A Singer of the Bush

  There is waving of grass in the breeze
   And a song in the air,
  And a murmur of myriad bees
   That toil everywhere.
  There is scent in the blossom and bough,
   And the breath of the Spring
  Is as soft as a kiss on a brow—
   And Spring-time I sing.

  There is drought on the land, and the stock
   Tumble down in their tracks
  Or follow—a tottering flock—
   The scrub-cutter's axe.
  While ever a creature survives
   The axes shall swing;
  We are fighting with fate for their lives—
   And the combat I sing.

“Shouting” for a Camel

  It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator,
   Who was going down the township just to make a bit o' chink,
  Went off to hire a camel from a camel propagator,
   And the Afghan said he'd lend it if he'd stand the beast a drink.
  Yes, the only price he asked him was to stand the beast a drink.
   He was cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.

  So the mining speculator made the bargain, proudly thinking
   He had bested old Mahomet, he had done him in the eye.
  Then he clambered on the camel, and the while the beast was drinking
   He explained with satisfaction to the miners standing by
  That 'twas cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.

  But the camel kept on drinking and he filled his hold with water,
   And the more he had inside him yet the more he seemed to need;
  For he drank it by the gallon, and his girths grew taut and tauter,
   And the miners muttered softly, “Yes, he's very dry indeed!
  But he's cheap, very cheap, as the dromedaries go.”

  So he drank up twenty buckets—it was weird to watch him suck it,
   (And the market price for water was per bucket half-a-crown)
  Till the speculator stopped him, saying, “Not another bucket—
   If I give him any more there'll be a famine in the town.
  Take him back to old Mahomet, and I'll tramp it through the town.”
    He was cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go.

  There's a moral to this story—in your hat you ought to paste it,
   Be careful whom you shout for when a camel is about,
  And there's plenty human camels who, before they'll see you waste it,
   Will drink up all you pay for if you're fool enough to shout;
  If you chance to strike a camel when you're fool enough to shout,
   You'll be cheap, very cheap, as the speculators go.

The Lost Drink

  I had spent the night in the watch-house—
   My head was the size of three—
  So I went and asked the chemist
   To fix up a drink for me;
  And he brewed it from various bottles
   With soda and plenty of ice,
  With something that smelt like lemon,
   And something that seemed like spice.

  It fell on my parching palate
   Like the dew on a sun-baked plain,
  And my system began to flourish
   Like the grass in a soft spring rain;
  It wandered throughout my being,
   Suffusing my soul with rest,
  And I felt as I “scoffed” that liquid
   That life had a new-found zest.

  I have been on the razzle-dazzle
   Full many a time since then
  But I never could get the chemist
   To brew me that drink again.
  He says he's forgotten the notion—
   'Twas only by chance it came—
  He's tried me with various liquids
   But oh! they are not the same.

  We have sought, but we sought it vainly,
   That one lost drink divine;
  We have sampled his various bottles,
   But somehow they don't combine:
  Yet I know when I cross the River
   And stand on the Golden Shore
  I shall meet with an angel-chemist
   Who'll brew me that drink once more.

Mulligan's Mare

  Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place
  To drink and to fight, and to gamble and race;
  The height of choice spirits from near and from far
  Were all concentrated on Mulligan's bar.

  There was “Jerry the Swell”, and the jockey-boy Ned,
  “Dog-bite-me”—so called from the shape of his head—
  And a man whom the boys, in their musical slang,
  Designed as the “Gaffer of Mulligan's Gang”.

  Now Mulligan's Gang had a racer to show,
  A bad 'un to look at, a good 'un to go;
  Whenever they backed her you safely might swear
  She'd walk in a winner, would Mulligan's mare.

  But Mulligan, having some radical views,
  Neglected his business and got on the booze;
  He took up with runners—a treacherous troop—
  Who gave him away and he “fell in the soup”.

  And so it turned out on a fine summer day,
  A bailiff turned up with a writ of “fi. fa.”;
  He walked to the bar with a manner serene,
  “I levy,” said he, “in the name of the Queen.”

  Then Mulligan wanted, in spite of the law,
  To pay out the bailiff with “one on the jaw”;
  He drew out to hit him, but, ere you could wink,
  He changed his intentions and stood him a drink.

  A great consultation there straightway befel
  'Twixt jockey-boy Neddy and Jerry the Swell,
  And the man with the head, who remarked “Why, you bet!
  Dog-bite-me!” said he, “but we'll diddle 'em yet.

  “We'll slip out the mare from her stall in a crack,
  And put in her place the old broken-down hack;
  The hack is so like her, I'm ready to swear
  The bailiff will think he has Mulligan's mare.

  “So out with the racer and in with the screw,
  We'll show him what Mulligan's talent can do;
  And if he gets nasty and dares to say much,
  I'll knock him as stiff as my grandmother's crutch.”

  Then off to the town went the mare and the lad;
  The bailiff came out, never dreamt he was “had”;
  But marched to the stall with a confident air—
  “I levy,” said he, “upon Mulligan's mare.”

