Jim Carew

   Born of a thoroughbred English race,
    Well proportioned and closely knit,
   Neat of figure and handsome face,
    Always ready and always fit,
   Hard and wiry of limb and thew,
   That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.

   One of the sons of the good old land —
    Many a year since his like was known;
   Never a game but he took command,
    Never a sport but he held his own;
   Gained at his college a triple blue —
   Good as they make them was Jim Carew.

   Came to grief — was it card or horse?
    Nobody asked and nobody cared;
   Ship him away to the bush of course,
    Ne'er-do-well fellows are easily spared;
   Only of women a tolerable few
   Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew.

   Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp,
    Sitting his horse with an easy grace;
   But the reckless living has left its stamp
    In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face,
   And a harder look in those eyes of blue:
   Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.

   Billy the Lasher was out for gore —
    Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair,
   When he opened out with a hungry roar
    On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair;
   But his wife was wise if his face she knew
   By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.

   Gentleman Jim in the stockmen's hut
    Works with them, toils with them, side by side;
   As to his past — well, his lips are shut.
    'Gentleman once,' say his mates with pride;
   And the wildest Cornstalk can ne'er outdo
   In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew.

   What should he live for?  A dull despair!
    Drink is his master and drags him down,
   Water of Lethe that drowns all care.
    Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown,
   And he reigns as king with a drunken crew,
   Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.

   Such is the end of the ne'er-do-well —
    Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel;
   But he straightens up when he's asked to tell
    His name and race, and a flash of steel
   Still lightens up in those eyes of blue —
   'I am, or — no, I WAS — Jim Carew.'

The Swagman's Rest

   We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave
    At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
   We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave,
    For fear that his ghost might walk;
   We carved his name on a bloodwood tree,
    With the date of his sad decease,
   And in place of 'Died from effects of spree',
    We wrote 'May he rest in peace'.

   For Bob was known on the Overland,
    A regular old bush wag,
   Tramping along in the dust and sand,
    Humping his well-worn swag.
   He would camp for days in the river-bed,
    And loiter and 'fish for whales'.
   'I'm into the swagman's yard,' he said,
    'And I never shall find the rails.'

   But he found the rails on that summer night
    For a better place — or worse,
   As we watched by turns in the flickering light
    With an old black gin for nurse.
   The breeze came in with the scent of pine,
    The river sounded clear,
   When a change came on, and we saw the sign
    That told us the end was near.

   But he spoke in a cultured voice and low —
    'I fancy they've “sent the route”;
   I once was an army man, you know,
    Though now I'm a drunken brute;
   But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,
    And if ever you're fairly stuck,
   Just take and shovel me out of the grave
    And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.

   'For I've always heard —' here his voice fell weak,
    His strength was well-nigh sped,
   He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,
    Then fell in a moment — dead.
   Thus ended a wasted life and hard,
    Of energies misapplied —
   Old Bob was out of the 'swagman's yard'
    And over the Great Divide.

       .   .   .   .   .

   The drought came down on the field and flock,
    And never a raindrop fell,
   Though the tortured moans of the starving stock
    Might soften a fiend from hell.
   And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave
    When he went to the Great Unseen —
   We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave
    To see what his hint might mean.

   We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,
    We shovelled away the mould,
   When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare
    All gleaming with yellow gold.
   'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk
    That ran from the range's crest,
   And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk
    Is known as 'The Swagman's Rest'.

   [The End.]

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES.

     By A. B. Paterson.

THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: “The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling.”

SPECTATOR: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent verses.”

ATHENAEUM: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure. ... Stirring and entertaining ballads about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses.”

THE TIMES: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of 'Barrack-Room Ballads'.”

Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): “In my opinion, it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.”

WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: “Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic of the country as Burns's poetry is characteristic of Scotland.”

THE SCOTSMAN: “A book like this... is worth a dozen of the aspiring, idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real tears in its composition.”

GLASGOW HERALD: “These ballads... are full of such go that the mere reading of them make the blood tingle.... But there are other things in Mr. Paterson's book besides mere racing and chasing, and each piece bears the mark of special local knowledge, feeling, and colour. The poet has also a note of pathos, which is always wholesome.”

LITERARY WORLD: “He gallops along with a by no means doubtful music, shouting his vigorous songs as he rides in pursuit of wild bush horses, constraining us to listen and applaud by dint of his manly tones and capital subjects... We turn to Mr. Paterson's roaring muse with instantaneous gratitude.”