Mulga Bill's Bicycle

  'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
  He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
  He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
  He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
  And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
  The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?'

  'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea,
  From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
  I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
  Although I'm not the one to talk — I HATE a man that blows.
  But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
  Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.
  There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
  There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
  But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
  I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.'

  'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
  That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
  He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
  But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
  It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
  It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek.

  It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
  The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
  The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
  As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
  It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
  It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
  And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
  It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

  'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
  He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
  I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet,
  But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
  I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
  To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
  It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
  A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.'

The Pearl Diver

  Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee,
  Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea,
  Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously.

  Over the pearl-grounds, the lugger drifted — a little white speck:
  Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', holding the life-line on deck,
  Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check.

  Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one,
  Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none;
  Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun.

  Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye:
  This was his formula always, 'All man go dead by-and-bye —
  S'posing time come no can help it — s'pose time no come, then no die.'

  Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five;
  Down where by law and by reason, men are forbidden to dive;
  Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive:

  Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go,
  Forcing the air down that reached him heated, and tainted, and slow —
  Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below;

  Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain;
  Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain:
  Sailed once again to the Darnleys — laughed and descended again!

       .    .    .    .    .

  Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch;
  Always the take was so little, always the labour so much;
  Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch,

  Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay,
  Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day:
  But the lumbering Dutch, with their gunboats, hunted the divers away.

  Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', finding the profits grow small,
  Said, 'Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul!
  If we get caught, go to prison — let them take lugger and all!'

  Kanzo Makame, the diver — knowing full well what it meant —
  Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content,
  Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went.

  Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton,
  Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun,
  When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun.

  Once that the diver was sighted pearl-shell and lugger must go.
  Joe Nagasaki decided — quick was the word and the blow —
  Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below!

  Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand,
  Pulled the 'haul up' on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand;
  Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand.

  Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', smiling a sanctified smile,
  Headed her straight for the gunboat — throwing out shells all the while —
  Then went aboard and reported, 'No makee dive in three mile!

  'Dress no have got and no helmet — diver go shore on the spree;
  Plenty wind come and break rudder — lugger get blown out to sea:
  Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  So the Dutch let him go, and they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran,
  Doubting him much, but what would you?  You have to be sure of your man
  Ere you wake up that nest-full of hornets — the little brown men of Japan.

  Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread,
  Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead:
  Joe Nagasaki, his 'tender', is owner and diver instead.

  Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can,
  These are the risks of the pearling — these are the ways of Japan,
  'Plenty more Japanee diver, plenty more little brown man!'

The City of Dreadful Thirst

  The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke —
  'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
  But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
  A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.

  'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm —
  Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm —
  We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
  When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,

  'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
  They mostly bring a Bogan shower — three rain-drops and some dust;
  But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think
  That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!"

  'There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust — we'd heard of them before,
  And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war":
  But — if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst —
  That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.

  'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
  It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
  And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
  To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.

  'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
  We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst.
  The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
  They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.

  'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
  Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side
  Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
  Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead!

  'We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room,
  And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom.
  The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again,
  But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.

  'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie,
  But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die.
  But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work
  Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.

  'But when you see those clouds about — like this one over here —
  All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer,
  It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst
  You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half;
  He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff;
  'I joined some friends last night,' he said, 'in what THEY called a spree;
  But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.'

  And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red,
  And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead,
  The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line,
  That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.

Saltbush Bill's Gamecock

  'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town;
  He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down;
  He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard:
  For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard.
  He bore no malice to Stingy Smith — 'twas simply the hand of fate
  That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate;
  And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt,
  It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out.
  So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall,
  Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall.

  'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft,
  Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft;
  And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame
  As breeder of champion fighting cocks — his 'forte' was the British Game.
  The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall
  Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all.
  Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die,
    his fowls were his sole delight;
  He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight.
  He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin;
  In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win!
  The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock;
  The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock;
  For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all —
  And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall.

       .    .    .    .    .

  'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep,
  And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep —
  A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came —
  'A drover has an Australian Bird to match with your British Game.'
  'Twas done, and done in a half a trice; a five-pound note aside;
  Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried.
  'Steel spurs, of course?' said old Rooster Hall;
    'you'll need 'em, without a doubt!'
  'You stick the spurs on your bird!' said Bill, 'but mine fights best without.'
  'Fights best without?' said old Rooster Hall; 'he can't fight best unspurred!
  You must be crazy!'  But Saltbush Bill said, 'Wait till you see my bird!'
  So Rooster Hall to his fowlyard went, and quickly back he came,
  Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game.
  With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumpet call,
  He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall.
  Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with word to his cronies two,
  McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo.
  Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court,
  With Father D. as a picker-up — a regular all-round Sport!
  They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came,
  Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game;
  They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before —
  Old Rooster Hall was a blithesome man, when he thought of the treat in store.
  They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene,
  Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen.

  'Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill,
    'and wait till you see the fight;
  There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare —
    there's game-fowl stew to-night!
  For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred;
  And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird.
  I've made a match that our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock,
  But he's game enough, and it's many a mile
    that he's tramped with the travelling stock.'
  The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard,
  Under the dray, in the shadows hid, a something moved and stirred:
  A great tame Emu strutted out.  Said Saltbush, 'Here's our bird!'
  But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word.

  The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall
  Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all.
  For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault,
  That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault
  On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard,
  Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird;
  And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried,
  Remarked, 'Discharged with a clean discharge — the assault was justified!'

Hay and Hell and Booligal

  'You come and see me, boys,' he said;
  'You'll find a welcome and a bed
   And whisky any time you call;
  Although our township hasn't got
  The name of quite a lively spot —
   You see, I live in Booligal.

  'And people have an awful down
  Upon the district and the town —
   Which worse than hell itself they call;
  In fact, the saying far and wide
  Along the Riverina side
   Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal".

  'No doubt it suits 'em very well
  To say it's worse than Hay or Hell,
   But don't you heed their talk at all;
  Of course, there's heat — no one denies —
  And sand and dust and stacks of flies,
   And rabbits, too, at Booligal.

  'But such a pleasant, quiet place,
  You never see a stranger's face —
   They hardly ever care to call;
  The drovers mostly pass it by;
  They reckon that they'd rather die
   Than spend a night in Booligal.

  'The big mosquitoes frighten some —
  You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum —
   And snakes about the township crawl;
  But shearers, when they get their cheque,
  They never come along and wreck
   The blessed town of Booligal.

  'But down in Hay the shearers come
  And fill themselves with fighting-rum,
   And chase blue devils up the wall,
  And fight the snaggers every day,
  Until there is the deuce to pay —
   There's none of that in Booligal.

  'Of course, there isn't much to see —
  The billiard-table used to be
   The great attraction for us all,
  Until some careless, drunken curs
  Got sleeping on it in their spurs,
   And ruined it, in Booligal.

  'Just now there is a howling drought
  That pretty near has starved us out —
   It never seems to rain at all;
  But, if there SHOULD come any rain,
  You couldn't cross the black-soil plain —
   You'd have to stop in Booligal.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!'  With bated breath
  We prayed that both in life and death
   Our fate in other lines might fall:
  'Oh, send us to our just reward
  In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord,
   Deliver us from Booligal!'

A Walgett Episode

  The sun strikes down with a blinding glare,
   The skies are blue and the plains are wide,
  The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare
   By Walgett out on the Barwon side —
  The Barwon river that wanders down
  In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.

  There came a stranger — a 'Cockatoo' —
   The word means farmer, as all men know
  Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo
   Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow
  Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence
  As he watches the lambkins passing hence.

  The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown,
   But it soon appeared that he meant to flout
  The iron law of the country town,
   Which is — that the stranger has got to shout:
  'If he will not shout we must take him down,'
  Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.

  They baited a trap with a crafty bait,
   With a crafty bait, for they held discourse
  Concerning a new chum who of late
   Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse;
  They would wager that no one could ride him down
  The length of the city of Walgett Town.

  The stranger was born on a horse's hide;
   So he took the wagers, and made them good
  With his hard-earned cash — but his hopes they died,
   For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! —
  'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down
  Full many a stranger in Walgett Town.

  The stranger smiled with a sickly smile —
   'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins —
  And he said he had travelled for quite a while
   In trying to sell some marsupial skins.
  'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down,
  You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!'

  He said that his home was at Wingadee,
   At Wingadee where he had for sale
  Some fifty skins and would guarantee
   They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail
  Complete, and he sold them for money down
  To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town.

  Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf,
   'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose:
  You can fetch them in when it suits yourself,
   And you'll find the skins — on the kangaroos!'
  Then he left — and the silence settled down
  Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.