Ifllil 
 
 I iiiiiyii 
 
 i
 
 *^t 
 
 / 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 @
 
 E H Y M E S 
 
 FROM THE MINES 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER LINES
 
 PUBLISHED BT 
 
 ANGUS AND ROBEiiTSON, SYDNEY. 
 ^ookstllirs Id tbt Hiiibtrsitp. 
 
 Glasgow, Jaitws McLehose and Sons. 
 Calcutta, Thackci; Spitik and, Co. 
 Bombay, Thackcr * Co., Ltd. , 
 Capetown, J. C. Juta and Co. 
 Toronto, I{aft and Riddell.
 
 RHYMES FROM THE MINES 
 And Other Lines 
 
 By EDWARD DYSON 
 Author of "A Golden Shanty.'* 
 
 ANGUS AND ROBERTSON 
 
 89 Castlereagh Street. 
 
 1898 
 
 Second Thousand
 
 Sydney: Geo. Mukiiat & Co., Ltd., Printers.
 
 
 k 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 The greater part of the material contained in this 
 vokime has appeared in the pages of TJie Bulletin, 
 Sydney, from time to time during the last eight 
 years. [The Kescue ' and ' Peter Simson's Farm ' 
 were published originally in the Melbourne Argus. 
 I have to thank the proprietors of both journals for 
 their courtesy in permitting me to reproduce the 
 verses. ^ 
 
 Several pieces, including ' Waiting for Water,' 
 ' The Prospectors,' ' The Tale of Steven,' and 
 * The Deserted Homestead,' are now printed for 
 the first time. 
 
 EDWAKD DYSON. 
 
 1363088
 
 TO THE MEN OF THE MINES 
 
 We specked as hoys o'er icorked-out ground 
 
 By littered fiat and muddy stream, 
 We watched the u-him horse trudyiny round, 
 
 Atul rode upon the circling beam. 
 Within the old uproarious mill 
 
 Fed mad, insatiable stamps, 
 Mined peaceful gorge and gusty hill 
 With jmn, and pick, and gad, and dnll, 
 
 And knew the stir of sudden camps. 
 
 By yellow dams in summer days 
 
 We puddled at the tom ; for weeks 
 Went seeking up) the tortuous ways 
 
 Of gullies deep and hidden creeks. 
 We ivorked the shallow leads in style, 
 
 And hunted fortune down the drives, 
 And missed her, mostly by a mile — 
 Once by a yard or so. The while 
 
 We lived untrammelled, easy lives. 
 
 7
 
 TO THE MEN OF THE MINES 
 
 Through blaziwj doi/s upon the brace 
 
 We laboured, and wlien nviht had passed 
 Beheld the glory and tlie grace 
 
 Of wondrous dawns in bushlands vast. 
 We heard the burdened timbers groan 
 
 In deep mines murmurous as the seas 
 On long, lone shores by drear winds blown. 
 We've seen heroic deeds, and known 
 
 The digger' s joys and tragedies. 
 
 I write in rhyme of all these things, 
 
 With little skill, perhaps, but you. 
 To whom each tale a memory brings 
 
 Of bygone days, icill know tJiem true. 
 Shoidd mates tvho've icorked in stope and face, 
 
 Who've trenched tlie hill and swirled the dish. 
 Or toiled upon the ]}lat and brace. 
 Find pleasure in the lines I trace. 
 
 No better tvelcome could I wish.
 
 CONTENTS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO THE MEN OF THE MINES 
 
 We specked as boys o'er worked-out 
 
 ground ...... 7 
 
 THE OLD WHIM HOESE 
 
 He's an old grey horse, with his head 
 
 bowed sadly, . . . . . 19 
 
 CLEANING UP 
 
 "When the horse has been unharnessed 
 
 and we've flushed the old machine, . 23 
 
 THE EESCUE 
 
 There's a sudden, fierce clang of the 
 knocker, then the sound of a voice in 
 the shaft, 26 
 
 BASHFUL GLEESON 
 
 From her home beyond the river in the 
 
 parting of the hills, . . . . 31 
 
 11
 
 12 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE WOEKED-OUT MINE 
 
 On summer nights when moonbeams flow 86 
 
 GERIMAN JOE 
 
 Skirting the swamp and the tangled scrub, 39 
 
 WAITING FOR WATER 
 
 'Twas old Flynn, the identity, told us, . 42 
 
 WHEN BROTHER PEETREE PRAYED 
 
 'Twas a sleepy little chapel by a wattled 
 
 hill erected, ..... 47 
 
 THE OLD CAMP-OVEN 
 
 We don't keep a grand piano in our hut 
 
 beside the creek, . . . . 51 
 
 WHEN THE BELL BLEW UP 
 
 ' That's the boiler at the Bell, mates ! 
 
 Tumble out, Ned, neck and crop — . 55 
 
 THE TRUCKER 
 
 If you want a game to tame you and to 
 
 take your measure in, . . . 60 
 
 ' STOP-AND-SEE ' 
 
 I'm stewing in a brick-built town ; . 64
 
 CONTENTS 13 
 
 FAOE 
 
 IN 'THE BENEVOLENT' 
 
 I'm off on the wallaby,' cries old Ben, . 68 
 
 JONAH'S LUCK 
 
 Out of luck, mate? Have a liquor. 
 
 Hang it, where's the use complaining ? 71 
 
 NIGHT SHIFT 
 
 ' Hello ! that's the whistle, be moving . 80 
 
 A FEIENDLY GAME OF FOOTBALL 
 
 We were challenged by the Dingoes — 
 
 they're the pride of Squatter's Gap — . 83 
 
 THE TALE OF STEVEN 
 
 'Tis the tale of Simon Steven, braceman 
 
 at the Odd-and-Even, ... 88 
 
 THE FOSSICKER 
 
 A straight old f ossicker was Lanky Mann, 92 
 
 THE TIN-POT MILL 
 
 Quite a proud and happy man is Finn 
 
 the packer ..... 94
 
 14 CONTENTS 
 
 FAQE 
 
 A POOE JOKE 
 
 * No, you can't count me in, boys ; I'm off 
 
 it— 98 
 
 'BEEAKING IT GENTLY' 
 
 All was up with Richard Tanner — . 104 
 
 STEUCK IT AT LAST 
 
 He was almost blind, and wasted . . 106 
 
 THE PEOSPECTOES 
 
 When the white sun scorches the fair, 
 green land in the rage of his fierce 
 desires, ...... 109 
 
