It's Grand

  It's grand to be a squatter
   And sit upon a post,
  And watch your little ewes and lambs
   A-giving up the ghost.

  It's grand to be a 'cockie'
   With wife and kids to keep,
  And find an all-wise Providence
   Has mustered all your sheep.

  It's grand to be a Western man,
   With shovel in your hand,
  To dig your little homestead out
   From underneath the sand.

  It's grand to be a shearer,
   Along the Darling side,
  And pluck the wool from stinking sheep
   That some days since have died.

  It's grand to be a rabbit
   And breed till all is blue,
  And then to die in heaps because
   There's nothing left to chew.

  It's grand to be a Minister
   And travel like a swell,
  And tell the Central District folk
   To go to — Inverell.

  It's grand to be a Socialist
   And lead the bold array
  That marches to prosperity
   At seven bob a day.

  It's grand to be an unemployed
   And lie in the Domain,
  And wake up every second day
   And go to sleep again.

  It's grand to borrow English tin
   To pay for wharves and Rocks,
  And then to find it isn't in
   The little money-box.

  It's grand to be a democrat
   And toady to the mob,
  For fear that if you told the truth
   They'd hunt you from your job.

  It's grand to be a lot of things
   In this fair Southern land,
  But if the Lord would send us rain,
   That would, indeed, be grand!

Out of Sight

  They held a polo meeting at a little country town,
  And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown.
  There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid
  They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'.

  They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur
  To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure,
  The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight
  The rest would never see him go — he'd finish out of sight.

  So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up,
  Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'.
  The horse was known as 'Who's Afraid', by Panic from 'The Fright'.
  But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight.

  And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence,
  Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence;
  And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right —
  For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'.

The Road to Old Man's Town

  The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
  The wine of youth is strong:
  What need have we to count the hours?
  The summer days are long.

  But soon we find to our dismay
  That we are drifting down
  The barren slopes that fall away
  Towards the foothills grim and grey
  That lead to Old Man's Town.

  And marching with us on the track
  Full many friends we find:
  We see them looking sadly back
  For those that dropped behind.

  But God forbid a fate so dread —
  ALONE to travel down
  The dreary road we all must tread,
  With faltering steps and whitening head,
  The road to Old Man's Town!

The Old Timer's Steeplechase

  The sheep were shorn and the wool went down
   At the time of our local racing:
  And I'd earned a spell — I was burnt and brown —
  So I rolled my swag for a trip to town
   And a look at the steeplechasing.

  'Twas rough and ready — an uncleared course
   As rough as the blacks had found it;
  With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse,
  And a water-jump that would drown a horse,
   And the steeple three times round it.

  There was never a fence the tracks to guard, —
   Some straggling posts defined 'em:
  And the day was hot, and the drinking hard,
  Till none of the stewards could see a yard
   Before nor yet behind 'em!

  But the bell was rung and the nags were out,
   Excepting an old outsider
  Whose trainer started an awful rout,
  For his boy had gone on a drinking bout
   And left him without a rider.

  'Is there not one man in the crowd,' he cried,
   'In the whole of the crowd so clever,
  Is there not one man that will take a ride
  On the old white horse from the Northern side
   That was bred on the Mooki River?'

  'Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow,
   And a cow would look well beside him;
  But I was pluckier then than now
  (And I wanted excitement anyhow),
   So at last I agreed to ride him.

  And the trainer said, 'Well, he's dreadful slow,
   And he hasn't a chance whatever;
  But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show
  A trick or two that the trainers know
   Who train by the Mooki River.

  'The first time round at the further side,
   With the trees and the scrub about you,
  Just pull behind them and run out wide
  And then dodge into the scrub and hide,
   And let them go round without you.

  'At the third time round, for the final spin
   With the pace, and the dust to blind 'em,
  They'll never notice if you chip in
  For the last half-mile — you'll be sure to win,
   And they'll think you raced behind 'em.

  'At the water-jump you may have to swim —
   He hasn't a hope to clear it —
  Unless he skims like the swallows skim
  At full speed over, but not for him!
   He'll never go next or near it.

  'But don't you worry — just plunge across,
   For he swims like a well-trained setter.
  Then hide away in the scrub and gorse
  The rest will be far ahead of course —
   The further ahead the better.

  'You must rush the jumps in the last half-round
   For fear that he might refuse 'em;
  He'll try to baulk with you, I'll be bound,
  Take whip and spurs on the mean old hound,
   And don't be afraid to use 'em.

  'At the final round, when the field are slow
   And you are quite fresh to meet 'em,
  Sit down, and hustle him all you know
  With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go —
   Remember, you've GOT to beat 'em!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  The flag went down and we seemed to fly,
   And we made the timbers shiver
  Of the first big fence, as the stand flashed by,
  And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry:
   'Go on!  For the Mooki River!'

  I jammed him in with a well-packed crush,
   And recklessly — out for slaughter —
  Like a living wave over fence and brush
  We swept and swung with a flying rush,
   Till we came to the dreaded water.

  Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think
   Of the way I contrived to work it.
  Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink,
  He found himself on the water's brink,
   With never a chance to shirk it!

