Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declareThat he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;His girl had earned a quid or two—he wouldn’t part with that;And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper thereHe ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’She dressed in style that suited Bill—he could not wish for more.While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear,He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair.To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin,And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in.The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take careIn case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair.He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods.They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there—But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair!‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash!I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’—In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair,And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair.And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim,She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him.That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air—The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair.The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park,And they, of course, were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark;A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declareGor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’. . . . . . . . . .Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d,And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard;Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair,And in the Sydney ‘Orspital lies Billy’s square affair.
Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declareThat he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;His girl had earned a quid or two—he wouldn’t part with that;And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper thereHe ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’She dressed in style that suited Bill—he could not wish for more.While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear,He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair.To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin,And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in.The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take careIn case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair.He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods.They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there—But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair!‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash!I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’—In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair,And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair.And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim,She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him.That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air—The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair.The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park,And they, of course, were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark;A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declareGor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’. . . . . . . . . .Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d,And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard;Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair,And in the Sydney ‘Orspital lies Billy’s square affair.
Long Bill, the captain of the push, was tired of his estate,And wished to change his life and win the love of something ‘straight’;’Twas rumour’d that the Gory B.’s had heard Long Bill declareThat he would turn respectable and wed a ‘square affair.’
He craved the kiss of innocence; his spirit longed to rise;The ‘Crimson Streak,’ his faithful ‘piece,’ grew hateful in his eyes;(And though, in her entirety, the Crimson Streak ‘was there,’I grieve to state the Crimson Streak was not a ‘square affair.’)
He wanted clothes, a masher suit, he wanted boots and hat;His girl had earned a quid or two—he wouldn’t part with that;And so he went to Brickfield Hill, and from a draper thereHe ‘shook’ the proper kind of togs to fetch a ‘square affair.’
Long Bill went to the barber’s shop and had a shave and singe,And from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe;Long Bill put on a ‘square cut’ and he brushed his boots with care,And roved about the Gardens till he mashed a ‘square affair.’
She was a tony servant-girl from somewhere on ‘the Shore;’She dressed in style that suited Bill—he could not wish for more.While in her guileless presence he had ceased to chew or swear,He knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair.
To thus desert his donah old was risky and a sin,And ’twould have served him right if she had caved his garret in.The Gory Bleeders thought it too, and warned him to take careIn case the Crimson Streak got scent of Billy’s square affair.
He took her to the stalls; ’twas dear, but Billy said ‘Wot odds!’He couldn’t take his square affair amongst the crimson gods.They wandered in the park at night, and hugged each other there—But, ah! the Crimson Streak got wind of Billy’s square affair!
‘The blank and space and stars!’ she yelled; ‘the nameless crimson dash!I’ll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair, I’ll smash’—In short, she drank and raved and shrieked and tore her crimson hair,And swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair.
And so one summer evening, as the day was growing dim,She watched her bloke go out, and foxed his square affair and him.That night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air—The ‘Streak’ had gone for Billy and for Billy’s square affair.
The ‘gory’ push had foxed the Streak, they foxed her to the park,And they, of course, were close at hand to see the bleedin’ lark;A cop arrived in time to hear a ‘gory B.’ declareGor blar-me! here’s the Red Streak foul of Billy’s square affair.’. . . . . . . . . .Now Billy scowls about the Rocks, his manly beauty marr’d,And Billy’s girl, upon her ’ed, is doin’ six months ’ard;Bill’s swivel eye is in a sling, his heart is in despair,And in the Sydney ‘Orspital lies Billy’s square affair.
’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too;He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap—‘It’s orful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as any bloke can see,It’s just because the p’leece has got a derry, sir, on me;Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain’t no joke—It’s cruel when the p’leece has got a derry on a bloke.’‘Why don’t you go to work?’ he said (he muttered, ‘Why don’t you?’).‘Yer honer knows as well as me there ain’t no work to do.And when I try to find a job I’m shaddered by a trap—It’s awful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.’I sigh’d and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred,But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months’ hard.He only said, ‘Beyond the grave you’ll cop it hot, by Jove!There ain’t no angel p’leece to get a derry on a cove.’
’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too;He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap—‘It’s orful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as any bloke can see,It’s just because the p’leece has got a derry, sir, on me;Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain’t no joke—It’s cruel when the p’leece has got a derry on a bloke.’‘Why don’t you go to work?’ he said (he muttered, ‘Why don’t you?’).‘Yer honer knows as well as me there ain’t no work to do.And when I try to find a job I’m shaddered by a trap—It’s awful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.’I sigh’d and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred,But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months’ hard.He only said, ‘Beyond the grave you’ll cop it hot, by Jove!There ain’t no angel p’leece to get a derry on a cove.’
’Twas in the felon’s dock he stood, his eyes were black and blue;His voice with grief was broken, and his nose was broken, too;He muttered, as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap—‘It’s orful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.
‘I am a honest workin’ cove, as any bloke can see,It’s just because the p’leece has got a derry, sir, on me;Oh, yes, the legal gents can grin, I say it ain’t no joke—It’s cruel when the p’leece has got a derry on a bloke.’
‘Why don’t you go to work?’ he said (he muttered, ‘Why don’t you?’).‘Yer honer knows as well as me there ain’t no work to do.And when I try to find a job I’m shaddered by a trap—It’s awful when the p’leece has got a derry on a chap.’
I sigh’d and shed a tearlet for that noble nature marred,But, ah! the Bench was rough on him, and gave him six months’ hard.He only said, ‘Beyond the grave you’ll cop it hot, by Jove!There ain’t no angel p’leece to get a derry on a cove.’
Riseye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than brutes!Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed boots!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-rise!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye?willye still be sl-a-a-ves?!!!Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-rise!Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Erwake! er-rise!Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-r-rise!
Riseye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than brutes!Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed boots!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-rise!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye?willye still be sl-a-a-ves?!!!Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-rise!Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Erwake! er-rise!Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-r-rise!
Riseye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than brutes!Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed boots!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-rise!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye?willye still be sl-a-a-ves?!!!Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-rise!
Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!Erwake! er-rise!
Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!Erwake! er-r-rise!
