The Melting of the Snow

  There's a sunny Southern land,
   And it's there that I would be
  Where the big hills stand,
   In the South Countrie!
  When the wattles bloom again,
   Then it's time for us to go
  To the old Monaro country
   At the melting of the snow.

  To the East or to the West,
   Or wherever you may be,
  You will find no place
   Like the South Countrie.
  For the skies are blue above,
   And the grass is green below,
  In the old Monaro country
   At the melting of the snow.

  Now the team is in the plough,
   And the thrushes start to sing,
  And the pigeons on the bough
   Sit a-welcoming the Spring.
  So come my comrades all,
   Let us saddle up and go
  To the old Monaro country
   At the melting of the snow.

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

      (1886)

  Bring me a quart of colonial beer
  And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
   I must make a heavy dinner;
  Heavily dine and heavily sup,
  Of indigestible things fill up,
  Next month they run the Melbourne Cup,
   And I have to dream the winner.

  Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham,
  The rich ragout and the charming cham.,
   I've got to mix my liquor;
  Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg,
  Hard and tough as a wooden peg,
  And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg,
   'Twill make me dream the quicker.

  Now I am full of fearful feed,
  Now I may dream a race indeed,
   In my restless, troubled slumber;
  While the night-mares race through my heated brain
  And their devil-riders spur amain,
  The tip for the Cup will reward my pain,
   And I'll spot the winning number.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Thousands and thousands and thousands more,
  Like sands on the white Pacific shore,
   The crowding people cluster;
  For evermore it's the story old,
  While races are bought and backers are sold,
  Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold,
   In their thousands still they muster.

  And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot,
  “I'll lay the Cup!  The double, if not!”
    “Five monkeys, Little John, sir!”
   “Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!”
   And so they shout through the livelong day,
  And stick to the game that is sure to pay,
   While fools put money on, sir!

  And now in my dream I seem to go
  And bet with a “book” that I seem to know—
   A Hebrew money-lender;
  A million to five is the price I get—
  Not bad! but before I book the bet
  The horse's name I clean forget,
   Its number and even gender.

  Now for the start, and here they come,
  And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum
   Beat by a hand unsteady;
  They come like a rushing, roaring flood,
  Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood;
  For Acme is making the pace so good
   There are some of 'em done already.

  But round the back she begins to tire,
  And a mighty shout goes up “Crossfire!”
    The magpie jacket's leading;
  And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold,
  And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold,
  But at length gives way to the black and gold,
   Which away to the front is speeding.

  Carry them on and keep it up—
  A flying race is the Melbourne Cup,
   You must race and stay to win it;
  And old Commotion, Victoria's pride,
  Now takes the lead with his raking stride,
  And a mighty roar goes far and wide—
   “There's only Commotion in it!”

  But one draws out from the beaten ruck
  And up on the rails by a piece of luck
   He comes in a style that's clever;
  “It's Trident! Trident!  Hurrah for Hales!”
   “Go at 'em now while their courage fails;”
   “Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!”
    “The blue and white for ever!”

  Under the whip! with the ears flat back,
  Under the whip! though the sinews crack,
   No sign of the base white feather;
  Stick to it now for your breeding's sake,
  Stick to it now though your hearts should break,
  While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake,
   They come down the straight together.

  Trident slowly forges ahead,
  The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red,
   The pace is undiminished;
  Now for the Panics that never fail!
  But many a backer's face grows pale
  As old Commotion swings his tail
   And swerves—and the Cup is finished.

       .    .    .    .    .

  And now in my dream it all comes back:
  I bet my coin on the Sydney crack,
   A million I've won, no question!
  “Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog!
  Give me my money, bookmaking dog!”
   But he disappeared in a kind of fog,
   And I woke with “the indigestion”.

The Gundaroo Bullock

  Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,
  And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”;
  But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few
  Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo.

  Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows,
  There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes;
  For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too,
  And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.

  There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side,
  And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride,
  For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo—
  He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.”

  “Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run,
  “I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun,
  And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride,
  With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.”

  That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head,
  They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed.
  “Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew—
  The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.”

  They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full,
  But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool.
  “What's this?” exclaimed the trooper—“an infant, I declare;”
   Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear.
  I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew,
  Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo.

  “The times is something awful, as you can plainly see,
  The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me;
  We can't afford a bullock—such expense would never do—
  So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.”

  And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows,
  In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes,
  On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew,
  But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo.

Lay of the Motor-Car

  We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd
   In our whiskers and teeth;
  And the granite-like grey of the road
   Seems to slide underneath.
  As an eagle might sweep through the sky,
   So we sweep through the land;
  And the pallid pedestrians fly
   When they hear us at hand.