 PETEE SIMSON'S FARM 
 
 Simson settled in the timber when his 
 
 arm was strong and true . . . 117 
 
 SINCE NELLIE CAME TO LIVE ALONG THE 
 CEEEK 
 My hut is built of stringy-bark, the 
 
 window's calico, .... 123 
 
 THE FEEAK 
 
 Just beyond All Alone, going back . 128
 
 CONTENTS 15 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IN TOWN 
 
 Out of work and out of money — out of 
 
 friends that means, you bet . . 133 
 
 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD 
 
 Past a dull, grey plain where a world- 
 old grief seems to brood o'er the silent 
 land, 137 
 
 A NEW GIEL UP AT WHITE'S 
 
 There's a fresh track down the paddock . 143 
 
 WHOSE WIFE 
 
 ' Harry ! what, that yourself, back to old 
 
 Vic, man, ..... 146 
 
 BATTEEED BOB 
 
 He was working on a station in the 
 
 Western when I knew him, . . 148 
 
 THE SPLITTER 
 
 In the morn when the keen blade bites 
 
 the tree, ...... 155
 
 16 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO THE THEOEETICAL SELECTOR 
 
 Would you be the King, the strong man, 
 
 first m council and in toil, . . 157 
 
 BULLOCKY BILL 
 
 From a river siding, the railway town, . 161 
 
 THE DROVERS IN REPLY 
 
 We are wondering why those fellows 
 
 who are writing cheerful ditties . 163 
 
 THE SHANTY 
 
 There are tracks through the scrub, there's 
 
 a track down the hill, . . . 167 
 
 AH LING, THE LEPER 
 
 Up a dark and fetid alley, where the offal 
 
 and the slime . . . . .170 
 
 THE EMU OF WHROO 
 
 We've a tale to tell you of a spavined 
 emu, ...... 173
 
 R H Y ]\I E S 
 FROM THE INIINES
 
 THE OLD WHIM HORSE 
 
 He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, 
 
 And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, 
 With the off- fore sprung and the hind screwed badly 
 
 And he bears all over the brands of graft ; 
 And he lifts his head from the grass to Avonder 
 
 Why by night and day now the whim is still, 
 Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder 
 
 Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill. 
 
 In that whim he Avorked when the night winds 
 bellowed 
 
 On the riven summit of Giant's Hand, 
 And by day when prodigal Spring had yellowed 
 
 All the Avide, long sweep of enchanted land ; 
 And he knew his shift, and the whistle's warning, 
 
 And he knew the calls of the boys below ; 
 Through the years, unbidden, at night or morning, 
 
 He had taken his stand by the old whim bow.
 
 20 THE OLD WHIM HOUSE 
 
 But the whiiu stands still, ami the wheeling swallow 
 
 In the silent shaft hangs her home of clay, 
 And the lizards flirt and the swift snakes follow 
 
 O'er the grass-grown brace in the summer day ; 
 And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners 
 
 Of the forge, and down where the timber lies ; 
 And the croAvs are perched like a band of mourners 
 
 On the broken hut on the Hermit's Else. 
 
 All the hands have gone, for the rich reef paid out, 
 
 And the company waits till the calls come in ; 
 But the old grey horse, like the claim, is played out, 
 
 And no market's near for his bones and skin. 
 80 they let him live, and they left him grazing 
 
 By the creek, and oft in the evening dim 
 I have seen him stand on the rises, gazing 
 
 At the ruined brace and the rotting whim. 
 
 The floods rush high in the gully under. 
 
 And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees. 
 Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder 
 
 As the fires drive by on the summer breeze. 
 Still the feeble horse at the viglit liour wanders 
 
 To the lonely ring, though the whistle's dumb, 
 And with hanging head by the boAV he ponders 
 
 Where the whim boy's gone — why the shifts don't 
 come.
 
 THE OLD WHIM HOESE 21 
 
 But there comes a night when he sees hghts glowing 
 
 In the roofless huts and the ravaged mill, 
 When he hears again all the stampers going — 
 
 Though the huts are dark and the stampers still : 
 When he sees the steam to the black roof clinging 
 
 As its shadows roll on the silver sands, 
 And he knows the voice of his driver singing, 
 
 And the knocker's clang where the hraceman 
 stands. 
 
 See the old horse take, like a creature dreaming. 
 
 On the ring once more his accustomed place ; 
 But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming 
 
 Show the scattered timbers and grass-grown brace. 
 Yet //(' hears the sled in the smithy faUing, 
 
 And the empty truck as it rattles back, 
 And the boy who stands by the an\il, calling ; 
 
 And he turns and backs, and he ' takes up slack.' 
 
 While the old drum creaks, and the shadows shiver 
 
 As the wind sweeps by, and the hut doors close, 
 And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver 
 
 In the ghostly hght, round the grey horse goes ; 
 And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder, 
 
 Hears again the voice that was dear to him. 
 Sees the form he knew — and his heart groAvs bolder 
 
 As he works his shift by the broken whim.
 
 22 THE OLD WHIM HORSE 
 
 He hears in the sluices the water rushing 
 
 As the buckets drain and the doors fall back : 
 "When the early dawn in the east is blushing, 
 
 He is limping still round the old, old track. 
 Now he pricks his ears, with a neigh replying 
 
 To a call unspoken, with eyes aglow. 
 And he sways and sinks in the circle, dying ; 
 
 From the ring no more will the grey horse go. 
 
 In a gully green, where a dam lies gleaming, 
 
 And the bush creeps back on a worked-out claim, 
 And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming 
 
 On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame, 
 "Where the legs slant down, and the hare is squatting 
 
 In the high rank grass by the dried-up course, 
 Nigh a shattered drum and a king-post rotting 
 
 Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse.
 
 CLEANING UP 
 
 When the horse has been unharnessed and we've 
 
 flushed the old machine, 
 And the water o'er the shiice is running evenly and 
 
 clean ; 
 When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is 
 
 high and bright, 
 And we've worked from early morning and shall have 
 
 to work till night, 
 Not a man of us is weary, though the graft is pretty 
 
 rough. 
 If we see the proper colour showing freely through 
 
 the stuff. 
 
 With a dandy head of water and a youngster at the 
 
 rear » 
 
 To hand along the billy, boys, and keep the tail race 
 
 clear. 
 We lift the wash and flash the fork and make the 
 
 gravel fly.
 
