THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SONGS OF A SUNLIT LAND SONGS OF A SUNLIT LAND BY COLONEL KENNETH MACKAY, C.B. Author of "Stirrup Jingles," " A Bush Idyl, "The Yellow Wave," " Outback," etc. SYDNEY ANGUS AND ROBERTSON, LTD. 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET 1908 Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney At> PREFACE. I have to thank the editors and proprietors of The Australasian (Melbourne), The Daily Telegraph, Sydney Mail, Bulletin, Sunday Times and Catholic Press (Sydney) and The Windsor and Richmond Gazette for permission to reprint those of the following verses which first appeared in their columns. I also wish to acknowledge that An Invoca- tion is to some extent indebted to my friend Rudyarcl Kipling's Recessional. K.M. 1546426 TO My WIFE No white-souled angel could have helped me more, I know of no one who will blame me less, Should I at last be cast upon the shore Of beggared circumstance and littleness. I have dear friends of proven faith and heart, Their love is still to me as star to night; But thou art as a planet set apart, A shining orb of ever-growing light. Sweetheart, there is scant music in these songs, Their measure marches to no lordly beat; Yet if one steadfast chord to them belongs, 'Tis you who made it pure and strong and sweet. CONTENTS DEDICATION No white-souled angel could have helped me more, vii. PRELUDU To every merry maid and steadfast mate 1 THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH I love thy spaciousness. Each lonely distance, . 3 SONS OF THE EMPIRE Above us the sword of the War-God swings 9 THE SONG OF THE BUSH BRIGADES From beyond the coastal ranges, . 12 THE PASSING OF THE SHEPHERD KINGS Vanguard forever doomed to die! . 14 THE GREAT WESTERN DESERT From matted undergrowths the fronded pines 17 x. CONTENTS PAGK THE SONG THAT MEN SHOULD SING The cohorts who fought when the world was young, 20 PAPUA Lo ! from her cloud-compelling crest . 24 AN INVOCATION Maker of earth and sky and sea, 28 NAXKIBOO In a spot far remote from the horn's stirring note. 30 THE STOCKMAN'S SONG No land have I beneath the sky, . . 32 A MEMORY OF THE BACK BLOCKS By a box trunk, gnarled and hoary, 34 WHAT NEED TO FEAR IF BLOOD BE TRUE "The race has reached and passed its prime," A BALLAD OF BYGOLOREE Away in the mallee, where back- blockers rally 41 CONTENTS xi. I'AGK THE MIRAGE I had occasion on an earlier day . 47 IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE You may brag of charge and battle, 55 TO ROWLEY PICKERING Because I deem that you would have it so, 65 THE SMOKE VISION Above my bowl the smoke rings roll, 67 TOMMY CORRIGAN Nevermore o'er rasping double . . 71 WHEN HEROES MEET Up a straight that is bordered by thousands of eyes, 73 HOW THE KING CAME HOME ' ' They 're away ! ' ' rings out from a thousand throats ; 73 JOHN TAIT Horsemen, bind a sable token . . 81 ALICK ROBERTSON 'Mid the flashing of silk and the thunder of feet 83 xii. CONTENTS PXGK GLENLOTH'S CUP "Not started yet! What the deuce can be wrong? 85 TARCOOLA'S CUP Why wail, prophet, of what may be? 83 OF NO AQCOUXT "A fool who played with life and limb, 92 OLD KANGAROO "You want to see the little chap . . 94 A HORSE OF HISTORY Not from off the field of glory . . 97 PATRON'S CUP Compare it not with Carbine's Cup 101 STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES THE SPORT OF KINGS They call it when the colours glow 107 THE HORSEMAN'S CRITICS Brave sportsmen those, who filled the air 108 HOW "LAST KING" FELL AND "MARMION" WON The sun has urged his west 'ring way . 109 CONTENTS xiii. PAOK FESTAL Broke his neck, poor old horse ! So he finished his course 113 A DREAM OF THE PAST The vision came as it comas alway, . 116 WHEN THE LAST BELL RINGS Have you ever watched the people . 122 TO MY MOTHER In token of a tender thought, . . 125 MY QUEEN I would that I had met with thee, my Queen! 127 HAND CLASPED IN HAND Hand clasped in hand, we each to each belong, 129 WHEN SHADOWS FALL When shadows gather round our path- way, sweet, 131 THE DREAM MAIDEN Dream maiden, watching wrapt and still 133 xiv. CONTENTS MY GARDEN OF DREAMS In dreams I often chance to see . . 135 REINCARNATION I do not know when first we mtt cr parted, 136 THE PATHWAY OF THE SOUL This life is but a chapter in a story, . 138 BY A BEDSIDE Close to your mother's breast . . 140 TO MARJORY I cannot tell you where the path may lead 142 BABY MINE All things are bright to you, baby mine; 143 LIEUTENANT WHITE With the dawn still red in youth's radiant sky 145 IN MEMORY OF IZZIE SPRING Not 'mid the sunshine of thy native land, 148 CONTENTS xv. I'AUK THE QUEEN OF LOVE The Queen of Love is dead and all these years, 149 THE SLAVE'S DANCING LESSON But yesterday a Queen, her tresses bound 152 THE LADY NICOTINE A friend of mine, not long in town, . 155 LOVE'S MYSTERY Tell me, poor mem 'ry-haunted ghosts, 158 TO A MUSICIAN Lover of symphonies and rippling songs ........ 161 EVE On thy dishonoured tomb we lay all sorrow, 162 ETERNAL YOUTH Supple in soul and body, brave she leaps 166 GOD GIVETH SLEEP This life is but an act. little girl, . 169 To every merry maid and steadfast mate TJiat I have known in that dear land, Where loyalty and love walk hand in hand, I dedicate these rhym.es of camp and track. Far have I wandered from The Bush of late, Yet ever turns my inmost heart From crowded street and sordid city mart, To those who live God's free, true life Out Back. THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH I LOVE thy spaciousness. Each lonely distance, Each scrub-set solitude, each sand-swept plain Calls to me with a mother's deep insistence, In symphonies of mingled joy and pain. Sweet scent of myall, belts of deep green yarran, The crimson splendour of thy solemn dawns, The stillness of thy deserts vast and barren, Where Death and Life play chess with men for pawns; The music of the horse bells then the rattle Of horn on horn, presaging fear and flight; The swift, uneasy stamp of "ringing" cattle, Then all things swallowed in the crashing night 3 4 THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH Waking the last watch from their fitful slumbers, Rushing to where each horse expectant stands, Then for the "lead" God help the man who blunders When boughs stretch down, and grip with countless hands. Red, hunted eyes: a thousand hoofs' deep thunder Danger supreme to gallop at and face; Surges of living things that burst asunder, And ebb and flow in maddened waves through space. Fierce moments when your horse can race no faster ; Grim seconds when Death rides beside your knee; A swerve that touched the rim of sure disaster ; A stoop that missed that eager leaning tree: And then from out this hell of wild disorder, To ride and find "the mob" at last in hand What is a life that's lived by rule and order Beside the strenuous strife such hours demand ! THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH 6 Wild gallops through the brigalow and mallee, Where risks to life and limb are paid at call ; Long watches then the sudden moonlight rally, With keen-horned "outlaws" fighting as they fall. Glad hours of kingly strife with brave wild horses, Where'er he led, beside their best to race What joy has he in turfed and level courses Who once has met such chances face to face ! Long spring-time days when sheep are slowly creeping Across the plains and through the river runs, In slumb'rous hours when all the world 's a- sleeping Beneath the soft caress of sensuous suns. And then, at night, when camp fires red are gleaming, To yarn with trusted mates 'neath star-lit sky, Or else to slip into that land of dreaming, Which holds the storied realm of "bye and bye." 6 THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH Years of brave working full of high endeavour; Nights bright with hope, and days when hope is dead; Seasons when luck seems to have gone forever, And gold is not more hard to win than bread. Hot wastes, that ghastly roll calls hourly render Of Thirst's dread toll and Famine's life-fed sword ; Tossed seas of sand, transformed and rich with splendour Of shining lakes and miles of bloom-clad sward. Such are the fortunes of those dauntless legions Who seek to read thee, Sibyl of the West ! The wraiths of ruin haunt thy mystic regions, And yet, for all thy crimes, they love thee best. But thou hast in thy confines many a haven Where peace and plenty reign from year to year, Where lines on fair, white browfe are never graven By lonely days and nights of nameless fear. THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH 7 Where dance and song are never out of fashion, And life is an eternal, gracious Spring, Where honour is a creed, and love a passion, And every true man of himself is king. Lost station of my dreams, how many others Can see in memory's glass such bright eyes shine, When all the world was glad with us, my brothers, And love sat with us by the blazing pine? For oft, in dreams, I saddle up "out yonder" With one sweet woman waiting by my side, And far from sordid aims and hates we wander, Across green hills to where the world is wide. Strong silent men, steeled in the drought's dread battle, Lithe, self-reliant maids are gifts of thine: Thou hast no droves of dull-brained human cattle Within thy borders, tree-crowned land of mine! 8 THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH Fighting despair, true under all life's changes, Facing all risks whatever be their name, Learning 'neath burning suns on blazing ranges, What life's swift hazards are 'mid seas of flame. Such is the groundwork of the brave, old story Writ by the fathers of our land and race, Who fought and died without one hope of glory, And lie forgotten on thy sphinx-like face. Broad plains are thine, desert, and mountain fastness, Nature 's wild heart throbs in thy breast alone ; Within the magic circle of thy vastness Rest spreads her couch, Ambition builds his throne. Four square to changeful Fate you stand, my mother ! Crowned by the skies and girdled by the sea, God gave thee Freedom for a deathless lover That thou mayest cradle empires yet to be. SONS OF THE EMPIRE ABOVE us the sword of the War-God swings By a single strand to-day ; For the challenge of battle world-wide rings, From Europe to far Cathay. The vale of the Rhine is an armed camp, The steppes of the East resound To the clang of hoofs, and the endless tramp Of a host that's outward bound. For the sands yet wet with our brothers ' blood France stretches a mailed hand ; And our kin must fight for their nationhood Full soon on the golden Rand. 9 10 SONS OF THE EMPIRE But crouching alone on the world's wide face A lioness waits to spring; And, as one, each cub of her warlike race Will wake when her roar shall ring. Already the men by the frozen seas Watch eager on wave and shore, For sons of the Sea Queen all are these Both now and for evermore. On the rim and verge of the world's highway We dwell from our kin apart "They do not feel," I have heard men say, "The beat of the Empire's heart." "From their primal dawn they have waked and slept, From wars of the world remote; No sabre of their 's from its sheath has leapt At the trumpet's stirring note." "For a hundred years they have sown and cut The grain on their peaceful plains; Till in shop, and mansion, and lonely hut, The blood runs cold in their veins." SONS OF THE EMPIRE 11 But sons of the Empire still are we, Not dead, though as yet asleep; And whene'er she calls, then on land and sea Our swords from their sheaths will leap. And not as dependents but equal peers We will fight, as freemen should, With the garnered strength of untrammeled years, For our common nationhood. 1899 FROM beyond the coastal ranges, Far from moan of harbour bars, Where the seasons know few changes, 'Neath hot suns and drought-dimmed stars; Where a man loves this wise, brothers ! All true women, one true horse Caring little for all others, Be they better, be they worse. From where stockwhips still are ringing, And the branding fires still glow; And the lads their ropes are flinging, As they flung them years ago; Where it's nerves and eyes like lightning, When the order's "Slack his head," And you feel his muscles tightening As the loop begins to spread. From where boards are white with fleeces, And the cry is "Wool away," 12 THE SONG OF THE BUSH BRIGADES 13 And the crumbling, feathery pieces Fall beneath the screens like spray; Where it's work till backs are breaking, And the wrists grow numb and dead, And each quivering muscle's aching, If you mean to ring the shed. From the tracks where men go droving Past the desert's farthest rim, With a courage won by roving Through the scrub lands grey and dim; Where it's "onward now or never," And the man who falters dies In a land, where, lost forever, Hundreds sleep with unclosed eyes We come! We come! We come! To the song of the clanking sabre, To the rhyme of the jingling bit; Every man beside his neighbour In his saddle will steadfast sit. We come! We come! We come! Our guides are the stars above; To ride while a horse in the ranks can stand, To strike and strike with a strong right hand For the hearths and homes of our native land, And the lives of the women we love. VANGUARD forever doomed to die! The hour draws near, When rope and shear Will, frayed and blunted, rotting lie ; When camp and yard will pass away, And bit and steel will useless rust In empty stalls, Where silence calls To silence, 'mid dishonoured dust. With iron will and steadfast face You led the way, In that dim day Which saw the dawning of our race. 14 THE PASSING OF THE SHEPHERD KINGS 15 Empires have cradled in thy tents ; And millions hold, because of you, The lands you won, From snow and sun, When sea and shore alike were new. No foot of our Australian soil, But you have wet With blood or sweat, And sanctified with manly toil. Your women dared what men now fear, When, step by step, with you they trod That pain-strewed road, Bearing life's load Alone, with nature and with God. To-day your hoof-trod lands we need, So all the past Must be recast, That men may garner strength to breed A sturdier race than fetid spawn In narrow streets and filthy hives, Where crime takes shape, And passions rape The Godhood out of human lives. 16 THE PASSING OF THE SHEPHERD KINGS Full soon this fair Arcadian dream Of primal peace Alas, must cease ! For, close at hand, strange watch fires gleam, And keen eyes mark our empty plains. So men must come, and sheep must go, If we would hold This land of gold Our fathers won us long ago. But when one fat with wine and corn. Who has forgot, Or knoweth not The tale of how his race was born, (In love with his own pampered self). The song of farm and orchard sings Whate'er his boast, Be mine to toast The memory of the Shepherd Kings. THE GREAT WESTERN DESERT FROM matted undergrowths the fronded pines Shoot skyward through the hot December air; About the sun-scorched mulga, silken lines Of cobweb hang in many a deft-spun snare. Scorched by the fierce caress of summer heat The weary grass low droops its spectral blades, And dead leaves crack beneath the stealthy feet Of dingoes gathering for their nightly raids. This is the land wherein the Sun-God wakes The demons dread of madness and of thirst; The home of barren clouds, and phantom lakes, Of goal-less tracks, and wastes by famine cursed. B 17 18 THE GREAT WESTERN DESERT Here rot explorers' bones, and here, too, lie Leal-hearted mates who sought the lost in vain; Here pain has birth, and here high hopes must die, Weary of waiting for the promised rain. When o'er these trackless realms, the white-robed stars Shine dimly as upon a death- wooed place; And no fair moon shoots down her silver bars, To kiss the sorrow from Earth's weary face, Dread cries float upward from the dark-set boles, And 'glowing eyes stare out athwart the gloom ; Each barren aisle is peopled with sad souls, Moaning the gruesome story of their doom. For when chaste Night has wrapped her mantle fair About the dreary nooks where lie their bones ; The ghosts of this lone land whose lord 's Despair, Fill all her spaces with weird monotones. 