Billand Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die—Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flatAnd at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.Bill believed the Bible storyrethe origin of him—He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,Reconditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of MarsWas too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were matesBill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was bestFor the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.Till one nightthe two togethertried to light a fire in camp,When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:Onealone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.
Billand Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die—Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flatAnd at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.Bill believed the Bible storyrethe origin of him—He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,Reconditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of MarsWas too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were matesBill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was bestFor the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.Till one nightthe two togethertried to light a fire in camp,When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:Onealone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.
Billand Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.
Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die—Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flatAnd at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.
Bill believed the Bible storyrethe origin of him—He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.
Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.
They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,Reconditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of MarsWas too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were matesBill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was bestFor the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.Till one nightthe two togethertried to light a fire in camp,When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:Onealone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.
Itwas a week from Christmas-time,As near as I remember,And half a year since in the rearWe’d left the Darling Timber.The track was hot and more than drear;The long day seemed forever;But now we knew that we were nearOur camp—the Paroo River.With blighted eyes and blistered feet,With stomachs out of order,Half mad with flies and dust and heatWe’d crossed the Queensland Border.I longed to hear a stream go byAnd see the circles quiver;I longed to lay me down and dieThat night on Paroo River.’Tis said the land out West is grand—I do not care who says it—It isn’t even decent scrub,Nor yet an honest desert;It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,A curse is on it ever;I really think that God forgotThe country round that river.My mate—a native of the land—In fiery speech and vulgar,Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,And doubly damned the mulga.He peered ahead, he peered about—A bushman he, and clever—‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;‘We must be near the river.’The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest(God bless one kindly squatter!)With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—We only wanted water.The sun was setting (in the west)In colour like a liver—We’d fondly hoped to camp and restThat night on Paroo River.A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,And once I heard him mutter:‘I’d like to see the Darling now,‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’And now and then he stopped and saidIn tones that made me shiver—‘It cannot well be on ahead,‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’But soon we saw a strip of groundThat crossed the track we followed—No barer than the surface round,But just a little hollowed.His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—This speech he did deliver:‘I wonder if we’d best go down‘Or up the blessed river?’‘But where,’ said I, ‘ ’s the blooming stream?’And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’I stood awhile, as in a dream,‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘isthatit?‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!‘It’s nearly time you came out-back—‘Thisisthe Paroo River!’No place to camp—no spot of damp—No moisture to be seen there;If e’er there was it left no signThat it had ever been there.But ere the morn, with heart and soulWe’d cause to thank the Giver—We found a muddy water-holeSome ten miles down the river.
Itwas a week from Christmas-time,As near as I remember,And half a year since in the rearWe’d left the Darling Timber.The track was hot and more than drear;The long day seemed forever;But now we knew that we were nearOur camp—the Paroo River.With blighted eyes and blistered feet,With stomachs out of order,Half mad with flies and dust and heatWe’d crossed the Queensland Border.I longed to hear a stream go byAnd see the circles quiver;I longed to lay me down and dieThat night on Paroo River.’Tis said the land out West is grand—I do not care who says it—It isn’t even decent scrub,Nor yet an honest desert;It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,A curse is on it ever;I really think that God forgotThe country round that river.My mate—a native of the land—In fiery speech and vulgar,Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,And doubly damned the mulga.He peered ahead, he peered about—A bushman he, and clever—‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;‘We must be near the river.’The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest(God bless one kindly squatter!)With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—We only wanted water.The sun was setting (in the west)In colour like a liver—We’d fondly hoped to camp and restThat night on Paroo River.A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,And once I heard him mutter:‘I’d like to see the Darling now,‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’And now and then he stopped and saidIn tones that made me shiver—‘It cannot well be on ahead,‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’But soon we saw a strip of groundThat crossed the track we followed—No barer than the surface round,But just a little hollowed.His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—This speech he did deliver:‘I wonder if we’d best go down‘Or up the blessed river?’‘But where,’ said I, ‘ ’s the blooming stream?’And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’I stood awhile, as in a dream,‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘isthatit?‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!‘It’s nearly time you came out-back—‘Thisisthe Paroo River!’No place to camp—no spot of damp—No moisture to be seen there;If e’er there was it left no signThat it had ever been there.But ere the morn, with heart and soulWe’d cause to thank the Giver—We found a muddy water-holeSome ten miles down the river.
Itwas a week from Christmas-time,As near as I remember,And half a year since in the rearWe’d left the Darling Timber.The track was hot and more than drear;The long day seemed forever;But now we knew that we were nearOur camp—the Paroo River.
With blighted eyes and blistered feet,With stomachs out of order,Half mad with flies and dust and heatWe’d crossed the Queensland Border.I longed to hear a stream go byAnd see the circles quiver;I longed to lay me down and dieThat night on Paroo River.
’Tis said the land out West is grand—I do not care who says it—It isn’t even decent scrub,Nor yet an honest desert;It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,A curse is on it ever;I really think that God forgotThe country round that river.
My mate—a native of the land—In fiery speech and vulgar,Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,And doubly damned the mulga.He peered ahead, he peered about—A bushman he, and clever—‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;‘We must be near the river.’
The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest(God bless one kindly squatter!)With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—We only wanted water.The sun was setting (in the west)In colour like a liver—We’d fondly hoped to camp and restThat night on Paroo River.
A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,And once I heard him mutter:‘I’d like to see the Darling now,‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’And now and then he stopped and saidIn tones that made me shiver—‘It cannot well be on ahead,‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’
But soon we saw a strip of groundThat crossed the track we followed—No barer than the surface round,But just a little hollowed.His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—This speech he did deliver:‘I wonder if we’d best go down‘Or up the blessed river?’
‘But where,’ said I, ‘ ’s the blooming stream?’And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’I stood awhile, as in a dream,‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘isthatit?‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’He chuckled, ‘Well, I never!‘It’s nearly time you came out-back—‘Thisisthe Paroo River!’
No place to camp—no spot of damp—No moisture to be seen there;If e’er there was it left no signThat it had ever been there.But ere the morn, with heart and soulWe’d cause to thank the Giver—We found a muddy water-holeSome ten miles down the river.