 24 CLEANING UP 
 
 The shovelling is heavy and we're soaked from heel 
 
 to thigh ; 
 But it makes a fellow tireless and his thews and 
 
 sinews tough 
 If the colour's showing freely as he gaily shifts the 
 
 stuff. 
 
 When Geordie Best is pumping to a rollicking 
 
 refrain, 
 And Sandy -ttdpes his streaming brow and shakes the 
 
 fork again, 
 The pebbles dance and rattle and the water seems 
 
 to laugh — 
 Good luck is half the battle and good will's the 
 
 other half ; 
 And no day's too long and trying and no toil is hard 
 
 enough, 
 When we see the colour showing in each shovelful 
 
 of stuff. 
 
 Can the mining speculator with a pile of golden 
 
 scrip. 
 Or the plunger who has laid his all upon a winning 
 
 tip. 
 Or the city man who's hit upon a profitable deal. 
 Know the wonderful elation that the lucky diggers 
 
 feel
 
 CLEANING UP 25 
 
 "When Fortune's smiled but grimly and the store- 
 man's looking grufl", 
 
 And at last they see the colour showing freely in the 
 stuff? 
 
 Never, mates ! It is a feeling that no other winner 
 knows — 
 
 Not the soldier marching homeAvard from the con- 
 quest of his foes, 
 
 Nor the scholar who's successful in his searching of 
 the skies. 
 
 Nor the squalid miser grovelling where his secret 
 treasure lies. 
 
 'Tis a keener, wilder rapture in the digger bold and 
 bluff. 
 
 Who feeds the sluice and sees the colour shining in 
 the stuff'. 
 
 Then lift the wash, and flash the fork, and make the' 
 
 gravel fly ! 
 ^Ye can laugh at all the pleasures on which other 
 
 men rely. 
 When the Avater o'er the sluice is running evenly 
 
 and clean. 
 And the loaded ripples glitter with a lively golden 
 
 sheen. 
 No day's too long and trying, and no toil is hard 
 
 enough. 
 When we wash her down and see the colour freely 
 
 through the stuff'.
 
 THE RESCUE 
 
 There's a sudden, fierce clang of the knocker, then 
 
 the sound of a voice in the shaft, 
 Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and 
 
 the braceman goes suddenly daft : 
 ' Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes ! Billy, run. 
 
 give old ]\Iackie a call — 
 Run, you fool ! Number Two's gone to pieces, and 
 
 Fred Baker is caught in the fall ! 
 
 Say, hello ! there below — any hope, boys, any chances 
 
 of saving his life ? 
 ' Heave away ! ' says the knocker. They've started. 
 
 God be praised, he's no youngsters or wife ! ' 
 
 Screams the whistle in fearful entreaty, and the Avild 
 
 echo raves on the spur. 
 And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, 
 
 charmed sleep, is astir 
 With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the 
 
 vague frightened niurnmr of birds, 
 
 26
 
 THE EESCUE 27 
 
 ^Yith far cooeys that carry the warning, runnmg 
 
 feet, inarticulate words. 
 From the black belt of bush come the miners, and 
 
 they gather by INIack on the brace. 
 Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, Anth a 
 
 question in every face. 
 
 'Who's below?' 'Where's the fall'?' Didn't I 
 
 tell you ? — Didn't I say that them sets wasn't 
 
 sound ? ' 
 ' Is it Fred ? He was reckless was Baker ; now 
 
 he's seen his last shift underground.' 
 ' And his mate ? Where is Sandy M'Fadyn ? ' 
 
 ' Sandy's snoring at home on his bunk.' 
 ' Not at work ! Name o' God ! a foreboding ? ' ' A 
 
 foreboding be hanged ! He is drunk ! ' 
 ' Take it steady there, lads ! ' the boss orders. He 
 
 is white to the roots of his hair. 
 ' We may get him alive before daybreak if he's close 
 
 to the face and has air.' 
 
 In the dim drive with ardour heroic two facemen 
 
 are pegging away. 
 Long and Coots in the rise heard her thunder, and 
 
 they fled without word or delay 
 Down the drive, and they rushed for the ladders, and 
 
 they went up the shaft with a run.
 
 28 THE RESCUE 
 
 For they knew the weak spot in the workings, and 
 they guessed there was graft to he done. 
 
 Nuniher Two was pitch dark, and they scrambled to 
 the plat and they made for the face. 
 
 But the roof had come down fifty yards in, and the 
 reef was all over the place. 
 
 Fresher men from the surface replace them, and 
 
 they're hauled up on top for a blow ; 
 When a life and death job is in doing there's room 
 
 only for workers below. 
 Bare-armed, and bare-chested, and brawny, with a 
 
 grim, meaning set of the jaw. 
 The relay hurries in to the rescue, caring not for 
 
 the danger a straw ; 
 ' Tis not toil, but a battle, they're called to, and like 
 
 Trojans the miners respond, 
 For a dead man lies crushed 'neath the timbers, or a 
 
 live man is choking beyond. 
 
 By the faint, yellow glow of the candles, where the 
 dank drive is hot with their breath. 
 
 On the verge of the Land of the Shadow, waging 
 war breast to bosom with Death, 
 
 How they struggle, these giants ! and slowly, as the 
 trucks rattle into the gloom,
 
 THE RESCUE 29 
 
 Inch by inch they advance to the conquest of a 
 
 prison — or is it a tomb ? 
 And the working's re-eclio a volley as the timbers 
 
 are driven in place ; 
 Then> whisper is borne to the toilers : ' Boys, his 
 
 mother is there on the brace ! ' 
 
 Like veterans late into action, fierce with longing 
 
 to hew and to hack, 
 Riordan's shift rushes in to relieve them, and the 
 
 toil- stricken men stagger back. 
 ' Stow the stuff, mates, wherever there's stowage ! 
 
 Run the man on the brace till he drops ! 
 There's no time to think on this billet ! Bark the 
 
 heels of the trucker who stops ! 
 Keep the props well in front, and be careful. He's 
 
 in there, and alive, never fret.' 
 But the grey dawn is softening the ridges, and the 
 
 word has not come to us yet. 
 