  The thought of the horror he felt, beguiles
   The heart of this grizzled rover!
  He gave a snort you could hear for miles,
  And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles
   And carried me safely over!

  Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back
   In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver:
  And I waited there in the shadows black
  While the rest of the horses, round the track,
   Went on like a rushing river!

  At the second round, as the field swept by,
   I saw that the pace was telling;
  But on they thundered, and by-and-bye
  As they passed the stand I could hear the cry
   Of the folk in the distance, yelling!

  Then the last time round!  And the hoofbeats rang!
   And I said, 'Well, it's now or never!'
  And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,
  And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang
   As I rode!  For the Mooki River!

  We raced for home in a cloud of dust
   And the curses rose in chorus.
  'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!
  And The Cow ran well — but to my disgust
   There was one got home before us.

  'Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen
   In the part of the race I'd ridden;
  And his coat was cool and his rider clean,
  And I thought that perhaps I had not been
   The only one that had hidden.

       .    .    .    .    .

  And the trainer came with a visage blue
   With rage, when the race concluded:
  Said he, 'I thought you'd have pulled us through,
  But the man on the black horse planted too,
   AND NEARER TO HOME THAN YOU DID!'

  Alas to think that those times so gay
   Have vanished and passed for ever!
  You don't believe in the yarn you say?
  Why, man!  'Twas a matter of every day
   When we raced on the Mooki River!

In the Stable

  What!  You don't like him; well, maybe — we all have our fancies, of course:
  Brumby to look at you reckon?  Well, no:  he's a thoroughbred horse;
  Sired by a son of old Panic — look at his ears and his head —
  Lop-eared and Roman-nosed, ain't he? — well, that's how the Panics are bred.
  Gluttonous, ugly and lazy, rough as a tip-cart to ride,
  Yet if you offered a sovereign apiece for the hairs on his hide
  That wouldn't buy him, nor twice that; while I've a pound to the good,
  This here old stager stays by me and lives like a thoroughbred should:
  Hunt him away from his bedding, and sit yourself down by the wall,
  Till you hear how the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Gilbert and Hall and O'Maley, back in the bushranging days,
  Made themselves kings of the district — ruled it in old-fashioned ways —
  Robbing the coach and the escort, stealing our horses at night,
  Calling sometimes at the homesteads and giving the women a fright:
  Came to the station one morning — and why they did this no one knows —
  Took a brood mare from the paddock — wanting some fun, I suppose —
  Fastened a bucket beneath her, hung by a strap round her flank,
  Then turned her loose in the timber back of the seven-mile tank.

  Go!  She went mad!  She went tearing
    and screaming with fear through the trees,
  While the curst bucket beneath her was banging her flanks and her knees.
  Bucking and racing and screaming she ran to the back of the run,
  Killed herself there in a gully; by God, but they paid for their fun!
  Paid for it dear, for the black-boys found tracks, and the bucket, and all,
  And I swore that I'd live to get even with Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall.

  Day after day then I chased them — 'course they had friends on the sly,
  Friends who were willing to sell them to those who were willing to buy.
  Early one morning we found them in camp at the Cockatoo Farm
  One of us shot at O'Maley and wounded him under the arm:
  Ran them for miles in the ranges, till Hall, with his horse fairly beat,
  Took to the rocks and we lost him — the others made good their retreat.
  It was war to the knife then, I tell you, and once, on the door of my shed,
  They nailed up a notice that offered a hundred reward for my head!

  Then we heard they were gone from the district;
    they stuck up a coach in the West,
  And I rode by myself in the paddocks, taking a bit of a rest,
  Riding this colt as a youngster — awkward, half-broken and shy,
  He wheeled round one day on a sudden; I looked, but I couldn't see why,
  But I soon found out why, for before me, the hillside rose up like a wall,
  And there on the top with their rifles were Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

  'Twas a good three-mile run to the homestead —
    bad going, with plenty of trees —
  So I gathered the youngster together, and gripped at his ribs with my knees.
  'Twas a mighty poor chance to escape them!  It puts a man's nerve to the test
  On a half-broken colt to be hunted by the best mounted men in the West.
  But the half-broken colt was a racehorse!  He lay down to work with a will,
  Flashed through the scrub like a clean-skin —
    by Heavens we FLEW down the hill!
  Over a twenty-foot gully he swept with the spring of a deer
  And they fired as we jumped, but they missed me —
    a bullet sang close to my ear —
  And the jump gained us ground, for they shirked it:
    but I saw as we raced through the gap
  That the rails at the homestead were fastened —
    I was caught like a rat in a trap.
  Fenced with barbed wire was the paddock —
    barbed wire that would cut like a knife —
  How was a youngster to clear it that never had jumped in his life?