Yechildren of the Land of Gold,I sing a song to you,And if the jokes are somewhat old,The main idea’s new.So be it sung, by hut and tent,Where tall the native grows;And understand, the song is meantFor singing through the nose.There dwelt a hard old cockatooOn western hills far out,Where everything is green and blue,Except, of course, in drought;A crimson Anarchist was he—Held other men in scorn—Yet preached that ev’ry man was free,And also ‘ekal born.’He lived in his ancestral hut—His missus wasn’t there—And there was no one with him butHis daughter, Mabel Clare.Her eyes and hair were like the sun;Her foot was like a mat;Her cheeks a trifle overdone;She was a democrat.A manly independence, bornAmong the trees, she had,She treated womankind with scorn,And often cursed her dad.She hated swells and shining lights,For she had seen a few,And she believed in ‘women’s rights’(She mostly got ’em, too).A stranger at the neighb’ring runSojourned, the squatter’s guest,He was unknown to anyone,But like a swell was dress’d;He had an eyeglass to his eye,A collar to his ears,His feet were made to tread the sky,His mouth was formed for sneers.He wore the latest toggery,The loudest thing in ties—’Twas generally reckoned heWas something in disguise.But who he was, or whence he came,Was long unknown, exceptUnto the squatter, who the nameAnd noble secret kept.And strolling in the noontide heat,Beneath the blinding glare,This noble stranger chanced to meetThe radiant Mabel Clare.She saw at once he was a swell—According to her lights—But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell,She met him oft of nights.And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,She chatted all the whileOf Ingersoll, and Henry George,And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:In short, he learned to love the girl,And things went on like this,Until he said he was an Earl,And asked her to be his.‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,Oh, say no more!’ she said;‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,I wish that I was dead;My head is in a hawful whirl,The truth I dare not tell—I am a democratic girl,And cannot wed a swell!’‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forgetThat you are most unjust;’Twas not my fault that I was setWithin the upper crust.Heed not the yarns the poets tell—Oh, darling, do not doubtA simple lord can love as wellAs any rouseabout!‘For you I’ll give my fortune up—I’d go to work for you!I’ll put the money in the cupAnd drop the title, too.Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with meAcross the mountains blue!Hoh, fly with me!Hoh, fly with me!——’That very night she flew.They took the train and journeyed down—Across the range they sped—Until they came to Sydney town,Where shortly they were wed.And still upon the western wildAdmiring teamsters tellHow Mabel’s father cursed his childFor clearing with a swell.‘What ails my bird this bridal night,’Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee;‘What ails my own this bridal night—O love, confide in me!’‘Oh now,’ she said, ‘that I am yawsYou’ll let me weep—I must—I did desert the people’s causeTo join the upper crust.’O proudly smiled his lordship then—His chimney-pot he floor’d—‘Look up, my love, and smile again,For I am not a lord!’His eye-glass from his eye he tore,The dickey from his breast,And turned and stood his bride beforeA rouseabout—confess’d!‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said,‘And I have loved you true—A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shedI learned to worship you.I do not care for place or pelf,For now, my love, I’m sureThat you will love me for myselfAnd not because I’m poor.‘To prove your love I spent my chequeTo buy this swell rig-out;So fling your arms about my neckFor I’m a rouseabout!’At first she gave a startled cry,Then, safe from care’s alarms,She sigh’d a soul-subduing sighAnd sank into his arms.He pawned the togs, and home he tookHis bride in all her charms;The proud old cockatoo receivedThe pair with open arms.And long they lived, the faithful bride,The noble rouseabout—And if she wasn’t satisfiedShe never let it out.
Yechildren of the Land of Gold,I sing a song to you,And if the jokes are somewhat old,The main idea’s new.So be it sung, by hut and tent,Where tall the native grows;And understand, the song is meantFor singing through the nose.There dwelt a hard old cockatooOn western hills far out,Where everything is green and blue,Except, of course, in drought;A crimson Anarchist was he—Held other men in scorn—Yet preached that ev’ry man was free,And also ‘ekal born.’He lived in his ancestral hut—His missus wasn’t there—And there was no one with him butHis daughter, Mabel Clare.Her eyes and hair were like the sun;Her foot was like a mat;Her cheeks a trifle overdone;She was a democrat.A manly independence, bornAmong the trees, she had,She treated womankind with scorn,And often cursed her dad.She hated swells and shining lights,For she had seen a few,And she believed in ‘women’s rights’(She mostly got ’em, too).A stranger at the neighb’ring runSojourned, the squatter’s guest,He was unknown to anyone,But like a swell was dress’d;He had an eyeglass to his eye,A collar to his ears,His feet were made to tread the sky,His mouth was formed for sneers.He wore the latest toggery,The loudest thing in ties—’Twas generally reckoned heWas something in disguise.But who he was, or whence he came,Was long unknown, exceptUnto the squatter, who the nameAnd noble secret kept.And strolling in the noontide heat,Beneath the blinding glare,This noble stranger chanced to meetThe radiant Mabel Clare.She saw at once he was a swell—According to her lights—But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell,She met him oft of nights.And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,She chatted all the whileOf Ingersoll, and Henry George,And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:In short, he learned to love the girl,And things went on like this,Until he said he was an Earl,And asked her to be his.‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,Oh, say no more!’ she said;‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,I wish that I was dead;My head is in a hawful whirl,The truth I dare not tell—I am a democratic girl,And cannot wed a swell!’‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forgetThat you are most unjust;’Twas not my fault that I was setWithin the upper crust.Heed not the yarns the poets tell—Oh, darling, do not doubtA simple lord can love as wellAs any rouseabout!‘For you I’ll give my fortune up—I’d go to work for you!I’ll put the money in the cupAnd drop the title, too.Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with meAcross the mountains blue!Hoh, fly with me!Hoh, fly with me!——’That very night she flew.They took the train and journeyed down—Across the range they sped—Until they came to Sydney town,Where shortly they were wed.And still upon the western wildAdmiring teamsters tellHow Mabel’s father cursed his childFor clearing with a swell.‘What ails my bird this bridal night,’Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee;‘What ails my own this bridal night—O love, confide in me!’‘Oh now,’ she said, ‘that I am yawsYou’ll let me weep—I must—I did desert the people’s causeTo join the upper crust.’O proudly smiled his lordship then—His chimney-pot he floor’d—‘Look up, my love, and smile again,For I am not a lord!’His eye-glass from his eye he tore,The dickey from his breast,And turned and stood his bride beforeA rouseabout—confess’d!‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said,‘And I have loved you true—A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shedI learned to worship you.I do not care for place or pelf,For now, my love, I’m sureThat you will love me for myselfAnd not because I’m poor.‘To prove your love I spent my chequeTo buy this swell rig-out;So fling your arms about my neckFor I’m a rouseabout!’At first she gave a startled cry,Then, safe from care’s alarms,She sigh’d a soul-subduing sighAnd sank into his arms.He pawned the togs, and home he tookHis bride in all her charms;The proud old cockatoo receivedThe pair with open arms.And long they lived, the faithful bride,The noble rouseabout—And if she wasn’t satisfiedShe never let it out.
