Trooper Campbell

 One day old Trooper Campbell
  Rode out to Blackman's Run,
 His cap-peak and his sabre
  Were glancing in the sun.
 'Twas New Year's Eve, and slowly
  Across the ridges low
 The sad Old Year was drifting
  To where the old years go.

 The trooper's mind was reading
  The love-page of his life —
 His love for Mary Wylie
  Ere she was Blackman's wife;
 He sorrowed for the sorrows
  Of the heart a rival won,
 For he knew that there was trouble
  Out there on Blackman's Run.

 The sapling shades had lengthened,
  The summer day was late,
 When Blackman met the trooper
  Beyond the homestead gate.
 And if the hand of trouble
  Can leave a lasting trace,
 The lines of care had come to stay
  On poor old Blackman's face.

 'Not good day, Trooper Campbell,
  It's a bad, bad day for me —
 You are of all the men on earth
  The one I wished to see.
 The great black clouds of trouble
  Above our homestead hang;
 That wild and reckless boy of mine
  Has joined M'Durmer's gang.

 'Oh! save him, save him, Campbell!
  I beg in friendship's name!
 For if they take and hang him,
  The wife would die of shame.
 Could Mary or her sisters
  Hold up their heads again,
 And face a woman's malice
  Or claim the love of men?

 'And if he does a murder
  'Twere better we were dead.
 Don't take him, Trooper Campbell,
  If a price be on his head;
 But shoot him! shoot him, Campbell,
  When you meet him face to face,
 And save him from the gallows,
  And us from that disgrace.'

 'Now, Tom,' cried Trooper Campbell,
  'You know your words are wild.
 Though he is wild and reckless,
  Yet still he is your child;
 So bear up in your trouble,
  And meet it like a man,
 And tell the wife and daughters
  I'll save him if I can.'

      .    .    .    .    .

 The sad Australian sunset
  Had faded from the west;
 But night brings darker shadows
  To hearts that cannot rest;
 And Blackman's wife sat rocking
  And moaning in her chair.
 'I cannot bear disgrace,' she moaned;
  'Disgrace I cannot bear.

 'In hardship and in trouble
  I struggled year by year
 To make my children better
  Than other children here.
 And if my son's a felon
  How can I show my face?
 I cannot bear disgrace; my God,
  I cannot bear disgrace!

 'Ah, God in Heaven pardon!
  I'm selfish in my woe —
 My boy is better-hearted
  Than many that I know.
 And I will face the world's disgrace,
  And, till his mother's dead,
 My foolish child shall find a place
  To lay his outlawed head.'

      .    .    .    .    .

 With a sad heart Trooper Campbell
  Rode back from Blackman's Run,
 Nor noticed aught about him
  Till thirteen miles were done;
 When, close beside a cutting,
  He heard the click of locks,
 And saw the rifle muzzles
  Were on him from the rocks.

 But suddenly a youth rode out,
  And, close by Campbell's side:
 'Don't fire! don't fire, in heaven's name!
  It's Campbell, boys!' he cried.
 Then one by one in silence
  The levelled rifles fell,
 For who'd shoot Trooper Campbell
  Of those who knew him well?

 Oh, bravely sat old Campbell,
  No sign of fear showed he.
 He slowly drew his carbine;
  It rested by his knee.
 The outlaws' guns were lifted,
  But none the silence broke,
 Till steadfastly and firmly
  Old Trooper Campbell spoke.

 'That boy that you would ruin
  Goes home with me, my men;
 Or some of us shall never
  Ride through the Gap again.
 You know old Trooper Campbell,
  And have you ever heard
 That bluff or lead could turn him,
  That e'er he broke his word?

 'That reckless lad is playing
  A heartless villain's part;
 He knows that he is breaking
  His poor old mother's heart.
 He'll bring a curse upon himself;
  But 'tis not that alone,
 He'll bring dishonour to a name
  That I'D be proud to own.

 'I speak to you, M'Durmer, —
  If your heart's not hardened quite,
 And if you'd seen the trouble
  At Blackman's home this night,
 You'd help me now, M'Durmer —
  I speak as man to man —
 I swore to save that foolish lad,
  And I'll save him if I can.'

 'Oh, take him!' said M'Durmer,
  'He's got a horse to ride.'
 The youngster thought a moment,
  Then rode to Campbell's side —
 'Good-bye!' the outlaws shouted,
  As up the range they sped.
 'A Merry New Year, Campbell,'
  Was all M'Durmer said.

      .    .    .    .    .

 Then fast along the ridges
  Two bushmen rode a race,
 And the moonlight lent a glory
  To Trooper Campbell's face.
 And ere the new year's dawning
  They reached the home at last;
 And this is but a story
  Of trouble that is past!