Callthis hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.. . . . . . . . . .Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard smell—Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling)Wool!!’. . . . . . . . . .Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.. . . . . . . . . .What’s that? waiter?me?stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!
Callthis hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.. . . . . . . . . .Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard smell—Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling)Wool!!’. . . . . . . . . .Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.. . . . . . . . . .What’s that? waiter?me?stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!
Callthis hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and ‘rolling wool.’
Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)
Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.. . . . . . . . . .Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep-yard smell—Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.
Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half a-dozen Christs they’d sell!Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!
Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.
‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’
Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling)Wool!!’. . . . . . . . . .Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.. . . . . . . . . .What’s that? waiter?me?stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!
Itwas the Man from Waterloo,When work in town was slack,Who took the track as bushmen do,And humped his swag out back.He tramped for months without a bob,For most the sheds were full,Until at last he got a jobAt picking up the wool.He found the work was rather rough,But swore to see it through,For he was made of sterling stuff—The Man from Waterloo.The first remark was like a stabThat fell his ear upon,’Twas—‘There’s another something scab‘The boss has taken on!’They couldn’t let the towny be—They sneered like anything;They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’In words that end in ‘ing.’There came a man from Ironbark,And at the shed he shore;He scoffed his victuals like a shark,And like a fiend he swore.He’d shorn his flowing beard that day—He found it hard to reap—Because ’twas hot and in the wayWhile he was shearing sheep.His loaded fork in grimy holtWas poised, his jaws moved fast,Impatient till his throat could boltThe mouthful taken last.He couldn’t stand a something toff,Much less a jackaroo;And swore to take the trimmings offThe Man from Waterloo.The towny saw he must be upOr else be underneath,And so one day, before them all,He dared to clean his teeth.The men came running from the shed,And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ saidThe man from Ironbark.His feeble joke was much enjoyed;He sneered as bullies do,And with a scrubbing-brush he guyedThe Man from Waterloo.The Jackaroo made no remarkBut peeled and waded in,And soon the Man from IronbarkHad three teeth less to grin!And when they knew that he could fightThey swore to see him through,Because they saw that he was right—The Man from Waterloo.Now in a shop in Sydney, nearThe Bottle on the Shelf,The tale is told—with trimmings—byThe Jackaroo himself.‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;‘They wouldn’t let me be;‘They set the bully of the shed‘To take it out of me.‘The dirt was on him like a sheath,‘He seldom washed his phiz;‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth—‘I guess I dusted his!‘I treated them as they deserved—‘I signed on one or two!‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observedThe Man from Waterloo.
Itwas the Man from Waterloo,When work in town was slack,Who took the track as bushmen do,And humped his swag out back.He tramped for months without a bob,For most the sheds were full,Until at last he got a jobAt picking up the wool.He found the work was rather rough,But swore to see it through,For he was made of sterling stuff—The Man from Waterloo.The first remark was like a stabThat fell his ear upon,’Twas—‘There’s another something scab‘The boss has taken on!’They couldn’t let the towny be—They sneered like anything;They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’In words that end in ‘ing.’There came a man from Ironbark,And at the shed he shore;He scoffed his victuals like a shark,And like a fiend he swore.He’d shorn his flowing beard that day—He found it hard to reap—Because ’twas hot and in the wayWhile he was shearing sheep.His loaded fork in grimy holtWas poised, his jaws moved fast,Impatient till his throat could boltThe mouthful taken last.He couldn’t stand a something toff,Much less a jackaroo;And swore to take the trimmings offThe Man from Waterloo.The towny saw he must be upOr else be underneath,And so one day, before them all,He dared to clean his teeth.The men came running from the shed,And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ saidThe man from Ironbark.His feeble joke was much enjoyed;He sneered as bullies do,And with a scrubbing-brush he guyedThe Man from Waterloo.The Jackaroo made no remarkBut peeled and waded in,And soon the Man from IronbarkHad three teeth less to grin!And when they knew that he could fightThey swore to see him through,Because they saw that he was right—The Man from Waterloo.Now in a shop in Sydney, nearThe Bottle on the Shelf,The tale is told—with trimmings—byThe Jackaroo himself.‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;‘They wouldn’t let me be;‘They set the bully of the shed‘To take it out of me.‘The dirt was on him like a sheath,‘He seldom washed his phiz;‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth—‘I guess I dusted his!‘I treated them as they deserved—‘I signed on one or two!‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observedThe Man from Waterloo.
Itwas the Man from Waterloo,When work in town was slack,Who took the track as bushmen do,And humped his swag out back.He tramped for months without a bob,For most the sheds were full,Until at last he got a jobAt picking up the wool.He found the work was rather rough,But swore to see it through,For he was made of sterling stuff—The Man from Waterloo.
The first remark was like a stabThat fell his ear upon,’Twas—‘There’s another something scab‘The boss has taken on!’They couldn’t let the towny be—They sneered like anything;They’d mock him when he’d sound the ‘g’In words that end in ‘ing.’
There came a man from Ironbark,And at the shed he shore;He scoffed his victuals like a shark,And like a fiend he swore.He’d shorn his flowing beard that day—He found it hard to reap—Because ’twas hot and in the wayWhile he was shearing sheep.His loaded fork in grimy holtWas poised, his jaws moved fast,Impatient till his throat could boltThe mouthful taken last.He couldn’t stand a something toff,Much less a jackaroo;And swore to take the trimmings offThe Man from Waterloo.
The towny saw he must be upOr else be underneath,And so one day, before them all,He dared to clean his teeth.
The men came running from the shed,And shouted, ‘Here’s a lark!’‘It’s gone to clean its tooties!’ saidThe man from Ironbark.His feeble joke was much enjoyed;He sneered as bullies do,And with a scrubbing-brush he guyedThe Man from Waterloo.
The Jackaroo made no remarkBut peeled and waded in,And soon the Man from IronbarkHad three teeth less to grin!And when they knew that he could fightThey swore to see him through,Because they saw that he was right—The Man from Waterloo.