19 By creeks, whose beds are littered with decay, O'er plains, whence fairy lakes allured their eyes, The spirits of the men who lost their way, Come through the shadows when the stars arise. Then, as they onward flit 'neath star and sky, Searching for mothers lost and widowed brides, The souls of those they seek on white wings hie, To be to them both comforters and guides. So, with the years, sad cries will sink and cease, And one by one, the dead men will have rest; Until, at last, a great abiding peace Will fill the vastness of the tearless West. THE SONG THAT MEN SHOULD SING THE cohorts who fought when the world \vas young, Have their blood-red legends told: For a hundred poets have bravely sung The deeds of the days of old. The story is writ of the men who fell In desert and sun-scorched track; The legions who served their country well I The heroes who marched Out Back." They have told the tale of a battle flag That floated all seas above, When the tattered folds of this crimson rag Were dearer than life or love. But they tell us now in their lifeless lays, These knights of the stool and pen, 20 THE SONG THAT MEN SHOULD SING 21 We must boast no more of the stirring days When they fought and fell like men. But the tale is best that has oft been told, If it love of birthland bring; And the song they sang in the days of old Is the song that I will sing. For a people rot in the lap of ease, And trade, be it all in all, Breeds the canker worm of a fell disease, The germ of a nation's fall. It matters nothing what dreamers say When they prate that wars must cease, For the lustful War-God holds his sway In these "piping days of peace." We know there was never a country yet In the East, or in the West, That was worth the M-inning but has been wet With the life blood of its best. So our lads must learn there's a sterner task Than playing a well-pitched ball; That the land we love may some day ask For a team, when the trumpets call. 22 THE SONG THAT MEN SHOULD SING A team that is ready to take the field To bowling with balls of lead, In a test match grim where if one appealed, The Umpire might answer "dead." It is wiell to collar and kick and pass, In a fierce-fought football match, And it's grand to bring a flyer to grass, While the barrackers breathless watch. But a time will come when the forwards' rush Will be on the tongues of flame, And the men in the scrums will faint and flush In the heat of a bloodier game. It is brave to ride in a strong-run race When the rails are lightly struck, And you drive your horse to a winning place In front of the weary ruck. But never forget that you yet may face A wall that is built of steel, In a "Death or Glory" steeplechase, With squadrons that sway and reel. On the falling ground where the stallions fling The foam from their sweat-drenched manes; THE SONG THAT MEN SHOULD SING 23 Then the bushman feels that he is a king, Sole lord of the pine-clad plains. But a day may come when the scarlet bloom Will blossom on sabres bright, And the sombre isles of the scrub land's gloom Be lit with the battle's light. So the bushman 's wrist must be taught to swing A sword, not a silken lash, When the cheery notes of the stockwhip's ring Give place to the rifle's crash. For from mine and city and bushland track, When the eagles hover nigh, We must march to the sea to beat them back Or to die as freemen die. We ask for no foot of the Old World's face, No part of the New want we, But we mean to hold for our future race What is circled by our sea. So the tale is best that has oft been told, If it love of birthland bring, And the song they sang in the days of old Is the song that men should sing. PAPUA Lo! from her cloud-compelling crest Men saw the lost Lemuria die, Close hidden in her sun-kissed breast The secrets of dim ages lie. The world we know still shapeless lay Within the womb of long dead seas; Atlantis slowly passed away But she is older far than these. Perchance upon her mist-crowned head Some primal ark found resting place, What time the living and the dead Were hurled against her changeless face. Sister of long-forgotten lands, Daughter of fire, and air, and sea, 24 PAPUA 25 Dower 'd with eternal youth she stands, Who was, and is, and is to be. Compass'd about with wreck-strewn reefs, The sirens ' song she -ever sings, Then laughs at all our hopes and griefs, For she has shared the woes of kings. Broad-fronded palms and regal vines Hang as a ramee round her hips, Hibiscus bloom her hair entwines, The blood of summer paints her lips. Her fruitful breasts rise full and round, Free to be woo'd by shower or sun; She sits and waits by reef and sound, A mistress worthy to be won. Suitors in plenty has she known, Sea kings who steered by sun and stars ; Great Captains' flags have bravely flown Without her sand-built harbour bars. Some shut their ears and went their ways, Past lilting song and reef-rimmed shore, Some anchor cast in coral bays, And rode the ocean wide no more. 26 PAPUA She lured them to her couch of palms, And kissed them with her fevered breath, Holding them in her round, brown arms Until they slept the sleep of death. Seducers of a baser kind, Blind devotees of luck and chance, Have drifted to her on the wind Of fear and doubtful circumstance. But low she laughs at fools and knaves Who seek her heart for pelf and pay ; And hides in swamps and mountain graves The sordid hopes of such as they. No lovers born of greed wants she, This mother of a brood half grown, Her master that is yet to be Must guard her children as his own. So still she waits "the shining one/' With heart of gold and soul of snow, Whose wisdom all may read who run, Whose justice even babes may know. And when he comes, her stubborn will Will yield beneath his pure embrace, PAPUA 27 And songs that lure, and lips that kill, No more will vex her comely face. For he will guide with even hands The halting feet of primal tribes, And teach the sons of newer lands To make a lesson of their lives. Till brown and white beneath his lead Will fairly bear a common load; And children of the lesser breed Begin to climb a nobler road. AN INVOCATION MAKER of earth and sky and sea, Spirit and Lord of time and tide, Oh, keep us free, as Thou art free, From sinful sloth and foolish pride! Grant us, God, the sight divine, That steadfast steers its course by Thee, So that our lives as lamps may shine, To guide Australia's destiny. Give us the brotherhood that knows No bar of caste, no pride of creed; The unstained soil where Freedom sows Fair fields with her immortal seed. If, tempted by the dream of power, We join in quarrels lightly made, 28 AN INVOCATION 29 Hold Thou our hands in that mad hour From guilt of blood and lustful raid. Save us, we pray, from sordid greed, From churlish fear with men to share The empty lands we do not need, The burdens that we may not bear. Nor suffer us because Thy seas Keep watch o'er wastes as yet unwon, To put a childish trust in these, And leave our duty yet undone. Lord, strengthen Thou our hearts and thews, Be priest and leader of our race, Teach us our heritage to use, In this Thy day of peace and grace. From gross delights and selfish aims, From souls that love whate'er is mean, From every thought that mars or shames, Keep Thou our waking manhood clean. Just Ruler of all seas and lands, Give us the right to have and hold In Freedom's name, with pure strong hands, This virgin Isle with heart of gold. NANKIBOO IN a spot far remote from the horn's stirring note, In a land where the fences are few, You may dream o'er again of the days of Col 'raine, And, in fancy, your triumphs renew ! Twenty years must have flown since you first held your own With the best over water and wall, Now, alas, for those days and their dare devil ways, And the men of the past, one and all ! Could you wander, old horse, to that far western course, Much I fear you would seek it in vain : 30 NANKIBOO 31 For the fences you faced have to-day been dis- placed, And no signs of the stockyard remain! While the horses you met when the plough lands were wet May no longer the bright water face, And the men that you bore will, alas, ride no more For the glory and love of the race ! Some may say I am wrong, but I hold that the throng Of horsemen who lived in your prime Sent their bravest and best from the fields of the West Ere they sacrificed "jumping" to "time." So a Godspeed to you, gallant old Nankiboo, In your home on the far distant Bland, May you roam at your ease 'neath the silver- topped trees Caressed bv a woman 's white hand ! THE STOCKMAN'S SONG No land have I beneath the sky, For me no welcomes ring, No title old is mine to hold, And yet, I am a king ! For lord I reign o'er hill and plain, Altho' I only own A gallant steed of fearless breed, A saddle for a throne. When foam-flecks stain each tossing mane On dust-enshrouded tracks, I love to hear ring sharp and clear The stockwhip's echoing cracks; For when each heel drives home the steel, And red are reeking sides, He is their king who, on the wing, O'er hill and valley rides. 32 THE STOCKMAN'S SONG 33 No coward he I trow must be, Who in the stockyard stands When crests are thrust through clouds of dust And smoke of hissing brands; When eyeballs glow in heads held low, And horns are keen as swords, He plays with life in desp'rate strife. Who tames the forest lords. Give me my steed of fearless breed, The whip and reins I hold; The breath of towns my manhood drowns, A fig for desk- won gold! You, too, may keep your ploughs and sheep, And all the wealth they bring, For 'mid the tramp of yard and camp I feel I am a king ! A MEMORY OF THE BACK BLOCKS BY a box trunk, gnarled and hoary, Stands the subject of my story, Shaded from the noontide glory Sleeping 'neath the tree. Round him blithesome colts are neighing, 'Mid the silken grasses playing; On their chains the dogs are baying, Longing to be free. Near to earth his mane is trailing, Strength and sight alike are failing; Yet, in dreams, he still is sailing Over hill and lea : Through the barren scrub land racing, Fierce-eyed forest outlaws chasing, Logs and gaping chasms facing, Swiftly bearing me. 34 A MEMORY OF THE BACK BLOCKS 35 Temper gentle, courage fiery, Limbs and body lean and wiry; Swift on firm ground or on miry, Brave and true was he. Well I mind an old December, He must too, I think, remember When we both, 'mid ash and ember, Faced a flaming sea. He and I had both been spelling At a far out-station dwelling, Where there lived but what use telling Of the Moondi's pride. Where I first had chanced to meet her, By what name I chose to greet her Matters not I held her sweeter Than all else beside. In the sultry summer weather, She and I, one day together, Wandered far through scrub and heather, "Darkie" at our side. When it chanced the "myalls" found us Firing all the lands around us, Till for miles the demons bound us In a fiery tide. 36 A MEMORY OF THE BACK BLOCKS Little time was left for thinking, With the red-lipped circle shrinking, Life blood from the green boughs drinking, Feasting on the dried. So I coiled the hair that crowned her, O'er her face then tightly bound her With her robe put one arm round her Then began my ride. Never thought my horse of turning, On he raced, the hot earth spurning, E'en although the branches burning, Falling, fired his mane. On, and on, with hot hoofs toiling. On, until my brain seemed boiling, And the hungry flames were coiling Round my bridle rein. Then, Great God, I felt a shiver, As when unstrung muscles quiver No, he'd smelt the God-sent river; Yonder stretched the plain. On he dashed, into the water, Safe across the stream he brought her, Closely to my heart I caught her, Ne'er to part again. A MEMORY OF THE BACK BLOCKS 37 Never more o'er hill and valley, Did my old horse brumbies rally, Never more did pine or mallee Know his dauntless crest. Never more in woodland battle Did the red-eyed mallee cattle Hear his flying hoofs' sharp rattle, Racing past their best. For that day he gave his splendid Strength, that we might be defended; And his triumphs all were ended, When the bank he pressed. Blackened hoofs were scorched and bloody, And each footprint left a ruddy Stain upon the stream bank muddy ; Sunken was his chest. 'Then my mistress put her tender Arms about her brave defender; Kissed, and bade me well remember, He had made us blest. So, amid the richest masses Of the green and golden grasses, "Darkie," loved and cared for, passes Days of well-won rest. WHAT NEED TO FEAE IF BLOOD BE TRUE "THE race has reached and passed its prime, ; Sneer weakling sons of sturdy sires; Then why in every untrod clime, Burn bright our Empire's outpost fires? Hated because she took the task From supine rulers' nerveless hands; She gave her blood that all may bask In safety on her hard-won lands. And so she holds the envied dower Of Indian states made rich and free, And peoples proud to own her power, And fight her foes, whoe'er they be. 38 WHAT NEKD TO FEAR IF BLOOD BE TRUE 39 With blood and treasure, mile by mile, She won the Soudan back at last, And soon a freed and fertile Nile Will wake the Egypt of the past. Proud scars of conquest seam her face, But new blood comes to warm her veins From every nation, tribe, and race Where Freedom grows, and Justice reigns. Her children hold the priceless West. Unconquered, free, like all her sons, And deep and strong within each breast The crimson stream of kinship runs. And, when she calls, the sea and land Will give her fleets and eager hosts, For all her "outposts" firm will stand As one, to guard her countless coasts. Then Powers may raise their crops of steel, And fill with ships each water-way, For with the native-born all leal "The Race" can hold the world at bay. 40 WHAT NEED TO FEAR IF BLOOD BE TRUE So, while her sons to blood keep true, Our Empire still her foes can scorn; And soil on which our fathers grew Will cradle kingdoms yet unborn. A BALLAD OF BYGOLOREE AWAY in the mallee, where back-blockers rally The pikers through scrub land and clear, And keen horsemen battle, where horns gleam and rattle, With hearts that are strangers to fear; We got up some races where beauty -lit faces Were present our triumphs to greet; For thanks to our patrons or rather the matrons, The ladies had honoured our meet. The horse I'd been training but hang the explaining ! I, at least, didn't ride him that day: For to finish the matter I couldn't grow fatter, So Tom Cox himself rode the grey. 41 42 A BALLAD OF BYGOLORKE But Patrick, a joker conversant with poker, Said his nag could "win in a walk," Having plenty of muscle to fight out a tussle, And also no fancy to baulk. I offered to ride him, but when he untied him From the fence he'd hung to all night, It struck me my chances of winning bright glances Were putting it mildly not bright. "He looks a bit seedy, and not over greedy For racing, ' ' I ventured io say. "In three tries," said Patrick, "you'll just win the hat trick, You bet he can gallop all day." I felt it was risky, but thanks to the whisky My notions of danger grew small, While What I might suffer from riding a duffer Was all bottled up in a fall; So joining the others who really were brothers As far as the class of their steeds; We each did our canter, 'mid volleys of banter Regarding the build of our weeds. I felt i'f I sat him and always kept at him Old Stockwell had bottom enough, While most of our riders were only outsiders, Though made of the right sort of stuff, A BALLAD OF BYGOLOREE 43 Whose notions of winning were from the beginning To hold a position in front Views apt to diminish their chance of a finish If up at the end of a hunt. But still there was one in, not wanting in cunning, Who sat like a leech, so to speak, But then he was steering (a fact somewhat cheering) A young one as green as a leek. Down went the old duster (the best we could muster), And off to the front went a man Who handled a black one, a tall and a slack one, While the rest tried "catch who catch can." We raced in a cluster, well worthy a buster, At the fence which stood at the bend, V\ iiere 'mid much refusing and graphic abusing, The fav 'rites slipped round the end; But Brown was still striving, by dint of hard driving, Old Charcoal to keep in the lead, When Cox on the grey one, who split with the bay one Somewhere near the whole of our speed, 44 A BALLAD OF BYGOLOREE Came up, pulling double, through horses in trouble, For baulking, and slowness thrown in, Gave one who was plucky and chanced to be lucky Lots of time to fall down and win, And catching the black one, who was but a hack one Would buy for the way that he fenced, Away he went sailing, while Fred formed the tail in A field that was getting condensed. They swung round the turning, each man of them spurning All dread of a fracture or break: For reckless and daring, for nought on earth caring, Each rode for a woman's fair sake. Now past me went dashing, a weak pine pole smashing Fred O'Cock, the best of us all; "Good-bye, Jim," he shouted, as hard the brown clouted, "I think I can win, bar a fall." A BALLAD OF BYGOLOREE 45 I felt the pace slowing, and, keeping him going, Old Stockwell was soon running third, While O'Cock was chasing Glendeer, who was racing And jumping as clean as a bird. With knees and hands riding, each horse fiercely striding, They battled in front of the ruck, While those I was leaving were blowing and 'heaving, And the colours of Sultan were struck. I heard their hoofs striking a tune to my liking, As both flew the last fence but one, And saw their whips flashing, as through the rail crashing, My mount landed reeling and done, I pulled him together God only knows whether He knew, but I think that he must For as they were flying the last, I was lying Not two lengths behind, in their dust. Both locked, they came to it ; the brown one went through it, And ere he got going again, With never a blunder, and jumping like thunder, Old Stockwell had reached the grey's rein; 46 A BALLAD OF BYGOLOREE Aim still onward creeping, with long, low stride sweeping, Whip-stung, but still coming, he led, And 'Cock's rush stalling, 'mid yelling appalling, Got home by a fairly long head. THE MIRAGE I HAD occasion on an earlier day With one to travel through a trackless land Where dying leaves in dull confusion lay, And Thirst and Hunger wandered hand in hand. Where banks of creeks were white with bleaching bones And trampled by the hoofs of hurrying things ; Where all the sultry air was full of moans And lazy strokes of watching eagles' wings. Slow toiling on, we reached a treeless plain A waste devoid of grass and full of heat, Where every step was fraught with nameless pain To weary horses' weak and dragging feet. 47 48 THK MIRAGE And as we gazed with hungry hopeless eyes Across the wide expanse for track or tree, Before our doubting visions seemed to rise In glittering waves a wondrous inland sea! Athwart its silver breast the shadows fell From giant trees whose feet the water met; While every wooded point and grass-paved dell Seemed robed in regal verdure, fresh and wet. Far from the shore, beyond the longest shades, Each wave was crowned with dancing gleams of light- Such as are seen to flash from whirling blades When strong-armed champions lead the desperate fight. Hope clad in all the radiance of the East Cast o'er our dimming eyes its deathless spell On other limbs than ours the worms might feast Amid the sand-drifts of that burning hell. For lo! from out the realms of Death's domain Life rode to meet us on the sun-dyed waves, Bidding us burst the ghastly chains in twain That bound us to the brinks of waiting graves. THE MIRAGE 49 Pricking their drooping ears our horses caught The bits that late in listless jaws had lain, While for their stretching heads they fiercely fought As though in chase of forest droves again. Swift gathering up each muscle, flaccid grown In weary wandering through the scrub accurst, Onward they dashed o 'er leaping crack and stone With limbs that borrowed strength from days of thirst. God knows the length of that wild, reckless ride O'er drought-split ground beneath a blazing sun; I only know our pack horse dropped and died And yet the gleaming lake remained unwon. But my old favourite, though the sweat drops stood About his eyes and on his dust-dimmed hair, Still showed a courage worthy of the blood That bade the son of Panic do and dare. While on his quarter hung the lean game head Of her who bore my mate on flying feet, For only when her gallant heart was dead Would Premier's high-bred daughter own defeat. 