A Disqualified Jockey's Story

  You see, the thing was this way — there was me,
  That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare,
  And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook,
  And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret,
  And that long bloke from Wagga — him what rode
  Veronikew, the Snowy River horse.
  Well, none of them had chances — not a chance
  Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead
  Or wasn't trying — for a blind man's dog
  Could see Enchantress was a certain cop,
  And all the books was layin' six to four.

  They brought her out to show our lot the road,
  Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know,
  You can't believe 'em, though they took an oath
  On forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth.
  But anyhow, an amateur was up
  On this Enchantress, and so Ike and me,
  We thought that we might frighten him a bit
  By asking if he minded riding rough —
  'Oh, not at all,' says he, 'oh, not at all!
  I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comes
  To bumping I'm your Moses!  Strike me blue!'
  Says he, 'I'll bump you over either rail,
  The inside rail or outside — which you choose
  Is good enough for me' — which settled Ike;
  For he was shaky since he near got killed
  From being sent a buster on the rail,
  When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down
  At Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it best
  To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.

  So all the books was layin' six to four
  Against the favourite, and the amateur
  Was walking this Enchantress up and down,
  And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought
  We might as well get something for ourselves,
  Because we knew our horses couldn't win.
  But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob;
  Because he said he reckoned he was stiff,
  And all the books was layin' six to four.

  Well, anyhow, before the start, the news
  Got round that this here amateur was stiff,
  And our good stuff was blued, and all the books
  Was in it, and the prices lengthened out,
  And every book was bustin' of his throat,
  And layin' five to one the favourite.
  So there was we that couldn't win ourselves,
  And this here amateur that wouldn't try,
  And all the books was layin' five to one.

  So Smithy says to me, 'You take a hold
  Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn
  Come up behind Enchantress with the whip
  And let her have it; that long bloke and me
  Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us
  We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight,
  And Ikey'll flog her home, because his boss
  Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what,
  And so he won't be touched — and, as for us,
  We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!'
  And all the books was layin' five to one.

  Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn
  I saw the amateur was holding back
  And poking into every hole he could
  To get her blocked, and so I pulled behind
  And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare —
  I let her have it twice, and then she shot
  Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out
  And let her up beside him on the rails,
  And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke
  Until she struggled past him pullin' hard
  And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip
  And hit her on the nose and sent her back
  And won the race himself — for, after all,
  It seems he had a fiver on the Dook
  And never told us — so our stuff was lost.
  And then they had us up for ridin' foul,
  And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each,
  To get our livin' any way we could;
  But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss
  Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what.

  But Mister — if you'll lend us half-a-crown,
  I know three certain winners at the Park —
  Three certain cops as no one knows but me;
  And — thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer
  (I always like a beer about this time) . . .
  Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.

The Road to Gundagai

  The mountain road goes up and down,
  From Gundagai to Tumut Town.

  And branching off there runs a track,
  Across the foothills grim and black,

  Across the plains and ranges grey
  To Sydney city far away.

       .    .    .    .    .

  It came by chance one day that I
  From Tumut rode to Gundagai.

  And reached about the evening tide
  The crossing where the roads divide;

  And, waiting at the crossing place,
  I saw a maiden fair of face,

  With eyes of deepest violet blue,
  And cheeks to match the rose in hue —

  The fairest maids Australia knows
  Are bred among the mountain snows.

  Then, fearing I might go astray,
  I asked if she could show the way.

  Her voice might well a man bewitch —
  Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.

  'The tracks are clear,' she made reply,
  'And this goes down to Sydney town,
  And that one goes to Gundagai.'

  Then slowly, looking coyly back,
  She went along the Sydney track.

  And I for one was well content
  To go the road the lady went;

  But round the turn a swain she met —
  The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!

       .    .    .    .    .

  I turned and travelled with a sigh
  The lonely road to Gundagai.