Now in a shop in Sydney, nearThe Bottle on the Shelf,The tale is told—with trimmings—byThe Jackaroo himself.‘They made my life a hell,’ he said;‘They wouldn’t let me be;‘They set the bully of the shed‘To take it out of me.
‘The dirt was on him like a sheath,‘He seldom washed his phiz;‘He sneered because I cleaned my teeth—‘I guess I dusted his!‘I treated them as they deserved—‘I signed on one or two!‘They won’t forget me soon,’ observedThe Man from Waterloo.
Now, I think there is a likeness’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,For he did a lot of trampin’Long ago in Palestine.He was ‘union’ when the workersFirst began to organise,And—I’m glad that old St. PeterKeeps the gate of Paradise.When the ancient agitatorAnd his brothers carried swags,I’ve no doubt he very oftenTramped with empty tucker-bags;And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,For I hate explainin’ things,And he’ll think a union ticketJust as good as Whitely King’s.He denied the Saviour’s union,Which was weak of him, no doubt;But perhaps his feet was blisteredAnd his boots had given out.And the bitter storm was rushin’On the bark and on the slabs,And a cheerful fire was blazin’,And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’. . . . . . . . . .When I reach the great head-station—Which is somewhere ‘off the track’—I won’t want to talk with angelsWho have never been out back;They might bother me with offersOf a banjo—meanin’ well—And a pair of wings to fly with,When I only want a spell.I’ll just ask for old St. Peter,And I think, when he appears,I will only have to tell himThat I carried swag for years.‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,‘An’ I done the best I could,’And he’ll understand me betterThan the other angels would.He won’t try to get a chorusOut of lungs that’s worn to rags,Or to graft the wings on shouldersThat is stiff with humpin’ swags.But I’ll rest about the stationWhere the work-bell never rings,Till they blow the final trumpetAnd the Great Judge sees to things.
Now, I think there is a likeness’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,For he did a lot of trampin’Long ago in Palestine.He was ‘union’ when the workersFirst began to organise,And—I’m glad that old St. PeterKeeps the gate of Paradise.When the ancient agitatorAnd his brothers carried swags,I’ve no doubt he very oftenTramped with empty tucker-bags;And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,For I hate explainin’ things,And he’ll think a union ticketJust as good as Whitely King’s.He denied the Saviour’s union,Which was weak of him, no doubt;But perhaps his feet was blisteredAnd his boots had given out.And the bitter storm was rushin’On the bark and on the slabs,And a cheerful fire was blazin’,And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’. . . . . . . . . .When I reach the great head-station—Which is somewhere ‘off the track’—I won’t want to talk with angelsWho have never been out back;They might bother me with offersOf a banjo—meanin’ well—And a pair of wings to fly with,When I only want a spell.I’ll just ask for old St. Peter,And I think, when he appears,I will only have to tell himThat I carried swag for years.‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,‘An’ I done the best I could,’And he’ll understand me betterThan the other angels would.He won’t try to get a chorusOut of lungs that’s worn to rags,Or to graft the wings on shouldersThat is stiff with humpin’ swags.But I’ll rest about the stationWhere the work-bell never rings,Till they blow the final trumpetAnd the Great Judge sees to things.
Now, I think there is a likeness’Twixt St. Peter’s life and mine,For he did a lot of trampin’Long ago in Palestine.He was ‘union’ when the workersFirst began to organise,And—I’m glad that old St. PeterKeeps the gate of Paradise.
When the ancient agitatorAnd his brothers carried swags,I’ve no doubt he very oftenTramped with empty tucker-bags;And I’m glad he’s Heaven’s picket,For I hate explainin’ things,And he’ll think a union ticketJust as good as Whitely King’s.
He denied the Saviour’s union,Which was weak of him, no doubt;But perhaps his feet was blisteredAnd his boots had given out.And the bitter storm was rushin’On the bark and on the slabs,And a cheerful fire was blazin’,And the hut was full of ‘scabs.’. . . . . . . . . .When I reach the great head-station—Which is somewhere ‘off the track’—I won’t want to talk with angelsWho have never been out back;They might bother me with offersOf a banjo—meanin’ well—And a pair of wings to fly with,When I only want a spell.
I’ll just ask for old St. Peter,And I think, when he appears,I will only have to tell himThat I carried swag for years.‘I’ve been on the track,’ I’ll tell him,‘An’ I done the best I could,’And he’ll understand me betterThan the other angels would.
He won’t try to get a chorusOut of lungs that’s worn to rags,Or to graft the wings on shouldersThat is stiff with humpin’ swags.But I’ll rest about the stationWhere the work-bell never rings,Till they blow the final trumpetAnd the Great Judge sees to things.
Thestrangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts discard—But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.I met him in Bourke in the Union days—with which we have nought to do(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ like glue).He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s Friend.’It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes—Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were filled with snakes.In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood—in his cynical stages too—In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was blue—From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful end,He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.‘The feller as knows,hecan battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d say—‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know—send the hard-up bloke this way;Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the bushman spoke,The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.’And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they scored,For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the stranger’s board—The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s bunk,And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk.And the chaps and the fellers would speculate—by way of a ghastly joke—As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first?—the Friend or the hard-up bloke?And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned in the end,When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s Friend.It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think,He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink,To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way,And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say.At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as ice,He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice;Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose like smoke,Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up bloke.’They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true.I have ‘battled’ myself, andyouknow, you chaps, what a man in the bush goes through;Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and his strength are done,That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend hasone.
Thestrangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts discard—But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.I met him in Bourke in the Union days—with which we have nought to do(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ like glue).He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s Friend.’It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes—Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were filled with snakes.In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood—in his cynical stages too—In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was blue—From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful end,He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.‘The feller as knows,hecan battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d say—‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know—send the hard-up bloke this way;Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the bushman spoke,The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.’And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they scored,For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the stranger’s board—The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s bunk,And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk.And the chaps and the fellers would speculate—by way of a ghastly joke—As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first?—the Friend or the hard-up bloke?And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned in the end,When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s Friend.It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think,He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink,To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way,And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say.At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as ice,He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice;Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose like smoke,Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up bloke.’They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true.I have ‘battled’ myself, andyouknow, you chaps, what a man in the bush goes through;Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and his strength are done,That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend hasone.
