Eurunderee

 There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not,
 On the desolate flats where gaunt appletrees rot.
 Where the brooding old ridge rises up to the breeze
 From his dark lonely gullies of stringy-bark trees,
 There are voice-haunted gaps, ever sullen and strange,
 But Eurunderee lies like a gem in the range.

 Still I see in my fancy the dark-green and blue
 Of the box-covered hills where the five-corners grew;
 And the rugged old sheoaks that sighed in the bend
 O'er the lily-decked pools where the dark ridges end,
 And the scrub-covered spurs running down from the Peak
 To the deep grassy banks of Eurunderee Creek.

 On the knolls where the vineyards and fruit-gardens are
 There's a beauty that even the drought cannot mar;
 For I noticed it oft, in the days that are lost,
 As I trod on the siding where lingered the frost,
 When the shadows of night from the gullies were gone
 And the hills in the background were flushed by the dawn.

 I was there in late years, but there's many a change
 Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range,
 For the curse of the town with the railroad had come,
 And the goldfields were dead.  And the girl and the chum
 And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak
 Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek.

 And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold,
 When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold,
 And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks,
 Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks;
 For the years waste away like the waters that leak
 Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek.

Mount Bukaroo

 Only one old post is standing —
  Solid yet, but only one —
 Where the milking, and the branding,
  And the slaughtering were done.
 Later years have brought dejection,
  Care, and sorrow; but we knew
 Happy days on that selection
  Underneath old Bukaroo.

 Then the light of day commencing
  Found us at the gully's head,
 Splitting timber for the fencing,
  Stripping bark to roof the shed.
 Hands and hearts the labour strengthened;
  Weariness we never knew,
 Even when the shadows lengthened
  Round the base of Bukaroo.

 There for days below the paddock
  How the wilderness would yield
 To the spade, and pick, and mattock,
  While we toiled to win the field.
 Bronzed hands we used to sully
  Till they were of darkest hue,
 'Burning off' down in the gully
  At the back of Bukaroo.

 When we came the baby brother
  Left in haste his broken toys,
 Shouted to the busy mother:
  'Here is dadda and the boys!'
 Strange it seems that she was able
  For the work that she would do;
 How she'd bustle round the table
  In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!

 When the cows were safely yarded,
  And the calves were in the pen,
 All the cares of day discarded,
  Closed we round the hut-fire then.
 Rang the roof with boyish laughter
  While the flames o'er-topped the flue;
 Happy days remembered after —
  Far away from Bukaroo.

 But the years were full of changes,
  And a sorrow found us there;
 For our home amid the ranges
  Was not safe from searching Care.
 On he came, a silent creeper;
  And another mountain threw
 O'er our lives a shadow deeper
  Than the shade of Bukaroo.

 All the farm is disappearing;
  For the home has vanished now,
 Mountain scrub has choked the clearing,
  Hid the furrows of the plough.
 Nearer still the scrub is creeping
  Where the little garden grew;
 And the old folks now are sleeping
  At the foot of Bukaroo.

The Fire at Ross's Farm

 The squatter saw his pastures wide
  Decrease, as one by one
 The farmers moving to the west
  Selected on his run;
 Selectors took the water up
  And all the black soil round;
 The best grass-land the squatter had
  Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.

 Now many schemes to shift old Ross
  Had racked the squatter's brains,
 But Sandy had the stubborn blood
  Of Scotland in his veins;
 He held the land and fenced it in,
  He cleared and ploughed the soil,
 And year by year a richer crop
  Repaid him for his toil.

 Between the homes for many years
  The devil left his tracks:
 The squatter pounded Ross's stock,
  And Sandy pounded Black's.
 A well upon the lower run
  Was filled with earth and logs,
 And Black laid baits about the farm
  To poison Ross's dogs.

 It was, indeed, a deadly feud
  Of class and creed and race;
 But, yet, there was a Romeo
  And a Juliet in the case;
 And more than once across the flats,
  Beneath the Southern Cross,
 Young Robert Black was seen to ride
  With pretty Jenny Ross.

