/] 
 
 I 
 
 BERKEleV 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 WNIVERSITY Of 
 CALIFORNIA 
 

tbe Bulletin Cibrary 
 
 Edited by A. G. Stephens 
 
 Csstro's Last Sacrament, and Other Stories, ss., post 
 free. By Albert Dorrington. 
 
 The Bulletin Story Book, ss., post free. 
 
 The Bulletin Reciter, js. 4d, , post free. 
 
 A Book of Bulletin Verse, [In Preparation. 
 
 The Bulletin* s Book of Australia, [/n Preparation. 
 
 Such is Life, by Joseph Furphy. [In Preparation. 
 
 Others to Follow. 
 
Cbe Bulletin Reciter 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bulletinrecitercOOsydnrich 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER 
 
 [To /ace Title-Page. 
 
.c^l 
 
 ■-^. 
 
 L5 
 
 Cbe Bulletin Reciter 
 
 A COLLECTION OF VERSES FOR RECITATION 
 From "THE BULLETIN" 
 
 [1880-1901] 
 
 1 roi\ ■ AUSTRALIA • ,,' 
 ' . ■ i . " ■ ■ I ■mur' 
 
 Sydney, MCMII 
 The Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, Publishers 
 
The contents of this Book were originally published in The 
 Bulletin. The following verses have been republished— 
 
 "Off the Grass" (p.7), " How We Won the Ribbon" (p.183), "A Scotch 
 Night" (p.232) in Fair Girls and Gray Horses: with Other 
 Verses ; Sydney, The Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, 1898. 
 
 "What the Bottle Said" (p. 123) in The Ways of Many Waters; 
 Sydney, The Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, 1899. 
 
 "The Anarchist" (p.128) in Maoriland : and Other Verses ; Sydney, 
 The Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, 1899, 
 
 "The Road to Wyoming" (p.145) in Starlight Songs; London, 
 Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co., Ltd., 1895. 
 
 "Bashful Gleeson" (p. 166) in Rhymes from the Mines and Other 
 Lines; Sydney, Angus and Robertson, 1896. 
 
 "Skeeta" (p.170) in Where the Dead Men Lie, and Other Verses ; 
 Sydney, Angus and Robertson, 1897. 
 
 "The Currency Lass" (p.176) in The Circling Hearths; Sydney, 
 The Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, 1901. 
 
 "The Tugs of Simpsonville" (p.193), "'The Bush Missionary" (p.218), 
 in Hits ! Skits ! and Jingles ! Sydney, The Bulletin Newspaper 
 Company, Limited, 1899. 
 
 "Faces in the Street" (p.213) in A Golden Shanty; Sydney, The 
 Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, 1890. Also in In the Days 
 when the World was Wide and Other Verses ; Sydney, Angus 
 and Robertson, 1896. 
 
 "The Last Bullet" (p.221) in A Golden Shanty ; Sydney, The Bulletin 
 Newspaper Company, Limited: also (as "Virginius") in How He 
 Died and Other Poems; Sydney, Turner and Henderson, 1887. 
 
 Copyright^ igoi) by The Bulletin Newspaper Company^ Limited. 
 
Prefatory 
 
 
 C^HE risk and expense of this publication are under 
 ^ taken by the Bulletin Newspaper Company^ Limited. 
 Should any profits accrue., a share of forty per cent, ivill be 
 credited to the ivr iters represented. 
 
 Owing to the length of time which., in certain cases., has 
 elapsed since the original publication in The Bulletin, 
 the names and addresses of some of the writers have been 
 lost sight of; and their work appears over pen-names. The 
 editor will be glad if these ivriters will communicate with 
 him. Suggestions for revision or improvement of the recita- 
 tions or of the book will be gratefully received. 
 
 The Bulletin Reciter is copyrighted by The Bulletin 
 Neivspaper Company^ Limited ; and the contents must not 
 be reprinted without the permission of the proprietors. 
 
 Office c/TvE Bulletin, 
 
 2/4 George Street, Sydney, Australia, 
 1st December, igoi. 
 
 611 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 The Bulletin Reciter 
 
 That Day at Boiling Downs 
 
 A Legend of the Dargo 
 
 How M'Dougal Topped the Score 
 
 The Woman of the Future - 
 
 Bucked Off Its Brand 
 
 . ''Hop'' 
 To Face Title-Page 
 
 Fred Leist 
 To Face Page i6 
 
 Fred Leist 
 To Face Page 42 
 
 - A.J. Fischer 
 To Face Page 54 
 
 - ''Hop'' 
 To Face Page 71 
 
 - A.J. Fischer 
 . To Face Page 88 
 
 The How-We-Beat-the-Favourite Affliction Hugh McCrae 
 
 To Face Page 106 
 
 My Mate Bill 
 
 The Hairy Man of Koorawatha 
 
 Boko - . . . - 
 
 How We Won the Ribbon 
 
 Tambaroora - - - . 
 
 The Bush Missionary - 
 
 A Scotch Night 
 
 Norman Lindsay 
 To Face Page 122 
 
 A.J. Fischer 
 To Face Page 142 
 
 Fred Leist 
 To Face Page 15S 
 
 - Norman Lindsay 
 To Face Page 186 
 
 D. H. Souter 
 To Face Page 202 
 
 A. /. Fischer 
 To Face Page 220 
 
 D. H. Souter 
 To Face Page 233 
 
LIST OF RECITATIONS. 
 
 The Billiard-Marker's Yarn - 
 
 Spell Oh ! - - - 
 
 Off the Grass 
 
 The Brumby's Death - 
 
 That Day at Boiling Downs 
 
 The Bellbird Rang Her Home 
 
 Out Back .... 
 
 After the Flood 
 
 A Stranger at the U 
 
 Sinking - - - - , 
 
 The Whirligig of Time - 
 
 Sold-Up - - - - 
 
 A Legend of the Dargo - 
 
 In the Face of the Dead 
 
 The Man with Rubber Pedals - 
 
 In the Dead-Letter Office - 
 
 How M'Dougal Topped the Score 
 
 Marian's Child 
 
 The Man Who Told You So 
 
 A Sea Tragedy - 
 
 Page 
 
 • Edmund Fisher i 
 
 W. E. Carew 5 
 
 . Will H. Ogilvie 7 
 
 - Ethel Mills 12 
 Jack Mathieu 14 
 
 Randolph Bedford 17 
 
 P. P. Quinn 19 
 
 - Dora Wilcox 22 
 J. Crawford 28 
 
 . ''Sendee'' 31 
 
 T. H. Ord 34 
 
 C. H. Souter 38 
 
 - W. Long 39 
 Ethel Castilla 43 
 
 -"McG." 44 
 
 - R. Stewart 48 
 -Thos. E. Spencer 51 
 
 -/. S. Neilson 56 
 
 - ''Styx'' 59 
 F. Rollett 6t 
 
 tx. 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Page 
 
 ' Edward Dyson 62 
 " Uloola' 
 
 The Silence of Mullock Creek 
 
 When Mother Calls to Dinner 
 
 M'Ginty's Happy Thought 
 
 A Song of Gold 
 
 The Woman of the Future 
 
 Stokin' .... 
 
 Where Are My Dollars Gonk?- 
 
 Wattle Flat - 
 
 Wing Fat . . - . 
 
 The Woman Speaks 
 
 Consolation 
 
 At the Diggings Store 
 
 Bucked Off Its Brand - 
 
 The Price of a Kiss - 
 
 Mick Dooley's Pants 
 
 The Ballad of Stuttering Jim 
 
 Life's Paradoxes - 
 
 66 
 
 - E.J. Dempsey 67 
 
 - Dcia Wilcox 68 
 "P. Luftig" 70 
 
 - ''QuilpN." 72 
 
 - ^'RLu/tig^^ 77 
 
 - Cecil Poole 78 
 
 - ''Alone'' 81 
 Ambrose Pratt 83 
 
 - L. R. Macleod 84 
 
 R. A. F. 85 
 
 - R. A. F. 87 
 Ehse Espinasse 89 
 
 - G. Essex Evans 91 
 Samuel Cliall White 93 
 
 "P. Luftig'' loi 
 
 - "The ^.» 103 
 
 When Dacey Rode the Mule 
 
 The Hovv-We-Beat-the-Favourite Affliction 
 
 N. M. O'Donnell 105 
 
 Gig Fours - - - - - "McC" 107 
 
 Don't Let the Moth Get In - - T. A. Wilson no 
 
 The Winner of the Squatters' Cup Frank Bellman 112 
 
LIST OF RECITATIONS. 
 
 Page 
 
 • Victor J. Daley 114 
 
 The Three Roads - 
 
 Christmas Belle 
 
 My Mate Bill 
 
 What the Bottle Said 
 
 A German Lament - 
 
 The Anarchist - 
 
 The Fall of Patrick Dooley - 
 
 The Jester of the Damned - 
 
 The Hairy Man of Koorawatha - 
 
 A Big "Bust" - 
 
 A Tight Corner - 
 
 The Road to Wyoming 
 
 Jim Jamieson, of Tringabar 
 
 The Mallee Fire 
 
 Among the Palms - 
 
 Dreams and Deeds 
 
 Boko - - - . . 
 
 «*Dunno!" 
 
 The Fat Man and the War 
 
 The Shoe 
 
 The Cocky's Handy Man- 
 
 Bashful Gleeson 
 
 ''John Carew^^ 116 
 G. H. Gibson 120 
 
 - E.J. Brady 123 
 
 ''Sendee'' 126 
 
 Arthur H. Adams 128 
 
 E.J. Dempsey 132 
 
 -J. H. Greene 134 
 
 - ' ' Tom Freeman " 1 40 
 
 Edward Dyson 143 
 
 C. H. S outer 144 
 
 Evelyti Threlfall 145 
 
 - "Pan'' 150 
 
 - C. H. Souter 152 
 
 "Hesketh" 154 
 
 E.J. Dempsey 155 
 
 "Curlew" 156 
 
 - Bernard Espinasse 160 
 
 "Magtief' 161 
 
 /. M. L. 163 
 
 "Ben Sun'' 164 
 
 Edzvard Dyson 166 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Skeeta 
 
 The Currency Lass 
 
 The Confidential Jockey 
 
 How We Won the Ribbon 
 
 A Twisted Idyl 
 
 The Tugs of Simpsonville 
 
 The Sick Cab-Rider 
 
 Tambaroora 
 
 Father Riley's Horse 
 
 O'Toole and M'Sharry 
 
 Faces in the Street 
 
 The Bush Missionary - 
 
 The Last Bullet - 
 
 The Honeymoon Train 
 
 The Murder-Night 
 
 A Scotch Night 
 
 Page 
 
 - Barcroft Boake 170 
 
 Roderic Quinn 176 
 
 - Francis Kenna 179 
 Will H. Ogilvie 183 
 
 • Frank Morton 187 
 W. T. Goodge 193 
 
 - Edmund Fisher 197 
 
 '■'■ Bendee^^ 202 
 
 - A. B. Pater son 203 
 Thomas E. Spencer 209 
 
 Henry Lawson 213 
 
 W. T. Goodge 218 
 
 /ohn Farrell 221 
 
 A. G. Stephens 229 
 
 Hugh Ale Crae 27^1 
 
 mil H. ogilvie 232 
 
LIST OF WRITERS. 
 
 Adams, Arthur H. 
 " Alone" 
 
 Bedford, Randolph 
 Bellman, Frank 
 "Bendee" 
 
 **Ben Sun" - 
 
 BOAKE, BARCROFT 
 
 Brady, E. J. 
 
 Carew, W. E. - 
 
 Cast ill A, Ethel 
 Crawford, J. 
 "Curlew" - 
 
 Daley, Victor J. 
 Dempsey, E. J. 
 
 Dyson, Edward 
 
 Page 
 
 The Anarchist 128 
 
 . Wing Fat 81 
 
 - The Bellbird Rang Her Home 1 7 
 The Winner of the Squatters^ Cup II2 
 
 Sinking 31 
 
 A German Lament 126 
 
 Tambai'oora 202 
 
 - The Cocky' s Handy Man 164 
 
 - Skeeta 170 
 What the Bottle Said 123 
 
 Spell Oh! 5 
 
 - In the Face of the Dead 43 
 - A Stranger at the U 28 
 
 Boko 156 
 
 The Three Roads 114 
 
 M'Ginty's Happy l^hought 67 
 
 The Fall of Patrick Dooley 132 
 
 -Dreams and Deeds 155 
 
 - The Silence of Mullock Creek 62 
 
 - A Big ''Bust'' 143 
 Bashful Gleeson 166 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 EspiNAssE, Bernard 
 EspiNASSE, Elise 
 Evans, G. Essex - 
 
 Farrell, John 
 Fisher, Edmund - 
 
 Gibson, G. H. 
 
 GOODGE, W. T. 
 
 Greene, J. H. - 
 
 "Hesketh" 
 
 J. M. L. - 
 "John Carew" 
 
 Kenna, Francis 
 
 Lawson, Henry 
 Long, W. 
 
 macleod, l. r. 
 "Magnet" 
 Mathieu, Jack 
 McCrae, Hugh 
 "McG." - 
 
 Page 
 Dunno!" 1 60 
 
 The Price of a Kiss 89 
 Mick Doole/s Pants 91 
 
 The Last Bullet 221 
 
 7'he Billiard-Marker'' s Yam i 
 
 The Sick Cab- Rider 197 
 
 My Mate Bill 120 
 
 The Tugs of Simpsonville 193 
 
 The Bush Missionary 218 
 
 The Jester of the Damned 134 
 
 - Among the Palms 154 
 
 The Shoe 163 
 Christmas Belle wd 
 
 The Confidential fockey 1 79 
 
 - Faces in the Street li-if 
 - A Legend of the Dargo 39 
 
 - Consolation 84 
 
 The Fat Man and the War i6l 
 
 That Day at Boiling Downs 14 
 
 The Murder 'Night 231 
 
 The Man with Rubber Pedals 44 
 
 Gig Fours 107 
 
Mills, Ethel 
 Morton, Frank 
 
 Neilson, J. S. 
 
 o'donnell, n. m. 
 Ogilvie, Will H. 
 
 Ord, T. H. 
 
 "Pan" 
 
 Paterson, a. B. 
 '*P. Luftig" 
 
 Poole, Cecil - 
 Pratt, Ambrose 
 
 "QuiLP N." 
 Quinn, p. p. 
 Quinn, Roderic 
 
 R. A. F. 
 
 »» ■ 
 
 Rollett, F. 
 
 Souter, C. H. - 
 
 LIST OF WRITERS. 
 
 Page 
 
 l^he Brumby s Death 12 
 
 A Twisted Idyl 187 
 
 Marian's Child 56 
 
 The Hov)- We- Beat-the- Favourite Affliction 1 05 
 
 Off the Grass 7 
 
 How We Won the Ribbon 183 
 
 A Scotch Night 232 
 
 - The Whirligig of Time 34 
 
 fimjamieson, of Tringabar 150 
 
 Father Riley's Horse 203 
 
 - The Woman of the Future 70 
 
 - Where are My Dollars Gone ? 77 
 
 Life's Paradoxes loi 
 
 Wattle Flat 78 
 
 77ie Woman Speaks 83 
 
 • - - - - Stokin' 72 
 
 Out Back 1 9 
 
 The Currency Lass 176 
 
 At the Diggings Store 85 
 
 - Bucked Off its Brand S7 
 • - - A Sea Tragedy 61 
 
 Sold-Up 38 
 A Tight Corjier 144 
 The Mallee Fire 152 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Spencer, Thos. E. 
 
 >> 
 Stephens, A. G. 
 Stewart, R. - 
 ••Styx" 
 
 Page 
 
 • How M' Doiigal Topped tht Score 51 
 
 - O' Toole and M^Sharry 209 
 
 The Honeymoon Train 229 
 
 In the Dead-Letter Office 48 
 
 The Man Who Told You So 59 
 
 •♦The B.» 
 Threlfall, Evelyn 
 
 ♦*TOM FrEEiMAN" 
 
 When Dacey Rode the Mule 103 
 
 The Road to Wyoming 145 
 
 The Hairy Man of Koorawatha 140 
 
 "Uloola" - 
 
 When Mother Calls to Dinner 66 
 
 White, Samuel Cliall 
 V>'iLcox, Dora 
 
 Wilson, T. A. 
 
 l^he Ballad of Stuttering Jim 93 
 
 After the Flood 22 
 
 - A Song of Gold 68 
 
 - DonU Let the Moth Get In 1 10 
 
I 
 
 THE BILLIARD-MARKER'S YARN. 
 
 T was the billiard-marker of the Gin and Cloves Hotel — 
 A sandy man, with tender feet, no doubt you know 
 him well — 
 Who told this simple story, in his plain, straightforward 
 
 way. 
 Of the disappointed shepherds and the lamb who went 
 astray. 
 
 *'The meanest skunk," said Thomas (that's the worthy 
 
 marker's name), 
 " As ever came in here to play a dirty sneakin' game, 
 Was a swell we called * the Kernel ' — a toUollish breed of 
 
 bloke. 
 Who never said 'Good-day' but what he'd offer one a 
 
 smoke. 
 
 " You must know this 'ere Kernel used to lounge about 
 
 the room, 
 A-talking of his 'orses, and his kerridges, an' groom ; 
 He didn't sport no joolrey except a slap-up ring, 
 And if we had a pool he 'd drop his shillings like a king. 
 
 *' Three months or so I 'd know'd 'im, when I put it to 
 
 the chaps, 
 As the Kernel might be good to work a swindle on, 
 
 perhaps ; 
 
2 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 For he give me the impression that he fancied he 'd a show 
 To hold his own at billiards with old Chorley Clitheroe. 
 
 " Old Chor — there ain't his equal for puttin' through a 
 
 toff- 
 Had been 'avin' friendly games with Mr. Kernel on and off; 
 And when the Kernel beat him, then the old 'un used to 
 
 kid 
 As he hadn't got no nerve for playin' billiards like he did. 
 
 '* So the boys they sit and watch 'em, O ! so quiet and 
 
 subdood, 
 And remark, in stagey whispers, as the Kernel was Uoo 
 
 good,' 
 And how he seemed a gentleman wot was n't up to snuff, 
 Or else he 'd land old Chorley for a tidy lump o' stuff. 
 
 " But the Kernel did n't seem to want to have no money 
 
 down ; 
 At first the most he played for was a modest 'arf-a-crown \ 
 And when the game was over, let him win or let him lose. 
 He was sure to ask the company to order in their booze. 
 
 " Yer can't make brass by drinking — we was almost in 
 
 despair 
 Of gettin' at our juggins with the 'igh and mighty air — 
 When at last he says to Chorley : ' Will you play me for 
 
 a stake ? ' 
 And Chorley, after kiddin', said he would — for 'friendship's 
 
 sake.' 
 
THE BILLIARD-MARKER'S YARN. 3 
 
 "A * level thousand up ' for fifty sovereigns was the game ; 
 Old Qior. put down his * pony ' and the Kernel did the 
 
 same ; 
 A doctor held the money and was chose as referee, 
 And the boys rolled up next night the bloomin' sacrifice 
 
 to see. 
 
 " We brought up Ikey Gizzard ('im they call the Golden 
 
 Dook) 
 And several other chaps as makes a ready-money book, 
 And if we loored the Kernel and his party on to bet 
 We was promised 'arf the sugar what the layers was to get. 
 
 " The Kernel had a crowd of toffs to come and see him 
 
 play; 
 They backed him for their tenners, when they heard 
 
 what we 'd to say 
 Before the game commenced ; and when he got in front 
 
 of Chor. 
 By thirty points, or so — we made 'em back 'im for some 
 
 more. 
 
 " O' course we kept on kiddin' that old Chorley was a 
 
 muff. 
 And the toffs, quite fresh and innercent, kept pilin' on the 
 
 stuff; 
 But when I called * six hundred h'all,' I sez to Chor,, I 
 
 says, 
 *■ Don't you notice some improvement in the way the 
 
 Kernel plays ? ' 
 
4 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 " * Well, when you come to mention it,' says Chorley, * I 
 
 believe 
 This covey has been keepin' of a trifle hup his sleeve, 
 So I think it will be safer now to let him 'ave more show. 
 Just tip the wink to Ikey, and I '11 teach 'em all I know.' 
 
 "Then Chorley has a brandy, and he don't put down his cue 
 
 Until he plays a purty little break of sixty-two 1 
 
 * A hundred pound to forty ! ' shouts out Ikey, when he 'd 
 
 done. 
 The Kernel took that wager, and the trouble then begun. 
 
 " For he catches up to Chorley and he works a bit ahead, 
 And he has a sudden genius for a-shovin' down the red : 
 He never leaves Chor. nothing but a blessed 'double 
 
 baulk ' — 
 To cut the story short, the Kernel did us in a walk. 
 
 " The bookies dropped * three-fifty,' altogether, on the deal, 
 And of course they had to settle, howsoever they might^^/; 
 The Kernel shouted fizz, and said he 'd never played so 
 
 well — 
 While all as Chorley uttered was the hexclamation ' 'ell ! ' 
 
 " They never come again, not after doin' of the trick, 
 And to talk about the Kernel turns my stummick fairly 
 
 sick; 
 All faith in human nature and religion it destroys 
 When a masher has the meanness to come robbin' of the 
 
 boys." 
 
 Edmund Fisher. 
 
SPELL OH! 
 
 SPELL OH! 
 
 5 rp WAS in the Fraser country, where the coast is wild 
 
 A and strange ; 
 
 And swagging up the long divide that leads to Day- 
 
 bre^ Range 
 We came, and reached the saddle where the steep rise 
 
 starts to slow ; 
 Then dropped our loads and, resting, gazed upon the 
 
 gorge below. 
 
 And out beyond we looked towards the faintly-gleaming 
 sea. 
 
 Along the dim horizon-line where forests cease to be ; 
 
 And from the white-fringed coast there came the soft, per- 
 sistent sound 
 
 Of countless sighs that dying waves breathed o'er their 
 burial-ground. 
 
 And then, in strangest humour, borne on Fancy's win- 
 some feet. 
 
 Far, far away from Daybreak Range I paced the crowded 
 street ; 
 
 The countless thousands passed along with loads that 
 bent the back — 
 
 They carried more than " eighty " as they struggled up 
 the track ! 
 
6 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Some were, alas ! so feeble that they fainted by the way ; 
 
 And some rushed wildly through the throng with gestures 
 of dismay ; 
 
 And some there were of giant strength who seemed to 
 walk in sleep, 
 
 And slowly crept with crushing loads in trance un- 
 conscious, deep. 
 
 And some I saw whose faces held no human destiny — 
 Pale spectres of the men that once they fondly hoped to be; 
 And some there were but young in years, yet from whom 
 
 Hope had fled. 
 To leave them, careless of their chains, in all but seeming 
 
 dead ! 
 
 Then suddenly a sound was heard that thrilled that toiling 
 
 band — 
 A voice that, clear as trumpet-call, went speeding o'er the 
 
 land ; 
 And men whose ears were longtime dulled by Labour's 
 
 iron knell 
 Stopped still with leaping hearts, to hear the cry of 
 
 " Spell oh ! Spell ! " 
 
 Then loads were dropped, and weary forms sank panting 
 
 on the ground. 
 And Care a moment ceased to brood as respite sweet was 
 
 found ; 
 Whilst haggard faces, in the flush of rest, shone almost fair, 
 And silent tongues were loosed, and babbled music on 
 
 the air 1 
 
SPELL OHl 7 
 
 And then I woke, or seemed to wake, and on the column 
 
 pressed. 
 Whilst at its head some unseen band played softly hymns 
 
 of rest ; 
 And in their homes the women of that dumb and 
 
 awful crowd 
 With wasted fingers swiftly sewed another worker's shroud. 
 
 But oft at night, when heaven hangs close, there echoes 
 
 strangely clear 
 Some semblance of that clarion-call that speaks the good 
 
 time near 
 When voice of man, or voice of God, in accents all may 
 
 tell. 
 Shall waken every deadened soul with cry of " Spell oh ! 
 
 Spell!" 
 
 W. E. Carew. 
 
 OFF THE GRASS. 
 
 THEY were boasting on the Greenhide of their nags 
 of fancy breed, 
 And stuffing them with bran and oats to run in Gumleaf 
 
 Town ; 
 But we had n't got a racehorse that was worth a dish of 
 
 feed. 
 So did n't have a Buckley's show to take the boasters 
 down. 
 
8 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 For old Midnight was in Sydney, and we couldn't get him 
 
 up 
 In time for Gumleaf Races if it had been worth our 
 
 while ; 
 The Chorus colt was far too light to win the Gumleaf 
 
 Cup, 
 And we did n't own a hackney that could finish out the 
 
 mile. 
 
 But we could n't watch them win it while we never had a 
 
 say, 
 So we mustered up the horses, and we caught old 
 
 Myall King ; 
 He 's as brave as ever galloped, but he 's twelve if he 's a 
 
 day, 
 And we could n't help but chuckle at the humour of 
 
 the thing. 
 
 But, though shaky in the shoulders, he 's the daddy of 
 
 them all ; 
 He 's the gamest bit of horseflesh from the Snowy to 
 
 the Bree ; 
 One of those that 's never beaten, coming every time you 
 
 call : 
 One of those you sometimes read about but very 
 
 seldom see. 
 
 He 's the don at every muster and the king of every camp ; 
 He's the lad to stop the pikers when they take you 
 on the rush ; 
 
OFF THE GRASS. 9 
 
 And he loves the merry rattle of the stockwhip, and the 
 
 tramp 
 Of the cock-horned mulga scrubbers when they're breaking 
 
 in the brush. 
 
 He can foot the Greenhide brumbies if they take a mile 
 
 of start, 
 And if they get him winded in a gallop on the plain 
 He 's as game as any lion, and he carries such a heart 
 You can never say he 's beaten, for he '11 always come 
 
 again ! 
 
 So we put up Jack the Stockman with his ten pounds 
 
 overweight, 
 And he lengthened out the leathers half-a-foot and 
 
 gave a smile : 
 " I don't suppose you '11 see us when they, 're fairly in the 
 
 straight. 
 But we '11 make the beggars travel, take my oath ! for 
 
 half-a-mile." 
 
 And they started, and the old horse jumped away a 
 
 length in front. 
 And every post they came to gave the brown a longer 
 
 lead. 
 Till it seemed that there was nothing else but Myall in 
 
 the hunt, 
 With his load of station honour and his weight of mulga 
 
 feed! 
 
10 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Then the bay mare, Bogan Lily, started out to cut him 
 
 down ; 
 She had travelled out five hundred miles to win the 
 
 Gumleaf Cup, 
 And she could n't well get beaten by a hack in Gumleaf 
 
 Town 
 When she had to pay expenses for her owner's journey 
 
 up. 
 
 So she started out to catch the old brown camp-horse 
 
 from the Bush, 
 And a furlong from the finish she could nose his rider's 
 
 knee. 
 Then you should have heard the shouting of the Bogan 
 
 Lily push. 
 And the flinging of their hats up was a sight for you to 
 
 see ! 
 
 But old Myall King had often been as nearly beat before. 
 And he steadied oif a little, while the mare shot out 
 
 ahead ; 
 Then he shook his ears and gripped the bit — you should 
 
 have heard us roar 
 As he came at Bogan Lily with his flanks a streak of red ! 
 
 And the little bay mare, beaten, gave him best and threw 
 
 it up , 
 And we heard her rider murmur, as he saw the brown 
 
 horse pass 
 
OFF THE GRASS. ii 
 
 And Jack the Stockman drop his hands and win the 
 
 Gumleaf Cup — 
 "Beat by a hungry cripple of a campHhorse, off the 
 
 grass ! " 
 
 Then we led him in a winner, and they cheered him from 
 the stand, 
 
 With the black sweat running channels from his fore- 
 arm to his foot. 
 
 And the white foam on his shoulder till you could n't see 
 the brand. 
 
 And the crimson bloodstains scattered over spur and 
 flank and boot. 
 
 So we carried off the honours of the meeting — and thi 
 
 notes ; 
 And the men on Greenhide River, when they see our 
 
 fellows pass, 
 Will tell you this in whispers, "You can train your nags 
 
 on oats ; 
 But be careful when you 're racing those dashed scrubbers 
 
 off the grass ! " 
 
 Will H. Ogilvie. 
 
12 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 THE BRUMBY'S DEATH. 
 
 3 nn WAS only last night I was leading them westward 
 
 A O'er hills bathed in moonlight, thro' forests of 
 gloom, 
 Past reed-beds that sang by the deep water-courses, 
 
 Thro' thickets of starry- white jasmine in bloom ; 
 My beautiful troop ! with their wind-toss'd manes flying, 
 
 Their hoofs flashing fire as they wheeled on the plain— 
 Ah ! never thro' desert or bird-haunted forest 
 
 Shall I lead them in moonlight or shadow again. 
 
 It was only last night that we came to the clearing : 
 
 The blaze of the camp-fire — our halt in surprise. 
 And the whirr and the sting of the death-dealing bullet. 
 
 The last maddened gallop, the fast-dimming eyes. 
 Then / sank on the reed-beds, they fled in the darkness 
 
 Still westward — their hoof-beats seemed ringing my 
 knell \ 
 Was there one, do you think, gave a thought to the leader 
 
 Who, stricken and helpless, lay still where he fell ? 
 
 I had led them of yore to the hills of grey granite , 
 
 I knew where the creepers hung thick o'er the pass 
 That led to the vale in the heart of the mountains — 
 
 The clear, crystal river — the green slopes of grass. 
 Ah, me ! those were days when we met in the morning 
 
 And galloped in glee while the sweet breezes sang, 
 And the echoes came up from the hollow, red ridges 
 
 As over the gravel our hoofs lightly rang. 
 
THE BRUMBY'S DEATH. 13 
 
 I can follow in fancy their flight thro' the darkness — 
 
 Bereft of their leader, still hurried by fear : 
 Will they wander till lights of some lonely out-station 
 
 Shine out, or a horse-bell sounds far off, yet clear ? 
 Will they turn then and, seeking the swampland behind 
 them. 
 
 Forget their wild panic in longing for me, 
 And hasten to guard me ? — for bright eyes are gleaming 
 
 And swift shadows hasten past thicket and tree. 
 
 How weirdly the dingoes are howling around me ! 
 
 The wings of a night-hawk brushed lightly my mane ; 
 The eagles will shriek for their feast on the morrow. 
 
 But my troop will be with me, nor leave me again 
 Till these dim eyes grow bright, and far to the westward 
 
 I lead them, forgetting this night and its fear . . . 
 They are slow — they are late — ah ! I would that they 
 Jiasten — 
 
 The stealthy night prowlers draw silently near. 
 
 Far away in the hills that have guarded so firmly 
 
 The granite-ringed pastures the wild horses know. 
 They are feeding knee-deep in the grass and the clover 
 
 While red grows the east from the dawn's tender glow. 
 And another as leader looks proudly around him, 
 
 Sleek-skinned and fleet-footed, well fit to be head; 
 But far in the reed-beds the eagles have gathered . . . 
 
 One might have remembered as westward they fled ! 
 
 Ethel Mills. 
 
14 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 THAT DAY AT BOILING DOWNS, 
 
 HE was driving Irish tandem, but perhaps I talk at 
 random — 
 I 'd forgotten for a moment you are not all mulga-bred ; 
 What I mean 's he had his swag up through his having 
 
 knocked his nag up ; 
 He had come in off the Cooper— anyhow that 's what he 
 said. 
 
 And he looked as full of knowledge as a thirty-acre college 
 As he answered to the question — " How 's things look the 
 
 way you come ? " 
 ** Well, they were a trifle willing for a bit. There 's been 
 
 some killing ; 
 In fact, /'m the sole survivor of the district . . . mine 's 
 
 a rum ! " 
 
 Then we all got interested in the chap as he divested 
 
 Himself of a fat puppy that he carried in his shirt ; 
 
 But he said no more until he had put down his swag and 
 
 billy. 
 And had taken off his bluchers just to empty out the dirt. 
 
 Bits of cork were tied with laces round his hat in many 
 
 places, 
 Out of which he gave the puppy some refreshment, and 
 
 began — 
 
THAT DAY AT BOILING DOWNS. 15 
 
 *' Sammy Suds was bound'ry-riding, quite content and 
 
 law-abiding, 
 Till he bought some reading-matter one day off a hawker 
 
 man. 
 
 ** Then he started to go ratty, and began to fancy that he 
 Was an Injun on the warpath ; so he plaited a lassoo. 
 Shaved and smeared his face with raddle, and knocked up 
 
 a greenhide saddle, 
 After creeping on his belly through the grass a mile or two. 
 
 ** Then he decked himself in feathers, and went out and 
 
 scalped some wethers — 
 Just to give himself a lesson in the sanguinary art ; 
 Sammy then dug up the hatchet, chased a snake but 
 
 could n't catch it. 
 Killed his dog, lassooed a turkey, scalped the cat and made 
 
 a start. 
 
 " And he caused a great sensation when he landed at the 
 
 station ; 
 And the boss said, * Hello ! Sammy, what the devil '& up 
 
 with you ? ' 
 * I am Slimy Snake the Snorter ! wretched pale-face, crave 
 
 not quarter ! ' 
 He replied, and with a shot-gun nearly blew the boss in 
 
 two. 
 
 " Next, the wood-and-water joey fell a victim to his bowie. 
 And the boss's weeping widow got a gash from ear to ear ; 
 
i6 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And you should have seen his guiver when he scalped the 
 
 bullock-driver 
 And made openings for a horse-boy, servant-maid, and 
 
 overseer. 
 
 " Counting jackaroos and niggers, he had put up double 
 figures, 
 
 When ensued his awful combat with a party of new- 
 chums, 
 
 All agog to do their duty, with no thought of home or 
 beauty — 
 
 But he rubbed them out as rapid as a school-boy would 
 his sums. 
 
 " Out across the silent river, with some duck-shot in his 
 
 liver. 
 Went the store-man, and a lassooed lady left in the same 
 
 boat. 
 Sam then solved the Chinese question — or at least made 
 
 a suggestion — 
 For he dragged one from a barrel by the tail and cut his 
 
 throat. 
 
 " But, with thus the job completed, Sammy he got over- 
 heated 
 
 And dropped dead of apoplexy — I felt better when he did ! 
 
 For I 'd got an awful singeing while I watched this mulga 
 engine 
 
 Doing all that I 've related— through a cracked brick oven- 
 lid. 
 
THAT DAY AT BOILING DOWNS! 
 
 [ To face Page i6. 
 
THAT DAY AT BOILING DOWNS. i? 
 
 And when now I find men strangled, or I come across 
 
 the mangled 
 Corpses of a crowd of people or depopulated towns, 
 Or ev'n a blood-stained river, I can scarce repress a 
 
 shiver, 
 For my nerves were much affected that day out on 
 
 Boiling Downs." 
 
 Jack Mathieu. 
 
 THE BELLBIRD RUNG HER HOME. 
 
 AH ! 't was God-time in September, in that perfumed 
 hazel belt. 
 
 Where the musk-leaves, thick and waxen, from their two 
 sides throw the scent, 
 
 And the supplejack's star blossoms in the endless dewings 
 melt — 
 
 When a bird said "Love" so often that a child knew 
 what he meant ; 
 
 When cream- cheeked Polly Ryan made her angel eyes 
 terrene 
 
 As I told her of the load of everlasting love I bore, 
 
 And her glance made Heav'n seem open, and the road- 
 side's dewy sheen 
 
 Was to me as pearls which never grew, but are for evermore. 
 
