An Answer to Various Bards

  Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
  Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin,
  With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp,
  How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp;
  And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom,
  But you know they're fond of writing about “corpses” and “the tomb”.
  So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range,
  And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change.

  Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson—well, of course, we almost cried
  At the sorrowful description how his “little 'Arvie” died,
  And we lachrymosed in silence when “His Father's Mate” was slain;
  Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again.
  Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire,
  And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire;
  So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan
  Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own.

  And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat,
  When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street;
  But the shearer chaps who start it—why, he rounds on them in blame,
  And he calls 'em “agitators” who are living on the game.
  But I “over-write” the bushmen!  Well, I own without a doubt
  That I always see a hero in the “man from furthest out”.
  I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom,
  And a bushman never struck me as a subject for “the tomb”.

  If it ain't all “golden sunshine” where the “wattle branches wave”,
  Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all “lonely grave”.
  And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough,
  But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff;
  Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down,
  Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town,
  For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills
  While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills.

  Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch,
  And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch.
  For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar
  And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar;
  And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears,
  To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years,
  When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day,
  And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of “Wool away!”

  Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set—
  And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret.
  But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back
  To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack,
  And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall,
  And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush-life after all.
  But we'll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun,
  For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done.

  There's a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels,
  And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals.
  For to hang around the townships suits us better, you'll agree,
  And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we.
  Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push
  Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush;
  And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer,
  And we'll slip across to England—it's a nicer place than here;

  For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store,
  And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more.
  But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it's time to say good-bye,
  We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I;
  So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may,
  And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day,
  And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars,
  And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars.

T.Y.S.O.N.

  Across the Queensland border line
   The mobs of cattle go;
  They travel down in sun and shine
   On dusty stage, and slow.
  The drovers, riding slowly on
   To let the cattle spread,
  Will say:  “Here's one old landmark gone,
   For old man Tyson's dead.”

  What tales there'll be in every camp
   By men that Tyson knew;
  The swagmen, meeting on the tramp,
   Will yarn the long day through,
  And tell of how he passed as “Brown”,
   And fooled the local men:
  “But not for me—I struck the town,
  And passed the message further down;
   That's T.Y.S.O.N.!”

  There stands a little country town
   Beyond the border line,
  Where dusty roads go up and down,
   And banks with pubs combine.
  A stranger came to cash a cheque—
   Few were the words he said—
  A handkerchief about his neck,
   An old hat on his head.

  A long grey stranger, eagle-eyed—
   “Know me?  Of course you do?”
   “It's not my work,” the boss replied,
   “To know such tramps as you.”
   “Well, look here, Mister, don't be flash,”
    Replied the stranger then,
  “I never care to make a splash,
  I'm simple—but I've got the cash,
   I'm T.Y.S.O.N.”

  But in that last great drafting-yard,
   Where Peter keeps the gate,
  And souls of sinners find it barred,
   And go to meet their fate,
  There's one who ought to enter in,
   For good deeds done on earth;
  Such deeds as merit ought to win,
   Kind deeds of sterling worth.

  Not by the strait and narrow gate,
   Reserved for wealthy men,
  But through the big gate, opened wide,
  The grizzled figure, eagle-eyed,
   Will travel through—and then
  Old Peter'll say:  “We pass him through;
  There's many a thing he used to do,
  Good-hearted things that no one knew;
   That's T.Y.S.O.N.”
 

As Long as your Eyes are Blue

  Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
   And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
  When the charms of youth shall have passed away,
   Will your love as of old prove true?

  For the looks may change, and the heart may range,
   And the love be no longer fond;
  Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth
   And away to the years beyond?

  Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
   And the blush on your cheek that lies—
  But I love you most for the kindly heart
   That I see in your sweet blue eyes.

  For the eyes are signs of the soul within,
   Of the heart that is leal and true,
  And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
   Just as long as your eyes are blue.

  For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
   May be reft of their golden hue;
  But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
   Just as long as your eyes are blue.

Bottle-O!

  I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;
   I drives me bottle cart around the town;
  A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob—
   I couldn't bear to graft for every brown.
  There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard,
   There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro,
  And little dogs what comes and barks—we take 'em off their guard
   And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!

