A Bushman's Song

   I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station hand,
   I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand,
   And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day,
   But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh.

   So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
   That we've got to make a shift to the stations further out,
   With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows like a dog,
   We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog.

   This old black horse I'm riding — if you'll notice what's his brand,
   He wears the crooked R, you see — none better in the land.
   He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried,
   For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side.

   It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
   That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out;
   But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog —
   He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog.

   I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy:
   'We shear non-union here,' says he.  'I call it scab,' says I.
   I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go —
   There were eight or ten dashed Chinamen a-shearin' in a row.

   It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
   It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about.
   So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog,
   And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog.

   I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm,
   He has to ask his landlord's leave before he lifts his arm;
   The landlord owns the country side — man, woman, dog, and cat,
   They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat.

   It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
   Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out;
   Was I to touch my hat to him? — was I his bloomin' dog?
   So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.

   But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go
   Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below;
   Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down,
   And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.

   So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
   We've got to make a shift to the stations further out;
   The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog,
   And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.

How Gilbert Died

   There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
    There's never a fence beside,
   And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
    Unnoticed and undenied,
   But the smallest child on the Watershed
    Can tell you how Gilbert died.

   For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn
    To the hut at the Stockman's Ford,
   In the waning light of the sinking sun
    They peered with a fierce accord.
   They were outlaws both — and on each man's head
    Was a thousand pounds reward.

   They had taken toll of the country round,
    And the troopers came behind
   With a black that tracked like a human hound
    In the scrub and the ranges blind:
   He could run the trail where a white man's eye
    No sign of a track could find.

   He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill
    And over the Old Man Plain,
   But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill,
    And they made for the range again.
   Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt,
    They rode with a loosened rein.

   And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold:
    'Come in and rest in peace,
   No safer place does the country hold —
    With the night pursuit must cease,
   And we'll drink success to the roving boys,
    And to hell with the black police.'

   But they went to death when they entered there,
    In the hut at the Stockman's Ford,
   For their grandsire's words were as false as fair —
    They were doomed to the hangman's cord.
   He had sold them both to the black police
    For the sake of the big reward.

   In the depth of night there are forms that glide
    As stealthy as serpents creep,
   And around the hut where the outlaws hide
    They plant in the shadows deep,
   And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn
    Shall waken their prey from sleep.

   But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark —
    A restless sleeper, aye,
   He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark,
    And his horse's warning neigh,
   And he says to his mate, 'There are hawks abroad,
    And it's time that we went away.'

   Their rifles stood at the stretcher head,
    Their bridles lay to hand,
   They wakened the old man out of his bed,
    When they heard the sharp command:
   'In the name of the Queen lay down your arms,
    Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!'

   Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true
    That close at his hand he kept,
   He pointed it straight at the voice and drew,
    But never a flash outleapt,
   For the water ran from the rifle breech —
    It was drenched while the outlaws slept.

   Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath,
    And he turned to his comrade Dunn:
   'We are sold,' he said, 'we are dead men both,
    But there may be a chance for one;
   I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here,
    You take to your heels and run.'

   So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees
    In the dim, half-dawning light,
   And he made his way to a patch of trees,
    And vanished among the night,
   And the trackers hunted his tracks all day,
    But they never could trace his flight.

   But Gilbert walked from the open door
    In a confident style and rash;
   He heard at his side the rifles roar,
    And he heard the bullets crash.
   But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand,
    And he fired at the rifle flash.

   Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed
    At his voice and the pistol sound,
   With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed,
    He staggered and spun around,
   And they riddled his body with rifle balls
    As it lay on the blood-soaked ground.

   There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
    There's never a fence beside,
   And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
    Unnoticed and undenied,
   But the smallest child on the Watershed
    Can tell you how Gilbert died.

The Flying Gang

   I served my time, in the days gone by,
    In the railway's clash and clang,
   And I worked my way to the end, and I
    Was the head of the 'Flying Gang'.
   'Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand
    In case of an urgent need,
   Was it south or north we were started forth,
    And away at our utmost speed.
     If word reached town that a bridge was down,
      The imperious summons rang —
     'Come out with the pilot engine sharp,
      And away with the flying gang.'

   Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam
    As the engine moved ahead,
   With a measured beat by the slum and street
    Of the busy town we fled,
   By the uplands bright and the homesteads white,
    With the rush of the western gale,
   And the pilot swayed with the pace we made
    As she rocked on the ringing rail.
     And the country children clapped their hands
      As the engine's echoes rang,
     But their elders said:  'There is work ahead
      When they send for the flying gang.'

   Then across the miles of the saltbush plain
    That gleamed with the morning dew,
   Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain
    The pilot engine flew,
   A fiery rush in the open bush
    Where the grade marks seemed to fly,
   And the order sped on the wires ahead,
    The pilot MUST go by.
     The Governor's special must stand aside,
      And the fast express go hang,
     Let your orders be that the line is free
      For the boys of the flying gang.