 B 
 
i8 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And she said, " Your kiss is folly ! " 
 But she meant it not, my Polly, 
 And we kissed adown that roadside, past the grass edge 
 and its loam ; 
 And, deep from glen of fern, 
 As we loitered at the turn, 
 The bellbird rung us from the kiss — the bellbird rung us 
 home ! 
 
 Oh ! 't is Death-time in this March time, but the bellbird 
 
 rings his bell — 
 In glad deceit from mossy floors the silver note he sends, 
 And the sky is hodden grey and my heart it is in hell. 
 And but another bellbird to the past a memory lends ; 
 And death-cheeked Polly Ryan no more hath eyes 
 
 terrene. 
 For her eyes are stars in Heaven, and their glance the 
 
 night w^inds bear ; 
 And to me no Heav'n is open I On her grave the dewy 
 
 sheen 
 Is as pearls that faintly glisten in the dusk of my despair ! 
 And no more my kiss is " folly," 
 For Death's kiss hath dumbed sweet Polly, 
 And the bellbird that hath rung her to the grave-edge, 
 and its loam, 
 Calls no more from glen of fern — 
 For she left me at the turn ; 
 And the bellbird rung us from the kiss — the bellbird rung 
 her home ! 
 
 Randolph Bedford. 
 
OUT BACK, 19 
 
 OUT BACK. 
 
 WE dumped our swags by the river-side when the 
 sun was getting low; 
 To reach the boys on the other side we had four good 
 
 miles to go ; 
 But the winding stream that before us stretched ran 
 
 sluggishly and wide — 
 *T was a hundred yards from where we sat to the sand 
 
 on the other side. 
 The tailings washed from the claims above had sullied 
 
 the waters clear, 
 And thicker and thicker they slowly ran as year succeeded 
 
 year; 
 My mate and myself wished heartily we had reached the 
 
 further shore — 
 The trip was the first he had made on the track, but I 
 
 had been there before. 
 
 A raw new-chum of the boasting type, in his stockings six- 
 feet-two ; 
 
 He never tired while he " held the flute " of telling what 
 he could do — 
 
 He had pulled a win with an Oxford eight ; had hunted 
 on Yorkshire side ; 
 
 Had played with the Gents on the Oval, too; and Lord 
 knows what beside ! 
 
20 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 " Had never been taken in, bai Jove ! " — he was " far toa 
 
 smart, you know " — 
 Was a lot too good to carry a swag, and plainly told me so. 
 A fortnight back I had picked him up, stone-broke on the 
 
 Sydney side. 
 And we swagged it out to fossick a creek I knew by this 
 
 river wide. 
 
 " I think I '11 swim it, bai Jove ! " he said, and glanced at 
 
 the opposite side ; 
 " I 've swum the Rhine by the Drachenfels, and that is 
 
 four times as wide." 
 Then he stacked his togs — they were few, Lord knows ! — 
 
 on the log beside me there. 
 And turned to dive in the murky stream with a proud, 
 
 heroic air. 
 " I would n't dive for fear of the rocks," I grinned as I 
 
 said to him ; 
 " But just walk out till you get your depth, and then you 
 
 can safely swim." 
 "A good idea, old chap!" says he; "for the water is 
 
 beastly thick " — 
 And then he stepped in the sluggish stream, and stepped 
 
 at the double-quick. 
 
 The first step covered his toes, I think ; the next he was 
 
 ankle deep ; 
 While I struggled hard with a laughing fit in trying my 
 
 peace to keep. 
 
OUT BACK. 21 
 
 Then, bending low, he prepared to swim when the water 
 
 reached his knees. 
 With arms drawn up and his unkempt hair adrift on the 
 
 evening breeze. 
 Ten paces out — and the water still just reached to his 
 
 ankles bare, 
 While he went prepared for the sudden drop in the 
 
 depths that he knew were there. 
 Half-way across — and his ankles trim still fathomed the 
 
 mighty flood ; 
 He threw a suspicious glance behind, and just for a 
 
 moment stood. 
 
 Then on he went with a cautious stride, while around 
 
 his spacious feet 
 The waters mingled with drifting sand and the three-inch 
 
 wavelets beat. 
 He faced about on the other shore — he found he was 
 
 fairly " had," 
 And the words that fell from that naked man were the 
 
 sublimate of bad. 
 Then to wade across I tucked my pants — they were 
 
 getting for wear the worse. 
 While my robeless mate who had swum the Rhine swore 
 
 hard at the universe. 
 He cursed the stream and cursed the sand as he fiercely 
 
 paced the shore — 
 *T was the first gay time he had crossed that creek, but ] 
 
 had been there before. 
 
 P. P. QUINN. 
 
22 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 AFTER THE FLOOD. 
 
 HERE, in this bend of the creek, in the rushes and 
 long lush grasses, 
 Wild white violets nestle, and musk in the water- weeds; 
 Here there is stillness, and shelter — for the wandering 
 
 wind as it passes 
 Is caught by the tall green flax, and dies in the raupo 
 and reeds. 
 
 Only the roar of the creek, half-hidden in flax and toi, 
 Swirling in deep, dark pools under the nigger-head ; 
 Only the bleat of sheep, and the distant drover's coo-ee, 
 Only the bark of dogs, to break the sleep of the dead ! 
 
 Shelter, and stillness, else ; and over the level plain, 
 Over the hedges and homesteads, and paddocks of wheat 
 
 and rye. 
 Shoulder and peak and glacier, range upon range again, 
 Blue rise the Alps in the distance, kissing the soft blue 
 sky . . . 
 
 This is the place where we found him — here, with his 
 
 face to the skies, 
 Cast by the furious flood like a broken straw on the bank; 
 Here at the pitiless sun he stared with unseeing eyes — 
 Neither despairing nor pleading, but horribly, hopelessly 
 
 blank. 
 
AFTER THE FLOOD, 23 
 
 Snow? — we had plenty of snow that winter of 'seventy- 
 one: 
 
 Snow on the lowlands, and snow on the highlands, and 
 snow on the range ; 
 
 Never a month of spring, for all with a rush and a run, 
 
 Winter changed into summer — folk called it a cursed 
 change : 
 
 For a warm nor'easter blew the whole of a windy week, 
 
 Melted the Alpine snows, and after a day of doubt, 
 
 We woke in the noisy night to the rush and roar of the 
 
 creek — 
 Woke in the wild, wet night to know that the floods were 
 
 out. 
 
 We in the homestead watched, after that weary night, 
 Waited and watched through the day while the water rose 
 
 to the door ; 
 Watched, while the children shouted, and welcomed the 
 
 flood with delight — 
 Sailed their paper-boats, and paddled about on the 
 
 floor. 
 
 On rushed the yellow flood, crashing, and dashing, and 
 
 hurling 
 Timber, and logs, and posts, in the whirl of the foaming 
 
 deep ; 
 Then, as the day wore on, we heard thro' the roar of the 
 
 swirling. 
 Piteous, the low of cattle, and terrified bleat of sheep. 
 
24 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Then, when the flood went down, the road and the 
 
 paddocks were strewn 
 With timber and broken branches, half-buried in silt and 
 
 mud; 
 Carcases hither and thither, palings and posts torn down, 
 And the wild flowers crushed and broken, to trace the 
 
 course of the flood. 
 
 This is the place where he lay with his wan, white face to 
 
 the skies. 
 Caught here against a gorse-stump amongst the reeds on 
 
 the bank ; 
 Here to the pitiless sun he stared with unseeing eyes, 
 Neither despairing nor pleading, but horribly, hopelessly 
 
 blank. 
 
 And here we stood in silence, the shepherd Jim and I — 
 
 Stood, and stared at the stillness in the staring face of the 
 dead; 
 
 And Jim knelt down in the rushes, and closed the expres- 
 sionless eye. 
 
 And covered the corpse with his coat — " For the sake of 
 the mother," he said. 
 
 Only a pipe in his pocket, and matches sodden and damp ; 
 Never a mark nor sign to trace him, his home, or his 
 
 name; 
 " Only a swagger!" we heard; and nobody misses a tramp 
 Houseless and friendless— who cared whither he went or 
 
 came? 
 
AFTER THE FLOOD. 25 
 
 We buried him here where we found him, for the parson 
 
 was miles away, 
 While the wild wind rustled the flax-blades, and gorse- 
 
 blossoms scented the air ; 
 Here, with the drooping wild-flowers, that glorious sweet 
 
 spring day, 
 We left the nameless swagger, with never a dirge nor prayer. 
 
 Gentleman, swagger, clown — what difference perishing 
 
 thus? 
 In the face of the pitiful present, what were the things of 
 
 the past ? 
 Gentle or simple— what matter? it was nothing to him or 
 
 to us: 
 We are all of us gentle, maybe, and simple too, at the last ! 
 
 What were the odds to him ? Did it fare with him better 
 
 or worse. 
 Rolled like a log down the creek, choked by the fierce 
 
 yellow wave, 
 Flung in the ooze on the bank, caught in a snag of the gorse, 
 Laid by ungentle hands away in a nameless grave ? 
 
 Yet the shepherd Jim and I had looked on the face of the 
 
 dead, — 
 Looked on the dogged jaw, and forehead solid and square : 
 There was will in the resolute mouth, and brain in the 
 
 massive head — 
 Drowned like a rat in the creek, and that power and 
 
 intellect there ! 
 
26 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And somewhere, out in the distance, was there a mother 
 
 or wife 
 Waiting, and watching, and praying, as only women can 
 
 pray ;— 
 Waiting, and watching, and praying in vain for a wasted 
 
 life, 
 For that unknown tramp who perished — how many miles 
 
 away? 
 
 What was the good of it all ? — of intellect, power and 
 
 strength ? 
 What had he done with his life ? Why was he born to 
 
 the world ? 
 What was the use of it all ? — to live for a space, and at 
 
 length 
 Lie like a log in the mud where the refuse and rubbish 
 
 are hurled ? 
 
 Ay, you may weep and pray, you women, and weep again, 
 Weep for the wasted talent, weep for the useless life ! 
 The whole wide world weeps with you, the whole world's 
 
 tears are vain 
 Even as yours, O Mother ! even as yours, O Wife ! 
 
 We plod through the daily routine, we see in our own dull 
 
 way 
 That our useless lives are useful in the life of the human 
 
 race; 
 Our influence lasts for ever, our virtues and vices may 
 Bear fruit in our children's children, and set them each 
 
 in his place. 
 
AFTER THE FLOOD, 27 
 
 Oh, answerless riddle of riddles ! as the purposeless years 
 
 rolled by 
 We also have vexed our souls since the human epoch 
 
 began, 
 Who live, eat, drink, and are merry, who suffer, and sin, 
 
 and die, 
 Content to be amongst many — then how for the hundredth 
 
 man? 
 
 The man who should rise and lead us, the many, the 
 
 common crowd. 
 Who should leave his mark upon us by right of a stronger 
 
 brain ; 
 The man who, with broader thought and higher feeling 
 
 endowed. 
 Was — only an unknown swagger, whose existence was void 
 
 and vain ! 
 
 Ah, well ! let him sleep in peace where the water-weeds 
 
 and the mosses 
 Nestle under the raupo in the quiet bend of the creek ; 
 Life is a difficult thing with its longings, its loves, and its 
 
 losses . . . 
 May Death prove an easier matter to all of us, strong or 
 
 weak. 
 
 Dora Wilcox. 
 
28 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 A STRANGER AT THE U. 
 
 HE was guileless in his manner — 't was a style the boys 
 admired, 
 And he told, in simple language, how his feelings had been 
 
 fired 
 By the news of nuggets waiting, in numbers not a few. 
 For any simple stranger that might strike the I.O.U. — 
 The golden I.O.U. 
 
 Where they put the wash-dirt through 
 The rattling, creaking shakers in the gullies round the U. 
 
 With a smile of easy confidence he told the boys around 
 That his native place was Albany upon King George's 
 
 Sound, 
 And he 'd left his father's flocks and herds, and poison 
 
 grass, and such, 
 To know the world in general, and come in closer touch 
 At the diggings on the U. 
 With the hardy men and true 
 That caught the unobtrusive weight in sieves upon the U. 
 
 It was moved by Mick M'Carthy, hailing from the Sydney 
 
 side, 
 That O'Doolan be the stranger's friend, philosopher, and 
 
 guide; 
 And that every information be furnished him about 
 Our little recreations when the week had given out — 
 
A STRANGER AT THE U. 29 
 
 For we hoped to put him through 
 In a manner that would do 
 Lasting credit to the boys that were assembled on the U. 
 
 He was led by invitation to the two-up on the flat, 
 That was decently conducted by a pug. from Ballarat ; 
 And he said, in wild astonishment, bethought that kindly 
 
 Fate 
 Had other joys in store for him than looking for the 
 weight; 
 
 Yes, he would gladly do 
 A modest hand or two 
 In the interesting school that was established on the U. 
 
 It was sad to see him betting in the confidence of youth, 
 For the grey was rung upon him — though with disregard 
 
 for truth 
 I could palliate my statement, yet the morals that I hold 
 Force me to the free confession that he was completely 
 sold 
 
 By the boys upon the U., 
 Who thought to make him rue 
 His first attempt at two-up, as played upon the U. 
 
 We were flush with paper money when it got too dark to 
 
 play. 
 For the brumby changed his fivers in a wildly reckless 
 
 way; 
 Though it didn't seem to strike us, in anxiety to win, 
 That we 'd all been taking flimsies, and were giving change 
 
 in tin 
 
30 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 To the stranger at the U., 
 With the crispy notes and new 
 He circulated freely 'mong the diggers on the U. 
 
 Paddy Grady's " Hessian Palace " was a scene of wild 
 delight, 
 
 And we drank the shypoo deeply, till the lateness of the 
 
 night 
 
 Suggested a retirement ; but O'Doolan swore a round 
 
 Should be drunk in grateful honour of the latest patch 
 
 we 'd found ; 
 
 And he paid for the shypoo 
 
 With a crispy note and new. 
 
 He had earned by tossing pennies with a stranger on 
 
 theU. 
 
 Grady took the note and scanned it, then in measured 
 
 words and cold 
 Said the " Bank of Hope " was dying — would O'Doolan 
 
 pay in gold? 
 And, sarcastically soothing, said he hoped the patch 
 
 would give 
 A slightly better prospect when we put it through the sieve, 
 To find if one or two 
 Of the notes so crisp and new 
 Would buy a first-ciass coffin for the stranger on the U. 
 
 There was wailing in the shanty, and a hurried search was 
 
 made 
 To find the gentle stranger who our kindness had betrayed; 
 
THE STRANGER AT THE U. 31 
 
 But he 'd vanished, taking with him as a solace to the mind 
 Half a hundred quid in change for all the notes he 'd left 
 behind ; 
 
 And the boys of I.O.U. 
 
 Now with dark suspicion view 
 Every too-confiding stranger putting pegs in at the U. 
 
 J. Crawford. 
 
 SINKING. 
 
 I HAD often faced a seeming 
 Certain death without a shiver, 
 And I boasted of my valour 
 In the pride that courts a fall — 
 Boasted vainly, little dreaming 
 That the Death-fear soon should quiver 
 Thro' each nerve, and stamp the pallor 
 Of a quaking heart o'er all. . . 
 
 Lightning flashing, thunder growling, 
 Queensland rain in torrents pouring. 
 As the midnight shift makes ready 
 For the eight hours' work below ; 
 Fierce wind, thro' the whim-drum howling, 
 Shrieks thro' poppet-heads, and roaring 
 'Cross the shaft's mouth, drowns my "Steady! 
 Right, old man ; now let her go !" 
 
32 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Standing upright in the bucket, 
 Legs astride its mounted handle, — 
 With my right hand tightly gripping 
 The old rope Jack feared to trust 
 With our joint weight, — by bad luck it 
 Chanced a drip put out my candle. 
 And past slimy slabs I 'm slipping 
 Down in darkness and disgust. 
 
 Full three hundred feet beneath me, 
 Like a star, I catch the glimmer 
 Of Jack's light, and hear him singing ; 
 But the powder-clouds that hang 
 In the shaft, and now enwreath me, 
 Make the distant light seem dimmer — 
 When my bucket, in its swinging, 
 Strikes a slab-ledge with a bang ! 
 
 And the rope between my fingers 
 Turns from taut to slack instanter, 
 And I know my weight is resting 
 On a quarter inch of pine ; 
 And each second that it lingers. 
 With the whim-horse at a canter. 
 Brings a coil of slack, suggesting 
 That it 's time to free the chine. 
 
 "Steady ! Heave up ! Ho ! on top, there ! " 
 But my voice is lost in thunder. 
 And the slack comes coiling round me. 
 Reaching knee, and thigh, and hip : 
 
SINKING. 
 
 And I curse, and scream out " Stop, there ! 
 Heave-up I Jack, lad, stand from under ! " 
 For the stranded coils surround me 
 And I feel the bucket slip. 
 
 As the end draws near and nearer 
 All my bones seem turned to marrow, 
 And with fear and rage I 'm choking ; 
 For the drop means death, I know. 
 But one piercing shriek of terror, 
 Shooting upwards like an arrow. 
 Finds the braceman calmly smoking ; 
 And he drawls, " What 's wrong below ? " 
 
 " Heave-up ! May ten thousand cancers 
 
 Rot your leprous ears for ever ! " 
 
 And my brain is fairly boiling. 
 
 For I hear the splinter crack. 
 
 " Lower 1 Right you are ! " he answers,'' 
 
 And I rave as one in fever 
 
 As the slack comes coiling, coiling 
 
 Round my armpits — tons of slack ! 
 
 As the bucket disengages, 
 Head and hands alike are busy ; 
 Still I shriek a malediction 
 As I gasp, and drop through space 1 
 And the seconds seem as ages 
 In that downward rush and dizzy. 
 And I feel the fiery friction 
 Of the air against my face. 
 
 33 
 
34 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Then a sudden jerk that almost 
 Tears each arm from out its socket, 
 (But not death itself could sunder 
 Such a death-grip) brings relief. 
 Now 't is Jack must fear the fall most, 
 For I hear the unhooked bucket 
 Crashing down below like thunder. 
 While I 'm trussed up like a sheaf. 
 
 Yes, the sturdy hempen strands that 
 Stood the fearful strain so stoutly 
 Still encircle me and save me. 
 After God, I thank the slack ; 
 And no doubt He understands that 
 I would thank Him more devoutly 
 For the lease of life He gave me, 
 If He W steered the cask off /ack I 
 
 Bendee. 
 
 THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME. 
 
 I CROSSED the old ford at the end of last May, 
 The old pub had vanished, not even a shingle 
 Survived of the roof, which, in years passed away, 
 
 Saw friendship and devilry strangely commingle. 
 The few blackened wall-posts and panels of fencing 
 
 That stand by the roadside are all that remain 
 To tell of old days ; a new era commencing 
 Has ended a gold-time we '11 ne'er see again. 
 
THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME. 35 
 
 Then Kate was the barmaid, as handsome a girl 
 
 As any fine lady ; the smile that she gave 
 Had put heaps of poor fellows' heads in a whirl, 
 
 And some poor unfortunates' bones in the grave. 
 She was worshipped, you see, by the coves all about, 
 
 Who would fight like the devil her love to secure ; 
 And Cupid, in those days, to settle a doubt. 
 
 Had a way of his own which was certain and sure. 
 
 And Kate ! why she 'd drive one insane with her sighs, 
 
 With her pearly-white teeth and her lips red as coral — 
 She looked like a witch, in the depths of whose eyes 
 
 The light sparkled best at the sight of a quarrel. 
 I '11 always remember that long-ago morning, 
 
 When, down from the Bogong, young Archie Mackay 
 Stood joking with Kate, and, without the last warning, 
 
 Flash Jim interfered in his coarse-speaking way. 
 
 From Archie's warm heart to the roots of his hair 
 
 The fiery blood rushed, with a leap and a bound ; 
 Like a flash he stood off, then a blow planted square 
 
 Sent Jim with a thud and an oath to the ground. 
 With some terrible threats the tv/o men closed together, 
 
 A clinch and a struggle — Flash Jim did the rest. 
 And, snatching his knife from its sheathing of leather, 
 
 With Archie's throat gripped, drove it into his breast. 
 
 Flash Jim was the "ringer" of Moorabin shed, 
 And a bit of a bully — they hated him, all ; 
 
 The crowd tried to rush him — he cowed them instead 
 And stood panting at bay, with his back to the wall. 
 
36 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 They wavered an instant, " Stand back, or by God," he 
 Exclaimed, " who comes near me comes straight to his 
 death ! 
 
 I '11 bury the blade of this knife in his body ; 
 
 So damn you, stand oif ! — let a cove get his breath ! " 
 
 Then he sped through the doorway and made for the creek, 
 
 And the crowd with a shout followed closely behind ; 
 Lithe-limbed and lean-flanked, Jim could stay for a week, 
 
 A good even-timer, he sped like the wind. 
 They chased him through timber, to where the tall pines 
 
 Rose out of the sandhills, set close as a furze ; 
 Right on to the range, where the setting sun shines 
 
 In a glory of crimson o'er ridges and spurs. 
 
 They lost him sometimes, till a stir of the branches 
 
 Showed where he was threading the bracken and fern, 
 And they followed like sleuth-hounds the trail on his 
 haunches — 
 
 Each man as a bushman had nothing to learn ; 
 So hard on his track pressed the resolute band, 
 
 Impelled by a mixture of justice and passion ; 
 And the flying man knew that lynch-law, out of hand, 
 
 Would follow his capture in summary fashion. 
 
 Archie's mate, who throughout with a dogged persistence 
 Had followed, stopped short, and without much delay. 
 
 As he saw the tall ferns gently moved at a distance 
 Not greater than ten or twelve paces away — 
 
THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME, 37 
 
 With the skill of a sharpshooter marking a foe, 
 
 His revolver discharged — ere the smoke-cloud departed, 
 
 A body rolled down through the brushwood below. 
 Some twenty odd yards from the spot where it started. 
 
 The flash, the report, its wild echoes resounding. 
 
 Fast summoned the crowd who, with ringing halloo, 
 Scrambled down to the creek, where, the victim surrounding, 
 
 They found they had captured — a scrub-kangaroo. 
 Methinks I can call up the asinine change 
 
 Of expression which tortured their features that day, 
 And hear in the silence that fell o'er the range 
 
 Jim's wild peal of laughter die slowly away. 
 
 " Where 's Archie ? " you ask. Well, I guess I am he. 
 
 'Neath the folds of my shirt, here, I still bear the scar. 
 "And Kate?" Married years ago— married to me — • 
 
 And as handsome as when she served drinks in the bar. 
 Here 's the landlord for orders — I 'm dry with this yabber ; 
 
 Yours the same? . . . so is mine . . . Bring your 
 own . . . How he winks ! 
 You were asking just now what became of the stabber, 
 
 Flash Jim. Why, that 's he just gone out for the drinks. 
 
 T. H. Ord. 
 
38 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 SOLD-UP. 
 
 * ^ \A/^^ '^ ^ biddin' for the gin-case ? What d' ye say? 
 ▼ » (All right, Missis ! ) Here ! I '11 start it at a crown ! 
 Now then, gents ! It 's going lively ; fire away ! 
 
 Look alive, or s'elp me bob I '11 knock it down ! 
 Just a common bloomin' gin-case ? No it ain't ! 
 
 Hand it up here, Mister . . . thank ye . . . Look at it! 
 Half to pieces — old and shaky — not much paint ; 
 
 But it ain't a common gin-case ; not a bit. 
 
 See that lanky half-grown sapling by the door ? 
 
 He 's her eldest son ; six foot if he 's an inch. 
 But she 's rocked him in that gin-case on the floor, 
 
 An' there 's been two of 'em in it at a pinch. 
 And the gal out there, a-leanin' on the fence — 
 
 Them there rockers was put on when she was born. 
 What say ? Half-a-crown, sir ? You was nigh too late. 
 
 Sev'n-an'-six, gents ! Look alive before its gorn. 
 
 Are you done at three half-crowns ? At eight-and-six ? 
 
 Just another eighteenpence to make it ten. 
 Much obliged, sir ! See them marks there in the bricks ? 
 
 Them 'ere rockers made 'em ; Tom was in it then. 
 Well ! a pound I 'm bid : I ain't agoin' to dwell \ 
 
 And it 's goin' at a pound, this little bed 
 (Twenty-five? No half-bids, now; I 'm going to sell I) 
 
 Where she used to rock the little one that 's dead. 
 
SOLD- UP. 39 
 
 Little hands that move no longer played along 
 
 Where the wood is wore all shiny on the side 
 As the cradle rocked in time to mother's song ; 
 
 The song she has n't sung since baby died. 
 No, it ain't a common gin-case, gents, this 'ere — 
 
 But it 's goin' at — two pounds, at two-p'und-ten ! 
 Two p'und Three ! — at Jive^ and now it is n't dear, 
 
 Except to her as used to rock it then 1 
 
 And it 's goin' ! goin' ! Third and last time — gone ! 
 
 Oh ! here, missus ! Here 's a present from the chaps. 
 What? Oh, something in it! There now, don't take on! 
 
 It may come in useful for the gal, perhaps. 
 
 C. H. SOUTER. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE DARGO. 
 
 IT was on the Upper Dargo, in the spring of eighty-four, 
 That Cargoola township boasted a Salvation Army 
 corps; 
 Which was needed very badly, for the Upper Dargo then 
 Contained a population of most irreligious men ; 
 And the daddy of the sinners, owning neither God nor 
 
 boss, 
 Was a grey old drunken Scotchman of the name of Sandy 
 Ross. 
 
40 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Now Sandy, as a sinful man, was very hard to beat. 
 
 His oaths were fresh and fierce and strong — they scorched 
 
 you with their heat. 
 He was drunk at early sunrise, he was drunk at sunset too; 
 And when drunkest told his biggest lie — he sang "We are 
 
 na fou' ! " 
 He would steal, or beg, or borrow ; he was always on the 
 
 cross ; 
 And the parsons — classing sinners — gave the cdke to 
 
 Sandy Ross. 
 
 But the Army girls got at him, for their hearts were 
 
 in their work, 
 And the Hallelujah lasses have been never known to shirk 
 A hopeless case, an uphill fight — salute them as they passl 
 For a worker of the workers is a Hallelujah lass. 
 So they tackled Alexander with the Story of the Cross, 
 And a change became apparent in the life of Sandy Ross. 
 
 Now, about this time, it happened that a direful deed was 
 
 done ; 
 For the parson's ducks they vanished — yes, they vanished 
 
 one by one ; 
 And the solitary trooper, for the honour of the force, 
 Spent watchful days, and sleepless nights, and sorely tried 
 
 his horse ; 
 Till at length a whisper went abroad — a calumny most 
 
 gross, 
 And the finger of suspicion seemed to point to Sandy 
 Ross. 
 
A LEGEND OF THE DARGO. 41 
 
 But the Army wouldn't hear it, and they gave that 
 
 yarn the lie, 
 When they entered Sandy boldly for the " Coming 
 
 By-and-By.» 
 Then each night upon the platform, in a broken voice 
 
 and low, 
 He informed his fellow sinners he was "whiter than the 
 
 snow." 
 And the parson's pretty daughter — the enthusiastic 
 
 Floss, 
 Told her friends, in gladsome accents, "There's a change 
 
 in Mister Ross ! " 
 
 Then the teacher of the State-school, who possessed a 
 
 merry eye, 
 And had doubts of Sandy's fitness for a mansion in the sky, 
 Wagered gloves that, at next meeting, the converted man 
 
 would scare 
 And demoralise the godly with a most prodigious swear. 
 But the girls they booked the wagers, and enthusiastic Floss 
 Said she felt just like a sister to the convert Mister Ross. 
 
 The night arrived, the hall was full; men spoke, and 
 
 by-and-by 
 Came announcement from the chairman : " Brother Ross 
 
 will testify ! " 
 And Sandy rose and told once more how he excelled the 
 
 snow 
 In whiteness — but no further in his tale could Sandy go, 
 
42 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 For, heard by all, and seemingly proceeding from the back, 
 To the horror of the Army came a duck's protesting 
 quack. 
 
 The speaker paused, and glared around, then had another 
 
 try. 
 "I thank \k\^''— Quack!— ''\ tha.nk"— Quack, ^uack!— 
 
 " I thank the Lord that I ^ 
 Am whiter" — Qu-a-a-ck — "See here, young chap!" 
 
 then out the torrent burst, 
 And Sandy ripped, and tore, and swore — 't was fearsome 
 
 how he cursed ! 
 
 He cursed the teacher — cursed the ducks — he cursed till 
 
 all was blue ; 
 The solitary trooper came, he cursed the trooper, too ; 
 He took his coat and waistcoat off — he would have taken 
 
 more. 
 But the solitary trooper led him cursing to the door. 
 Thus, back upon society, came old-time Sandy Ross, 
 Fearing neither man nor devil, owning neither God nor 
 
 boss. 
 
 W. Long. 
 
^^^ 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE DARGO. 
 
 t To /ace Page 42. 
 
IN THE FACE OF THE DEAD. 43 
 
 IN THE FACE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 THE artist wins plaudits by showing 
 The loveliest prize of Earth's race ; 
 His Helen with young life is glowing, 
 
 All human hopes summed in her face. 
 His name would be borne o'er the oceans, 
 His fame to the poles would be spread, 
 Could he add to her play of emotions 
 The joy in the face of the dead ! 
 
 Enthroned by the love of a nation. 
 
 The actor rings clear in his part 
 The gamut from grief to elation ; 
 
 His face is transformed by his art. 
 What lacks in his strong histrionic 
 
 Appeals to the heart and the head ? 
 Whispers Death, with hoarse accent sardonic, 
 
 " The joy in the face of the dead ! " 
 
 The jockey is thrilled by the thunder. 
 
 Sweet as peace after fever and fret, 
 That hails his great win as a wonder ; 
 
 His price above rubies is set. 
 His face blazons forth his glad story 
 
 Whence triumph exultant is shed, 
 Yet its brightness is dulled by the glory 
 
 Of the joy in the face of the dead. 
 
44 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Enthralled by white arms, clinging kisses, 
 
 The lover quaffs passion's strong wine, 
 Yet, sweet as the draught is, he misses 
 
 A joy he can never define. 
 The rose out of Eden, the fairest. 
 
 Would come, with Love's secret flushed red, 
 Could he find in the eyes of his dearest 
 
 The joy in the face of the dead ! 
 
 Ethel Castilla. 
 
 THE MAN WITH RUBBER PEDALS. 
 
 IT has all the latest fixings — barrel hubs and narrow 
 tread; 
 It weighs twenty pounds or under, is as rigid as the dead ; 
 It 's the very newest pattern, and the very latest grade, 
 And it cost you all the cash that in the last three months 
 
 you made. 
 You lead it from the agent's, and your bosom swells with 
 
 pride 
 As you lift it from the kerbstone and you start its maiden 
 
 ride ... 
 Like the lightning past the tram-cars, cabs, and everything 
 
 you Ve sped. 
 When you see a man with rubber pedals plugging on 
 
 ahead. 
 
^ THE MAN WITH RUBBER PEDALS. 45 
 
 He is forty years of age, and on an antiquated crock, 
 
 Sitting upright as a soldier and as bandy as a jock ; 
 
 He is wobbly, he is shifty, and he scarce knows how to 
 
 ride; 
 His gear is less than fifty, and his handle-bars are wide. 
 From crank to crank his tread is eighteen inches, and his 
 
 frame 
 Is a pattern that was popular when first the safety came ; 
 And as you gain upon him you are thinking, "I must show 
 How a good man on a jigger that is up to date can go." 
 
 You fold your arms and pass him in an attitude of grace, 
 When the beatific smile upon his open whiskered face 
 Makes your conscience somehow smite you as across his 
 
 track you whiz. 
 Lest you show him p'r'aps too harshly what an utter mug 
 
 he is; 
 And when you think that he's about a hundred yards 
 
 behind. 
 That man with rubber pedals goes completely from your 
 
 mind, 
 Till a darkness at your elbow and a rattling on your ear 
 Shows the man with rubber pedals still is battling in the 
 
 rear. 
 
 Then you think with some resentment, " This is not as it 
 
 should be ; 
 This man with rubber pedals taking all his pace from me ; 
 Such presumption is opposed to all the canons of the game. 
 And if I show him up he 's only got himself to blame." 
 
46 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 So you drop your arms and lightly touch the neatly- 
 nickeled head, 
 With some ankling calculated just to kill that fellow dead, 
 But after half a mile you are astounded still to feel 
 That man with rubber pedals hanging calmly on your 
 wheel. 
 
 You argue out the question, and you 're bustled to confess 
 That the man is what is technically known as N.T.S. 
 Still, for such as he to push you is a thing you can't allow — 
 He has asked for pace, and, Holy Moses ! won't he get it 
 
 now? 
 You drop your head twelve inches, grip your handles tight 
 
 and lift. 
 And as your calves and biceps swell, by Jingo, don't you 
 
 shift ! 
 Then you reckon that you 've left him and it 's nearly time 
 
 to slack. 
 When you hear the cursed rattle of his mud-guards at 
 
 your back. 
 
 He can hold his own at sprinting — that is proved beyond 
 
 a doubt, 
 So the only way to beat him is to simply wear him out. 
 You set a nice two-forty bat, and to yourself you hiss : 
 " That man with rubber pedals can't stand many miles of 
 
 this." 
 Then the townships travel past you and the milestones 
 
 rise ahead 
 
THE MAN WITH RUBBER PEDALS, 47 
 
 Till your thighs are working stiffly and you're feeling 
 
 pretty dead ; 
 StiW you force your ped'ling even and your handle-tips 
 
 you clinch, 
 But that man with rubber pedals has n't shifted — not an 
 
 inch. 
 
 At last, in view of " business " and the " fast-approaching 
 
 night," 
 You decide 't is best for you to take the turning to the 
 
 right ; 
 And as you swing around he passes upright as the just, 
 With that beatific smile of his still glowing through the 
 
 dust. 
 
 Are you riding to Sans Souci ? He '11 be there to " do 
 
 you bad." 
 
 He is on St. Kilda Road; and on each Western camel pad. 
 
 Be you cycling in the country, be you cycling in the town, 
 
 That man with rubber pedals will be there to take you 
 
 down. 
 
 McG. 
 
43 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 IN THE DEAD-LETTER OFFICE. 
 
 COME, rip the mail-bags open, chaps, and sort the stuff 
 away ; 
 A thumping mail again from Perth — we '11 have some work 
 
 to-day. 
 Two thousand unclaimed letters here, if there 's a single 
 
 one; 
 So bustle round the tables, boys, and get the sorting done 
 That we may have them opened up and let the senders 
 
 know 
 The reason why there 's no reply come back from " West- 
 
 ward-Ho ! " 
 
 For wives have husbands over there, and girls their sweet- 
 hearts, too, 
 
 And sons who found the old land hard sought fortune in 
 the new ; 
 
 And some died in the hospitals, who nameless there have 
 lain, 
 
 And some lie dead where no man knows upon the 
 scorching plain ; 
 
 And some have glared on blazing skies and cruel desert 
 sands 
 
 Till reeling brain and bursting heart they stilled with 
 desp'rate hands; 
 
IN THE DEAD LETTER OFFICE, 49 
 
 And timid men stay near the towns, — but some in quest of 
 
 gold 
 Have wandered from the mailman's track : no letters reach 
 
 the bold. 
 
 Then stir yourselves and toss them out ; for some are on 
 
 the rack 
 These three months past with sorrowing when no reply 
 
 came back ; 
 A gleam of hope to many send who mourn their loved 
 
 to-day, 
 For oft the envelopes are marked Unclaimed^ or Gone 
 
 Away ; 
 But some have scored across the face the mournful legend, 
 
 Dead, 
 Or Died in Hospital. — Ah me ! sad missives never read. 
 