 One Christmas time, when months of drought
  Had parched the western creeks,
 The bush-fires started in the north
  And travelled south for weeks.
 At night along the river-side
  The scene was grand and strange —
 The hill-fires looked like lighted streets
  Of cities in the range.

 The cattle-tracks between the trees
  Were like long dusky aisles,
 And on a sudden breeze the fire
  Would sweep along for miles;
 Like sounds of distant musketry
  It crackled through the brakes,
 And o'er the flat of silver grass
  It hissed like angry snakes.

 It leapt across the flowing streams
  And raced o'er pastures broad;
 It climbed the trees and lit the boughs
  And through the scrubs it roared.
 The bees fell stifled in the smoke
  Or perished in their hives,
 And with the stock the kangaroos
  Went flying for their lives.

 The sun had set on Christmas Eve,
  When, through the scrub-lands wide,
 Young Robert Black came riding home
  As only natives ride.
 He galloped to the homestead door
  And gave the first alarm:
 'The fire is past the granite spur,
  'And close to Ross's farm.'

 'Now, father, send the men at once,
  They won't be wanted here;
 Poor Ross's wheat is all he has
  To pull him through the year.'
 'Then let it burn,' the squatter said;
  'I'd like to see it done —
 I'd bless the fire if it would clear
  Selectors from the run.

 'Go if you will,' the squatter said,
  'You shall not take the men —
 Go out and join your precious friends,
  And don't come here again.'
 'I won't come back,' young Robert cried,
  And, reckless in his ire,
 He sharply turned his horse's head
  And galloped towards the fire.

 And there, for three long weary hours,
  Half-blind with smoke and heat,
 Old Ross and Robert fought the flames
  That neared the ripened wheat.
 The farmer's hand was nerved by fears
  Of danger and of loss;
 And Robert fought the stubborn foe
  For the love of Jenny Ross.

 But serpent-like the curves and lines
  Slipped past them, and between,
 Until they reached the bound'ry where
  The old coach-road had been.
 'The track is now our only hope,
  There we must stand,' cried Ross,
 'For nought on earth can stop the fire
  If once it gets across.'

 Then came a cruel gust of wind,
  And, with a fiendish rush,
 The flames leapt o'er the narrow path
  And lit the fence of brush.
 'The crop must burn!' the farmer cried,
  'We cannot save it now,'
 And down upon the blackened ground
  He dashed the ragged bough.

 But wildly, in a rush of hope,
  His heart began to beat,
 For o'er the crackling fire he heard
  The sound of horses' feet.
 'Here's help at last,' young Robert cried,
  And even as he spoke
 The squatter with a dozen men
  Came racing through the smoke.

 Down on the ground the stockmen jumped
  And bared each brawny arm,
 They tore green branches from the trees
  And fought for Ross's farm;
 And when before the gallant band
  The beaten flames gave way,
 Two grimy hands in friendship joined —
  And it was Christmas Day.

The Teams

 A cloud of dust on the long white road,
  And the teams go creeping on
 Inch by inch with the weary load;
 And by the power of the green-hide goad
  The distant goal is won.

 With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,
  And necks to the yokes bent low,
 The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;
 And the shining tires might almost rust
  While the spokes are turning slow.

 With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat
  That shades from the heat's white waves,
 And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait,
 The driver plods with a gait like that
  Of his weary, patient slaves.

 He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,
  And spits to the left with spite;
 He shouts at 'Bally', and flicks at 'Scot',
 And raises dust from the back of 'Spot',
  And spits to the dusty right.

 He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form
  In front of a settler's door,
 And ask for a drink, and remark 'It's warm,
 Or say 'There's signs of a thunder-storm';
  But he seldom utters more.

 But the rains are heavy on roads like these;
  And, fronting his lonely home,
 For weeks together the settler sees
 The teams bogged down to the axletrees,
  Or ploughing the sodden loam.

 And then when the roads are at their worst,
  The bushman's children hear
 The cruel blows of the whips reversed
 While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,
  And bellow with pain and fear.

 And thus with little of joy or rest
  Are the long, long journeys done;
 And thus — 'tis a cruel war at the best —
 Is distance fought in the mighty West,
  And the lonely battles won.

