'He ought to be home,' said the old man, 'without there's something amiss.He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.HeWOULDride the Reckless filly, heWOULDhave his wilful way;And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?'He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets awayHe hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?'The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:'What has become of my Willie? — why isn't he home to-night?'Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and greyWere searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,'Willie! where are you, Willie?' But how can the dead reply;And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.The wattle blooms above him, and the blue bells blow close by,And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.'I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy,' she said.But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead,And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,Playing alone in the creek-bed dry,In the small green flat on every sideWalled in by the Moonbi ranges high;Tell us the tale of your lonely life,'Mid the great grey forests that know no change.'I never have left my home,' she said,'I have never been over the Moonbi Range.'Father and mother are both long dead,And I live with granny in yon wee place.''Where are your father and mother?' we said.She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face,Then a light came into the shy brown eye,And she smiled, for she thought the question strangeOn a thing so certain — 'When people dieThey go to the country over the range.''And what is this country like, my lass?''There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers,And shining creeks where the golden grassIs fresh and sweet from the summer showers.They never need work, nor want, nor weep;No troubles can come their hearts to estrange.Some summer night I shall fall asleep,And wake in the country over the range.'Child, you are wise in your simple trust,For the wisest man knows no more than youAshes to ashes, and dust to dust:Our views by a range are bounded too;But we know that God hath this gift in store,That when we come to the final change,We shall meet with our loved ones gone beforeTo the beautiful country over the range.
'Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tellin his training, was thrown and killed. The horse is luckily uninjured.'— Melbourne Wire.
Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light,Out on the track where the night shades still lurk;Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light,Round come the race-horses early at work.Reefing and pulling and racing so readily,Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard,'Steady the stallion there — canter him steadily,Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.'Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him,Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall,Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of himGoes to the ground with a terrible fall.'Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully,Lead him about till he's quiet and cool.Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully,Now let us pick up this poor little fool.'Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him;Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head!Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' —No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead.Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see,Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest.Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee,What did you do for him? — bad was the best.Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you;Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard,But the poor jockey-boy — shame on you, shame on you,'Feed ye, my little ones' — what said the Lord?Him ye held less than the outer barbarian,Left him to die in his ignorant sin;Have you no principles, humanitarian?Have you no precept — 'go gather them in?'. . . . .Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity,That name was an oath — out of many but one —What did he get from our famed Christianity?Where has his soul — if he had any — gone?Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it?What did he know of God's infinite grace?Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it,Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face.
Let us cease our idle chatter,Let the tears bedew our cheek,For a man from TallangattaHas been missing for a week.Where the roaring flooded MurrayCovered all the lower land,There he started in a hurry,With a bottle in his hand.And his fate is hid for ever,But the public seem to thinkThat he slumbered by the river,'Neath the influence of drink.And they scarcely seem to wonderThat the river, wide and deep,Never woke him with its thunder,Never stirred him in his sleep.As the crashing logs came sweeping,And their tumult filled the air,Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping,''Tis a wake in ould Kildare.'So the river rose and found himSleeping softly by the stream,And the cruel waters drowned himEre he wakened from his dream.And the blossom-tufted wattle,Blooming brightly on the lea,Saw M'Ginnis and the bottleGoing drifting out to sea.
A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] 'A Voice from the Bush'
I thought, in the days of the droving,Of steps I might hope to retrace,To be done with the bush and the rovingAnd settle once more in my place.With a heart that was well nigh to breaking,In the long, lonely rides on the plain,I thought of the pleasure of takingThe hand of a lady again.I am back into civilisation,Once more in the stir and the strife,But the old joys have lost their sensation —The light has gone out of my life;The men of my time they have married,Made fortunes or gone to the wall;Too long from the scene I have tarried,And, somehow, I'm out of it all.For I go to the balls and the racesA lonely companionless elf,And the ladies bestow all their gracesOn others less grey than myself;While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate,And they call me 'the Man who was SomeoneWay back in the year Sixty-eight.'And I look, sour and old, at the dancersThat swing to the strains of the band,And the ladies all give me the Lancers,No waltzes — I quite understand.For matrons intent upon matchingTheir daughters with infinite push,Would scarce think him worthy the catching,The broken-down man from the bush.New partners have come and new faces,And I, of the bygone brigade,Sharply feel that oblivion my place is —I must lie with the rest in the shade.And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant,They live as we lived — fairly fast;But I doubt if the men of the presentAre as good as the men of the past.Of excitement and praise they are chary,There is nothing much good upon earth;Their watchword isNIL ADMIRARI,They are bored from the days of their birth.Where the life that we led was a revelThey 'wince and relent and refrain' —I could show them the road — to the devil,Were I only a youngster again.I could show them the road where the stumps areThe pleasures that end in remorse,And the game where the Devil's three trumps are,The woman, the card, and the horse.Shall the blind lead the blind — shall the sowerOf wind reap the storm as of yore?Though they get to their goal somewhat slower,They march where we hurried before.For the world never learns — just as we did,They gallantly go to their fate,Unheeded all warnings, unheededThe maxims of elders sedate.As the husbandman, patiently toiling,Draws a harvest each year from the soil,So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling,And a new crop of thieves for the spoil.But a truce to this dull moralising,Let them drink while the drops are of gold,I have tasted the dregs — 'twere surprisingWere the new wine to me like the old;And I weary for lack of employmentIn idleness day after day,For the key to the door of enjoymentIs Youth — and I've thrown it away.