50 THE MIRAGE On, on we raced, till heaving sides proclaimed That even iron wills at last must break; My horse was swaying, Jackson 's mare was lamed, And God of Heaven! where was now the lake? Gone! not a drop of moisture met the eye, Our horses sniffed like bloodhounds when -at fault, Out to the dim horizon all was dry The fiend-limned lake a bed of glittering salt ! I know not if despair fed on my face But swear I felt its grip upon my heart As when one bound and fettered takes his place Upon the straw that beds the headsman's cart. Turning I caught my comrade's blasting stare, Great God! his eyeballs burnt me like a coal: For in them blazed the madness and despair Of some for ever lost and damned soul. Trembling in every limb our horses sank Their sweating heads, until each drooping mane Trailed in the dust, from which their nostrils drank Fierce draughts of agony and hopeless pain. THE MIRAGE 51 All, all was lost! Death hovered overhead! Around us lay the bones he had picked bare ! Noiseless he stooped again with Life to wed As with a choking gasp down dropped the mare. Silent we watched the hoofs that feebly moved, The quivering nostrils stained with dust and sand, The pain-drawn eyes that looked to him she loved And seemed to ask for succour at his hand. One long convulsive throe, one cry she gave, And then, the lissom limbs were still for aye; Dull grew the soft brown eyes so true and brave, Among the dead old Premier's daughter lay. With shaking hand my comrade drew his knife And threw himself beside his silent steed: "Here, take your share," he said, "her blood is life, Here is the draught of which we stand in need." 52 THE MIRAGE "Jackson," I shouted, "Death is at your lip"- But, knife in hand, he held me now at bay, "Stand back," he yelled, "thirst has me at the whip, By Heaven! I'll kill the fool who bars my way. ' ' With feverish strength he gashed her net-like veins, And sucked the ruddy stream with frenzied haste, Then, all his beard begrimed with crimson stains, Pie senseless sank upon the burning waste. Slow flowed the darksome stream. Amid the dust I stood with swollen tongue and burning brain, Till to me came a fierce o'er mastering lust To drink, and in a moment end my pain. I knelt at last beside the clotting pool, Strength, sense, and manhood, by my thirst o 'erthrown, For now the sickening mass seemed sweet and cool As some deep-shaded spring with flowers o'ergrown. THE MIRAGE 53 Then, ere I drank, stayed by some sense of shame, I looked into my dumb friend's steadfast eyes, And from their patient depths a message came That bade the soul within me wake and rise. Strength came again, I roused my senseless mate And fiercely swore the waiting death to baulk : "Come on," I cried, "why court a coward's fate? Life is not lost while we have strength to walk." So, on we crept across the burning sands, On feet that barely answered to our will; Two wanderers on the britik of unknown lands, To whom my gallant horse kept faithful still. No succour came, and now my comrade fell Prone to the dust, and bade me let him lie : "Within my bosom burn the pains of Hell, Leave me, ' ' he cried, " ! Christ ! that I could die." "Each drop of blood I swallowed is a fire That burns about my throat and in my chest, O God! I swear a coil of red-hot wire Is wound and twisted round my cracking breast. ' ' 64 THE MIRAGE He would not rise I had no strength to bear His fevered form along the trackless way; With curses deep, he tore his blood-stained hair. Then prattled like a little child at play. Delirium held him in its ruthless grasp, Froth dyed the crimson of his matted beard, He seized the flinty earth with fearsome clasp And shouted songs in accents wild and weird. Then, springing to his feet, he clutched the air As though to grasp some beaker overhead ; "The cup has gone," he yelled in mad despair, And fell upon the barren desert dead. God knows what happened then ; I cannot say. They tell me I was found close to his side. A murky shadow covers half that day; For memory left me after Jackson died. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE You may brag of charge and battle, Paint the gleam of angry steel, When the foemen's rifles rattle And the gallant squadrons wheel; Where each sabre's blade is flushing With the life blood of the brave, And the cheering line is rushing "On to glory or the grave." You may sing of decks bespattered With the blood of hero tars, When the stout ships' sides are shattered And the round shot rakes her spars, When the answer "No surrender" Rings defiant to the sky: "If alive we can't defend her, With the good ship we will die." fi6 IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE Now, old mate, we need not quarrel, All the same I'll have my say, Mind, I would not pluck a laurel From the brows of such as they; But I'll tell you, lad, the story Of a miner I once knew, Leaving judgment as to glory When I've finished it to you. Jack was such another fellow As one meets with every day Where the diggers' moles grow yellow With the puddling and the clay; He had never faced a volley, Boasted neither clasp nor star; But he loved a chit named Polly In the digging shanty's bar. She was well, a painted lily, Reared by man for manhood's bane, Soiled and sinful, sordid, silly, Full of chaff, but void of grain. Yet he lingered o'er his liquor At her soul-less eyes' command, And his sturdy pulse beat quicker When she, careless, touched his hand. So she played him as a player Idly strums upon the keys, IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE 57 Till there came a lover gayer Than this chump with yellow knees. When she coolly came the double; Dropped the old love for the new: Then we cleared the decks for trouble And Jack punched him black and blue. As a rule, a good blood-letting Heals the average digger's sore, But this ended in their getting Just to hate each other more. He was straight and smart and dapper, Was this chap who cut out Jack, And he said he'd been a sapper Anyway he'd got the knack Of exploding shots, and splitting Every sort and size of block, From the quartz on which we're sitting To the toughest breed of rock: So, when Gulgong Jim reported He'd a basalt bar in view, This young sapper-cove was sorted Out with Jack to burst it through. Lad, I don't pan out on praying, But I 've felt a bit that way 58 IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE When the straining rope was swaying And the light grew weird and grey. Mind, we went down with the bucket, We'd no cages then for ''shifts," You could either chance or chuck it And be hanged to patent lifts ; But that day I would have parted Half my share to go with Jack, He was desperate broken-hearted, And I felt his soul was black. While that cur we called "The Sapper 1 Was a coward born and bred, And I felt he'd use his "napper," If he dared, on old Jack's head. Down they went, their faces level, Eye to eye with hate aglow, In each heart an angry devil, To the gloomy depths below; Hating, watching, neither speaking, Sank they slowly into space, 'Mid the windlass' eerie creaking, Past the timbers' dripping face. Steadily myself and Docker, Coil on coil of rope unwound, 'Till the clanging of the "knocker" Told us they had run to ground, IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE 59 Told us that two men were kneeling Close together, gads in hand, Both their brains with vengeance reeling, Groping 'mid the mud and sand, Down in silence deep, unbroken, Shut from every mortal eye, Where the fiercest curse yet spoken Would on earless granite die. Men don't talk when steadfast hating Soaks the marrow in their bones, All was silent save the grating Of their gads upon the stones; But whene'er they touched each other Every muscle felt the thrill, For they doubted one another And they watched each other's drill; So they bored and charged each pocket, Saw each fuse was well aglow. Burning in its canvas socket Shone each light away below. Foot to foot, their faces level, Eye to eye with hate aflame, In each heart an angry devil; At the signal up they came, Hating, watching, neither speaking, Rose they swiftly into space, 60 IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE 'Mid the windlass' cheery creaking, Past the timbers' dripping face. Twenty feet is left behind them, Fifty more and they are safe, Bravely bend the arms that wind them, See the stout rope sway and chafe; Stay what's wrong? the pull is lighter- Loud the warning knocker clangs, Close set lips grow whiter, tighter, Motionless the taut rope hangs. When he told us all the story, This is how it came to pan You can keep your blood-cursed glory I'll stand on this digger man. In those days our style of splitting Was, to put it mildly, rough, And we reckoned damn bad fitting, If not handsome, good enough; So, it chanced, "The Sapper" clinging Hands to rope and feet on rim Never saw the bucket swinging On a peg worse luck for him. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE 61 That was all that Jack remembers: Just a jerk ''The Sapper's" yell Far below five glowing embers Dazed, he pulled the warning bell. In the shaft a man and devil On the bucket's slanting rim, Hanging o'er the lowest level, Fought a battle, silent, grim. Far below, the cur he hated Lay, for all he knew, stone dead; Up above he could be mated To the girl he longed to wed. "Down below the burning fuses "Near each charge," the demon said, "He who tries to save him chooses ' ' Death upon the self-same bed. "Let him die what does it matter? "lie was neither friend nor mate, "But a dog who dared to shatter "All your hopes why share his fate?" So he fought the hate within him, One hand on the signal line, And the devil thought to win him In the darkness of the mine: For the seconds kept on ticking While five eager eyes grew large, 62 IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE And a spark would soon be pricking At the heart of every charge. Then he cast one look above him, Muttered hoarsely, ' ' Damn it, NO ! ' ' If she likes ; well, let her love him ! ' '- Gave the signal for " below." Docker muttered "Mad; by thunder! '' 'Down below' it reads quite plain "Steady, man, they've made a blunder 4 No hark ! there it goes again ! ' ' Up on top, well, means obeying, Be the signal what it may; So we set the rope a-playing And we lowered right away. Jack would never tell his feelings As he sank towards the blast, But I guess that he had dealings With the spirits of the past; For it seemed the time to reckon Up one's show of Heav'n or Hell, Just the spot where angels beckon Or "blue devils" ring their knell. God! the grimness of that journey Down the dripping timbered way When he knew that, every turn, he Was departing from the day, IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE 63 Leaving light and life behind him For the darkness and the death Which, for all he knew, would find him, Scorch him with its fiery breath. Down at last! now every second Must be used before it's fled. How the swaying rope coils beckoned ! Why not swear the man was dead? He was senseless, could he lift him? Was it worth his while to try? "Yes, by God!" said Jack, "111 shift him "Or together we will die." W T hat of time ah! thought appalling, He had Death himself to beat For the fuse fires still were crawling To the powder at his feet. He must draw them they will light it Down he kneels beside a fuse, Now with hands and feet he fights it, Not a second dare he lose. Four have drawn the last keeps breaking, He must chance it up he springs; God be thanked! "The Sapper's" waking To the digger's hand he clings. In his arms Jack tightly folds him, Life upon his swiftness hangs, On the bucket firm he holds him Fierce the warning knocker clangs! 84 IN THE DARKNESS OF THE MINE Locked as one, their faces level At the signal up they rise In each heart an angry devil Starved and hopeless, droops and dies. Silent, listening, neither speaking, Shoot they swiftly into space, 'Mid the windlass' cheery creaking, Past the timbers' dripping face. Now you've heard my hero's story, How d'you think it seems to pan? You can keep your blood-cursed glory, I '11 stand on this digger man ! TO ROWLEY PICKERING ("Nemo.") Because I deem that you would have it so, I offer you these jingles of the past, For well I know a lasting love thou hast For true run race and bravely planted blow. Nor have I yet forgot that at a time When sympathy and help were more than gold, You gave me both with plentitude untold, And found a place for many a ragged rhyme. So, rider keen and scribe of sporting days, Knowing full well that you will understand, I give as friend to friend into your hand, These roughly hewn and halting racing lays. THE SMOKE VISION ABOVE my bowl the smoke rings roll, While from forgotten places Swift memory brings on noiseless wings A flight of forms and faces, Till trophied walls re-echo calls From densely peopled courses, And all the air around my chair Is filled with men and horses. O'er shadowy leaps, a horseman sweeps, To fair Parnassus riding A pallid steed of fearsome breed, Through spectre horses guiding; By mist-hung posts and silk-clad ghosts, And on o'er forest grasses, To join the throng of deathless song The shade of Gordon passes. r 68 THE SMOKE VISION Now through the haze that shrouds my gaze, A field in scarlet battle, Past wooded vales and over rails, On strange uncanny cattle; But he who leads through brakes and meads And up each deep-set hollow, Flits white and still o'er wall and hill, For lo! 'tis Bowes they follow. Athwart the night I see the light Of danger signals glowing, I seem to be beside a sea Whose waves are restless flowing, While from a wreck's upriven decks A bloodlike steed emerges, And, speeding home across the foam, McGrade rides o'er the surges. Through fitful rays I catch the blaze Of spurs and stirrups flashing, As Donald sails against the rails Through reeling leaders dashing; Then all grows black, as on a track Where mournful pines are sighing, The sun-shafts shine where Silvermine, With one he bore, is lying. THE SMOKE VISION 69 The vision fades, then 'mong the shades A ghastly chase commences, And gallant Crae now leads the way O'er flights of weird-like fences, 'Mid fearsome shouts a jumper clouts Yon stiff and rasping paling, And through the crowd the doomed McLeod Flits past the white-set railing. Through smoke-born clouds the silken shrouds Of wondrous riders battle, As down "the straight" of Time and Fate The phantom horses rattle; For through each ring there seems to spring A train of men and horses, Whom oft I met when spurs were wet On hoof-betrampled courses. And on the room descends a gloom, As fast before me races A bloodless band from spirit land, With cold and stony faces ; Whose horses' feet give hollow beat, Unheard in earthly stable, For those they bear the colours wear Of one whose silks are sable. 70 THE SMOKE VISION From listless lips my meerschaum slips And fancy spreads its pinions, For with its fall the phantoms all Ride back to Death's dominions. In vain I look o'er wall and nook Alas! each form is banished, Through empty air I sadly stare The horsemen all have vanished. TOMMY CORRIGAN NEVERMORE o'er rasping double With the field behind in trouble, Will the prince 01 horsemen sweep; For, with nerve and heart unshaken, Corrigan has faced and taken Life's last, stiffest, stoutest leap. Thirty years of charmed existence Wearied not the dread persistence Of a horse who never tires; And, to-day, the fleshless Rider Of this white, unbacked, outsider Scored a win : so say the wires ! Riders dear to Western story, Men who raced for love and glory, Sport the scarlet, grasp the rein; 71 72 TOMMY CORRIGAN Spirits who have known the gladness In four miles of pace-born madness, Don the colours once again ! Shades of horsemen long departed (Rise and greet a gallant-hearted Brother from the nether shore; Bowes and Wilson, reckless Fender, Singer, girt with death-won splendour, Mount your phantom steeds once more ! Ghosts who once on earthly courses Backed his bravely-handled horses, Cheer him homeward as of yore : Let him hear your voices hailing, As he flies Death's boundary paling Into life for evermore! WHEN HEROES MEET (Melbourne, 2nd November, 1889.) UP a straight that is bordered by thousands of eyes, The champions pace proudly, As over the paddock and hill the hoarse cries Of the layers ring loudly. Golden-skinned and bright-eyed comes the pride of the South, Down the rails bravely sweeping, And the host who have trusted him cry with one mouth, "We are safe in his keeping." With a coat smooth as satin and muscles of steel, Comes another defender For the flag of the South, when ranks sway and reel, And the wet sides wax tender ; 73 74 WHEN HEROES MEET What need then to fear the great horse who towers Approachless and peerless; Is not Kirkham's elect, gallant Aberoorn, ours? And brown Melos, the fearkss? With the glamour of triumphs and deeds of the past Like a nimbus about him, With blood in his veins that can race and can last Will his subjects now doubt him? Away with the thought. Like the shout of the storm Peals their voices' loud thunder, As eager for battle and blood-like in form, On strides Carbine "the wonder." A flash of red silk, a roar deep and loud, Then a rush to the paling; "They are off" tossed aloft from a turbulent crowd Then deep silence prevailing. Antasus and Sinecure fighting for place As they race to the turning WHEN HEROES MEET 75 Make fiercer and faster the terrible pace 'Neath a sun that is burning. But blood, be it ever so costly, may fail, And true hearts may waver, The thews of a brave horse will never avail In the face of a braver; So Sinecure's colours sink low in the ranks That till now he was leading, And the beauteous Antasus has foam-spotted flanks, And his hot sides are bleeding. "The bay wins," "the chestnut," rings loud o^er the stand And away o'er the heather, As catching Ankeus, they neck and neck land In the straight-way together; The gold coat of Abercorn gleams in the sun "He must win," they are crying, But Carbine comes on, with his wondrous run, O'er the shaking turf flying. Now Chester's great son for the sake of his sire, Comes again at the distance, And, closing on Carbine, the struggle grows dire In its grim, set persistence. 76 WHEN HEROES MEET Withlean necks far stretching, and nostrils on fire, Every muscle fierce straining, They battle as one horse ; for neither will tire, And still neither is gaining. Like the roar of the surf that rolls to the shore 'er the stern rocks mad chiding, Rings afar a wild shout: "They'll part them no more," Though both horsemen are "riding;" They come neck to neck, full well each one knows 'Tis for honour they battle; Carbine fails now Abercorn's golden crest glows As still onward they rattle. But bravely the champion answers eacli call, Though the chestnut they're hailing, When Melos, forgotten till now by them all, Dashes up on the railing, Beneath Norton he comes, his face set for home, Stout and strong as a lion, With stride that ne'er falters, his cheeks white with foam, Now he passes O'Brien. And still on he comes, till the chestnut can feel His hot nostril beside him WHEN HEROES MEET 77 "Ride, Hales, for your life, bury deep the keen steel, "For 'the blue and white' ride him!"- Still on Melos creeps, as they near the white post Half a blanket would hide them; A cry rises up from the pale-visaged host, "Judge can never divide them." No time now to steady; scarce space for a rush; Not a sound save the ringing Of hoofs and the whistling of whips ; for a hush O'er the vast course is clinging. So they race to the post, ears back, nostrils red When Hales, Norton 's rush stalling, Lifts Abercorn past by at most half a head, As "dead heat," they are calling. HOW THE KING CAME HOME (Dedicated to Donald Wallace and Carbine.) "THEY'RE away!" rings out from a thousand throats ; And on through a golden glory That glitters like fire on their shining coats, Come the kings of turf -land story : Come the equine kings o'er the sounding turf, 'Neath the gleam of silks and satins, By the gods ! such a sight would stir a serf, Would charm a saint from his matins. They pass the stand like a radiant flash, These sons of the lords of battle, With the fierce, forced pace and the matchless dash Of a fast Newmarket rattle. 