Saltbush Bill's Second Fight

  The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large,
  That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge,
  Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh;
  And the squatters swore when they heard the news,
    and wished they were well away:
  For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country side
  For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep,
    and the dodges and tricks he tried.
  He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route,
    and stray to the squatters' grass;
  He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass;
  And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew,
  If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through:
  But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill,
  And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill.

       .    .    .    .    .

  'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring,
  When he stared at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with jaunty swing;
  For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track
  Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back.
  So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut,
    and asked could he camp the night;
  But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and he said to him, 'Can you fight?'
  'Why, what's the game?' said the clean-shaved tramp,
    as he looked at him up and down —
  'If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown!
  But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me, it wouldn't be fair nor right;
  I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight:
  I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm a trampin' back,
  To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track ——'
  'Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap,' said Stingy Smith with glee;
  'A bullying fellow, called Saltbush Bill — and you are the man for me.
  He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row,
  For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow —
  Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard,
  And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard.
  It's a five-pound job if you belt him well — do anything short of kill,
  For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill.'

  'I'll take the job,' said the fighting man; 'and hot as this cove appears,
  He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me,
    what's lived on the game for years;
  For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so,
  But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show;
  They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds,
    and they tried for it every night —
  In a ten-foot ring!  Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight,
  For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line;
  And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine:
  If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait
  Till an opening came — and it ALWAYS came — and I settled 'em, sure as fate;
  Left on the ribs and right on the jaw —
    and, when the chance comes, MAKE SURE!
  And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur:
  For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours,
  That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs ——'
  'Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut,'
    said Smith, 'for you waste your breath;
  You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight,
    of talking your man to death.
  I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill,
  And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way
  On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run,
    on their six-mile stage a day;
  And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along,
  And, when Stingy Smith came up, Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong;
  And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed
    and strayed from their camp at night,
  But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight:
  So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground
    and never a sound was heard
  But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word,
  Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout,
  And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow — and Saltbush Bill 'went out'.
  He fell face down, and towards the blow;
    and their hearts with fear were filled,
  For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed.
  So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground,
  And sent to home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round;
  But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt —
    in fact, he could scarcely speak —
  So they let him spell till he got his wits, and he camped on the run a week,
  While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray,
  Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man:
  'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran:
  'The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name;
  He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game:
  But it's worth your while to employ the chap,
    for there isn't the slightest doubt
  You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about ——'
  But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal:
  'The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all!
  He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look;
  He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook.
  Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn, and taught him the tale by rote,
  And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass
    and divided your five-pound note.
  'Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise —
    'twill save you a lot of pelf —
  When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself.'

       .    .    .    .    .

  And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain,
  And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black soil plain,
  When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool,
  And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull,
  When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses them while he flogs,
  And the air is thick with the language used,
    and the clamour of men and dogs —
  The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat,
  They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith
    when he read that neighbour's note.

Hard Luck

  I left the course, and by my side
   There walked a ruined tout —
  A hungry creature evil-eyed,
   Who poured this story out.

  'You see,' he said, 'there came a swell
   To Kensington to-day,
  And if I picked the winners well,
   A crown at least he'd pay.

  'I picked three winners straight, I did,
   I filled his purse with pelf,
  And then he gave me half-a-quid,
   To back one for myself.

  'A half-a-quid to me he cast,
   I wanted it indeed.
  So help me Bob, for two days past
   I haven't had a feed.

  'But still I thought my luck was in,
   I couldn't go astray,
  I put it all on Little Min,
   And lost it straightaway.

  'I haven't got a bite or bed,
   I'm absolutely stuck,
  So keep this lesson in your head:
   Don't over-trust your luck!'

  The folks went homeward, near and far,
   The tout, Oh! where was he?
  Ask where the empty boilers are,
   Beside the Circular Quay.

