So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went,And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent;Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hearThat it wasn't cool and shady — and there wasn't plenty beer,And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view;Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you;And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown,And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town.Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you wentIn a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant,Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its painYou would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain,And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud,You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood;For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street,In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet;But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall,And the men who know the bush-land — they are loyal through it all.. . . . .But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight,Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night?Did they 'rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze?Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days?And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet —Were their faces sour and saddened like the 'faces in the street',And the 'shy selector children' — were they better now or worseThan the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse?Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and squareWhere the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare,Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and redIn a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread?Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bushThan the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of 'the push'?Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange?Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range?But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised,For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised.Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a bandWhere the 'blokes' might take their 'donahs',with a 'public' close at hand?You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the 'push',For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush.
Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run,But he should have gone there last week.He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun,But of turkey or duck he saw never a one,For he should have been there last week,They said,There were flocks of 'em there last week.He wended his way to a waterfall,And he should have gone there last week.He carried a camera, legs and all,But the day was hot, and the stream was small,For he should have gone there last week,They said.They drowned a man there last week.He went for a drive, and he made a start,Which should have been made last week,For the old horse died of a broken heart;So he footed it home and he dragged the cart —But the horse was all right last week,They said.He trotted a match last week.So he asked the bushies who came from farTo visit the town last week,If they'd dine with him, and they said 'Hurrah!'But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar —You should have been here last week,He said,I drank it all up last week!
The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong,After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along:The 'ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score,The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board,The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde.There were men from the inland stationswhere the skies like a furnace glow,And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow;There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles,And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles.They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games,And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names,And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland,He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand.He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze,And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees,And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong —Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong;He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mindA thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind.Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose;Said he, 'I've travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those.Out in the western districts, out on the CastlereaghMost of the names are easy — short for a man to say.'You've heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine,Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine,Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo —'But the rest of the shearers stopped him:'For the sake of your jaw, go slow,If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail,Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.'And the man from the western district, though never a word he said,Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed.
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,And men of religion are scanty,On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,One Michael Magee had a shanty.Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no restFor the youngster had never been christened.And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should dieSaint Peter would not recognise him.'But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,And it seemed to his small understanding,If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,It must mean something very like branding.So away with a rush he set off for the bush,While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'Like a young native dog he ran into a log,And his father with language uncivil,Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,'Come out and be christened, you divil!'But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,And his parents in vain might reprove him,Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.''Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,As he rushes out this end I'll name him.'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'As the howling young cub ran away to the scrubWhere he knew that pursuit would be risky,The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his headThat was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,And the one thing he hates more than sin isTo be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
'Aye,' said the boozer, 'I tell you it's true, sir,I once was a punter with plenty of pelf,But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the storyHow I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself.''Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her,But found she was favourite all of a rush,The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on,And several bookies were killed in the crush.'It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter;They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep.The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner,He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep.'We knew Salamander was slow as a gander,The mare could have beat him the length of the straight,And old Manumission was out of condition,And most of the others were running off weight.'No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it,The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her,Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.''I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky,You watch as you're cantering down by the stand,I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office,You're only to win if I lift up my hand.''I then tried to back her — 'What price is the Cracker?''Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear;My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played upI bet every shilling against my own mare.'I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightwayWas shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground,The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter,When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around.'They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em,They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt,But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past,I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out.'I was stunned when they started, the mare simply dartedAway to the front when the flag was let fall,For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her —She finished a furlong in front of them all.'You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent forThe moment he weighed and came out of the stand —'Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.''Lord love yer,' said he, 'why you lifted your hand.'''Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter'Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown,And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horsesTo win when you're able, andKEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN.
MacFierce'un came to WhiskeyhurstWhen summer days were hot,And bided there wi' Jock McThirst,A brawny brother Scot.Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly,Like Highland chieftains true,And when they'd drunk the beaker dryThey sang 'We are nae fou!''There is nae folk like oor ain folk,Sae gallant and sae true.'They sang the only Scottish jokeWhich is, 'We are nae fou.'Said bold McThirst, 'Let Saxons jawAboot their great concerns,But bonny Scotland beats them a',The land o' cakes and Burns,The land o' partridge, deer, and grouse,Fill up your glass, I beg,There's muckle whusky i' the house,Forbye what's in the keg.'And here a hearty laugh he laughed,'Just come wi' me, I beg.'MacFierce'un saw with pleasure daftA fifty-gallon keg.'Losh, man, that's grand,' MacFierce'un cried,'Saw ever man the like,Now, wi' the daylight, I maun rideTo meet a Southron tyke,But I'll be back ere summer's gone,So bide for me, I beg,We'll make a grand assault uponYon deevil of a keg.'. . . . .MacFierce'un rode to Whiskeyhurst,When summer days were gone,And there he met with Jock McThirstWas greetin' all alone.'McThirst what gars ye look sae blank?Have all yer wits gane daft?Has that accursed Southron bankCalled up your overdraft?Is all your grass burnt up wi' drouth?Is wool and hides gone flat?'McThirst replied, 'Gude friend, in truth,'Tis muckle waur than that.''Has sair misfortune cursed your lifeThat you should weep sae free?Is harm upon your bonny wife,The children at your knee?Is scaith upon your house and hame?'McThirst upraised his head:'My bairns hae done the deed of shame —'Twere better they were dead.'To think my bonny infant sonShould do the deed o' guilt —HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN,AND A' THE WHUSKEY'S SPILT!'. . . . .Upon them both these words did bringA solemn silence deep,Gude faith, it is a fearsome thingTo see two strong men weep.