78 HOW THE KING CAME HOME 79 For a princely colt from the Moa-land Through the fighting van is treading, And anxious hearts on the hill and stand Scarcely beat 'twixt hope and dreading. Like meteors bright they have all shone out, Gatling, Spot, and dark Chaldean; Now Enuc's name is the one they shout, But too soon they sound his paean ; For the turn is reached, and the time draws near For which he has watched and waited, And the King comes on that they all hold dear, The steed unmatched and unmated. No need to cry, "Where's the champion now?' The cry would be lost in thunder: With victory stamped on his dauntless brow, On, on sweeps the equine wonder. The gallant Correze may come to each call, Brave Melos keep homeward reeling; Alas for Highborn ! alas for them all ! When "Carbine" is skyward pealing. 80 HOW THE KING CAME HOME In their rich, rare robes on the heaving stands Fair maids to their feet are springing, As they wave him on with their dainty hands Whose name o'er the turf is ringing. O'er the swaying course up from flat to hill, And back from hill to the railing, In a mighty roar, now deep, now shrill, One name they are madly hailing. For out from the surge of the foam-flecked tide, With that run as swift as splendid, The old hero swings in his faultless stride, And all know the fight is ended. And so in the track of the setting sun, Unconquered, unstained, and peerless, Carbine comes home and the great Cup is won By the horse beloved and fearless. JOHN TAIT HORSEMEN, bind a sable token On the silks you wear to-day, For another link that's broken, For a Sportsman passed away; For a King who had no fellow, When "The Barb" with Ashworth up, Bore the boasted black and yellow On to conquest, in the Cup. Forty years have run their courses Since his colours first appeared, Half these years his wondrous horses Made those colours loved and feared; North and South his peerless "cattle" Added laurels to his fame: Till at last he left the battle- Winner of a spotless name. F 81 82 JOHN TAIT Flying steeds no more may take him Back to scenes and triumphs fled, Hoof-beats never more may wake him Did they thunder o'er his head; Sound at last the veteran slumbers, Flag no more for him may drop But, when up they hoist the numbers, "Honest John's" will be on top. ALICE ROBERTSON 'MiD the flashing of silk and the thunder of feet He has gone, as a rider should go, To a fate that the truest and bravest must meet, Be life's race made a fast one or slow. Though no warning bell gave him a chance to prepare, And death came with a rush in the dip, Still I pray that our records may all be as fair When the Pale Horse has us at the whip. On the track where he always had battled right well Stout Silvermine's struggles are o'er, 'Neath the man he had carried so often, he fell, And together they sleep evermore. 83 84 ALICK ROBERTSON Great horse and true rider have gone to the shades, Other shoulders "the orange" must bear; But long may it be ere the memory fades Of the gallant, but ill-fated pair. I have coupled them thus for they both, in their way, Were the types of what horsemen hold dear; For the man had a record as clear as the day, While the horse had a heart without fear. And, although it seems folly to pen such a line, Still I feel the last race was a win, And, in truth, from the back of the brave Silvermine, That poor Alick, a victor weighed-in. GLENLOTH'S CUP "NOT started yet! What the deuce can be wrong ? Does he mean to keep them all day? Will they never sound that infernal gong? There it goes at last they're away." Borne on hoofs of fire, they dash up the straight, With a flyer in command; But they look in vain for a heavyweight, In the ranks of that storm-swept band. Camoola falls back in the beaten ruck, Swift Malolo 's star has set, The colours Chatham is bearing are struck, And Correze's sides are wet. 85 86 GLENLOTH'S C(7P Brave Paris and Theodore rearward sink, Portsea goes down in the flood; The spurs of the rider of Candour drink Deep draughts of his gallant blood. Malvolio fights, as a king should fight, For his title and his throne; But his sides are wet and his quarters white, And his nostrils stretched and blown. Heaven help "the crack" in a strong run race, Who long in the last flight lies, When the sand is cutting his sweat-dimmed face, And blinding his brave, true eyes. They may thunder in vain the top-weight 's name, From the hill and the stands below; He will come no more with his eyes aflame, As he came a year ago. Fleet Ronda and Penance now bear the brunt ; But their battle soon is o'er, For Glenloth shoots like a star to the front, And their names are heard no more. GLENLOTH'S CUP 87 On the brown horse conies with a matchless rush, Alone on the white-set rails, While the Stands and the Hill their clamour hush, As homeward he swiftly sails. Still on he sweeps through the fading light, Like a messenger of woe, This horse who has shattered the top-weights' might And laid the favourites low. Not a sound is heard as he onward comes, In the front of that broken wave, For his hoof-falls echo like muffled drums, Played over Malvolio's grave. Then skyward the layers their hoarse yells fling, In the air the hats go up, A rank outsider has rescued the ring, For Glenloth has won the Cup. TARCOOLA'S CUP WHY wail, prophet, of what may be? Why point, sour seer, to a year ago? They lost in the blinding rain, but we Tempt Fate in the sunlight's mellow glow. Dame Fortune's smile must be ours to-day A year we have wilted 'neath her frown. When the road is thick with the rich and gay, Who'd wait behind in the want-cursed town? So smiling dames on the lounges sat Who ne 'er might pay for the robes they wore ; And men stood thick on the teeming flat Who strolled on the radiant lawn of yore. No matter if bankers hold their hands, No matter if children cry for bread; . 88 TARCOOLA'S CUP 89 Relief may come o'er the level lands, And wealth be won by a short half -head. So they left the town of want and woe, To kneel at the shrine of doubtful ^Chance ; And the Devil laughed a deep "Ho! Ho!" As the ringmen's music woke the dance. They may sigh for stout "Old Jack" in vain, That dauntless look on his brave old face; But one with the hero's gallant strain Now stands in the "Wonder's" vacant place. Each stable can back its chosen one; The ring may sneer at the three-year-old, The public knows he is Mersey's son, And Carnage carries the people's gold. Amid the glow of the west 'ring day, The shimmer of silks a moment lies, As the wanton sun-shafts swiftly play In front of the watcher's straining eyes. Little time to-day for praise or blame, Aye, in the space of that deep, dread hush, The red flag falls like a bolt of flame, And fades in the face of the swift, strong rush. 90 TARCOOLA'S CUP The line is reft, and a broken wave Of colour covers the trampled course; But backer's faces grow set and grave, For clear in front comes the chestnut horse. Where the course dips low, the first flight seem A moment locked in a fierce embrace ; Then white the colours of Carnage gleam, While Newman fights for the pride of place. Sanfoin is lost Malvolio's crest Has sunk for aye in the beaten ruck; The sweat is dropping from Vakeel's chest, Brave Oxide's colours at last are struck. Tossing the gathering foam aside, As Glenloth came just a year before, The colt comes on with unfailing stride The hush is changed to a mighty roar. No! there is danger from Newman yet, He reaches the, chestnut's heaving flanks, Hurrah! though his rider's spurs are wet, He fails, and sinks in the beaten ranks. Again the white of "St. Albans" leads, The race is his to have and to hold; A racehorse beating a field of weeds Stay! what's that gleam of blue and gold? TARCOOLA'S CUP 91 Keen and swift as an Angel of Death, One they recked not has come like a flash; Women wax pale, and men catch their breath, Whips are at work, and stirrup-irons clash. Under his girth the brave heart throbs fast, Beats with the courage won from his sire; One effort more, supreme, but the last Then sinews fail in spite of desire. Backward he reels in sight of them all, "Carnage!" they cry. The call is in vain. Fiercely the whips on reeking sides fall. "Carnage!" they shout. He answers again: Comes as a Nordenfeldt only can come, Shrouded in foam, but scorning defeat; Flat, Hill, and Lawn watch pulseless and dumb, Hearts beating time to the thundering feet. On 'mid a sound that rings like a knell, Flashes Tarcoola, the race in his hands; Close to the goal he fought for so well, Carnage reels beaten in front o the stands. OF NO ACCOUNT "A FOOL who played with life and limb, "Why waste such fulsome grief on him?" The bloodless cynic sneers "For empty praise, and doubtful pay, "This fellow rode his reckless way "Then why these wreaths and tears?" "Such fools all are," I would reply, "Who on the field of battle die "By bullet or by sword; "For, at the last, a gallant name "Enriched with bays of empty fame, "Must be their sole reward. "Still, let a man but lose his life "In fast-run race or hard-fought strife "Yet keep his honour bright: 02 OF NO ACCOUNT 93 "This man," I answer each dull clod, ' ' Has kept the noblest gift of God "Unsullied, pure, and white." OLD KANGAKOO "You want to see the little chap Who won and pulled us through That steeple you and I went Nap On, Jack and Kangaroo? You're right, he always had this box, A bay with game, lean head And longish tail and doubtful hocks; Worse luck for me, he's dead." 'Went wrong? Not he, he never stripped Much fitter for a race. Came down? Well, yes, I think he slipped When cutting out the pace. You know he never used to tap A rail too hard to crack, God only knows what made him rap The one that broke his back." 94 OLD KANGAROO 95 ' ' Sorry he 's gone ? Jack here can tell : I never see them fly The cursed fence at which he fell Without a moistened eye. Knew me? He knew the slightest call That I might choose to make. A smoke? Let's have it in his stall Just for the old boy's sake." "Quiet? Why when he was running loose The girls could ride him eh! Old Phillips coming? Oh, the deuce! Pipes out if he's this way. Paid for his keep? Just ask old Jack How many men he knew Whose oats were won on yonder track By poor old Kangaroo." "Old? Well I never knew his age, But when they called him done You could have filled a fair sized page With races that he'd won. Saw him out back beat Hoystead's mare At Cobar Copper Mine Quite right, he won the double there, I think in seventy nine. ' ' 96 OLD KANGAROO "Baulk? No, he didn't know the way. Fall? Once, the time he died. Jump? Why I'd jump big sticks all day On him with both hands tied. Heart? Well he always liked a race From three to four miles long, And did you wait, or make the pace, He'd always finish strong." ''Must go? Well so must I, Good-day! I know you'll think it rot, But, Sir, his well-remembered neigh Still lingers round this spot. And often as I pass the door On it I turn my light For to me as in the days of yore Comes Kangaroo's 'Good-night.' " A HORSE OF HISTORY ON THE DKATH OP LORD ROBERTS* OLD WHITE CHARGKR NOT from off the field of glory That he oft had trod, Did the horse of song and story Go back to his God. Time had bleached his proud crest whiter, Dimmed his fiery eye, When at last the Arab fighter Stretched him out to die. Not in fore-front of the battle Did he, charging, fall; Died he as die pampered cattle, In a littered stall. G 97 98 A HORSE OF HISTORY But what matter where death met him, Where by chance his grave ; Men "Bobs" led will not forget him, Trusted, tried, and brave. Kneeling by his side, his master Watched life ebbing fast, Till the stall grew wider, vaster, Peopled by their past. Bugles sounded, headropes tightened, Chargers fiercely neighed, Fertile plains with war-camps whitened, Trumpets shrilly brayed. Horse and foot through storm of battle, Marching 'neath his star, Shouted o'er the cannons' rattle, "On to Kandahar!" And in front, supreme and peerless Lord of this proud Force, Roberts rode, beloved and fearless, On his small white horse. A HORSE OF HISTORY 99 Thus his litfe of fame and glory Rose from out the years, And he read the blood-writ story Through a mist of tears. For this past had no to-morrow, And this horse no mate, So he turned him in his sorrow Slowly to the gate. Then his charger's eyeballs hollow Blazed with old-time fire, For the thought that he must follow Filled him with desire. Gave new strength to thews pain-shattered, Waked life in his bones, Till his hoof -beats feebly clattered Down the slippery stones. Quick his master wheeled to meet him In the narrow way, And the Arab sought to greet him Wirth his old shrill neigh. 100 A HORSE OF HISTORY But the heart no march could steady, Sudden ceased to beat, And the old horse died ' ' still ready ! ' ' At his master's feet. PATRON'S CUP COMPARE it not with Carbine's Cup That marked a climax, this a fall ; The nectar we to-day must sup Is from a chalice cracked and small. The sun that shone on Carbine's crest, To-day seems half ashamed to gaze Upon a scene that, at its best, Is but a dream of royal days. Say rather for the glow is yet A grand reflection of the years Before Australia's cheeks were wet With Ruin's ever-present tears. For women crowned with glittering hair, In radiant robes for ever pass; 101 102 PATRON'S CUP And maids are thick at Pleasure's fair As flowers among November grass. Within "the cage" a motley throng Still presses round each equine king; These be the men who love the song That Judah's sons unceasing sing. Not for the grace which in him lies, Not for his triumphs of the past, Is Ruenalf scanned by eager eyes, They only wonder: "Can he last?" To win aye, yes, to win their pelf, For this alone they pay their court; Each eager heart beats but for self, The while they prate of love of sport. And, hustled by the hurrying feet, And deafened by the ringmen's din, And weary of the men who greet Their riders with "D'ye think he'll win? 1 The gallant horses lightly toss Their high-bred heads in calm disdain; PATRON'S CUP 103 They race for glory, sordid loss Can never dull their nobler pain. Now whisperings dear to maidens cease, Within the paddock dies the fray; On Hill and Lawns a sudden peace And then the eager field's away. And sullen still, the sun looks down On radiant silks and glist'ning skins, While half the land and all the town Stand waiting mute, till Ruenalf wins. On past the Stand the packed field sweeps, And some are beaten even now ; And blood through swollen veins fast leaps, And lines cut deep on many a brow. Along the back the favourite leads; But Carnage, false to blood and fame, Forgetful, too, of Carbine's deeds, Sinks beaten ere they shout his name. So on, with many a changeful gleam Of colours rising but to fade; 104 PATRON'S CUP Fair as a glimpse of some bright dream, And swift and stern as some fierce raid. They come with Ruenalf still in front, And from afar the cry goes up: "The horse that bears the battle's brunt, "The people's choice, must win the Cup." For, clear of all, and still as death, The f av 'rite 's rider heads the flood ; What need to waste their pent up breath The spurs are drinking Dreamland's blood. See, one by one they backward fall Before the splendour of his stride; His oft-heard name ten thousand call Stay ! Devon races to his side. Together shining stirrups clash, And Moran 's face grows set and white ; Then Ruenalf reels, and like a flash Sinks beaten, with the post in sight; Fades from the struggle, with the prize So near, that white-bejewelled hands PATRON'S CUP 105 Arise before his sweat-dimmed eyes, As on they wave him from the Stands. But let the ringmen sing his doom, The beauteous Nada takes his place; No time is this for useless gloom; Sing, hey! it is a gallant race! With Caulfiekl triumphs on his brow, And Fielder on his dauntless back See, Paris comes ! ' ' He wins it, ' ' now Rings upward o'er the trampled track. But weight must tell. His rider's skill Nor hands, nor patience here avail. His run is o'er; for stoutest will Must break, when thews and sinews fail. Now "Devon wins!" a length ahead, A distance only from the goal; The rays of victory round him shed Their splendour like an aureole. Shout not his name; the Cup's not won For Dawes through all the fierce, forced ride 106 PATRON'S CUP Has saved his horse for one last run, And now he comes to Devon's side. Relentless whips flash high in air And eager spurs seek foam-flecked skins, While close behind, the brave, black mare Fights on, 'mid shouts of "Patron wins!" Aye, wins, extended, and from foes Bight worthy of a hero's steel. So, sportsmen, cast aside your woes And cheer a racehorse, stout and leal. STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES THE SPOKT OF KINGS THEY call it when the colours glow And costly robes sweep o'er the green: "The sport of Kings." Perhaps 'tis so, For monarch I have never seen ; And yet when stubborn rails are struck This thought has more than once been mine: Such sport would hardly suit the ruck Who rule to-day by right divine. But this I know, a desp'rate race Can charge with life the coldest veins, Can flush or pale the fairest face, Can fill the watchers' hands with reins: 107 108 STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES For when enlocked two horses land Within the rails, I see unsought On trampled lawn and teeming stand Full many a bitter finish fought. THE HORSEMAN'S CKITICS BRAVE sportsmen those, who filled the air With howls when beaten men rode in, Much they had recked of foul or fair Had Power or Fielder chanced to win; But those who ride must face the blaze Of senseless fault and fulsome fame, From fools who know not when to praise Or when, in truth, to justly blame. When sailing home in front of all, My ear has caught a thousand cheers From lips that, had I chanced to fall, Would damn me with a thousand jeers. For he who hopes to gain or hold The people's hearts must win alway, For he's a god who wins them gold, A dastard if they have to pay. Faugh! Public smile or public frown But takes its note from public luck, STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES 109 The smile for when ''the books go down," The frown for when the public's "struck." The men they cursed by all the gods When Wycombe won the Randwick Plate, As loud they'll bless, I'll take the odds, When triumph guides their cars of fate HOW " LAST KINO " PELL AND " MARMION " WON THE sun has urged his west 'ring way Till all the pale horizon line Awakes to greet the weary day With blushes rich as rare old wine. From heathery heights a zephyr swells. Then comes to breathe in crowded stands, A perfume caught in distant dells From flow 'rets dear to fern-clad lands. A-down the straight where shadows fall, The queenly Roby proudly sweepvS On feet that as they move, recall A hundred wins o'er far-off leaps; Then past a sea of eager eyes A reefing field in battle sails To where in quick succession rise The treble's stiff, relentless rails. Their colours catch the slanting sun As in and out they dauntless spring, 110 STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES A crash and Roby's race is run While sailing like a bird on wing. Last King goes through against the rail As though the field were standing still, While twice a thousand shouts that hail His triumph, lawn and paddock fill. In vain the gallant top-weights strain Each quivering nerve in effort dire, In vain their coats bear many a stain, Their nostrils gleam like caves of fire : For Rheece is holding in the van, As Last King with his feather-weight Sails round the bend and past the tan To meet the fence that guards the straight. Upon the frowning panels flash The glasses held by hope or fear, He comes the splintered timbers crash, And horse and horseman disappear. Dead! Steady Rheece is on his feet The horse is rising with a spring That lands him fair into his seat, His rider bounds upon Last King! And as the shaken horse awakes In answer to his rider's hands, STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES 111 Again a voiceful tumult breaks Across the lawn and o'er the stands: For Mason comes, and Hatch is near, And Festal answers Regan's call, As o'er the shouts on Rheece's ear The thunders of the hoof -beats fall. One effort more, but one more leap If Fate be kind he yet may steal A conquest heart like his should reap, A triumph worthy horse so leal; But sturdy foes, alas for him ! Are surely closing in his wake, His horse's eyes are dazed and dim, His silks are wet with many a flake. On, on they come, with faces set, Like arrows shot from giant bow, Their eager spurs with life-blood wet, Their nervous hands held still and low; On Rheece they close the paling lies Before them as they surge abreast As one above the leap they rise Then gone is Pestal's chestnut crest. Still locked they come, about them peals The clangour of a countless crowd, 112 STEEPLECHASE-DAY RHYMES Then, as the weary Last King reels, "The Chestnut wins" is echoed loud; But as they shout the vet 'ran brings Old Marmion with a lightning run And victory spreads her golden wings O'er gallant struggle bravely won. FESTAL (Killed V.R.C. Steeplechase, 9th November, 1889.) Broke his neck, poor old horse ! So he finished his course Where many a brave life has ended. Well, his racing is done and his last steeple won, For necks may, alas, not be mended. There was no one to blame, for the horse was as game As ever went out in a steeple; And the man on his back was the steeplechase crack, The pet and the pride of the people. H 113 114 FESTAL Ah, well ! now he sleeps in the shade of the leaps Farewell to a great steeplechaser! I am glad that he fell in the front, running well, And died like a crack and a racer. For 'tis not in his stall, with head turned to the wall, That "a king over fences" should die; It is not on the road, 'neath a taskmaster's goad, That a flyer should finish, say I. No, whene'er he must go, let the satin's bright glow And the thunder of fiery hoofs greet him, 'Tis when bearing the brunt in the battle's grim front "The pale horse," I take it, should meet him. When gay silks are splashed with the foam backward dashed, And splinters are riven and flying, Striding gamely along 'mid a high-mettled throng, I can picture a brave horse dying. FESTAL 115 I can fancy him sway in the thick of the fray, When hoof-beats sharp echoes are waking, Still scorning to yield his proud place in the field, Though his heart, may, in truth, be a-breaking. Then, when thews at last fail, and he strikes wall or rail, As homeward the fighting field rattle, They will say of the dead: "Braver never was bred, "He fell in the front of the battle." A DREAM OF THE PAST THE vision came as it comes alway, With its memories bright and clear, On the eve of a dead November day In the springtide of every year. He dreamt that his timber was sound again And his coat like a mirror's face, That he felt them plaiting his silken mane On the dawn of his last great race. Then the trainer came when the lads had gone, Felt his muscles with honest pride, The while he told of his wonderful run To the man who stood by his side. ' ' He must win, my lad. I have got him fit To run for a kingdom," said he, "And first past the post means a biggish bit, Not only for you but for me." n A DREAM OF THE PAST 117 "But it means his all for his owner, Mick, And her home to his winsome wife. The old horse was never in greater nick, You must ride him, man, for your life." Again in his dream, he can hear the roar Rising up from the hungry throng, As plungers and punters still ringward pour In the thrall of that siren song. He is saddled now, and his owner comes, And hardens his heart as he looks, For loud as the thunder of demon drums Rolls the challenge thrown by the "books." "He's wound up to run for a fortune, sir," "He's going for one," 's the reply. "I know he's well and was never a cur, "So I've staked what's left on the die." Now the last bell rings and his rider drops As light as a bird in his seat, When a dainty vision before him stops, And his mistress stands at his feet. The sweetest and fairest of all was she Where stately forms were manifold, The Sun-God himself kissed her tenderly, And the wind loved her locks of gold. 118 A DREAM OF THE PAST No crown was e'er fashioned of gems so rare, Never worn with such queenly grace, As the glittering coils of golden hair That shone o'er her marvellous face. Snow-white was her skin as the new-born foam That light on wind-wooed billows lies, While the spirit of gladness had its home In the depths of her azure eyes. A dream to enrapture an artist's sleep, Fair was she to her finger tips; The radiant roses had cause to weep For the priceless red of her lips. As she lays her small gloved hand on his rein He can tell she is not at rest: For the mirthless smile cannot hide the pain That is locked in her troubled breast. She presses her fresh young lips to his face They all called it a woman's whim; But the whispered prayer, full of trusting grace : "Win, my pet!" was only for him. And now, with the speed of light in his dream, Through the silence the red flag falls; In the sunlight he sees the satins' gleam, 'Mid the din of a thousand calls. A DREAM OF THE PAST 119 He is lying sixth in a strong run race, As they flash past the lawn and hill, A ray of relief lights a fair, white face, For his rider is sitting still. By the river bend he is striding strong, Though his nostrils are red and wet, While the heaving sides of that shining throng Are sullied with blood and sweat. Round the turn they swing, and the whips flash out, As hearts and thews, alike, fail; From afar he can hear the full- voiced shout As he makes his run on the rail. Still onward he comes on his feet of fire, Relentless, his crest white with foam, In his heart the blaze of a fierce desire, In front, with his face set for home. Behind him the surge and the dust of the fray, Around him the roar of a host, Victor of Victors, the King of his day He shoots like a star past the post. Stands, Hill, and Paddock the champion greet, With his name the air is riven; But his heaving heart gives no answering beat 'Tis not for them he has striven. 120 A DREAM OF THE PAST They strew with their roses the path he treads; They hail him a hero confessed; He heeds them not as he looks o'er their heads For the face that he loves the best. To his side she flits, her slim arched feet Scarcely touching the verdant lawn; Her eyes alight with a radiance sweet, Such as flushes the first glad dawn. And there in the sight of them all she stands 'Neath her halo of golden hair, With his foam-dipped reins in her dainty hands, Glad and flushed and divinely fair. She gives him, in front of their smiling ranks. What an angel might sigh to miss, For her full red lips breathe their tender thanks In the fragrant guise of a kiss. So ended the vision that comes alway, With its memories bright and clear, On the eve of a dead November day In the springtide of every year. A King among Kings, no more he may thrill The Stands with that rush all unmatched, His name on the lisps of layers is still, His number for aye has been scratched. A DREAM OF THE PAST 121 His rider may don the colours no more He, too, has long finished life's course; But perchance, on that dim and mystical shore He's waiting to greet the old horse. The beautiful lips that kiss him in dreams For years have been pulseless and cold ; The head that once rivalled the sunlight's beams Is at rest 'neath the sunless mould. So he bides his time till the last bell rings, Broken down, forgotten by most; Till the clerk of Death on his white horse brings The summons to go to the Post. And I somehow feel when he 's got his weight On the shore of the tideless main, He w r ill meet at the pearl-set paddock gate His beautiful mistress again. WHEN THE LAST BELL RINGS HAVE you ever watched the people Who are gathered on the sward, For some Cup or famous Steeple ? . What an anxious, sordid horde Cluster around each equine lord When the last bell rings! What a mad, discordant chorus Floats above the trampled way, Harsh, as though Hell's roof were porous, And the demons, as they play, Shouted "Six-to-one I'll lay!" As the last bell rings. How the ringmen deftly juggle With the surging, fatuous crowd, In that space before the struggle 122 WHEN THE LAST BELL RINGS 123 When they weave the fav 'rite's shroud, 'Mid their clamour long and loud, As the last bell rings. What a hoisting into saddles And a gathering of reins; As each horseman lightly straddles Glossy skin and net-like veins, All undimmed with foam, or stains, When the last bell rings. Watching them, I often wonder, As they step towards the gate (Through the blatant Ring's hoarse thunder) Do they deem that in the straight, Wealth and ruin some await, When the last bell rings? Yet it matters not, for horses Have no thought of sordid sin, They know nought of crooked courses. Jockeys hold their fleetness in, Trainers see they cannot win, When the last bell rings. Plungers, keen on getting level, On some ' ' wonder ' ' pile their gold ; Yet the layers fairly revel, 124 WHEN THE LAST BELL RINGS For the "wonder" has been sold, And the jockey will be told When the last bell rings. If you want a view of Hades With its sin, but not its heat, Graced by brass band, bars, and ladies, And a Governor and suite, Randwick should be hard to beat When the last bell rings. TO MY MOTHER In token of a tender thought, In memory of a faith divine^ In answer to a love urib ought, 1 proffer the&c, sweet Mother mine. MY QUEEN I WOULD that I had met with thee, my Queen ! Back in the springtime years that now have fled, For then, perchance, my worship might have been A crown more worthy of thy peerless head. I would that I might live my life again With thy sweet lips to counsel and to guide, And then the past would not be void and vain, And shadowed with regrets I fain would hide. I would for thee that I could now recall Each pure emotion and each true heart-beat, That I might humbly take and lay them all, As tokens of my love, about thy feet Still, gentle mistress, though my gifts must be 127 128 MY QUEEN Unworthy of the brightness of thy shrine, My soul, my very life belongs to thee, And all my future days and hours are thine. The message of thy pure soul never dies, But clear and sweet as some white angel's song Floating from out the gates of Paradise, Whispers, "Forget the past and all its wrong." So, as a sinner seeking grace, I pray Give me, pure spirit ! in thy life a part, That cleansed by thy strong love I may some day Prove worthy of thee, Queen of my heart ! HAND clasped in hand, we each to each belong, And lulled in dreams, scarce note how seasons run. Spring still is ours, but youth's sad evensong Some day must sure be sung, beloved one ! Some day the summer suns, now warm and bright, Will sink o'er heights we may be loth to climb. Some day bright eyes will lose their lustrous light, And brown locks wear the silver crown of time. Some day our little ones will wander far, For babes like birds from parent nests will fly, I 129 130 HAND CLASPED IN HAND And, as with us, so they will find a star, And go to dwell within it bye-and-bye. Then we will be once more as when we wed, Alone upon the face of this wide world, Save that the days of youth will all be dead, And love's deep mysteries all at last unfurled. Then, from the sacred garners of the years, Love will bring forth each tender thought they hold, To feed our hungry hearts, and dry our tears With the sweet incense of the days of old. For this is truth: no gentle word is vain, No kiss is lost if pure its motive be, So, Love, each dear, dead day will live again To be a memory sweet for you and me. WHEN SHADOWS FALL WHEN shadows gather round our pathway, sweet, Remember, lest your spirit faint and fail, How out beyond where sky and forest meet, After long quest we found "the Holy Grail." For far behind yon chain of mountain heights The f ronded pines mark where at last we met ; Long leagues remote from gleam of harbour lights, There lies a land that we may not forget. Locked in the woodland's heart, safe hid for aye, Is every promise, kept or broken now, For only stately forest kings stood nigh, Dumb witnesses to each impassion 'd vow. 131 132 WHEN SHADOWS FALL Behind us lies the path that we have trod From that lone spot to where, to-night, we stand, And no one knows save you and I and God, The life that we have brought from that far land. But we two know that He, who knows all things, Has given more than Earth can take away. How Love has shielded us with her white wings, From all the heat and burden of the day. And so it matters not where Fate may guide Our feet so long as we be not apart: For, though the world's highway be long and wide, We are as one upon its face, dear heart! THE DREAM MAIDEN DREAM maiden, watching wrapt and still The sun go down 'mid seas of fire, Clothing each cloud and western hill In robes more rare than those of Tyre. Hurling red spears of living light, And swords of flashing flame on high ; As if in challenge to the night, Creeping across the drowsy sky. Tell me, does memory ever flow Back through the corridors of time; Till 'mid the radiant afterglow You see old Egypt in her prime. With temples stretching mile on mile, And fleets, with silken sails unfurled, 133 134 THE DREAM MAIDEN Floating upon a fruitful Nile, Fed by the commerce of the world. I know that age is of the past ; Far hast thou travelled since those days ; For that bright life has been recast, By time, and change of thought and ways. Still, when I see you stand and dream, My thoughts, unbidden, backward run To where, beside a mighty stream, Such maidens worshipped such a sun. MY GARDEN OF DREAMS IN dreams I often chance to see A garden set with stately trees, Where roses, hedged with rosemary, Like islands lie 'mid scented seas. And ever in that garden old I kiss a lady's jewell'd hand, 'Mid fragments of a story told, Which I but dimly understand. But when I wake I vainly seek In memory's cells to find the key To those sweet words she nightly speaks, When walking hand in hand with me. Still I believe this lady fair Who reigns within that garden old, Whose astral hours I sometimes share, Will yet the mystic tale unfold. 135 REINCARNATION I DO not know when first we met or parted, In what dim corridor of Time befell The fateful hour that left me broken hearted, In what sweet tongue you breathed your last farewell. I do not know how many worlds I've travelled, How many aeons I have stood alone, But love at last all mystery has unravelled, And now once more I know you for my own. We may have loved in days of Grecian glory, We may have died beside the templed Nile: What matters now the sequence of our story, Since we have met who parted were awhile. 