The Sliprails and the Spur

 The colours of the setting sun
  Withdrew across the Western land —
 He raised the sliprails, one by one,
  And shot them home with trembling hand;
 Her brown hands clung — her face grew pale —
  Ah! quivering chin and eyes that brim! —
 One quick, fierce kiss across the rail,
  And, 'Good-bye, Mary!'  'Good-bye, Jim!'

           Oh, he rides hard to race the pain
            Who rides from love, who rides from home;
           But he rides slowly home again,
            Whose heart has learnt to love and roam.

 A hand upon the horse's mane,
  And one foot in the stirrup set,
 And, stooping back to kiss again,
  With 'Good-bye, Mary! don't you fret!
 When I come back' — he laughed for her —
  'We do not know how soon 'twill be;
 I'll whistle as I round the spur —
  You let the sliprails down for me.'

 She gasped for sudden loss of hope,
  As, with a backward wave to her,
 He cantered down the grassy slope
  And swiftly round the dark'ning spur.
 Black-pencilled panels standing high,
  And darkness fading into stars,
 And blurring fast against the sky,
  A faint white form beside the bars.

 And often at the set of sun,
  In winter bleak and summer brown,
 She'd steal across the little run,
  And shyly let the sliprails down.
 And listen there when darkness shut
  The nearer spur in silence deep;
 And when they called her from the hut
  Steal home and cry herself to sleep.

      .    .    .    .    .

 {Some editions have four more lines here.}

           And he rides hard to dull the pain
            Who rides from one that loves him best;
           And he rides slowly back again,
            Whose restless heart must rove for rest.

Past Carin'

 Now up and down the siding brown
  The great black crows are flyin',
 And down below the spur, I know,
  Another 'milker's' dyin';
 The crops have withered from the ground,
  The tank's clay bed is glarin',
 But from my heart no tear nor sound,
  For I have gone past carin' —
     Past worryin' or carin',
     Past feelin' aught or carin';
     But from my heart no tear nor sound,
     For I have gone past carin'.

 Through Death and Trouble, turn about,
  Through hopeless desolation,
 Through flood and fever, fire and drought,
  And slavery and starvation;
 Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
  And nervousness an' scarin',
 Through bein' left alone at night,
  I've got to be past carin'.
     Past botherin' or carin',
     Past feelin' and past carin';
     Through city cheats and neighbours' spite,
     I've come to be past carin'.

 Our first child took, in days like these,
  A cruel week in dyin',
 All day upon her father's knees,
  Or on my poor breast lyin';
 The tears we shed — the prayers we said
  Were awful, wild — despairin'!
 I've pulled three through, and buried two
  Since then — and I'm past carin'.
     I've grown to be past carin',
     Past worryin' and wearin';
     I've pulled three through and buried two
     Since then, and I'm past carin'.

 'Twas ten years first, then came the worst,
  All for a dusty clearin',
 I thought, I thought my heart would burst
  When first my man went shearin';
 He's drovin' in the great North-west,
  I don't know how he's farin';
 For I, the one that loved him best,
  Have grown to be past carin'.
     I've grown to be past carin'
     Past lookin' for or carin';
     The girl that waited long ago,
     Has lived to be past carin'.

 My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
  I've got no heart for breakin',
 But where it was in days gone by,
  A dull and empty achin'.
 My last boy ran away from me,
  I know my temper's wearin',
 But now I only wish to be
  Beyond all signs of carin'.
     Past wearyin' or carin',
     Past feelin' and despairin';
     And now I only wish to be
     Beyond all signs of carin'.

The Glass on the Bar

 Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
 And one of them called for the drinks with a grin;
 They'd only returned from a trip to the North,
 And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.
 He absently poured out a glass of Three Star.
 And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.

 'There, that is for Harry,' he said, 'and it's queer,
 'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;
 His name's on the glass, you can read it like print,
 He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;
 I remember his drink — it was always Three Star' —
 And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.

 He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
 'You were always together — where's Harry?' cried he.
 Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,
 'You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;'
 But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar,
 Said, 'We owe him a shout — leave the glass on the bar.'

 They thought of the far-away grave on the plain,
 They thought of the comrade who came not again,
 They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
 'We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.'
 And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star
 Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.

 And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
 It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;
 And often the strangers will read as they pass
 The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
 And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
 That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.

The Shanty on the Rise

 When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West,
 On a spur among the mountains stood 'The Bullock-drivers' Rest';
 It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside,
 But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died —
 Just a quiet little shanty kept by 'Something-in-Disguise',
 As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.

 City swells who 'do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low,
 But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know;
 For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men,
 And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again.
 You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise,
 With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.

 'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road,
 And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load;
 And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light,
 Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night;
 And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes
 On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.