Thestrangest things, and the maddest things, that a man can do or say,To the chaps and fellers and coves Out Back are matters of every day;Maybe on account of the lives they lead, or the life that their hearts discard—But never a fool can be too mad or a ‘hard case’ be too hard.
I met him in Bourke in the Union days—with which we have nought to do(Their creed was narrow, their methods crude, but they stuck to ‘the cause’ like glue).He came into town from the Lost Soul Run for his grim half-yearly ‘bend,’And because of a curious hobby he had, he was known as ‘The Stranger’s Friend.’
It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was ‘grim,’For to go on the spree was a sacred rite, or a heathen rite, to him,To shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes—Till they all seemed devils of different breeds, and his pockets were filled with snakes.
In the joyful mood, in the solemn mood—in his cynical stages too—In the maudlin stage, in the fighting stage, in the stage when all was blue—From the joyful hour when his spree commenced, right through to the awful end,He never lost grip of his ‘fixed idee’ that he was the Stranger’s Friend.
‘The feller as knows,hecan battle around for his bloomin’ self,’ he’d say—‘I don’t give a curse for the “blanks” I know—send the hard-up bloke this way;Send the stranger round, and I’ll see him through,’ and, e’en as the bushman spoke,The chaps and fellers would tip the wink to a casual, ‘hard-up bloke.’
And it wasn’t only a bushman’s ‘bluff’ to the fame of the Friend they scored,For he’d shout the stranger a suit of clothes, and he’d pay for the stranger’s board—The worst of it was that he’d skite all night on the edge of the stranger’s bunk,And never got helplessly drunk himself till he’d got the stranger drunk.
And the chaps and the fellers would speculate—by way of a ghastly joke—As to who’d be caught by the ‘jim-jams’ first?—the Friend or the hard-up bloke?And the ‘Joker’ would say that there wasn’t a doubt as to who’d be damned in the end,When the Devil got hold of a hard-up bloke in the shape of the Stranger’s Friend.
It mattered not to the Stranger’s Friend what the rest might say or think,He always held that the hard-up state was due to the curse of drink,To the evils of cards, and of company: ‘But a young cove’s built that way,And I was a bloomin’ fool meself when I started out,’ he’d say.
At the end of the spree, in clean white ‘moles,’ clean-shaven, and cool as ice,He’d give the stranger a ‘bob’ or two, and some straight Out Back advice;Then he’d tramp away for the Lost Soul Run, where the hot dust rose like smoke,Having done his duty to all mankind, for he’d ‘stuck to a hard-up bloke.’
They’ll say ’tis a ‘song of a sot,’ perhaps, but the Song of a Sot is true.I have ‘battled’ myself, andyouknow, you chaps, what a man in the bush goes through;Let us hope when the last of his sprees is past, and his cheques and his strength are done,That, amongst the sober and thrifty mates, the Stranger’s Friend hasone.
Pat M‘Durmerbrought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:‘There are lively days before ye—commin Parlymint’s dissolved!’And the boys were all excited, for the State, of course, was ‘rotten,’And, in subsequent elections, God-Forgotten was involved.There was little there to live for save in drinking beer and eating;But we rose on this occasion ere the news appeared in print,For the boys of God-Forgotten, at a wild, uproarious meeting,Nominated Billy Blazes for the commin Parlymint.Other towns had other favourites, but the day before the battleBushmen flocked to God-Forgotten, and the distant sheds were still;Sheep were left to go to glory, and neglected mobs of cattleWent a-straying down the river at their sweet bucolic will.William Spouter stood for Freetrade (and his votes were split by Nottin),He had influence behind him and he also had the tin,But across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God-Forgotten,‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re living in!’Pat M‘Durmer said, ‘Ye schaymers, please to shut yer ugly faces,Lend yer dirty ears a momint while I give ye all a hint:Keep ye sober till to-morrow and record yer vote for BlazesIf ye want to send a ringer to the commin Parlymint.‘As a young and growin’ township God-Forgotten’s been neglected,And, if we’d be ripresinted,now’sthe moment to begin—Have the local towns encouraged, local industries purtected:Vote for Blazes, and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in.‘I don’t say that William Blazes is a perfect out-an’ outer,I don’t say he have the larnin’, for he never had the luck;I don’t say he have the logic, or the gift of gab, like Spouter,I don’t say he have the practice—but I say he have the pluck!Now the country’s gone to ruin, and the Governments are rotten,But he’ll save the public credit and purtect the public tin;To the iverlastin’ glory of the name of God-ForgottenVote for Blazes and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in!’Pat M‘D. went on the war-path, and he worked like salts and senna,For he organised committees full of energy and push;And those wild committees riding through the whisky-fed GehennaRouted out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush.Everything on wheels was ‘rinted,’ and half-sobered drunks were shot in;Said M‘Durmer to the driver, ‘If ye want to save yer skin,Never stop to wet yer whistles—drive like hell to God-Forgotten,Make the villains plump for Blazes, and the land they’re livin’ in.’Half the local long-departed (for the purpose resurrected)Plumped for Blazes and Protection, and the country where they died;So he topped the poll by sixty, and when Blazes was electedThere was victory and triumph on the God-Forgotten side.Then the boys got up a banquet, and our chairman, Pat M‘Durmer,Was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker’s bin—All the dough had risen round him, but we heard a smothered murmur,‘Vote for Blazes—and Protection—and the land ye’re livin’ in.’Now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London, ’cross the waters,And they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End,But I very often wonder if his toney sons and daughtersEver heard of Billy Blazes who was once the ‘people’s friend.’Does his biassed memory linger round that wild electioneeringWhen the men of God-Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin?Does he ever, in his dreaming, hear the cry above the cheering:‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re livin’ in?’. . . . . . . . . .Ah, the bush was grand in those days, and the Western boys were daisies,And their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print;Still my recollection lingers round the time when Billy BlazesWas returned by God-Forgotten to the ‘Commin Parlymint’:Still I keep a sign of canvas—’twas a mate of mine that made it—And its paint is cracked and powdered, and its threads are bare and thin,Yet upon its grimy surface you can read in letters faded:‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the Land you’re livin’ in.’