Roses ruddy and roses white,What are the joys that my heart discloses?Sitting alone in the fading lightMemories come to me here to-nightWith the wonderful scent of the big red roses.Memories come as the daylight fadesDown on the hearth where the firelight dozes;Flicker and flutter the lights and shades,And I see the face of a queen of maidsWhose memory comes with the scent of roses.Visions arise of a scene of mirth,And a ball-room belle that superbly poses —A queenly woman of queenly worth,And I am the happiest man on earthWith a single flower from a bunch of roses.Only her memory lives to-night —God in His wisdom her young life closes;Over her grave may the turf be light,Cover her coffin with roses white —She was always fond of the big white roses.. . . . .Such are the visions that fade away —Man proposes and God disposes;Look in the glass and I see to-dayOnly an old man, worn and grey,Bending his head to a bunch of roses.
As I lie at rest on a patch of cloverIn the Western Park when the day is done,I watch as the wild black swans fly overWith their phalanx turned to the sinking sun;And I hear the clang of their leader cryingTo a lagging mate in the rearward flying,And they fade away in the darkness dying,Where the stars are mustering one by one.Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonderFor a while to join in your westward flight,With the stars above and the dim earth under,Through the cooling air of the glorious night.As we swept along on our pinions winging,We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing,Or the distant note of a torrent singing,Or the far-off flash of a station light.From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes,Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze,Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushesMake music sweet in the jungle maze,They will hold their course to the westward ever,Till they reach the banks of the old grey river,Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiverIn the burning heat of the summer days.Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greetingTo the folk that live in that western land?Then for every sweep of your pinions beating,Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band,To the stalwart men who are stoutly fightingWith the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting,Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting,When once to the work they have put their hand.Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted,What does it matter for rain or shine,For the hopes deferred and the gain departed?Nothing could conquer that heart of thine.And thy health and strength are beyond confessingAs the only joys that are worth possessing.May the days to come be as rich in blessingAs the days we spent in the auld lang syne.I would fain go back to the old grey river,To the old bush days when our hearts were light,But, alas! those days they have fled for ever,They are like the swans that have swept from sight.And I know full well that the strangers' facesWould meet us now in our dearest places;For our day is dead and has left no tracesBut the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken —We would grieve for them with a bitter pain,If the past could live and the dead could quicken,We then might turn to that life again.But on lonely nights we would hear them calling,We should hear their steps on the pathways falling,We should loathe the life with a hate appallingIn our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.. . . . .In the silent park is a scent of clover,And the distant roar of the town is dead,And I hear once more as the swans fly overTheir far-off clamour from overhead.They are flying west, by their instinct guided,And for man likewise is his fate decided,And griefs apportioned and joys dividedBy a mighty power with a purpose dread.
He came from 'further out',That land of heat and droughtAnd dust and gravel.He got a touch of sun,And rested at the runUntil his cure was done,And he could travel.When spring had decked the plain,He flitted off againAs flit the swallows.And from that western land,When many months were spanned,A letter came to hand,Which read as follows:'Dear sir, I take my penIn hopes that all your menAnd you are hearty.You think that I've forgotYour kindness, Mr. Scott,Oh, no, dear sir, I'm notThat sort of party.'You sometimes bet, I know,Well, now you'll have a showThe 'books' to frighten.Up here at WingadeeYoung Billy Fife and meWe're training Strife, and heIs a all right 'un.'Just now we're running byes,But, sir, first time he triesI'll send you word of.And running 'on the crook'Their measures we have took,It is the deadest hookYou ever heard of.'So when we lets him go,Why, then, I'll let you know,And you can have a showTo put a mite on.Now, sir, my leave I'll take,Yours truly, William Blake.P.S. — Make no mistake,HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN.'. . . . .By next week'sRIVERINEI saw my friend had beenA bit too cunning.I read: 'The racehorse StrifeAnd jockey William FifeDisqualified for life —Suspicious running.'But though they spoilt his game,I reckon all the sameI fairly ought to claimMy friend a white 'un.For though he wasn't straight,His deeds would indicateHis heart at any rateWas 'a all right 'un'.
Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin' the other dayOf President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away.It seems that he didn't suit 'em — they thought that they'd like a change,So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range.They seemed to be restless people — and, judging by what you hear,They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year;And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundaryQUICK,For there isn't no vote by ballot — it's bullets that does the trick.And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared,And they fight till there's one side beatenand then there's a truce declared,And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lordTo hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword,And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite —This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight.For the pris'ners they took — they shot 'em;no odds were they small or great,If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight.A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were — but there ain't a doubtThey must have been real plucked 'uns — the way that they fought it out,And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch,Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat. They called her the 'Admiral Lynch'.Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done,And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run,The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown,He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town.Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road,Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showedTill they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they seeWas this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay,And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag,And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag.Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em — it just took away their breath,For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death.An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea,So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay.Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done,And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run;And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decideIf he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side.He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite,That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his raceMUSTfight!A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run,And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun:The odds were a trifle heavy — but he wasn't the sort to flinch,So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'.They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun,And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run;And it don't say whether they shot him — it don't even give his name —But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game.I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite,They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight.There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt,And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front;But the king of 'em all, I reckon — the man that could stand a pinch —Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat 'Admiral Lynch'.
I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand,I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand,And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh.So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubtThat we've got to make a shift to the stations further out,With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog,We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.This old black horse I'm riding — if you'll notice what's his brand,He wears the crooked R, you see — none better in the land.He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried,For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubtThat I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out;But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog —He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy:'We shear non-union here,' says he. 'I call it scab,' says I.I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go —There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row.It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubtIt was time to make a shift with the leprosy about.So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog,And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm,He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm;The landlord owns the country side — man, woman, dog, and cat,They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubtTheir little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out;Was I to touch my hat to him? — was I his bloomin' dog?So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to goTill I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below;Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down,And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubtWe've got to make a shift to the stations further out;The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog,And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.
There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,There's never a fence beside,And the wandering stock on the grave may treadUnnoticed and undenied,But the smallest child on the WatershedCan tell you how Gilbert died.For he rode at dusk, with his comrade DunnTo the hut at the Stockman's Ford,In the waning light of the sinking sunThey peered with a fierce accord.They were outlaws both — and on each man's headWas a thousand pounds reward.They had taken toll of the country round,And the troopers came behindWith a black that tracked like a human houndIn the scrub and the ranges blind:He could run the trail where a white man's eyeNo sign of a track could find.He had hunted them out of the One Tree HillAnd over the Old Man Plain,But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill,And they made for the range again.Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt,They rode with a loosened rein.And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold:'Come in and rest in peace,No safer place does the country hold —With the night pursuit must cease,And we'll drink success to the roving boys,And to hell with the black police.'But they went to death when they entered there,In the hut at the Stockman's Ford,For their grandsire's words were as false as fair —They were doomed to the hangman's cord.He had sold them both to the black policeFor the sake of the big reward.In the depth of night there are forms that glideAs stealthy as serpents creep,And around the hut where the outlaws hideThey plant in the shadows deep,And they wait till the first faint flush of dawnShall waken their prey from sleep.But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark —A restless sleeper, aye,He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark,And his horse's warning neigh,And he says to his mate, 'There are hawks abroad,And it's time that we went away.'Their rifles stood at the stretcher head,Their bridles lay to hand,They wakened the old man out of his bed,When they heard the sharp command:'In the name of the Queen lay down your arms,Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!'Then Gilbert reached for his rifle trueThat close at his hand he kept,He pointed it straight at the voice and drew,But never a flash outleapt,For the water ran from the rifle breech —It was drenched while the outlaws slept.Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath,And he turned to his comrade Dunn:'We are sold,' he said, 'we are dead men both,But there may be a chance for one;I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here,You take to your heels and run.'So Dunn crept out on his hands and kneesIn the dim, half-dawning light,And he made his way to a patch of trees,And vanished among the night,And the trackers hunted his tracks all day,But they never could trace his flight.But Gilbert walked from the open doorIn a confident style and rash;He heard at his side the rifles roar,And he heard the bullets crash.But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand,And he fired at the rifle flash.Then out of the shadows the troopers aimedAt his voice and the pistol sound,With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed,He staggered and spun around,And they riddled his body with rifle ballsAs it lay on the blood-soaked ground.There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,There's never a fence beside,And the wandering stock on the grave may treadUnnoticed and undenied,But the smallest child on the WatershedCan tell you how Gilbert died.