Yechildren of the Land of Gold,I sing a song to you,And if the jokes are somewhat old,The main idea’s new.So be it sung, by hut and tent,Where tall the native grows;And understand, the song is meantFor singing through the nose.
There dwelt a hard old cockatooOn western hills far out,Where everything is green and blue,Except, of course, in drought;A crimson Anarchist was he—Held other men in scorn—Yet preached that ev’ry man was free,And also ‘ekal born.’
He lived in his ancestral hut—His missus wasn’t there—And there was no one with him butHis daughter, Mabel Clare.Her eyes and hair were like the sun;Her foot was like a mat;Her cheeks a trifle overdone;She was a democrat.
A manly independence, bornAmong the trees, she had,She treated womankind with scorn,And often cursed her dad.She hated swells and shining lights,For she had seen a few,And she believed in ‘women’s rights’(She mostly got ’em, too).
A stranger at the neighb’ring runSojourned, the squatter’s guest,He was unknown to anyone,But like a swell was dress’d;He had an eyeglass to his eye,A collar to his ears,His feet were made to tread the sky,His mouth was formed for sneers.
He wore the latest toggery,The loudest thing in ties—’Twas generally reckoned heWas something in disguise.But who he was, or whence he came,Was long unknown, exceptUnto the squatter, who the nameAnd noble secret kept.
And strolling in the noontide heat,Beneath the blinding glare,This noble stranger chanced to meetThe radiant Mabel Clare.She saw at once he was a swell—According to her lights—But, ah! ’tis very sad to tell,She met him oft of nights.
And, strolling through a moonlit gorge,She chatted all the whileOf Ingersoll, and Henry George,And Bradlaugh and Carlyle:In short, he learned to love the girl,And things went on like this,Until he said he was an Earl,And asked her to be his.
‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,Oh, say no more!’ she said;‘Oh, say no more, Lord Kawlinee,I wish that I was dead;My head is in a hawful whirl,The truth I dare not tell—I am a democratic girl,And cannot wed a swell!’
‘Oh love!’ he cried, ‘but you forgetThat you are most unjust;’Twas not my fault that I was setWithin the upper crust.Heed not the yarns the poets tell—Oh, darling, do not doubtA simple lord can love as wellAs any rouseabout!
‘For you I’ll give my fortune up—I’d go to work for you!I’ll put the money in the cupAnd drop the title, too.Oh, fly with me! Oh, fly with meAcross the mountains blue!Hoh, fly with me!Hoh, fly with me!——’That very night she flew.
They took the train and journeyed down—Across the range they sped—Until they came to Sydney town,Where shortly they were wed.And still upon the western wildAdmiring teamsters tellHow Mabel’s father cursed his childFor clearing with a swell.
‘What ails my bird this bridal night,’Exclaimed Lord Kawlinee;‘What ails my own this bridal night—O love, confide in me!’‘Oh now,’ she said, ‘that I am yawsYou’ll let me weep—I must—I did desert the people’s causeTo join the upper crust.’
O proudly smiled his lordship then—His chimney-pot he floor’d—‘Look up, my love, and smile again,For I am not a lord!’His eye-glass from his eye he tore,The dickey from his breast,And turned and stood his bride beforeA rouseabout—confess’d!
‘Unknown I’ve loved you long,’ he said,‘And I have loved you true—A-shearing in your guv’ner’s shedI learned to worship you.I do not care for place or pelf,For now, my love, I’m sureThat you will love me for myselfAnd not because I’m poor.
‘To prove your love I spent my chequeTo buy this swell rig-out;So fling your arms about my neckFor I’m a rouseabout!’At first she gave a startled cry,Then, safe from care’s alarms,She sigh’d a soul-subduing sighAnd sank into his arms.
He pawned the togs, and home he tookHis bride in all her charms;The proud old cockatoo receivedThe pair with open arms.And long they lived, the faithful bride,The noble rouseabout—And if she wasn’t satisfiedShe never let it out.
Mostunpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower ordersStood a ‘terrace’ in the city when the current year began,And a notice indicated there were vacancies for boardersIn the middle house, and lodgings for a single gentleman.Now, a singular observer could have seen but few attractionsWhether in the house, or ‘missus, or the notice, or the street,But at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actionsPuzzled Constable M‘Carty, the policeman on the beat.He (the single gent) was wasted almost to emaciation,And his features were the palest that M‘Carty ever saw,And these indications, pointing to a past of dissipation,Greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law.He (the lodger—hang the pronoun!) seemed to like the stormy weather,When the elements in battle kept it up a little late;Yet he’d wander in the moonlight when the stars were close together,Taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state.He would walk the streets at midnight, when the storm-king raised his banner,Walk without his old umbrella,—wave his arms above his head:Or he’d fold them tight, and mutter, in a wild, disjointed manner,While the town was wrapped in slumber and he should have been in bed.Said the constable-on-duty: ‘Shure, Oi wonther phwat his trade is?’And the constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall,But he never picked a pocket, and he ne’er accosted ladies,And the constable was puzzled what to make of him at all.Now, M‘Carty had arrested more than one notorious dodger,He had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads,But he couldn’t fix the station or the business of the lodger,Who at times would chum with cadgers, and at other times with cads.And the constable would often stand and wonder how the gorySheol the stranger got his living, for he loafed the time awayAnd he often sought a hillock when the sun went down in glory,Just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day.Mac. had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking,And could ‘stow away a long ’un,’ never winking, so he could;And M‘Carty once, at midnight, came upon the lodger pokingRound about suspicious alleys where the common houses stood.Yet the constable had seen him in a class above suspicion—Seen him welcomed with effusion by a dozen ‘toney gents’—Seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politicianThro’ the gateway of the member’s toney private residence.And the constable, off duty, had observed the lodger slippingDown a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide,Where he’d stand for hours gazing at the distant anchor’d shipping,But he never took his coat off, so it wasn’t suicide.For the constable had noticed that a man who’s filled with loathingFor his selfish fellow-creatures and the evil things that be,Will, for some mysterious reason, shed a portion of his clothing,Ere he takes his first and final plunge into eternity.And M‘Carty, once at midnight—be it said to his abasement—Left his beat and climbed a railing of considerable height,Just to watch the lodger’s shadow on the curtain of his casementWhile the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night.Now, at first the shadow hinted that the substance sat inditing;Now it indicated toothache, or the headache; and again,’Twould exaggerate the gestures of a dipsomaniac fightingThose original conceptions of a whisky-sodden brain.Then the constable, retreating, scratched his head and muttered ‘SorraWan of me can undershtand it. But Oi’ll keep me Oi on him,Divil take him and his tantrums; he’s a lunatic, begorra!Or, if he was up to mischief, he’d be sure to douse the glim.’But M‘Carty wasn’t easy, for he had a vague suspicionThat a ‘skame’ was being plotted; and he thought the matter downTill his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition,And the man, in league with others, sought to overthrow the Crown.But, in spite of observation, Mac. received no informationAnd was forced to stay inactive, being puzzled for a charge.That the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation,Tho’ the house would scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large.His appearance failed to warrant apprehension as a vagrant,Tho’ ’twas getting very shabby, as the constable could see;But M‘Carty in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrantBreach of peace, or the intention to commit a felony.