Pat M‘Durmerbrought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:‘There are lively days before ye—commin Parlymint’s dissolved!’And the boys were all excited, for the State, of course, was ‘rotten,’And, in subsequent elections, God-Forgotten was involved.There was little there to live for save in drinking beer and eating;But we rose on this occasion ere the news appeared in print,For the boys of God-Forgotten, at a wild, uproarious meeting,Nominated Billy Blazes for the commin Parlymint.Other towns had other favourites, but the day before the battleBushmen flocked to God-Forgotten, and the distant sheds were still;Sheep were left to go to glory, and neglected mobs of cattleWent a-straying down the river at their sweet bucolic will.William Spouter stood for Freetrade (and his votes were split by Nottin),He had influence behind him and he also had the tin,But across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God-Forgotten,‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re living in!’Pat M‘Durmer said, ‘Ye schaymers, please to shut yer ugly faces,Lend yer dirty ears a momint while I give ye all a hint:Keep ye sober till to-morrow and record yer vote for BlazesIf ye want to send a ringer to the commin Parlymint.‘As a young and growin’ township God-Forgotten’s been neglected,And, if we’d be ripresinted,now’sthe moment to begin—Have the local towns encouraged, local industries purtected:Vote for Blazes, and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in.‘I don’t say that William Blazes is a perfect out-an’ outer,I don’t say he have the larnin’, for he never had the luck;I don’t say he have the logic, or the gift of gab, like Spouter,I don’t say he have the practice—but I say he have the pluck!Now the country’s gone to ruin, and the Governments are rotten,But he’ll save the public credit and purtect the public tin;To the iverlastin’ glory of the name of God-ForgottenVote for Blazes and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in!’Pat M‘D. went on the war-path, and he worked like salts and senna,For he organised committees full of energy and push;And those wild committees riding through the whisky-fed GehennaRouted out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush.Everything on wheels was ‘rinted,’ and half-sobered drunks were shot in;Said M‘Durmer to the driver, ‘If ye want to save yer skin,Never stop to wet yer whistles—drive like hell to God-Forgotten,Make the villains plump for Blazes, and the land they’re livin’ in.’Half the local long-departed (for the purpose resurrected)Plumped for Blazes and Protection, and the country where they died;So he topped the poll by sixty, and when Blazes was electedThere was victory and triumph on the God-Forgotten side.Then the boys got up a banquet, and our chairman, Pat M‘Durmer,Was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker’s bin—All the dough had risen round him, but we heard a smothered murmur,‘Vote for Blazes—and Protection—and the land ye’re livin’ in.’Now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London, ’cross the waters,And they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End,But I very often wonder if his toney sons and daughtersEver heard of Billy Blazes who was once the ‘people’s friend.’Does his biassed memory linger round that wild electioneeringWhen the men of God-Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin?Does he ever, in his dreaming, hear the cry above the cheering:‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re livin’ in?’. . . . . . . . . .Ah, the bush was grand in those days, and the Western boys were daisies,And their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print;Still my recollection lingers round the time when Billy BlazesWas returned by God-Forgotten to the ‘Commin Parlymint’:Still I keep a sign of canvas—’twas a mate of mine that made it—And its paint is cracked and powdered, and its threads are bare and thin,Yet upon its grimy surface you can read in letters faded:‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the Land you’re livin’ in.’
Pat M‘Durmerbrought the tidings to the town of God-Forgotten:‘There are lively days before ye—commin Parlymint’s dissolved!’And the boys were all excited, for the State, of course, was ‘rotten,’And, in subsequent elections, God-Forgotten was involved.There was little there to live for save in drinking beer and eating;But we rose on this occasion ere the news appeared in print,For the boys of God-Forgotten, at a wild, uproarious meeting,Nominated Billy Blazes for the commin Parlymint.
Other towns had other favourites, but the day before the battleBushmen flocked to God-Forgotten, and the distant sheds were still;Sheep were left to go to glory, and neglected mobs of cattleWent a-straying down the river at their sweet bucolic will.William Spouter stood for Freetrade (and his votes were split by Nottin),He had influence behind him and he also had the tin,But across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God-Forgotten,‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re living in!’
Pat M‘Durmer said, ‘Ye schaymers, please to shut yer ugly faces,Lend yer dirty ears a momint while I give ye all a hint:Keep ye sober till to-morrow and record yer vote for BlazesIf ye want to send a ringer to the commin Parlymint.‘As a young and growin’ township God-Forgotten’s been neglected,And, if we’d be ripresinted,now’sthe moment to begin—Have the local towns encouraged, local industries purtected:Vote for Blazes, and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in.
‘I don’t say that William Blazes is a perfect out-an’ outer,I don’t say he have the larnin’, for he never had the luck;I don’t say he have the logic, or the gift of gab, like Spouter,I don’t say he have the practice—but I say he have the pluck!Now the country’s gone to ruin, and the Governments are rotten,But he’ll save the public credit and purtect the public tin;To the iverlastin’ glory of the name of God-ForgottenVote for Blazes and Protection, and the land ye’re livin’ in!’
Pat M‘D. went on the war-path, and he worked like salts and senna,For he organised committees full of energy and push;And those wild committees riding through the whisky-fed GehennaRouted out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush.Everything on wheels was ‘rinted,’ and half-sobered drunks were shot in;Said M‘Durmer to the driver, ‘If ye want to save yer skin,Never stop to wet yer whistles—drive like hell to God-Forgotten,Make the villains plump for Blazes, and the land they’re livin’ in.’