  Bang went a rifle behind me — the colt gave a spring, he was hit;
  Straight at the sliprails I rode him — I felt him take hold of the bit;
  Never a foot to the right or the left did he swerve in his stride,
  Awkward and frightened, but honest, the sort it's a pleasure to ride!
  Straight at the rails, where they'd fastened
    barbed wire on the top of the post,
  Rose like a stag and went over, with hardly a scratch at the most;
  Into the homestead I darted, and snatched down my gun from the wall,
  And I tell you I made them step lively, Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

  Yes!  There's the mark of the bullet — he's got it inside of him yet
  Mixed up somehow with his victuals, but bless you he don't seem to fret!
  Gluttonous, ugly, and lazy — eats any thing he can bite;
  Now, let us shut up the stable, and bid the old fellow good-night:
  Ah!  We can't breed 'em, the sort that were bred when we old 'uns were young.
  Yes, I was saying, these bushrangers, none of 'em lived to be hung,
  Gilbert was shot by the troopers, Hall was betrayed by his friend,
  Campbell disposed of O'Maley, bringing the lot to an end.
  But you can talk about riding — I've ridden a lot in the past —
  Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast!
  I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses',
    but I think the most dashing of all
  Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!

"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep"

  The long day passes with its load of sorrow:
   In slumber deep
  I lay me down to rest until to-morrow —
   Thank God for sleep.

  Thank God for all respite from weary toiling,
   From cares that creep
  Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling
   God's kindly sleep.

  We plough and sow, and, as the hours grow later,
   We strive to reap,
  And build our barns, and hope to build them greater
   Before we sleep.

  We toil and strain and strive with one another
   In hopes to heap
  Some greater share of profit than our brother
   Before we sleep.

  What will it profit that with tears or laughter
   Our watch we keep?
  Beyond it all there lies the Great Hereafter!
   Thank God for sleep!

  For, at the last, beseeching Christ to save us,
   We turn with deep
  Heart-felt thanksgiving unto God, who gave us
   The Gift of Sleep.

Driver Smith

  'Twas Driver Smith of Battery A was anxious to see a fight;
  He thought of the Transvaal all the day, he thought of it all the night —
  'Well, if the battery's left behind, I'll go to the war,' says he,
  'I'll go a-driving an ambulance in the ranks of the A.M.C.

  'I'm fairly sick of these here parades, it's want of a change that kills
  A-charging the Randwick Rifle Range and aiming at Surry Hills.
  And I think if I go with the ambulance I'm certain to find a show,
  For they have to send the Medical men wherever the troops can go.

  'Wherever the rifle bullets flash and the Maxims raise a din,
  It's there you'll find the Medical men a-raking the wounded in —
  A-raking 'em in like human flies — and a driver smart like me
  Will find some scope for his extra skill in the ranks of the A.M.C.'

  So Driver Smith he went to the war a-cracking his driver's whip,
  From ambulance to collecting base they showed him his regular trip.
  And he said to the boys that were marching past, as he gave his whip a crack,
  'You'll walk yourselves to the fight,' says he —
    'Lord spare me, I'll drive you back.'

  Now, the fight went on in the Transvaal hills for the half of a day or more,
  And Driver Smith he worked his trip — all aboard for the seat of war!
  He took his load from the stretcher men and hurried 'em homeward fast
  Till he heard a sound that he knew full well — a battery rolling past.

  He heard the clink of the leading chains and the roll of the guns behind —
  He heard the crack of the drivers' whips,
    and he says to 'em, 'Strike me blind,
  I'll miss me trip with this ambulance, although I don't care to shirk,
  But I'll take the car off the line to-day and follow the guns at work.'

  Then up the Battery Colonel came a-cursing 'em black in the face.
  'Sit down and shift 'em, you drivers there, and gallop 'em into place.'
  So off the Battery rolled and swung, a-going a merry dance,
  And holding his own with the leading gun goes Smith with his ambulance.

  They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large,
  When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge;
  They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right,
  And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight.

  The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight,
  For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight;
  But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way,
  Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray.

  He saw the head of the Transvaal troop a-thundering to and fro,
  A hard old face with a monkey beard — a face that he seemed to know;
  'Now, who's that leader,' said Driver Smith, 'I've seen him before to-day.
  Why, bless my heart, but it's Kruger's self,'
    and he jumped for him straight away.

  He collared old Kruger round the waist and hustled him into the van.
  It wasn't according to stretcher drill for raising a wounded man;
  But he forced him in and said, 'All aboard, we're off for a little ride,
  And you'll have the car to yourself,' says he, 'I reckon we're full inside.'

  He wheeled his team on the mountain side and set 'em a merry pace,
  A-galloping over the rocks and stones, and a lot of the Boers gave chase;
  But Driver Smith had a fairish start, and he said to the Boers, 'Good-day,
  You have Buckley's chance for to catch a man that was trained in Battery A.'

  He drove his team to the hospital and said to the P.M.O.,
  'Beg pardon, sir, but I missed a trip, mistaking the way to go;
  And Kruger came to the ambulance and asked could we spare a bed,
  So I fetched him here, and we'll take him home to show for a bob a head.'

  So the word went round to the English troops to say they need fight no more,
  For Driver Smith with his ambulance had ended the blooming war:
  And in London now at the music halls he's starring it every night,
  And drawing a hundred pounds a week to tell how he won the fight.