Cameron's Heart

 The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came,
 With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson 'at hame';
 He read me his recommendations — he called them a part of his plant —
 The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt.
 The meenister called him 'ungodly — a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord',
 And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, 'a rebel at hame and abroad'.

 He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same);
 That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name.
 He was straight and he stuck to his country
   and spoke with respect of his kirk;
 He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work.
 And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent,
 Was sure of a lecture — and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.

 He shunned all the girls in the camp,
   and they said he was proof to the dart —
 That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart;
 He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last,
 And — well, 'tis a very old story — the story of Cameron's past:
 A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl,
 A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.

      .    .    .    .    .

 It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean
 Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine.
 The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full,
 Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull.
 He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart,
 I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.

 One day I was working below — I was filling the bucket with clay,
 When Alister cried, 'Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.'
 He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until
 It reached the first log on the top,
   where it suddenly stopped, and hung still.
 I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me:
 'Climb up for your life by the footholes.
   I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE — OR DEE!'

 And those were the last words he uttered.
   He groaned, for I heard him quite plain —
 There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain.
 The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath,
 But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death.
 And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate,
 And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.

 I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim,
 When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him?
 He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate —
 His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate;
 He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart,
 And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.

The Shame of Going Back

 When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt,
 And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault —
 When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack,
 There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back;
     Crawling home with empty pockets,
     Going back hard-up;
 Oh! it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.

 When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone,
 And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known;
 When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black,
 There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back.

 When we've fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the wall,
 'Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of us all;
 And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack,
 And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.

 When a beaten man's discovered with a bullet in his brain,
 They POST-MORTEM him, and try him, and they say he was insane;
 But it very often happens that he'd lately got the sack,
 And his onward move was owing to the shame of going back.

 Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense, and your upper lip is curled,
 I can see that you have never worked your passage through the world;
 But when fortune rounds upon you and the rain is on the track,
 You will learn the bitter meaning of the shame of going back;
     Going home with empty pockets,
     Going home hard-up;
 Oh, you'll taste the bitter poison in humiliation's cup.

Since Then

 I met Jack Ellis in town to-day —
     Jack Ellis — my old mate, Jack —
 Ten years ago, from the Castlereagh,
 We carried our swags together away
     To the Never-Again, Out Back.

 But times have altered since those old days,
     And the times have changed the men.
 Ah, well! there's little to blame or praise —
 Jack Ellis and I have tramped long ways
     On different tracks since then.

 His hat was battered, his coat was green,
     The toes of his boots were through,
 But the pride was his!  It was I felt mean —
 I wished that my collar was not so clean,
     Nor the clothes I wore so new.

 He saw me first, and he knew 'twas I —
     The holiday swell he met.
 Why have we no faith in each other?  Ah, why? —
 He made as though he would pass me by,
     For he thought that I might forget.

 He ought to have known me better than that,
     By the tracks we tramped far out —
 The sweltering scrub and the blazing flat,
 When the heat came down through each old felt hat
     In the hell-born western drought.

 The cheques we made and the shanty sprees,
     The camps in the great blind scrub,
 The long wet tramps when the plains were seas,
 And the oracles worked in days like these
     For rum and tobacco and grub.

 Could I forget how we struck 'the same
     Old tale' in the nearer West,
 When the first great test of our friendship came —
 But — well, there's little to praise or blame
     If our mateship stood the test.

 'Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) —
     'Tails!' and a friendly oath;
 We loved her fair, we had much to learn —
 And each was stabbed to the heart in turn
     By the girl who — loved us both.

 Or the last day lost on the lignum plain,
     When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead,
 With a burning throat and a tortured brain;
 And the tank when we came to the track again
     Was seventeen miles ahead.

 Then life seemed finished — then death began
     As down in the dust I sank,
 But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can,
 Till I heard him saying, 'Bear up, old man!'
     In the shade by the mulga tank.

      .    .    .    .    .

 He took my hand in a distant way
     (I thought how we parted last),
 And we seemed like men who have nought to say
 And who meet — 'Good-day', and who part — 'Good-day',
     Who never have shared the past.

 I asked him in for a drink with me —
     Jack Ellis — my old mate, Jack —
 But his manner no longer was careless and free,
 He followed, but not with the grin that he
     Wore always in days Out Back.