 And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats
 As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats;
 And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire,
 As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire.
 Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fashioned size,
 When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.

 They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago,
 While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below;
 Poor old Jim was in his glory — they'd elected him M.C.,
 For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he.
 'Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise,
 As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.

 There is little real pleasure in the city where I am —
 There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham;
 But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls
 In a party up the country with the jolly country girls.
 Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies,
 When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.

 Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, 'Go along!'
 But he shouted, 'Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!'
 And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too,
 Till the girls began to whisper, 'Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!'
 So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies,
 And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.

 Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went
 For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his tent;
 Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn't come, he said,
 But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed;
 And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that Something-in-Disguise
 Had a cure for Joe's lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise.

 Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home,
 'Neath the stars that hung in clusters, near and distant, from the dome;
 And we walked so very silent — being lost in reverie —
 That we heard the settlers'-matches rustle softly on the tree;
 And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet good-byes —
 But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise.

 I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago,
 And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know;
 My old chums are in the distance — some have crossed the border-line,
 But in fancy still their glasses chink against the rim of mine.
 And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies
 In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.

The Vagabond

 White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier
  As we glide to the grand old sea —
 But the song of my heart is for none to hear
  If one of them waves for me.
 A roving, roaming life is mine,
  Ever by field or flood —
 For not far back in my father's line
  Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.

 Flax and tussock and fern,
  Gum and mulga and sand,
 Reef and palm — but my fancies turn
  Ever away from land;
 Strange wild cities in ancient state,
  Range and river and tree,
 Snow and ice.  But my star of fate
  Is ever across the sea.

 A god-like ride on a thundering sea,
  When all but the stars are blind —
 A desperate race from Eternity
  With a gale-and-a-half behind.
 A jovial spree in the cabin at night,
  A song on the rolling deck,
 A lark ashore with the ships in sight,
  Till — a wreck goes down with a wreck.

 A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day,
  When life is a waking dream,
 And care and trouble so far away
  That out of your life they seem.
 A roving spirit in sympathy,
  Who has travelled the whole world o'er —
 My heart forgets, in a week at sea,
  The trouble of years on shore.

 A rolling stone! — 'tis a saw for slaves —
  Philosophy false as old —
 Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves,
  Or rot in your bed of mould!
 But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies
  And the wildest seas that roar,
 Or die, where the stars of Nations rise,
  In the stormy clouds of war.

 Cleave to your country, home, and friends,
  Die in a sordid strife —
 You can count your friends on your finger ends
  In the critical hours of life.
 Sacrifice all for the family's sake,
  Bow to their selfish rule!
 Slave till your big soft heart they break —
  The heart of the family fool.

 Domestic quarrels, and family spite,
  And your Native Land may be
 Controlled by custom, but, come what might,
  The rest of the world for me.
 I'd sail with money, or sail without! —
  If your love be forced from home,
 And you dare enough, and your heart be stout,
  The world is your own to roam.

 I've never a love that can sting my pride,
  Nor a friend to prove untrue;
 For I leave my love ere the turning tide,
  And my friends are all too new.
 The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours,
  With its greed and its treachery —
 A stranger's hand, and a stranger land,
  And the rest of the world for me!

 But why be bitter?  The world is cold
  To one with a frozen heart;
 New friends are often so like the old,
  They seem of the past a part —
 As a better part of the past appears,
  When enemies, parted long,
 Are come together in kinder years,
  With their better nature strong.

 I had a friend, ere my first ship sailed,
  A friend that I never deserved —
 For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed
  As soon as my turn was served.
 And the memory haunts my heart with shame —
  Or, rather, the pride that's there;
 In different guises, but soul the same,
  I meet him everywhere.

 I had a chum.  When the times were tight
  We starved in Australian scrubs;
 We froze together in parks at night,
  And laughed together in pubs.
 And I often hear a laugh like his
  From a sense of humour keen,
 And catch a glimpse in a passing phiz
  Of his broad, good-humoured grin.

 And I had a love — 'twas a love to prize —
  But I never went back again . . .
 I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes
  In many a face since then.

      .    .    .    .    .

 The sailors say 'twill be rough to-night,
  As they fasten the hatches down,
 The south is black, and the bar is white,
  And the drifting smoke is brown.
 The gold has gone from the western haze,
  The sea-birds circle and swarm —
 But we shall have plenty of sunny days,
  And little enough of storm.

 The hill is hiding the short black pier,
  As the last white signal's seen;
 The points run in, and the houses veer,
  And the great bluff stands between.
 So darkness swallows each far white speck
  On many a wharf and quay.
 The night comes down on a restless deck, —
  Grim cliffs — and — The Open Sea!