I served my time, in the days gone by,In the railway's clash and clang,And I worked my way to the end, and IWas the head of the 'Flying Gang'.'Twas a chosen band that was kept at handIn case of an urgent need,Was it south or north we were started forth,And away at our utmost speed.If word reached town that a bridge was down,The imperious summons rang —'Come out with the pilot engine sharp,And away with the flying gang.'Then a piercing scream and a rush of steamAs the engine moved ahead,With a measured beat by the slum and streetOf the busy town we fled,By the uplands bright and the homesteads white,With the rush of the western gale,And the pilot swayed with the pace we madeAs she rocked on the ringing rail.And the country children clapped their handsAs the engine's echoes rang,But their elders said: 'There is work aheadWhen they send for the flying gang.'Then across the miles of the saltbush plainThat gleamed with the morning dew,Where the grasses waved like the ripening grainThe pilot engine flew,A fiery rush in the open bushWhere the grade marks seemed to fly,And the order sped on the wires ahead,The pilotMUSTgo by.The Governor's special must stand aside,And the fast express go hang,Let your orders be that the line is freeFor the boys of the flying gang.
The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot,There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot,So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along,The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong,And make your collie dogs speak up — what would the buyers sayIn London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here,That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear.They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes,And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose;It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay,They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage,He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage —'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick,You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick.Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day,It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.'The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din,They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin;The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool,There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full;Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away,Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'.
There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark,Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow;It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark;It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below;It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine,A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom;And drifting, drifting far away along the southern lineIt caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume.It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard —The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down;And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirredA thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town;And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understandThe magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow,Nor how the roving wind could bring across the OverlandA sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest;The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide;Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast,Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside,The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see,Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand,But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be,From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland.Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear,That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam,Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hearThe message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home.The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills,Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land,And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills,And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland.
Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp,Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp;Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes,Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes:Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants,And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants:Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat,There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer,For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear;So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night,Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite.Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head,Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead;Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see,Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.''That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,'But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time.Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote,Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.. . . . .Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break,There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake,In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul,Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole.Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank,Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank;Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept,While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept.Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat;'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.''Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known,Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone.Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor,Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure.It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be,Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me —Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note,Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote.It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stareAt imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there.When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat,It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.'Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man —'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can;I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure,Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure.Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float;Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.'Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die,Go ahead — but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try.Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip;Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip;If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good.Will you fetch your dog and try it?' Johnson rather thought he would.So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat.'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.'Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents;Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events.'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round,While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.'But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spellStumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well.And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed,Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed;Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat,All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote.. . . . .Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp,Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp,Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes,Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'.And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat,Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote.
Ambition
I am the maid of the lustrous eyesOf great fruition,Whom the sons of men that are over-wiseHave called Ambition.And the world's success is the only goalI have within me;The meanest man with the smallest soulMay woo and win me.For the lust of power and the pride of placeTo all I proffer.Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded raceFor what I offer?The choice is thine, and the world is wide —Thy path is lonely.I may not lead and I may not guide —I urge thee only.I am just a whip and a spur that smitesTo fierce endeavour.In the restless days and the sleepless nightsI urge thee ever.Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry,In fright upleapingAt a rival's step as it passes byWhilst thou art sleeping.Honour and truth shall be overthrownIn fierce desire;Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stoneTo mount thee higher.When the curtain falls on the sordid strifeThat seemed so splendid,Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted lifeThat thou hast ended.Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon smallIn fitful flashes;There has been reward — but the end of allIs dust and ashes.For the night has come and it brings to naughtThy projects cherished,And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought —'He lived and perished.'
Art
I wait for thee at the outer gate,My love, mine only;Wherefore tarriest thou so lateWhile I am lonely.Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift,In thee implantedIs the love of Art and the greatest giftThat God has granted.And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongsShall seem but small things —Poet or painter, a singer of songs,Thine art is all things.For the wine of life is a woman's loveTo keep beside thee;But the love of Art is a thing above —A star to guide thee.As the years go by with thy love of ArtAll undiminished,Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart —Thy work is finished.So the painter fashions a picture strongThat fadeth never,And the singer singeth a wond'rous songThat lives for ever.
The daylight is dyingAway in the west,The wild birds are flyingIn silence to rest;In leafage and frondageWhere shadows are deep,They pass to its bondage —The kingdom of sleep.And watched in their sleepingBy stars in the height,They rest in your keeping,Oh, wonderful night.When night doth her gloriesOf starshine unfold,'Tis then that the storiesOf bush-land are told.Unnumbered I hold themIn memories bright,But who could unfold them,Or read them aright?Beyond all denialsThe stars in their gloriesThe breeze in the myallsAre part of these stories.The waving of grasses,The song of the riverThat sings as it passesFor ever and ever,The hobble-chains' rattle,The calling of birds,The lowing of cattleMust blend with the words.Without these, indeed, youWould find it ere long,As though I should read youThe words of a songThat lamely would lingerWhen lacking the rune,The voice of the singer,The lilt of the tune.But, as one half-hearingAn old-time refrain,With memory clearing,Recalls it again,These tales, roughly wrought ofThe bush and its ways,May call back a thought ofThe wandering days,And, blending with eachIn the mem'ries that throng,There haply shall reachYou some echo of song.