a part spent,
Satins, sables, silk and grebe,
And she took some swell apartments
Situated near the Glebe.
With the very highest classes
In her heart she longed to jine—
Her opinion placed the masses
Lower in the scale than swine.
But she found it wasn't easy
Climbin' up ambition's slope;
Slippy was the road, and greasy,
To the summit of her hope.
If into a "set" she wriggled,
She'd capsize some social rule,
Then those parties mostly giggled,
Loadin' her with ridicule.
Many an awkward solecism—
Many a breach of etiquette,
(Though she knew her catechism)
Often made her eyelids wet.
Her plebeian early trainin'
Was a precious pull-back then,
Which prevented her from gainin'
Footin' with the "upper ten."
Strugglin' after social fame was
Simply killin' her out-right,
So she settled that the game was
Hardly worth the candle-light.
Things got worse and things got worser,
'Till she had a vision strange,
The forerunner and precurser
Of a most decided change.
In a dream she saw the station
Where her father now was boss,
And his usual occupation
Was to ride a spavined hoss.
Round inspectin' every shepherd
With his penetratin' sight,
And those underlings got peppered
If he found things wasn't right.
When she saw her grey-haired sire
"Knockin' round" among the sheep,
For her home a strong desire
Made her yell out in her sleep.
Then she saw herself in fancy
In her strange fantastic dream,
With her elder sister Nancy,
Yokin up the bullock team.
Up out of her sleep she started,
And the tears came to her eyes;
She was almost broken-hearted,
To her waitin' maid's surprise.
She was sad and penitential,
Like the Prodigal of old,
So she got a piece of pencil
And her state of mind she told
To her grey and aged father
In that far outlandish place;
And she told him that she'd rather
Like to see his wrinkled face.
Then that quondam free-selector
Shed the biggest tears of joy;
When he knew he might expect her
His was bliss without alloy.
Home came Sarah, just as one fine
Day in May was near its close,
And the fadin' rays of sunshine
Glinted oil her father's nose.
She beheld it glowing brightly;
Filial yearning was intense;
So she made a rush and lightly
Cleared the four-foot paddock fence.
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Hugged he her in fond embraces;
Kissed she him with many a kiss;
And she busted her stay-laces
In an ecstasy of bliss.
Then she wept with sorrow, thinkin',
From the colour of his face,
That her parent had been drinkin',
Which was probably the case.
But he, when he found his coat all
Wet with many a filial tear,
Took a solemn pledge tee-total
To abstain from rum and beer.
Then she went and sought her sisters,
Judy, Nancy, and the rest;
On their faces she raised blisters
With the kisses she impressed.
And she once morecon amore
"Cottoned " to the calves and sheep,
Likewise for her parent hoary
She professed affection deep.
Lavished on him fond caresses,
Stuck to him like cobbler's-wax,
Cut up all her stylish dresses
Into garments for the blacks.
All her talents were befitted
To a rough-and-tumble life,
And from sheep to sheep she flitted
When the "scab" and "fluke" were rife.
Sarah's heart was soft and tender,
Her repentance was complete,
Never sighed she more for splendour,
For the "Block" or George's-street.
Many a "back-block" lady-killer,
Many a wealthy squatter's son,
Wanted her to "douse the wilier,"
But she wasn't to be won.
For that free-selector's daughter
Said, when settled in her home,
She'd be (somethinged) if they caught Her
Venturin' again to roam.
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The song goes round, we yarn and chaff,
And cheerily the bushman's laugh
Rolls through the forest glade.
The hobbled horses feed around,
We hear the horse-bell's tinkling sound;
The sand beneath their feet is ground,
As in the creek they wade.
We hear them crunch the juicy grass—
The water gleams like polished glass,
Beneath the moon's bright ray.
Mosquitos form in solid cloud—
They sting and sing, both sharp and loud;
Around the prostrate forms they crowd,
And keep repose at bay.
We watch the stars shine over head,
And lounge upon the bushman's bed—
A blanket on the ground.
Each feels himself Dame Nature's guest,
Our heads upon our saddles rest;
At length, with weariness oppressed,
We sink in sleep profound.