 Still the knocker rings out, and the engine shrieks 
 
 and strains like a creature in pain 
 As the cage rushes up to the surface and drops back 
 
 into darkness again. 
 By the capstan a woman is crouching. In her eyes 
 
 neither hope nor despair ;
 
 30 THE RESCUE 
 
 But a yearning that glowers like frenzy bids those 
 
 Avho'd speak pity forbear. 
 Like a figure in stone she is seated till the labour of 
 
 rescue be done. 
 For the father was killed in the Phoenix, and the son 
 
 — Lord of pity ! the son ? 
 
 ' Hello ! there on top ! ' they are calling. ' They are 
 
 through ! He is seen in the drive ! ' 
 ' They have got him — thank Heaven ! they've got 
 
 him, and oh, blessed be God, he's alive ! ' 
 ' Man on ! heave away ! ' Step aside, lads ; let his 
 
 mother be first when he lands.' 
 She was silent and strong in her anguish ; now she 
 
 babbles and weeps where she stands. 
 And the stern men, grown gentle, support her at the 
 
 mouth of the shaft, till at last 
 With a rush the cage springs to the landing, and her 
 
 son's arms encircle her fast. 
 
 She lias ciirs('<l the aid iiiinc fur its tiiiinlcrs, fur the 
 
 victims its ilrircs hare cnsnarciJ, 
 Now she cries a ijrcat blessing iijkiii it for the one 
 
 jtrecioiis life it has spareil.
 
 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 sunshafts caught and woven in the meshes 
 
 of her hair, 
 And the pink and white of heathbloom sweetly 
 
 blended in her face.
 
 32 BASHFUL GLEESON 
 
 She was fair, and small, and slender-limbed, and 
 
 buoyant as a bird, 
 Fresh as wild, white, dew-dipped violets where 
 
 the bluegmn'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. 
 
 Bon felt mighty at the ^nndlass when she watched 
 
 him hauling stuff. 
 And she asked him many questions, * What was 
 
 that ? ' and ' ^Yhy was this ? ' 
 Though his bashfulness was painful, and he answered 
 
 like a muff, 
 "N^'ith his foolish ' ]\Iy word Missie ! ' and his 
 
 ' Beg your pardon, Miss.' 
 
 He stood six foot in his bluchers, stout of heart and 
 
 strong of limb ; 
 For her sake he Avould have tackled any man or 
 
 any brute ; 
 Of her half a score of suitors none could hold a 
 
 light to him, 
 And he owned the richest hole along the Bullock 
 Lead to boot.
 
 BASHFUL GLEESOX 33 
 
 Yet -while Charley Mack and Hogan, and the Teddy- 
 
 waddy Skite 
 Put in many pleasant evenings at ' The Bower,' Ben 
 
 declined, 
 And remained a mere outsider, and would spend one 
 
 half the night 
 Waiting, hid among the trees, to watch her shadow 
 
 on the hlind. 
 
 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.
 
 34 BASHFUL GLEESON 
 
 O'er ' The Bower ' the red cloud Hfted 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. 
 
 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 Hame 
 
 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.
 
 BASHFUL GLEE SON 35 
 
 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 1 
 
 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, 
 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 'twas Kitty's work. She saw him Avhen 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.
 
 THE WORKED-OUT MINE 
 
 On summer nights when moonbeams flow 
 
 And glisten o'er the high, white tips, 
 And ^nnds make lamentation low. 
 
 As through the ribs of shattered ships, 
 And steal about the broken brace 
 
 ^yhere pendant timbers swing and moan, 
 And flitting bats give aimless chase, 
 
 Who dares to seek the mine alone ? 
 
 The shrinking bush with sable rims 
 
 A skeleton forlorn and bowed. 
 With pipe-clay white about its limbs 
 
 And at its feet a tattered shroud ; 
 And ghostly figures lurk and groan. 
 
 Shrill whispers sound from ghostly lips, 
 And ghostly footsteps start the stone 
 
 That clatters sharply down the tips. 
 
 36
 
 THE WOEKED-OUT MINE 37 
 
 The engine-house is dark and still, 
 
 The life that raged within has fled ; 
 Like open graves the boilers chill 
 
 That once with glowing fires were red ; 
 Above the shaft in measured space 
 
 A rotted rope swings to and fro, 
 Whilst o'er the plat and on the brace 
 
 The silent shadows come and go. 
 
 And there below, in chambers dread 
 
 Where darkness like a fungus clings, 
 Are lingering still the old mine's dead — 
 
 Bend o'er and hear their whisperings ! 
 Up from the blackness sobs and sighs 
 
 Are flung with moans and muttered fears, 
 A low lament that never dies, 
 
 And ceaseless sound of falling tears. 
 
 My ears intent have heard their grief — 
 
 The fitful tones of Carter's tongue, 
 The strong man crushed beneath the reef. 
 
 The groans of Panton, Praer and Young, 
 And ' Trucker Bill ' of Number Five, 
 
 Along the ruined workings roll ; 
 For deep in every shoot and drive 
 
 This mine secretes a shackled soul.
 
 38 THE WOEKED-OUT MINE 
 
 Ah I woeful mine, where wives have wept, 
 
 And mothers prayed in anxious pain, 
 And long, distracting vigil kept, 
 
 You yawn for victims now in vain ! 
 Still to that god, whose shrme you were. 
 
 Is homage done in wild device ; 
 Men hate you as the sepulchre 
 
 That stores their hloody sacrifice.
 
 GERMAN JOE 
 
 Skirting the swamp and the tangled scrub. 
 
 Tramping and turning amidst the trees, 
 Carrying nothing but blankets and gvnh, 
 
 Careless of pleasure and health and ease. 
 Hither and thither with never a goal, 
 
 Heavy, and solemn, and stiff, and slow, 
 Seeking a track and a long-lost line, 
 ' Blazed avay to dot lead of mine,' — 
 
 Restless and rickety German Joe. 
 
 Down in the gully and up the range. 
 
 Stung by the gale and the hate-hot sun, 
 Never a greeting to give in change, 
 
 Never a tip from the nearest run, — 
 Seeking a guide to a golden hole. 
 
 Lost in the lone land long ago. 
 Left in the keep of the hills and trees ; 
 Jealous to have and to hold are these, 
 
 Hope you may get it, though, German Joe. 
 
 39
 
 40 GERMAN JOE 
 
 ' Likely old yarn for a horse marine ! 
 
 Struck it, you say, at the river head — 
 Back where the beUo■^^dng bunpp's seen, 
 
 Out beyond ever}T\'here — rich and red ; 
 Left it for flicker, and lost the track. 
 