As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary —For the plot was void of interest — 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact,There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and populationOf each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee,And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year,Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector,Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me,Quite by chance I came across it — 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read;No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it,Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northwardTill I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down,For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worryWhere the telegraph don't reach you nor the railways run to town.And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges,Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week,And the good news grows by keeping, and you're spared the pain of weepingOver bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.But I fear, and more's the pity, that there's really no such city,For there's not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know,'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour,It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.. . . . .Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle,All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free;Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess FortuneDeals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing,Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance:When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain,You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'.
This is the place where they all were bred;Some of the rafters are standing still;Now they are scattered and lost and dead,Every one from the old nest fled,Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.Better it is that they ne'er came back —Changes and chances are quickly rung;Now the old homestead is gone to rack,Green is the grass on the well-worn trackDown by the gate where the roses clung.Gone is the garden they kept with care;Left to decay at its own sweet will,Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare,Cattle and sheep where the roses were,Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.Where are the children that throve and grewIn the old homestead in days gone by?One is away on the far BarcooWatching his cattle the long year through,Watching them starve in the droughts and die.One in the town where all cares are rife,Weary with troubles that cramp and kill,Fain would be done with the restless strife,Fain would go back to the old bush life,Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.One is away on the roving quest,Seeking his share of the golden spoil,Out in the wastes of the trackless west,Wandering ever he gives the bestOf his years and strength to the hopeless toil.What of the parents? That unkept moundShows where they slumber united still;Rough is their grave, but they sleep as soundOut on the range as on holy ground,Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Born of a thoroughbred English race,Well proportioned and closely knit,Neat of figure and handsome face,Always ready and always fit,Hard and wiry of limb and thew,That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.One of the sons of the good old land —Many a year since his like was known;Never a game but he took command,Never a sport but he held his own;Gained at his college a triple blue —Good as they make them was Jim Carew.Came to grief — was it card or horse?Nobody asked and nobody cared;Ship him away to the bush of course,Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared;Only of women a tolerable fewSorrowed at parting with Jim Carew.Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp,Sitting his horse with an easy grace;But the reckless living has left its stampIn the deep drawn lines of that handsome face,And a harder look in those eyes of blue:Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.Billy the Lasher was out for gore —Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair,When he opened out with a hungry roarOn a ten-stone man it was hardly fair;But his wife was wise if his face she knewBy the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hutWorks with them, toils with them, side by side;As to his past — well, his lips are shut.'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride;And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdoIn feats of recklessness, Jim Carew.What should he live for? A dull despair!Drink is his master and drags him down,Water of Lethe that drowns all care.Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown,And he reigns as king with a drunken crew,Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well —Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel;But he straightens up when he's asked to tellHis name and race, and a flash of steelStill lightens up in those eyes of blue —'I am, or — no, IWAS— Jim Carew.'
We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods waveAt the foot of the Eaglehawk;We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave,For fear that his ghost might walk;We carved his name on a bloodwood tree,With the date of his sad decease,And in place of 'Died from effects of spree',We wrote 'May he rest in peace'.For Bob was known on the Overland,A regular old bush wag,Tramping along in the dust and sand,Humping his well-worn swag.He would camp for days in the river-bed,And loiter and 'fish for whales'.'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said,'And I never shall find the rails.'But he found the rails on that summer nightFor a better place — or worse,As we watched by turns in the flickering lightWith an old black gin for nurse.The breeze came in with the scent of pine,The river sounded clear,When a change came on, and we saw the signThat told us the end was near.But he spoke in a cultured voice and low —'I fancy they've “sent the route”;I once was an army man, you know,Though now I'm a drunken brute;But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,And if ever you're fairly stuck,Just take and shovel me out of the graveAnd, maybe, I'll bring you luck.'For I've always heard —' here his voice fell weak,His strength was well-nigh sped,He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,Then fell in a moment — dead.Thus ended a wasted life and hard,Of energies misapplied —Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard'And over the Great Divide.. . . . .The drought came down on the field and flock,And never a raindrop fell,Though the tortured moans of the starving stockMight soften a fiend from hell.And we thought of the hint that the swagman gaveWhen he went to the Great Unseen —We shovelled the skeleton out of the graveTo see what his hint might mean.We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,We shovelled away the mould,When sudden a vein of quartz lay bareAll gleaming with yellow gold.'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulkThat ran from the range's crest,And the richest mine on the EaglehawkIs known as 'The Swagman's Rest'.
[The End.]
THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES.
By A. B. Paterson.
THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: “The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling.”
SPECTATOR: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent verses.”
ATHENAEUM: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure. ... Stirring and entertaining ballads about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses.”
THE TIMES: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'.”
Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): “In my opinion, it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.”
WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: “Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland.”
THE SCOTSMAN: “A book like this... is worth a dozen of the aspiring, idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real tears in its composition.”
GLASGOW HERALD: “These ballads... are full of such go that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle.... But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome.”
LITERARY WORLD: “He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones and capital subjects... We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse with instantaneous gratitude.”