(For digression there is leisure, and it is the writer’s pleasureJust to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal fact,Being forced to say in sorrow, and a line of doubtful measure,That there’s nothing so elastic as the cruel Vagrant Act)Now, M‘Carty knew his duty, and was brave as any lion,But he dreaded being ‘landed’ in an influential bog—As the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye onWas a person of importance who was travellingincog.Want of sleep and over-worry seemed to tell upon M‘Carty:He was thirsty more than ever, but his appetite resigned;He was previously reckoned as a jolly chap and hearty,But the mystery was lying like a mountain on his mind.Tho’ he tried his best, he couldn’t get a hold upon the lodger,For the latter’s antecedents weren’t known to the police—They considered that the ‘devil’ was a dark and artful dodgerWho was scheming under cover for the downfall of the peace.’Twas a simple explanation, though M‘Carty didn’t know it,Which with half his penetration he might easily have seen,For the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet,Who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been.And the constable grew thinner, till one morning, ‘little dhramin’Av the sword of revelation that was leapin’ from its sheath,’He alighted on some verses in the columns of theFrayman,‘Wid the christian name an’ surname av the lodger onderneath!’Now, M‘Carty and the poet are as brother is to brother,Or, at least, as brothers should be; and they very often meetOn the lonely block at midnight, and they wink at one another—Disappearing down the by-way of a shanty in the street.And the poet’s name you’re asking?—well, the ground is very tender,You must wait until the public put the gilt upon the name,Till a glorious, sorrow-drowning, and, perhaps, a final ‘bender,’Heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder-halls of Fame.
Mostunpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower ordersStood a ‘terrace’ in the city when the current year began,And a notice indicated there were vacancies for boardersIn the middle house, and lodgings for a single gentleman.Now, a singular observer could have seen but few attractionsWhether in the house, or ‘missus, or the notice, or the street,But at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actionsPuzzled Constable M‘Carty, the policeman on the beat.He (the single gent) was wasted almost to emaciation,And his features were the palest that M‘Carty ever saw,And these indications, pointing to a past of dissipation,Greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law.He (the lodger—hang the pronoun!) seemed to like the stormy weather,When the elements in battle kept it up a little late;Yet he’d wander in the moonlight when the stars were close together,Taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state.He would walk the streets at midnight, when the storm-king raised his banner,Walk without his old umbrella,—wave his arms above his head:Or he’d fold them tight, and mutter, in a wild, disjointed manner,While the town was wrapped in slumber and he should have been in bed.Said the constable-on-duty: ‘Shure, Oi wonther phwat his trade is?’And the constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall,But he never picked a pocket, and he ne’er accosted ladies,And the constable was puzzled what to make of him at all.Now, M‘Carty had arrested more than one notorious dodger,He had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads,But he couldn’t fix the station or the business of the lodger,Who at times would chum with cadgers, and at other times with cads.And the constable would often stand and wonder how the gorySheol the stranger got his living, for he loafed the time awayAnd he often sought a hillock when the sun went down in glory,Just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day.Mac. had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking,And could ‘stow away a long ’un,’ never winking, so he could;And M‘Carty once, at midnight, came upon the lodger pokingRound about suspicious alleys where the common houses stood.Yet the constable had seen him in a class above suspicion—Seen him welcomed with effusion by a dozen ‘toney gents’—Seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politicianThro’ the gateway of the member’s toney private residence.And the constable, off duty, had observed the lodger slippingDown a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide,Where he’d stand for hours gazing at the distant anchor’d shipping,But he never took his coat off, so it wasn’t suicide.For the constable had noticed that a man who’s filled with loathingFor his selfish fellow-creatures and the evil things that be,Will, for some mysterious reason, shed a portion of his clothing,Ere he takes his first and final plunge into eternity.And M‘Carty, once at midnight—be it said to his abasement—Left his beat and climbed a railing of considerable height,Just to watch the lodger’s shadow on the curtain of his casementWhile the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night.Now, at first the shadow hinted that the substance sat inditing;Now it indicated toothache, or the headache; and again,’Twould exaggerate the gestures of a dipsomaniac fightingThose original conceptions of a whisky-sodden brain.Then the constable, retreating, scratched his head and muttered ‘SorraWan of me can undershtand it. But Oi’ll keep me Oi on him,Divil take him and his tantrums; he’s a lunatic, begorra!Or, if he was up to mischief, he’d be sure to douse the glim.’But M‘Carty wasn’t easy, for he had a vague suspicionThat a ‘skame’ was being plotted; and he thought the matter downTill his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition,And the man, in league with others, sought to overthrow the Crown.But, in spite of observation, Mac. received no informationAnd was forced to stay inactive, being puzzled for a charge.That the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation,Tho’ the house would scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large.His appearance failed to warrant apprehension as a vagrant,Tho’ ’twas getting very shabby, as the constable could see;But M‘Carty in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrantBreach of peace, or the intention to commit a felony.(For digression there is leisure, and it is the writer’s pleasureJust to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal fact,Being forced to say in sorrow, and a line of doubtful measure,That there’s nothing so elastic as the cruel Vagrant Act)Now, M‘Carty knew his duty, and was brave as any lion,But he dreaded being ‘landed’ in an influential bog—As the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye onWas a person of importance who was travellingincog.Want of sleep and over-worry seemed to tell upon M‘Carty:He was thirsty more than ever, but his appetite resigned;He was previously reckoned as a jolly chap and hearty,But the mystery was lying like a mountain on his mind.Tho’ he tried his best, he couldn’t get a hold upon the lodger,For the latter’s antecedents weren’t known to the police—They considered that the ‘devil’ was a dark and artful dodgerWho was scheming under cover for the downfall of the peace.’Twas a simple explanation, though M‘Carty didn’t know it,Which with half his penetration he might easily have seen,For the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet,Who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been.And the constable grew thinner, till one morning, ‘little dhramin’Av the sword of revelation that was leapin’ from its sheath,’He alighted on some verses in the columns of theFrayman,‘Wid the christian name an’ surname av the lodger onderneath!’Now, M‘Carty and the poet are as brother is to brother,Or, at least, as brothers should be; and they very often meetOn the lonely block at midnight, and they wink at one another—Disappearing down the by-way of a shanty in the street.And the poet’s name you’re asking?—well, the ground is very tender,You must wait until the public put the gilt upon the name,Till a glorious, sorrow-drowning, and, perhaps, a final ‘bender,’Heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder-halls of Fame.
Mostunpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower ordersStood a ‘terrace’ in the city when the current year began,And a notice indicated there were vacancies for boardersIn the middle house, and lodgings for a single gentleman.Now, a singular observer could have seen but few attractionsWhether in the house, or ‘missus, or the notice, or the street,But at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actionsPuzzled Constable M‘Carty, the policeman on the beat.
He (the single gent) was wasted almost to emaciation,And his features were the palest that M‘Carty ever saw,And these indications, pointing to a past of dissipation,Greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law.He (the lodger—hang the pronoun!) seemed to like the stormy weather,When the elements in battle kept it up a little late;Yet he’d wander in the moonlight when the stars were close together,Taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state.
He would walk the streets at midnight, when the storm-king raised his banner,Walk without his old umbrella,—wave his arms above his head:Or he’d fold them tight, and mutter, in a wild, disjointed manner,While the town was wrapped in slumber and he should have been in bed.Said the constable-on-duty: ‘Shure, Oi wonther phwat his trade is?’And the constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall,But he never picked a pocket, and he ne’er accosted ladies,And the constable was puzzled what to make of him at all.
Now, M‘Carty had arrested more than one notorious dodger,He had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads,But he couldn’t fix the station or the business of the lodger,Who at times would chum with cadgers, and at other times with cads.And the constable would often stand and wonder how the gorySheol the stranger got his living, for he loafed the time awayAnd he often sought a hillock when the sun went down in glory,Just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day.
Mac. had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking,And could ‘stow away a long ’un,’ never winking, so he could;And M‘Carty once, at midnight, came upon the lodger pokingRound about suspicious alleys where the common houses stood.Yet the constable had seen him in a class above suspicion—Seen him welcomed with effusion by a dozen ‘toney gents’—Seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politicianThro’ the gateway of the member’s toney private residence.
And the constable, off duty, had observed the lodger slippingDown a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide,Where he’d stand for hours gazing at the distant anchor’d shipping,But he never took his coat off, so it wasn’t suicide.For the constable had noticed that a man who’s filled with loathingFor his selfish fellow-creatures and the evil things that be,Will, for some mysterious reason, shed a portion of his clothing,Ere he takes his first and final plunge into eternity.
And M‘Carty, once at midnight—be it said to his abasement—Left his beat and climbed a railing of considerable height,Just to watch the lodger’s shadow on the curtain of his casementWhile the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night.Now, at first the shadow hinted that the substance sat inditing;Now it indicated toothache, or the headache; and again,’Twould exaggerate the gestures of a dipsomaniac fightingThose original conceptions of a whisky-sodden brain.
Then the constable, retreating, scratched his head and muttered ‘SorraWan of me can undershtand it. But Oi’ll keep me Oi on him,Divil take him and his tantrums; he’s a lunatic, begorra!Or, if he was up to mischief, he’d be sure to douse the glim.’But M‘Carty wasn’t easy, for he had a vague suspicionThat a ‘skame’ was being plotted; and he thought the matter downTill his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition,And the man, in league with others, sought to overthrow the Crown.
But, in spite of observation, Mac. received no informationAnd was forced to stay inactive, being puzzled for a charge.That the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation,Tho’ the house would scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large.His appearance failed to warrant apprehension as a vagrant,Tho’ ’twas getting very shabby, as the constable could see;But M‘Carty in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrantBreach of peace, or the intention to commit a felony.
(For digression there is leisure, and it is the writer’s pleasureJust to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal fact,Being forced to say in sorrow, and a line of doubtful measure,That there’s nothing so elastic as the cruel Vagrant Act)Now, M‘Carty knew his duty, and was brave as any lion,But he dreaded being ‘landed’ in an influential bog—As the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye onWas a person of importance who was travellingincog.
Want of sleep and over-worry seemed to tell upon M‘Carty:He was thirsty more than ever, but his appetite resigned;He was previously reckoned as a jolly chap and hearty,But the mystery was lying like a mountain on his mind.Tho’ he tried his best, he couldn’t get a hold upon the lodger,For the latter’s antecedents weren’t known to the police—They considered that the ‘devil’ was a dark and artful dodgerWho was scheming under cover for the downfall of the peace.
’Twas a simple explanation, though M‘Carty didn’t know it,Which with half his penetration he might easily have seen,For the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet,Who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been.And the constable grew thinner, till one morning, ‘little dhramin’Av the sword of revelation that was leapin’ from its sheath,’He alighted on some verses in the columns of theFrayman,‘Wid the christian name an’ surname av the lodger onderneath!’
Now, M‘Carty and the poet are as brother is to brother,Or, at least, as brothers should be; and they very often meetOn the lonely block at midnight, and they wink at one another—Disappearing down the by-way of a shanty in the street.And the poet’s name you’re asking?—well, the ground is very tender,You must wait until the public put the gilt upon the name,Till a glorious, sorrow-drowning, and, perhaps, a final ‘bender,’Heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder-halls of Fame.
’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side;Old dad was in his glory there—it gave the old man joyTo fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy.A friend came up and said to me, ‘Put out your muscles, John,And pull them to eternity—your guvnor’s looking on.’I paused before I grasped the rope, and glanced around the place,And, foremost in the waiting crowd, I saw the old man’s face.My mates were strong and plucky chaps, but very soon I knewThat our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through;The boys were losing surely and defeat was very near,When, high above the mighty roar, I heard the old man cheer!I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheer’d for me,I felt as though I’d burst my heart, or gain the victory!I shouted, ‘Now! Together!’ and a steady strain replied,And, with a mighty heave, I helped to beat the other side!Oh! how the old man shouted in his wild, excited joy!I thought he’d burst his boiler then, a-cheering for his boy;The chaps, oh! how they cheered me, while the girls all smiled so kind,They praised me, little dreaming, how the old man pulled behind.. . . . . . . . . .He barracks for his boy no more—his grave is old and green,And sons have grown up round me since he vanished from the scene;But, when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory,In fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me.