136 REINCARNATION 137 Child of the dawning, once again begotten, Come back to me from out the golden past, Deep in your eyes I read naught is forgotten, Rose of the World, I kiss your lips at last. THE PATHWAY OF THE SOUL THIS life is but a chapter in a story, A minor phase in an omniscient plan, A fleeting prelude to the changeless glory That waits the coming of the perfect man. And this is sure : no earth-conceived disaster Hath power immortal souls to curb or mar; For each of its own destiny is master, And each will reach its self-appointed star. So waste not time or force on futile weeping; Remember that your present is your own, That if a scanty harvest you are reaping, 'Tis but the just reward of what you've sown. Remember, too, if shining through life's sadness. Glow rosy gleams of love's own tender rays, These are the bright reflections of the gladness You shed on other lives in other days. 138 THE PATHWAY OF THE SOUL 139 For thus thy scales with good and ill are weighted, And so their beam will ever rise and fall; For as thy soul to each in turn is mated, So God will justly add or debit all. Be not discouraged if the way seem lonely, If heavy grows the dull and daily load ; Remember at its worst, that life is only A stage upon an ever-changing road. For this is true: the lord of broad dominions, Who doth misuse his day of pomp and power, Will be e'en as the least of all his minions, When he returns to face his judgment hour. While she whose path is set in by-ways lowly, Is free to rise above material things, Until she burst the sordid shackles wholly, That bind the upward flight of her white wings. So trouble not your soul is surely breaking The fetters it has forged in lives before; And pain is but the symbol of forsaking False idols that will hold it bound no more. BY A BEDSIDE Close to your mother's breast Sleep, baby, while you may; There is no purer rest On all life's thorny way. Nestle your cherub face Close to her loving side; There is no safer place For you, whate'er betide. Never of care a line, Never a thought of woe : I would that, baby mine, It could be ever so. I would that loving eyes Ever could guard your sleep ; When summer suns arise, When winter's sad skies weep. 140 BY A BEDSIDE 141 But seasons move apace, Glad baby days must pass; Near draws the weary race That you must run, my lass. We two may see you start, We two may counsel lend, We three will have to part Long ere the journey's end. Locks must, alas ! grow grey ; And some day you and I Will have, my child, to say That sad and long good-bye. Then should the way be lone And hard beneath your feet, This I would hope, my own That Love and you may meet. And when your knight draws near God send his shield be white; God send he hold you dear Poor little winsome mite. Then when Love's sails unfurl, This I would have you be: True as your mother, girl, Has ever been to me. TO MARJORY I CANNOT tell you where the path may lead Just entered by your feet: But if aright your fresh young heart I read, It will be pure and sweet. Judge not at all : do no soul any wrong : Be kind to each dumb friend Then all your life will be one tender song, Whate'er the gods may send. 142 BABY MINE ALL things are bright to you, baby mine; For the world is very fair and no echo of despair Comes to fill your heart with care, baby mine. All days are glad to you, baby mine; And the wind that idly weaves fairy figures in the leaves, Sings a song that never 'grieves, baby mime. The world is young to you, baby mine, Where the grass is ever green, and the sad "it might have been" Has no sense for you I ween, baby mine. 143 144 BABY MINE All lips have smiles for you, baby mine; For earth's sadness or its gloom there is neither place nor room, When a life has yet to bloom, baby mine. Be this my prayer for you, baby mine, God grant it may he so as the seasons come and go That you sorrow ne'er may know, baby mine. May the world you look on now, baby mine, From your tender eyes of blue, be forever pure and true, Kind and gentle unto you, baby mime. LIEUTENANT WHITE (1st (6th) Imperial Bushmen. Killed at Wonder -fontein, South Africa, September, 1900; aged 22.) WITH the dawn still red in youth's radiant sky And the hours of hope's day unspent, You died, comrade mine, as we all must die, Be we striplings or grey-beards bent, For the sabre of Death, when he strikes, bites deep, And the Sower of seed will his harvest reap. So the coward dies on his guarded bed Though he crieth "not yet, not yet," And the miser his sordid robe must shed When the last of his suns has set; J 145 146 LIEUTENANT WHITE For the Angel of Death laughs at fear and gold And the Keaper reaps both the young and the old. Thus the sluggard dies on his couch of down, For the blade never used will rust, And the proudest king and the meanest clown Must return to a common dust. For the sword of the Lord spares not birth nor type When He counts His harvest for reaping is ripe. So knowing this well, when your summons came To leave us and march with the rest, What reason had I to cavil or blame If God chose our bravest and best. For the hosts of the Lord are steadfast and strong And the pick of our squadrons to Him belong. And so, when the veldt was ablaze with strife, When each hour saw a brave heart go, For your country you gave your gallant life With many a patriot foe. And together to-day, sitting side by side, In the ranks of a nobler army you ride. LIEUTENANT WHITE 147 For, soldier and brother of strenuous days, Glad heart, ever kindly and leal, By death you have won life's immortal bays Where stilled is the clashing of steel, For the Lord laid His sword on your brave young soul And wrote your name on his white-knight roll. IN MEMORY OF IZZIE SPRING NOT 'mid the sunshine of thy native land, But 'neath the sullen gloom of alien skies, From off the ivory keys Death took thy hands And closed life's score before thine eager eyes. We are the poorer since you went to dwell With all the lords of song set free from pain. Lover of strong pure chords, a long farewell Until the Master send you back again! 148 THE QUEEN OF LOVE "In Venus we gaze upon a world, which, as a world, has run its course she is old and wrinkled and dead." Percival Lowell. THE Queen of Love is dead and all these years, Fierce throbs of passion, countless cries of pain, A thousand whisperings of maiden fears, Have floated through the star-lit nights in vain. Her lord 's hot breath still plays upon her cheeks, Still ardently he proffers love's bequests; But all the quick pulsations passion seeks Have long been banished from her barren breasts. 149 150 THE QUEEN OF LOVE Planet of Love ! still turning to the sun, The face he wooed still flushed with primal bloom How many [eons have their courses run Since life and love died in thy frozen womb ? Who bade thy sensuous seasons pass away, And all thy fair fecundity run dry? How came it that thou knowest not night nor day, Nor ocean's song, nor dawn's empurpled sky? What Jove-like wrong set thy full lips to stone? What vast betrayal changed warm blood to snow? Dead virgin! sleeping in yon starry zone, Thy myriad worshippers may never know. What matter if the yellow hues of time Have killed the beauty in thy queenly face ? What matter if the splendour of thy prime Was never known to one of Adam 's race ? Floating in upper air thy body lies Unlit by flame of passion or desire THE QUEEN OF LOVE 151 But still the spark divine which never dies, Sheds o'er the world its calm, eternal fire. Fair planet we have worshipped from afar As type of earth-born passion, thou art dead; But, night by night, thy spirit-perished star Shines with eternal splendour overhead. Burnt out and cold thine eyes no longer glow In answer to that Lord who reigns above But, purer far, there shines on us below Thine after-glory, deathless Queen of Love! BUT yesterday a Queen, her tresses bound With diadem of rich barbaric gold; To-day the bond slave of a churlish hound, A spoil of war, a chattel bought and sold. Stung by his hungry lash she quivering stands, Her marble bosom flushed with pain and shame, "Whose name had power to stir the Northern bands, As wind has power to wake the sleeping flame. One glance she casts where Tiber's yellow flood Flows on its way to join the summer sea ; And through her veins hot pours the dauntless blood One plunge beneath its waves and she were free. 152 THE SLAVE'S DANCING LESSON 153 But he has read her thought his cruel eyes Gleam like a tiger's in the humid light, Aloft his knotted whip like lightning flies To fall upon her shoulders bare and white. Skyward the measured music, sensuous, floats; Her master slowly sways his leathern scourge ; Her feet move nimbly to the mocking notes She dances in despair to Freedom's dirge. Around her, like a fleece of sunlit cloud That may not hide the roseate light it dims, Her vestment clings as though it loved to shroud The mellow glory of her shapely limbs. So on she dances 'mid the sultry heat, Till o'er her brow the crystal gems arise, And laggard grow the white, arched, weary feet, As day upon the Tiber droops and dies. This trafficker in flesh well knows his trade; Can she but dance she is a mine untold ; His patrons love to gaze upon a maid Whose form is cast in such heroic mould. Content, he gloats upon her worth, until Shame rushes o'er her like a crimson wave. But what of that, his eyes may drink their fill ; He is a Roman; she a heathen slave. 154 THE SLAVE'S DANCING LESSON At last she halts and wraps her yellow hair About her face ; and, scowling on his prey, Her master lifts his goad, to find despair Has killed his slave and left a queen at bay. For at him now the dancer fiercely springs, Once more a daughter of the Northern lands, And with the spirit won from Saxon kings Plucks her dishonour from his clownish hands. Full on his face she strikes one nervous blow ; Then, while his eyes are blind with rage and pain, She leaps into the flood that rolls below, And, clasped to Tiber's breast, is free again. THE LADY NICOTINE A FRIEND of mine, not long in town, A sentimental soul named Brown Said: "Come with me, old boy, A treasure I have chanced to find, A nymph with tresses unconfined And face too fair to cloy." We hurried past the temples, where Tall Hebes with peroxide hair The thirsty "Johnnies" greet. He dragged me past the pantomime Where through a tale in dreadful rhyme, Flashed high the ballet's feet. In vain I begged him call a halt, Suggested spirits, wine, or malt Declared my throat was dry 156 166 THE LADY NICOTINE As any kiln e'er fired, That walking made me very tired He only made reply: "She is no Goddess of the bar, Nor yet a well-upholstered star To whom I bow the knee; Nor yet a dame who sits behind A pair of horses, to my mind Far better bred than she." Then straightway dived into a shop Where one might get a doubtful crop For sixpence or a shave And where to baneful cigarette, "Dunlop," and "Eagle," and "You Bet" The gas a weird light gave. A girl behind the counter stood, A dream of ideal maidenhood, Evolved from Art's own womb; Burne-Jones would give the world a face To witch it, could he only grace His canvas with such bloom. Brown bought some beastly, bad cigars, The while her eyes like steadfast stars Shone o'er her milk-white skin, THE LADY NICOTINE 157 Gold paled beside her wondrous hair; To doubt her soul was not as fair Would be, methought, a sin. Rose-red the lines of her sweet mouth, Rose-red as sunlight in the South Her lips full, curved lines ; And peeping through, her even teeth Gleamed like a row of pearls beneath, As snow in sunlight shines. Why she ite born to peddle pipes To men who dub their 'kerchiefs "wipes," I don't profess to say; Nor why it is that women sit In carriages, who are more fit Her humble part to play. But this I feel, that weary feet Go lighter down that old-time street For sight of her its Queen, And many a smoker in life's crowd Sees in the white tobacco cloud The Lady Nicotine. LOVE'S MYSTERY TELL me, poor mem 'ry-haunted ghosts, Since time began, Has any man Or woman solved Love's mystery? Has saint, or sinner, seer, or fool So sure become, That he could plumb Her depths, or write her history? She is a radical who knows No caste-built bars ; Her eyes are stars That pierce with light the darkest clouds. Within her heart strange gods abide, Her feet are fleet, Her lips are sweet, Her scented robes are dead souls' shrouds. 168 LOVE'S MYSTERY 159 All compacts, sacred or profane, She laughs to scorn; When she is born All other children droop and die Starved by her fierce insatiate greed. Few count the cost Of honour lost, When in her rounded arms they lie. Kings have stepped from their golden thrones At her command; And sea and land Have rifled been by sword and fire To gratify her boundless hate. Brave men have died And saints have lied To feed the whim of her desire. But she has nobler spoil than this, For gentle souls Have paid grim tolls Of pain, lest man should suffer wrong; Dead lives for her have bloomed again, And hearts endure, And men keep pure, By reason of her tender song. 160 LOVE'S MYSTERY So, queen supreme, she rules and reigns O'er lord and slave, God's man and knave: Ard some she ruthless lures ashore With siren song, to see them sink In shifting sands: With steadfast hands She others guide for evermore. I know not if in Heav'n or Hell, From snake or dove, This queen called Love Was first evolved, to fire life's wine With madness or with godlike dreams; Nor do I care So that I share With her one deathless hour divine. TO A MUSICIAN LOVER of symphonies and rippling songs That only supple hand and tender heart can wake, A noble heritage to yon belongs, "Who love all music for its own sweet sake. So, on life's keys, with sure and steadfast hand, Strike clear and splendid chords and mean- ness must depart. For in your art you hold the magic wand To stir the great and good in every heart. 161 EVE ON thy dishonoured tomb we lay all sorrow, Each sin that saint and savage has defiled; And yet perchance in some more just to-morrow Thou wilt be blessed alike by seer and child. For all alone in that primaeval garden You met life's deepest problem face to face, And I at least have nothing now to pardon The woman who made human all my race. I often wonder hadst thou been contented To browse like some sleek doe, obedient, mute, Waking and resting 'mid the sensuous, scented Perfumes of beauteous Eden's flowers and fruit ; The mate and plaything of a loutish master, Too weak himself to lift thy soul at all 162 EVE 163 Would not obedience have presaged disaster For man, far grosser than thy so-called " fall" ? Would not a life like this have made for madness, Hadst thou not eaten of the gracious tree That gave thee knowledge, if it taught thee sadness ; That slew thy ignorance, but set thee free? Believing that it would, and that no other Pathway led upward out of Eden's night, I thank thee from my soul, world-slandered mother, Thou left soft sloth in search of pain-won light. Within my heart no sense of anger lingers Because you listened to the serpent's voice, And plucked from off the tree with trembling fingers The fruit that gave your race the right of choice. Fair captive bound by Eden's narrow portals, First type of sweet enquiring womanhood, Surely 'twas better for all unborn mortals That thou shouldst ope the gates of 111 and Good, Kl 164 EVE Than to have lived thy life for ever sleeping Beneath the shade of trees thou didst not plant, The while thy dull-brained mate was idly keeping His lonely kingship over ass and ant. Dear mother Eve, what if we plough and harrow And wet with blood and sweat the fields of God, What if with weary bones and melting marrow We pierce the hills and rape the virgin sod! What if false chords of pain lie in our laughter And love gives untimed birth to brutish hate, What if to-day we feast, and ever after Sit with the beggars at some rich man 's gate ! At least our brains and thews grow strong with striving, If deep we sink we, too, may conquer heights ; And be we driven or the world a-driving, Failure can brace, if power has its delights. But even if love flies and friendships shatter, And gold and power and even health take wing, With knowledge still our own what does it matter Of good and evil we are still the King ! EVE 165 For now we know that what is best lies hidden Within the cells of every human brain That what to you in Eden was forbidden No son of man to-day need ask in vain. Dear Eve, it seems to me the God who tended That lotus land where you were wont to dwell Forbade one fruit because he full intended That you should eat, knowing your sex so well ! ETERNAL YOUTH SUPPLE in soul and body, brave she leaps Naked and unafraid into life's ring. Hid in her glowing heart the future sleeps ; Into her eager ears the fairies sing. She is a maiden innocent of shame As any unchurched soft-eyed forest faun : Love is her sword, Eternal Youth her name, Faith is her shield, her symbol is the Dawn. Once in the days that now are past recall Each one of us has known her joyous face, And she is still a memory to us all If we have lost her gladness and her grace. For, one by one, from out the gates of day We leapt like her into the world of strife, A world which daily takes our youth away And leaves to us instead the husks of life ; 166 ETERNAL YOUTH 167 Until by custom staled, by fears confined, Our souls grow cold ; slow beats each eager heart ; And slaves at last to reason and to mind, We scarcely see our godlike youth depart And so we let her go, that we may win Gross mistresses of gold with feet of clay, Steeping our starving souls in sordid sin That we may be the lords of such as they. Or, tempted by the dream of pomp and power, We offer her to feed their furious lust, To win at most the triumph of an hour That even as we grasp it, turns to dust. Then, wise too late, we seek her for a bride, Seeing at last that life is void and vain Without the youth we madly thrust aside Which now for us, can never bloom again. Hope of the world, alike its salt, and song Queen of the future, lodestar of to-day, No man can do himself a deadlier wrong Than when he casts your radiant robe away ! So, gracious God, because I want and prize All things that owe their birth andlife toThee The faith of friends, the love in women's eyes The light that kisses sky and shore and sea; 168 ETERNAL YOUTH I ask not place, or power, or shining gold, Nor any kingship built on human tears, I only ask a heart that grows not cold, A soul that keeps its youth through all the years. For I believe that be he young or old As men count time, this still remains a truth That he who hopes the world to have and hold Murct tread Life's pathway with Eternal Youth. GOD GIVETH SLEEP THIS life is but an act, little girl, In a very wondrous play, be it stupid, sad, or gay; So laugh and go your way, little girl. Don't live beyond to-day, little girl, For fancies often fade, and ambition's but a jade, Dressed in rags or sham brocade, little girl. Don't look behind to-day, little girl, For the past is but the grave of traditions that enslave, And mem'ry is oft a knave, little girl. But the birds and beasts are true, little girl, For the love light never dies in their wistful faithful eyes, And in them wisdom lies, little girl 169 170 GOD GIVETH SLEEP Keep close to Nature's heart, little girl, And you'll find that she will send many a brave and tender friend, Who will love you till the end, little girl. So take life as it comes, little girl, Be the drama grand or cheap ; if the actors laugh or weep, For at the worst 'God giveth sleep, little girl. Websdale, Shoosmith & Co., Printers, Sydney. July, 1908. SELECTED LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY ANGUS & ROBERTSON, LIMITED, PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY 89 CA8TLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY London : The Australian Book Company, 21 Warwick Lane, E.G. THE INFERNO OF DANTE ALIGHIERI. Literally translated into English verse in the measure of the original, by the Right Hon. Sir SAMUEL WALKER GRIFFITH, G.C.M.G., M.A., Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 6s. (post free 6s. 5d.). DAILY TELEGRAPH: "The translation is specially valuable for the clearness with which it brings out the whole configuration of the Inferno, enabling the attentive reader to follow out the ground-plan, so to speak, of each of the nine circles, and to appreciate the immensity of Dante's conception." THE ARGUS: "The Chief Justice has done a remarkable and valuable piece of work, and has earned the gratitude, not merely of the small though, we may hope, the ever-widening circle of English-speaking students of Dante, but of all who love poetry." THE AGE : ' ' He has preserved the metrical structure of the poem . . . presenting us with the more striking charac- teristics of the author's style, its conciseness, its simplicity, its naturalness, its gravity, dignity, and directness. ' ' THE AUSTRALIAN AGRICULTURAL COMPANY, 1824-1875. By JESSE GREGSON, General Superintendent for the Company, 1876-1905. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 6s. (post free 6s. 6d.). SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "This is an important little con- tribution to colonial history. A full account is given of the formation of the Company, the first settlement, the early vicissi- tudes, the difficulties with the coal-miners at Newcastle, the struggle to set the wheat and wool industries on a firm basis, and so on." 1 THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES. By A. B. PATERSON. Thirty-eighth thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette title. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.}. THE LITERAEY 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. fiudyard Kipling." SPECTATOR: "These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent verses. ' ' ATHEX^EUM : "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 Aus- tralian 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 distinc- tively characteristic of the country as Burns 'a poetry is charac- teristic 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 makes 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 pur- suit 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 grati- tude. ' ' London: Macmillan and Co., Limited. RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE, AND OTHER VERSES. By A. B. PATERSON. Eighth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.}. SPECTATOR: "There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Pater- son's verse; there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human interest which moves in it." DAILY MAIL: "Every way worthy of the man who ranks with the first of Australian poets." SCOTSMAN: "At once naturalistic and imaginative, and racy without being slangy, the poems have always a strong human interest of every-day life to keep them going. They make a book which should give an equal pleasure to simple and to fastidious readers." BOOKMAN: "Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo from the older, more experienced land, leads him to more serious singing, and proves that real poetry is, after all, universal. It is a hearty book. ' ' DAILY CHRONICLE: "Mr. Paterson has powerful and varied sympathies, coupled with a genuine lyrical impulse, and some skill, which makes his attempts always attractive and usually successful. ' ' GLASGOW HERALD: "These are all entertaining, their rough and ready wit and virility of expression making them highly acceptable, while the dash of satire gives point to the humour." BRITISH AUSTRALASIAN: "He catches the bush in its most joyous moments, and writes of it with the simple charm of an unaffected lover." THE TIMES: "Will be welcome to that too select class at home who follow the Australian endeavour to utter a fresh and genuine poetic voice." MANCHESTER COURIER: "Mr. Paterson now proves beyond question that Australia has produced at least one singer who can voice in truest poetry the aspirations and experiences peculiar to the Commonwealth, and who is to be ranked with the foremost living poets of the motherland." ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE: "Fine, swinging, stirring stuff, that sings as it goes along. The subjects are capital, and some of the refrains haunt one. There is always room for a book of unpretentious, vigorous verse of this sort. ' ' THE ARGUS: "These ballads make bright and easy reading; one takes up the book, and, delighted at the rhythm, turns page after page, finding entertainment upon each." London: Macmillan and Co., Limited. FAIR GIRLS AND GRAY HORSES, WITH OTHER VERSES. By WILL H. OQILVIE. Twelfth thousand. With portrait. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top (" Snowy River" Series), 5s. (post free 5ft. 5d.} SCOTSMAN: "Its verses draw their natural inspiration from the camp, the cattle trail, and the bush; and their most charac- teristic and compelling rhythms from the clatter of horses' hoofs. ' ' SPECTATOR: "Nothing could be better than his bush ballads, and he writes of horses with the fervour of Lindsay Gordon. ' ' GLASGOW HERALD: "Mr. Ogilvie sings with a dash and a lilt worthy of the captains of Australian song. . . . Whoever reads these verses holds the key to all that is attractive in the life that is characteristically Australian." GLASGOW DAILY MAIL: "A volume which deserves a hearty welcome is this collection of Australian verse. ... It has a spirit and lyrical charm that make it very enjoyable." NOTTINGHAM GUARDIAN: "The author's rhymes have a merry jingle, and his lines move with a zest and stir which make them altogether enjoyable. ' ' BELFAST NEWSLETTER: "Mr. Ogilvie is a poet whose verses should become as well known in the United Kingdom as they are in Australia, for he has a genuine love of nature, and gifts which enable him to express his thoughts in excellent verse. ' ' NEW ZEALAND MAIL: "There is all the buoyancy, the lustiness of youth, the joie-de-vivre of the man who rejoices in the fresh air and the fine, free, up-country life all this there is in Mr. Ogilvie 's verse, and much more that is eminently sane and healthy, a characteristic production of a wholesome mind." QUEENSLANDER : "Within the covers of 'Fair Girls and Gray Horses' lie some delicious morsels to tempt all palates. There is for the asking, the stirring swing and rhythm of his galloping rhymes, the jingle of bit and bridle, the creak of well-worn saddles, the scent of gum and wattle, the swift, keen rush of the bush wind in the face of ' The Man Who Steadies the Lead. ' . . . . Picture after picture starts out of his pages to gladden the hearts of the men out back. " HEARTS OF GOLD, AND OTHER VERSES. By WILL H. OGILVIE, author of "Fair Girls and Gray Horses." Third thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth, 4s. 6d. (post free 5s.). THE SECRET KEY, AND OTHER VERSES By GEORGE ESSEX EVANS. With portrait. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top (" Snowy River" Series), 5s. (post free, 5s. 5d.). GLASGOW HERALD: "There is ... the breath of that apparently immortal spirit which has inspired . . . almost all that is best in English higher song." SPECTATOR: ". . . . Mr. Evans has a rarer talent, for he has the flute as well as the big drum. ' ' THE BOOKMAN : ' ' Mr. Evans has written many charming and musical poems, . . . many pretty and haunting lines. ' ' SCOTSMAN: "The book is interesting in no common degree as applying the old traditions of English verse with happy artistry to the newer themes that nourish poetry in the Never- Never Land. ' ' BRITISH AUSTRALASIAN: "Because Mr. Evans has not given us bush ballads, it must not be supposed that he has failed to catch the true Australian spirit. He feels the spaciousness and sunlit strength of Australia, and he has put them into his verses. ' ' AUSTRALASIAN: "Mr. Evans' poetry is thoughtful and scholarly, his language well chosen, and his versification flowing and melodious. . . . His pervading note is a cheerful con- templation of the present, and a belief in the future of his country. ' ' HOW HE DIED, AND OTHER POEMS. By JOHN FARRELL. Third edition. With Memoir, Appreciations, and photogravure portrait. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 4d.) MELBOURNE AGE: "Farrell's contributions to the literature of this country were always distinguished by a fine, stirring optimism, a genuine sympathy, and an idealistic sentiment, which in the book under notice find their fullest expression." NEW ZEALAND MAIL: "Of the part of Mr. Farrell's work con- tained in this volume it is not necessary to say more than that it has long since received sincere commendation, not only from other Australian writers, but from men eminent in letters in England and America." THE WORLD'S NEWS: "It is a volume which no Australian reader can afford to be without. John Farrell was a vigorous writer, one, too, in whom the poetic spirit was very strong, and he had the gift of expressing himself in terse language. Had he written nothing else than 'Australia to England,' nis name would live for all time. ' ' THE POETICAL WORKS OF BRUNTON STEPHENS. New edition. With photogravure portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.). See also Commomvealth Series, page ?/. THE TIMES: "This collection of the works of the Queensland poet, who has for a generation deservedly held a high place in Australian literature, well deserves study." DAILY NEWS: "In turning over the pages of this volume, one is struck by his breadth, his versatility, his compass, as evidenced in theme, sentiment, and style." THE ATHENAEUM: "Brunton Stephens, . . . well known to all those who are curious in Australian literature, as being, on the whole, the best of Australian poets. ' ' ST. JAMES' GAZETTE: "This substantial volume of verse con- tains a great deal that is very fresh and pleasing, whether grave or gay." MANCHESTER GUARDIAN: "He shows a capacity for forceful and rhetorical verse, which makes a fit vehicle for Imperial themes. ' ' SPEAKER: "We gladly recognise the merit of much that appears in 'The Poetical Works of Mr. Brunton Stephens.' . . . . In the more ambitious pieces (and in these the author is most successful) he models himself on good masters, and his strains have power and dignity. ' ' PUBLISHERS' CIRCULAR: "Having greatly enjoyed many of the poems in the handsome edition of Mr. Brunton Stephens' works, we strongly advise such readers of poetry in the old country as are unacquainted with his contributions to English literature to procure the volume as soon as possible." A BUSH GIRL'S SONGS. By 'RENA WALLACE. With portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free, 5s. 4d.}. DAILY TELEGRAPH: "There is passion as well as melody in 'A Bush Girl's Songs'; and there is thought also real thought, that underlies the music of the verse, and gives the writer some- thing definite to communicate to her readers on the great universal subjects that are the province of true poetry, as distinct from mere verse. One cnnnot help remarking with pleasure the prevailing note of hopefulness, a sunshiny charm, that is felt throughout all this fresh young writer's work." G WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE, AND OTHER VERSES. By HENRY LAWSON. Thirteenth thousand. With photogravure portrait and vignette title. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. (post free 5s. 5d.} THE ACADEMY: "These ballads (for such they mostly are) abound in spirit and manhood, in the colour and smell of Aus- tralian soil. They deserve the popularity which they have won ; n Australia, and which, we trust, this edition will now give them in England." THE SPEAKER: "There are poems in 'In the Days When the World was Wide' which are of a higher mood that any yet heard in distinctively Australian poetry." LITERARY WORLD: "Not a few of the pieces have made as feel discontented with our sober surroundings, and desirous of seeing new birds, new landscapes, new stars; for at times the blood tingles because of Mr. Lawson's galloping rhymes." NEWCASTLE WEEKLY CHRONICLE: "Swinging, rhythmic WHEN I WAS KING, AND OTHER VERSES- By HENRY LAWSON. Fifth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.). Also in two parts, entitled " When I Was King," and " The Elder Son." See page 14. SPECTATOR (London) : "A good deal of humour, a great deal of spirit, and a robust philosophy are the main characteristics of these Australian poets. Because they write of a world they know, and of feelings they have themselves shared in, they are far nearer the heart of poetry than the most accomplished de- votees of a literary tradition. ' ' SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "He is known wherever the English language is spoken; he is the very god of the idolatry of Australian bushmen ; ... he has written more and is better known than any other Australian of his age. . . . There is a musical lilt about his verses which makes these dwell in the memory, and there is in them also a revelation of truth and strength. . . . 'When I was King' contains work of which many a craftsman in words might well be proud . . . lines that Walt Whitman a master of rhythm when he liked, and a worshipper of it always would have been proud to claim as his own." VERSES, POPULAR AND HUMOROUS. By HENRY LAWSON. Fourteenth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.). For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. Francis Thompson, in THE DAILY CHRONICLE: "He is a writer of strong and ringing ballad verse, who gets his blows straight in, and at his best makes them all tell. He can vignette the life he knows in a few touches, and in this book shows an increased power of selection." NEW YORK EVENING JOURNAL: "Such pride as a man feels when he has true greatness as his guest, this newspaper feels in introducing to a million readers a man of ability hitherto unknown to them. Henry Lawson is his name." ACADEMY: "Mr. Lawson 's work should be well known to our readers, for we have urged them often enough to make acquaint- ance with it. He has the gift of movement, and he rarely offers a loose rhyme. Technically, short of anxious lapidary work, these verses are excellent. He varies sentiment and humour very agreeably. ' ' THE BOOK LOVER: "Any book of Lawson 's should be bought and treasured by all who care for the real beginnings of Aus- tralian literature. As a matter of fact, he is the one Australian literary product, in any distinctive sense." THE BULLETIN: "He is so very human that one's humanity cannot but welcome him. ... To the perpetuation of his value and fame, many pieces in ' Verses : Popular and Humorous ' will contribute." JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES. By HENRY LAWSON. Sixth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.}. For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. THE ATHENAEUM (London) : " This is a long way the best work Mr. Lawson has yet given us. These stories are so good that (from the literary point of view. 01 course) one hopes they are not autobiographical. As autobiography they would be good, as pure fiction th y are more of an attainment. ' THE ACADEMY: "It is this rare eonvincir-g tone of this Australian writer that gives him a great value. The most casual 'newspapery' and apparently artless art of this Aus- tralian writer carries with it a truer, finer, more delicate com- mentary on life than all the idealistic works of any of our genteel school of writers." 8 ON THE TRACK AND OVER THE SLIPRAILS. By HENRY LAWSON. Sixteenth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.) For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. DAILY CHRONICLE: "Will well sustain the reputation its author has already won as the best writer of Australian short stories and sketches the literary world knows. ' ' PALL MALL GAZETTE: "The volume now received will do much to enhance the author's reputation. There is all the quiet irresistible humour of Dickens in the description of 'The Darling River,' and the creator of 'Truthful James' never did anything better in the way of character sketches than Steelman and Mitchell." GLASGOW HERALD : ' ' Mr. Lawson must now be regarded as facile princeps in the production of the short tale. Some of these brief and even slight sketches are veritable gems that would be spoiled by an added word, and without a word that can be looked upon as superfluous." SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "It is not too much to say for these sketches that they show an acquaintance with bush life and an insight into the class of people which is to be met with in this life that are hardly equalled in Australia. ... In a few words he can paint for you the landscape of his pictures or the innermost recesses of his bushman 's soul. ' ' CHILDREN OF THE BUSH. By HENRY LAWSON. Fifth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.).\ Also in tivo part*, entitled "Send Round the Hat " and " The Eomance of the Swag." See page 14. DAILY TELEGRAPH: "These stories are for the most part episodes which appear to have been taken direct from life . . . . and Mr. Lawson contrives to make them wonder- fully vivid. . . . Mr. Lawson 's new stories are as good as his old ones, and higher praise they could not get." THE BULLETIN: "These stories are the real Australia, written by the foremost living Australian author. . . . Lawson 's genius remains as vivid and human as when he first boiled his literary billy." NEW ZEALAND TIMES: "His latest work, so far from ex- hibiting any signs of failing talent, seems to us to rank amongst the best he has yet done." 9 WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. By HENRY LAWSON. With eight illustrations by F. P. Mahony. Twenty-eighth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.}. For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. THE ACADEMY: "A book of honest, direct, sympathetic, humorous writing about Australia from within is worth a library of travellers' tales. . . . The result is a real book a book in a hundred. His language is terse, supple, and richly idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best." THE SCOTSMAN: "There is no lack of dramatic imagination in the construction of the .talcs ; and the best of them contrive to construct a strong sensational situation in a couple of pages. But the chief charm and value of the book is its fidelity to the rough character of the scenes from which it is drawn." LITERATURE : ' ' These sketches bring us into contact with one phase of colonial life at first hand. . . . The simplicity of the narrative gives it almost the effect of a story that is told by word of mouth." THE SPECTATOR: ''It is strange that one we would venture to call the greatest Australian writer should be practically un- known in England. Mr. Lawson is a less experienced writer than Mr. Kipling, and more unequal, but there are two or three sketches in this volume which for vigour and truth can hold their own with even so great a rival. Both men have somehow gained that power of concentration which by a few strong strokes can set place and people before you with amazing force." THE TIMES: "A collection of short and vigorous studies and stories of Australian life and character. A little in Bret Harte's manner, crossed, perhaps, with that of Guy de Maupassant. ' ' BRITISH WEEKLY : ' ' Many of Mr. Lawson 's tales photograph life at the diggings or in the bush with an incisive and remorse- less reality that grips the imagination. He silhouettes a swag- man in a couple of pages, and the man is there, alive." THE MORNING POST: "For the most part they are full of local colour, and, correctly speaking, represent ra'-.her rapid sketches illustrative of life in the bush than tales in the ordinary sense of the word. . . . They bear the impress of truth, sincere if unvarnished," 10 AN OUTBACK MARRIAGE : A Story of Australian Life. By A. B. PATERSON, author of "The Man from Snowy River," and "Rio Grande 's Last Race." Third thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 4s.). SCOTSMAN : ' ' The chief virtue of the book lies in its fresh and vivid presentment of the wild life and the picturesque man- ners of the Australian bush, while in form and style it claims recognition as a work of considerable literary distinction. ' ' PALL MALL GAZETTE: "The whole tone of the book is fresh and breezy. . . . Altogether, this is a distinctly interesting story. ' ' GLASGOW HERALD: ". . . . will stand comparison with works of fiction produced in any part of the English-speaking world. " PUBLISHERS' CIRCULAR: "A good yarn, pithy, strong, and attractive." BRISTOL WESTERN PRESS: "A bright and cheerful yarn of Australian life, seasoned with a delightful humour." THE BULLETIN: J l A cheerful story, told with the careless ease and unassuming casualness that a reader would naturally asso- ciate with the author of The Man from Snowy River. It is a fine, cheerful, healthy, matter-of-fact yarn." AN ANTHOLOGY OF AUSTRALIAN VERSE. Edited by BERTRAM STEVENS. Seventh thousand. Foolscap 8vo., limp leather, extra gilt, 3s. 6d.; limp cloth, 2s. 6d. (postage 3d.) THE TIMES : ' ' There is plenty of good verse, there are touch- ing, vigorous, effective poems, in Mr. Bertram Stevens 's Aus- tralian Anthology. It is a collection of real interest." THE SCOTSMAN : ' ' Mr. Stevens 's selection is full of interest. ' ' SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH : ' ' This book is a highly inter- esting and agreeable one." DUNDEE ADVERTISER: "Excellent and comprehensive. . . . Mr. Stevens has had the use of MS. poems in several cases. This volume, therefore, contains several pieces not to be found in other collections. ' ' GLASGOW HERALD: "This delightful volume." SYDNEY MORNING HERALD : ' ' There is evidence in the selec- tions and in the introduction that he has made a diligent and careful study of the whole field of Australian poetry. We have only to thank both editor and publishers for a beautiful little book full of beautiful things." London: Hacmillan and Co., Limited. 