  He watched her by day and he watched her by night,
  She was never an instant let out of his sight,
  For races were coming away in the West
  And Mulligan's mare had a chance with the best.

  “Here's a chance,” thought the bailiff, “to serve my own ends,
  I'll send off a wire to my bookmaking friends:
  Get all you can borrow, beg, snavel or snare
  And lay the whole lot against Mulligan's mare.”

  The races came round, and a crowd on the course
  Were laying the mare till they made themselves hoarse,
  And Mulligan's party, with ardour intense,
  They backed her for pounds and for shillings and pence.

  And think of the grief of the bookmaking host
  At the sound of the summons to go to the post—
  For down to the start with her thorough-bred air
  As fit as a fiddle pranced Mulligan's mare!

  They started, and off went the boy to the front,
  He cleared out at once, and he made it a hunt;
  He steadied as rounding the corner they wheeled,
  Then gave her her head and she smothered the field.

  The race put her owner right clear of his debts,
  He landed a fortune in stakes and in bets,
  He paid the old bailiff the whole of his pelf,
  And gave him a hiding to keep for himself.

  So all you bold sportsmen take warning, I pray,
  Keep clear of the running, you'll find it don't pay;
  For the very best rule that you'll hear in a week—
  Is never to bet on a thing that can speak.

  And whether you're lucky or whether you lose,
  Keep clear of the cards and keep clear of the booze,
  And fortune in season will answer your prayer
  And send you a flyer like Mulligan's mare.

The Matrimonial Stakes

  I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall,
   I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat
  When the pony missed his take-off, and we crashed into the wall;
   Well, she simply had to have me after that!

  It awoke a thrill of interest when they pulled me out for dead
   From beneath the shattered ruins of a horse;
  And, although she looked indifferent when I landed—on my head—
   In the water, it appealed to her, of course!

  When I won the Flappers' Flat-race it was “all Sir Garneo”,
   For she praised the way I made my final run.
  And she thought the riding did it—for how could the poor girl know
   That a monkey could have ridden it and won!

  Then they “weighed me in” a winner—it's not often that occurs!
   So I didn't let my golden chances slip,
  For I showed her all the blood-marks where I jabbed him with the spurs,
   And the whip-strokes where I hit him with the whip.

  Then I asked her if she loved me, and she seemed inclined to shirk
   For a moment, so I took her by the head
  (So to speak) and rushed her at it; and she seemed to like the work
   When she kissed me, though she blushed a rosy red.

  She's a mouth as soft as velvet, and she plenty has of heart;
   I could worship every little step she takes;
  And the saddling-bell is ringing, so we're going to the start,
   Certain winners, for the Matrimonial Stakes!

The Mountain Squatter

  Here in my mountain home,
   On rugged hills and steep,
  I sit and watch you come,
   O Riverina Sheep!

  You come from fertile plains
   Where saltbush (sometimes) grows,
  And flats that (when it rains)
   Will blossom like the rose.

  But, when the summer sun
   Gleams down like burnished brass,
  You have to leave your run
   And hustle off for grass.

  'Tis then that—forced to roam—
   You come to where I keep,
  Here in my mountain home,
   A boarding-house for sheep.

  Around me where I sit
   The wary wombat goes—
  A beast of little wit,
   But what he knows, he knows.

  The very same remark
   Applies to me also;
  I don't give out a spark,
   But what I know, I know.

  My brain perhaps would show
   No convolutions deep,
  But anyhow I know
   The way to handle sheep.

  These Riverina cracks,
   They do not care to ride
  The half-inch hanging tracks
   Along the mountain side.

  Their horses shake with fear
   When loosened boulders go,
  With leaps, like startled deer,
   Down to the gulfs below.

  Their very dogs will shirk,
   And drop their tails in fright
  When asked to go and work
   A mob that's out of sight.

  My little collie pup
   Works silently and wide;
  You'll see her climbing up
   Along the mountain side.

  As silent as a fox
   You'll see her come and go,
  A shadow through the rocks
   Where ash and messmate grow.

  Then, lost to sight and sound
   Behind some rugged steep,
  She works her way around
   And gathers up the sheep;

  And, working wide and shy,
   She holds them rounded up.
  The cash ain't coined to buy
   That little collie pup.

  And so I draw a screw
   For self and dog and keep
  To boundary-ride for you,
   O Riverina Sheep!

  And when the autumn rain
   Has made the herbage grow,
  You travel off again,
   And glad—no doubt—to go.

  But some are left behind
   Around the mountain's spread,
  For those we cannot find
   We put them down as dead.

  But when we say adieu
   And close the boarding job,
  I always find a few
   Fresh ear-marks in my mob.

  So what with those I sell,
   And what with those I keep,
  You pay me pretty well,
   O Riverina Sheep!

  It's up to me to shout
   Before we say good-bye—
  “Here's to a howlin' drought
   All west of Gundagai!”
 