’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side;Old dad was in his glory there—it gave the old man joyTo fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy.A friend came up and said to me, ‘Put out your muscles, John,And pull them to eternity—your guvnor’s looking on.’I paused before I grasped the rope, and glanced around the place,And, foremost in the waiting crowd, I saw the old man’s face.My mates were strong and plucky chaps, but very soon I knewThat our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through;The boys were losing surely and defeat was very near,When, high above the mighty roar, I heard the old man cheer!I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheer’d for me,I felt as though I’d burst my heart, or gain the victory!I shouted, ‘Now! Together!’ and a steady strain replied,And, with a mighty heave, I helped to beat the other side!Oh! how the old man shouted in his wild, excited joy!I thought he’d burst his boiler then, a-cheering for his boy;The chaps, oh! how they cheered me, while the girls all smiled so kind,They praised me, little dreaming, how the old man pulled behind.. . . . . . . . . .He barracks for his boy no more—his grave is old and green,And sons have grown up round me since he vanished from the scene;But, when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory,In fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me.
’Twas in a tug-of-war where I—the guvnor’s hope and pride—Stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side;Old dad was in his glory there—it gave the old man joyTo fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy.
A friend came up and said to me, ‘Put out your muscles, John,And pull them to eternity—your guvnor’s looking on.’I paused before I grasped the rope, and glanced around the place,And, foremost in the waiting crowd, I saw the old man’s face.
My mates were strong and plucky chaps, but very soon I knewThat our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through;The boys were losing surely and defeat was very near,When, high above the mighty roar, I heard the old man cheer!
I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheer’d for me,I felt as though I’d burst my heart, or gain the victory!I shouted, ‘Now! Together!’ and a steady strain replied,And, with a mighty heave, I helped to beat the other side!
Oh! how the old man shouted in his wild, excited joy!I thought he’d burst his boiler then, a-cheering for his boy;The chaps, oh! how they cheered me, while the girls all smiled so kind,They praised me, little dreaming, how the old man pulled behind.. . . . . . . . . .He barracks for his boy no more—his grave is old and green,And sons have grown up round me since he vanished from the scene;But, when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory,In fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me.
OldTime is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle scared.I’m just a trifle scared—For why? The wimin mean to rule;It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.The days of men is nearly dead—of double moons and stars—They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars.No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,An’ chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.We’ll laugh an’ joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes.Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-senseOr legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?Did we prohibit bustles—or the hoops when they was here?The wimin never think of this—they want to stop our beer.The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut;When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week.For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’—in years gone past ’n’ far—Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints—I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant—’n’ buck,I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung,But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck,They’ll find a private entrance still!Here’s Luck, old man—Here’s Luck!
OldTime is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle scared.I’m just a trifle scared—For why? The wimin mean to rule;It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.The days of men is nearly dead—of double moons and stars—They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars.No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,An’ chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.We’ll laugh an’ joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes.Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-senseOr legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?Did we prohibit bustles—or the hoops when they was here?The wimin never think of this—they want to stop our beer.The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut;When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week.For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’—in years gone past ’n’ far—Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints—I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant—’n’ buck,I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung,But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck,They’ll find a private entrance still!Here’s Luck, old man—Here’s Luck!
OldTime is tramping close to-day—you hear his bluchers fall,A mighty change is on the way, an’ God protect us all;Some dust’ll fly from beery coats—at least it’s been declared.I’m glad that wimin has the votes—but just a trifle scared.
I’m just a trifle scared—For why? The wimin mean to rule;It makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school.The days of men is nearly dead—of double moons and stars—They’ll soon put out our pipes, ’tis said, an’ close the public bars.
No more we’ll take a glass of ale when pushed with care an’ strife,An’ chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife.We’ll laugh an’ joke an’ sing no more with jolly beery chums,An’ shout ‘Here’s luck!’ while waitin’ for the luck that never comes.
Did we prohibit swillin’ tea clean out of common-senseOr legislate on gossipin’ across a backyard fence?Did we prohibit bustles—or the hoops when they was here?The wimin never think of this—they want to stop our beer.
The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut,But, oh! we’ll find it long an’ rough when all the pubs is shut;When all the pubs is shut, an’ gone the doors we used to seek,An’ we go toilin’, thirstin’ on through Sundays all the week.
For since the days when pubs was ‘inns’—in years gone past ’n’ far—Poor sinful souls have drowned their sins an’ sorrers at the bar;An’ though at times it led to crimes, an’ debt, and such complaints—I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints.
’Twould make the bones of Bacchus leap an’ break his coffin lid;And Burns’s ghost would wail an’ weep as Bobby never did.But let the preachers preach in style, an’ rave and rant—’n’ buck,I rather guess they’ll hear awhile the old war-cry: ‘Here’s Luck!’
The world might wobble round the sun, an’ all the banks go bung,But pipes’ll smoke an’ liquor run while Auld Lang Syne is sung.While men are driven through the mill, an’ flinty times is struck,They’ll find a private entrance still!Here’s Luck, old man—Here’s Luck!
There’sa class of men (and women) who are always on their guard—Cunning, treacherous, suspicious—feeling softly—grasping hard—Brainy, yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track—Cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit’s back.If you save a bit of money, and you start a little store—Say, an oyster-shop, for instance, where there wasn’t one before—When the shop begins to pay you, and the rent is off your mind,You will see another started by a chap that comes behind.So it is, and so it might have been, my friend, with me and you—When a friend of both and neither interferes between the two;They will fight like fiends, forgetting in their passion mad and blind,That the row is mostly started by the folk who come behind.They will stick to you like sin will, while your money comes and goes,But they’ll leave you when you haven’t got a shilling in your clothes.You may get some help above you, but you’ll nearly always findThat you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind.There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme,Always looking for another’s ‘footsteps on the sands of time.’Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail,They will rhyme and prose about it till your very own is stale,As they raved about the region that the wattle-boughs perfumeTill the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle-bloom.They will follow in your footsteps while you’re groping for the light;But they’ll run to get before you when they see you’re going right;And they’ll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat,Like a stupid pup that hasn’t learned to trail behind your feet.Take your loads of sin and sorrow on more energetic backs!Go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks!And—we fancy that the subject could be further treated here,But we’ll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear.