11 DOT AND THE KANGAROO. By ETHEL C. PEDLEY. Illustrated by F. P. Mahony. Eighth thousand. Crown 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, 3s. 6d. (post free 3s. lid.). SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: " 'Dot and the Kangaroo' is with- out doubt one of the most charming books that could be put into the hands of a child. It is admirably illustrated by Frank P. Mahony, who seems to have entered thoroughly into the spirit of this beautiful journey into the animal world of Australia. The story is altogether Australian. . . . It is told so simply, and yet so artistically, that even the 'grown-ups' amongst us must enjoy it." DAILY TELKGRAPH: "The late Miss Ethel Pedley was a musician to the core. But towards the close of her life she made one step aside into the domain of a sister art, which re- sulted in a book for children, entitled ' Dot and the Kangaroo ' a charming story of the ' Alice in Wonderland ' order. . . . Dot, the small heroine, is lost in the bush, where she is fed and ministered to by a helpful kangaroo, who introduces her gradu- ally to quite a little circle of acquaintances. We hob-nob, through Dot, with our old friends the opossum, the native bear, the platypus, the bower-bird, not to speak of the emu sheep- hunters and the cockatoo judge. There is a most exciting fight between a valiant kookooburra and a treacherous snake. Alto- gether, Miss Pedley 'a story is told in a way to entrance our small readers, who generally revel in tales where animals are invested with human attributes." THE ARGUS: "A sort of fairy story with local colour, which would be very acceptable to Australian children. . . . Dot is a little girlie who lives on the edge of the bush, and one day she wanders off and gets lost. But a big kangaroo finds her, and takes charge of her. She eats some berries which give her the power to understand the bush talk, and after four days amongst the great wild creatures, the kangaroo finds her home again for her. It is a pretty story, prettily told." DAILY MAIL (Brisbane) : "A more fascinating study for Aus- tralian children is hardly conceivable, for it endows the numerous bush animals with human speech, and reproduces a variety of amusing conversations between them and Dot, the little heroine of the book. . . . It is a clever production that adults may read with pleasure. ' ' TOWN AND COUNTRY JOURNAL: "Miss Pedley 's book was a labour of love, and it should prove a source of pleasure to count- less children. . . . She has been very happy in her method, and has done her work cleverly. ' ' THE COURIER (Brisbane): "In this delightful story book there is an artist's faneifulness, with the skill of a capable writer. ' ' 12 THE OLD BUSH SONGS. Collected and edited by A. B. PATERSON, author of "The Man from Snowy River," "Rio Grande's Last Race/' &c. Sixth thousand Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. (post free, 2s. 9d.). For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 14. DAILY TELEGRAPH: "Kude and rugged these old bush songs are, but they carry in their vigorous lines the very impress of their origin and of their genuineness. . . . Mr. Paterson has done his work like an artist." THE SPIRIT OF THE BUSH FIRE : Australian Fairy Tales. By J. M. WHITFELD. Second thousand. With 32 illustrations by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. (post free 3s.). SYDNEY MORNING HKRALD: "It is frankly written for the young folks, and the youngster will find a delight in Miss Whit f eld's marvellous company." DAILY TELEGRAPH: "It is pleasant to see author and artist working together in such complete harmony. We have had so- called ' Australian ' fairy tales before, but the sprites and gnomes and mermaids have been merely' stray visitors from English shores, old acquaintances of an old-world childhood, dressed to suit alien surroundings. Miss Whitf eld 's fairies are native to the soil." HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING. By CHARLES WHITE. In two vols. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each (postage 6d. each). Vol. I. The Early Days to 1862. Tenth thousand. Vol. II. 1863 to 1878. Ninth thousand. See also Commonwealth Series, page 14. YEAR BOOK OF AUSTRALIA: "The bushrangers have long since left the stage of Australian history, but their evil deeds live after them, and are likely to do so for many years to come. Having collected all the published details relating to the career of the Tasmanian as well as the Australian gangs, Mr. White has reduced them to a very readable narrative, which may fairly be termed a history. In this shape it forms a valuable contri- bution to the general history of the country, especially as a picture of social life in the past." QDEENSLANDER : " Mr. White has supplied material enough for twenty such novels as ' Robbery Under Arms.' " 3 THE COMMONWEALTH SERIES. Crown 8vo., picture cover, Is. each (postage 3d.). How HE DIED : VERSES. By John Farrell SEND ROUND THE HAT : STORIES. By Henry Lawson THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAG : STORIES. By Henry Lawson WHEN I WAS KING : NEW VERSES. By Henry Lawson THE ELDER SON: NEW VERSES. By Henry Lawson JOE WILSON : STORIES. By Henry Lawson JOE WILSON'S MATES: STORIES. By Henry Lawson ON THE TRACK: STORIES. By Henry Lawson OVER THE SLIPRAILS: STORIES. By Henry Lawson POPULAR VERSES. By Henry Lawson HUMOROUS VERSES. By Henry Lawson WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: STORIES. First Series. By Henry Lawson WHILE THE BILLY BOILS: STORIES. Second Series By Henry Lawson THE OLD BUSH SONGS. Edited by A. B. Patcrson MY CHINEE COOK, AND OTHER HUMOROUS VERSES. By Bninton Stephens HISTORY OP AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING. By Charles White Part I. The Early Days. Part II. 1850 to 1862. Part III. 1863 to 1869. Part IV. 1869 to 1878. * For press notices of these booTcs see the cloth-bound editions on pages 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and IS of this Catalogue. 14 THE JUSTICES' MANUAL AND POLICE GUIDE . A Synopsis of offences punishable by indictment and on summary conviction, definitions of crimes, meanings of legal phrases, hints on evidence, procedure, police duties. &c , in New South Wales. Compiled by DANIEL STEPHEN, Senior-Sergeant of Police. Second edition, revised in accordance with State and Federal Enactments to the end of 1905, and enlarged by the inclusion of a concise summary of Commercial Law. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 6s. (post free 6s. (id.). SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "Justices of the peace and others concerned in the administration of the law will find the value of this admirably-arranged work. . . . We had nothing but praise for the first edition, and the second edition is better than the first." TOWN AND COUNTRY JOURNAL: "The author has put together a vast amount of useful and generally practical information likely to be interesting, as well as valuable, to justices of the peace, policemen, and all others concerned in the administration of the law. ' ' SYDNEY MAIL: "A well got up handbook that should prove of decided value to a large section of the community. . . . Primarily intended for justices of the peace and policemen, it is so handily arranged, so concise, and so comprehensive, that it should appeal to everyone who wants to know just how he stands in regard to the law of the land." SYDNEY WOOL AND STOCK JOURNAL: "The book practically makes every man his own lawyer, and enables him to see at a glance what the law is upon any given point, and will save more than its cost at the first consultation." SYDNEY STOCK AND STATION JOURNAL: "To speak of a work of this kind as being interesting would doubtless cause surprise; but it is most certainly a very interesting work. We strongly recommend it." COOKERY BOOK OF GOOD AND TRIED RECEIPTS Compiled for the Presbyterian Women's Missionary Association. Tenth edition, enlarged, completing the 95th thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth, Is. (post free Is. 3d.). 15 THE LAW OP LANDLORD AND TENANT IN NEW SOUTH WALES. By J. II. HAMMOND, B.A., LL.B., and C. G. W. DAVIDSON, B.A., LL.B., Barristers-at-Law. Demy 8vo., cloth gilt, 25s. (post free 25s. Wd.). SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "... a valuable contribu- tion to legal literature. . . . The authors have incorporated the various Statutes in force in the State, annotating them with care, precision, and judgment. The notes and references have relation, not only to decisions in this and the other States of the Commonwealth, but also to English decisions under Statutes held to be in force in New South Wales. . . . The value of the work, which bears evidence of close and careful research, is enhanced by the fact that hitherto there has been no text-book which completely embraced the subject." DAILY TELEGRAPH: "It must be said that the joint authors have done their work in an able and thorough way, the 560 pages which the book contains being replete with matters of moment to those desirous of ascertaining the state of the law on rather a complicated subject. . . . The whole of the local law of landlord and tenant is presented in a concise form to the profession and the general public." THE LAND AND INCOME TAX LAW OF NEW SOUTH WALES. By M. M. D'ARCY IRVINE, B.A., Solicitor of the Supreme Court. Demy 8vo., cloth gilt, 42s. (post free 43s.). THE SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "We have here a complete review of the direct taxation scheme of the State for the last ten years; an authoritative review which gives the law itself and its interpretation. . . . Mr. D'Arcy Irvine does not inflict upon us the long descriptions of the road to a decision which some judges find it necessary or expedient to make. He gives us the decision, the one important matter, and little else. ' ' DAILY TELEGRAPH: "The author has done his work in a most thorough way, and has produced what should be a valuable con- tribution to local legal literature. Moreover, the subject is dealt with in such a perspicuous style, that a layman, by perusal of it, should have no difficulty in ascertaining exactly where he stands with regard to the Acts bearing upon this form of taxa- tion." 16 THE ANNOTATED CONSTITUTION OF THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH. By Sir JOHN QDICK and R. R. GARRAN, C.M.Q. Royal 8vo., cloth gilt, 2ls. THE TIMES: "The Annotated Constitution of the Australian Commonwealth is a monument of industry. . . . Dr. Quick and Mr. Garran have collected with patience and enthusiasm every sort of information, legal and historical, which can throw light on the new measure. The book has evidently been a labour of love." THE SCOTSMAN: "Students of constitutional law owe a welcome, and that in a scarcely less degree than lawyers do who are likely to have to interpret the laws of the Australian Consti- tution, to this learned and exhaustive commentary The book is au admirable working text-book of the Constitu- tion." DAILY CHRONICLE: "Here is the new Constitution set out and explained, word by word how each phrase was formulated, where they all came from, why they were put in, the probable diffi- culties of interpreting or administering each clause, with such help as can be given by considering similar difficulties in other Constitutions; every point, in fine, in which lawyers' skill or the zeal of enthusiasts can discern the elements of interest." GLASGOW HERALD: "Will at once take rank as a standard authority, to be consulted, not only by students of constitutional history and political science, but also by all those who, in the active fields of law, politics, or commerce, have a practical in- terest in the working of the new federal institutions of Aus tralia." CALENDAR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. Demy 8vo., linen, 2s. 6d. ; paper cover, Is. (postage 8d.) [Published annually, in May. MANUAL OF PUBLIC EXAMINATIONS HELD BY THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. Demy 8vo., paper cover, Is. (post free Is. 3d.). [Published annually, in August, and dated the year following that in which it is issued, \1 IRRIGATION WITH SURFACE AND SUBTER RANEAN WATERS, AND LAND DRAINAGE. By W. GIBBONS Cox, C.E. With 81 illustrations and a coloured map of Australia. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (pofit free, 4s.}. THE AUSTRALASIAN : "The work under notice, which has special reference to the utilisation of artesian and sub-artesian water, is the most valuable contribution to the literature on the subjects dealt with that has yet appeared iu Australia." SYDNEY MORNING HERALD: "The chief value of the book will be, perhaps, for the individual irrigationist. The author goes into detail on most phases of small schemes. . . . He takes various crops and fruit trees separately, and gives a lot of sound information on the question. The sinking of wells, the erection of reservoirs, ditches, checks, and grading are all con- sidered." THE HOME DOCTORING OF ANIMALS. By HAROLD LEENEY, M.R.C.V.S. With nearly 100 illustrations. 8vo., cloth, 7s. 6d. (post free 8s. 7d.). CONTENTS. I. Diseases of the Blood II. Diseases of the Heart III. Diseases of the Digestive System IV. Tumours V. Diseases of the Kespiratory Organs VI. Diseases of the Eye VII. Diseases of the Brain and Nervous System VIII. Diseases of the Generative Organs IX. Diseases connected with Parturition X. Troubles of the New Born XI. Skin Diseases XII. Parasites and Parasitic Diseases XIII. Diseases of the Foot XIV. Lameness and Bone Diseases XV. Wounds and their Treatment XVI. Bleeding: How to arrest Bleeding and how to Classify XVII. Operations: Such as Castrating and Docking XVIII. Blisters, Blistering, Firing, Setons, Seton- ing XIX. Poisons and Antidotes XX. Antiseptics and Disin- fectants XXI. Anaesthesia, Insensibility to Pain XXII. Physicking, Purging Horses, Cattle, Sheep, Pigs, Dogs, and Cats XXIII. Diseases of Poultry XXIV. Administration of Medicines XXV. Medicines: A Comprehensive Series of Pre- scriptions XXVI. Nursing and Foods for the Sick XXVI I. Methods of Control or Trammelling Animals XXVIII. Vices, Tricks, and Bad Habits of the Horse. 18 THE PLANTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES : An Analytical Key to the Flowering Plants (except Grasses and Rushes) and Ferns of the State, set out in an original method, with a list of native plants discovered since 1893. By W. A. DIXON, F.I.C., F.C.S. With Glossary and 49 diagrams. Foolscap 8vo., cloth gilt, 6s. (post free 6s. 5d.). NATURE: "This is a handy little oook providing a compact guide for naming flowers in the field. . . . The author lays stress on the extensive use made of vegetative characters for identification, with which there can be only entire agreement so long as the characters are determinative." DAILY TELEGRAPH (Sydney): "The author has succeeded in bringing his subject within the comprehension of the ordinary observer. In a concise introductory note, Mr. Dixon points out the difficulty of identifying plants by the use of scientific treatises, and substitutes a system based 011 the use of more easily observed characters. ' ' SYDNEY MORNING HERALD : ' ' The book is interesting as well as ingenious, it is a valuable contribution to the botanic litera- ture of Australia." SIMPLE TESTS FOR MINERALS. By JOSEPH CAMPBELL, M.A., F.G.S., M.l.M.E. Fourth edition, revised and enlarged (com- pleting the tenth thousand). With illustra- tions. Cloth, round corners, 3s. 6d, (post free 3s. 9d.). BALLARAT STAR : " This is an excellent little work, and should be in tlie hands of every scientific and practical miner.'' BENDIGO EVENING MAIL: "Should be in every pro3pector's kit. It enables any intelligent man to ascertain for himself whether any mineral he may discover has a commercial value." BUNDABERG STAR: "A handy and useful book for miners and all interested in the mining industry." NEWCASTLE MORNING HERALD: "The book is a thoroughly practical one." WYALONG STAB: "Now it will be possible for miners and prospectors to test any mineral which has a commercial value." 19 THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF BOILER CONSTRUCTION : A Manual of Instruction and Useful Information for Practical Men. By W. D. CRUICKHANK, M. I. Mech. E., late Chief Engineering Surveyor, New South Wales Government. Second edition, revised and enlarged, with 70 illustrations. 8vo., cloth gilt, 15s. (post free 15s. 9d.). [Just published. THE ANALYSIS OF INANIMATE FORM, OR OBJECT DRAWING. By GEORGE H. AUROUSSEAU, Sydney Technical College. With 68 illustrations. Crown 4to.. cloth, 3s. 6d. (post free 3s. 9d.). BRUSHWORK FROM NATURE, WITH DESIGN. By J. E. BRANCH, Superintendent of Drawing, Department of Public Instruction. Pre- scribed by the Department of Public Instruc- tion, N.S.W., for Teachers' Examinations. With 19 coloured and 5 other plates. Demy 4to., decorated cloth, 7s. 6d. (post free. 8