              Chorus—

      So it's any “Empty bottles!  Any empty bottle-O!”
       You can hear us round for a half a mile or so.
       And you'll see the women rushing
       To take in the Monday's washing
      When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!”

  I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes,
   A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me,
  An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose;
   I stops the cart and walks across to see.
  “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;”
    “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know
  What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge,
   If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!”

  I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me
   We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay.
  Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea
   And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away.
  But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”,
   There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw:
  But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap”
    There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O!

The Story of Mongrel Grey

  This is the story the stockman told,
   On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright;
  The moon rose up like a globe of gold
   And flooded the plain with her mellow light.
      We watched the cattle till dawn of day
      And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.

       .    .    .    .    .

  He was a knock-about station hack,
   Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat;
  Ridden all day with a sore on his back,
   Left all night with nothing to eat.
      That was a matter of every-day
      Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey.

  We might have sold him, but someone heard
   He was bred out back on a flooded run,
  Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,—
   Midnight or midday were all as one.
      In the flooded ground he could find his way,
      Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey.

  'Tis a special gift that some horses learn;
   When the floods are out they will splash along
  In girth-deep water, and twist and turn
   From hidden channel and billabong.
      Never mistaking the road to go,
      For a man may guess—but the horses know.

  I was camping out with my youngest son—
   Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak—
  In an empty hut on the lower run,
   Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek.
      The youngster toddled about all day,
      And with our horses was Mongrel Grey.

  All of a sudden the flood came down
   Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain,
  Roaring and eddying, rank and brown,
   Over the flats and across the plain.
      Rising and rising—at fall of night
      Nothing but water appeared in sight!

  'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out,
   Even in daylight; for all around
  Channels and billabongs twist about,
   Stretching for miles in the flooded ground.
      And to move was a hopeless thing to try
      In the dark with the water just racing by.

  I had to try it.  I heard a roar,
   And the wind swept down with the blinding rain;
  And the water rose till it reached the floor
   Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain
      The way the water was sweeping down
      We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown.

  Off to the stable I splashed, and found
   The horses shaking with cold and fright;
  I led them down to the lower ground,
   But never a yard would they swim that night!
      They reared and snorted and turned away,
      And none would face it but Mongrel Grey.

  I bound the child on the horse's back,
   And we started off with a prayer to heaven,
  Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black,
   For I knew that the instinct God has given
      To guide His creatures by night and day
      Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey.

  He struck deep water at once and swam—
   I swam beside him and held his mane—
  Till we touched the bank of the broken dam
   In shallow water—then off again,
      Swimming in darkness across the flood,
      Rank with the smell of the drifting mud.

  He turned and twisted across and back,
   Choosing the places to wade or swim,
  Picking the safest and shortest track,
   The pitchy darkness was clear to him.
      Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell?
      The Lord that led him alone could tell!

  He dodged the timber whene'er he could,
   But the timber brought us to grief at last;
  I was partly stunned by a log of wood,
   That struck my head as it drifted past;
      And I lost my grip of the brave old grey,
      And in half a second he swept away.

  I reached a tree, where I had to stay,
   And did a perish for two days hard;
  And lived on water—but Mongrel Grey,
   He walked right into the homestead yard
      At dawn next morning, and grazed around,
      With the child on top of him safe and sound.

  We keep him now for the wife to ride,
   Nothing too good for him now, of course;
  Never a whip on his fat old hide,
   For she owes the child to that old grey horse.
      And not Old Tyson himself could pay
      The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.

Gilhooley's Estate

      (A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.)

  Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes,
   As most of us do, soon or late;
  And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows,
   So they took him Gilhooley's Estate.

  Gilhooley in life had been living so free
   'Twas thought his possessions were great,
  So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee
   For me in Gilhooley's Estate.”

  They made out a list of his property fine,
   It totalled a thousand-and-eight;
  But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine—
   The debts of Gilhooley's Estate.

  So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, my dear man,
   My childer have little to ait:
  Just keep the expenses as low as you can
   Against poor Gilhooley's Estate.”

  But Jones says, “The will isn't clear in its terms,
   I fear it will need some debate,
  And the law won't allow me (attorneys are worms)
   To appear in Gilhooley's Estate.”