There’sa class of men (and women) who are always on their guard—Cunning, treacherous, suspicious—feeling softly—grasping hard—Brainy, yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track—Cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit’s back.If you save a bit of money, and you start a little store—Say, an oyster-shop, for instance, where there wasn’t one before—When the shop begins to pay you, and the rent is off your mind,You will see another started by a chap that comes behind.So it is, and so it might have been, my friend, with me and you—When a friend of both and neither interferes between the two;They will fight like fiends, forgetting in their passion mad and blind,That the row is mostly started by the folk who come behind.They will stick to you like sin will, while your money comes and goes,But they’ll leave you when you haven’t got a shilling in your clothes.You may get some help above you, but you’ll nearly always findThat you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind.There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme,Always looking for another’s ‘footsteps on the sands of time.’Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail,They will rhyme and prose about it till your very own is stale,As they raved about the region that the wattle-boughs perfumeTill the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle-bloom.They will follow in your footsteps while you’re groping for the light;But they’ll run to get before you when they see you’re going right;And they’ll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat,Like a stupid pup that hasn’t learned to trail behind your feet.Take your loads of sin and sorrow on more energetic backs!Go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks!And—we fancy that the subject could be further treated here,But we’ll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear.
There’sa class of men (and women) who are always on their guard—Cunning, treacherous, suspicious—feeling softly—grasping hard—Brainy, yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track—Cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit’s back.
If you save a bit of money, and you start a little store—Say, an oyster-shop, for instance, where there wasn’t one before—When the shop begins to pay you, and the rent is off your mind,You will see another started by a chap that comes behind.
So it is, and so it might have been, my friend, with me and you—When a friend of both and neither interferes between the two;They will fight like fiends, forgetting in their passion mad and blind,That the row is mostly started by the folk who come behind.
They will stick to you like sin will, while your money comes and goes,But they’ll leave you when you haven’t got a shilling in your clothes.You may get some help above you, but you’ll nearly always findThat you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind.
There are many, far too many, in the world of prose and rhyme,Always looking for another’s ‘footsteps on the sands of time.’Journalistic imitators are the meanest of mankind;And the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind.
If you strike a novel subject, write it up, and do not fail,They will rhyme and prose about it till your very own is stale,As they raved about the region that the wattle-boughs perfumeTill the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle-bloom.
They will follow in your footsteps while you’re groping for the light;But they’ll run to get before you when they see you’re going right;And they’ll trip you up and baulk you in their blind and greedy heat,Like a stupid pup that hasn’t learned to trail behind your feet.
Take your loads of sin and sorrow on more energetic backs!Go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks!And—we fancy that the subject could be further treated here,But we’ll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear.
Thebreezes waved the silver grass,Waist-high along the siding,And to the creek we ne’er could passThree boys on bare-back riding;Beneath the sheoaks in the bendThe waterhole was brimming—Do you remember yet, old friend,The times we ‘went in swimming?’The days we ‘played the wag’ from school—Joys shared—and paid for singly—The air was hot, the water cool—And naked boys are kingly!With mud for soap the sun to dry—A well planned lie to stay us,And dust well rubbed on neck and faceLest cleanliness betray us.And you’ll remember farmer Kutz—Though scarcely for his bounty—He leased a forty-acre block,And thought he owned the county;A farmer of the old world school,That men grew hard and grim in,He drew his water from the poolThat we preferred to swim in.And do you mind when down the creekHis angry way he wended,A green-hide cartwhip in his handFor our young backs intended?Three naked boys upon the sand—Half buried and half sunning—Three startled boys without their clothesAcross the paddocks running.We’ve had some scares, but we looked blankWhen, resting there and chumming,One glanced by chance along the bankAnd saw the farmer coming!And home impressions linger yetOf cups of sorrow brimming;I hardly think that we’ll forgetThe last day we went swimming.
Thebreezes waved the silver grass,Waist-high along the siding,And to the creek we ne’er could passThree boys on bare-back riding;Beneath the sheoaks in the bendThe waterhole was brimming—Do you remember yet, old friend,The times we ‘went in swimming?’The days we ‘played the wag’ from school—Joys shared—and paid for singly—The air was hot, the water cool—And naked boys are kingly!With mud for soap the sun to dry—A well planned lie to stay us,And dust well rubbed on neck and faceLest cleanliness betray us.And you’ll remember farmer Kutz—Though scarcely for his bounty—He leased a forty-acre block,And thought he owned the county;A farmer of the old world school,That men grew hard and grim in,He drew his water from the poolThat we preferred to swim in.And do you mind when down the creekHis angry way he wended,A green-hide cartwhip in his handFor our young backs intended?Three naked boys upon the sand—Half buried and half sunning—Three startled boys without their clothesAcross the paddocks running.We’ve had some scares, but we looked blankWhen, resting there and chumming,One glanced by chance along the bankAnd saw the farmer coming!And home impressions linger yetOf cups of sorrow brimming;I hardly think that we’ll forgetThe last day we went swimming.
Thebreezes waved the silver grass,Waist-high along the siding,And to the creek we ne’er could passThree boys on bare-back riding;Beneath the sheoaks in the bendThe waterhole was brimming—Do you remember yet, old friend,The times we ‘went in swimming?’
The days we ‘played the wag’ from school—Joys shared—and paid for singly—The air was hot, the water cool—And naked boys are kingly!With mud for soap the sun to dry—A well planned lie to stay us,And dust well rubbed on neck and faceLest cleanliness betray us.
And you’ll remember farmer Kutz—Though scarcely for his bounty—He leased a forty-acre block,And thought he owned the county;A farmer of the old world school,That men grew hard and grim in,He drew his water from the poolThat we preferred to swim in.
And do you mind when down the creekHis angry way he wended,A green-hide cartwhip in his handFor our young backs intended?Three naked boys upon the sand—Half buried and half sunning—Three startled boys without their clothesAcross the paddocks running.
We’ve had some scares, but we looked blankWhen, resting there and chumming,One glanced by chance along the bankAnd saw the farmer coming!And home impressions linger yetOf cups of sorrow brimming;I hardly think that we’ll forgetThe last day we went swimming.