Half the local long-departed (for the purpose resurrected)Plumped for Blazes and Protection, and the country where they died;So he topped the poll by sixty, and when Blazes was electedThere was victory and triumph on the God-Forgotten side.Then the boys got up a banquet, and our chairman, Pat M‘Durmer,Was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker’s bin—All the dough had risen round him, but we heard a smothered murmur,‘Vote for Blazes—and Protection—and the land ye’re livin’ in.’
Now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London, ’cross the waters,And they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End,But I very often wonder if his toney sons and daughtersEver heard of Billy Blazes who was once the ‘people’s friend.’Does his biassed memory linger round that wild electioneeringWhen the men of God-Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin?Does he ever, in his dreaming, hear the cry above the cheering:‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the land you’re livin’ in?’. . . . . . . . . .Ah, the bush was grand in those days, and the Western boys were daisies,And their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print;Still my recollection lingers round the time when Billy BlazesWas returned by God-Forgotten to the ‘Commin Parlymint’:Still I keep a sign of canvas—’twas a mate of mine that made it—And its paint is cracked and powdered, and its threads are bare and thin,Yet upon its grimy surface you can read in letters faded:‘Vote for Blazes and Protection, and the Land you’re livin’ in.’
Theshearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware.The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out;And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots—But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do—And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe;And though he changed his pants at times—some worn-out and some neat—No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet.The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;And tigers might haveheardthe boss ere any harm was done—For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one.But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe.He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,And never dreamed of Boss’s boots—much less of Bogan Bill.Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs,And keep away from handicaps—for so your sugar scoots—And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots.And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere—He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots,He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat;He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot.He thought that he’d be fined all right—he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go;And Bogan swore amenfully—beneath his breath he swore—And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before.And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace,The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face;He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe.But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet:The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye.Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt—You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt—For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook.And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout;And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out;He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot—‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots.They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare,But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware.The rouser has no soul to lose—it’s blarst the rouseabout!And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out,And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,—But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.
Theshearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware.The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out;And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots—But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do—And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe;And though he changed his pants at times—some worn-out and some neat—No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet.The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;And tigers might haveheardthe boss ere any harm was done—For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one.But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe.He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,And never dreamed of Boss’s boots—much less of Bogan Bill.Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs,And keep away from handicaps—for so your sugar scoots—And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots.And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere—He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots,He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat;He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot.He thought that he’d be fined all right—he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go;And Bogan swore amenfully—beneath his breath he swore—And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before.And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace,The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face;He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe.But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet:The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye.Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt—You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt—For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook.And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout;And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out;He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot—‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots.They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare,But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware.The rouser has no soul to lose—it’s blarst the rouseabout!And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out,And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,—But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.
Theshearers squint along the pens, they squint along the ‘shoots;’The shearers squint along the board to catch the Boss’s boots;They have no time to straighten up, they have no time to stare,But when the Boss is looking on, they like to be aware.
The ‘rouser’ has no soul to save. Condemn the rouseabout!And sling ’em in, and rip ’em through, and get the bell-sheep out;And skim it by the tips at times, or take it with the roots—But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.
The shearing super sprained his foot, as bosses sometimes do—And wore, until the shed cut out, one ‘side-spring’ and one shoe;And though he changed his pants at times—some worn-out and some neat—No ‘tiger’ there could possibly mistake the Boss’s feet.
The Boss affected larger boots than many Western men,And Jim the Ringer swore the shoe was half as big again;And tigers might haveheardthe boss ere any harm was done—For when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one.
But now there comes a picker-up who sprained his ankle, too,And limping round the shed he found the Boss’s cast-off shoe.He went to work, all legs and arms, as green-hand rousers will,And never dreamed of Boss’s boots—much less of Bogan Bill.
Ye sons of sin that tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs,Just keep away from ‘headin’ ’em,’ and keep away from pubs,And keep away from handicaps—for so your sugar scoots—And you may own a station yet and wear the Boss’s boots.
And Bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair:‘The Boss has got a rat to-day: he’s buckin’ everywhere—He’s trainin’ for a bike, I think, the way he comes an’ scoots,He’s like a bloomin’ cat on mud the way he shifts his boots.’
Now Bogan Bill was shearing rough and chanced to cut a teat;He stuck his leg in front at once, and slewed the ewe a bit;He hurried up to get her through, when, close beside his shoot,He saw a large and ancient shoe, in mateship with a boot.
He thought that he’d be fined all right—he couldn’t turn the ‘yoe;’The more he wished the boss away, the more he wouldn’t go;And Bogan swore amenfully—beneath his breath he swore—And he was never known to ‘pink’ so prettily before.
And Bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind’s eye could trace,The cold, sarcastic smile that lurked about the Boss’s face;He cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few,He cursed him from his boot right up, and then down to his shoe.
But while he shore so mighty clean, and while he screened the teat,He fancied there was something wrong about the Boss’s feet:The boot grew unfamiliar, and the odd shoe seemed awry,And slowly up the trouser went the tail of Bogan’s eye.
Then swiftly to the features from a plaited green-hide belt—You’d have to ring a shed or two to feel as Bogan felt—For ’twas his green-hand picker-up (who wore a vacant look),And Bogan saw the Boss outside consulting with his cook.
And Bogan Bill was hurt and mad to see that rouseabout;And Bogan laid his ‘Wolseley’ down and knocked that rouser out;He knocked him right across the board, he tumbled through the shoot—‘I’ll learn the fool,’ said Bogan Bill, ‘to flash the Boss’s boot!’
The rouser squints along the pens, he squints along the shoots,And gives his men the office when they miss the Boss’s boots.They have no time to straighten up, they’re too well-bred to stare,But when the Boss is looking on they like to be aware.
The rouser has no soul to lose—it’s blarst the rouseabout!And rip ’em through and yell for ‘tar’ and get the bell-sheep out,And take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots,—But ‘pink’ ’em nice and pretty when you see the Boss’s boots.