 I tried to live in the past once more —
     Or the present and past combine,
 But the days between I could not ignore —
 I couldn't help notice the clothes he wore,
     And he couldn't but notice mine.

 He placed his glass on the polished bar,
     And he wouldn't fill up again;
 For he is prouder than most men are —
 Jack Ellis and I have tramped too far
     On different tracks since then.

 He said that he had a mate to meet,
     And 'I'll see you again,' said he,
 Then he hurried away through the crowded street
 And the rattle of buses and scrape of feet
     Seemed suddenly loud to me.

 And I almost wished that the time were come
     When less will be left to Fate —
 When boys will start on the track from home
 With equal chances, and no old chum
     Have more or less than his mate.

Peter Anderson and Co.

 He had offices in Sydney, not so many years ago,
 And his shingle bore the legend 'Peter Anderson and Co.',
 But his real name was Careless, as the fellows understood —
 And his relatives decided that he wasn't any good.
 'Twas their gentle tongues that blasted any 'character' he had —
 He was fond of beer and leisure — and the Co. was just as bad.
 It was limited in number to a unit, was the Co. —
 'Twas a bosom chum of Peter and his Christian name was Joe.

 'Tis a class of men belonging to these soul-forsaken years:
 Third-rate canvassers, collectors, journalists and auctioneers.
 They are never very shabby, they are never very spruce —
 Going cheerfully and carelessly and smoothly to the deuce.
 Some are wanderers by profession, 'turning up' and gone as soon,
 Travelling second-class, or steerage (when it's cheap they go saloon);
 Free from 'ists' and 'isms', troubled little by belief or doubt —
 Lazy, purposeless, and useless — knocking round and hanging out.
 They will take what they can get, and they will give what they can give,
 God alone knows how they manage — God alone knows how they live!
 They are nearly always hard-up, but are cheerful all the while —
 Men whose energy and trousers wear out sooner than their smile!
 They, no doubt, like us, are haunted by the boresome 'if' or 'might',
 But their ghosts are ghosts of daylight — they are men who live at night!

 Peter met you with the comic smile of one who knows you well,
 And is mighty glad to see you, and has got a joke to tell;
 He could laugh when all was gloomy, he could grin when all was blue,
 Sing a comic song and act it, and appreciate it, too.
 Only cynical in cases where his own self was the jest,
 And the humour of his good yarns made atonement for the rest.
 Seldom serious — doing business just as 'twere a friendly game —
 Cards or billiards — nothing graver.  And the Co. was much the same.

 They tried everything and nothing 'twixt the shovel and the press,
 And were more or less successful in their ventures — mostly less.
 Once they ran a country paper till the plant was seized for debt,
 And the local sinners chuckle over dingy copies yet.

 They'd been through it all and knew it in the land of Bills and Jims —
 Using Peter's own expression, they had been in 'various swims'.
 Now and then they'd take an office, as they called it, — make a dash
 Into business life as 'agents' — something not requiring cash.
 (You can always furnish cheaply, when your cash or credit fails,
 With a packing-case, a hammer, and a pound of two-inch nails —
 And, maybe, a drop of varnish and sienna, too, for tints,
 And a scrap or two of oilcloth, and a yard or two of chintz).
 They would pull themselves together, pay a week's rent in advance,
 But it never lasted longer than a month by any chance.

 The office was their haven, for they lived there when hard-up —
 A 'daily' for a table cloth — a jam tin for a cup;
 And if the landlord's bailiff happened round in times like these
 And seized the office-fittings — well, there wasn't much to seize —
 They would leave him in possession.  But at other times they shot
 The moon, and took an office where the landlord knew them not.
 And when morning brought the bailiff there'd be nothing to be seen
 Save a piece of bevelled cedar where the tenant's plate had been;
 There would be no sign of Peter — there would be no sign of Joe
 Till another portal boasted 'Peter Anderson and Co.'