Song of the Federation

  As the nations sat together, grimly waiting —
   The fierce old nations battle-scarred —
  Grown grey in their lusting and their hating,
   Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard,
  Through the tumult of their warlike preparation
   And the half-stilled clamour of the drums
  Came a voice crying, 'Lo! a new-made nation,
   To her place in the sisterhood she comes!'

  And she came — she was beautiful as morning,
   With the bloom of the roses in her mouth,
  Like a young queen lavishly adorning
   Her charms with the splendours of the South.
  And the fierce old nations, looking on her,
   Said, 'Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown,
  Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her,
   Hath she power to protect and guard her own?

  Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringing
   In the ears of the nations old and gray,
  Saying, 'Hark, and ye shall hear my children singing
   Their war-song in countries far away.
  They are strangers to the tumult of the battle,
   They are few but their hearts are very strong,
  'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle,
   But they now sing Australia's marching song.'

           Song of the Australians in Action

       For the honour of Australia, our mother,
        Side by side with our kin from over sea,
       We have fought and we have tested one another,
        And enrolled among the brotherhood are we.

       There was never post of danger but we sought it
        In the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood.
       There was never prize so costly but we bought it,
        Though we paid for its purchase with our blood.

       Was there any road too rough for us to travel?
        Was there any path too far for us to tread?
       You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel
        On the roads that we milestoned with our dead!

       And for you, oh our young and anxious mother,
        O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward,
       Neither fearing nor despising any other,
        We will hold your possessions with the sword.

            .    .    .    .    .

  Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping,
   The grey-clad figures with their dead,
  To the sound of their women softly weeping
   And the Dead March moaning at their head:
  And the Nations, as the grim procession ended,
   Whispered, 'Child!  But ye have seen the price we pay,
  From War may we ever be defended,
   Kneel ye down, new-made Sister — Let us Pray!'

The Old Australian Ways

  The London lights are far abeam
   Behind a bank of cloud,
  Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
   The gale is piping loud;
  And down the Channel, groping blind,
   We drive her through the haze
  Towards the land we left behind —
  The good old land of 'never mind',
   And old Australian ways.

  The narrow ways of English folk
   Are not for such as we;
  They bear the long-accustomed yoke
   Of staid conservancy:
  But all our roads are new and strange,
   And through our blood there runs
  The vagabonding love of change
  That drove us westward of the range
   And westward of the suns.

  The city folk go to and fro
   Behind a prison's bars,
  They never feel the breezes blow
   And never see the stars;
  They never hear in blossomed trees
   The music low and sweet
  Of wild birds making melodies,
  Nor catch the little laughing breeze
   That whispers in the wheat.

  Our fathers came of roving stock
   That could not fixed abide:
  And we have followed field and flock
   Since e'er we learnt to ride;
  By miner's camp and shearing shed,
   In land of heat and drought,
  We followed where our fortunes led,
  With fortune always on ahead
   And always further out.

  The wind is in the barley-grass,
   The wattles are in bloom;
  The breezes greet us as they pass
   With honey-sweet perfume;
  The parakeets go screaming by
   With flash of golden wing,
  And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry
  Their long-drawn note of revelry,
   Rejoicing at the Spring.

  So throw the weary pen aside
   And let the papers rest,
  For we must saddle up and ride
   Towards the blue hill's breast;
  And we must travel far and fast
   Across their rugged maze,
  To find the Spring of Youth at last,
  And call back from the buried past
   The old Australian ways.

  When Clancy took the drover's track
   In years of long ago,
  He drifted to the outer back
   Beyond the Overflow;
  By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
   With stockwhip in his hand,
  He reached at last, oh lucky elf,
  The Town of Come-and-help-yourself
   In Rough-and-ready Land.

  And if it be that you would know
   The tracks he used to ride,
  Then you must saddle up and go
   Beyond the Queensland side —
  Beyond the reach of rule or law,
   To ride the long day through,
  In Nature's homestead — filled with awe
  You then might see what Clancy saw
   And know what Clancy knew.