  We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip!
   Not the fast-fleeing hare,
  Nor the racehorses under the whip,
   Nor the birds of the air
  Can compete with our swiftness sublime,
   Our ease and our grace.
  We annihilate chickens and time
   And policemen and space.

  Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed?
   How he dropped down to pray
  In the road when he saw he was lost;
   How he melted away
  Underneath, and there rang through the fog
   His earsplitting squeal
  As he went——  Is that he or a dog,
   That stuff on the wheel?

The Corner Man

  I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep,
   When fancies come and go
  To vex a man in his soothing sleep
   With thoughts of awful woe—
  I dreamed that I was a corner-man
   Of a nigger minstrel show.

  I cracked my jokes, and the building rang
   With laughter loud and long;
  I hushed the house as I softly sang
   An old plantation song—
  A tale of the wicked slavery days
   Of cruelty and wrong.

  A small boy sat on the foremost seat—
   A mirthful youngster he;
  He beat the time with his restless feet
   To each new melody,
  And he picked me out as the brightest star
   Of the black fraternity.

  “Oh father,” he said, “what would we do
   If the corner-man should die?
  I never saw such a man—did you?
   He makes the people cry,
  And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.”
    The old man made reply—

  “We each of us fill a very small space
   In the great creation's plan,
  If a man don't keep his lead in the race
   There's plenty more that can;
  The world can very soon fill the place
   Of even a corner-man.”

       .    .    .    .    .

  I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find
   Myself at home in bed,
  And I framed a moral in my mind
   From the words the old man said.
  The world will jog along just the same
   When its corner-men are dead.

When Dacey Rode the Mule

  'Twas to a small, up-country town,
   When we were boys at school,
  There came a circus with a clown,
   Likewise a bucking mule.
  The clown announced a scheme they had
   Spectators for to bring—
  They'd give a crown to any lad
   Who'd ride him round the ring.

      And, gentle reader, do not scoff
       Nor think a man a fool—
      To buck a porous-plaster off
       Was pastime to that mule.

  The boys got on; he bucked like sin;
   He threw them in the dirt,
  What time the clown would raise a grin
   By asking, “Are you hurt?”
   But Johnny Dacey came one night,
   The crack of all the school;
  Said he, “I'll win the crown all right,
   Bring in your bucking mule.”

      The elephant went off his trunk,
       The monkey played the fool,
      And all the band got blazing drunk
       When Dacey rode the mule.

  But soon there rose a galling shout
   Of laughter, for the clown
  From somewhere in his pants drew out
   A little paper crown.
  He placed the crown on Dacey's head
   While Dacey looked a fool;
  “Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said,
   “For riding of the mule!”

      The band struck up with “Killaloe”,
       And “Rule Britannia, Rule”,
      And “Young Man from the Country”, too,
       When Dacey rode the mule.

  Then Dacey, in a furious rage,
   For vengeance on the show
  Ascended to the monkeys' cage
   And let the monkeys go;
  The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee
   He turned abroad to roam;
  Good faith!  It was a sight to see
   The people step for home.

      For big baboons with canine snout
       Are spiteful, as a rule—
      The people didn't sit it out
       When Dacey rode the mule.

  And from the beasts that made escape,
   The bushmen all declare,
  Were born some creatures partly ape
   And partly native-bear.
  They're rather few and far between,
   The race is nearly spent;
  But some of them may still be seen
   In Sydney Parliament.

      And when those legislators fight,
       And drink, and act the fool,
      Just blame it on that torrid night
       When Dacey rode the mule.

The Mylora Elopement

  By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,
  And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep,
  Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun,
  Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run.

  Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath.
  Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa;
  And Amelia loved him truly—but the course of love, if true,
  Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.

  Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss
  Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss
  That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
  Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges—off goes Jim to see his child;

  Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job,
  And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob.
  Will you come with me to-morrow?  I will let the parson know,
  And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.

  “I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine,
  One more kiss—don't think I'm greedy—good-bye, lass, before I'm seen—
  Just one more—God bless you, dearie!  Don't forget to meet me here,
  Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.”

       .    .    .    .    .