  So a barrister-man, with a wig on his head,
   And a brief in his hand quite elate,
  Went up to the Court where they bury the dead,
   Just to move in Gilhooley's Estate.

  But his Honor the Judge said, “I think that the joint
   Legatees must be called to probate—
  Ex parte Pokehorney is clear on the point—
   The point of Gilhooley's Estate.

  “I order a suit to be brought just to try
   If this is correct that I state—
  A nice friendly suit, and the costs, by and by,
   Must be borne by Gilhooley's Estate.”

  So Mrs. Gilhooley says, “Jones, you'll appear!
   Thim barristers' fees is too great;
  The suit is but friendly.”  “Attorneys, my dear,
   Can't be heard in Gilhooley's Estate.”

  From the Barristers' Court there's a mighty hurrah
   Arises both early and late:
  It's only the whoop of the Junior Bar
   Dividing Gilhooley's Estate.

The Road to Hogan's Gap

  Now look, you see, it's this way like,
   You cross the broken bridge
  And run the crick down till you strike
   The second right-hand ridge.

  The track is hard to see in parts,
   But still it's pretty clear;
  There's been two Injin hawkers' carts
   Along that road this year.

  Well, run that right-hand ridge along—
   It ain't, to say, too steep—
  There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong
   Where blokes went out with sheep.

  But keep the crick upon your right,
   And follow pretty straight
  Along the spur, until you sight
   A wire and sapling gate.

  Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare
   Fell off and broke her back;
  You'll see her carcase layin' there,
   Jist down below the track.

  And then you drop two mile, or three,
   It's pretty steep and blind;
  You want to go and fall a tree
   And tie it on behind.

  And then you pass a broken cart
   Below a granite bluff;
  And that is where you strike the part
   They reckon pretty rough.

  But by the time you've got that far
   It's either cure or kill,
  So turn your horses round the spur
   And face 'em up the hill.

  For look, if you should miss the slope
   And get below the track,
  You haven't got the whitest hope
   Of ever gettin' back.

  An' half way up you'll see the hide
   Of Hogan's brindled bull;
  Well, mind and keep the right-hand side,
   The left's too steep a pull.

  And both the banks is full of cracks;
   An' just about at dark
  You'll see the last year's bullock tracks
   Where Hogan drew the bark.

  The marks is old and pretty faint
   And grown with scrub and such;
  Of course the track to Hogan's ain't
   A road that's travelled much.

  But turn and run the tracks along
   For half a mile or more,
  And then, of course, you can't go wrong—
   You're right at Hogan's door.

  When first you come to Hogan's gate
   He mightn't show, perhaps;
  He's pretty sure to plant and wait
   To see it ain't the traps.

  I wouldn't call it good enough
   To let your horses out;
  There's some that's pretty extra rough
   Is livin' round about.

  It's likely if your horses did
   Get feedin' near the track,
  It's goin' to cost at least a quid
   Or more to get them back.

  So, if you find they're off the place,
   It's up to you to go
  And flash a quid in Hogan's face—
   He'll know the blokes that know.

  But listen, if you're feelin' dry,
   Just see there's no one near,
  And go and wink the other eye
   And ask for ginger beer.

  The blokes come in from near and far
   To sample Hogan's pop;
  They reckon once they breast the bar
   They stay there till they drop.

  On Sundays you can see them spread
   Like flies around the tap.
  It's like that song “The Livin' Dead”
    Up there at Hogan's Gap.

  They like to make it pretty strong
   Whenever there's a charnce;
  So when a stranger comes along
   They always holds a darnce.

  There's recitations, songs, and fights—
   A willin' lot you'll meet.
  There's one long bloke up there recites,
   I tell you—he's a treat.

  They're lively blokes all right up there,
   It's never dull a day.
  I'd go meself if I could spare
   The time to get away.

       .    .    .    .    .

  The stranger turned his horses quick.
   He didn't cross the bridge;
  He didn't go along the crick
   To strike the second ridge;

  He didn't make the trip, because
   He wasn't feeling fit.
  His business up at Hogan's was
   To serve him with a writ.

  He reckoned if he faced the pull
   And climbed the rocky stair,
  The next to come might find his hide
  A land-mark on the mountain side,
  Along with Hogan's brindled bull
   And Hogan's old grey mare!