‘Rouseabout’ and ‘picker-up’ are interchangeable terms in above rhymes, as also ‘boss’ and ‘super’; the shed-name for the latter is ‘Boss-over-the-board.’ The shearer is paid by the hundred, the rouser by the week. ‘Pink ’em pretty’: to shear clean to the skin. ‘Bell-sheep’: shearers are not supposed to take another sheep out of pen when ‘Smoke-ho,’ breakfast or dinner bell goes, but some time themselves to get so many sheep out, andone as the bell goes, which makes more work for the rouser and entrenches on his ‘smoke-ho,’ as he must leave his ‘board’ clean. Shearers are seldom or never fined now.
‘Rouseabout’ and ‘picker-up’ are interchangeable terms in above rhymes, as also ‘boss’ and ‘super’; the shed-name for the latter is ‘Boss-over-the-board.’ The shearer is paid by the hundred, the rouser by the week. ‘Pink ’em pretty’: to shear clean to the skin. ‘Bell-sheep’: shearers are not supposed to take another sheep out of pen when ‘Smoke-ho,’ breakfast or dinner bell goes, but some time themselves to get so many sheep out, andone as the bell goes, which makes more work for the rouser and entrenches on his ‘smoke-ho,’ as he must leave his ‘board’ clean. Shearers are seldom or never fined now.
Asthe night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,From a slum in Jones’ Alley sloped the Captain of the Push;And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South,As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth.Then his whistle, loud and shrill, woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’And a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks.There was nought to rouse their anger; yet the oath that each one sworeSeemed less fit for publication than the one that went before.For they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comesOnly to the men whose childhood knew the brothels and the slums.Then they spat in turns, and halted; and the one that came behind,Spitting fiercely on the pavement, called on Heaven to strike him blind.Let us first describe the captain, bottle-shouldered, pale and thin,For he was the beau-ideal of a Sydney larrikin;E’en his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live,With a gallows-tilt that no one, save a larrikin, can give;And the coat, a little shorter than the writer would desire,Showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire.That which tailors know as ‘trousers’—known by him as ‘bloomin’ bags’—Hanging loosely from his person, swept, with tattered ends, the flags;And he had a pointed sternpost to the boots that peeped below(Which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe),And he wore his shirt uncollar’d, and the tie correctly wrong;But I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long.And the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the kerb,Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb,And he begged the Gory Bleeders that they wouldn’t interruptTill he gave an introduction—it was painfully abrupt—‘Here’s the bleedin’ push, me covey—here’s a (something) from the bush!Strike me dead, he wants to join us!’ said the captain of the push.Said the stranger: ‘I am nothing but a bushy and a dunce;But I read about the Bleeders in theWeekly Gasbagonce:Sitting lonely in the humpy when the wind began to “whoosh,”How I longed to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push!Gosh! I hate the swells and good ’uns—I could burn ’em in their beds;I am with you, if you’ll have me, and I’ll break their blazing heads.’‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—suppose a feller was to split upon the push,Would you lay for him and fetch him, even if the traps were round?Would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground?Would you jump upon the nameless—kill, or cripple him, or both?Speak? or else I’ll—SPEAK!’ The stranger answered, ‘My kerlonial oath!’‘Now, look here,’ exclamed the captain to the stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—suppose the Bleeders let you come and join the push,Would you smash a bleedin’ bobby if you got the blank alone?Would you break a swell or Chinkie—split his garret with a stone?Would you have a “moll” to keep yer—like to swear off work for good?’‘Yes, my oath!’ replied the stranger. ‘My kerlonial oath! I would!’‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—before the Bleeders let yer come and join the push,You must prove that you’re a blazer—you must prove that you have gritWorthy of a Gory Bleeder—you must show your form a bit—Take a rock and smash that winder?’ and the stranger, nothing loth,Took the rock and—smash! They only muttered ‘My kerlonial oath!’So they swore him in, and found him sure of aim and light of heel,And his only fault, if any, lay in his excessive zeal;He was good at throwing metal, but we chronicle with painThat he jumped upon a victim, damaging the watch and chain,Ere the Bleeders had secured them; yet the captain of the pushSwore a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush.Late next morn the captain, rising, hoarse and thirsty from his lair,Called the newly-feather’d Bleeder, but the stranger wasn’t there!Quickly going through the pockets of his ‘bloomin’ bags,’ he learnedThat the stranger had been through him for the stuff his ‘moll’ had earned;And the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell(Stars! and notes of exclamation!! blank and dash will do as well).In the night the captain’s signal woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’Brought the Gory Bleeders sloping thro’ the shadows of the blocks;And they swore the stranger’s action was a blood-escaping shame,While they waited for the nameless, but the nameless never came.And the Bleeders soon forgot him; but the captain of the pushStill is ‘laying’ round, in ballast, for the nameless ‘from the bush.’
