Over the Range

   Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,
    Playing alone in the creek-bed dry,
   In the small green flat on every side
    Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high;
   Tell us the tale of your lonely life,
    'Mid the great grey forests that know no change.
   'I never have left my home,' she said,
    'I have never been over the Moonbi Range.

   'Father and mother are both long dead,
    And I live with granny in yon wee place.'
   'Where are your father and mother?' we said.
    She puzzled awhile with thoughtful face,
   Then a light came into the shy brown eye,
    And she smiled, for she thought the question strange
   On a thing so certain — 'When people die
    They go to the country over the range.'

   'And what is this country like, my lass?'
    'There are blossoming trees and pretty flowers,
   And shining creeks where the golden grass
    Is fresh and sweet from the summer showers.
   They never need work, nor want, nor weep;
    No troubles can come their hearts to estrange.
   Some summer night I shall fall asleep,
    And wake in the country over the range.'

   Child, you are wise in your simple trust,
    For the wisest man knows no more than you
   Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust:
    Our views by a range are bounded too;
   But we know that God hath this gift in store,
    That when we come to the final change,
   We shall meet with our loved ones gone before
    To the beautiful country over the range.

Only a Jockey

        'Richard Bennison, a jockey, aged 14, while riding William Tell
   in his training, was thrown and killed.  The horse is luckily uninjured.'
   — Melbourne Wire.

   Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light,
    Out on the track where the night shades still lurk;
   Ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light,
    Round come the race-horses early at work.

   Reefing and pulling and racing so readily,
    Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard,
   'Steady the stallion there — canter him steadily,
    Don't let him gallop so much as a yard.'

   Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him,
    Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall,
   Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him
    Goes to the ground with a terrible fall.

   'Stop him there!  Block him there!  Drive him in carefully,
    Lead him about till he's quiet and cool.
   Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully,
    Now let us pick up this poor little fool.

   'Stunned?  Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him;
    Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head!
   Send for a cart to go down to our place with him' —
    No use!  One long sigh and the little chap's dead.

   Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see,
    Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest.
   Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee,
    What did you do for him? — bad was the best.

   Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you;
    Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard,
   But the poor jockey-boy — shame on you, shame on you,
    'Feed ye, my little ones' — what said the Lord?

   Him ye held less than the outer barbarian,
    Left him to die in his ignorant sin;
   Have you no principles, humanitarian?
    Have you no precept — 'go gather them in?'

       .   .   .   .   .

   Knew he God's name?  In his brutal profanity,
    That name was an oath — out of many but one —
   What did he get from our famed Christianity?
    Where has his soul — if he had any — gone?

   Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it?
    What did he know of God's infinite grace?
   Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it,
    Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face.

How M'Ginnis Went Missing

   Let us cease our idle chatter,
    Let the tears bedew our cheek,
   For a man from Tallangatta
    Has been missing for a week.

   Where the roaring flooded Murray
    Covered all the lower land,
   There he started in a hurry,
    With a bottle in his hand.

   And his fate is hid for ever,
    But the public seem to think
   That he slumbered by the river,
    'Neath the influence of drink.

   And they scarcely seem to wonder
    That the river, wide and deep,
   Never woke him with its thunder,
    Never stirred him in his sleep.

   As the crashing logs came sweeping,
    And their tumult filled the air,
   Then M'Ginnis murmured, sleeping,
    ''Tis a wake in ould Kildare.'

   So the river rose and found him
    Sleeping softly by the stream,
   And the cruel waters drowned him
    Ere he wakened from his dream.

   And the blossom-tufted wattle,
    Blooming brightly on the lea,
   Saw M'Ginnis and the bottle
    Going drifting out to sea.

A Voice from the Town

        A sequel to [Mowbray Morris's] 'A Voice from the Bush'

   I thought, in the days of the droving,
    Of steps I might hope to retrace,
   To be done with the bush and the roving
    And settle once more in my place.
   With a heart that was well nigh to breaking,
    In the long, lonely rides on the plain,
   I thought of the pleasure of taking
    The hand of a lady again.

   I am back into civilisation,
    Once more in the stir and the strife,
   But the old joys have lost their sensation —
    The light has gone out of my life;
   The men of my time they have married,
    Made fortunes or gone to the wall;
   Too long from the scene I have tarried,
    And, somehow, I'm out of it all.

   For I go to the balls and the races
    A lonely companionless elf,
   And the ladies bestow all their graces
    On others less grey than myself;
   While the talk goes around I'm a dumb one
    'Midst youngsters that chatter and prate,
   And they call me 'the Man who was Someone
    Way back in the year Sixty-eight.'