 The daring heart that crossed the sea to win his dear ones 
 
 bread 
 Had perished 'neath the fever-pang, no friend beside his 
 
 bed ; 
 And hardly had his sunken eyes filmed in approaching 
 
 death, 
 And still his frame seemed quivering with one last sobbing 
 
 breath, 
 When from his wife the letter came so full of loving 
 
 cheer: 
 "I 'm longing for your safe return ; God bless and keep 
 
 you, dear ! 
 
 D 
 
50 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 The children all are well and strong— they send their love 
 
 to you ; 
 We manage just to get along; but one week's rent is 
 
 due, 
 And that can wait, the landlord says— he's better than we 
 
 thought ; 
 He thinks, perhaps, you '11 strike the gold; there's plenty 
 
 there ; you ought." 
 
 Ah, well ! such tales are common now, they 're multiplying 
 
 fast- 
 See! yonder lazy fourth-class man is working hard at last! 
 He 's crusty and cantankerous, and selfish as can be : 
 He growls and grumbles all the day, and little work does 
 
 he; 
 His tongue is always on the nag; but since the goldfields' 
 
 mail 
 Comes once a month from Albany with many a mournful 
 
 tale, 
 He 's seized with a desire to show a heart he does not lack. 
 And grafts away with might and main to send the letters 
 
 back. 
 
 The junior clerks are writing fast, their pen-nibs fairly fly ; 
 The usual chatt'ring is not heard, and little wonder why — 
 When sending back to some poor girl the tender, loving 
 
 note 
 That never met the eyes of him for whose dear sake she 
 
 wrote ; 
 
/// THE DEAD LETTER OFFICE. 51 
 
 And right across the envelope a legend, scrawled in red, 
 Tells how, while she poured forth her heart, the youth lay 
 stark and dead. 
 
 Alas for those unfortunates whose hopes are in the West, — 
 With husbands, fathers, toiling there for gold in fierce 
 
 unrest ! 
 For fever, drought, and pestilence will reap a harvest 
 
 grand — 
 The stoutest hearts Australia owns throb in that deadly 
 
 land : 
 
 So, when you pass our office by, and hear no noisy din, 
 
 You '11 maybe murmur with a sigh, "The Perth Dead Mail 
 
 is in." 
 
 R. Stewart. 
 
 HOW M'DOUGAL TOPPED THE SCORE. 
 
 A PEACEFUL spot is Piper's Flat. The folk that live 
 around — 
 They keep themselves by keeping sheep and turning up 
 
 the ground ; 
 But the climate is erratic, and the consequences are 
 The struggle with the elements is everlasting war. 
 We plough, and sow, and harrow — then sit down and 
 
 pray for rain ; 
 And then we all get fl9oded out and have to start again. 
 
52 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 But the folk are now rejoicing as they ne'er rejoiced 
 
 before, 
 For we 've played Molongo cricket, and M'Dougal topped 
 
 the score ! 
 
 Molongo had a head on it, and challenged us to play 
 A single-innings match for lunch — the losing team to pay. 
 We were not great guns at cricket, but we could n't well 
 
 say No, 
 So we all began to practise, and we let the reaping go. 
 We scoured the Flat for ten miles round to muster up our 
 
 men. 
 But when the list was totalled we could only number ten. 
 Then up spoke big Tim Brady : he was always slow to 
 
 speak, 
 And he said — " What price M'Dougal, who lives down at 
 
 Cooper's Creek?" 
 
 So we sent for old M'Dougal, and he stated in reply 
 That he 'd never played at cricket, but he 'd half a mind 
 
 to try. 
 He could n't come to practise — he was getting in his hay, 
 But he guessed he'd show the beggars from Molongo 
 
 how to play. \ 
 
 Now, M'Dougal was a Scotchman, and a canny one at , I 
 
 that, \ 
 
 So he started in to practise with a paling for a bat. 
 He got Mrs. Mac. to bowl him, but she couldn't run at all, 
 So he trained his sheep-dog, Pincher, how to scout and 
 
 fetch the ball. 
 
HOW M'DOUGAL TOPPED THE SCORE. 53 
 
 Now, Pincher was no puppy ; he was old, and worn, and 
 
 grey; 
 I But he understood M'Dougal, and — accustomed to obey — 
 When M'Dougal cried out "Fetch it!" he would fetch it 
 
 in a trice. 
 But, until the word was "Drop it!" he would grip it like 
 
 a vyce. 
 And each succeeding night they played until the light 
 
 grew dim : 
 Sometimes M'Dougal struck the ball — sometimes the ball 
 
 struck him ! 
 Each time he struck, the ball would plough a furrow in 
 
 the ground. 
 And when he missed the impetus would turn him three 
 
 times round. 
 
 The fatal day at length arrived — the day that was to see 
 Molongo bite the dust, or Piper's Flat knocked up a 
 I tree ! 
 
 I Molongo's captain won the toss, and sent his men to 
 f bat. 
 
 And they gave some leather-hunting to the men of Piper's 
 
 Flat. 
 When the ball sped where M'Dougal stood, firm planted 
 
 in his track, 
 He shut his eyes, and turned him round, and stopped it 
 
 — with his back! 
 The highest score was twenty-two, the total sixty-six, 
 When Brady sent a yorker down that scattered Johnson's 
 sticks. 
 
54 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Then Piper's Flat went in to bat, for glory and renown, 
 But, like the grass before the scythe, our wickets tumbled 
 
 down. 
 "Nine wickets down for seventeen, with fifty more to 
 
 win!" 
 Our captain heaved a heavy sigh, and sent M'Dougal in. 
 " Ten pounds to one you '11 lose it ! " cried a barracker 
 
 from town ; 
 But M'Dougal said "I '11 tak' it, mon!" and planked the 
 
 money down. 
 Then he girded up his moleskins in a self-reliant style. 
 Threw off his hat and boots, and faced the bowler with a 
 
 smile. 
 
 He held the bat the wrong side out, and Johnson with a 
 
 grin 
 Stepped lightly to the bowling crease, and sent a 
 
 "wobbler "in; 
 M'Dougal spooned it softly back, and Johnson waited 
 
 there, 
 But M'Dougal, crying " Fetch it / " started running like a 
 
 hare. 
 Molongo shouted " Victory ! He 's out as sure as eggs," 
 When Pincher started through the crowd, and ran through 
 
 Johnson's legs. 
 He seized the ball like lightning ; then he ran behind a 
 
 log, 
 And M'Dougal kept on running, while Molongo chased 
 
 the dog ! 
 

 
 ■^^jT^':^'^ ' 
 
 ^6>/r M' DOUG A I. TOPPED THE SCORE. 
 
 [To Jace Pages 
 
HOJV M'DOUGAL TOPPED THE SCOPE. 53 
 
 They chased him up, they chased him down, they chased 
 
 him round, and then 
 He darted through a slip-rail as the scorer shouted 
 
 " Ten ! " 
 M'Dougal puffed; Molongo swore; excitement was intense; 
 As the scorer marked down twenty, Pincher cleared a 
 
 barbed-wire fence. 
 " Let us head him ! " shrieked Molongo. " Brain the 
 
 mongrel with a bat ! " 
 " Run it out ! Good old M'Dougal ! " yelled the men of 
 
 Piper's Flat. 
 And M'Dougal kept on jogging, and then Pincher 
 
 doubled back. 
 And the scorer counted ^^ Forty" as they raced across 
 
 the track. 
 
 M'Dougal's legs were going fast, Molongo's breath was 
 
 gone — 
 But still Molongo chased the dog — M'Dougal struggled 
 
 on. 
 When the scorer shouted " Fifty " then they knew the 
 
 chase could cease ; 
 And M'Dougal gasped out ^^ Drop itf^ as he dropped 
 
 within his crease. 
 Then Pincher dropped the ball, and as instinctively he 
 
 knew 
 Discretion was the wiser plan, he disappeared from view ; 
 And as Molongo's beaten men exhausted lay around 
 We raised M'Dougal shoulder-high, and bore him from 
 
 the ground. 
 
56 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 We bore him to M'Ginniss's, where lunch was ready laid, 
 And filled him up with whisky-punch, for which Molongo 
 
 paid. 
 We drank his health in bumpers, and we cheered him 
 
 three times three, 
 And when Molongo got its breath, Molongo joined the 
 
 spree. 
 And the critics say they never saw a cricket match like 
 
 that. 
 When M'Dougal broke the record in the game at Piper's 
 
 Flat; 
 
 And the folk are jubilating as they never did before ; 
 
 For we played Molongo cricket — and M'Dougal topped 
 
 . the score 1 
 
 Thos. E. Spencer. 
 
 MARIAN'S CHILD. 
 
 FIRST we thought of the river, 
 But the body might be found ; 
 And it did not seem so cruel 
 
 To bury it in the ground. 
 So small it seemed, so helpless — 
 
 I hardened my heart like stone — 
 She kissed it over and over, 
 And then I heard her groan. 
 
MARIAN'S CHILD. 57 
 
 I took it out of her bosom : 
 
 It cried, and cried, and cried j 
 I carried it down the garden — 
 
 The moon was bright outside. 
 I dug a hole with a shovel 
 
 And laid the baby down ; 
 1 shovelled the sand upon it — 
 
 The sand was soft and brown. 
 
 But, ah ! its cry was bitter — 
 
 I scarce could cover it in, 
 And when at last 't was hidden 
 
 I sank beneath my sin. 
 Down at the foot of the garden, 
 
 \Vhere the moon-made shadows fell, 
 I sold myself to the Devil 
 
 And bought a home in hell. 
 
 Down at the foot of the garden, 
 
 ^Vhere the weeds grew rank and wild, 
 Under the shivering willows 
 
 I murdered Marian's child ; 
 !My heart was wildly beating. 
 
 My eyes and cheeks were wet. 
 For I heard the baby crying — 
 
 O God ! I hear it yet. 
 I hear it crying, crying. 
 
 Just as I heard it cry 
 In Marian's arms in the morning 
 
 When I knew that it must die. 
 
58 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Neither of us was woman — 
 
 I was the younger one ; 
 And we strove to tell each other 
 
 What a wise thing we had done. 
 Why should it live to plague us ? 
 
 Why should it ever begin 
 Travelling roads of trouble, 
 
 SoiHng its soul with sin ? 
 
 Marian ! ah, she remembers ! 
 
 In spite of all her tears 
 Sweet children call her mother 
 
 These many, many years. 
 Yet when I saw my darling, 
 
 Her blue eyes seemed to swell : 
 "Annie ! " she said, ''do you hear it ? 
 
 Listen ! I hear it well ! 
 
 In the night I hear it calling 
 
 With a muffled, plaintive wail, 
 And my heart stands still to count its sobs, 
 
 And ever I try and fail ; 
 For I think the depth of my baby's grief 
 
 Will never fathomed be 
 Till the fires are lit in the bottomless pit 
 
 To blast eternity." 
 
 Once in a southern city 
 
 Joy came into my life — 
 He loved me, kissed me, thought me 
 
 Worthy to be his wife . . . 
 
MARIAN'S CHILD. 59. 
 
 No, I will never marry. 
 
 God ! I had rather die — 
 If ever I had a baby 
 
 'T would curse me with its cry ! 
 For down at the foot of the garden, 
 
 Where the moon-made shadows fell, 
 I sold myself to the Devil 
 
 And bought a home in hell. 
 
 J. S. Neilson. 
 
 THE MAN WHO TOLD YOU SO. 
 
 OF all the fiends who walk this earth, 
 Whose game, it seems, is mainly 
 To make us curse for all we 're worth 
 And swear and speak profanely, — 
 I '11 back the brute, in time of woe 
 Who comes and says, " I told you so ! " 
 
 Does speculation bring you down 
 
 And ruin you completely. 
 Or spielers get your last half-crown 
 Particularly neatly, 
 
 He never fails to let you know 
 That all along he told you so. 
 
6o THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 With buoyant hope out West you went 
 
 To make a fortune speedy, 
 But came back home without a cent, 
 Disgusted, worn, and seedy. 
 
 He met you with — his face aglow — 
 "Now recollect, I told you so 1" 
 
 That little bill, to save a friend, 
 
 Accepted by you blindly^ 
 Meets with dishonour in the end. 
 And lets you in unkindly ; 
 
 His hope that soon you '11 wiser grow 
 Is prefixed by " I told you so ! " 
 
 The maiden whom you were to wed. 
 Who swore she loved you madly, 
 Gets married to a pal instead, — 
 Which wounds you very badly : 
 Again, his sympathy to show. 
 Out comes the same old "Told you so!" 
 
 And much I dread that, by-and-by, 
 When we 're amongst the tainted, 
 And with the imps in Satan's sty 
 Are getting fast acquainted, 
 
 He'll point to us from Heaven's front row, 
 And wag his chin — " I told them so ! " 
 
 Styx. 
 
A SEA TRAGEDY, 6i 
 
 A SEA TRAGEDY. 
 
 AND he lies there, 
 With the sand in his mouth and the salt in his hair ; 
 And I stand here, 
 
 Naked and burnt in the blazing sun : 
 And the Sea lies calm, 
 Shining and blue in the morning air, 
 
 Seeming unconscious of what it has done. 
 
 Curse you, O Sea ! 
 You have robbed him of life and me of a friend — 
 Wrecked us and tossed us here on the shore, 
 Just when the toil of our life was o'er. 
 
 Curse you, O Sea ! 
 We have loved you and fought you many a year, 
 Laughed at your fury many a time, 
 Met you in peace and met you in storm ; 
 And now, as we gave you our last good-bye, 
 You acted the part of a treacherous foe ; 
 You have robbed me of fortune and friend at a blow. 
 
 Naked I am on the blazing sand — 
 
 Not even a knife to dig him a grave : 
 Foodless, waterless here — in a land 
 
 As bare of life as that gleaming wave. 
 
62 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Faithful old chum ! 
 We have lived together so many years 
 I do not care to part from you now. 
 Come ! I can lift you up in my arms, 
 Swim with you just a few fathoms from shore, 
 And sink with you into the Nevermore ! 
 
 F. ROLLETT. 
 
 THE SILENCE OF MULLOCK CREEK. 
 
 HE was dubbed the Lisping Infant when he came to 
 Mullock Creek ; 
 Most confiding was his nature, and his manners they were 
 
 meek; 
 He was fair and wore an eyeglass, and a Sunday suit for 
 
 days ; 
 He'd a soft, engaging simper, and such fascinating ways! 
 
 'T was a time of sore adversity, and sinful men and weak 
 Said that Fate created Clyde to be the prey of Mullock 
 
 Creek ; 
 For he 'd booked himself at Hogan's pub., effusively and 
 
 rash, 
 As the travelling representative of eighty thousand, cash. 
 
THE SILENCE OF MULLOCK CREEK, 63 
 
 He was buying mining properties. His syndicate in town 
 Had the greatest faith in Mullock Creek. The terms were 
 
 money down. 
 So if any man amongst us wished to sell a likely show, 
 Would he kindly state his price, "and furnish samples 
 
 don't you know." 
 
 'Twas the softest thing on earth beneath. The Creek 
 
 dissembled well — 
 Not a man about the field but had a score of shows to 
 
 sell- 
 But from Cooper's Hump to Flybite they were roaring 
 
 down below 
 At the Johnnie buying leases "as per sample, don't you 
 
 know.'- 
 
 Soon the joke was bandied freely, miners yelled it near 
 
 and far. 
 "Where 's yer samples ? " was the greeting on the brace 
 
 and in the bar ; 
 And each grimy digger answered he was " trav'lin' fer his 
 
 chief, 
 With a lovely lot o' samples of the latest lines o' reef ! " 
 
 But the Infant was oblivious, and when any of the throng 
 Tried to sell a golden lode, and took no specimens along, 
 He would answer very cutely : " How on earth 's a chap 
 
 to know 
 What he's buying if you haven't any samples here to 
 
 show?" 
 
64 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 So for bits of golden stone arose a wonderful demand ; 
 They were prigged from stopes and hoppers, they were 
 
 gathered in the land. 
 Treasured specimens from Bendigo and half-a-hundred 
 
 fields 
 Served to advertise the local lodes and guarantee the 
 
 yields. 
 
 Peter Hirst with lumps of barren quartz and seven weights 
 
 of gold 
 Made the sweetest lot of " samples " ('t was a cunning 
 
 trick of old), 
 And the stranger placed the specimens in little canvas 
 
 bags. 
 With the vendors' names and figures neatly stated on the 
 
 tags. 
 
 Clyde was eager to submit the splendid offers he 'd 
 
 received, 
 With the "samples," to his people in the city, we believed; 
 And in some way every owner knew his cat was in the pot. 
 Though the Infant rather fancied that his firm would buy 
 
 the lot. 
 
 Now, its wondrous expectations worked the Creek a moral 
 
 ill. 
 And so cold and proud the diggers grew they would n't 
 
 lift a drill ; 
 But they drank of Hogan's whisky till the sinners could n't 
 
 see. 
 And the town and district started on a bucking jamboree. 
 
THE SILENCE OF MULLOCK CREEK. 65 
 
 Still from farand near the miners came with properties to sell, 
 Bringing " samples " down in sacks, and some on sleds 
 
 and drays as well. 
 When the Infant took receipt they joined the dissipated 
 
 throng, 
 Charming snakes in Hogan's bar until their cheques 
 
 should come along. 
 
 When at length the vendors sobered, they went searching 
 
 everywhere 
 Round the township for the Infant, but the Infant was n't 
 
 there. 
 He had fled. A studious absence on the part of Mrs. Hirst 
 Was coincidental maybe, — but the husband feared the 
 
 worst. 
 
 Then a letter came to Hogan, which he kindly read aloud: 
 "As I 've cleaned you out at Mullock Creek, it 's fair to 
 
 tell the crowd 
 How those lovely 'samples' yielded," — so the Infant's 
 
 letter ran. 
 "I have had them milled ; they ran to sixty ounces in the 
 
 pan ! " 
 
 Not a syllable was spoken, stunned and silently the men 
 Turned and drifted off, and silently they sought their 
 
 holes again. 
 Should you visit Mullock Creek to-day, you '11 find they 
 
 can't forget. 
 
 And that awful silence broods upon the stricken township 
 
 yet! 
 
 Edward Dyson. 
 
66 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 WHEN MOTHER CALLS TO DINNER. 
 
 WE 'RE on a farm not far from town — 
 There 's just a dozen acres ; 
 Our neighbours range from atheists 
 
 And infidels to Quakers ; 
 We Ve got the good old pious sort 
 
 'Long-side the hardened sinner — 
 But that won't spoil our appetite 
 When Mother calls to dinner. 
 
 When, years ago, we started first 
 
 And did the pioneering — 
 The fencing and the breaking-up, 
 
 The stumping and the clearing — 
 If stuck at some old ironbark 
 
 Which looked a likely winner, 
 We always got our courage up 
 
 When Mother called to dinner. 
 
 We 've had some floods, when weeks of rain 
 
 Have given us a notion 
 We 'd wake some day and find the place 
 
 Adrift towards the ocean ; 
 And then such droughts and failing crops 
 
 As daunt the green beginner ! 
 But still we fought and struggled on, 
 
 And Mother called to dinner. 
 
WHEN MOTHER CALLS TO DINNER. 67 
 
 So though the droughts may scourge the land, 
 
 Or floods roar like a river, 
 We '11 hope that better times '11 come — 
 
 The bad can't last for ever ! 
 And though the worry and the care 
 
 Are making Dad grow thinner, 
 
 There 's always hope of winning yet 
 
 While Mother calls to dinner. 
 
 Uloola. 
 
 M'GINTY'S HAPPY THOUGHT. 
 
 M'GINTY the fair, and O'Ryan the wise. 
 They set out — so they did — for a drink ; 
 And they wanted to drink over head, ears and eyes, 
 But they 'd not the least taste of the jink — 
 They were sadly in want of the jink ! 
 
 Said M'Ginty, '* My t'roat is as dhry as a brick ! " 
 Said O'Ryan, "Faith, moine is the same !" 
 
 Said M'Ginty, " But shure we cud alter it quick 
 If we took a deep dhrink at the sthrame — 
 Sweet bad luck to the tasthe of the sthrame ! " 
 
 Said O'Ryan, " We 're here at the back of God-speed, 
 
 And the divil a penny we own \ 
 Faith, 't is hard wid our tongues out for whisky indeed. 
 
 To be threatened wid wather alone — 
 
 Raw wather's the divil alone ! 
 
68 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 "And the docthors all say that 't is full of disase, 
 Chock-full o' young divils with tails ! " 
 
 Says O'Ryan, "Oi 've dodged them the most of my days, 
 But at last here their father prevails — 
 Yis, the divil their father prevails ! " 
 
 But Mac gev a bounce and he shouted " Hurroo ! 
 Here 's a moighty good thing I 've discerned — 
 
 You mismerise me an' Oi '11 mismerise you, 
 And we '11 think that the wather has turned. 
 Ay, to best Oirish whisky has turned ! " 
 
 In a minute 't was done, and the mesmerised pair 
 At once to the river ran down ; 
 
 And ever since that hypnotising affair 
 They 're the envy of all in the town : 
 They 're the two drunkest men in the town ! 
 
 E. J. Dempsey 
 
 A SONG OF GOLD. 
 
 OH, there's great exhilaration in the bosoms of the 
 boys 
 Who are saiHng for the goldfields in the West ; 
 Though the dear old days are dead, there 's a roaring time 
 ahead, 
 And the bonny birds are flying from the nest. 
 
A SONG OF GOLD. 69 
 
 Let the old folk bide alone, for the whole wide world 's 
 your own, 
 And there 's yellow gold in plenty in the West ! 
 For it 's gold ! bright gold ! 
 And it 's yours to handle, to have, and to hold ! 
 Will you sell your homes, as they have been sold, 
 For the bright, hard gold ? 
 
 Oh, there 's grief and tribulation for the mothers of the 
 boys. 
 For the sisters and the sweethearts left behind. 
 Ah, the good old time is dead ! Ah, the weary wait 
 instead ! 
 But the ship is scudding on before the wind ; 
 And it 's well for those who go to the gay new life, you 
 know. 
 But it's cruel hard for those who stay behind ! 
 But it 's gold ! bright gold ! 
 And it 's yours to handle, to have, and to hold ! 
 Will you sell your hearts, as they have been sold. 
 For the bright, hard gold ? 
 
 Ah, there 's mighty jubilation in the hearts of all the boys 
 Who are drinking in the grog-shops of the town ; 
 
 And the gas flares overhead till the wild carouse is sped 
 And the jolly boys have knocked their last sovs. down: 
 
 What with billiards, dice, and gin, you can make the 
 gold-boys spin. 
 When you leave the blessed diggings for the town. 
 
70 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And it 's gold ! bright gold ! 
 And it 's yours to handle, to have, and to hold ! 
 Will you sell your souls as they have been sold, 
 
 For the bright, hard gold ? 
 
 Oh, there 's strange inanimation on the faces of the boys 
 
 Who went gaily to the gold-fields long ago : 
 Though the parched earth is their bed, very quiet are the 
 dead, 
 Very peaceful are the sleepers lying low. 
 They are scattered here and there, does it matter why or 
 where. 
 When their mothers' hearts were broken long ago ? 
 It was gold ! bright gold ! 
 It was theirs to handle, to have, and to hold ! 
 Did they sell their lives, as they have been sold, 
 For the bright, hard gold ? 
 
 Dora Wilcox. 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 01 THE W^oman of the Future ! Sound the trumpets — 
 ■ beat the drums ! 
 She has donned the coat and breeches, and in triumph 
 
 on she comes ; 
 She has fixed her vengeful optic on the trembling tyrant 
 
 Man, 
 She has sworn to quit the bondage of the wash-tub and 
 the pan. 
 
Hop. 
 
 THE WOMAN OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 [ To face Page 7/. 
 
THE WOMAN OF THE FUTURE. 71 
 
 She has sworn to crush the despot, and to puff his best 
 
 cigar, 
 Sworn to spout from many a pulpit and to practise at the 
 
 bar; 
 Sworn to cHp her flowing ringlets, whether auburn, black, 
 
 or brown. 
 And to raise upon her upper lip a tiny crop of down. 
 
 She will come as comes a conqueror, and she '11 scorn to 
 
 bill and coo, 
 And she '11 whistle for her darling when she comes to win 
 
 and woo ; 
 And she '11 brave the boot capacious of our own irate 
 
 papa. 
 And she '11 hug us in a frenzy when we bid her " Ask 
 
 mamma ! " 
 
 And she'll leave us in the evening, saying, "Rock the 
 
 cradle, John ! 
 If you 're lonesome, darn some stockings, dear, or sew 
 
 some buttons on ; 
 Pray, be careful that you don't disturb the baby's soft 
 
 repose. 
 And you '11 find his feeding-bottle close beside his little 
 
 nose ! " 
 
 Yea! she'll hold the land in awe from far Beersheba 
 
 unto Dan, 
 And she '11 take us to the opera and go out " to see a 
 
 man " ; 
 
72 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And with cursed cunning ogle (ah, ye husbands ! there 's 
 
 the rub ! ) 
 Will she leer upon the barman when she calleth at the pub. 
 
 And she '11 chuck the handsome youths she meets beneath 
 
 the chubby chin, 
 And she '11 tell you with a hiccup, " Sack and sugar 's not 
 
 asinl" 
 And she'll wander home at 2 a.m. and tell her trusting 
 
 hub., ^ 
 
 "We were slaying of the microbe at the Gay Galooters' 
 
 Club." 
 
 And the pride of Man shall dwindle, and his glory fade 
 
 away 
 Like the glory of the sunset in the train of parting day ; 
 And a huge, discarded petticoat shall be his funeral pall. 
 And a cackling Hen Convention scream a paean at his fall ! 
 
 P, LUFTIG. 
 
 STOKIN'. 
 
 STOWED deep below the load-line- 
 Ten feet to twenty-five — 
 We face the glarin' dazzle 
 
 And make good steam to drive. 
 Keepin' the gauges steady 
 
 At near two hundred pound, 
 With scorching heat before us 
 And scorching steel all round. 
 
STOKIN\ 73 
 
 And when an air-shoot 's loafin* 
 
 Instead of suckin' air, 
 We sneak on deck to fix it, 
 
 Then sling in coal an' swear, 
 
 To^fhe scrape^ scrape, scrape of the shovels, 
 4'An' the snarUn\ rolling rattle of the coal. 
 ^God has ??iade some men to starve ashore in hovels^ 
 And us to sweat our lives out in this hole. 
 
 You praise your gallant skipper 
 
 And skilful engineers ; 
 The A.B. is a hero 
 
 Who squints one eye and steers ; 
 The ladies like the moonlight 
 
 And officers to chaff ; 
 They have n't got no tickets 
 
 On us, the stoke'ole staff. 
 Who keep the boilers hummin' 
 
 And funnel-flues a-roar. 
 With blisterin' steel above us 
 
 And on a blisterin' floor. 
 They 're laughin' on the main-deck, 
 
 But I would like to know 
 If they are ever thinkin' 
 
 Of men who toil below. 
 
 To the clank, clank, clank and the bangin\ 
 And the rattlin^ of the heavy furtiace doors. 
 
 Which is best: to loaf and starve or die by hangin\ 
 Or waste your lives a-toilin' on these floors 1 
 
74 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 The steamers from La Plata 
 
 Take sufferin' cattle 'Ome ; 
 The liner leaves 'em standin' 
 
 With splutterin' screws afoam ; 
 The wool-tanks from Port Jackson, 
 
 Melbourne and Moreton Bay, 
 The meat-carts from New Zealand 
 
 Are smashin' clouds of spray ; 
 And down below their load-lines — 
 
 Ten feet to twenty-five — 
 We curse their graspin' owners 
 
 And give 'em steam to drive. 
 It 's double whacks of win's'ls 
 
 When cattle feels it hot, 
 But who cares two dead Chinkies 
 
 If we are grilled or not ? 
 
 We must stokcy stoke^ stoke to the pourii{ 
 
 Of the gleamin\ olisfnin\ rollin\ snarlin^ coal; 
 
 Up aloft it may be calm or gales a-roa?-in\ 
 Bui it '5 akvays heat and stilbiess in this hole. 
 
 There 's men of every natur' 
 
 And every sort of breed 
 Sent down to make the vapour — 
 
 The steam that makes the speed \ 
 A canny Tyne-side Dogger 
 
 Is workin' right of me, 
 And, may my eyes be jiggered 1 
 
 My left 's a Portugee 1 
 
STOKm\ 75 
 
 With blunderin' swing she 's rollin*, 
 
 There 's ugly swells abeam ; 
 The draught is singin' noisy 
 
 And makin' tons of steam ; 
 Our forehead-veins are bulgin' 
 
 And veins on arms as well. 
 I wonder what they 're burnin' 
 
 If it 's hotter down in hell? 
 
 They must grafl, graft, graft as we are grafthC — 
 Ten twies as hard a?id twice as hard agaifi; 
 
 But they Ul miss the kick and rumble of the shaftin\ 
 Which tells us that we labour not in vain. 
 
 There 's flirtin' on the spar-deck, 
 
 Both sittin' on one spar ; 
 There's drinkin' in the smoke-room 
 
 And in the steamer's bar ; 
 They 're playin' a planner, 
 
 I s'pose, in the saloon, 
 Some patriotic, rowdy, 
 
 And fashionable tune. 
 But better girls are waitin' 
 
 For us when we 're ashore, 
 Who '11 give us all the huggin' 
 
 We ever want — and more. 
 And all the shallow drinkin' 
 
 In smoke-room, bar, and such, 
 Compared to what we founder, 
 
 It don't amount to much. 
 
76 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 For it 'j thirsty thirsty thirst so dry and burning: 
 We want no griib^ we only long for drink; 
 
 Until we see the pub-lights fade^ returning, 
 We never want to pause or pause to think, 
 
 God makes some men's lives easy, 
 
 And some he makes as slaves ; 
 The first gets rich by thinkin', 
 
 The last on what they saves. 
 And berthed above her Plimsoll — 
 
 Ten feet and mostly more — 
 The men who live by thinkin' 
 
 Are dreamin' of the shore, 
 Or laughin' in their deck-chairs ; — 
 
 They're all so blessed proud 
 They can't abear to look at 
 
 The dirty stoke-'ole crowd 
 Who feed the hungry boilers. 
 
 That drive the piston-heads, 
 Settin' the screw a-tearin' 
 
 The ocean into shreds, 
 
 To the scrape, scrape, scrape and the bangir^ 
 Of the swelterin\ heazy, rattlin' furnace-doors ; 
 
 Which IS best: to loaf and starve or die by hangi7i\ 
 Or szveat and swear a-toilin^ on these floor si 
 
 QuiLP N. 
 
WHERE ARE MY DOLLARS GONE i' 77 
 
 WHERE ARE MY DOLLARS GONE? 
 
 WHERE is my cash ? With this eternal query 
 I 'm pestered all my moments, grave and gay; 
 It haunts me in the midnight dark and dreary, 
 
 It dogs me at the dawn and close of day. 
 Where is my cash ? My watch, I know, reposes 
 
 Safe at my Uncle's, tightly held in pawn ; 
 My bills are known to all the tribe of Moses — 
 But, where the mischief are my dollars gone ? 
 
 I lead a virtuous life. A trifle glorious 
 
 I may get, now and then, with comrades gay, 
 And paint the town vermilion, when uproarious, 
 
 And turn the gloomy night to crimson day ; 
 But, when at home at duty's call diurnal, 
 
 I pass my days as peaceably as John, 
 Our cabbage-vendor, at his toil eternal — 
 
 Again I ask : Where are my dollars gone? 
 
 The dice-box- — gambling ? Goodness knovrs I hate it. 
 
 And if at nap I linger now and then 
 And wander home with friends a bit belated, 
 
 'T is but as man who loves his fellow-men. 
 My winnings are but scant ; with melancholy 
 
 I own Dame Fortune's golden smile hath shone 
 But seldom on the hands my comrades jolly 
 
 Have dealt me — but where are my dollars gone ? 
 
yS THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 I drink but little. Am abstemious — very ! 
 
 Though midnight suppers sometimes cost me dear; 
 My bill for Bass and Guinness, cham. and sherry — 
 
 I cut it down a dozen times a year. 
 Tis not my fault that oysters through the season 
 
 Don't grow on hedges, and the price of yon 
 Choice wines has waxed entirely out of reason . . . 
 
 Again I ask — where are my dollars gone ? 
 
 The girls — God bless 'em — Bellas, Janes, and Bessies, 
 
 They cost me little— now and then a glove, 
 A summer hat, a parasol expresses 
 
 To Maud a fraction of her poet's love ; 
 A lady's watch inscribed in fashion tender, 
 
 A bracelet which she sometimes deigns to don, 
 A brooch that gleams in simple jewelled splendor, — 
 
 Poor trifles these ! Where are my dollars gone ? 
 
 P. LUFTIG. 
 
 WATTLE FLAT. 
 
 WHEN I was digging in the hills— 'way up on Wattle 
 Flat, 
 A parson came to straighten us — a little one at that. 
 He told us we should sling the cards, and give the liquor 
 
 best — 
 And oh ! 't was grand to hear the way he 'd chuck it off 
 his chest ! 
 
WATTLE FLAT. 79 
 
 Said he : " My friends, you 're going to hell — damnation 's 
 
 very near. 
 You are a shocking godless lot — you wretched slaves of 
 
 beer! 
 Give up your Sunday football now — avoid the flaming 
 
 pub — 
 And let's improve our minds and start a Parlyment'ry 
 
 Club." 
 
 We reckoned that he'd struck a patch — if none would 
 
 act the goat ; 
 And met the follerin' Friday to decide " Should Women 
 
 Vote?" 
 The chaps rolled up to see the fun — and girls! Each 
 
 brought his own. 
 A bit of skirt, the parson said, would give the thing a 
 
 tone. 
 He would n't take the chair — he thought 't was best for 
 
 one of us ; — 
 So we elected Ratty Bill — who took it with a cuss. 
 He always sunk a duffer when he tried to talk — but, still, 
 He'd stoush a blooming bullock; so we all respected Bill. 
 
 And then the parson pitched it strong about our sisters' 
 
 rights ; 
 But Bli-me Joe, he reckoned only them should vote as 
 
 fights. 
 "That hsLTsyou, then!" was my remark — which terminated 
 
 Joe's. 
 (It ain't the chaps as flash their dukes that fight the willing 
 
 goes !) 
 
8o THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Then Mick the Giant started with, " The man 's a rotten 
 
 fool " 
 
 " You must n't swear," the Speaker said — " You '11 break 
 
 the blanky rule." 
 "When I'm wanting information," said Mick, "of any 
 
 sort — 
 Of course, I'll take it from a man that's got a shingle 
 
 short ! " 
 
 "I'm boss," said Bill ; " they 've put me here to carry out 
 
 the law — 
 Sit down, and put yer flute away — or else I '11 break yer 
 
 jaw." 
 Mick started poking it again— but ere he 'd said it all— 
 The pair of them, in willing holts, were rastling for the fall. 
 
 It was a lively argument, and, long before its close, 
 A dozen keen debaters were a-dressin' ayes and noes ; 
 The little devil-dodger was a-yellin' for the p'lice ; 
 But we were holding down the trap to let 'em fight in 
 peace. 
 
 There's whips of self-improvement in a Parly ment, no 
 
 doubt ; 
 But members find it rough when half the House is counted 
 
 out; 
 We drifted into sin again — bein' all inclined to think 
 Debating far more dangerous than football, cards, or drink. 
 