Pioneers

  They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
  They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride,
  We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
  As those explorers of the bush—the brave old pioneers.

  'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
  'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out;
  'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made,
  And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.

  But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
  When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
  By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
  And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest.

  Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain,
  We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
  To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years—
  The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers.

Santa Claus in the Bush

  It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
   When the wheat was ripe and tall,
  A stranger rode to the farmer's gate—
   A sturdy man and a small.

  “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
   And bid the stranger stay;
  And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
   For the morn is Christmas Day.”

  “Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife,
   “But ye should let him be;
  He's maybe only a drover chap
   Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.

  “Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst
   To swiggle the hail nicht through;
  Or he's maybe a life assurance carle
   To talk ye black and blue.”

  “Guid wife, he's never a drover chap,
   For their swags are neat and thin;
  And he's never a life assurance carle,
   Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin.

  “Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour,
   For the wheat stands ripe and tall,
  And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year,
   Ewes and weaners and all.

  “There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat
   Where they whiles are gaunt and thin,
  And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor,
   So we maun ask him in.

  “Ye can set him a chair tae the table side,
   And gi' him a bite tae eat;
  An omelette made of a new-laid egg,
   Or a tasty bit of meat.”

  “But the native cats hae taen the fowls,
   They havena left a leg;
  And he'll get nae omelette here at a'
   Till the emu lays an egg!”

  “Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
   To whaur the emus bide,
  Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest,
   While the auld cock sits beside.

  “But speak them fair, and speak them saft,
   Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt.
  Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails
   Or a rusty carriage bolt.”

  So little son Jack ran blithely down,
   With the rusty nails in hand,
  Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched
   By their nest in the open sand.

  And there he has gathered the new-laid egg,
   'Twould feed three men or four,
  And the emus came for the half-inch nails
   Right up to the settler's door.

  “A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife,
   As she took the egg, with a frown,
  “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin
   A paddy-melon down.”

  “Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack,
   Wi' your twa-three doggies sma';
  Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon,
   Then come nae back at a'.”

  So little son Jack he raced and he ran,
   And he was bare o' the feet,
  And soon he captured a paddy-melon,
   Was gorged with the stolen wheat.

  “Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man,
   To the best that the hoose can do—
  An omelette made of the emu egg
   And a paddy-melon stew.”

  “'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man;
   “I have eaten the wide world's meat,
  And the food that is given with right good will
   Is the sweetest food to eat.

  “But the night draws on to the Christmas Day
   And I must rise and go,
  For I have a mighty way to ride
   To the land of the Esquimaux.

  “And it's there I must load my sledges up,
   With reindeers four-in-hand,
  That go to the North, South, East, and West,
   To every Christian land.”

  “Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife,
   “Ye suit my husband well!
  For when he gets up on his journey horse
   He's a bit of a liar himsel'.”

  Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man
   To his old horse grazing nigh,
  And away like a meteor flash they went
   Far off to the Northern sky.

       .    .    .    .    .

  When the children woke on the Christmas morn
   They chattered with might and main—
  For a sword and gun had little son Jack,
   And a braw new doll had Jane,
  And a packet o' nails had the twa emus;
   But the dour good-wife got nane.

“In Re a Gentleman, One”

      When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer
      for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name
      until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers
      as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”,
      or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”.

  We see it each day in the paper,
   And know that there's mischief in store;
  That some unprofessional caper
   Has landed a shark on the shore.
  We know there'll be plenty of trouble
   Before they get through with the fun,
  Because he's been coming the double
   On clients, has “Gentleman, One”.

  Alas! for the gallant attorney,
   Intent upon cutting a dash,
  Sets out on life's perilous journey
   With rather more cunning than cash.
  And fortune at first is inviting—
   He struts his brief hour in the sun—
  But, lo! on the wall is the writing
   Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”.

  For soon he runs short of the dollars,
   He fears he must go to the wall;
  So Peter's trust-money he collars
   To pay off his creditor, Paul;
  Then robs right and left—for he goes it
   In earnest when once he's begun.
  Descensus Averni—he knows it;
   It's easy for “Gentleman, One”.

  The crash comes as sure as the seasons;
   He loses his coin in a mine,
  Or booming in land, or for reasons
   Connected with women and wine.
  Or maybe the cards or the horses
   A share of the damage have done
  No matter; the end of the course is
   The same:  “Re a Gentleman, One”.

  He struggles awhile to keep going,
   To stave off detection and shame;
  But creditors, clamorous growing,
   Ere long put an end to the game.
  At length the poor soldier of Satan
   His course to a finish has run—
  And just think of Windeyer waiting
   To deal with “A Gentleman, One”!

  And some face it boldly, and brazen
   The shame and the utter disgrace;
  While others, more sensitive, hasten
   Their names and their deeds to efface.
  They snap the frail thread which the Furies
   And Fates have so cruelly spun.
  May the great Final Judge and His juries
   Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”!