 Blazed till your arm couldn't strike a blow ; 
 Gravel that gleams with the golden stuff, 
 Nuggets ' shust like as der plums in duflt",' — 
 
 What are you giving us, German Joe ? ' 
 
 ' Blaze ? Yes ; you strike for the Granite Stair, 
 
 Make to the left when you cross the creek, 
 South till you meet with a monkey bear, 
 
 Tramp in his tracks for about a week ; 
 Then you can travel the sky-line back. 
 
 So long, old chap, if you're bound to go. 
 Don't you forget when you're rich and great 
 AVho laid you on to the lost lead, mate — 
 
 Mad as a hatter is German Joe.' 
 
 Laugh as they may, they will stand his friends. 
 
 Eight as rain when the old man takes 
 Down to his bunk in the hut, and spends 
 
 Seven weeks fighting the fever and shakes, 
 Muttering still of his lucky lead : 
 
 ' Vhisper — I leds you all in der know,
 
 GEBMAN JOE 41 
 
 Den you pe richer nor as tier pank.' 
 Boys, he's a man if he is a crank — 
 Whisky and physic for German Joe. 
 
 Now he's abroad in a wild dream-land, 
 
 Baring his breast to the river breeze — 
 Out where the rock-ribbed ridges stand, 
 
 Telling his tale to the secret trees, 
 Swift as the shadows his visions glide 
 
 Over the plains Avhere the mad winds blow. 
 Cover his face now, and carve a stone, 
 Henceforth his spirit must seek alone — 
 
 Dead as a door-nail is German Joe. 
 
 Bushmen have yarned of a ghost that went 
 
 Blazing a track from the Granite Stair 
 Down to a shaft and a tattered tent, 
 
 Many days' journey from anywhere. 
 Others have said that the bushmen lied. 
 
 Liars or not, it is true, we know, 
 Men have discovered a golden mine 
 Out in the track of an old blazed line, 
 
 Led by the spirit of German Joe.
 
 WAITING FOR WATER 
 
 'Twas old Flynn, the identity, told us 
 
 That the creek always ran pretty high, 
 But that fossicking veteran sold us, 
 
 And he lied as his quality lie. 
 Through a tangle of ranges and ridges, 
 
 Down a track that is blazed with our hide, 
 Over creeks minus crossings and bridges. 
 High and low, mere impertinent midges 
 
 Trying falls with the mighty Divide, 
 
 We came, hauling the boxes and stampers. 
 
 Or just nipping them in with a winch ; 
 Now and then in unfortunate scampers 
 
 Missing smash by the eighth of an inch ; 
 Round the spurs very daintily crawling, 
 
 With one team pulling out in a row, 
 And another lot heavenward hauling. 
 Lest the whole bag-of-tricks should go sprawling 
 
 Into regions unheard of below, 
 
 42
 
 WMTING FOE WATEE 43 
 
 We came through with the shanks and the shafting, 
 
 And the frames, and the wonderful wheel ; 
 Then we put in a month of hard grafting 
 
 Ere we nailed down the last scrap of deal. 
 She beat true, and ^\'ith scarce a ^ibration, 
 
 And we voted her queen of the mills, 
 And a push from the wide desolation 
 Drifted in to our jollification 
 
 When her drmnming was heard in the hills. 
 
 Now the discs by the cam-shaft are rusting. 
 
 And the stamps in the boxes are still, 
 And a silence that's deep and disgusting 
 
 Seems to hang like a pall on the mill. 
 Just a fortnight she ran — then she rested. 
 
 And we've little to do but complain ; 
 For a bird ua the feed-pipe has nested, 
 And we've spent every stiver invested. 
 
 And are pra}dng for tucker and rain. 
 
 Billy's Creek — theme of eloquent fables — 
 Drips like sweat on the breast of the wheel, 
 
 And the blankets are dry on the tables, 
 
 And the sluice -box is warped Uke an eel ; 
 Sudden dust-clouds run lunatic races 
 
 In the red, rocky bed do^uTi below. 
 And the porcupine scrambles in places
 
 44 WAITIN'G FOE WATER 
 
 Where Flinn swears by the faith he embraces, 
 Fourteen inches of water should flow. 
 
 For a time we were proof against sorrow, 
 
 And we harboured a cheerful behef 
 In the plenteous rains of to-morrow 
 
 As we belted away at the reef. 
 We piled quartz in the paddocks and hopper, 
 
 And the pack-horse came in once a week : 
 Now our credit is not worth a copper 
 At the township, and highly improper 
 
 Is the language the storekeepers speak. 
 
 We no longer talk brightly, or snivel 
 
 Of our luck, but we loaf very hard, 
 Too disgusted to care to be civil, 
 
 And too lazy to look at a card. 
 Only George finds some sUght consolation 
 
 Crushing prospects — a couple a day — 
 And then proving by multipHcation 
 How much metal is in the formation, 
 
 And the ' di^-N-ies ' she'll probably pay. 
 
 But our leisure is qualified shghtly 
 By the cattle from over the Fly — 
 
 Who have taken to pegging out nightly 
 In our limited water supply.
 
 WAITING FOE WATER 45 
 
 And the snakes have assisted in keeping- 
 Things ahve, for the man, you'll agree, 
 Will be spry who may find he's been sleeping 
 With a tiger — or chance on one creeping 
 In the Avater he wanted for tea. 
 
 Though our sweltering sky never changes, 
 
 Squatter Clark, up at Crowfoot, complains 
 That prospectors out over the ranges 
 
 Have been chased out of camp by the rains. 
 Veal, the Methodist preacher at Spence's, 
 
 Who the Cousin Jacks say is ' some tuss ' 
 As a rain-making parson commences 
 To enlarge on o)ir sins and offences, 
 
 And to blame all his failures on us. 
 
 We don't go to his church down the mountain : 
 
 Seven miles is a wearisome trot. 
 With the glass playing up like a fountain, 
 
 And the prayers correspondingly hot. 
 So on Sunday each suliering sinner 
 
 Has a simple, convivial spree, — 
 A roast porcupine, maybe, for dinner ; 
 For we daily grow thinner and thinner 
 
 On the week's bread and treacle and tea. 
 
 We've been scared, too, of late by Golightly, 
 Him who kept up his chin best of all,
 
 46 WAITING FOR WATER 
 
 And predicted with confidence nightly 
 Heavy rains that neglected to fall, 
 
 And enlarged on the sure indications 
 
 (^Yhile we Hstened, and v.earily groaned) 
 
 Of tremendous climatic sensations, 
 
 Fearful tempests, and great inundations, 
 That, it happened, were always postponed. 
 