  The daylight shines on figures twain
  That ride across Mylora plain,
  Laughing and talking—Jim and Jane.
  “Steadily, darling.  There's lots of time,
  Didn't we slip the old man prime!
  I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob,
  I reckon he'll find it too big a job.
  They've beaten us all.  I had a try,
  But the warrigal devils seem to fly.
  That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff
  No doubt, but not quite good enough.
  He'll have to gallop the livelong day,
  To cut and come, to race and stay.
  I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good;
  To see us going I don't think would.”
   A turn in the road and, fair and square,
  They meet the old man standing there.
  “What's up?”  “Why, running away, of course,”
   Says Jim, emboldened.  The old man turned,
  His eye with wild excitement burned.
  “I've raced all day through the scorching heat
  After old Bowneck:  and now I'm beat.
  But over that range I think you'll find
  The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind.
  Will you go and leave the mob behind?
  Which will you do?  Take the girl away,
  Or ride like a white man should to-day,
  And yard old Bowneck?  Go or stay?”
   Says Jim, “I can't throw this away,
  We can bolt some other day, of course,
  Amelia Jane, get off that horse.
  Up you get, Old Man.  Whoop, halloo.
  Here goes to put old Bowneck through!”
   Two distant specks on the mountain side,
  Two stockwhips echoing far and wide.
  Amelia Jane sat down and cried.

       .    .    .    .    .

  “Sakes, Amelia, what's up now?
  Leading old Sambo, too, I vow,
  And him dead beat.  Where have you been?
  “Bolted with Jim!  What do you mean?”
   “Met the old man with Sambo licked
  From running old Bowneck.”  “Well, I'm kicked—
  Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped?
  What did Jim do when you were stopped?
  Did you bolt from father across the plain?
  Jim made you get off Crazy Jane!
  And father got on, and away again
  The two of 'em went to the ranges grim.
  Good boy, Jimmy!  Well done, Jim!
  They're sure to get them now, of course,
  That Tambourine is a spanking horse.
  And Crazy Jane is good as gold.
  And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold;
  Not like your father, but very fair.
  Jim will have to follow the mare.”
   “It never was yet in father's hide
  To best my Jim on the mountain-side.
  Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.”
   But here again Amelia cried.

       .    .    .    .    .

  The sound of a whip comes faint and far,
  A rattle of hoofs, and here they are,
  In all their tameless pride.
  The fleet wild horses snort with fear,
  And wheel and break as the yard draws near.
  Now, Jim the Ringer, ride!
  Wheel 'em! wheel 'em!  Whoa back there, whoa!
  And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow,
  As under the whip the horses go
  Adown the mountain side.
  And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set,
  On a horse that never has failed him yet,
  Is after them down the range.
  Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel—whoa back!
  And long and loud the stockwhips crack,
  Their flying course they change,
  “Steadily does it—let Sambo go!
  Open those sliprails down below.
  Smart! or you'll be too late.
  They'll follow old Sambo up—look out!
  Wheel that black horse—give Sam a clout.
  They're in!  Make fast the gate.”

       .    .    .    .    .

  The mob is safely in the yard!
  The old man mounts delighted guard.
  No thought has he but for his prize.
  Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes.
  “Will you come after all? the job is done,
  And Crazy Jane is fit to run
  For a prince's life—now don't say no;
  Slip on while the old man's down below
  At the inner yard, and away we'll go.
  Will you come, my girl?”  “I will, you bet,
  We'll manage this here elopement yet.”

       .    .    .    .    .

  By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim.
  And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him.
  He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done,
  There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run.

The Pannikin Poet

  There's nothing here sublime,
  But just a roving rhyme,
  Run off to pass the time,
   With nought titanic in
  The theme that it supports,
  And, though it treats of quarts,
  It's bare of golden thoughts—
   It's just a pannikin.

  I think it's rather hard
  That each Australian bard—
  Each wan, poetic card—
   With thoughts galvanic in
  His fiery soul alight,
  In wild aerial flight,
  Will sit him down and write
   About a pannikin.

  He makes some new-chum fare
  From out his English lair
  To hunt the native bear,
   That curious mannikin;
  And then when times get bad
  That wandering English lad
  Writes out a message sad
   Upon his pannikin:

  “Oh, mother, think of me
  Beneath the wattle tree”
   (For you may bet that he
   Will drag the wattle in)
  “Oh, mother, here I think
  That I shall have to sink,
  There ain't a single drink
   The water-bottle in.”

  The dingo homeward hies,
  The sooty crows uprise
  And caw their fierce surprise
   A tone Satanic in;
  And bearded bushmen tread
  Around the sleeper's head—
  “See here—the bloke is dead!
   Now where's his pannikin?”

  They read his words and weep,
  And lay him down to sleep
  Where wattle-branches sweep,
   A style mechanic in;
  And, reader, that's the way
  The poets of to-day
  Spin out their little lay
   About a pannikin.