Shearing at Castlereagh

   The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot,
   There's five and thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot,
   So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along,
   The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong,
   And make your collie dogs speak up — what would the buyers say
   In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?

   The man that 'rung' the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here,
   That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear.
   They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes,
   And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose;
   It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay,
   They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh.

   The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage,
   He's always in a hurry and he's always in a rage —
   'You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick,
   You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick.
   Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke to-day,
   It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.'

   The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din,
   They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin;
   The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool,
   There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full;
   Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away,
   Another bale of golden fleece is branded 'Castlereagh'.

The Wind's Message

   There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark,
   Above the tossing of the pines, above the river's flow;
   It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark;
   It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below;
   It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine,
   A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom;
   And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line
   It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume.

   It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard —
   The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down;
   And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred
   A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town;
   And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand
   The magic of the breeze's breath that set their hearts aglow,
   Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland
   A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.

   But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest;
   The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide;
   Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills' breast,
   Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside,
   The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see,
   Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand,
   But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be,
   From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland.

   Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear,
   That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam,
   Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear
   The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home.
   The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills,
   Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land,
   And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills,
   And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland.

Johnson's Antidote

   Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp,
   Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp;
   Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes,
   Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes:
   Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants,
   And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants:
   Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat,
   There it was that William Johnson sought his snake-bite antidote.

   Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer,
   For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear;
   So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night,
   Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent's bite.
   Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head,
   Told him, 'Spos'n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead;
   Spos'n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see,
   Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.'
   'That's the cure,' said William Johnson, 'point me out this plant sublime,'
   But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he'd go another time.
   Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote,
   Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break,
   There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake,
   In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul,
   Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole.
   Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank,
   Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank;
   Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept,
   While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept.
   Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson's throat;
   'Luck at last,' said he, 'I've struck it! 'tis the famous antidote.'

   'Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known,
   Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone.
   Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor,
   Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure.
   It will bring me fame and fortune!  In the happy days to be,
   Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me —
   Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note,
   Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson's antidote.
   It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient's eyeballs stare
   At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there.
   When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat,
   It will cure him just to think of Johnson's Snakebite Antidote.'

   Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man —
   'Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can;
   I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure,
   Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure.
   Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I'd float;
   Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I've found the antidote.'

   Said the scientific person, 'If you really want to die,
   Go ahead — but, if you're doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try.
   Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip;
   Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip;
   If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good.
   Will you fetch your dog and try it?'  Johnson rather thought he would.
   So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat.
   'Stump, old man,' says he, 'we'll show them we've the genwine antidote.'

   Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland's contents;
   Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events.
   'Mark,' he said, 'in twenty minutes Stump'll be a-rushing round,
   While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.'
   But, alas for William Johnson! ere they'd watched a half-hour's spell
   Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t'other dog was live and well.
   And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed,
   Tested Johnson's drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed;
   Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat,
   All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp,
   Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp,
   Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes,
   Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'.
   And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat,
   Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote.

Ambition and Art

        Ambition

   I am the maid of the lustrous eyes
    Of great fruition,
   Whom the sons of men that are over-wise
    Have called Ambition.

   And the world's success is the only goal
    I have within me;
   The meanest man with the smallest soul
    May woo and win me.

   For the lust of power and the pride of place
    To all I proffer.
   Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race
    For what I offer?

   The choice is thine, and the world is wide —
    Thy path is lonely.
   I may not lead and I may not guide —
    I urge thee only.

   I am just a whip and a spur that smites
    To fierce endeavour.
   In the restless days and the sleepless nights
    I urge thee ever.

   Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry,
    In fright upleaping
   At a rival's step as it passes by
    Whilst thou art sleeping.

   Honour and truth shall be overthrown
    In fierce desire;
   Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone
    To mount thee higher.

   When the curtain falls on the sordid strife
    That seemed so splendid,
   Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life
    That thou hast ended.

   Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small
    In fitful flashes;
   There has been reward — but the end of all
    Is dust and ashes.

   For the night has come and it brings to naught
    Thy projects cherished,
   And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought —
    'He lived and perished.'

        Art

   I wait for thee at the outer gate,
    My love, mine only;
   Wherefore tarriest thou so late
    While I am lonely.

   Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift,
    In thee implanted
   Is the love of Art and the greatest gift
    That God has granted.

   And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs
    Shall seem but small things —
   Poet or painter, a singer of songs,
    Thine art is all things.

   For the wine of life is a woman's love
    To keep beside thee;
   But the love of Art is a thing above —
    A star to guide thee.

   As the years go by with thy love of Art
    All undiminished,
   Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart —
    Thy work is finished.

   So the painter fashions a picture strong
    That fadeth never,
   And the singer singeth a wond'rous song
    That lives for ever.