 He's gone daft through our many reverses, 
 
 Or the sun has got on to his brain, 
 For he cowers all day, and he curses 
 
 To a fretful and wearing refrain ; 
 And at midnight he dolefully screeches 
 
 In the gloom of the desolate mill ; 
 Or he goes in his shirt, making speeches 
 To the man in the moon, whom he reaches 
 
 From the summit of Poverty Hill. 
 
 So we're waiting, and watching, and longing 
 
 With an impotent, bitter desire, 
 And new troiibles and old ones come thronging, 
 
 Drought, and fever, and famine, and fire ; 
 And we know — our misfortunes reviewing — 
 
 All the pangs that in Hades betide, 
 Where the damned sit eternally stewing. 
 And, through days never ending, are suing 
 
 For the water that's ever denied.
 
 WHEN BROTHEK PEETREE PRAYED 
 
 'Twas a sleepy little chapel by a wattled hill erected, 
 Where the storms were always muffled, and an 
 
 atmosphere of peace 
 Hmig about beneath the gum-trees, and the garden 
 
 Avas respected 
 By the goats from Billybunga and the washer- 
 woman's geese. 
 In the week-days it was sacred to my young 
 
 imagination ; 
 From its walls there oozed a sentiment of reverence 
 
 profound ; 
 And on Sabbath morns the murmuring of the childish 
 
 congregation 
 Heemed to spread a benediction in the bush land 
 
 far around. 
 
 47
 
 4ti WHEN BEOTHEE PEETEEE PEAYED 
 
 But when Brother Peetree prayed all the parrots 
 
 flew dismayed, 
 And the hill shook to its centre, and the trees and 
 
 fences swayed ; 
 And we youngsters heard the rumhle of the Day of 
 
 Judgment there, 
 When the pious superintendent wrestled manfully 
 
 in prayer. 
 
 They were horny-handed Methodists, and men of 
 scanty knowledge. 
 
 Who controlled that ' little corner of the vine- 
 yard ' by the pound ; 
 
 Their theology was not the kind that's warranted 
 at college. 
 
 But their faith was most abundant, and their 
 gospel always sound. 
 
 Brother Peetree Avas a miner at the P>and of Hope. 
 His leisure 
 
 He employed in ' sticking i)orkers ' for his neigh- 
 bours, and his skill 
 
 Was a theme of admiration ; but his soul's sublimest 
 pleasure 
 
 Was to speak a prayer on Sunday in the chapel 
 'neath the hill.
 
 WHEN BROTHER PEETREE PRAYED 49 
 
 Froze the maiTOAv in our bones at the sound of 
 
 hollow groans, 
 And the shrieks of moral anguish, and the aAvful 
 
 thunder tones ; 
 And we saw the Hell-fire burning, and we smelt it 
 
 in the air, 
 "When dear Brother Peetree struggled with the Lord 
 
 of Hosts in prayer. 
 
 Brother Peetree always started with a murmured 
 supplication, 
 
 Knelt beside a form, serenely, with a meek, 
 submissive face ; 
 
 But he rose by certain stages to a rolling ex- 
 hortation. 
 
 And a wild,, ecstatic bellowing for sanctity and 
 grace ; 
 
 And he threw his arms to heaven, and the seats went 
 down before him 
 
 As he fought his way along the aisle, and prayed 
 with might and main, 
 
 "With hysterical beseechings. Then a sudden peace 
 fell o'er him, 
 
 And he finished, sobbing softly, at his starting- 
 point again.
 
 r)0 wh]-:n bhotheh peetree iTiAYEd 
 
 And the ciders, to their eiii's pale with reverential 
 
 fears, 
 And the sisters and the choir indulged in hot, 
 
 repentant tears ; 
 And the sinners for salvation did with eagerness 
 
 declare, 
 "When beloved Brother Peetree wrestled mightily in 
 
 prayer.
 
 THE OLD CAMP-OYEN 
 
 'We don't keep a grand piano in our hut beside the 
 
 creek, 
 And I'm pretty certain Hannah couldn't bang it, 
 
 anyhow. 
 But we've got one box of music, and I'd rather hear 
 
 its squeak 
 Than the daisiest cantata that's been fashioned up 
 
 to now. 
 It's an old camp-oven merely, with a handle made of 
 
 wire, 
 But no organ built could nearly compensate to mo 
 
 for it 
 When I come off graft and find it playing tunes 
 
 before the fire, 
 And I'm feeling sort of vacant, but just wonder- 
 fully fit.
 
 52 THE OLD CAMP-OVEN 
 
 In its si'-.di', si::li', si:dr, 
 
 I'/ien's a t/miisanil little airx, 
 Ami nn man can >iit anil i/ri'.-Jr 
 
 'Jjoiit his tidiihli's 0)1(1 his rarrs 
 WJdh' tlir jlaincs are ijailij irinilin;/, 
 
 Ami tlie tea is ihurn tn hreir, 
 And the did raiHii-droi's iiii)i)Un<i 
 
 All the reels he ever hiteir. 
 
 "When the \vet winds meet and -whip nie hi the early 
 
 muter nights, 
 And the hissing hailstones cHp nie all the way across 
 
 the flat, 
 As I battle for'ards, water-logged, toAvavd the 
 
 beckoning lights, 
 There is always there a welcome to console a chap 
 
 for that. 
 For my little wife is beaming brisk and bright beside 
 
 the lamp, 
 And the old camp-oven's going. Gosh ! I feel just 
 
 like a kid 
 As I peel and sluice so slippy, and I hear the storm 
 
 winds vamp 
 To the singing of the oven when the missus lifts 
 
 the lid.
 
 THE OLD CAMrOVEN 53 
 
 There >> a siizle and a splutter 
 
 And a whirr of inanij harps ; 
 ^]'here's the instnniiejtt can utter 
 
 Such a ina^e of flats and sharps ! 
 Xnt far ine the ijreat ereatinis 
 
 Wit en the old eawp-m-en plaijs 
 ^ Home Street Home,' irith rariations, 
 
 At the end of ivorhuKj dai/s. 
 