 Cecil Poole. 
 
WING FAT. 8 1 
 
 WING FAT. 
 
 UPON his cheek there shone a tear ; 
 (They 'd dragged him from his home) 
 He sighed — as one who dreams of beer — 
 Or one who writes a pome. 
 
 He stood within the felon's dock — 
 
 On yellow feet and large, 
 His face unreadable as rock ; 
 
 Whilst Murphy read the charge. 
 
 They swore he stole a speckled hen, 
 
 One pig, two boots, a hat ; 
 But Wing just murmured now and then, 
 
 " No ! me no savee that ! " 
 
 In English they examined Wing, 
 
 In Chow and Irish too ; 
 He answered all their questionmg 
 
 With : " Me no savee you." 
 
 Their pigeon-Hebrew and Hindoo — 
 
 He stood it all unmoved ; 
 They said, "We wish this case was through! 
 
 It 's very clearly proved 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 "To speak to him 's of no avail ! 
 
 And 't would disgrace our land 
 To put a foreign man in gaol, 
 
 Who cannot understand. 
 
 "A trifling fine, and let him go — 
 
 'S the best way, to our mind. 
 We '11 mercy to the heathen show ! 
 
 Five shillings he is fined ! " 
 
 They asked Wing for five shillings then — 
 
 His eye was dull and dim ; 
 His face was wood ; he said again 
 
 Just : " Me no savee him." 
 
 Then Murphy, the policeman, rose, 
 
 And in a brogue said he : 
 "This hay then in the baggy clothes, 
 
 Oi '11 make him savee me. 
 
 "No savee, is it ? Wing, me mahn ! 
 
 Y' dirty haythen hound ! 
 Come ! take y'r purse out in y'r hand — 
 
 And pay y'r foine — foive pound ! " 
 
 "Dam Ilishman ! too muchee lie !" 
 Shrieked Wing, " You tly me lob ? 
 
 Me savee magistlate, all li ! 
 Here, takee fine !— fi bob ! " 
 
 Alone. 
 
THE WOMAN SPEAKS. 83 
 
 THE WOMAN SPEAKS. 
 
 SO you think because I 'm a woman 
 I was made but for pleasure and tears — 
 You ! who smile and sneer at the sex I claim 
 With the savoir-faire of your forty years. 
 
 Ah, yes ! I 'm a woman, and human, too • 
 I can laugh and weep, and — pity me ! — love. 
 
 That 's the part of me made for the play of man. 
 Man I No, thanks, I can manage my glove. 
 
 •We shall meet to-night at the dance, perhaps; 
 
 You '11 see me flirting behind my fan, 
 With arms a-gleam and shoulders bared 
 
 To the critical gaze of men, O man ! 
 
 And you '11 come to me claiming a waltz, perhaps ; 
 
 I '11 grant your wish with a grateful smile ; 
 And your arm will clasp me a moment or two, 
 
 And we shall be lovers a little while. 
 
 But O, the thought that my smiles suppress 
 (For I am strong, quite strong, O man ! ) 
 
 The measuring, searching, judging thoughts 
 That I hide as only a woman can ! 
 
 I 'm only a woman, whose passionate heart 
 Is made for laughter, and tears, and love, — 
 
 And that is for men ; but soul and brain 
 I keep for myself and the gods above. 
 
 Ambrose Pratt. 
 
THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 CAME a man to Mary Casey, 
 In her hut at Maiden Camp, 
 Saying, '' Mary — now, be aisy ! 
 
 But poor Casey's gone on tramp." 
 "Och? go plumb!" said Mary, scolding, 
 
 With a glitter in her eye, 
 "To the place where they'll be holding 
 Yez on griddles when yez die ; 
 
 Yah ! go aisy wid yer lyin' — Micky gone on tramp, you say? 
 Shure, it 's me that knows he has n't, for he could n't get 
 away." 
 
 Then the man who brought the tidings 
 Simply stood and gasped for breath ; 
 Stricken dumb by Mary's chidings, 
 Feared to tell of Michael's death. 
 " But, say, Mary," said he, crying, 
 
 When at length he found his voice — 
 AftchaePs dead. There 's no denying : 
 'T was a case of Hobson's choice ; 
 He was loading in the cutting, and was just agoin' to 'tamp 
 When he dropped dead of a suddent. Yes, poor Michael 's 
 gone on tramp." 
 
CONSOLATION. 85 
 
 " Wirra ! Wirra ! " moaned the mourner, 
 
 ("Ah ! poor Michael ! " sighed the man) 
 "That's his best suit in the corner" — 
 
 And her tears to flow began — 
 " And he 's left me, och ! the vill'in ; 
 
 And he never said ' Good-bye ' — 
 To forget him I 'd be willin' — 
 
 Sure I Ve half a mind to thry. 
 
 You 're his size? Go aisy, sonny — sure ye 're foolin', nothin' 
 
 more? 
 Ye 're in earnest ? Come in, darlint ! — hang yer hat behind 
 
 the door." 
 
 L. R. Macleod. 
 
 AT THE DIGGINGS STORE. 
 
 OLD diggings mates, who met once more, — 
 He 'd been away and learned to shear ; 
 She knew him ere he reached the door, 
 Though parted now for many a year. 
 
 But he 'd forgotten— those forget 
 
 Who go away — until the name 
 Called up her face and some regret : 
 
 She was the same, and not the same. 
 
 Was this girl, now sedate and fair. 
 
 The same brown Kate who stole with him. 
 
 And rode all day old Frenchy's mare — 
 The chestnut mare that worked the whim ? 
 
86 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Who helped him hunt for sugar-bags, 
 Quicker than he to spot the trees ? 
 
 Who made a smoke from burning rags, 
 Whilst he chopped out the buzzing bees ? 
 
 And, talking, they went once again 
 Hunting for specks all down the creek, 
 
 And found once more in tropic rain 
 The two-ounce slug that lucky week. 
 
 " You bought a filly with your share ; 
 
 My colt died out on the Paroo." 
 " Why, Dan, that 's she tied over there — 
 
 Grown such a beauty." "So have you ! 
 
 " I swore from out the Golden West 
 A hundred wondrous things to bring ; 
 
 But from that land, fly-, drought-distressed, 
 Have only brought this golden ring. 
 
 " Don't care for it ? Won't take a ring ? " 
 " A ring has ever murdered love ! " 
 
 " Take these, then ; hide — pear-gray 's the thing- 
 Those pretty fingers in a glove. 
 
 " But what for me in our new times ? 
 
 A kiss, at least, my old-time mate! 
 Although for me no love-bell chimes, 
 
 'T would show I 'm not forgotten, Kate." 
 
 She laughed, and shook her sunny head — 
 Laughter from gates of rose and pearl. 
 
 "Look in the cook-book, Dan," she said; 
 "To kiss, you first must catch your girl ! " 
 
AT THE DIGGINGS STORE. 87 
 
 And as away with streaming tail 
 
 Across the flat her pony flies, 
 She turns a moment. Through the veil 
 
 He saw the challenge in her eyes, 
 
 And quick into the saddle sprang, 
 
 And flew as clouds fly when they pass ; 
 The hoofs upon the roadway rang, 
 
 Then deadened on the short, green grass. 
 
 On broken ground at such a pace 
 
 Is surely riding for a spill ; 
 The girl is down ! That ends the race ; 
 
 Her, horse is up — the girl lies still. 
 
 Ah, joy has speech, but here with Death 
 
 What words avail ? Her eyes o'er-ran : 
 He stooped to catch the last faint breath . . . 
 
 " You Ve — caught — me — won't you — kiss me — Dan ? " 
 
 R.A.F. 
 
 BUCKED OFF ITS BRAND. 
 
 TAKE my word ! he could buck, could Brown Baron; 
 And to ride ! who could ride like Long Jack ? 
 There was never a thing born with hair on 
 Could throw him when once on its back. 
 
88 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 In the crush went on saddle and bridle, 
 
 And he set Jack a go pretty hard ; 
 But his previous efforts seemed idle 
 
 When we flung down the rails of the yard. 
 
 A few bucks, and the gear was all lying — 
 Busted girths, broken bit — on the sand ; 
 
 And away through the trees he went flying — 
 Nothing on him but Jack and the brand. 
 
 Through the paddock the Baron went sailing ; 
 
 Jack was keeping him straight with his hat 
 When we saw him jump over the railing 
 
 At the creek on the Kurrajong Flat. 
 
 And then — where on earth were they hidden ? — 
 Though the boss swore he 'd soon have 'em back, 
 
 And rode as he never had ridden, 
 The traps had to start on their track. 
 
 But Jack was not beaten by trifles. 
 And, when he and the Baron were found. 
 
 It took four police, ditto rifles, 
 
 Ere the long-'un set foot on the ground. 
 
 When we came to examine the Baron, 
 
 All the brand-mark had disappeared clean : 
 
 T was the horse, we could swear — a great scar on 
 The place where the Z 9 had been. 
 
 Jack explained, in the dock at his trial. 
 
 That the horse slung his brand on the track ; 
 
^'■^p-^^fik^ 
 
 BUCKED OFF FFS BRAND ! 
 
 'Jack sits now on stones for a saddle. 
 And for reins has a haiinner in hand. 
 
 'Cause an ignorant Judge chose to twaddle. 
 That a horse could n't buck off its brand ! 
 
 [ To face Page SS. 
 
BUCKED OFF ITS BRAND. 
 
 To the charge gave indignant denial — 
 
 Said, when caught he was just coming back. 
 • • . . • 
 
 Jack sits now on stones for a saddle, 
 
 And for reins has a hammer in hand, 
 'Cause an ignorant Judge chose to twaddle 
 That a horse could n't buck off its brand ! 
 
 R.A.F. 
 
 THE PRICE OF A KISS. 
 
 WHERE the ranges dip down to the plain at their base, 
 In the lap of the gully lies Tressider's place, 
 And the dancers are footing it merry and bright 
 For the honour of Kitty, his daughter, to-night. 
 
 With a clatter of hoofs and a jingle of belts 
 The troopers ride up, and the merriment melts, 
 And men stand aghast, who were laughing before, 
 At the glitter of steel, as they crowd to the door. 
 
 Tom Govan, long-hunted, is captured at last. 
 And the days of his riding and raiding are past ; 
 They bring him a prisoner, half-ended their task, 
 And to rest there the night is the favour they ask. 
 
 In the stable they lash him to post and to ring, 
 For the strength of his arm is a marvellous thing; 
 Then they join in the dance and the night wanes apace, 
 And there 's laughing and loving at Tressider's place. 
 
90 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 But Kitty creeps out and stands weeping apart, 
 For the love of Tom Govan that lies at her heart; 
 For in good and in evil, through sin and through shame, 
 The love of a woman alone is the same. 
 
 But a form is beside her, a voice at her ear, 
 
 The voice that of all she least wishes to hear — 
 
 'T is the trooper who first ran her lover to earth, 
 
 And whose love she had treated with scorning and mirth. 
 
 "Kate," he whispers, "to-night bid your lover good-bye; 
 If he leaves here to-morrow Tom Govan will die; 
 But just smile on me kindly and give me one kiss, 
 And to prove how I love you I '11 give you— see this ! " 
 
 He holds up his hand and he shows her a key — 
 One turn in the lock and Tom Govan is free — 
 He would barter his honour, with traitors claim kin, 
 For one smile from the woman he never can win. 
 
 She falters a moment, then raises her face. 
 Puts her hand in his own — "You may kiss me, "she says . . . 
 " When you 're both far away," and he toys with her hair, 
 " You might give me a thought — if you 've any to spare." 
 
 There is saddling and mounting at Tressider's place, 
 For of Tom and his sweetheart no man finds a trace — 
 But One lies on the grass, a revolver he grips: 
 'Tis the smile he bought, maybe, that's still on his lips ! 
 
 Elise Espinasse. 
 
MICK DOOLEY'S PANTS. 91 
 
 MICK DOOLEY'S PANTS. 
 
 THEY brought a boy from Tallaran to run Mick 
 Dooley's tracks ; 
 They yarded him the fastest blood among the station 
 
 cracks ; 
 With moles and shirt and sloucher hat and pipe with 
 
 broken stem, 
 He slung into the saddle straight and waved his hand to 
 them. 
 
 The Sub. was lately out from " 'Ome," the troopers both 
 
 ^ were green, 
 The tracking of an outlaw was a game they had not 
 
 seen ; 
 This chippy little nigger and the antics that he played — 
 They were rolling off their saddles at the funny sight he 
 
 made ! 
 
 The tracker had a roving eye, he laughed a saucy laugh ; 
 He grinned as they were grinning, and he gave them 
 
 chaff for chaff ; 
 The troopers both were solid men whose brains had run 
 
 to beef. 
 But when the boy got moving all their mirth was turned 
 
 to grief. 
 
 He was cautious *mong the melon-holes, but where the 
 
 plain was sound 
 He led 'em at a gallop with his eyes upon the ground ; 
 
92 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And as odds are on a thoroughbred against a trooper's 
 
 hacks 
 They were somewhat disconcerted at this mode of 
 
 running tracks. 
 
 He took 'em down the Fh'nders where the spear grass 
 
 hned the brink, 
 Then crossed a stage of forty miles — without a drop to 
 
 drink , 
 And down the beds of dried-up creeks they wandered all 
 
 day long 
 Till life seemed, in a trooper's view, one endless billabong. 
 
 Then turned he sharply to the west — the blue M'Kinlay 
 
 Range, 
 And gave them joys of spinifex, in case they wished a 
 
 change ; 
 And up and down the stony hills they tracked the guilty 
 
 Mick, 
 Except when they required a rest to be a little sick. 
 
 They hauled their horses after them when hills were 
 
 tough and high, 
 And still the Sub. remarked "Bai Jove!" — his eyeglass in 
 
 his eye ; 
 And still the blackboy pointed to the tracks which he 
 
 had seen, 
 Until they fairly bottomed — they had struck a blind 
 
 ravine I 
 
MICK DOOLEY'S PANTS. 93 
 
 Then one sharp-eyed suffering trooper gave a grunt of 
 
 savage joy, 
 And called aloud unto the Sub. and pointed to the boy : 
 " The name upon them trousers ! Sure as God made 
 
 little ants — 
 Look, sir, this imp of Satan wears a pair of Dooley's 
 
 pants ! " 
 
 Like thought the tracker wheeled his mount and vanished 
 
 from their sight. 
 But as he thundered down the gorge he yelled with all 
 
 his might : 
 "Mick Dooley's crossed the Border now — no run dat 
 
 feller in — 
 
 Next time you want um tracker, boss — don't get Mick 
 
 Dooley's gin I " 
 
 G. Essex Evans. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF STUTTERING JIM 
 
 (illustrating the survival of the fittest). 
 
 THIS is the yarn of Stuttering Jim, the girl, and the 
 other man. 
 The strangest yarn that ever was told since ever the world 
 
 began ; 
 The yarn that was told by Stuttering Jim when the hour 
 
 of the dawn was nigh, 
 And the fire grew dim, and the pipes went out, and the 
 whisky-bottle was dry. 
 
94 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 There are tales that are told in the darkness, and tales that 
 are told in the light, 
 
 And some are fit for the morning star, and some for the 
 secret night \ 
 
 But the tale that he told is the tale to tell when the camp- 
 fire 's wan and grey. 
 
 And the Dawn breaks into the house of Night with the 
 blood-red hammers of Day. 
 
 Now, Jim was a man of thirty-two, though he looked 
 
 a good three-score. 
 For his back was bent, and his eyes were red, and the hue 
 
 of his hair was hoar : 
 There was me, and Pell, and Carroty Joe, and Barney 
 
 and Bandy Gray, 
 But never a word came out of the crowd as he gave 
 
 himself away. 
 
 And Jim he talked as he mostly did when the whisky 
 
 slipped his tongue, 
 Of the time when his back was straight and strong, and 
 
 his looks, like his years, were young; 
 And he whined of a day when his tongue could wag as 
 
 fast as a man would think, 
 When his eyes were bright, and all was well, before he 
 
 took to the drink. 
 
 And he talked of a girl that lived hard by to a place that 
 
 he had of his own. 
 With a face like the flower that glows in the bush when 
 
 the winter is one-half flown : 
 
THE BALLAD OF STUTTERING JIM. 95 
 
 She could ride all day, and dance all night, and be up 
 
 with the morning dew. 
 And milk the cows on her father's farm, as a well-bred 
 
 girl should do. 
 
 And though she loved dancing and dainty things, as a 
 
 healthy maiden must, 
 There was never a man of the sons of men could have 
 
 brought her head to the dust ; 
 But she and Jim got talking of love, which is dangerous 
 
 talk for a man, 
 And the end of it was they plighted their troth — and then 
 
 the trouble began. 
 
 For there came a chap to her father's farm, a bit of a 
 
 ne'er-do-well. 
 Who had gone the pace for all it was worth till they 
 
 shipped him away to hell ; 
 And he got struck on this girl of Jim's till his blood was 
 
 all of a flame. 
 And he pushed old Jim for the foremost place like a man 
 
 that was used to the game. 
 
 And Jim got riled, and chopped about, for he saw how the 
 
 current blew. 
 And now he was mad, and now he was gay, and he kept 
 
 the girl in a stew; 
 But the girl stuck fast to her plighted troth, and treated it 
 
 all as a jest — 
 She clung as the steel wedge clings to the wood, but she 
 
 liked the other chap best. 
 
96 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And Jim he told how the girl's old man, and her mother, 
 
 and all the three 
 Went up one day to the Forty-mile Bush on a sort of a 
 
 picnic spree; 
 And Jim and the girl got wandering off, as a man and 
 
 a maid will do, 
 And the place was supple-jack up to the eyes, and as flat 
 
 as a cake all through. 
 
 And there 's some that go and twist and turn and come out 
 
 safe and sound. 
 And there 's some that go, and never come back, for they 
 
 leave their bones on the ground ; 
 And there's dandy bushes this side of hell for a man 
 
 that is sick of the play, 
 But the dandiest bush in all that land is the bush they 
 
 found that day. 
 
 Yet the old man up and off to the farm, for he said that 
 
 he trusted Jim 
 To bring his girl by another road home, for nothing would 
 
 happen to him; 
 But the English chap hung a bit behind, and he crammed 
 
 his pockets with food. 
 And the very first chance the beggar saw he was off and 
 
 away for the wood. 
 
 Then Jim he told how he and the girl had tangled the 
 
 bush about. 
 And how, by dark, the other man came to show them a 
 
 pathway out ; 
 
THE BALLAD OF STUTTERING JIM. 97 
 
 But what should a Londoner know of the bush more than 
 
 they who are native born ? 
 He led them the way that leads to death, betwixt the 
 
 night and the morn. 
 
 For the bush was as thick as a paddock of maize and 
 
 sharp as a tiger's claw, 
 With the supple-jack vines, and the saws and spines of 
 
 toi and tartara-moa ; 
 But still he thought they'd a kind of show if only the food 
 
 would last. 
 And he parted some bread 'twixt Jim and the girl, but he 
 
 shut his own mouth for a fast. 
 
 And another day went, and another day came, and a day 
 
 and a night thereto. 
 And they came to a bit of a rise at last where a peep of 
 
 the sky got through. 
 And they lighted a fire of leaves and logs, and settled 
 
 them down to wait 
 Till the rescue came. And the days and nights went past 
 
 till they numbered eight. 
 
 Their food was done on the sixth day out, though they 
 
 rationed it down to a crumb. 
 And their water was most of it slime from the swamp, and 
 
 the flesh of the taraire plum ; 
 And the suns that rose and the suns that set looked down 
 
 in their giddy whirl 
 On the English beggar that kept his fast for the love of a 
 
 starving girl. 
 
98 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And he and the girl were weak as rats, and twisted with 
 
 deadly pain, 
 And pale as the tea-tree flower that blows at the end of 
 
 the winter rain; 
 But Jim hung out from day to day, with a face of steady 
 
 cheer. 
 Till the Englishman woke from a bit of a doze, and he 
 
 reckoned the thing looked queer. 
 
 So he followed Jim down to the edge of the swamp, 
 
 though the beggar could barely stand, 
 And he spied him there, like a rat in a hole, with a crust 
 
 of bread in his hand ; 
 For Jim had found the stuff in the pouch ere the sixth 
 
 dawn grew to day. 
 And he thought of his love, and he thought of his faith, 
 
 but life seemed better than they. 
 
 For life is life, and death is death, and each man " goes 
 
 alone," 
 And death is a frozen No Man's Land, and life is a torrid 
 
 zone; 
 And the way of the world is a curious way, and curious 
 
 creatures thrive. 
 And the false man lives and the true man dies, and only 
 
 the fit survive. 
 
 Then the English chap stepped out of his lair, and they 
 
 stood by the swamp alone, 
 And he saw Jim bury the crust in the fern, as a dog will 
 
 bury a bone; 
 
THE BALLAD OF STUTTERING JIM. 99 
 
 And he cried : " I have given my life for yours, if ever 
 
 this world goes round, 
 But I '11 win her love for a dying man in Heu of a living 
 
 hound. 
 
 *' I have tortured my flesh for twelve long days to give 
 
 her the joy of life. 
 But now she is mine for the rest of time, and the devil 
 
 may find you a wife. 
 I have gambled and sworn and lied and mocked, and 
 
 humbled myself to none, 
 But I 'm more of a man with all my sins than you with 
 
 your single one. 
 
 '' I have drunken and danced and had my fling, and 
 
 laughed at the * Promise of May,' 
 But not for all that God can give would I stand in your 
 
 shoes to-day." 
 ^And he up and off where the young girl sat, with her 
 
 eyes fixed hard on the sod. 
 And he said : " It is better to know to-day than to learn 
 
 to-morrow from God. 
 
 ^* You 've set your heart on the form of a man, but he 'd 
 
 never the soul of a hound, 
 And it 's better to die with the truth all told than go with 
 
 a lie to the ground." 
 And he told the tale with a fainting voice, and a face like 
 
 a winding-sheet, 
 And bade her God-speed, and clutched his throat, and 
 
 dropped down dead at her feet. 
 
100 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Then Jim he told how he slunk from the swamp, for he 
 
 dreaded to die alone, 
 And he saw the girl where she sat by her dead, with her 
 
 face set still as a stone ; 
 And the girl looked up from the eyes of the corpse with 
 
 their blank and ghastly stare. 
 And she looked at the live and she looked at the dead, 
 
 and the dead face seemed more fair. 
 
 And she smiled and sighed, and put out her arms, and 
 
 gathered the corpse to her breast. 
 And she said : '* You have had my plighted troth, but I 
 
 loved the dead man best. 
 And I fear he played us false with the food, or how 
 
 should it come to pass 
 That a strong man, full of the lust of life, should die in 
 
 the arms of a lass ? 
 
 " You '11 come safe out of the gates of death while the 
 
 fiend has work to do. 
 And you '11 find a mate in the warm, full world, but I 'm 
 
 not the girl for you. 
 The love you gave was a dainty thing, as the hue of a 
 
 sunset sky, 
 But the love of the dead was the love of a man, for it 
 
 taught him the way to die." 
 
 And the day went down and the day came up, and a long 
 
 cold night thereto, 
 And then the rescue broke through the woods, as rescues 
 
 mostly da 
 
THE BALLAD OF STUTTERING /IM. loi 
 
 For twelve long days they had followed the trail where 
 
 hardly a bird could dive, 
 And they carried two corpses out of the bush, but Jim 
 
 they carried alive. 
 
 There are tales that are told in the darkness, and tales 
 
 that are told in the light, 
 And some are fit for the Morning star, and some for the 
 
 secret Night ; 
 But the tale Jim told is the tale to tell when the camp 
 
 fire 's wan and grey. 
 And the Dawn breaks into the house of Night with the 
 
 blood-red hammers of Day. 
 
 Samuel Cliall White. 
 
 LIFE'S PARADOXES. 
 
 STRANGE ! the man who works the hardest never 
 makes a pile of pelf. 
 And the flirt who flirts most madly sometimes falls in love 
 
 herself ; 
 Strange ! the bogus banks have buildings in the very 
 
 finest style. 
 And the simpler the Celestial looks the deeper is his 
 guile ; 
 
I02 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And the wight who wades in wickedness feels not the 
 
 direst woes, 
 And the man who drinks the deepest does n't have the 
 
 reddest nose. 
 
 Strange ! that when the man who owes us leaves, we 're 
 
 all with anguish torn. 
 But when the man who pays departs there 's not a soul to 
 
 mourn ; 
 Strange ! the rooster on the steeple, though he 's only 
 
 made of tin, 
 Is more famous than the live one with his merry morning 
 
 din; 
 And the fool who boasts a title (like the steeple-cock on 
 
 high) 
 Is looked up to and respected when a sage is hustled by^ 
 
 Strange ! the man who stoops the lowest nearly always 
 
 rises high, 
 And the parson says we only live, to learn the way to die; 
 Strange ! we hail the badge of slav'ry as the banner of 
 
 the free, 
 And we nail the thieves and prophets side by side upon 
 
 the tree ; 
 Strange ! the heathen throng the thickest where the 
 
 clergy tithe the sod. 
 And a thousand temples rise to Man for one that 's built 
 
 to God. 
 
 P. LUFTIG. 
 
WHEN DACEY RODE THE MULE. 103 
 
 WHEN DACEY RODE THE MULE. 
 
 Jnn WAS in a small, up-country town, 
 
 A When we were boys at school, 
 There came a circus with a clown 
 
 And with a bucking mule. 
 The clown announced a scheme they had — 
 
 The mule was such a king — 
 They 'd give a crown to any lad 
 
 Who 'd ride him round the ring. 
 
 And, gentle reader! do not scoff. 
 Nor think the man a fool: 
 
 To buck a porous-plaster off 
 Was pastime to that mule. 
 
 The boys got on — he bucked like sin — 
 
 He threw them in the dirt. 
 And then the clown would raise a grin 
 
 By asking, " Are yez hurt ? " 
 But Johnny Dacey came one night, 
 
 The crack of all the school. 
 Said he, " I '11 win the crown all right; 
 
 Bring in your bucking mule ! " 
 
 The elephant went off his trunk, 
 The monkey played the fool, 
 
 And all the band got blazing drunk 
 When Dacey rode the mule. 
 
104 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 But soon there rose an awful shout 
 
 Of laughter, when the clown 
 From somewhere in his pants drew out 
 
 A little paper crown : 
 He placed the crown on Dacey's head, 
 
 While Dacey looked a fool — 
 " Now, there 's your crown, my lad," he said, 
 
 ** For riding of the mule ! " 
 
 The band struck up with " Killaloe," 
 And " Rule Britannia, Rule," 
 
 And "Young Man from the Country," too, 
 When Dacey rode the mule. 
 
 Then Dacey, in a furious rage, 
 
 For vengeance on the show, 
 Ascended to the monkeys' cage 
 
 And let the monkeys go ; 
 The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee 
 
 He turned abroad to roam ; 
 Good faith ! it was a sight to see 
 
 The people step for home — 
 
 For big baboons with canine snout 
 
 Are spiteful as a rule; 
 The people did n't sit it out 
 
 When Dacey rode the mule. 
 
 And from the beasts that did escape 
 
 The bushmen all declare 
 Were born some creatures partly ape 
 
 And partly native-bear. 
 
WHEN DACEY RODE THE MULE. 105 
 
 They 're rather few and far between ; 
 
 The race is nearly spent ; 
 But some of them may still be seen 
 
 In Sydney Parliament. 
 
 And when those legislators fight, 
 
 And drink, and act the fool — 
 It all commenced that wretched night 
 
 When Dacey rode the mule! 
 
 The B. 
 
 THE HOW-WE-BEAT-THE-FAVOURITE AFFLICTION. 
 
 IT started at first in the brains of one Gordon 
 (He blew them out after and somewhat atoned); 
 Each ass is his echo — encoring— encored on — 
 A plague on posterity, never condoned. 
 
 All ages, from infancy up to virility, 
 
 Record how the ring-men were yelling, " Dead heat ! " 
 The tremulous voicing of gummy senility 
 
 Out-gibbers — " And that 's how the fav'rite was beat I " 
 
 Attend at a concert, if you are sesthetic, 
 To soften your spirits, or bolster them up ; 
 
 It 's twenty to one you will get that emetic, 
 Worn-to rags lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup. 
 
I06 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Soprano sings first of the scenes that are brightest ; 
 
 By basso you 're rocked on the waves of the deep ; 
 The tenor's voice trills, in sweet notes of the lightest ; 
 
 Contralto attunes you to languorous sleep. 
 
 But next ! *you 're aroused by a din of hoarse cheering I 
 A wide, scarlet nostril flits close to your knees . . . 
 
 Some donkey is on to the platform careering. 
 And, hopeless, you see that he 's got the disease. 
 
 And then you hear all the old fatuous drivel — 
 How he was left sailing in front of them all ; 
 
 Disgusted, you pick up your girl, and locked level, 
 Discarding all cunning, you race from the hall. 
 
 It 's the same at all socials and picnics and parties, 
 When Romans foregather, or Orangemen sup : 
 
 You 're told by the Atkinses, Dugalds, and Flahertys, 
 "Be calm: and we think you may just win the Cup! 
 
 One sentiment only in which you may revel, 
 On searching the dirge from its finish to start. 
 
 Is the short, fervent prayer that is muttered by Neville 
 It wakens an echo in every heart. 
 
 We 've heard it recited aboard of the Cuzco ; 
 
 The boys of " the Never " can't let it go by ; 
 From the shivering summit of Mount Kosciusko 
 
 Its lines have been yelled to the suffering sky. 
 
THE HO Jf~ IVE~BEA 7"- THE~FA VO URITE AFFLICTION. 
 
 '"'■ From the shivering siimiiiit of Moutit Kosciusko 
 Its Hues have been yelled to the suffering sky T^ 
 
 [ To face Page io6~ 
 
HO W- WE-BEA T- THE- FA VO URITE AFFLICTION. 107 
 
 I 'm weak and I 'm limp ; I am weary and ailing ; 
 
 I '11 never enjoy the same vigour again ; 
 But — " Giles, on the greyling, came down at the paling " — 
 
 I fear, by my soul ! that I 'm going insane. 
 
 " Keep back on The Heifer ; lie by on The Mullock ; 
 
 Back you, sir, on Fig-leaves ; sit still on The Hag ; 
 Slide down on The Rainbow; turn round on The Bullock; 
 
 So, steady there — easy — and up went the rag ! " 
 
 May The Clown, at the stud, prove completely defective, 
 And drift, at the last, to the shafts of a cart ; 
 
 May Iseult, with pain, feel the rage and invective 
 Of thousands of sufferers gnaw at her heart. 
 
 May the lampass annoy them, the glanders attack them, 
 The heaves and bronchitis e'er torture their breath. 
 
 May greasy heels lame them, and thoroughpin rack them, 
 And spavin and bots bring them down to their death ! 
 
 N. M. O'DONNELL. 
 
 GIG FOURS. 
 
 YOU can see their rudder hissing 
 Past your canvas, and the kissing 
 Of the wash that fans behind them on your bow-side 
 ^ makes her roll ; 
 And your coxswain 's calling " Quicker ! " 
 As your breath comes thick and thicker, 
 But you put in half-a-dozen fit to bust your blessed soul. 
 
I08 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And the boat is leaking badly, 
 And you fling your weight on madly ; 
 But your stick has got no packing and it runs down every 
 dip; 
 And your instep 's sore and skinning, 
 Still you keep a hope of winning 
 Till the wind flips on your oar-blade and you bend your 
 stretcher-clip. 
 
 Every man is outward swinging. 
 
 And a dull and sullen singing 
 Is vibrating in your ear-drums as you feel them screw and 
 squirm ; 
 
 And, through your faultless hauling. 
 
 You can hear the youngster calling 
 That you 're too almighty slow to catch a paralytic worm. 
 
 Then there sounds a scraping under 
 And your seat and slide 's asunder, 
 While you 're spitting chips like thunder and your knees 
 are fairly broke ; 
 And the streams of sweat near blind you 
 As you damn the mugs behind you ; 
 Or, if you 're three or two or bow, you blame the rotten 
 stroke. 
 
 Then you strike the grip and feather. 
 Whip a few in hell-for-leather. 
 And you 're swinging all together just like clockwork for 
 a spell — 
 
 I 
 
GIG FOURS. 109 
 
 Then the wind comes round an angle 
 And your form gets in a tangle, 
 And you 're chucking up the water and the time is all to 
 hell. 
 
 Then you see their wash runs stronger 
 And decide to hang out longer, 
 Till at last amid the swirling pools their rudder starts to 
 peep; 
 And your heart grows big and bigger 
 As you spot their coxswain's figure, 
 And inch by inch along their side you slowly crawl 
 and creep. 
 
 Then you think how far the boat is 
 From the winning post ; no notice 
 You take of form or feeling, time or troubles, needs or 
 knack ; 
 With the swaying, swinging, sweeping 
 Of the oars you feel her leaping, 
 And you feel the muscles swelUng on your shoulders and 
 your back. 
 
 For their stroke looks done ! the catch he 
 Sets is slow and short and scratchy, 
 And their bow has cracked up badly ; he 's a deader to 
 the world. 
 Ho ! their barrackers yell louder, 
 And they graft like nigs to crowd her, 
 But there 's nothing left but arm-work in them : all their 
 backs are curled. 
 
no THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Loud and louder grow the raging 
 Cries that echo from the staging, 
 And you pop on half-a-dozen with all your skill and 
 strength ; 
 Then, with resting arms before you, 
 Rings the judge's pistol o'er you. 
 And you 've done them like a dinner by an easy half-a- 
 length! 
 
 McG. 
 
 DON'T LET THE MOTH GET INI 
 
 I OVERHAULED an overcoat of mine the other day, 
 In the blazing months of summer it was brushed and 
 laid away ; 
 But the nipping nights of autumn spoke of winter coming 
 
 fast. 
 And hints of frost and sleet were borne upon the shivering 
 
 blast. 
 The garment long had stood the test of bleak and bitter 
 
 weather. 
 But now it lay before me and its threads scarce clung 
 
 together ; 
 With many a hole in breast and back, with nap and fur 
 
 grown thin. 
 It told of cold times coming — I had let the moth get in! 
 
DON'T LET THE MOTH GET IN. in 
 
 There's a moth, my fellow-trav'ler, on the rugged road of 
 
 care, 
 And its food is human weakness, and its name is black 
 
 Despair ! 
 But the man who claims to manhood, be his sorrow what 
 
 it may. 
 He will boldly face the demon, and await a better day. 
 Times are bad? Aye, well we know it, but each true 
 
 man has his goal: 
 Can he fight misfortune better when the rust is in his soul ? 
 Show your pluck, my suffering brother ! though your coat 
 
 is poor and thin. 
 Square your chest, and laugh at Fortune — and don't let 
 
 the moth get in ! 
 
 There are some worse off than you are — though the pious 
 
 turn away, 
 Though your old friends do not know you — well, you 're 
 
 better off than they ! 
 If to-night you 're smoking tea-leaves, and your bed is the 
 
 Domain, 
 Shake the dews off in the morning: up, and breast the 
 
 world again ! 
 Ere the dawning, night is darkest, I have heard old 
 
 proverbs say ; 
 So we'll keep our muscles moving, and be ready for the day, 
 And be thankful, while we suffered, that we bore it with 
 
 a grin, 
 And while our clothes were shabby, kept the moth from 
 
 ge"'"g'"' T. A. Wilson. 
 
112 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 THE WINNER OF THE SQUATTERS' CUP. 
 