Asthe night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,From a slum in Jones’ Alley sloped the Captain of the Push;And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South,As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth.Then his whistle, loud and shrill, woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’And a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks.There was nought to rouse their anger; yet the oath that each one sworeSeemed less fit for publication than the one that went before.For they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comesOnly to the men whose childhood knew the brothels and the slums.Then they spat in turns, and halted; and the one that came behind,Spitting fiercely on the pavement, called on Heaven to strike him blind.Let us first describe the captain, bottle-shouldered, pale and thin,For he was the beau-ideal of a Sydney larrikin;E’en his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live,With a gallows-tilt that no one, save a larrikin, can give;And the coat, a little shorter than the writer would desire,Showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire.That which tailors know as ‘trousers’—known by him as ‘bloomin’ bags’—Hanging loosely from his person, swept, with tattered ends, the flags;And he had a pointed sternpost to the boots that peeped below(Which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe),And he wore his shirt uncollar’d, and the tie correctly wrong;But I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long.And the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the kerb,Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb,And he begged the Gory Bleeders that they wouldn’t interruptTill he gave an introduction—it was painfully abrupt—‘Here’s the bleedin’ push, me covey—here’s a (something) from the bush!Strike me dead, he wants to join us!’ said the captain of the push.Said the stranger: ‘I am nothing but a bushy and a dunce;But I read about the Bleeders in theWeekly Gasbagonce:Sitting lonely in the humpy when the wind began to “whoosh,”How I longed to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push!Gosh! I hate the swells and good ’uns—I could burn ’em in their beds;I am with you, if you’ll have me, and I’ll break their blazing heads.’‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—suppose a feller was to split upon the push,Would you lay for him and fetch him, even if the traps were round?Would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground?Would you jump upon the nameless—kill, or cripple him, or both?Speak? or else I’ll—SPEAK!’ The stranger answered, ‘My kerlonial oath!’‘Now, look here,’ exclamed the captain to the stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—suppose the Bleeders let you come and join the push,Would you smash a bleedin’ bobby if you got the blank alone?Would you break a swell or Chinkie—split his garret with a stone?Would you have a “moll” to keep yer—like to swear off work for good?’‘Yes, my oath!’ replied the stranger. ‘My kerlonial oath! I would!’‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—before the Bleeders let yer come and join the push,You must prove that you’re a blazer—you must prove that you have gritWorthy of a Gory Bleeder—you must show your form a bit—Take a rock and smash that winder?’ and the stranger, nothing loth,Took the rock and—smash! They only muttered ‘My kerlonial oath!’So they swore him in, and found him sure of aim and light of heel,And his only fault, if any, lay in his excessive zeal;He was good at throwing metal, but we chronicle with painThat he jumped upon a victim, damaging the watch and chain,Ere the Bleeders had secured them; yet the captain of the pushSwore a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush.Late next morn the captain, rising, hoarse and thirsty from his lair,Called the newly-feather’d Bleeder, but the stranger wasn’t there!Quickly going through the pockets of his ‘bloomin’ bags,’ he learnedThat the stranger had been through him for the stuff his ‘moll’ had earned;And the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell(Stars! and notes of exclamation!! blank and dash will do as well).In the night the captain’s signal woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’Brought the Gory Bleeders sloping thro’ the shadows of the blocks;And they swore the stranger’s action was a blood-escaping shame,While they waited for the nameless, but the nameless never came.And the Bleeders soon forgot him; but the captain of the pushStill is ‘laying’ round, in ballast, for the nameless ‘from the bush.’
Asthe night was falling slowly down on city, town and bush,From a slum in Jones’ Alley sloped the Captain of the Push;And he scowled towards the North, and he scowled towards the South,As he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth.Then his whistle, loud and shrill, woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’And a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks.
There was nought to rouse their anger; yet the oath that each one sworeSeemed less fit for publication than the one that went before.For they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comesOnly to the men whose childhood knew the brothels and the slums.Then they spat in turns, and halted; and the one that came behind,Spitting fiercely on the pavement, called on Heaven to strike him blind.
Let us first describe the captain, bottle-shouldered, pale and thin,For he was the beau-ideal of a Sydney larrikin;E’en his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live,With a gallows-tilt that no one, save a larrikin, can give;And the coat, a little shorter than the writer would desire,Showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire.
That which tailors know as ‘trousers’—known by him as ‘bloomin’ bags’—Hanging loosely from his person, swept, with tattered ends, the flags;And he had a pointed sternpost to the boots that peeped below(Which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe),And he wore his shirt uncollar’d, and the tie correctly wrong;But I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long.
And the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the kerb,Whom he qualified politely with an adjective and verb,And he begged the Gory Bleeders that they wouldn’t interruptTill he gave an introduction—it was painfully abrupt—‘Here’s the bleedin’ push, me covey—here’s a (something) from the bush!Strike me dead, he wants to join us!’ said the captain of the push.
Said the stranger: ‘I am nothing but a bushy and a dunce;But I read about the Bleeders in theWeekly Gasbagonce:Sitting lonely in the humpy when the wind began to “whoosh,”How I longed to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push!Gosh! I hate the swells and good ’uns—I could burn ’em in their beds;I am with you, if you’ll have me, and I’ll break their blazing heads.’
‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—suppose a feller was to split upon the push,Would you lay for him and fetch him, even if the traps were round?Would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground?Would you jump upon the nameless—kill, or cripple him, or both?Speak? or else I’ll—SPEAK!’ The stranger answered, ‘My kerlonial oath!’
‘Now, look here,’ exclamed the captain to the stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—suppose the Bleeders let you come and join the push,Would you smash a bleedin’ bobby if you got the blank alone?Would you break a swell or Chinkie—split his garret with a stone?Would you have a “moll” to keep yer—like to swear off work for good?’‘Yes, my oath!’ replied the stranger. ‘My kerlonial oath! I would!’
‘Now, look here,’ exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush,‘Now, look here—before the Bleeders let yer come and join the push,You must prove that you’re a blazer—you must prove that you have gritWorthy of a Gory Bleeder—you must show your form a bit—Take a rock and smash that winder?’ and the stranger, nothing loth,Took the rock and—smash! They only muttered ‘My kerlonial oath!’
So they swore him in, and found him sure of aim and light of heel,And his only fault, if any, lay in his excessive zeal;He was good at throwing metal, but we chronicle with painThat he jumped upon a victim, damaging the watch and chain,Ere the Bleeders had secured them; yet the captain of the pushSwore a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush.
Late next morn the captain, rising, hoarse and thirsty from his lair,Called the newly-feather’d Bleeder, but the stranger wasn’t there!Quickly going through the pockets of his ‘bloomin’ bags,’ he learnedThat the stranger had been through him for the stuff his ‘moll’ had earned;And the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell(Stars! and notes of exclamation!! blank and dash will do as well).
In the night the captain’s signal woke the echoes of the ‘Rocks,’Brought the Gory Bleeders sloping thro’ the shadows of the blocks;And they swore the stranger’s action was a blood-escaping shame,While they waited for the nameless, but the nameless never came.And the Bleeders soon forgot him; but the captain of the pushStill is ‘laying’ round, in ballast, for the nameless ‘from the bush.’