 And when times were locomotive, billiard-rooms and private bars —
 Spicy parties at the cafe — long cab-drives beneath the stars;
 Private picnics down the Harbour — shady campings-out, you know —
 No one would have dreamed 'twas Peter —
   no one would have thought 'twas Joe!
 Free-and-easies in their 'diggings', when the funds began to fail,
 Bosom chums, cigars, tobacco, and a case of English ale —
 Gloriously drunk and happy, till they heard the roosters crow —
 And the landlady and neighbours made complaints about the Co.
 But that life! it might be likened to a reckless drinking-song,
 For it can't go on for ever, and it never lasted long.

      .    .    .    .    .

 Debt-collecting ruined Peter — people talked him round too oft,
 For his heart was soft as butter (and the Co.'s was just as soft);
 He would cheer the haggard missus, and he'd tell her not to fret,
 And he'd ask the worried debtor round with him to have a wet;
 He would ask him round the corner, and it seemed to him and her,
 After each of Peter's visits, things were brighter than they were.
 But, of course, it wasn't business — only Peter's careless way;
 And perhaps it pays in heaven, but on earth it doesn't pay.
 They got harder up than ever, and, to make it worse, the Co.
 Went more often round the corner than was good for him to go.

 'I might live,' he said to Peter, 'but I haven't got the nerve —
 I am going, Peter, going — going, going — no reserve.
 Eat and drink and love they tell us, for to-morrow we may die,
 Buy experience — and we bought it — we're experienced, you and I.'
 Then, with a weary movement of his hand across his brow:
 'The death of such philosophy's the death I'm dying now.
 Pull yourself together, Peter; 'tis the dying wish of Joe
 That the business world shall honour Peter Anderson and Co.

 'When you feel your life is sinking in a dull and useless course,
 And begin to find in drinking keener pleasure and remorse —
 When you feel the love of leisure on your careless heart take holt,
 Break away from friends and pleasure, though it give your heart a jolt.
 Shun the poison breath of cities — billiard-rooms and private bars,
 Go where you can breathe God's air and see the grandeur of the stars!
 Find again and follow up the old ambitions that you had —
 See if you can raise a drink, old man, I'm feelin' mighty bad —
 Hot and sweetened, nip o' butter — squeeze o' lemon, Pete,' he sighed.
 And, while Peter went to fetch it, Joseph went to sleep — and died
 With a smile — anticipation, maybe, of the peace to come,
 Or a joke to try on Peter — or, perhaps, it was the rum.

      .    .    .    .    .

 Peter staggered, gripped the table, swerved as some old drunkard swerves —
 At a gulp he drank the toddy, just to brace his shattered nerves.
 It was awful, if you like.  But then he hadn't time to think —
 All is nothing!  Nothing matters!  Fill your glasses — dead man's drink.

      .    .    .    .    .

 Yet, to show his heart was not of human decency bereft,
 Peter paid the undertaker.  He got drunk on what was left;
 Then he shed some tears, half-maudlin, on the grave where lay the Co.,
 And he drifted to a township where the city failures go.
 Where, though haunted by the man he was, the wreck he yet might be,
 Or the man he might have been, or by each spectre of the three,
 And the dying words of Joseph, ringing through his own despair,
 Peter 'pulled himself together' and he started business there.

 But his life was very lonely, and his heart was very sad,
 And no help to reformation was the company he had —
 Men who might have been, who had been, but who were not in the swim —
 'Twas a town of wrecks and failures — they appreciated him.
 They would ask him who the Co. was — that queer company he kept —
 And he'd always answer vaguely — he would say his partner slept;
 That he had a 'sleeping partner' — jesting while his spirit broke —
 And they grinned above their glasses, for they took it as a joke.
 He would shout while he had money, he would joke while he had breath —
 No one seemed to care or notice how he drank himself to death;
 Till at last there came a morning when his smile was seen no more —
 He was gone from out the office, and his shingle from the door,
 And a boundary-rider jogging out across the neighb'ring run
 Was attracted by a something that was blazing in the sun;
 And he found that it was Peter, lying peacefully at rest,
 With a bottle close beside him and the shingle on his breast.
 Well, they analysed the liquor, and it would appear that he
 Qualified his drink with something good for setting spirits free.
 Though 'twas plainly self-destruction — ''twas his own affair,' they said;
 And the jury viewed him sadly, and they found — that he was dead.