 LUCK good ? Yes, pretty fairish now j the worst I ever 
 knew, 
 Came when I won — and lost — a race for Scott at 
 
 Wallaroo. 
 How 's that ? you say — well, if you like, I '11 try to make 
 
 it clear : 
 Twas in the spring of 'ninety, in the grand old Carbine's 
 
 year, 
 I rode Scott's well-known Planet, and I didn't care a 
 
 rap, 
 Bar Sheik, for all the entries in the Squatters' Handicap. 
 
 (A fine, big bay like Planet was that Dick Delaney's 
 
 Sheik, 
 A blooming muff had got the mount — Bill Long, of 
 
 Sandy Creek). 
 'Twas over rails and water, too, the district's favourite 
 
 race — 
 My word ! the Cup and Stakes were grand for such a 
 
 one-pub. place. 
 That year they'd capped the fences, but the stewards 
 
 most were proud 
 Of that deep and muddy water-jump they 'd scooped ta 
 
 please the crowd. 
 
THE WINNER OF THE SQUATTERS' CUP. 113 
 
 Down dropped the flag, and in the lead abreast raced 
 
 Bill and I ; 
 Abreast we cleared the first three jumps. "Sheik! Planet! 
 
 Sheik!" they cry ; 
 Those mulga cappings on the logs had pulled the 
 
 others up, 
 And one of us, the public knew, must win the Squatters' 
 
 Cup. 
 Just as I thought I 'd be that one, there came a sudden 
 
 fear, — 
 Bill's prad was racing fresh and strong, while mine rolled 
 
 blooming queer: 
 And I cursed the keyless stables, 'way back there in the 
 
 bush, 
 They 'd "got at" dear old Planet then ! — that cute Delaney 
 
 push. 
 
 No ! p'r'aps I 'd better not explain, how with an ugly thud 
 We jostled at the water-jump, and fell in soupy mud \ 
 We lost our reins, and Bill got kicked, by what he did n't 
 
 know, — 
 But when six pair of legs get mixed, a young 'un gets a 
 
 show. 
 We scrambled out — two yellow jocks; each caught a 
 
 trailing rein; 
 We sprang on yellow horses, and we raced away again. 
 "Sheik! Sheik!" they yell. Bill got the start, they knew 
 
 him by his hair 
 (He used to sport a ragged "mo," my face was then quite 
 
 bare). 
 
 H 
 
114 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 My mount seemed freshened up a lot, he gained at ev'ry 
 
 stride, 
 And then there came another yell, "Old Planet wins!" 
 
 they cried ; 
 Unheeded fell Bill's cruel whip, I saw his prad was done, 
 I passed his flanks, his girth, his head — the Squatters* 
 
 Cup was won ! 
 
 "You wretched fool!" said Scott to me (but not a word I 
 
 spoke — 
 I knew the boss's larking ways— I thought 1 saw his joke); 
 "It's no good my protesting, for you weighed in both the 
 
 same" 
 (Just here I winked to let him know I twigged his little 
 
 game). 
 "You wretched fool !" said he, again, with more dramatic 
 
 force, 
 "You think you won ! D — n you, you did ! — on Sheik^ 
 
 Delaney's horse !'^ 
 
 Frank Bellman. 
 
 THE THREE ROADS. 
 
 THERE is a town in Ireland, 
 A little town I know ; 
 Its girls have tender Irish eyes 
 
 Beneath their brows of snow ; 
 And in the fields around it 
 The Fairy Hawthorns grow. 
 
THE THREE ROADS. 115 
 
 (9, the Hawthorn is a Queen 
 
 And the daughter of a King, 
 And amidst her branches green 
 
 The siveet brown thrushes sing. 
 
 And from that little city 
 
 Three roads forever run ; 
 And on those roads the people, 
 
 The father and the son, 
 The mother and the daughter, 
 
 Walk till the day is done. 
 
 O, the Hawthorn is a Queen 
 And the daughter oj a King, 
 
 And amidst her branches green 
 The thrushes sadly sing. 
 
 One road runs to the seaport 
 Where stately vessels lie — 
 
 American, Australian — 
 The weeping exiles cry, 
 Farewell to Grave and Hearthstone ! 
 Dear Ireland — good-bye ! " 
 
 O, the Hawthorn is a Queen 
 And the daughter of a King, 
 
 And amidst her branches green 
 ''' Farewell r the thrushes sing. 
 
Il6 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 One road it is a red, red road — 
 
 That road to England goes ; 
 The battle-drums are sounding, 
 
 The trump of battle blows , 
 And Ireland's sons go forth to fight 
 
 Against Red England's foes. 
 
 O, tht Hawthorn is a Queen 
 And the daughter of a King^ 
 
 And within her heart of green 
 The mournful thrushes sing. 
 
 One road it is a quiet road ; 
 
 They travel it full slow, 
 Their eyes are filled with sorrow, 
 
 The silent folk who go 
 To where the Stones of Silence 
 
 Are shining, row on row. 
 
 O^ the Hawthorn is a Queen 
 And a Lady fair and grand^ 
 
 And the thrushes sing the keen 
 Of the Dead — in Ireland. 
 
 Victor J. Daley. 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLE. 
 
 THE wind-strewn wheat lay far and wide upon the 
 paddocks bare, 
 The place all told the signs of drought — for we had had 
 our share : 
 
CHRISTMAS BELLE. 117 
 
 "Next week the interest will be due on our selected 
 
 land"— 
 Dad smoked and smoked, his care-lined face upon his 
 
 heavy hand. 
 "There 's only three more years to run; it must be paid — 
 
 but how ? 
 There's but one beast upon the farm I care a rap for 
 
 now; 
 There 's but one beast will raise the wind, so, as I must, 
 
 I '11 sell: 
 The Sydney buyer's sure to bid for the old mare, 
 
 Christmas Belle." 
 
 "Eleven years since she was foaled, down in the paddock 
 
 there ; 
 Pretty as paint she always was, easy to keep and care. 
 Your mother rode her many a time the year before she 
 
 died, 
 And little Tim, that went Beyond, could sit on her 
 
 astride. 
 We never did great shakes with her, although she once 
 
 raced well, 
 She had a temper of her own — had game old Christmas 
 
 Belle ! " 
 Then Dick (we reckoned Dick was hard!) beckoned us 
 
 two away — 
 "We '11 sell our own d — n mokes," said he, "and let the 
 
 old mare stay ! " 
 
Ii8 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 With spotless shirts and shining spurs we stood prepared 
 
 to go, 
 'Twas ten miles to the Lachlan Bridge, and we must 
 
 canter slow. 
 The missus (she is none too bad) came out among us men ; 
 She gave one look at old Dad's face and went straight in 
 
 again. 
 Young Mollie kissed old Belle's white nose, the kids were 
 
 everywhere ; 
 And Phil, the jockey of us all, reckoned to ride the mare. 
 But Dad's mouth took an ugly twist, of old we knew it well ; 
 "You 're smart," said he, " but none but me shall part 
 
 with Christmas Belle." 
 
 The blacks, with long-tailed, knock-kneed brutes, came 
 
 trailing up the road, 
 And Chinamen and half-caste boys on wall-eyed mongrels 
 
 strode. 
 Three hundred horses walked and pranced and crowded 
 
 round the course, 
 And wild Bess Flanagan was there to sell her coal-black 
 
 horse. 
 We scrambled for our tickets then, and pushed up near 
 
 the gate : 
 For four strong men on four good hacks, the weaker ones 
 
 must wait. 
 They gave us decent standing-room and civil tongues as 
 
 well — 
 She'd give a good substantial kick, would that same 
 
 Christmas Belle ! 
 
CHRISTMAS BELLE. 119 
 
 We saw the buyer was no fool — he wore no vest or 
 
 coat; 
 But it did n't affect his dealing, for he had n't learnt by 
 
 rote. 
 We had no luck with our three nags — my horse, though 
 
 strong, was small ; 
 And Dick's — a splendid galloper — too leggy and too tall; 
 While Phil's, the best of all the three, performed and 
 
 played-up high, 
 So now we had no choice at all but let the old man try. 
 He straightened up his rounded back, he tightened up 
 
 the girth. 
 And then he let the old girl rip for all that she was worth. 
 
 She sped like some slow-moving bird upon the dusty 
 
 grass, 
 And groups of men stopped in their talk to watch the 
 
 old man pass ; 
 The buyer's eyes took sudden light, the sound of hoofs 
 
 grew low, 
 And madcap Bess, she held her breath to see the brown 
 
 mare go. 
 "Grand pace," the buyer said ; "what price?" "Sixteen," 
 
 the boss replied — 
 He wanted just the interest due — no blood-money beside. 
 "Now, take the saddle off — just there." Dad did as he 
 
 was told ; 
 The buyer nodded. Dad stood back, and Christmas Belle 
 
 was sold ! 
 
I20 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Dad bargained with the auctioneer to send the interest 
 
 down, 
 He bought a flask of old Three Star and then made 
 
 straight from town. 
 We stayed behind in Willoughby and helped to raise the 
 
 fun, 
 We chaffed the girls, and shouted drinks as we had 
 
 always done. 
 At dusk we rode like funeral mutes along the mountain 
 
 track, 
 We would have given all we had to fetch the brown mare 
 
 back. 
 The wind blew cold across the range, the grey mists 
 
 heavy fell, 
 
 The night we sent to face the war the old mare Christmas 
 
 Belle. 
 
 John Carew. 
 
 MY MATE BILL 
 
 Jimmy the Hut-keeper Speaks: 
 
 THAT 'S his saddle across the tie-beam, an' them 's his 
 spurs up there 
 On the wall-plate over yonder : you kin see 's they ain't a 
 
 pair. 
 The daddy of all the stockmen as ever come must'rin' 
 
 here — 
 Killed in the flamin' mallee, yardin' a scrub-bred steer I 
 
MY MATE BILL. 121 
 
 They say as he 's gone to Heaven, an' shook off his 
 
 worldly cares, 
 But I can't sight Bill in a halo sot up on three blinded 
 
 hairs. 
 In Heaven ! What next, I wonder, for, strike me pink an' 
 
 blue 
 If I savey what in thunder they '11 find for Bill to do ! 
 
 He 'd never make one o' them angels with faces as white 
 
 as chalk, 
 All wool to the toes, like hoggets, an' wings like a eagle 
 
 'awk : 
 He could n't 'arp for apples — his voice 'ad tones as jarred. 
 An' he'd no more ear than a bald-faced bull, or calves in 
 
 a brandin'-yard. 
 
 He could sit on a buckin' brumby like a nob in an easy- 
 cheer. 
 
 An' chop his name with a green-hide fall on the flank of 
 a flyin' steer; 
 
 He could show the saints in glory the way that a fall 
 should drop. 
 
 But, sit on a throne ! — not William — unless they could 
 make it prop. 
 
 If the Heav'nly hosts get boxed now, as mobs most 
 
 always will. 
 Why, who'd cut 'em out like William, or draft on the 
 
 camp like Bill ? 
 
122 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 An 'orseman'd find it awkward, at first, with a push 
 
 that flew; 
 But blame my cats if I knows what else they '11 find for 
 
 Bill to do ! 
 
 He mightn't freeze to the seraphs, or chum with the 
 
 cherubim, 
 But if ever them seraph-johnnies get pokin' it, like, at 
 
 him, — 
 Well, if there 's hide in Heaven, an' silk for to make a 
 
 lash. 
 He'll yard the lot in the Jasper Lake in a blinded 
 
 lightnin'-flash ! 
 
 It 's hard if there ain't no cattle, but p'r'aps they '11 let 
 
 him sleep. 
 An' wake him up at the Judgment for to draft them goats 
 
 an' sheep : 
 It 's playin' it low on William, but p'r'aps he '11 buckle-to. 
 Just to show them high-toned seraphs what a mallee-man 
 
 can do. 
 
 If they saddles a big-boned angel — with a turn o' speed, 
 
 of course — 
 As can spiel like a four-year brumby, an' prop like an 
 
 old camp-horse, — 
 If they puts Bill up with a snaffle, an' a four or five-inch 
 
 spur. 
 An' eighteen foot o' green-hide for to chop the blinded fur, 
 
Jl/V MATE BILL. 
 
 [ To face Pa^e 122. 
 
MV MATE BILL. 123 
 
 He '11 draft them blamed Angoras in a way, it 's safe to 
 
 swear, 
 As '11 make them toney seraphs sit back on their thrones 
 
 an' stare ! 
 
 G. H. Gibson. 
 
 WHAT THE BOTTLE SAID. 
 
 A BLISTERED span of blazing sand, 
 A burning arch of sky . . . 
 Despair and Death on either hand . . . 
 Alone . . . And so to die. 
 
 A sandbank in the Indian Sea, 
 
 With not a patch of shade . . . 
 
 An atoll in the awful sea, 
 Outside the tracks of trade. 
 
 Here write I this . . . and gaunt fiends too 
 
 Have written, mocking me — 
 One thrice-cursed wretch of all a crew^ 
 
 One saved of twenty-three. 
 
 For twenty-two the sharks have ta'en, 
 
 And hungrily they fed ; 
 For twenty-two ha' done with pain. 
 
 They suffered . . . They are dead. 
 
124 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 One yet survives . . . Just God, the thirst 
 That tears my veins to-day . . . 
 
 The last ! the last ! . . . Why /a^/, not first? 
 . . . And why not yesterday ? 
 
 No sail ! No chance ! I 've tried to pray ! 
 
 The end is coming — close . . . 
 Christ, ease my soul ! Ah, take away 
 
 That face ! . . . Ah, Nancy Mose ! 
 
 The calm, wide waste ! The sky spread clear ! 
 
 All things to jibe my woe ! 
 The girl who waits — so dear, so dear ! 
 
 My Nance ! I loved her so. 
 
 And I had sworn to come back soon ! 
 
 . . . That this should be the last ! 
 A boiling surf ! A mad typhoon ! 
 
 An hour ! And all— the Past ! 
 
 One battered wretch to fight for breath 
 And beat the breakers through — 
 
 Spared. Spared! My God! when kinder Death 
 Has smiled on twenty-two. 
 
 Not mad . . . not yet : but deep in Hell, 
 Ten fathoms deep, I 've seen ! . . . 
 
 Kind God, I sinned ! Thou knowest well . . 
 But I was living clean. 
 
WHAT THE BOTTLE SAID. 125 
 
 Clean for her sake ! . . . 
 
 Just now I stood 
 
 Where cool, clear water flows . . . 
 And rushed to drink! . . . I fell . . . My God! 
 
 . . . Ah, Nancy — Nancy Mose ! 
 
 I Ve prayed to Christ to let me go -. 
 
 I 've cursed, I 've called, I *ve cried . . , 
 And all the world may never know 
 
 The horrid way 1 died. 
 
 A heap of bones that wind and sun 
 
 Bleach whiter day by day — 
 A thing that festers in the sun ! 
 
 A woman far away. 
 
 Out there! Out there! Ah, pain! I think . . 
 
 Cool, beaded wines . . iced, frothing beer! 
 Food ! Food ! Yes, food ! Yes, food and drink ! 
 
 . . . Oh ! I am raving . . . here. 
 
 Have sucked the vein . . have eaten . . sand! 
 
 May Jesus pity me I 
 My brain gone strange to-day ... my hand 
 
 Here signed ... of twenty-three ! 
 
 The Bristol^ ship . . bound out . . Rangoon . . 
 
 June . . , twenty . . . forty-three . . . 
 Hard hit . . . nor'-east typhoon ; 
 
 All hands . . . lost . . . lost ... but me. 
 
[26 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 The Bristol^ ship ... in case ye find 
 The bottle . . . tell — if . . . none but those 
 
 Who suffer thirst ... am going blind . . • 
 God bless you . . . Nancy Mose! 
 
 Floated round, and washed around ; 
 
 Flung a thousand leagues ; 
 Carried round and eddied round 
 
 In ocean's mad intrigues — 
 
 Grim words upon a shred of cloth, 
 
 With human blood scrawled red, 
 A drifted tale of wreck and wrath — 
 
 And thus the Bottle said. 
 
 But only those can know and care. 
 
 Who fight the Sea for bread 
 
 The inner Truth, red-written there^ 
 
 OJ what the Bottle said. 
 
 E. J. Brady. 
 
 A GERMAN LAMENT. 
 
 IVAS doin' tarn fine shplendid 
 Buyin' sheepskins, vool, und drippin , 
 Und my cart-shpring mid ole Roany — 
 Veil, I lofe dem like mein vrow ; 
 
A GERMAN LAMENT. 127 
 
 Now dot lofe affair ish ended, 
 
 Und main face von't shtop from shlippin' 
 
 Ven I dinks apout dot pony 
 
 Und dot cart-shpring und mein cow. 
 
 Duyfel turn dot tarn cow over 
 
 Mit her tail-board on he's fender — 
 
 If I tole her fifty tousand 
 
 Times I tole her vonce, to shdop 
 
 Feedin* alvays on dot clover, 
 
 But, like all dot female gender, 
 
 She must vant to know de "hows" and 
 
 "Vhys"; and so she bust up— /<?/>/ 
 
 Veil, I harness up mein vaggon — 
 For dot cow require some shiftin', 
 Und she die close up mein kitchen — 
 Den I makes mein vhip-stock crack, 
 Und dot cow pehind comes draggin'; 
 Roany up hill do some liftin', 
 Und he sit back in de pritchin' 
 Comin' down de saddle track. 
 
 Soon dot funeral brocession, 
 
 Ve comes vindin' down de diggin's 
 
 Till I find a hole dot do me 
 
 For a grave-yart for mein cow. 
 
 Pretty kvick I take bossession 
 
 Of dot mine-shaft sunked by Higgins, 
 
 Und 1 gee mein horse-cart to me — 
 
 Veil, 1 haf no horse-cart now. 
 
128 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 "Goodbye, Taisy!" und she's splashin* 
 Forty feet down mit de vater; 
 But dot rope I not untie it, 
 Und she drag mein horse-cart in — 
 Cart-shpring, Roany — all goes crashin' 
 Down mid tamful noise and schlaughter, 
 Und den ev'ryding 's so quiet 
 Dot you could pick up a pin ! 
 
 Bendeb. 
 
 THE ANARCHIST. 
 
 THE dawn hangs heavy on the distant hill, 
 The darkness shudders slowly into light; 
 And from the weary bosom of the night 
 The pent winds sigh, then sink with horror still. 
 
 Naked and grey, the guillotine stands square 
 Upon the hill, while from its base the crowd 
 Surges out far, and waits, to silence cowed, 
 
 Impatient for the thing to happen there. 
 
 Listen! The bells within the tower toll 
 
 Five naked notes; and down within his cell 
 The prisoner hears and mutters, "It is well," 
 
 Though like that other knife each cuts his soul. 
 
 His sick nerves from the probing echoes shrink. 
 
 "This is the end," he says; "let me be strong; 
 
 Let me be brave till then — 't is not for long : 
 I must not think of it — I must not think ! " 
 
THE ANARCHIST. 
 
 129 
 
 See, through the courtyard, guarded, comes the slight 
 Thin figure of the anarchist. Amazed, 
 He sees the thousand faces swiftly raised — 
 
 The billows of the crowd break into white ! 
 
 One narrow, alien glance below, and then 
 
 The scene fades dimly from his film-glazed eyes ; 
 And shuddering he sees his past arise — 
 
 The cycle of his life begins again. 
 
 And as misshapen memories crowd fast 
 
 Upon him, jostling in a sudden strife, 
 
 Athwart the dull, drab level of his life 
 Stand sharply out the blood-stains of his past : 
 
 His youth, before he knew he had it, lost ; 
 
 His father's body by an accident 
 
 'Neath the rich man's remorseless mill-wheels pent- 
 A corpse ; and sister, mother, brother tossed 
 
 Out to the mercy of the merciless. 
 
 His mother stricken next ; her humble niche 
 Was needed by the reckless and the rich, 
 
 And death was easier than life's loneliness. 
 
 His sister, — she had fortune in her face, 
 And won it, too ; till Vice's fingers tore 
 The freshness from her figure, and no more 
 
 In idleness she flaunted her disgrace. 
 
 I 
 
I30 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 He lost her, stifled in the world's wide smother, 
 For years ; till one night on the street they met. 
 She seized him— he can feel that hot thrill yet ! — 
 
 She spoke him — knowing not he was her brother ! 
 
 Wrong reeking of the rich incessantly ! 
 
 Oppression and oppression o'er again ! 
 
 Till from the smouldering hate within his brain 
 Mad fever fired the fuse of Anarchy. 
 
 Then plot and cunning, weak, futile and mean, 
 The maddened one against the many ; thus 
 He strove to strangle Order's octopus — 
 
 And gained the goal at last — the guillotine ! 
 
 It waits him grim and grey ; he sees it not, 
 Nor hears the rising murmur ripple out 
 To the crowd's edge, and, turning, die in doubt. 
 
 The vague, uncertain future threatens — what? 
 
 So . . . shall he speak, fling out his last reply? 
 
 Why waste the time in trivialities ? 
 
 One throbbing thought now holds him ; and there is 
 No room for sign or speech — he has to die. 
 
 Only a murmur wavers up and shakes 
 The sullen air, then hesitates and dies ; 
 And the grim hush of horror stifled lies, 
 
 Suspended like a billow ere it breaks. 
 
THE ANARCHIST. 131 
 
 One bitter prayer, half curse, he mutters when 
 The knife hangs high above, and the world waits; 
 But ere it swoops an age it hesitates : 
 
 The word is given, breaths are drawn, and then . , • 
 
 With eyes and soul close shut— be swift, relief ! — 
 The prisoner waits the end that does not come. 
 For hark ! that heavy, low, tumultuous hum 
 
 That surges, surges till it shouts ^^ Reprieve V^ 
 
 *■'' Reprieved and pardoned I ^^ All his senses swim 
 In a rose-mist ! As Sleep's soft hand that soothes 
 The tense, strained limbs of fevered Day and smoothes 
 
 Life's knotted nerves— so comes relief to him. . . . 
 
 And when he woke again his soul, set free. 
 Had wandered far, within a moment's space, 
 And seen the sadness of God's silent face — 
 
 The mighty calm of immortality. 
 
 How like a triumph his home-coming ! Then 
 The glorious news that met him, — how that Right 
 Had routed Wrong, for ever faction's fight 
 
 Was finished, and the world was one again! 
 
 Then swiftly through his swimming, mist-dimmed eyes 
 He sees the good and great uprise again ; 
 And Reason rings the knell of grief and pain : 
 
 The gladdened new world lapped in sunlight lies. 
 
132 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Long life was his, with honour. On Fame's breath 
 His name was borne, until in perfect peace — 
 Glad like a mellow fruit to fall and cease — 
 
 His long life ripened richly into death. . . . 
 
 Yet none knew this but he. The crowd still waits ; 
 Shoots swift the lightning of the knife, and loud 
 Roars the hoarse thunder from the sated crowd, 
 
 And justice has been done. God compensates. 
 
 Arthur H. Adams. 
 
 THE FALL OF PATRICK DOOLEY. 
 
 LASHT Christmas, begorra! 
 Oi know to my sorra, 
 A gosht from the ind of the wurrld kem along ; 
 An' the same was O'Hagan, 
 That out-an'-out pagan, 
 As wild as the Divil an' ten toimes as shtrong. 
 
 Jist thin Oi was sober ; 
 
 For, back in October, 
 I 'd taken the plidge — done the timperance thrick- 
 
 An' so, to be sayrious, 
 
 Oi 'd dhrunk bottles various 
 Of cowld soda-wather wid niver a shtick. 
 
THE FALL OF PATRICK DOOLEY. 133 
 
 Shure, I was a sample 
 
 An' shinin' example 
 Of tay-total vartue an' timperance thruth ; 
 
 Till flamin' O'Hagan, 
 
 That ragin' ould pagan, 
 Made me dhrunk as a lord widout wettin' a tooth. 
 
 His gosht kem in blinkin', 
 
 An' cursin', an' winkin'; 
 Sez Oi, "Ye've been dhrinkin', O'Hagan, Oi fear?" 
 
 Says he, "Parthrick Dooley, 
 
 Yer shpakin' untrooley, 
 Oi haven't touched liquor this twinty-five year! 
 
 "Shure, you know, Oi expired 
 
 Before Oi got tired 
 Of atin' an' dhrinkin' of whisky my fill ; 
 
 The shtuff got so well in — 
 
 It 's thruth that Oi 'm tellin'— 
 The gosht of that whisky goes round wid me still ! 
 
 "It's moighty provokin' 
 
 To spind your loife soakin' 
 Up whisky that lives whin ye 're gobbled by Death; 
 
 'T is dishdainful they trate me, j 
 
 No gosht cares to mate me. 
 An' the Divil himsilf got dead dhrunk on my breath !** 
 
 One whiff then he gave me. 
 An', if ye '11 belave me, 
 Oi was dead to the wurrld, Oi was dhrunk as a posht ; 
 
134 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And now, iver afther, 
 They call me, wid laughther, 
 *'The man who got dhrunk on the breath of a gosht ! " 
 
 They taunt an' they jeer me, 
 
 An' say they found near me 
 Some tin impty bottles — but yet Oi do say 
 
 'T was the breath of O'Hagan, 
 
 That shcoundrelly pagan, 
 That made me so dhrunk upon lasht Christmas Day ! 
 
 E. J. Dempsey. 
 
 THE JESTER OF THE DAMNED. 
 
 THE Laughter-Maker was dead who had shaken the 
 world with mirth; 
 His soul flew up from the grave, leaving a mournful 
 earth ; 
 
 Up through the web of the stars, till he came to the 
 
 Gates of Gold, 
 And there he claimed admittance right haughtily and 
 
 bold: 
 
 "Out on the earth You created, my laughter can move 
 
 them all; 
 When they saw my name on the coffin, they sniggered 
 
 under my pall. 
 
THE JESTER OF THE DAMNED. 135 
 
 "When the collar was tight and galling, the yoke too 
 
 heavy to bear, 
 I taught them how to ease it, I lightened the load of care. 
 
 "Weary and wasted women, haggard and hopeless men, 
 Drank for a moment from Lethe, learnt to be merry 
 again ; 
 
 "Laughter bred patient courage; I, with my gibes and 
 
 quips, 
 Taught them to dance in the fetters, laugh at the curling 
 
 whips — 
 
 "They whom love had forsaken, they whom love had 
 
 accurst, 
 They whose souls were ready out of their lives to burst, 
 
 "They whom the world had trampled — asking but 
 
 breathing space — 
 Rose and conquered the world by laughing back in its 
 
 face. 
 
 "Gaze on the green globe yonder, whirring and spinning 
 
 along ! 
 Through the hoarse jar of its engines catch you a wisp of 
 
 song? 
 
 "Mine is the song they are singing, mine is the mirth you 
 
 hear. 
 Over the steaming turmoil and jangle of rusted gear: 
 
136 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 "Laugh when the strain 's severest — make it a joke— you 
 
 can! 
 Smile at the nerve that tingles — conquer it^prove a man I 
 
 "Flay with the scythe and hour-glass — grin for his grin 
 
 give Death! 
 Sho7V him you are his master — laugh with your dying 
 
 breath! 
 
 "This is the creed I have practised, this is the faith I 
 
 taught — 
 Ask of the millions yonder the miracles it has wrought. 
 
 "How do you reckon the tally? What is the wage I hold? 
 Have I not earned my welcome? Open the Gates of 
 Gold!" 
 
 Strangely the Judge smiled, speaking: "Judge of yourself 
 
 you '11 be — 
 You are paid in the coin you pay with; and for the 
 
 payment — See ! " 
 
 Opened the lapis arches, parted the sapphired sheen — 
 The Laughter-Maker fell on his knees at the sight revealed 
 between. 
 
 All the glow of a garden, all that a sunset shows. 
 
 All the distracting beauty that flushes the face of a rose ! 
 
 Hues that play in the opal, shadows on molten gold. 
 Just ere the ingot, cooling, frosts in the shielding mould ! 
 
THE JESTER OF THE DAMNED. 137 
 
 Music the midnight planets murmur down in the deep, 
 All the haunting faces thronging a Poet's sleep ! 
 
 "Now," said the Judge, "for your verdict! What does 
 
 that Ruby declare? 
 Look in the mirror of blood and flame, and read your 
 
 answer there!" 
 
 A strutting^ leering down, with a hideous painted face^ 
 Dull, soulless eyes and coarse lips curled in a mountebank^ s 
 grimace I 
 
 Said the Judge, as there rose faint harmonies of some 
 
 celestial hymn: 
 "How would that figure look, think you, in the choir of 
 
 the Seraphim? 
 
 "What have the Blest with laughter? They have no whips 
 
 to endure ; 
 You and your Art grotesque would here have a sinecure." 
 
 The Laughter-Maker saw and heard, and he knew his 
 
 ugliness ! 
 He turned away and dropped in dismay to the depths of 
 
 nothingness. 
 
 Till he came to the Other Gates — black and rusty and 
 
 grim— 
 And through the keyhole flew fiery tongues that sputtered 
 
 and spat at him. 
 
138 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Back they flew at his summons, and out on the roaring 
 
 flame 
 Came cheers upon cheers in chorus, when the Janitor 
 
 gave his name. 
 
 "Welcome, O Laughter-Maker! Bring him with honour in, 
 Truly our Lord is good to the suff'ering sons of Sin ! 
 
 "Here is the balm we have needed — give us a rousing 
 
 joke ! 
 Help us to empty our lungs of the stench of the sulphur 
 
 smoke ! 
 
 "Make us scoff at the brimstone, teach us to laugh at the 
 
 coals; 
 Yours shall it be to win the debris of the hearts of poor 
 
 damned souls! 
 
 "Way for the grand procession! Room for the Lords of 
 
 Hell! 
 Guards, present your pokers ! Ring the Great Fire Bell !" 
 
 They marched the Laughter-Maker in : Cerberus wagged 
 
 his tail; 
 Charon caught a crab with joy, when he joined in the 
 
 crowd's "All Hail!" 
 
 They gave him a lofty throne on the edge of a crater's pit. 
 With heralds around in a ring to trumpet forth his wit. 
 
 Loud they blared his laughter, over the burning seas, 
 Into the bubbling cesspits, bringing a brief surcease 
 
THE JESTER OF THE DAMNED. 139 
 
 To roast and toast and turning-spit and skewer and 
 
 frizzling hide, 
 The rabid devouring draught that flew through the 
 
 damper open wide. 
 
 They tied their tails in true-love knots, danced round him 
 
 where he sat; 
 But they prodded his ribs with toasting-forks whenever 
 
 the joke fell flat. 
 
 They splashed him over with lava, made him skip on 
 
 red-hot bricks, 
 Gave him to drink from a kettle's mouth — till he had to 
 
 learn new tricks. 
 
 And when his wage they threw him, laughing and shouting 
 
 "Encore!" 
 He picked it up — 'twas heated pence— and then they 
 
 laughed the more. 
 
 There in the City of Devils — star of comedians — he 
 Plays the lead in a one-act farce for all eternity. 
 
 And sitting where they have throned him, the Jester of 
 
 the Damned, 
 At times he thinks of the Gates of Gold, that in his face 
 
 were slammed, 
 
 And then his laugh is loudest! never he plays so well. 
 As when he remembers Heaven, he — who is damned in 
 Hell. 
 
 J. H. Greene 
 
140 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 THE HAIRY MAN OF KOORAWATHA. 
 
 'T'HERE 'S a range beneath whose savage scowl the 
 -*■ low land cowers in craven dread,^ — 
 A fierce black ridge that Nature seems to have formed in 
 
 a furious whim ; 
 Where gibbers grey through the scrub show bare, like 
 
 warts and wens on a woolly head, 
 And shunned by shepherds in bygone days as the haunt 
 
 of a Monster grim. 
 And all whom evil chance allowed that Being's shape to 
 
 scan, 
 With white and shuddering lips avowed 't was — ugh ! — 
 
 just like a man 1 
 
 "If Oi must choose betwane yahoos an' settlers' sheep,' 
 
 said he, 
 "Oi'll take my chance wid the hairy min," — and he 
 
 chuckled with churlish glee. 
 Well, years had passed in a hum-drum way since the 
 
 Creature had last been seen of men. 
 When Mick Mulleary came along in search of a vacant 
 
 block, 
 And coolly put in his corner peg within a mile of the 
 
 Monster's den, — 
 Quite chirpy indeed to have dropped upon such a splendid 
 
 run for stock. 
 
THE HAIRY MAN OF KOORAWATHA. 141 
 
 So he settled down like a pioneer and was well content 
 
 as a bear might be, 
 Till he took a fit in the field one day at the sound of a 
 
 splitter's axe ; 
 And he growled to his wife as he rallied to, " Is there no 
 
 law for the loikes of me ? 
 Be the powers of war Oi '11 make him shift in less than a 
 
 brace o' cracks. 
 There 's the rabbit-pest an' all the rest of the plagues 
 
 we 've got to face, 
 But there 's divil a nuisance among thim ahl to aiqual the 
 
 human race." 
 
 Then he rigged himself from scalp to toe in a glove-tight 
 
 suit of dingo-skins. 
 And stole away to the mountain side while muttering in 
 
 undertone : 
 "Consarnin' that shplitter beyant," said he, "if he's 
 
 annyways frisky about his pins 
 Oi '11 make him clare out of camp as fast as the divil 
 
 wint out of Athlone. 
 And thin, maybe, they '11 lave me free whin they find, as 
 
 sure as they will. 
 There are rale yabo€>s-an' bunyips an' things round 
 
 Koorawatha still. 
 
 "But hould on now! is it mad ye are that ye've no 
 
 regard for a loaded gun ? 
 Fwhat a splindid mark for a sportsman ! . . \ Och ! the 
 
 saints be kind this day ! " . . . 
 
142 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 He stood aghast, for fair in front was the thing itself — 
 
 the Hairy One ! — 
 There, peering over a clump of rock not twenty yards 
 
 away, 
 In nasty truth a face uncouth — all nose and mouth and 
 
 ears, 
 And a straggling beard like stringy-bark, and hair all 
 
 spikes and spears. 
 
 Limp as a rag with awful fright, Mick felt just then he 'd 
 
 lost his legs, 
 But soon re-action braced him tight and gave him wings 
 
 instead ; 
 And nearing home he came upon his wife on the hunt 
 
 for turkey-eggs. 
 Who, unaware of his wild disguise, let out a screech 
 
 and fied. 
 He chased her straight through the cow-yard gate 'mid a 
 
 racket of terrified howls 
 From freckled young savages, mixed with the yelps of 
 
 curs and the cackle of fowls. 
 
 Time kills romance. A candidate drove up one day to 
 
 MuUeary's gate. 
 And sought with greasy smile and speech a solid vote 
 
 to score ; 
 But Mick could only gape and stare, for in the trap 
 
 before him there 
 Was the very face he 'd seen amongst the rocks three 
 
 years before. 
 
THE HAIRY MAN OF KOORAWATHA. 
 
 I To face Page 142. 
 
THE HAIRY MAN OF KOORAWATHA. 143 
 
 I At length, in pique at non-success, the face began to 
 
 sneer ; 
 •'No doubt," said he, "you hit it well among your 
 
 neighbours here, 
 Although a passing glimpse of one was quite enough for 
 
 me; 
 But p'rhaps he was a friend of yours — a relative, maybe?" 
 ^ "It 's not the Hairy Man," said Mick, "ye need be afther 
 
 fearin' ; 
 As I belave he 's had a shave — and gone electioneering I " 
 
 Tom Freeman. 
 
 A BIG "BUST." 
 
 ^^HTHE wildest bust I ever struck," the lean old 
 r ^ bushman said, 
 
 I "Was run up by a gentleman they christened Heavy Ned. 
 