 Ill the evenings dim and luizy, stretched outside 
 
 along a butt, 
 FeeHng reasonably lazy, blowing cdouds that cuii 
 
 and climb, 
 I can hear the old camp-oven on the logs before the 
 
 hut 
 Ripping out a mellow chorus that just suits the place 
 
 and time. 
 If we strike it in the ranges, or The Windmill turns 
 
 out well, 
 I suppose there'll be some changes, and I'll want to 
 
 make things gee ; 
 But the time will never happen when I"ll be so 
 
 steep a swell 
 That the old camp-oven's measure woii"t be melody 
 
 to me.
 
 54 
 
 THE OLD CAMP OVEN 
 
 'XcatJi its hiihble, hithble, hnhhle, 
 
 There s the lilt <>f jiijs and reels 
 All the ccniimon Icind of traiil'le 
 
 'T/iat the horneij-liaiuled feels 
 Is wiped out i)i half a ))ii)iute 
 
 It)/ the restfidness it brinj/s, 
 And the peace/id rojititre in it 
 
 ^]'/len the old cai)ip-oren si)i(/s.
 
 WHEN THE BELL BLEW UP 
 
 'That's the boiler at The Bell, mates ! Tumble out, 
 
 Ned, neck and crop — 
 Never mind your hat and coat, man, we'll be wanted 
 
 on the job. 
 Barney's driving, Harvey's stoking — God help all 
 
 the hands on top ! 
 Bring along the brandy, some one. Don't stand 
 
 like an image, Bol) ; 
 Grab those shirts — they'll all be needed. Rugs 
 
 and candles, that's all right. 
 Bet your lives, boys, we'll have lots of doctor's work 
 
 to do to-night ! 
 
 ' ] )idn't she thunder ? 8cot ! I thought the 
 
 universe had gone to smash. 
 Take the track through Peetree's paddock, make 
 
 the smartest time you know. 
 
 65
 
 56 WHEN THE BELL BLEW UP 
 
 Barney swore her plates were rotten, but poor r>ill 
 
 was always rash.' 
 ' And his missus, heaven help her ! — they were 
 
 spliced a month ago.' 
 Down the track we raced together, up the hill — then 
 
 o'er the claim 
 Saw the steam-clouds hanging thickly, lustrous with 
 
 the glow of fiame. 
 
 Boiler-house in hopeless ruins, engines wrecked and 
 
 smoke-stack gone ; 
 Bricks and shingles widely scattered, and the 
 
 shattered boiler bare. 
 'Five men missed!' 'Buck in, you fellows; get 
 
 your freest action on ; 
 Keep the fire back from the timbers — Clod knows 
 
 Avho is under there. 
 Sprag that knocker. How it rattles ! Ih'aceman's 
 
 nowhere — Coleman's Joe. 
 Tell them what has happened, Byan. They will 
 
 have to wait below.' 
 
 As we fought the fires, the women, pule and tearful 
 
 gathered round. 
 ' That you, Peter ? Thanks to Heaven ! ' ' There's 
 
 my Harry ! (!od is good ! '
 
 WHEN THE BELL BLEW UP 57 
 
 ■* Praise the Lord — they've got our lad safe ! Joe 
 
 the braceman has been found ! ' 
 Down between the tips they found him, pinned 
 
 there by a log of wood. 
 
 * Battery boys are safe. Mack saw them hiding 
 
 under Peetree's ricks. 
 They just up and cut from under when it started 
 raining bricks.' 
 
 Only two now — P)ill and Parney. Still we laboured 
 
 might and main 
 ']\Iid the ruins round the boiler where the shattered 
 
 walls were stacked. 
 Then his wife discovei'ed Barney, dazed and black, 
 
 but right as rain ; 
 ♦Said he didn't know what hit him — ' thought the 
 
 crack of doom had cracked ; ' 
 He had landed on the sand-heap, thirty yards or so 
 
 away. 
 
 * (rod is mighty good to sinners,' nnirmured Geordie. 
 
 ' Let us pray.' 
 
 Fifty voices called on Harvey, and we worked like 
 
 horses all, 
 r)elving down amongst the timber, Iturnt and 
 
 knocked about, but gay.
 
 58 WHEN THE BELL BLEW UP 
 
 ' Lend a hand, here, every man ; he's pinned beneath 
 
 the outer wall ! 
 All together. Now you've got him. Gently does- 
 
 it. That's O.K. 
 Scalded ! Yes, and right arm broken. Pass some 
 
 brandy, one of you. 
 Cheer, ye devils ! Give it lip, lads. He's alive and 
 
 kicking, too ! ' 
 
 ' Give him air, now. Make a track there. Let him 
 
 see his missus first.' 
 ' Where's his wife ? ' The women wondered. She 
 
 had not been seen all night. 
 Someone whispered she was timid, that she dared not 
 
 face the worst. 
 Harvey smiled despite his troubles. 'Boys, she's 
 
 fainted — she's all right.' 
 So Ave bore him gaily home, and as he saw the 
 
 gateway near 
 ])ill tried hard to lead the chorus when we gave a 
 
 rousing cheer. 
 
 ' Stop, for God's sake ! ' In the garden, where her 
 life blood tinged the vine. 
 
 Prone poor Harvey's wife Avas lying, in the moon- 
 light, cold and gray.
 
 WHEN THE BELL BLEW UP 59 
 
 There the flying bolt had struck her as she ran 
 
 towards the mine. 
 We could guess the truth too well — and near a 
 
 broken firebar lay. 
 Carrol, kneeling down beside her, gently raised the 
 
 wounded head, 
 And we bent to catch his whisper, and he answered 
 
 sadly — ' Dead ! '
 
 THE TRUCKER 
 
 If you want a game to tame you and to take your 
 
 measure in, 
 Try a Aveek or two of trucking in a mine 
 Where the rails are never level for a half-a-minute's 
 
 spin, 
 And the curves are short and sharp along the line. 
 
 Try the feverish bottom level, down five hundred 
 
 feet of shaft, 
 "Where the atmosphere is like a second suit, 
 When the wash is full of water, and you've got to 
 
 run the graft. 
 For there's forty ton of gravel in the shoot. 
 
 *Wantajob o' truckin', dost tha?" says the boss, 
 
 old Geordie Rist, 
 * Shift's a trucker short, ma lad, l)ut aw don' know — 
 Can'st tha do th' work, though, think'st tha? Art 
 
 a pretty decent list '? 
 Eh, well, dannne ! thoo can try it ; go below.' 
 