   And I look, sour and old, at the dancers
    That swing to the strains of the band,
   And the ladies all give me the Lancers,
    No waltzes — I quite understand.
   For matrons intent upon matching
    Their daughters with infinite push,
   Would scarce think him worthy the catching,
    The broken-down man from the bush.

   New partners have come and new faces,
    And I, of the bygone brigade,
   Sharply feel that oblivion my place is —
    I must lie with the rest in the shade.
   And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant,
    They live as we lived — fairly fast;
   But I doubt if the men of the present
    Are as good as the men of the past.

   Of excitement and praise they are chary,
    There is nothing much good upon earth;
   Their watchword is NIL ADMIRARI,
    They are bored from the days of their birth.
   Where the life that we led was a revel
    They 'wince and relent and refrain' —
   I could show them the road — to the devil,
    Were I only a youngster again.

   I could show them the road where the stumps are
    The pleasures that end in remorse,
   And the game where the Devil's three trumps are,
    The woman, the card, and the horse.
   Shall the blind lead the blind — shall the sower
    Of wind reap the storm as of yore?
   Though they get to their goal somewhat slower,
    They march where we hurried before.

   For the world never learns — just as we did,
    They gallantly go to their fate,
   Unheeded all warnings, unheeded
    The maxims of elders sedate.
   As the husbandman, patiently toiling,
    Draws a harvest each year from the soil,
   So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling,
    And a new crop of thieves for the spoil.

   But a truce to this dull moralising,
    Let them drink while the drops are of gold,
   I have tasted the dregs — 'twere surprising
    Were the new wine to me like the old;
   And I weary for lack of employment
    In idleness day after day,
   For the key to the door of enjoyment
    Is Youth — and I've thrown it away.

A Bunch of Roses

   Roses ruddy and roses white,
    What are the joys that my heart discloses?
   Sitting alone in the fading light
   Memories come to me here to-night
    With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.

   Memories come as the daylight fades
    Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes;
   Flicker and flutter the lights and shades,
   And I see the face of a queen of maids
    Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.

   Visions arise of a scene of mirth,
    And a ball-room belle that superbly poses —
   A queenly woman of queenly worth,
   And I am the happiest man on earth
    With a single flower from a bunch of roses.

   Only her memory lives to-night —
    God in His wisdom her young life closes;
   Over her grave may the turf be light,
   Cover her coffin with roses white —
    She was always fond of the big white roses.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Such are the visions that fade away —
    Man proposes and God disposes;
   Look in the glass and I see to-day
   Only an old man, worn and grey,
    Bending his head to a bunch of roses.

Black Swans

   As I lie at rest on a patch of clover
   In the Western Park when the day is done,
   I watch as the wild black swans fly over
   With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun;
   And I hear the clang of their leader crying
   To a lagging mate in the rearward flying,
   And they fade away in the darkness dying,
   Where the stars are mustering one by one.

   Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder
   For a while to join in your westward flight,
   With the stars above and the dim earth under,
   Through the cooling air of the glorious night.
   As we swept along on our pinions winging,
   We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing,
   Or the distant note of a torrent singing,
   Or the far-off flash of a station light.

   From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes,
   Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze,
   Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes
   Make music sweet in the jungle maze,
   They will hold their course to the westward ever,
   Till they reach the banks of the old grey river,
   Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver
   In the burning heat of the summer days.

   Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting
   To the folk that live in that western land?
   Then for every sweep of your pinions beating,
   Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band,
   To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting
   With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting,
   Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting,
   When once to the work they have put their hand.

   Facing it yet!  Oh, my friend stout-hearted,
   What does it matter for rain or shine,
   For the hopes deferred and the gain departed?
   Nothing could conquer that heart of thine.
   And thy health and strength are beyond confessing
   As the only joys that are worth possessing.
   May the days to come be as rich in blessing
   As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.

   I would fain go back to the old grey river,
   To the old bush days when our hearts were light,
   But, alas! those days they have fled for ever,
   They are like the swans that have swept from sight.
   And I know full well that the strangers' faces
   Would meet us now in our dearest places;
   For our day is dead and has left no traces
   But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.

   There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken —
   We would grieve for them with a bitter pain,
   If the past could live and the dead could quicken,
   We then might turn to that life again.
   But on lonely nights we would hear them calling,
   We should hear their steps on the pathways falling,
   We should loathe the life with a hate appalling
   In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

       .   .   .   .   .

   In the silent park is a scent of clover,
   And the distant roar of the town is dead,
   And I hear once more as the swans fly over
   Their far-off clamour from overhead.
   They are flying west, by their instinct guided,
   And for man likewise is his fate decided,
   And griefs apportioned and joys divided
   By a mighty power with a purpose dread.

The All Right 'Un

   He came from 'further out',
   That land of heat and drought
   And dust and gravel.
   He got a touch of sun,
   And rested at the run
   Until his cure was done,
   And he could travel.