 "A s'perior sort o' person — which they often is the worst — 
 With Gehenner and the Tropics planted in him fer a thirst. 
 
 "To try an' quench that thirst by pourin' liquor in his 
 
 shirt 
 Was like a-irrigatin' the Sahara with a squirt. 
 
 "He went out on a bust one time, an' when the devils 
 
 come 
 He scooted for the plain with 'arf a yard o' Hogan's rum. 
 
144 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 "An' there he held his jamboree for fourteen days, I swear, 
 An' jim-jams swarmed from all the world like locusts in 
 the air. 
 
 "It was a noble levee. In the middle of a ring 
 
 Ned sat in state, receivin' of his jim-jams, like a king." 
 
 "Two weeks?" a doubter murmured — "VVhy^ he'd starve. 
 
 What did he eat?" 
 "He caught the fantods," said old Jim, "an' ate the 
 
 beggars neat." 
 
 "The fantods? Rats! They was n't real." The old man 
 
 answered: "So, 
 Of course, they was n't real, my lad, but how was he to 
 
 know?" 
 
 Edward Dyson. 
 
 A TIGHT CORNER. 
 
 ^ ^ T/ES, I know it's a mighty poor chance, but there's 
 
 A no other way. 
 Look, man, look at her lips ! Don't you see they 're 
 
 already quite blue? 
 
 P'r'aps ten minutes, p'r'aps twenty, and then — it will be 
 
 as I say. 
 No. There's no other remedy now; it's the one thing 
 
 to do. 
 
A TIGHT CORNER. 145 
 
 'Where's the canula, nurse? And the silk, and that 
 needle, — quick ! 
 I One per thousand 'perchloride' — here, please; put the 
 lamp on that chair. 
 
 "Are you ready now, Clarisse? All right, dear ! it 's only 
 a prick. 
 
 "Sponge, nurse ! No, no — a clean one ! The tube ! — 
 
 just a second now — There! 
 
 .♦•#»• 
 "Hold up, Ted! It 's all over Oh, bosh ! She 's as 
 
 right as the bank. 
 Yes, perhaps for a moment — but mind, she can't speak, 
 
 so don't talk. 
 
 "Owe me! Fiddlesticks! don't be an ass; it's not me 
 
 you 've to thank. 
 Here! drink this. Light your pipe: that's your sort! 
 
 Now then, come for a walk." 
 
 C. H. SOUTER. 
 
 THE ROAD TO WYOMING. 
 
 UPON the road to Wyoming 
 The cool ferns rustled in the wood, 
 When I rode forth to gain a thing 
 That was to me Life's only good. 
 J 
 
146 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Love SO lightly understood ! 
 
 O last gleam of a golden wing ! 
 
 1 may not ride now, though I would, 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 The deep, cool stillness after rain, 
 The fragrant earth, the dripping trees, 
 
 The road still winding to attain 
 The far-off mountain's mysteries. 
 
 The dappled shade the boughs would fling- 
 My dream of joy endeared all these 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 Till, all the long miles ridden through, 
 I saw her standing by the fence 
 
 To greet me with a shyness new, 
 A heavenly coldness of pretence. 
 
 She knew the gift I came to bring, 
 She knew I loved her, soul and sense, 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 She stood between the day and night. 
 Between red sunset and pale moon ; 
 
 Her head drooped in the mystic light 
 As droops a lily in the noon ; 
 
 Her voice was low and faltering. 
 Her beauty made my senses swoon, 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
THE ROAD TO WYOMING. 147 
 
 I leaped from off my horse in haste 
 
 (The moon grew bright, the day waxed pale) 
 
 The world without was but a waste : 
 I feared to let her power prevail, 
 
 Yet spoke, on reason's backward swing ; 
 I kissed her, by the paddock rail, 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 unforgotten moment ! won 
 
 From out the clutch of ruthless Fate ! 
 
 1 clasped her close, my only one. 
 The mistress of my love and hate. 
 
 My heart that gold head pillowing, — 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! we lingered late 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 I rode away before the morn, 
 
 I rode to win her wealth and fame ; 
 
 Her love should never turn to scorn, 
 Her pride should be to bear my name. 
 
 For I would conquer Life, and bring 
 All gifts to feed that altar flame 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 I whispered close to her pale mouth 
 
 One year should see me claim my bride ; 
 
 Then East and West and North and South 
 I fought the cold, fierce ocean-tide : 
 
148 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 One gold tress twisted in a ring 
 Was all my token of that ride 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 For her I fought, for her I won; 
 
 I came when Summer's golden haze 
 Lay on this land that loves the sun, 
 
 The land of pastoral, peaceful days . 
 Straight as a shaft flies from the string 
 
 I passed along the old, old ways 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 I drew so near our meeting-place, 
 I dreamed I kissed her lips again; 
 
 Then, ah ! I saw her living face. 
 
 Her grey eyes washed with purple stain, 
 
 Her shape, her light, swift footsteps' swing, 
 Her loosened tresses' golden grace. 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 But, oh ! just gods ! even more than this 
 I saw, and better were she dead ! 
 
 A stranger came that face to kiss. 
 
 And laughed, and stroked that sunlit head ; 
 
 Even now I feel the serpent sting 
 That turned the azure sky blood-red. 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
THE ROAD TO WYOMING. 149 
 
 I held my hand — I did not slay; 
 
 woman ! you were pale with fear, 
 /was the fool, — you cried that day; 
 
 1 left you for a whole long year, 
 As if you were a flower to fling 
 
 Aside for months ! — I had faint cheer 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 For so you spoke when he was gone. 
 
 And I rode up and faced you there; 
 Ah, well, poor reed that I leaned on, 
 You have some sorrow for your share ! 
 
 I think your guardian saint took wing 
 
 When you grew false through sheer despair, 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 Ah, better had you died, in truth; 
 
 And I — I dreamed of death that hour; 
 But in a flash, my stricken youth. 
 
 My slain love, faded like a flower. 
 I saw what gifts the years might bring : 
 
 Great truths should crush that falsehood's power 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 So forward to outlive the lie. 
 
 Far from your false white arms and breast ! 
 Though I shall carry till I die 
 
 The fierce regret that cannot rest. 
 
ISO THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Though love has grown a worthless thing, 
 
 I see you always, golden tressed, 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 I see you always, though again 
 
 I shall not clasp your perjured hand; 
 
 Though love survive, betwixt us twain 
 For evermore the fierce gods stand ! 
 
 Farewell ! for myriad voices sing 
 
 From shore to shore, though none remain 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! Had you been true. 
 Even life had been not much to miss ; 
 
 But now — a few more years lived through. 
 And we forget the pang of this. 
 — Death's starry silence shall not bring 
 One promise precious as your kiss 
 
 Upon the road to Wyoming ! 
 
 Evelyn Threlfall 
 
 JIM JAMIESON, OF TRINGABAR. 
 
 JIM JAMIESON, 
 Of Tringabar, 
 By everyone 
 
 Both near and far 
 Was known to be the meanest man 
 That e'er sold sawdust mixed with bran : 
 
JIM JAMIESON OF TRINGABAR. 151 
 
 He had a stiff- 
 Kneed, mangy moke, 
 Which looked as if 
 Its heart was broke; 
 A nag of venerable age 
 But questionable parentage. 
 
 Now this same Jim, 
 One morning hot, 
 Selected him 
 A gun and shot, 
 And cantered off to try to shoot 
 Some wandering hare or bandicoot 
 
 And when so far 
 Arrived as the 
 Particular 
 Locality 
 Where game abounds, he tied his horse 
 But just beyond a watercourse. 
 
 "You beast ! " he said, 
 
 "You landed me 
 Upon my head 
 
 This morning. See! 
 No food or drink with my consent 
 Until to-night, for punishment." 
 
 He stalked away; 
 
 With anxious eye 
 His famished steed 
 
ISS THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Observed near by 
 A juicy pile (delicious sight ! ) 
 Of cartridges, marked "Dynamite.** 
 
 One dubious sniff 
 
 And they had passed, 
 Gulped down as if 
 The region vast 
 AVhere they reposed had ne'er before 
 Partaken such ambrosia. , 
 
 When Jim arrived. 
 
 His gallant steed, 
 Although deprived 
 Of grassy feed. 
 Bulged slightly; on his bony side 
 He lay, prostrate but satisfied. 
 
 A curse, a whack. 
 An angry snort, 
 A rumble; and 
 
 A loud report ! . . , 
 Now o'er the plains of Tringabar 
 Jim Jamieson lies scattered far. 
 
 Pan. 
 
 THE MALLEE FIRE. 
 
 I SUPPOSE it just depends on where you 're raised. 
 Once I met a cove as swore by green belar ! 
 Could n't sight the good old mallee-stump I praised : 
 Well — / could n't sight belar, and there you are ! 
 
THE MALLEE FIRE. 153 
 
 But the faces in the fire where the mallee-stump's a-bh*nking 
 Are the friendliest I ever seen, to my way o' thinking ! 
 
 In the city where the fires is mostly coal — 
 There ! I can't abear to go and warm my feet ! 
 Spitting, fizzing things as has n't got no soul ! 
 Things as puffs out yaller smoke instead of heat ! 
 
 But at home — well, it is home when the mallee-stump 's 
 
 a-burning, 
 And the evening's drawing chilly and the season is a- turning ! 
 
 And there's some as runs them down because they're 
 
 tough. 
 Well? And what's the good of anythink as ainWi 
 No. It 's nary use to serve 'em any bluif, 
 For they 'd use up all the patience of a saint. 
 
 But they '11 split as sweet as sugar if you know the way to 
 
 take 'em. 
 If you donU^ there isn't nothink in the world as '11 make 'em! 
 
 They're tremenjus hard to kindle, tho', at first: 
 Like a friendship of the kind as comes to stay. 
 You can blow and blow and blow until you burst, 
 And when they won*t, they wof^t burn, anyway ! 
 
 But when once they gets a start, tho' they make no showy 
 
 flashes, 
 Well, they '11 serve you true and honest to the last pinch 
 
 of ashes ! 
 
 C. H. SOUTER. 
 
IS4 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 AMONG THE PALMS. 
 
 TO save the past by one brave deed ! 
 The time was "now," the place "this spot" 
 Love-stifled rage importunes speed, 
 
 For Hate can thrive where Love will rot. 
 
 A noiseless step, a whispered word, 
 A man clasped in a woman's arms ! 
 
 The white-faced watcher saw and heard, 
 And beckoned Death — among the palms. 
 
 He kissed a dagger's silvered hilt — 
 
 Her gift once in the long ago ; 
 Then whispering Heaven — "Forgive her guilt !" 
 
 He freed her with a single blow. 
 
 And who shall say 't was ill or good 
 
 Who reads not the Recorder's scroll? . , , 
 
 An angel came and caught his blood; 
 A devil laughed and took his soul. 
 
 I only see what might have been ; 
 
 A girl locked in a dead man's arms; 
 A traitor slain, a stain wiped clean — 
 
 Among the palms, among the palms. 
 
 Hesketh. 
 
DREAMS AND DEEDS. 155 
 
 DREAMS AND DEEDS. 
 
 IN dreams — I wield the lightning's flash 
 And whip the wearying planet's pace. 
 In deed — I tremble at the dash 
 Of cabman's whip flicked near my face. 
 
 In dreams — with joyous gods I dine, 
 And nectar's none too good for me. 
 
 In fact — I take another line: 
 A very mildish kind of tea. 
 
 In dreams— I lead an armed host 
 To victory through storm and stress. 
 
 In deed — my fiercest fight at most 
 Is but an ill-played game of chess. 
 
 In dreams — I own a business vast, 
 And in huge industries engage. 
 
 In deed — at risks I stand aghast 
 And tremble for my weekly wage. 
 
 In dreams — my well-kept garden knows 
 The harvest of my steady toil. 
 
 In deed — the weeds in serried rows 
 Possess my patch of city soil. 
 
 Good Sancho gave his thanks for Sleep, 
 But, when I see how sordid seems 
 
 This world of those who toil and weep, 
 I off'er up my thanks for Dreams. 
 
156 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 They come with cruel Fact to cope 
 And temper stern old Fate's decrees; 
 
 They dower day with art and hope 
 And night with varied fantasies. 
 
 And, if you add up Life's account, 
 
 You '11 find the dreams, though filmy-light, 
 
 Are far the best of the amount : 
 
 The things that make the balance right ! 
 
 E. J. Dempsey. 
 
 BOKO. 
 
 ALL the riding-gear is rusty, all the girths and straps 
 are dusty, 
 And the saddle 's old and mouldy where it 's hanging on 
 
 the wall; 
 While the stockwhip and the bridle on their pegs are 
 
 hanging idle. 
 And old Boko comes no longer to the sliprails when I 
 
 call. 
 No, because his bones are lying where / lay beneath him 
 
 dying 
 When the game old stock-horse blundered at the jump, 
 
 and broke his neck ; 
 And I got a woeful smashing when the poor old fellow, 
 
 crashing 
 Through the timber, crushed me under to a bruised and 
 
 sightless wreck. 
 
BOKO. 157 
 
 With his single eye to guide him, very few could live 
 beside him, 
 
 Though he was no thoroughbred, but just a poor old 
 grass-fed moke ; 
 
 And we held the reputation, crack scrub-dashers on the 
 station : 
 
 You could track us through the mulga by the timber 
 that we broke. 
 
 And the day we got the buster was just after bangtail- 
 muster; 
 
 I had asked the super.'s daughter to become head- 
 stockman's wife : 
 
 She had answered, " I am ready. If you '11 promise to be 
 steady j 
 
 If you '11 give up drink and fighting. Jack, and lead a 
 decent life." 
 
 And from that our quarrel started — both grew angry and 
 
 we parted, 
 And that night I started drinking at the shanty on the Flat 
 Where the o.p. grog is snaky ; and next day all wild and shaky 
 I rode over to a picnic that I knew she would be at. 
 She was there all mirth and gladness, but I masked my 
 
 sullen madness — 
 Held aloof, and would not see the sorrow growing in 
 
 her eyes; 
 All around were gay and busy, but my brain was hot and 
 
 dizzy, 
 When an old man kangaroo went bounding past across 
 
 the rise. 
 
158 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Spurs and bits and stirrups jingled, shouts and glad 
 
 confusion mingled, 
 While we urged the dogs and horses, fresh and eager 
 
 for the fray; 
 Horses, too, with plenty breeding, but the old bush nag 
 
 was leading, — 
 Once we left the open country Boko showed them all 
 
 the way. 
 Dead Box Rise and She-oak Hollow taxed their horse- 
 manship to follow ; 
 At the old marsupial fence I had them pounding at their 
 
 top; 
 Half-insane and wild with liquor, still I led and urged 
 
 them quicker. 
 Though the rest were pulling up and some were calling 
 
 out to stop. 
 
 It was only reckless flashness, only harebrained drunken 
 
 rashness ; 
 I looked back and laughed to see them drawing rein 
 
 away behind ; 
 Then I turned and spurred him to it, but he struck and 
 
 toppled through it, — 
 When they dragged me from beneath him he was dead, 
 
 and I was blind. 
 When I woke to know my blindness, then I woke to \ 
 
 know her kindness, 
 For she stood beside my bed and bandaged up my 
 
 shattered brow, 
 
■■/n 
 
 ' 4. 
 
 BOKO. 
 Then I fumed and sptirred him to it, but he struck and toppled through it ! " 
 
 [ To face Page ijS. 
 
BOKO, 159 
 
 Whisp'ring, "Let me help to bear it. I was wrong and I 
 
 will share it. 
 Won't you have me, for I love you just as much as ever 
 
 now ? " 
 
 And she would have shared my sorrow through this night 
 
 that has no morrow, 
 But I loved her far too well to let her be a cripple's 
 
 bride ; 
 And at times when I am able just to ramble to the stable, 
 Where I sit and dream of Boko and of many a merry 
 
 ride, — 
 I can hear her children playing ; I can hear the horses 
 
 neighing; 
 I can hear the stockwhips cracking when the cattle reach 
 
 the yard ; — 
 But my sightless eyes may glisten — all the world is one 
 
 dark prison. 
 And the gates to light and gladness shall be never more 
 
 unbarred. 
 
 For the riding-gear is rusty, and the racing-tackle musty, 
 And though Boko's bones are bleaching, there are colts 
 
 upon the plain — 
 Fiery colts just fit for breaking; but my heart is sadly 
 
 aching. 
 For I know that I will never ride nor show the way again. 
 
 Curlew 
 
i6o THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 "DUNNO!" 
 
 J jUTEMBER Jim? Long, lanky slab, 
 aTX Seemed he had no tongue to gab. 
 Shed all clucking, he'd lie low; 
 Ask him; he^d szy, "Oh! dunno!" 
 
 Mighty hard to interest Jim, 
 Most things wuz the same to him; 
 Sport or politics had no show; 
 Jim would say, "Oh, I dunno!" 
 
 Jim got struck on Quigly's girl, 
 She on him — she was a pearl! 
 But he couldn't talk, an' he wouldn't g^^ 
 An' what to do Jim did n't know. 
 
 So, seein' 's how Jim made no play, 
 "D'yerlove me?" she asks him one day. 
 Jim he thinks, looks at her slow, 
 An' — s'elp me! — says he, "I dunno!" 
 
 Broke it off? You bet a quid ! 
 Took it easy too, Jim did. 
 Not a chap much on for show, 
 But he felt it — yes ! — /know ! 
 
"DUNNOl" i6i 
 
 Night the fire burnt Quigly's place, 
 Jim — yer should 'ave seen 'is face! — 
 Rushed in— bli' me, he would go\ — 
 What for? Quigly's girl, you know. 
 
 Got her safe — but he^ my word I 
 Parson came 's soon 's he heard. 
 "You a Christian?" he says low, 
 Jim just gasps out, "I — dun — no!" 
 
 Died then, Jim did. Parson, well. 
 He guessed Jim would go to Hell. 
 'Cos he wasn't "saved," I s'pose — 
 Mebbe there 's a God who knows. 
 
 Bernard Espinasse. 
 
 THE FAT MAN AND THE WAR. 
 
 THEY sing of the pride of battle, 
 They sing of the Dogs of War, 
 Of the men that are slain like cattle 
 On African soil afar. 
 
 They sing of the gallant legions 
 A-bearin' the battle's brunt 
 
 Out in them torrid regions 
 A-fightin' the foe in front. 
 
I6a THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 They sing of Mauser and Maxim, 
 And their doin's across the foam, 
 
 But I hear none sing of the Fat Man 
 Who sits at his ease at home, 
 
 Contrivin' another measure 
 
 For scoopin' a lump o' tin, 
 New coffers to hoard the treasure 
 
 That his brothers' blood sweeps in ; 
 
 Chock-full o' zeal for speedin' 
 The sword of his Queen's behest, 
 
 But other men's legs to bear it 
 Is the notion that suits him best. 
 
 Nothin' he knows of fightin'; 
 
 He never was built that way; 
 But the game of War is excitin' 
 
 When the stake's worth more than the play. 
 
 An' a fat little time is comin'. 
 
 When the turmoil has settled down, 
 
 An' the Dogs of War are silent, 
 And the veldt is bare an' brown; 
 
 When the sun has licked the blood up 
 An' the brown earth hid the bones, 
 
 His miners will go out seekin' 
 For gold and precious stones. 
 
THE FAT MAN AND THE WAR. 163 
 
 Like a ghoul from the reekin' shambles 
 
 He grubs out his filthy pelf, 
 Rtapin' a cursed harvest 
 
 Where he dursn't have sown himself. 
 
 Now, this is one man's opinion, 
 
 An' I think it is fair an' right : 
 If he wants the land of the Dutchman 
 
 Let him go like a man an' fight. 
 
 If the African mines have treasure, 
 
 An' the Fat Man wants a bone. 
 Let him go by himself an' find it, 
 
 Let him trek for the Front alone ! 
 
 Magnet. 
 
 THE SHOE. 
 
 BATTERED and worn on the wayside lay 
 A shoe, unseen by the busy throng 
 Of passers who, through the dusty way, 
 From morn to eve had hurried along. 
 
 The sight of that shoe to me has brought 
 A host of fancies, merry and sad. 
 
 Of a heart that struggled and toiled and wrought, 
 With never an hour of its life made glad. 
 
i64 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Of a joyous and happy and winsome maid, 
 ^ With mind all free from thought of guile; 
 Of a soul with sin's black sorrows lade, 
 Of a face that ne'er was lit by a smile. 
 
 Had the shoe been worn by any of these? 
 
 Was the wearer of it young and fair? 
 The answer is one, I hope, will please — 
 
 It was torn from the hoof of old Brown's mare. 
 
 J. M. L. 
 
 THE COCKY'S HANDY MAN. 
 
 THE soldier has his glory, and the sailor has his joy, 
 And we've heard in song and story of the little 
 cabin-boy; 
 The shearer's mostly beering when he is n't on the strike; 
 The city clerk's careering on the "time-extended" bike; 
 Their web of life they spin it on a fast and fevered plan, 
 But for fun they aren't in it with the cocky's handy 
 man ! 
 
 Then it's feed the squealing "Dinnis," and it's yard the 
 
 milkers up; 
 The sun's behind Maginnis; an' — "Hi! Patsy, chain that 
 
 > pup ! 
 Put up thim rails behind you, there, you good-for-nothing 
 
 lout; 
 'T is often I remind you — Holy Smoke ! the pig is out ! 
 
THE COCKY' S HANDY MAN. 165 
 
 Here, Tiger — heel him— heel him! head him, Patsy, at 
 
 the fince; 
 Hurr — hiss, Tiger! wheel him, there, you gaping want-o'- 
 
 sinse." 
 And "Dinnis" listens gravely to the wild halloo they raise. 
 Then runs the gauntlet bravely into Dan Malowny's 
 
 "pays." 
 
 The carrier is jolly, and the drover does n't care; 
 The navvy's full of folly, and a demon on the "tear"; 
 The miner has his "moments," and the syndicate the 
 
 mine; 
 The "push" a ruction foments when it 's out upon the wine; 
 But for rorty joy and rapid under Heaven's spacious span 
 The chance you cannot cap it of the cocky's handy man ! 
 
 Then it's git up, Captain — Punch, there — that's a coo-ee 
 
 from the stack; 
 They're eating all the lunch there — but Kitty '11 save 
 
 my whack; 
 Her eyes are black and blazing, but for me they 're ever 
 
 kind. 
 And in their depths a-gazing I can read a willing mind. 
 Gee-off ! — this blessed lurching knocks the neatest load 
 
 awry. 
 And clouds of flies are searching in recess of nose and eye. 
 Way — woh — look-out! it's over. Oh, condemn the 
 
 crimson hole ! 
 I 'm booked an early "rover" — hear Maginnis bless my 
 
 soul 1 
 
166 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 There are places and positions worth the while of man to 
 
 hold, 
 And phases and conditions with the shining sheen of gold; 
 But, O! the situation when I Kitty's waist enfold — 
 I'd change not for creation fair the billet that I hold; 
 Through Labour's ranks a-ranging find a fellow if you can 
 Who 'd lose by places changing with the cocky's handy 
 
 man! 
 
 Ben Sun. 
 
 BASHFUL GLEESON. 
 
 FROM her home beyond the river in the parting of the 
 hills. 
 Where the wattles' fleecy blossom surged and scattered in 
 
 the breeze, 
 And the tender creepers twined about the chimneys and 
 
 the sills, 
 And the garden flamed with colour like an Eden through 
 the trees, — 
 
 She would come along the gully, where the ferns grew 
 
 golden fair, 
 In the stillness of the morning, like the spirit of the 
 
 place. 
 With the sun-shafts caught and woven in the meshes of 
 
 her hair. 
 And the pink and white of heath-bloom sweetly blended 
 
 in her face. 
 
BASHFUL GLEESON, 167 
 
 She was fair, and small, and slender-limbed, and buoyant 
 
 as a bird ; 
 Fresh as wild, white, dew-dipped violets where the 
 
 bluegum's shadow goes, 
 And no music like her laughter in the joyous bush was 
 
 heard, 
 And the glory of her smile was as a sunbeam in a rose. 
 
 Ben felt mighty at the windlass when she watched him 
 
 hauling stuff. 
 And she asked him many questions, "What is that?" 
 
 and "Why is this?" 
 Though his bashfulness was painful, and he answered 
 
 like a muff, 
 With his foolish "My word, Missie!" and his "Beg your 
 
 pardon. Miss." 
 
 He stood six foot in his bluchers, stout of heart and 
 
 strong of limb j 
 For her sake he would have tackled any man or any 
 
 brute; 
 Of her haM" a score of suitors none could hold a light to 
 
 him. 
 And he owned the richest hole along the Bullock Lead 
 
 to boot. 
 
 Yet while Charley Mack and Hogan, and the Teddywaddy 
 
 Skite 
 Put in many pleasant evenings at "The Bower," Ben 
 
 declined, 
 
i68 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And remained a mere outsider, and would spend one half 
 
 the night 
 Waiting, hid among the trees, to watch her shadow on 
 
 the blind. 
 
 He was laughed at on the river, and as far as Kiley's 
 
 Still 
 They would tell of Bashful Gleeson, who was "gone on" 
 
 Kitty Dwyer, 
 But, beyond defeating Hogan in a pleasant Sunday mill, 
 Gleeson's courtship went no further till the morning of 
 
 the fire. 
 
 We were called up in the darkness, heard a few excited 
 
 words; 
 In the garden down the flat a Chow was thumping on a 
 
 gong; 
 There were shouts and cooeys on the hills, and cries of 
 
 startled birds. 
 But we saw the gum leaves redden, and that told us what 
 
 was wrong. 
 
 O'er "The Bower" the red cloud lifted as we sprinted for 
 
 the punt. 
 Gleeson took the river for it in the scanty clothes he 
 
 wore. 
 Dwyer was madly calling Kitty when we joined the men 
 
 in front; 
 Whilst they questioned, hoped, and wondered, Ben was 
 
 smashing at the door. 
 
BASHFUL GLEESON. 169 
 
 He went in amongst the smoke, and found her room; 
 
 but some have said 
 That he dared not pass the threshold — that he lingered 
 
 in distress, 
 Game to face the fire, but not to pluck sweet Kitty from 
 
 her bed — 
 And he knocked and asked her timidly to "please get up 
 
 and dress." 
 
 Once again he called, and waited till a keen flame licked 
 
 his face; 
 Then a Spartan-like devotion welled within the simple man, 
 And he shut his eyes and ventured to invade the sacred 
 
 place, 
 Found the downy couch of Kitty, clutched an armful up, 
 
 and ran. 
 
 True or not, we watched and waited, and our hearts grew 
 
 cold and sick 
 Ere he came; we barely caught him as the flame leapt 
 
 in his hair. 
 He had saved the sheets, a bolster, and the blankets, and 
 
 the tick; 
 But we looked in vain for Kitty — pretty Kitty wasn't 
 
 there ! 
 
 And no wonder: whilst we drenched him as he lay upon 
 
 the ground. 
 And her mother wailed entreaties that it wrung our hearts 
 
 to hear, 
 
I70 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Hill came panting with the tidings that Miss Kitty had 
 
 been found, 
 Clad in white, and quite unconscious, 'mid the saplings 
 
 at the rear. 
 
 We 're not certain how it happened, but I 've heard the 
 
 women say 
 That 't was Kitty's work. She saw him when the doctor 
 
 left, they vow. 
 Swathed in bandages and helpless, and she kissed him 
 
 where he lay. 
 
 Anyhow, they're three years married, and — he isn't 
 
 bashful now. 
 
 Edward Dyson. 
 
 SKEETA. 
 
 OUR Skeeta was married ! Our Skeeta ! the tomboy 
 and pet of the place — 
 No more as a maiden we 'd greet her; no more would her 
 
 pert little face 
 Light up the chill gloom of the parlour; no more would 
 
 her deft little hands 
 Serve drinks to the travel-stained caller on his way to 
 more southerly lands: 
 
SKEETA. 171 
 
 No more would she chaff the rough drovers, and send 
 
 them away with a smile; 
 No more would she madden her lovers demurely with 
 
 womanish guile — 
 The "prince" from the great Never Never, with light 
 
 touch of lips and of hand. 
 Had come, and enslaved her for ever — a potentate 
 
 bearded and tanned 
 From the land where the white mirage dances its dance 
 
 of death over the plains, 
 With the glow of the sun in his glances, the lust of the 
 
 west in his veins; 
 His talk of wild cattle and rushes — a curious slang on his 
 
 lips — 
 Of narrow escapes and of brushes with niggers on perilous 
 
 trips; 
 A supple-thewed, desert-bred rover, with naught to 
 
 commend him but this : 
 That he was her idol, her lover, who 'd fettered her heart 
 
 with a kiss. 
 
 They were wed — and he took her to Warren, where she 
 
 in her love was content; 
 But town life to him was too foreign, so back to the 
 
 droving he went : 
 A man away down on the border of Vic. bought some 
 
 cattle from Cobb 
 And gave Harry Parker the order to go to the Gulf for 
 
 the mob: 
 
172 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And he went, for he held her love cheaper than his wish 
 
 to re-live the old life — 
 Or his reason might yet have been deeper — I called it 
 
 deserting his wife ! 
 
 Then one morning his horses were mustered; the start 
 
 on the journey was made; 
 A clatter, an oath through the dust heard, was the last of 
 
 the long cavalcade. 
 As we stood by the stockyard assembled — poor child ! 
 
 how she strove to be brave! 
 But yet I could see how she trembled at the careless 
 
 farewell that he gave. 
 
 We brought her back home on the morrow; but none of 
 
 us ever may learn 
 Of the fight that she fought to keep sorrow at bay till her 
 
 husband's return. 
 Her girlhood had gone, and in going had left her in 
 
 bitterness steeped : 
 How gladsome and gay was the sowing ! how bitter the 
 
 crop that she reaped ! 
 Her girlhood had gone, and had left her a woman in all 
 
 but in years — 
 Of laughter and joy had bereft her, and brought in their 
 
 place nought but tears. 
 
 Yet still, as the months passed, a treasure was brought 
 
 her by Love, ere he fled ; 
 And garments of infantile measure she fashioned with 
 
 needle and thread : 
 
SKEETA. 173 
 
 She fashioned with h'nen and laces and ribbons a nest for 
 
 her bird, 
 While colour returned to her face as the bud of maternity 
 
 stirred. 
 It blossomed and died: we arrayed it in all its soft 
 
 splendour of white, 
 And sorrowing took it and laid it in earth whence it 
 
 sprung, out of sight. 
 She wept not at all, only whitened, as Death, in his 
 
 pitiless quest, 
 Leant over her pillow and tightened the throat of the 
 
 child at her breast. 
 
 She wept not: her soul was too tired; for waiting is 
 
 harrowing work; 
 And then I bethought me and wired away to the agents 
 
 in Bourke. 
 Twas little enough I could glean there; 'twas little 
 
 enough that they knew: 
 They answered he had n't been seen there, but might in 
 
 a week — perchance two. 
 
 She wept not at all — only whitened with staring too long 
 
 at the night: 
 There was only one time when she brightened — that time 
 
 when red dust hove in sight, 
 And settled and hung on the backs of the cattle, and 
 
 altered their spots, 
 While the horses swept up, with their packs of blue 
 
 blankets and jingling pint-pots. 
 
174 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 She always was set upon meeting those boisterous cattle 
 
 men, lest 
 Her husband had sent her a greeting by one of them, iti 
 
 from the West. 
 Not one of them ever owned to him, or seemed to 
 
 remember the name : 
 (The truth was they all of them knew him, but would n't 
 
 tell her of his shame). 
 But never, though long time she waited, did her faith in 
 
 the faithless grow weak; 
 And each time the outer door grated, an eager flush 
 
 sprang to her cheek: 
 
 *T was n't him, and it died with a flicker; and then what 
 
 I 'd long dreaded came : 
 I was serving two drovers with liquor when one of them | 
 
 mentioned his name. 
 "Oh, yes!" said the other one, winking, **on the Paroo I 
 
 saw him ; he 'd been 
 In Eulo a fortnight then, drinking, and driving about 
 
 with 'The Queen,' 
 While the bullocks were going to glory, and his billet was 
 
 not worth a damn ! " 
 I told him to cut short the story, as I puUed-to the door 
 
 with a slam. 
 Too late! for the words were loud-spoken, and Skeeta 
 
 was out in the hall : 
 Then I knew that a girl's heart was broken, as I heard a 
 
 low cry and a fall. 
 
SKEETA. 175 
 
 And then carne a day when the doctor went home, for 
 
 the truth was avowed ; 
 And I knew that my hands, which had rocked her in 
 
 childhood, would fashion her shroud : 
 I knew we should tenderly carry and lay her where many 
 
 more lie — 
 Ah, why will the girls love and marry, when men are not 
 
 worthy? — ah, why? 
 She lay there a-dying, our Skeeta : not e'en did she stir 
 
 at my kiss : 
 In the next world, perchance, we may greet her; but 
 
 never, ah, never in this ! 
 
 Like the last breath of air in a gully, that sighs as the sun 
 
 slowly dips. 
 To the knell of a heart beating dully her soul struggled 
 
 out on her lips; 
 But she lifted great eyelids and pallid, while once more 
 
 beneath them there glowed 
 The fire of old Love, as she rallied at sound of hoofs out 
 
 on the road. 
 They rang sharp and clear on the metal : they ceased at 
 
 the gate in the lane : 
 A pause ! and we heard the beats settle in long, swinging 
 
 cadence again. 
 With a rattle, a rush, and a clatter, the rider came down 
 
 by the store, 
 And neared us ; but what did it matter? he never pulled 
 
 rein at the door; 
 
176 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 But over the brow of the hill he sped on with a low, 
 
 muffled roll — 
 *T was only young Smith on his filly : he passed — and so 
 
 too did her soul. 
 
 Weeks after, I went down one morning to trim the white 
 
 rose that had grown 
 And clasped, with its tender adorning, the plain little 
 
 cross of white stone. 
 In the lane dusty drovers were wheeling dull cattle, with 
 
 turbulent sound; 
 But I paused as I saw a man kneeling, with his forehead 
 
 pressed low on the mound. 
 
 Already he 'd heard me approaching ; and slowly I saw 
 
 him up-rise 
 And move away, sullenly slouching his cabbage-tree over 
 
 his eyes. 
 I never said anything to him as he mounted his horse at 
 
 the gate : 
 He didn't know me; but I knew him — the husband who 
 
 came back, too late ! 
 
 Barcroft Boake. 
 
 THE CURRENCY LASS. 
 
 THEY marshalled her lovers four and four, 
 A drum at their head, in the days of old : 
 O, none could have guessed their hearts were sore ; 
 They marched with such gayness in scarlet and gold. 
 
THE CURRENCY LASS. I77 
 
 They came to the dance place on the hill 
 
 Where Death was the piper (he pipes full well I) ; 
 
 They grounded their arms and stood stock-still ; 
 And just why he sorrowed no one would tell. 
 
 O, some had been wed in distant lands, 
 
 And sweethearts had others — but let that pass ; 
 
 She held them at ease in snow-white hands, 
 For Queen over all was the Currency Lass. 
 
 They ushered her forth in all her charms — 
 Her eyes were alight and as gold her hair ; 
 
 She looked on the men and oped her arms — 
 
 What wonder if then they had wished them there ? 
 
 She hearkened the Preacher, thin and pale ; 
 
 His voice was as frost, yet his words were wise ; 
 But sin on the soul is like wrought mail, 
 
 And only a scorn of him fired her eyes. 
 
 " O, sorrow and pray ! the hour draws nigh. 
 The Lord in His justice shall question thee ! " 
 
 The Preacher made prayer 'twixt sob and sigh. 
 And down dropped his soul on bended knee. 
 