We sleep as only weary ones
Among hard-handed labour's sons,
With minds at rest from debts and duns—
As only these can do—
Until the daylight's first faint streak
Has lightly touched the distant peak,
And o'er us where the branches creak,
Is slowly creeping through.
Reluctantly with sleep we strive,
And hear the call to "look alive"!
We soon desert the camp.
The horses caught and blankets rolled,
The "Super's" brief instructions told—
We mount, and scarce our steeds can hold,
Impatiently they stamp.
We ford the creek and need no bridge,
And climb a steep and scrubby ridge,
And then, boys, there's a sight!—
The "gully," by the sun unkist,
Beneath lies rolled in gleaming mist
And flowing waves of light;
As yet untouched by noon-tide heat,
Like rocks where broken waters meet,
'Tis wrapped as by a winding sheet
In billows fleecy white.
Onward, and soon the sun's fierce rays
Will dissipate the morning haze—
He soars in fiery pomp.
We skirt the shallow "clay-pan's" marge,
Force "lignum" thickets, dense and large,
And often-times we briskly charge
Some dark "Yapunya-swamp."
We gather first a quiet lot,
Then off again with hurried trot
Upon our toilsome tramp.
Each gully, range, and hill we beat,
Charge every horned thing we meet—
With ringing shout and gallop fleet—
And "run" then "on the camp."
The shaggy herd increases fast;
We know by lengthened shadows cast
Time too has galloped hard;
'Twill try our powers, howe'er we strive,
This most rebellious mob to drive,
E're night-fall, to the yard.
The order comes,—"Each to his place!"
And homeward now at length we face.
The frightened monsters roar;
Some tear the unresisting ground,
And some with frantic rush and bound
(Half maddened by the stockwhip's sound)
Each other fiercely gore!
We spread along the scattered line,
Some on the "wings," and some behind,
And steer them as we can.
There's but one pass through yonder hill;
To guide them there will need some skill,
And try both horse and man.
Some hidden object checks them there;
The leaders snuff the wind, and glare,
Then bellowing with their tails in air,
Swerve madly to the right.
A stockman hears our voices ring;
With easy stretch and supple spring,
His horse bears down along their wing,
The living mass he wheels:
Too close he presses; at the sight
One "breaks" and bellows with affright;
Dick swoops upon him, like a kite;
The cutting thong he deals;
It falls with heavy sounding thwack—
Such din those mountain gullies black
Have scarce or never heard.
He knows his work, that well-trained hack,
Nor heeds the stockwhip's echoing crack,
And sullenly the bull turns back,
To join the hurrying herd.
"Look out!" a warning voice has said,
"There's 'Mulga,' boys, and right ahead!"
And now begins the rub;
From some their garments will be stripped,
And saddle-flaps and "knee-pads" ripped,
And horses' feet in holes be tripped,
Before they clear the scrub.
You, stockmen from the Murray's side,
Who through the "Mallee" boldly ride,
Beware the "mulga-stake!"
'Tis strong and tough as bullock-hide,
Nor will, like "mallee," turn aside;
But, in its savage, sylvan pride,
Will neitherbendnorbreak!
Once through the scrub, we don't care how
Things go; we've got them steadied now
And haven't lost a beast—
And, far as ranges human eye,
The plains are level as a die—
Our toil has nearly ceased.
The Sun goes down, the day-light fails,
But now we near the Stockyard rails—
We've one sharp struggle more.
One half the mob have never been
(Forced from those gullies cool and green)
In "branding-yard" before!
We jam them at the open space;
They ring around, and fear to face
The widely open gate.
Whips crack, and voices shout in vain;
The cattle "ring," and strive again
To force a passage to the plain.
Impatiently we wait,
Till one old charger glares around,
And snuffing cautiously the ground
Stalks through between the posts.
With lowered heads the others "bore"
And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;
And with a hollow muttered roar
Pour in those horned hosts!
Those posts are fourteen inches through—
They creak, and groan, and tremble too,
Before that pouring rush!
They're in at last, the gates are shut;
And falls o'er paddock, yard, and hut,
A calm nocturnal hush.