   When spring had decked the plain,
   He flitted off again
   As flit the swallows.
   And from that western land,
   When many months were spanned,
   A letter came to hand,
   Which read as follows:

   'Dear sir, I take my pen
   In hopes that all your men
   And you are hearty.
   You think that I've forgot
   Your kindness, Mr. Scott,
   Oh, no, dear sir, I'm not
   That sort of party.

   'You sometimes bet, I know,
   Well, now you'll have a show
   The 'books' to frighten.
   Up here at Wingadee
   Young Billy Fife and me
   We're training Strife, and he
   Is a all right 'un.

   'Just now we're running byes,
   But, sir, first time he tries
   I'll send you word of.
   And running 'on the crook'
   Their measures we have took,
   It is the deadest hook
   You ever heard of.

   'So when we lets him go,
   Why, then, I'll let you know,
   And you can have a show
   To put a mite on.
   Now, sir, my leave I'll take,
   Yours truly, William Blake.
   P.S. — Make no mistake,
   HE'S A ALL RIGHT 'UN.'

       .   .   .   .   .

   By next week's RIVERINE
   I saw my friend had been
   A bit too cunning.
   I read:  'The racehorse Strife
   And jockey William Fife
   Disqualified for life —
   Suspicious running.'

   But though they spoilt his game,
   I reckon all the same
   I fairly ought to claim
   My friend a white 'un.
   For though he wasn't straight,
   His deeds would indicate
   His heart at any rate
   Was 'a all right 'un'.

The Boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'

   Did you ever hear tell of Chili?  I was readin' the other day
   Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away.
   It seems that he didn't suit 'em — they thought that they'd like a change,
   So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range.
   They seemed to be restless people — and, judging by what you hear,
   They raise up these revolutions 'bout two or three times a year;
   And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary QUICK,
   For there isn't no vote by ballot — it's bullets that does the trick.
   And it ain't like a real battle, where the prisoners' lives are spared,
   And they fight till there's one side beaten
     and then there's a truce declared,

   And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord
   To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword,
   And the other man bows and takes it, and everything's all polite —
   This wasn't that kind of a picnic, this wasn't that sort of a fight.
   For the pris'ners they took — they shot 'em;
     no odds were they small or great,
   If they'd collared old Balmaceda, they reckoned to shoot him straight.
   A lot of bloodthirsty devils they were — but there ain't a doubt
   They must have been real plucked 'uns — the way that they fought it out,
   And the king of 'em all, I reckon, the man that could stand a pinch,
   Was the boss of a one-horse gunboat.  They called her the 'Admiral Lynch'.

   Well, he was for Balmaceda, and after the war was done,
   And Balmaceda was beaten and his troops had been forced to run,
   The other man fetched his army and proceeded to do things brown,
   He marched 'em into the fortress and took command of the town.
   Cannon and guns and horses troopin' along the road,
   Rumblin' over the bridges, and never a foeman showed
   Till they came in sight of the harbour, and the very first thing they see
   Was this mite of a one-horse gunboat a-lying against the quay,
   And there as they watched they noticed a flutter of crimson rag,
   And under their eyes he hoisted old Balmaceda's flag.
   Well, I tell you it fairly knocked 'em — it just took away their breath,
   For he must ha' known if they caught him, 'twas nothin' but sudden death.
   An' he'd got no fire in his furnace, no chance to put out to sea,
   So he stood by his gun and waited with his vessel against the quay.

   Well, they sent him a civil message to say that the war was done,
   And most of his side were corpses, and all that were left had run;
   And blood had been spilt sufficient, so they gave him a chance to decide
   If he'd haul down his bit of bunting and come on the winning side.
   He listened and heard their message, and answered them all polite,
   That he was a Spanish hidalgo, and the men of his race MUST fight!
   A gunboat against an army, and with never a chance to run,
   And them with their hundred cannon and him with a single gun:
   The odds were a trifle heavy — but he wasn't the sort to flinch,
   So he opened fire on the army, did the boss of the 'Admiral Lynch'.

   They pounded his boat to pieces, they silenced his single gun,
   And captured the whole consignment, for none of 'em cared to run;
   And it don't say whether they shot him — it don't even give his name —
   But whatever they did I'll wager that he went to his graveyard game.
   I tell you those old hidalgos so stately and so polite,
   They turn out the real Maginnis when it comes to an uphill fight.
   There was General Alcantara, who died in the heaviest brunt,
   And General Alzereca was killed in the battle's front;
   But the king of 'em all, I reckon — the man that could stand a pinch —
   Was the man who attacked the army with the gunboat 'Admiral Lynch'.