 " He fashioned thee fair " — a sideways look— 
 " Red lipped and right royal to look upon, 
 
 A joy of the Earth " — his thin hands shook, 
 And passionate lights in his deep eyes shone. 
 
178 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 In scarlet and gold her lovers stood, 
 
 A host under famine with heads out-thrust \ 
 
 Keen-flamed in the sun ran reddest blood 
 And lips that were thirsty grew dry as dust. 
 
 They loved her for years — their tangled souls 
 Like silvery fish in her beauty-mesh 
 
 All breathless reposed ... A dull drum rolls, 
 And Death is at hand for the Flower of Flesh. 
 
 She lifted her head for one love-word 
 (Afar was a clamour of new-come ships), 
 
 Her hair in a cloud the low wind stirred, 
 And silent they marvelled at her red lips. 
 
 " A lover was I from youth," she said ; 
 
 " And Love is my lord till I fill the grave " — 
 Then coyly she drooped her gold-haired head — 
 
 " Now, last of my lovers, a kiss I crave ! " 
 
 The Preacher was whirled in Passion's rout, 
 
 And dark was the stain on his soul's white snow 
 
 Her lips were as life — his soul leapt out, 
 And sure there was laughter in Hell below ! 
 
 " A singer was I these years," she said, 
 
 " And so I must sing till my soul doth pass." 
 
 Then forth from her sin-sweet lips there sped 
 The long-dead song of the Currency Lass. 
 
THE CURRENCY LASS. 179 
 
 The hands of the spoiler touch her throat ; 
 
 The noon grows near and the last sands run : 
 (Still over the scene her wild words float) 
 
 The noose is ready, the song is done. 
 
 /* A dancer was I from birth," she said ; 
 
 " A baby, I danced on my mother's knee ; 
 Now whistle a jig, with swaying head, 
 
 And lovers of mine, I will dance for ye ! " 
 
 Stood each with a droop, a cheated man, 
 
 While Sorrow went weaving an ice-cold spell . . • 
 
 Good-bye to the world ! The dance began 
 With Death for the piper — he piped full well I 
 
 RODERIC QuiNN. 
 
 THE CONFIDENTIAL JOCKEY. 
 
 NO, I would n't sell 'er. Mister. 
 Wot 's the good of talkin' rot! 
 She 's the mare, is dat dere neddy, 
 Dat 'as brought me all I got 
 
 I was ridin' den for Bostock 
 (Confidential boy, you know) — 
 
 Leery bloke he was, old Bostock, 
 And he knowed a t'ing or so. 
 
Ito THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 He 'd a stable full of good 'uns, 
 And a bloke 'ud never know 
 
 Which of 'em he meant to stiffen, 
 Or on which 'is money 'd go. 
 
 Sometimes I 'd be on de winner, 
 Sometimes would n't 'ave a place; 
 
 And I 'd never know my dooty 
 Until jist before de race; 
 
 Jist before de field was ready, 
 Mister Bostock 'e would come. 
 
 And he 'd walk around de neddy, 
 
 And'e'd "'ah!" and "'aw!" and "'urn!'' 
 
 And he'd feel about de shoulder, 
 And de fetlock and de knee, 
 
 And he 'd tink de matter over 
 Till at last 'e 'd say to me : 
 
 "Wot you tink about 'im, Brickey? 
 
 You 're de bloke dat orter know." 
 And I'd answer: "Mister Bostock, 
 
 We can only 'ave a go." 
 
 "Why," he 'd say, "dey 've 'andicapped 'im 
 Till he 'as n't got a show!" 
 
 Den he 'd walk away disgusted, 
 And I 'd know de cake was dough. 
 
THE CONFIDENTIAL JOCKEY. i8i 
 
 Or he'd say: "She's worth a ticket," 
 
 With a leery kind er grin, 
 And I 'd know 'is stuff was on 'er, 
 
 And I 'd got to try and win. 
 
 Well, we had a mare in trainin* 
 
 Dat I always used to ride; 
 And I knew she was a clinker, 
 
 Though she never had been tried; 
 
 So my bit 'ud go upon 'er. 
 
 But I 'd always drop de same. 
 Till I used to t'ink and wonder 
 
 "Wot dt) 'ell 's 'is little game?" 
 
 Till it struck me all a sudden — 
 
 Like a dagger in me 'eart, 
 "He's a-waitin' somethink 'andsome^ 
 
 And de Melbin Cup 's 'is dart." 
 
 So I 'eld me tongue, and bli-me! 
 
 When de weights was out I saw 
 Dat I 'ad de biggest monte 
 
 Dat I ever 'ad before. 
 
 Den I socked me bit upon 'er — 
 
 Ev'ry tray-bit I could bring; 
 Popped me watch, and made de missus 
 
 Go and pawn 'er weddin' ring. . 
 
i8a THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Day and night she cried about it, 
 
 But I always used to say — 
 "It's the biggest bloomin' monte 
 
 Dat 'as ever come our way." 
 
 Well, when all was fair and ready, 
 
 I was sittin' like a ghost, 
 Waitin' till de boss 'ud come and 
 
 Let me git 'er to de post. 
 
 When de field wos doin' gallops 
 
 Mr. Bostock out 'e comes, 
 And 'e walks around about 'er. 
 
 And 'e "'ums!" and '"aws!" and *"ums!" 
 
 And 'e walks around about 'er, 
 And 'e walks around again . . . 
 
 And, so 'elp me God ! 'e tells me : 
 "Brickey, she can never win!" 
 
 "Never win! Yer mean to tell me 
 Dat," I sez. "Yer bloomin' cow, 
 
 Don't you make no error 'bout it, 
 She 's a cutter for it now." 
 
 And she was a daisy cutter, 
 
 For I rid and lay in wait ; 
 And I took 'em round de turnin', 
 
 And I led 'em up de straight. 
 
THE CONFIDENTIAL JOCKEY. 183 
 
 And I scoots along de fences, 
 
 And a-past de post we flies, 
 And I sits 'er all a-tremble. 
 
 With de tear-drops in me eyes. 
 
 Yes, I 'm doin' pretty middlin', 
 And I 'm layin' up de gonce . . . 
 
 Dat ole bloke about de stables? 
 Dat was Mr. Bostock once ! 
 
 Francis Kenna. 
 
 HOW WE WON THE RIBBON. 
 
 COME and look around my office — 
 Floors are littered, walls are hung 
 With the treasures and the trophies 
 
 Of the days when I was young; 
 Rusty spur and snaffle idle, 
 Polo-stick and gun and bridle, 
 In a sweet confusion flung. 
 
 There 's my saddle when a rover — 
 (That 's the bridle hanging up) 
 
 Queensland-built — a Lachlan drover 
 Swopped me for a Kelpie pup. 
 
 By the Lord, it makes one ponder 
 
 When one thinks those spurs up yonder 
 Helped to win the Mulga Cup ! 
 
i84 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 There 's the bar I used on Wyndham 
 On the day you watched him "clear" 
 
 With the four-in-hand behind him — 
 Yet they '11 say it 's too severe. 
 
 See that bunch of faded ribbon? 
 
 It belongs to Jock M'Kibbon, 
 But he always leaves it here. 
 
 And there 's just a little story 
 Hanging to that bunch of blue; 
 
 I 'm not claiming any glory 
 When I spin the yarn to you — 
 
 Yarns go best when pipes are glowing; 
 
 Here's tobacco; set her going — 
 And remember this is true . . . 
 
 Pearl of price for hunter's duty 
 Was the grey mare Heart's Desire, 
 
 With the Snowdons' strength and beauty 
 And a dash of Panic fire ; 
 
 And I never knew her failing 
 
 At a dyke, a ditch, or paling — 
 
 She could jump her height and higher. 
 
 Now, the rider courted throwing 
 
 Who would touch her with the spurs 
 
 When the Snowdon mare got going 
 With that sweeping stride of hers; 
 
 She was restless, hot, and heady; 
 
 She had smashed one man already. 
 And the fright had made her worse. 
 
HOW WE WON THE RIBBON. 185 
 
 But her owner, nothing fearing, 
 
 Brave as ever man could be, 
 Saw the yearly Show was nearing 
 
 While he nursed a crippled knee ; 
 So he called me, did M'Kibbon : 
 "We 've a mortgage on the ribbon — 
 
 Will you ride the mare for me?" 
 • . • • • • • 
 
 They had sent their speedy sprinters 
 
 Round the fences, one by one, 
 And the air was thick with splinters 
 
 Till you could n't see the sun ; 
 Such a striking, swerving, baulking ! 
 Saddles empty, riders walking ! 
 
 Not a round was cleanly done. 
 
 And the grey mare. Heart's Desire, 
 
 Stood and watched and seemed to know; 
 
 Fretted when they galloped by her, 
 Tossed her lean head to and fro ; 
 
 Then they called to me, "Get ready!" 
 
 And M'Kibbon whispered, "Steady. . . !" 
 But the crowd yelled, "Let her go!!" 
 
 Now, beyond the five-foot palings. 
 
 As I set the mare a-swing. 
 From below the grand-stand railings 
 
 Someone's child crept in the ring. 
 And we never saw the youngster 
 Till the mare was right against her 
 
 Shortening stride to make the spring ! 
 
IS6 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 So I loosed her head and drove her 
 With the red spurs ripping wild; 
 
 It was take the lot — and over — 
 Or God help the tiny child ! 
 
 And I watched as though in dreaming 
 
 Where the snow-white dress was gleaming, 
 And the babe looked up and smiled ! 
 
 But I knew the mare I rode on — 
 Could a leap be found too far , 
 
 For the quarters of old Snowdon 
 And the heart of Blazing Star? 
 
 Here she had the chance to show me — 
 
 And the shod hoofs flashed below me, 
 Half a yard above the bar ! 
 
 Then the dust-clouds ! Had we cleared her 9 
 Then the light shock as we land ; 
 
 Then — the crowd stood up and cheered her 
 On the ring fence and the stand; 
 
 But my brain was sick and spinning 
 
 And I slung my chance of winning 
 As I took the mare in hand. 
 
 But they crowded round to hold her, 
 And they tied the badge of blue 
 
 In a knot upon her shoulder 
 That they dared me to undo ! 
 
 So I left the prize upon her. 
 
 And I think she won the honour 
 When she saved the lives of two. 
 
nOM^ IVE WON THE RIBBON. 
 " 77ien the dust-clouds— had we cleared her?'" 
 
 [ To face Page i86. 
 
HOW WE WON THE RIBBON. 1^1 
 
 And I journey Life's gay road on, 
 
 But I linger when I pass 
 Where the best and gamest Snowdon 
 
 Takes her last sleep in the grass 
 With the wattle-boughs above her; 
 And when others toast a lover 
 
 Then I pledge her in my glass. 
 
 Now, they reckon me a rider 
 
 In the showyard and the shire, 
 But I never faced a wider 
 
 Jump, a tougher or a higher 
 Since I rode for Jock M'Kibbon 
 On the day we won the ribbon 
 
 With the grey mare, Heart's Desire. 
 
 Will Ogilvie. 
 
 A TWISTED IDYL. 
 
 CharteriSy the artist with the lovely wife, . 
 A casual friend of mine y told me the story 
 In a chance mood of careless confidence . , • 
 
 AMONG the privileges of my youth," 
 Two girls I knew. One of them loved me ; one 
 I loved. So very comely were these two, 
 So fair, so young, I was half-pitiful 
 And more (I think) than half-contemptuous 
 Of my poor heart that could not shelter both. 
 
i88 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Madge (who loved me) was tender, trustful, true. 
 Bewitching in her modest grace ; and Nell 
 (She whom I loved) was petulant, self-willed, 
 Feigning no fealty to Love, no care 
 For those Love vanquished. So it came that each 
 Was natural foil to the other. 
 
 Madge was fair — 
 Fair as a harvest morning. Her sweet eyes 
 Suggested shaded corn-flowers touched with dew, 
 Or that cool corner of the dawning's sky 
 Remotest from the jocund sun. Her hair 
 Was like the sun itself, or like the sun 
 Seen through a crystal cup of amber wine. 
 She neither bound nor braided it ; it fell 
 In a soft-rippling wealth of fleeciest gold 
 Careless about her shoulders, here and there 
 Touched with a coppery tint that brightened it 
 And made its gold the richer. At her neck 
 And round the wee pink ears, more dainty than 
 Shells of the happy Islands, vagrant tresses 
 Curled crisply into ringlets which (although 
 Dear modest Madge had blushed to dream of it) 
 Were clamorous for kisses. Her soft lips, 
 Fresh as the bloom on early dewberries, 
 Were sweet and maidenly, nor skimp nor full ; 
 Her teeth's pure ivory peeped demurely through 
 
 them — 
 Ah, God ! the kindest mouth in all the world, 
 And quite the purest ! Then the dear girl's head 
 
A TWISTED IDYL. 189 
 
 (So wealthily adorned) was finely poised 
 
 On perfect shoulders. Even in her teens, 
 
 Madge was full-bosomed ; even in her teens, 
 
 She had a certain gracious motherliness 
 
 Which made all children love her, and all men 
 
 Love children for her sake, and her for theirs. 
 
 And when men saw her, natural desire 
 
 Of the fair girl's bright beauty straight was crushed 
 
 Back, as a something in its essence base. 
 
 So sweetly pure and purely sweet she was . . . 
 
 And this girl loved me, though I loved her not, 
 
 Save as a decorative incident. 
 
 As men love charming women within their reach 
 
 And yet respected. Had she hidden her love 
 
 Beneath some guise of scorn or coquetry. 
 
 It might have won me, perhaps ; one never knows. 
 
 But though she ne'er by conscious sign or glance 
 
 Revealed it, it lay plain. I recognised it 
 
 By many infallible signs. I pitied her ; 
 
 And loved myself the better, pitying her ; 
 
 And by that double pity loved Nell more. 
 
 Nell was a wisp of girl — tall, willowy, slight ; 
 What the keen French call svelte ; no other word 
 So well describes her. Dark as Night she was, 
 And bright as noonday. Her disturbing eyes 
 Were wells of inky blackness, but aswim 
 With all the poisoned light of all the world. 
 Her mouth ? — it seemed that ages of desire. 
 Legions of lovers* heats, had blossomed there 
 
190 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Into the perfect flower of passion and 
 
 All ardour's concentrate. Her lips were full, 
 
 And curled like those of Walter Crane's ideal ; 
 
 Always a little apart, as though they feared 
 
 To touch each other's fires. Her nose was small, 
 
 Wide at the nostrils, just a shade retrousse^ 
 
 As Love would have it. Hair a trifle coarse. 
 
 But lustrous and abundant, odorous of 
 
 Herself, — her self whose every charm combined 
 
 To make her matchlessly desirable. 
 
 Her every line breathed passion and allurement. 
 
 From the proud head to the small, high-arched feet, 
 
 Piquant and most provocative. 
 
 I saw her 
 For the first time (the night she maddened me 
 To such a love as shook me half to death) 
 In evening-dress — that wanton garb in which 
 Our modest women ape immodesty. 
 And so wield weapons which they wot not of; 
 Trick-out their charms for market, as it were : 
 Our curious modern women ! . . . But, of Nell. 
 Her arms were bare to the shoulders. Exquisite 
 
 arms. 
 As lithe as Hebe's, dimpled at the elbows 
 And at the wrists, ending in small, ringed hands — 
 Small tyrannous hands which straightway clutched 
 
 my heart 
 And sealed my thraldom. Her small breasts were 
 bare 
 
A TWISTED IDYL. 191 
 
 Almost to the nipples, in the modern way : 
 
 Impertinent breasts jutting to right and left 
 
 As though in cool derision of beholders ; 
 
 And as her lissom form swayed in the dance 
 
 I stood and watched her. Then I danced with her 
 
 (Five minutes introduced), and at the end 
 
 Of that first dance I told her that I loved her. 
 
 She was not shocked nor in the least surprised. 
 
 But laughed quite frankly in my face, and laughed 
 
 My hopes to scorn with queenly-soft contempt. 
 
 So I (no babe with women) set out to win her, 
 
 And put my soul into the chase. I played 
 
 Relentlessly on all her nerves, her moods. 
 
 Her dormant passionateness. I studied her, 
 
 And whetted her caprices to appease them. 
 
 I marked her tastes ; I wooed her mind to paths 
 
 Where maidens' minds may feed on dangerous 
 
 sweets. 
 I stirred her blood with tales of war and death. 
 I stirred her pulse with tales of life and love. 
 With such success did I conduct the siege 
 That presently she thought she loved me ; 
 And I observed her thought, and counted One ! 
 So I went on, with all the subtle art 
 That men learn — from the Devil, possibly ; 
 But from the modern world, at anyrate. 
 I, who was godlike in my plans, was still 
 Doglike in my devotion. Thus the days 
 Passed quickly, and I saw that every day 
 Her eyes grew brighter at my coming, and 
 
192 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Her voice thrilled to a new note, tremulous, 
 
 Half-timid, all unlike herself ; and then 
 
 I knew she loved me, and I thought she knew 
 
 I knew she loved me ; and I was content. 
 
 For, when I spoke my love again, she flung 
 
 Weeping into my arms ; but in a little 
 
 Turned up that glorious mouth to my first kiss . . • 
 
 Dear man ! some moments make it worth the while 
 
 To live, though life end in the bitterness 
 
 Of Hell and an eternity of pain. 
 
 The story ? That's the story. Just, you see, 
 The ordinary idyl, somewhat twisted, 
 In just the ordinary way. 
 
 The sequel ? 
 Oh, in the end of course I married Nell. 
 And in the end of course I loved dear Madge, 
 Who is not married yet. 
 
 And Nell, my wife ? 
 Oh, she loves me — (what is the vulgar phrase ?)— 
 Worships the ground I tread on. . . Just, you see. 
 The ordinary idyl intertwisted. 
 
 Frank Morton. 
 
THE TUGS OF SIMPSONVILLE, 193 
 
 THE TUGS OF SIMPSONVILLE. 
 
 HE was dirty, dark and artful, and they called him 
 "Saltbush Bill," 
 But we didn't recognise him when he came to Simpson ville; 
 It's a sort of one-horse township out beyond the Cobar 
 
 track, 
 Where the sun 's a perfect scorcher, and the dust would 
 choke a black ! 
 
 Hot? Great Scott! 
 It was Hell, with some improvements; worse than Booligal, 
 a lot! 
 
 Saltbush Bill arrived at sundown; called for "Hennessy's 
 
 three-star," 
 And he shouted for the jackeroos a-standing in the bar, 
 And he introduced the subject when he 'd liquored up. 
 
 Says he : 
 "I'm no English duke or nobleman a-tracking round; 
 
 not me! 
 
 Shout? No doubt! 
 But I ain't a bloomin' squatter nor a shearer just cut out! 
 
 "I 'm in Simpsonville on business, and I claim to represent 
 The most wonderful neuralgia cure that any could invent, 
 And it's known as * Brown's Neuralgia Dice'; the price a 
 bob a die, 
 
 M 
 
194 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And you rub it where the pain is, and the pain is bound 
 
 to fly! 
 
 Sell? oh well, 
 Just you wait till I have finished, and you '11 have a chance 
 
 to tell!" 
 
 Then he brings a pickle-bottle and he puts it on the bar ; 
 (It was full of peas and fastened down) and says: "Now, 
 
 there you are! 
 I 'm the liberalest bagman that was ever on the rounds; 
 If you guess how many peas is there you get five blanky 
 
 pounds ! 
 
 Fair? rt«^ square! 
 And the nearest guess will get the gonce as sure as you 
 
 are there!" 
 
 Well, of course we goes to rush it, but he says: "One 
 
 moment there ! 
 I am no escaped XoonaAo. nor eccentric millionaire! 
 I 'm no travelling convalescent, and I ain't been very ill, 
 Nor come to view the scenery surrounding Simpsonville ! 
 
 Yes ! you guess. 
 But you have to buy a bob's worth of the cure! Well, 
 
 here's success! 
 
 "Now I want a hundred guesses, which will make the 
 
 fiver sure, 
 And the landlord holds the money just to see you all secure, 
 And I leave a hundred samples of the cure inside the bar, 
 
THE TUGS OF SJMPSONVILLE. 195 
 
 Which he sells, and pays the money to the winner. There 
 you are ! 
 
 Me? I '11 gee! 
 I must introduce the remedy in other towns, you see!" 
 
 In the morning cameaswaggie with "Matilda" 'cross the 
 
 flat, 
 Whom we recognised immediate as a bloke called Jack 
 
 the Rat; 
 And he listened to the story, then went over to the store 
 And he bought dry peas in bagfuls till there was n't any 
 
 more. 
 
 Rot? 'Twas not! 
 Why you have n't got a notion what a head that bloke 
 
 had got ! 
 
 Now it first struck Joe the Spieler it would be as good as 
 
 gold, 
 For to get a pickle-bottle and see just what it would hold. 
 He was always on for pointing, and as artful as you please; 
 But he went all Tound the township, and he could n't get 
 
 no peas! 
 
 See? Not a pea! 
 It was just the same with Jackson, and with Dogherty 
 
 and me! 
 
 And the bobs they kept on coming in; the time was 
 
 drawing nigh; 
 Joe was savage, so was Dogherty and Jackson, so was I ! 
 Spare me days, I think the lot of us was looking after peas ! 
 
196 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 When one day I meets that Jack the Rat as simple as 
 
 you please. 
 
 "Me? Got peas?" 
 "Yes, I '11 sell you, at two bob a pint, as many as you 
 
 please!" 
 
 It was something like six times the price, but what was I 
 
 to do? 
 So I bought and found out afterwards that others 
 
 bought 'em too. 
 Jack the Rat was so delighted with his honest trade's 
 
 success 
 That he shouted for a dozen, and he also took a guess. 
 
 Swear? Well, there, 
 It would simply freeze the marrow in a bullock-driver's 
 
 hair! 
 
 When we had the bottle opened, it was not half-full of 
 
 peas. 
 For a corncob in the centre took the space up^ if you please! 
 And the clever blokes who measured, they were out by 
 
 half a mile; 
 It was Jack the Rat who won it, and he wore a peaceful 
 
 smile! 
 
 Toast? Great Ghost! 
 In about a week the landlord got a letter by the post. 
 
 "We had things to do in Melbourne, so we thought we'd 
 
 get away. 
 But desire, as we are leaving, most respectfully to say 
 
THE TUGS OF SIMPSONVILLE. 197 
 
 That we're thankful for the kindness of the tugs of 
 
 Simpsonville, 
 And remain, yours most respectful, Jack the Rat and 
 
 Saltbush Bill:' 
 
 Catch 'em? No hope! 
 And the "remedy" was little squares cut out of bars of soap! 
 
 W. T. GOODGE. 
 
 THE SICK CAB-RIDER. 
 
 JUST shake my pillows up a bit, and take the rocking- 
 chair, 
 The cough 's not half so bad to-day, so I 'm feeling pretty 
 
 fair; 
 Not as I used to feel, of course, in the days of old lang 
 
 syne, 
 When we didn't "cab-it" home until the sun began to 
 shine. 
 
 What nights we had together, Bert 1 the hours were ten 
 
 till four 
 A.m., deah boy; a.m., by Jove! and sometimes rather 
 
 more. 
 We burnt the candle then both ends, and never snuffed 
 
 the wicks; 
 We started off with squashes straight, but soon began to 
 
 mix. 
 
198 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 Open the window wide— that 's right ! — the room gets 
 
 rather warm. 
 Ah, Bert ! if I were well again, back in my summer form, 
 I 'd play you billiards, fifty-up, and think it fun to lose. 
 Or take a turn down Collins-street in patent leather shoes. 
 
 I dressed myself last Sunday week : that 's bound to make 
 
 you smile ; 
 The pants hung loose and — well, the coat was not the 
 
 latest style ; 
 'Twas nine months since I'd had it home, the collar 
 
 seemed so strange. 
 Cut differently to yours. Heigho ! how soon the fashions 
 
 change ! 
 
 What was I saying, though ? Ah, yes ! the nights we had, 
 
 my word ! 
 To be in bed at sunrise, Bert, is awfully absurd ; 
 When the light comes stalking in my room, I'm often 
 
 wide awake. 
 And I sigh to be about again, for pretty Flossie's sake. 
 
 She misses me, I bet she does; you know what women 
 are; 
 
 She liked me best of all the boys who patronised her bar; 
 
 Although we kept the house up late she did n't once com- 
 plain, 
 
 Except that night when Phil got "tight" and wouldn't 
 shout champagne. 
 
THE SICK CAB-RIDER. 199 
 
 Poor Floss! I used to send her flowers, the choicest 
 
 things in bloom : 
 You never saw her wear ^em — true, she put them in her 
 
 room. 
 Syd. Saunders had a notion that she gave them all away, 
 But I 'm sure she always kept 'em, for she ioid me so one day. 
 
 She did n't mind my teasing her, I never made her mad — 
 What hair! my word! what splendid teeth, and what a 
 
 bust she had ! 
 She would have let me kiss her once, I think — in fact, 
 
 no doubt — 
 If she hadn't been so frightened that the "boss" might be 
 
 about. 
 
 We sowed some wild oats, rather — yes, by Jove! we 
 sowed a crop. 
 
 Do you recollect those darlings at the tea-and-coflfee shop? 
 
 Nice girls; the little fair one, not the youngest {she was 
 dark). 
 
 Pinched my arm last time I saw her, on the vaccination- 
 mark. 
 
 Have a cigarette, old fellow ! — in that box you '11 find a 
 few — 
 
 And tell me, how 's the chorus? Have you spotted some- 
 thing new. 
 
 Or is your heart still constant to the one you mashed that 
 night 
 
 From the stage-box? You remember, she was dressed in 
 blue and white. 
 
200 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 You love her still — you terror ! and she's smiling just the 
 
 same; 
 You ought to try to meet her, Bert, and find out what's 
 
 her name. 
 My mash, you know, was Maud de Vaux, she mostly 
 
 played the page. 
 It 's hard to have to die before I Ve seen her ^the stage. 
 
 But I must n't make you gloomy, with this talk about the 
 
 past — 
 They were awfly jolly times, and I was awfly jolly fast. 
 I must contemplate the present : here we are in "budding 
 
 Spring," 
 And I don't think my pyjamas are at all the proper thing. 
 
 They are beastly winter patterns, and the buttons, too, 
 
 are brutes ; 
 As a favour, deah old fellow, choose me half-a-dozen suits; 
 Let the stripes be bright and lively, but not, of course, too 
 
 wide — 
 And I think I 'd like the jackets with a pocket either side. 
 
 They '11 last me out : yes, Bertie, they '11 last me out, I 
 
 know: 
 What 's the odds ! I 'm only going where all other johnnies 
 
 go. 
 I 've been reading Gordon's poems — wish the book was 
 
 better bound — 
 And they 've set me almost longing to be underneath the 
 
 ground. ' 
 
THE SICK CAB-RIDER, . 201 
 
 I took my whack of pleasure, and I sometimes felt a pain; 
 Perhaps I 'd knock oif smoking if I had to live again, 
 But I Ve no regrets to speak of; there 's a heavy tailor's 
 
 bill, 
 And that my aunt will settle when I 'm lying cold and 
 
 still. 
 
 Suppose you must be toddling, if you promised Kate 
 you 'd call — 
 
 A doosid fetching filly, though her eyes are rather small; 
 
 I 'd like to stroll down with you for an hour, one after- 
 noon : 
 
 I would lean across the counter, and, by Jingo ! how I 'd 
 spoon. 
 
 Good-bye ! you must n't mind my tears — good-bye, so glad 
 
 you came; 
 Remember me to all the girls I used to know by name, 
 And raise your hat to Flossie, whom I nevermore may 
 
 see — 
 Yes, raise your hat to pretty Floss, and kiss your hand — 
 
 forme, 
 
 Edmund Fisher. 
 
202 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 TAMBAROORA. 
 
 WE was playin' tambaroora for a shandy ; 
 There was nine of us, an' Murphy had the hat ; 
 An' he shook it with a twist that knocked us bandy, 
 Sayin', " Ivery mahn is heads ; now luk at that ! 
 
 Thim noine heads," says he, "will take a lot o' batin' ! " 
 An' he smiled aloud to think the pool was his ; 
 
 But when Doolan yelled, " Hould on ! there 's only 
 eight in ! " 
 Consternation spread all over Murphy's phiz. 
 
 Then he shook the hat again, and searched the linin' : 
 
 Doolan took the lamp and looked about the floor. 
 While the chorus from all hands went, "I put mine in ! " 
 
 Murphy's language fairly cracked the cedar door. 
 " Well," says Doolan, thinkin' mighty hard about it, 
 
 As he turned the cady inside-out ag'in, — 
 „ Well," says he, " there 's one too little — divil doubt it ! 
 
 Now I wonder who the blazes put it in ! " 
 
 Bendee. 
 
TAMBAKOORA. - 
 
 ^S/iinr,'" saj's //e, '"'' tliere's one too little — divil doubt it ! 
 Now I woitdhcr who tlie blazes put it in /" 
 
 L To face Page 202. 
 
FA THER RILE Y'S HORSE, 203 
 
 FATHER RILEY'S HORSE. 
 
 jpp WAS the horse-thief Andy Regan that was hunted 
 
 A like a dog 
 By the troopers of the Upper Murray side ; 
 They had searched in every gully — they had looked in 
 
 every log, 
 But never sight or track of him they spied 
 Till the priest at Kiley's crossing heard a knocking very 
 
 late, 
 And a whisper, "Father Riley — come across!" 
 So his Reverence, in pyjamas, trotted softly to the gate 
 And admitted Andy Regan — and a horse! 
 
 "Now, it's listen. Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, 
 
 For it's close upon my death I am to-night; 
 
 With the troopers hard behind me I 've been hiding all 
 
 the day 
 In the gullies, keeping close and out of sight. 
 But they 're watching all the ranges till there 's not a bird 
 
 could fly, 
 And I 'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife; 
 So I 'm taking no more trouble, but I 'm going home to 
 
 die — 
 'T is the only way I see to save my life ! 
 
204 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 *'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die a 
 
 Toosday next, 
 And be buried on the Thursday — and of course, 
 I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing 
 
 I 'm perplexed. 
 And it 's — Father, it *s this jewel of a horse ! 
 He was never bought nor paid for, and there 's not a man 
 
 can swear 
 To his owner or his breeder, but I know 
 That his sire was by Pedantic from the old Pretender 
 
 mare, 
 And his dam was close related to the Roe. 
 
 ** And there 's nothing in the district that can race him 
 
 for a step; 
 He could canter while they 're going at their top. 
 He 's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep 
 A five-foot fence — he 'd clear it in a hop ! 
 So I '11 leave him with you. Father, till the dead shall rise 
 
 again; 
 *T is yourself that knows a good 'un ; and, of course, 
 You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy 
 
 Murphy's plain. 
 If you 're ever asked the breeding of the horse. 
 
 "But it's getting on to daylight, and it's time to say 
 
 good-bye 
 For the stars above the east are growing pale ; 
 And I'm making home to mother; and it's hard for me 
 
 to die! 
 
FATHER RILEY'S HORSE. 205 
 
 But it 's harder still in keeping out of gaol ! 
 
 You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip 
 
 Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. 
 
 Sure he'll jump them fences easy; you must never raise 
 
 the whip 
 Or he'll rush 'em! now good-bye!" — and he had fled. 
 
 Sq they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, 
 
 In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill. 
 
 There were five and twenty mourners who had five and 
 
 twenty fights, 
 Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. 
 There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub. 
 And their riders flogged each other all the while. 
 And the lashins of the liquor! and the lavins of the grub! 
 Oh ! poor Andy went to rest in proper style. 
 
 Then the races came to Kiley's — with a steeplechase and 
 
 all, 
 For the folk were mostly Irish round about, 
 And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall ; 
 They were training morning in and morning out. 
 But they never worked their horses till the sun was on 
 
 the course. 
 For a superstitious story kept 'em back. 
 That the ghost of Andy Regan, on a slashing chestnut 
 
 horse, 
 Had been training by the starlight on the track. 
 
2o6 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And they read the nominations for the races with surprise 
 
 And amusement at the Father's little joke, 
 
 For a novice had been entered for the steepfechasing 
 
 prize, 
 And they found that it was Father Riley's moke! 
 He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to 
 
 stay, 
 But his owner's views of training were immense. 
 For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, 
 And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence. 
 
 And the priest would join the laughter — "Oh," said he, 
 
 "I put him in. 
 And there 's five and twenty sovereigns to be won. 
 And the poor would find it useful if the chestnut chanced 
 
 to win, 
 And he '11 maybe win when all is said and done ! " 
 He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for 
 
 "Clear the course," 
 And his colours were a vivid shade of green. 
 All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's 
 
 horse. 
 While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin! 
 
 It was Hogan the dog-poisoner — old man and very wise — 
 
 Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, 
 
 And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great 
 
 surprise, 
 That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. 
 
FATHER RILEY'S HORSE. 207 
 
 "You can talk about your riders — and the horse has not 
 
 been schooled — 
 And the fences is terrific, and the rest! 
 When the field is fairly going, then ye '11 see ye've all 
 
 been fooled, 
 And the chestnut horse will battle with the best. 
 
 "For there's some has got condition, and they think the 
 
 race is sure, 
 And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight \ 
 But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all 
 
 the poor. 
 Will be running by his side to keep him straight. 
 And what 's the need of schoolin' him or workin' on the 
 
 track 
 Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! 
 I 've prayed him over every fence — I 've prayed him out 
 
 and back! 
 And I '11 bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!" 
 
 Oh, the steeple was a caution ! They went tearin' round 
 
 and round. 
 And the fences rang and rattled where they struck, 
 There was some that cleared the water; there was more 
 
 fell in and drowned ; 
 Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! 
 But the whips were flying freely when the field came into 
 
 view 
 For the finish down the long green stretch of course, 
 
2o8 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And in front of all the flyers — ^jumping like a kangaroo, 
 Came the rank outsider — Father Riley's horse! 
 
 Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the 
 
 post ! 
 For he left the others standing in the straight; 
 And the rider — well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's 
 
 ghost, 
 And it beat 'em how a horse could draw the weight ! 
 But he weighed it — nine stone seven, then he laughed 
 
 and disappeared 
 Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf). 
 And old Hogan muttered sagely, "If it wasn't for the beard 
 They 'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!" 
 
 And the poor of Kiley's Crossing gave their thanks at 
 
 Christmas-tide 
 To the chestnut and his jockey dressed in green. 
 There was never such a rider — not since Andy Regan died— 
 And they puzzled who on earth it could have been. 
 But they settled it among 'em — for the story got about, 
 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course — 
 That the Devil had been ordered to kt Andy Regan out 
 For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse I 
 
 A. B. Paterson. 
 
0' TOOLE AND AVSHARRY, 209 
 
 OTOOLE AND M'SHARRY. 
 
 (A Lachlan Idyll.) 
 
 IN the valley of the Lachlan, where the perfume from 
 the pines 
 Fills the glowing summer air like incense spreading; 
 Where the silent flowing river like a bar of silver shines 
 When the winter moon its pallid beams is shedding; 
 In a hut on a selection, near a still and silent pool, 
 Lived two mates, who used to shear and fence and carry; 
 The one was known, both near and far, as Dandy Dan 
 
 O'Toole, 
 And the other as Cornelius M'Sharry. 
 