Itwas built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holesWhere each leak in rainy weather made a pool;And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks—There was little need for windows in the school.Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track,On the old grey horse that carried three or four;And he looked so very wise that he lit the master’s eyesEvery time he put his head in at the door.He had run with Cobb and Co.—‘that grey leader, let him go!’There were men ’as knowed the brand upon his hide,’And ’as knowed it on the course’. Funeral service: ‘Good old horse!’When we burnt him in the gully where he died.And the master thought the same. ’Twas from Ireland that he came,Where the tanks are full all summer, and the feed is simply grand;And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue—’Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand.And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy mapsLong discarded by the public-schools in town;And as nearly every book dated back to Captain CookOur geography was somewhat upside-down.It was ‘in the book’ and so—well, at that we’d let it go,For we never would believe that print could lie;And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon‘The sun is in the south part of the sky.’And Ireland!thatwas known from the coast line to Athlone:We got little informationrethe land that gave us birth;Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled)And ‘the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.’And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded raceSeemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew;Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best;But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo.But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood uponIs a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard;There’s a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that,For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred.’But the bark-school comes again with exchanges ’cross the plain—With theOut-Back Advertiser; and my fancy roams at largeWhen I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock,With ‘James Bullock,’ ‘Grey,’ or ‘Henry Dale’ in charge.And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content,With his ’eddication’ finished, with his pack-horse after him;And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track,For I wish my learning ended when the Master ‘finished’ Jim.
Itwas built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holesWhere each leak in rainy weather made a pool;And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks—There was little need for windows in the school.Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track,On the old grey horse that carried three or four;And he looked so very wise that he lit the master’s eyesEvery time he put his head in at the door.He had run with Cobb and Co.—‘that grey leader, let him go!’There were men ’as knowed the brand upon his hide,’And ’as knowed it on the course’. Funeral service: ‘Good old horse!’When we burnt him in the gully where he died.And the master thought the same. ’Twas from Ireland that he came,Where the tanks are full all summer, and the feed is simply grand;And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue—’Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand.And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy mapsLong discarded by the public-schools in town;And as nearly every book dated back to Captain CookOur geography was somewhat upside-down.It was ‘in the book’ and so—well, at that we’d let it go,For we never would believe that print could lie;And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon‘The sun is in the south part of the sky.’And Ireland!thatwas known from the coast line to Athlone:We got little informationrethe land that gave us birth;Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled)And ‘the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.’And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded raceSeemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew;Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best;But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo.But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood uponIs a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard;There’s a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that,For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred.’But the bark-school comes again with exchanges ’cross the plain—With theOut-Back Advertiser; and my fancy roams at largeWhen I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock,With ‘James Bullock,’ ‘Grey,’ or ‘Henry Dale’ in charge.And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content,With his ’eddication’ finished, with his pack-horse after him;And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track,For I wish my learning ended when the Master ‘finished’ Jim.
Itwas built of bark and poles, and the floor was full of holesWhere each leak in rainy weather made a pool;And the walls were mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks—There was little need for windows in the school.
Then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track,On the old grey horse that carried three or four;And he looked so very wise that he lit the master’s eyesEvery time he put his head in at the door.
He had run with Cobb and Co.—‘that grey leader, let him go!’There were men ’as knowed the brand upon his hide,’And ’as knowed it on the course’. Funeral service: ‘Good old horse!’When we burnt him in the gully where he died.
And the master thought the same. ’Twas from Ireland that he came,Where the tanks are full all summer, and the feed is simply grand;And the joker then in vogue said his lessons wid a brogue—’Twas unconscious imitation, let the reader understand.
And we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy mapsLong discarded by the public-schools in town;And as nearly every book dated back to Captain CookOur geography was somewhat upside-down.
It was ‘in the book’ and so—well, at that we’d let it go,For we never would believe that print could lie;And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon‘The sun is in the south part of the sky.’
And Ireland!thatwas known from the coast line to Athlone:We got little informationrethe land that gave us birth;Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled)And ‘the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.’
And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded raceSeemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew;Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best;But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo.
But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood uponIs a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard;There’s a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that,For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred.’
But the bark-school comes again with exchanges ’cross the plain—With theOut-Back Advertiser; and my fancy roams at largeWhen I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock,With ‘James Bullock,’ ‘Grey,’ or ‘Henry Dale’ in charge.
And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content,With his ’eddication’ finished, with his pack-horse after him;And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track,For I wish my learning ended when the Master ‘finished’ Jim.
Youlazy boy, you’re here at last,You must be wooden-leggedNow, are you sure the gate is fastAnd all the sliprails peggedAnd all the milkers at the yard,The calves all in the pen?We don’t want Poley’s calf to suckHis mother dry again.And did you mend the broken railAnd make it firm and neat?I s’pose you want that brindle steerAll night among the wheat.And if he finds the lucerne patch,He’ll stuff his belly full;He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on thatAnd busts like Ryan’s bull.Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad,You will, upon my soul!She might be in the boggy swampsOr down a digger’s hole.You needn’t talk, you never lookedYou’d find her if you’d choose,Instead of poking ’possum logsAnd hunting kangaroos.How came your boots as wet as muck?You tried to drown the ants!Why don’t you take your bluchers off,Good Lord, he’s tore his pants!Your father’s coming home to-night;You’ll catch it hot, you’ll see.Now go and wash your filthy faceAnd come and get your tea.
Youlazy boy, you’re here at last,You must be wooden-leggedNow, are you sure the gate is fastAnd all the sliprails peggedAnd all the milkers at the yard,The calves all in the pen?We don’t want Poley’s calf to suckHis mother dry again.And did you mend the broken railAnd make it firm and neat?I s’pose you want that brindle steerAll night among the wheat.And if he finds the lucerne patch,He’ll stuff his belly full;He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on thatAnd busts like Ryan’s bull.Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad,You will, upon my soul!She might be in the boggy swampsOr down a digger’s hole.You needn’t talk, you never lookedYou’d find her if you’d choose,Instead of poking ’possum logsAnd hunting kangaroos.How came your boots as wet as muck?You tried to drown the ants!Why don’t you take your bluchers off,Good Lord, he’s tore his pants!Your father’s coming home to-night;You’ll catch it hot, you’ll see.Now go and wash your filthy faceAnd come and get your tea.
Youlazy boy, you’re here at last,You must be wooden-leggedNow, are you sure the gate is fastAnd all the sliprails peggedAnd all the milkers at the yard,The calves all in the pen?We don’t want Poley’s calf to suckHis mother dry again.
And did you mend the broken railAnd make it firm and neat?I s’pose you want that brindle steerAll night among the wheat.And if he finds the lucerne patch,He’ll stuff his belly full;He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on thatAnd busts like Ryan’s bull.
Old Spot is lost? You’ll drive me mad,You will, upon my soul!She might be in the boggy swampsOr down a digger’s hole.You needn’t talk, you never lookedYou’d find her if you’d choose,Instead of poking ’possum logsAnd hunting kangaroos.
How came your boots as wet as muck?You tried to drown the ants!Why don’t you take your bluchers off,Good Lord, he’s tore his pants!Your father’s coming home to-night;You’ll catch it hot, you’ll see.Now go and wash your filthy faceAnd come and get your tea.