 And they 'd share each other's blankets, and each other's 
 
 horses ride. 
 And go off together shearing in the summer; 
 They would canter on from sunrise to the gloaming, side 
 
 by side. 
 While M'Sharry rode the Barb and Dan the Drummer. 
 And the boys along the Lachlan recognised it as a rule 
 From Eugowra to the plains of Wanandarry, 
 That if ever love was stronger than M'Sharry's for O'Toole 
 T was the love O'Toole extended to M'Sharry. 
 
210 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And their love might have continued and been constant 
 
 to the end, 
 And they might have still been affable and jolly, 
 But they halted at a shanty where the river takes a bend, 
 And were waited on by Doolan's daughter, Polly. 
 Now, this pretty Polly Doolan was so natty, neat and cool, 
 And so pleasant, that they both agreed to tarry. 
 For she winked her dexter eye-lid at susceptible O'Toole, 
 While she slyly winked the other — at M'Sharry. 
 
 So they drank her health in bumpers till the rising of the 
 
 moon. 
 And she had them both in bondage so completely 
 That each time they talked of going she said, ^^Must you 
 
 go so soon?" 
 And they could n't go. She smiled at them so sweetly. 
 Dan O'Toole grew sentimental and M'Sharry played the 
 
 fool. 
 Though they each had sworn an oath they 'd never marry. 
 Yet the self-same dart from Cupid's bow that vanquished 
 
 Dan O'Toole 
 Had gone through the heart of honest Con M'Sharry. 
 
 Then M'Sharry thought if Dandy Dan got drunk and 
 
 went to bed. 
 He (M'Sharry) could indulge his little folly, 
 And Dan thought if M'Sharry once in drunken sleep lay 
 
 spread. 
 He could have a little flirt with pretty Polly; 
 
a TOOLE AND M' SHARE Y. 21 1 
 
 So they kept the bottle going till they both were pretty full, 
 And yet each rival seemed inclined to tarry ; 
 The precise amount of pain-killer it took to fill O'.Toole 
 Was required to close the optics of M'Sharry. 
 
 So the rivals lost their tempers, and they called each other 
 
 names, 
 And disturbed the Doolan children from their pillows, 
 And then Doolan came and told them that he would n't 
 
 have such games, 
 They must go and fight it out beneath the willows. 
 So they went beneath the willows, near a deep and shady 
 
 pool, 
 With as much inside as each of them could carry. 
 And M'Sharry started thumping the proboscis of O'Toole, 
 And O'Toole retaliated on M'Sharry. 
 
 And they fought till they were winded, and yet neither 
 
 had the best. 
 Though from each of them the blood was freely flowing; 
 And they paused at last to breathe awhile and take a 
 
 moment's rest. 
 But O'Toole's two eyes with rage were fairly glowing; 
 Then without a moment's warning he charged forward 
 
 like a bull, 
 And before poor Con had time to run or parry, 
 With a terrible momentum the big head of Dan O'Toole 
 Went bump ! into the stomach of M'Sharry. 
 
212 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And the force of the concussion laid M'Sharry out quite 
 still, 
 
 With his feet above his head among the bushes, 
 
 While O'Toole, with the momentum, cannoned madly- 
 down the hill, 
 
 And fell plump in the lagoon among the rushes. 
 
 Like a weedy river-god he climbed the far side of the 
 pool, 
 
 And he did not for one single moment tarry. 
 
 For the curse of Cain was in the brain of Dandy Dan 
 O'Toole, 
 
 Who felt certain he had settled poor M'Sharry. 
 
 Now, while Dan O'Toole was stealing through the still 
 
 and silent night. 
 And his aching brain with pain-killer was throbbing, 
 M'Sharry lay and listened, till his heart stood still with 
 
 fright. 
 And he eased his guilty soul with silent sobbing. 
 For he heard his boon companion falling headlong in the 
 
 pool, 
 And he thought he was as dead as poor old Harry, 
 And M'Sharry mourned the drowning of poor Dandy 
 
 Dan O'Toole, 
 While O'Toole was sadly weeping for M'Sharry. 
 
 And the valley of the Lachlan never more will know the 
 
 men, 
 That were once so loving, frolicsome, and frisky, 
 
0' TOOLE AND M'SHARRY. 213 
 
 For O'Toole cleared out to Queensland and was never 
 
 seen again, 
 While M'Sharry started south and took to whisky. 
 And M'Sharry, in his nightmare, often sees that fatal pool. 
 And the pricks of guilty conscience tries to parry; 
 While away among the backblocks wanders Dandy Dan 
 
 O'Toole, 
 Always flying from the ghost of Con. M'Sharry. 
 
 Thomas E. Spencer. 
 
 FACES IN THE STREET. 
 
 THEY lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone 
 That want is here a stranger, and that misery's un- 
 known. 
 For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet 
 My window-sill is level with the faces in the street — 
 Drifting past, drifting past. 
 To the beat of weary feet — 
 While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. 
 
 And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, 
 To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and 
 Care; 
 
214 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet, 
 In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the 
 street — 
 
 Drifting on, drifting on. 
 To the tread of listless feet; 
 I can sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. 
 
 In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky. 
 The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by. 
 Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet. 
 Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street — 
 
 Flowing in, flowing in, 
 
 To the beating of their feet — 
 Ah ! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. 
 
 The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of 
 
 eight, 
 Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; 
 But slowly drag the moments, whilst, beneath the dust 
 
 and heat. 
 The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street — 
 Grinding flesh, grinding bone, 
 Yielding scarce enough to eat — 
 Oh ! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. 
 
 And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down 
 Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town. 
 Save here and there a face, that seems a stranger in the 
 street, 
 
FACES m THE STREET. 215 
 
 Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat — 
 
 Drifting round, drifting round, 
 
 To the scrape of restless feet — 
 Ah! my heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the 
 street. 
 
 And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged 
 
 away, 
 And sickly yellow gas-lights rise to mock the going 
 
 day. 
 Then, flowing past my window, like a tide in its retreat. 
 Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street — 
 Ebbing out, ebbing out, 
 To the drag of tired feet, 
 While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the 
 
 street. 
 
 And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad 
 
 pages end. 
 For while the short "large hours" towards the longer 
 
 "small hours" trend. 
 With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that 
 
 half entreat, 
 Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street — 
 Sinking down, sinking down. 
 Battered wreck by tempests beat — 
 A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the 
 
 Street. 
 
2x6 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young 
 
 city comes, 
 For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and 
 
 slums, 
 Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine 
 
 unmeet, 
 And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street — 
 Rotting out, rotting out. 
 For lack of air and meat — 
 In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the 
 
 street. 
 
 I wonder would the avarice of wealthy men endure 
 Were all the windows level with the faces of the Poor? 
 Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your 
 
 hearts in terror beat. 
 When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the 
 street ! 
 
 The wrong things and the bad things 
 And the sad things that we meet 
 In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street. 
 
 I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never 
 
 still, 
 And sought another window overlooking gorge and 
 
 hill; 
 But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and 
 
 sleet. 
 
 I 
 
FACES IN THE STREET. 217 
 
 They haunted me — the shadows of those faces in the 
 street, 
 
 Flitting by, flitting by, 
 Flitting by with noiseless feet, — 
 And with cheeks but little paler than those real in the 
 street. 
 
 Once I cried: "Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth 
 
 still endure, 
 Now show me in a vision, for the wrongs of Earth, a 
 
 cure." 
 And lo ! with shops all shattered, I beheld a city's street, 
 And in the waning distance heard the tramp of many 
 
 feet, 
 
 Coming near, coming near, 
 To a drum's dull distant beat. 
 And soon I saw the army that was marching down the 
 
 street. 
 
 And, like a swollen river that has burst o'er bank and wall. 
 The human flood came pouring with the red flags over 
 
 all! 
 And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's 
 
 heat! 
 And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street 
 Pouring on, pouring on. 
 To a drum's loud threatening beat, 
 And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the 
 
 street. 
 
2i8 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 And so 't will be while aye the world goes rolling round 
 
 its course, 
 The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice 
 
 grow hoarse, 
 But not until a city feels red revolution's feet 
 Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street — 
 The dreadful everlasting strife 
 For scarcely clothes and meat 
 In that great mill for human bones — the city's cruel street. 
 
 Henry Lawson. 
 
 THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 
 
 JT^ WAS on old M'Carson's station, near the finish of 
 
 ^ the shearing, 
 We were seated round the table in the hut, playing loo ; 
 An unrighteous occupation, nor particularly cheering, 
 When your tally's only middling, and your luck is 
 looking blue ; 
 
 But there 's nothing else to do, 
 So it 's poker or it 's loo, 
 In the afternoon of Saturday on Coolabungaroo ! 
 
 Jack the Rat, who did the pressing, sat outside the door 
 
 a-smoking, 
 And a-telling all the rouseabouts of horses he had 
 
 " broke," 
 
. THE BUSH MISSIONARY, 219 
 
 And our sorrow grew distressing at the " borak " he was 
 
 poking, 
 When he put his head inside the hut and whispered, 
 " Holy smoke ! 
 
 Here 's a sanguinary joke ! " 
 And he chuckled fit to choke ; 
 " Here 's the lanky Scotchbyterian, the missionary bloke !'^ 
 
 Well, he looked to see him coming, and he "took him out 
 
 o' winding," — 
 He was long, and he was lanky; he was frecklesome 
 
 and fair. 
 And a hymn he was a-humming, just as if he was n't 
 
 minding. 
 
 And he asked if any shearer had a mind to cut his hair ! 
 
 We could only gape and stare, 
 
 'Cause we did n't like to swear ! 
 
 But the ringer said he 'd do it, with a bucket for a chair ! 
 
 So the ringer started quickly (with the shears he was a 
 
 dandy). 
 But he clipped a kind of pimple and the parson gave a 
 
 bound ! 
 Then the ringer tarred it thickly and confessed he felt 
 
 " unhandy " — 
 The position, for a shearer, "rather awkwardish" he found ! 
 Then he downed him on the ground. 
 And he whipped his neck around. 
 And he " pinked " him like a leather-neck when squatters 
 
 paid a pound ! 
 
220 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 Now the ringer 'd just got through his unaccustomed 
 
 operation, 
 When M'Carson, who 'd been mustering, arrived upon 
 
 the scene. 
 And the shearers they were treated to a masterly oration 
 By the choleric M'Carson, whose vocabulary keen. 
 As was easy to be seen. 
 Was more forcible than clean — 
 And remarkably distasteful to the Reverend M'Lean ! 
 
 So the parson he suggested, as a means of reconciling 
 {Not indeed that he objected to the way they 'd cut 
 
 his hair ;) 
 That the parties interested should agree to his beguiling 
 All the station-hands and rouseabouts with services of 
 
 prayer ; 
 
 Which the squatter thought was fair. 
 He was fond of praise and prayer ! 
 And, the station-hands consenting, service started then 
 
 and there ! 
 
 Now, the preaching it was splendid, but the shearers 
 
 jibbed at singing, 
 Though the squatter joined the preacher, not another 
 
 soul would sing! 
 Then the service was up-ended, and M'Carson's arms went 
 
 swinging, 
 And he raved and stamped and cursed and swore and 
 
 called us everything! 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 221 
 
 ''^Sing^ yer blanky beggars, sing! 
 Make the blanky welkin ring! 
 
 Won't you blanky sons of blankers help the 
 blanky man to sing ! " 
 
 ♦ ♦•»(■•)(•*♦ 
 
 We were sorry for the parson, though he was a bit erratic^ 
 'Cause he was an all-right preacher and a decent fellow, 
 
 too; 
 But, you see, he found M'Carson so ferociously emphatic 
 He concluded that the services in future would n't do. 
 
 So the shearers play at loo, 
 
 And at whisky-poker, too. 
 And the parson is a scarcity at Coolabungaroo! 
 
 W. T. GOODGE. 
 
 THE LAST BULLET. 
 
 SINCE the first human eyes saw the first timid stars 
 break through heaven, and shine. 
 Surely never a man has bowed under the cross of a curse 
 
 such as mine ; 
 They of all the dead millions of millions whose dust 
 
 whirls and flees in the wind. 
 Who were born sorry heirs of the hate of a Fate that is 
 bitter and blind — 
 
222 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 All whose lives pain has smitten with fire since God first 
 
 set the sun to its course — 
 What have they known of woe like to mine ? what of 
 
 grief? of despair? of remorse? 
 Oh, to cancel one hour of my past ! Oh, to shut out all 
 
 thought — to forget ! 
 Then go forth as a leper, to die in hot wastes ! Listen ! . . . 
 
 Over us yet, 
 
 Her and me, in the heart of the North, hung the glamour 
 of love at its height, 
 
 Joy of things unperceived by the others, holy hours of 
 unwaning delight — 
 
 Joy of selfless devotion to each in each heart — joy of 
 guiding the feet 
 
 Of our babe, our one daughter, our May, by three sum- 
 mers of childhood made sweet. 
 
 I had dared overmuch in the battle for wealth ; I had 
 
 ventured alone 
 Upon verdurous tracts that lay fronting the edge of a 
 
 desert unknown, 
 Fifty miles further out than the furthest I had chanced on 
 
 a green width of plain. 
 In a time when the earth was made glad with a grey 
 
 wealth of bountiful rain. 
 
 Fifty miles from Maconochie's Gap. They had warned 
 
 me. Some three years gone by, 
 In a night when the flames of his home reddened far up 
 
 the heights of the sky, 
 
THE LAST BULLET. 223 
 
 With a hard, ragged spear through his heart, and a 
 
 tomahawk-blade in his head, 
 Lay the master, in death, and his wife — ah, far better 
 
 had she, too, lain dead! 
 
 Dark the tale is to tell, yet it was but a cool resentment of 
 
 wrong, 
 A fierce impulse of those who were weak for revenge 
 
 upon those who were strong; 
 Cattle speared at the first — blacks shot down, and the 
 
 blood of their babes, even, shed — 
 Blood that stains the same hue as our own ! It is written 
 
 red blood will have red. 
 
 But an organised anger of whites swept the bush with a 
 
 fury unchained. 
 Till the feet of the trees had their dead, and the black, 
 
 murdered corpses remained 
 Till the black, glutted crows scarce could rise from the 
 
 feast at the sound of a foot. 
 And the far-away camps through the nights lay unlighted, 
 
 and ghastly, and mute. 
 
 And the terror ran out through the tribes, and since that 
 
 dismal crime had been done. 
 Not a dusk, stealthy savage had crossed the wide bounds 
 
 of Maconochie's run. 
 But the white skies, in set malediction, stared at palpitant 
 
 wastes that implored 
 For the wine of dry clouds that rose, mocking them, 
 
 "Vengeance is Mine!" saith the Lord. 
 
224 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 They had warned me. "Out yonder," they said, "there's 
 
 abundance of water and grass ; 
 You 've Brown's Ranges on one side, they draw down and 
 
 drain all the rain-clouds that pass; 
 (We are outside the rainy belt here) but — remember the 
 
 words we have said — 
 If you will go, take plenty of arms, and be sure to take 
 
 powder and lead!" 
 
 And I went, with my trustworthy helpers, and lived 
 
 through a desolate year 
 Of suspicions and vigils, and hunger for her of all dear 
 
 ones most dear; 
 But a year crowned with utmost successes, and crowned 
 
 above all things in this 
 That it brought her at last to my side, with the gift of a 
 
 new face to kiss. 
 
 And a blessedness came with her feet, and our life was an 
 
 infinite peace. 
 And the prospering years shed upon us a fair meed of 
 
 worldly increase; 
 But a thousand times better to me than large prospect of 
 
 silver and gold 
 Was the sumptuous love of a wife, mine for ever to have 
 
 and to hold. 
 
 O, the sting of remembering then! O, could madness 
 dishevel my mind 
 
 Till I babbled of wry, tangled things, looking neither be- 
 fore nor behind! 
 
THE LAST BULLET. 225 
 
 But that memory never will sleep, and I crouch, as the 
 
 first of our race, 
 Not my peer in his guilt, crouched and hid from the 
 
 sight of God's terrible face ! 
 
 We had hardly been vexed by the blacks in our work, 
 
 though, all through the first year 
 And the second, we stood upon guard with the disciplined 
 
 earnest of fear. 
 But the summers and winters went by, and the wild 
 
 hordes gave never a proof 
 Of their hate, and our vigilance slept and security came 
 
 to our roof. 
 
 So, unwarned, fell the night of my doom. There was 
 
 smoke in the West through the day. 
 And an hour after noontide the men had been mustered 
 
 and sent to waylay 
 In its course the quick wave that might ruin, for the high 
 
 grass was yellow and sere 
 With the withering breath of the dense, sullen heat of the 
 
 last of the year. 
 
 Some had rifles to shoot kangaroo; some had not; and 
 
 my darlings and I 
 Sat alone in the dusk near our door, with our eyes on a 
 
 fringe in the sky. 
 Where the light of the late-sunken sun was replaced by a 
 
 wide livid glow 
 Which pulsed high or grew pale as the fire underneath it 
 
 waxed fierce or waned low, 
 o 
 
226 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 We had spoken together, glad-voiced, of the time when 
 
 our exile would be 
 At an end, and our feet once again in the quiet lands over 
 
 the sea. 
 Till the large lovely eyes of the child felt their lids grow 
 
 despotic. She drew 
 To her mother, and slept in her arms, and the new-risen 
 
 moon kissed the two ! 
 
 I was looking beyond them to where the broad columns 
 
 of tree-shadows slept. 
 Stretching w^st twice the length of the trees, when a 
 
 horror of something that crept, 
 Something blacker than shade through the shade, smote 
 
 my heart with a hammer of ice ; 
 And with eyeballs dilated and strained, and hands 
 
 clenched with the clench of a vice, 
 
 I leaped up. But a clear, sudden whirr cleaved the night, 
 
 and with scarcely a moan 
 From her lips, the white soul of our child went among 
 
 the white souls at the Throne! 
 "To the house!" With the dead and the living, half 
 
 dead, clasped before me, I sprang 
 Through the strong door, and bolted and barred it, before 
 
 on the stillness out rang 
 
 One wild, volumed malignance of yells ! To have light 
 
 might be death. In the dark 
 On the floor the poor mother groped madly about the 
 
 dead child for a spark 
 
THE LAST BULLET. 227 
 
 Of the hope of pulsation of life, till the blood that was 
 
 mine and her own, 
 From the boomerang-gash warmed her hands, and she 
 
 knew that we two were alone ! 
 
 Yell on yell of the monsters without! crash of shutters 
 
 behind! — but I knew 
 How the wall that divided was built; that^ at least, they 
 
 could never get through — 
 Crash of manifold blows on the door; but I knew, too, 
 
 how that had been made. 
 And I crawled to the corner and found my revolvers, and 
 
 hoarsely I said: 
 
 "Kiss me now, ere the worst, O Bereft! — O most stricken 
 
 and dearest of wives — 
 They will find out this window! — I hold in my hands but 
 
 a dozen of lives ; 
 In the storehouse the arms are — God help us! Fold your 
 
 hands in the dark, dear, and pray!" 
 But she sobbed from the floor, "God forgets us, and I 
 
 have forgotten the way ! " 
 
 Crash of spear through the window ! — and answering flash, 
 
 with the message of lead 
 From my hand ! — and dull answer to that of a lean demon 
 
 form falling dead ! 
 Crash on crash of a dozen of spears ! — till they lay in a 
 
 sheaf on the floor — 
 Red rejoinder of fire as the moonlight revealed them — 
 
 "But one bullet more!" 
 
228 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 I had hissed to myself. But she heard me, and seizing 
 
 my arm, held it fast. 
 And a hard, altered voice that I knew not at once, cried, 
 
 "Hold!— /claim the last. 
 Dearest love, by your hand the divorce ! One last kiss, 
 
 till the Infinite Life — 
 Once again, on my lips! Hold it close^ and .... 
 
 remember Maconochie^s wife!" 
 
 By the white sickly gleam of the match she had bared 
 
 that true bosom, all red 
 With the blood of her slain one. I looked in her eyes. 
 
 "God forgive me!" I said . . . 
 And the sound of a crime unexampled 
 
 was echoed outside by a sound — 
 Not as awful to me that dread Trump, when the time of 
 
 my sentence comes round 
 
 Rifle-shots close at hand! — devil-cries;— counter cheers of 
 
 the voices I knew ! 
 They were back ! I was saved ! . . . Lost ! lost ! lost ! 
 
 Can the blood of the Saviour they slew 
 Upon Calvary's hill wash off hers from my hands! For 
 
 I trusted not God 
 To the full in the hour of my need, and my lips will not 
 
 cleave to the rod 
 
 Of His wrath, and I fall in the sand, with the weight of the 
 
 cross that I bear . . . 
 Who has ever gone out with a burden of crime, of 
 
 remorse, of despair 
 
THE LAST BULLET, 229 
 
 Like to this? Let me stumble to death, or through life — 
 
 it is equally well, 
 Doubly-damned, what can death be to me but translation 
 
 from Hell unto Hell? 
 
 John Farrell. 
 
 THE HONEYMOON TRAIN. 
 
 HARK how the chill westerly rattles the windows! 
 I '11 draw up my chair to the side of the fire : 
 That new book, I fancy, must wait till to-morrow — 
 I 'm lazy, and old eyes so easily tire. 
 
 By George! good cigar, this! Nell chose it, and lit it. 
 And thrust me in here till she clears things away: 
 
 A nice little dinner she gave me this evening — 
 Soup, fish, pat^, salad and cheese — all O.K. 
 
 Dear Nellie ! Heigho, as I stare at the embers, 
 The years roll away down their dusty old track: 
 
 I mind well the first time I saw her — at Harry's — 
 Her father was dead : she was still wearing black. 
 
 All black, with an old-fashioned brooch made of silver. 
 And chatelaine of silver, and quaint silver belt. 
 
 She looked — how s-he looked! . . there, that coal in the 
 centre! 
 That's she ! . . ah, the picture's beginning to melt. 
 
230 THE BULLETIN RECITER. 
 
 In three months we married — let's see — eigh teen-ninety : 
 Just forty years gone — how the time slips away ! 
 
 The thirteenth — no, was it? — the fifteenth — yes, fifteenth: 
 Why, hang it ! we 're forty years married to-day ! 
 
 Whew ! now je comprends — all those little side glances ! 
 
 Her colour, her chatter, the dress that she wore ! 
 The wine, this cigar ! why, I smelt something extra — 
 
 Old duffer I was not to see it before! 
 
 All years ago? Nonsense! it happened this morning — 
 The wedding, the breakfast, the table all set 
 
 And people all glaring — O Lord ! they encored me ! 
 A dream ! no, I feel the rice down my back yet. 
 
 And then comes a mist, but I know at the station 
 I wrung the guard's hand ; did he think me insane? 
 
 Then handkerchiefs waving — "Good-bye and God bless 
 you!" 
 A whistle ! we 're off by the honeymoon train ! 
 
 That journey! O, Paradise holds nothing sweeter! 
 
 (What bliss can be bought for a twelve shilling fare !) 
 With Nell on my knee (she got off at the stations) 
 
 Pretending to scold when I let down her hair. 
 
 And now we 've arrived, and had welcome and dinner. 
 And Nell for a moment has gone to our room — 
 
 Our room ! O delicious ! — I think that 's her footstep : 
 We '11 sit — not too long — and spend love in the gloom. 
 
THE HONEYMOON TRAIN 231 
 
 "Cigar out! No gas lit!" My dear, I've been dozing! . . 
 
 How well you look, Nellie ! your eyes shine again. 
 What, kisses ! Hang grey hairs ! I 'm gay three-and- 
 twenty — 
 
 God bless us! we're off by the honeymoon train. 
 
 A. G. Stephens. 
 
 THE MURDER-NIGHT. 
 
 THE tree-frogs sing in the rain. 
 The stars are caught in the pines, 
 The wind has fled up the lane, 
 And a sick man's window shines. 
 
 A loose horse neighs at the night, 
 A housed horse stamps in his stall ; 
 
 A swallow flutters with fright. 
 And dies at the top of the wall. 
 
 The paddocks are striped with flood. 
 And under the barn-door creeps 
 
 A silent gutter of blood 
 
 In queer little jerks and leaps. 
 
232 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 And the nested rain-drops plash 
 And mix with the sinful stream 
 
 That writhes in the lightning flash, 
 Like a snake in a fearsome dream. 
 
 And up on the bald wet hill 
 
 A gibbering madman stands, 
 And sniffs his horrible fill 
 
 Of the rose in his shaking hands. 
 
 Hugh M'Crae. 
 
 A SCOTCH NIGHT. 
 
 IF you chance to strike a gathering of half-a-dozen friends 
 When the drink is Highland whusky or some chosen 
 Border blends, 
 And the room is full of speirin' and the gruppin' of brown 
 
 ban's, 
 And the talk is all of tartans and of plaidies and of 
 
 clans, — 
 You can take things douce and easy, you can judge 
 
 you 're going right. 
 For you 've had the luck to stumble on a wee Scotch night! 
 
 When you 're pitchforked in among them in a sweeping 
 
 sort of way 
 As "anither mon an' brither" from the Tweed or from 
 
 the Tay ; 
 
 k 
 
WhcnlheychanMhe sHmn^f war-songs 
 
 ^ SCOTCH NIGHT. 
 
 [ Ti? /«c^ -^^^^ 233. 
 
A SCOTCH NIGHT. 233 
 
 When you 're taken by the oxter and you 're couped into 
 
 a chair 
 While someone slips a whusky in your tumbler unaware, — 
 Then the present seems less dismal and the future fair 
 
 and bricht, 
 For you've struck Earth's grandest treasure in a guid 
 
 Scotch nicht ! 
 
 When you hear a short name shouted and the same name 
 
 shouted back 
 Till you think in the confusion that they've all been 
 
 christened Mac ; 
 When you see a red beard flashing in the corner by the fire, 
 And a giant on the sofa who is six-foot three or higher, — 
 Before you've guessed the colour and before you've 
 
 gauged the height 
 You '11 have jumped at the conclusion it 's a braw Scotch 
 
 night ! 
 
 When the red man in the corner puts his strong voice to 
 
 the proof 
 As he gives "The Hundred Pipers," and the chorus lifts 
 
 the roof; 
 When a chiel sings "Annie Laurie" with its tender, sweet 
 
 refrain 
 Till the tears are on their eyelids and — the drinks come 
 
 round again ! 
 When they chant the stirring war-songs that would make 
 
 the coward fight, — 
 Then you 're fairly in the middle of a wee Scotch night ! 
 
234 THE BULLETIN RECITER, 
 
 When the plot begins to thicken and the band begins to 
 
 play; 
 When every tin-pot chieftain has a word or two to say ; 
 When they'd sell a Queensland station for a sprig of 
 
 native heath ; 
 When there's one Mac on the table and a couple 
 
 underneath ; 
 When half of them are sleeping and the whole of them 
 
 are tight, — 
 You will know that you're assisting at a (hid) Scotch 
 
 night ! 
 
 When the last big bottle *s empty and the dawn creeps 
 
 grey and cold, 
 And the last clan-tartan 's folded and the last d d lie 
 
 is told ; 
 When they totter down the footpath in a brave, unbroken 
 
 line, 
 To the peril of the passers and the tune of "Auld Lang 
 
 Syne " ; 
 You can tell the folk at breakfast as they watch the 
 
 fearsome sicht, 
 "They have only been assisting at a braw Scots nicht!" 
 
 Will Ogilvie. 
 
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 THE BULLETIN STORY BOOK 
 
 Contains picked stories by J. S. Evison, Roderic Quinn, 
 John Reay Watson, Edward Dyson. 
 
 THE BULLETIN STORY BOOK 
 
 Represents the work of upwards of One Hundred 
 Australasian Writers, serious and humorous, and, as in the 
 case of The Bulletin Reciter, every author represented will 
 share in any profits of publication. 
 
 In a handsome cloth cover ; price, js. , post-free from the 
 Publishers. 
 
THE BULLETIN NEWSPAPER COMPANY, Ltd. 
 
 214 George Street, Sydney, Australia, 
 
 fair 6irl$ wA Gray ])or$e$. wili h. oaiLvm 
 
 "The Most Charming Book of Australian Verse." 
 
 PRESS OPINIONS OF "THE NEW ISSUE." 
 
 The Daily Telegraph, Sydney. 
 It speaks highly for Australian taste that in so short a period since its 
 first publication this book has reached an issue of eight thousand copies. 
 Lucid, clear, manly, the deep emotion which inspires many of its pages is 
 never maudlin or beyond the warrant of its occasion. ... A true poet in 
 substance and form, of the kind easily understood by most, he deserves, and 
 will achieve, still greater popularity. 
 
 Oiago Witness, M.L. 
 
 He must be eflfete and weakly indeed whose languid senses do not quicken 
 to the wave of love and the rhythm of galloping hoofs in Will Ogilvie's pages. 
 . . . A very good portrait of the author forms a welcome frontispiece. 
 
 Nezv Issue; Eighth Thousand; cloth, decorated; price, 5s. sd., post-free 
 from the Publishers. 
 
 On Our Selection "' 
 
 ARTHUR DAVIS ("Steele Rudd.") 
 
 "The Jolliest Book ever Printed in Australia." 
 
 SOME Oil ,.aONS. 
 
 The Queenslander. 
 One of the best studies of selection life that Australia can ever hope to 
 obtain. . . . Of a delightfully amusing character, and every Australian 
 is bound to appreciate its pictures. In Queensland especially, "On Our 
 Selection " is sure of the warmest welcome. It could not be warmer than it 
 deserves. 
 
 An Old Irishman's Opinion, in ''Flashes." 
 
 ' ' Maggie read a chapther or two for us every night for the laasht week 
 and I belave I laughed more in that time than I did all the years since me 
 wife died, and that 's twinty-five. Laugh! It was cryin'-laughin' I was till 
 the tears ran down me nose." 
 
 Eighth Thousand. Cloth, decorated; with 80 Illustrations by A. J. Fischer, 
 A. H. Fullwood, G. W. Lambert, Fred Leist, Frank Maiiony, and 
 Alf Vincent. Price, 6s. Sd., post-free from the Publishers. 
 
THE BULLETIN NEWSPAPER COMPANY, Ltd», 
 
 214 George Street^ Sydney, Australia. 
 
 (Castro's lA%\ Sacrament, and Other Stories. 
 
 By albert DORRINGTON. 
 
 "The Most Brilliant Short Stories Produced in Australia." 
 
 SOME PRESS OPINIONS. 
 
 "Realistic to a degree, and almost photographic in their accuracy. . . . 
 They hold the reader by their dramatic power, and the feeling that they 
 are pictures from life, and not merely the conjured-up dreams of a vivid 
 imagination. Mr. Dorrington . . . shows in them a gift for characterisation 
 and dramatic expression, savoured with the essential salt of humour, that 
 should, with a little restraint on his exuberance, carry him far." — Melbourne 
 Age. 
 
 •' He has been everywhere and seen everything, and he has to no ordinary 
 extent the power of presenting things as they seemed to him — the gift of 
 vivid and powerful narration. . . . Contains dramatic pictures which the 
 best of our artists in words might well envy." — S. M. Herald. 
 
 Cloth^ decorated; 350 pages; price ^ 5s., post-free front the Publishers. 
 
 niaorilana, and Other Uersei 
 
 By ARTHUR H. ADAHS 
 
 "The Best Book of Maoriland Verse yet Published." 
 
 The Press, Christckurch, says: "In Mr. Arthur Adams . . . New 
 Zealand at last finds poetic voice in the utterance of a native-born New 
 Zealander. . . . There is n<- -"-inner of doubt that Mr. Adams is a true 
 poet. . . . He has the po- melody, the gift of fine phrase, and the 
 
 imaginative insight which are involved in that honoured and honourable 
 name." 
 
 White Buckram, gilt top ', price, Js. 4d. , post-free from the Publishers. 
 
 Cbe Ways of many Platers. irj.BRADv 
 
 "The Best Australian Book of Sea and Sailor Verse." 
 
 The Sydney Morning Herald says: "There are a fine lilt and swing 
 about his poems which force the attention, and he has a wonderful insight 
 into the real inner life of sailors." 
 
 Buckram, gilt top ; price, js. 4d., post-free from the Publishers. 
 
THE BULLETIN NEWSPAPER COMPANY, Ltd. 
 
 214 George Street, Sydney, Australia. 
 
 THE BULLETIN BOOKLETS. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 Cbe l)i(lden tide. Iodericquinn 
 
 Out 0/ print. 
 
 No. II. 
 Jl Rose of R^^f Ct« JAriES HEBBLETHWAITE 
 
 •'The Poetical Utterance of a Gentle 
 Scholar's Soul." 
 
 The Ausfralasian says: "His poems show both culture and delicacy 
 of feeling." 
 
 Royal 8vo., enveloped; price, is. 8d., post-free from the Publisfurs. 
 
 No. III. 
 
 Cbe Circling Beartbs. Iodericquinn 
 
 The A ^e, Melbourne, says: "Mr. Roderic Quinn has already shown, 
 in "The Hidden Tide," now out of print, the possession of much sweetness 
 and some strength. His second collection should meet as hearty a reception 
 as the first." 
 
 Royal 8vo., enveloped; price, is. 8d., post-free frotn the Publishers. 
 
 No. IV. (Balarged). 
 
 Dreams in flower. touisE nACK 
 
 "The Most Distinguished Body of Verses 
 Written by a Woman in Australia." 
 
 Royal 8vo., enveloped; price, 2s. 8d., post-free from the Publishers. 
 
THE BULLETIN NEWSPAPER COMPANY, Ltd. 
 
 214 George Street, Sydney, Australia. 
 
 ANNOUNCEMENTS. 
 
 The West H7/l</, by Hubert Church. (No. V. of The Bulletin 
 Booklets.) [/„ ^/,^ p^g^s. 
 
 Than Hubert Church there is no more graceful writer of verse in 
 Australasia. This volume will be produced in the handsome style of previous 
 Booklets. 
 
 A Book of Bulletin Verse, \In Preparation. 
 
 This will contain a selection from the best verse published in The Bulletin 
 during twenty years. 
 
 The Bulletin's Book of Australia. yin Preparation 
 
 This will contain a selection from the paragraphs, stories, verse, and 
 illustrations published in The Bulletin, classified to represent our national 
 life from every aspect. 
 
 The Book of **Hop." [Shortly. 
 
 A selection of some of the best and most humorous drawings by the 
 renowned caricaturist and cartoonist of The Bulletin. 
 
 Such is Life, by Joseph Furphy ("Tom Collins"). [Shortly. 
 
 Reminiscences of life in the Riverina, with a story and a commentary — 
 humorous, scholarly, vital, and typically Australian. 
 
 The Bulletin Picture Book. [in Preparation. 
 
 The Second Bulletin Story Book. [/„ Preparation. 
 
 THE BULLETIN PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Sold by all Reputable Booksellers throughout Australasia. 
 
 Sole Distributing Agents for the Tradk : 
 EDWARDS, DUNLOP & CO., Limited, Sydney and Brisbane. 
 
 Special Wholesale Agents for the Trade : 
 New South Wales: EDWARDS, DUNLOP & CO., Ltd., Clarence 
 
 Street, Sydney. 
 Queensland : EDWARDS, DUNLOP & CO., Ltd., Edward Street, 
 
 Brisbane. 
 South Australia : E. S. WIGG & SON, King William St., Adelaide. 
 Westralia : E. S. WIGG & SON, Hay Street, Perth. 
 Maoriland : WILDMAN, LYELL & AREY, Queen Street, Auckland. 
 Others to be appointed. 
 
 [ist December, igo2. 
 
j^ AtfSTftAUA -^ 
 
 Printed and Published by William Macleod, of Botany-street, Wai/erley, 
 for The Bulletin Newspaper Company, Limited, at the office of the 
 Company, George-street North, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. 
 
TD /b7 I 7