 60
 
 THE TRUCKER 61 
 
 80 the cage is manned, the knocker clangs and 
 
 clatters on the brace, 
 The engine draws a deep, defiant breath 
 To inflate her lungs of iron ; and in silence, face to 
 
 face, 
 We drop into the darkness deep as death. 
 
 Then a fairy sense of lightness and of floating on 
 
 the night, 
 A sudden glare, and Number Three is passed ; 
 Soon a sound of warring waters and another rush of 
 
 light— 
 ' All clear ! ' The up-trip never seems so fast. 
 
 It is rough upon the tyro, that first tussle with the 
 
 trucks — 
 The wretched four, with worn, three-cornered 
 
 wheels 
 That are sure to fall to his lot and to floor hiiu if 
 
 his pluck's 
 Not true when mates are grinding at his heels. 
 
 Tlien the struggle at the incline, and the deuced 
 ticklish squeeze 
 
 At the curves where strength alone not all avails, 
 
 And the floundering in the mullock, and the badly- 
 broken knees 
 
 Before he learns to run upon the rails.
 
 m THE TRUCKER 
 
 ]>at it's like all other graftin,i^% ami the man that 
 
 has the grit 
 Won't tucker out with one back-racking shift ; 
 "When he's sweated to condition, with his muscles 
 
 firm and fit, 
 He'll disdain to stick at seven trucks of drift. 
 
 He can swarm around the })inches with a scramble 
 
 and a dash, 
 And negotiate the inclines just as pat ; 
 And the sheets of iron rattle and the waters suro-e 
 
 • and splash 
 As he shoots the "full "uns " in along the plat. 
 
 "When the empties wind an<l clatter down the drive 
 
 and through the dark — 
 As ' blowing ' spells those backward journeys 
 
 serve — 
 On before, deep set in darkness, glints and glows a 
 
 feeble spark. 
 The candle burning dimly at the curve. 
 
 After cribs are polished oil', and when the smoke 
 
 begins to rise 
 And cling about the caps and in the cracks, 
 There's a passing satisfaction in the patriarchal 
 
 lies 
 Of the (ieordie pioneers and Cousin Jacks —
 
 THE TRUCKER (53 
 
 Lanky Steve's unwritten stories of the fan of 
 
 Fifty-two, 
 Or the dashing days at Donkey AVoman's Flat, 
 Of traps, and beaks, and heavy yields, and pugilists 
 
 put through. 
 And lifting up the flag at Ballarat. 
 
 Yes, the truckers' toil is rather heavy grafting as a 
 
 rule — 
 Much heavier than the wages, well I know ; 
 But the life's not full of trouble, and the fellow is 
 
 a fool 
 Who cannot find some pleasure down below.
 
 * STOP-AND-SEE ' 
 
 I'm stewing in a brick-built town ; 
 
 My coat is quite a stylish cut, 
 And, morn and even, up and down, 
 
 I travel in a common rut ; 
 But as the city sounds recede, 
 
 In dreamy moods I sometimes see 
 A vision of a busy lead. 
 
 And hear its voices calling me. 
 
 My flaccid muscles seem to tweak 
 
 To feel the windlass pull and strain. 
 To shake the cradle by the creek. 
 
 And puddle at the ' tom ' again. 
 I'd gladly sling this musty shop 
 
 To see the sluicing waters flow — 
 A pile of tucker, dirt on top, 
 
 And simply Lord knows what below. 
 
 64
 
 ' STOP-AND-SEE ' 65 
 
 'Twas lightly left, 'tis lately mourned, 
 
 The tent life up at 8top-ancl-8ee, 
 When shirts -with yellow clay adorned 
 
 Were badges of nobility. 
 When Sunday's best was Monday's wear, 
 
 And Bennett gave us verse and book — 
 Poor Dick ! a crude philosopher, 
 
 But, bless his heart, a clever cook. 
 
 An easy life we lived and free ; 
 
 The wash was only ten-weight stuff, 
 The ' bottom ' dry and soft at knee — 
 
 With Hope to help us 'twas enough. 
 Then none could say us ay or nay 
 
 Did we agree to slave or smoke ; 
 The pan Avas ready with the pay 
 
 E'en though the graft was half in joke. 
 
 'Twas good when ' spell-oh ! ' had been said, 
 
 To watch the white smoke curl and cling 
 Against the gravel roof o'erhead, 
 
 The candles dimly flickering 
 And circled with a yellow glow — 
 
 To sprawl upon the broken reef, 
 And pensively to pull and blow 
 
 The fragrant incense from the leaf.
 
 66 ' STOP-AXD-SEE ' 
 
 And where the creek ran by our tent, 
 
 Or hnt^ered through embowered ponds, 
 In dusky nooks that held a scent 
 
 Of musk amid the drooping fronds, 
 It w'as a pleasant task to lay 
 
 The dish within the stream, and there 
 To puddle oflf the pug and clay, 
 
 And pan the gleaming prospect bare. 
 
 Oft in the strange deceit of dreams, 
 
 I swirl the old tin-dish again, 
 And Wondee's rippling water seems 
 
 To cool my weary limbs as then ; 
 And down the hill-side bare and dry 
 
 A digger's chorus faintly conies, 
 And mingles with the lullaby 
 
 Of locusts in the drowsy gums. 
 
 The barrels rattle on their stands, 
 
 And in the shaft the nail-kegs swing. 
 The short, sharp strokes of practised hands 
 
 Are making pick and anvil ring. 
 I hear the splitter's measured blow. 
 
 The distant knocker rise and drop. 
 The cheery cry, ' Look up, below ! ' 
 
 '1 he muffled call of ' Heave, on top ! '
 
 ' STOP-AND-SEE ' 67 
 
 No piles -were made .it Stop-and-See, 
 
 No nuggets found of giant size, 
 But, looking back, it seems to mo 
 
 That all who laboured there were wise. 
 For there was freedom void of pride, 
 
 There hate of forms and shallow arts, 
 And there were friendships all too wide 
 
 For narrow streets and narrow hearts.
 
 IN 'THE BENEVOLENT' 
 
 ' I'm off on the wallaby I " cries Old Beu, 
 
 And liis pipe is lit, and his swag is rolled ; 
 There is nothing here for us old-time men, 
 
 But up north, I hear, they are on the gold.' 
 And he shuffles off with a feeble stride, 
 
 With his ragged swag and his billy black. 
 He is making tracks for the other side, 
 O'er the river deep, or the Great Divide ; 
 
 But at night, dead beat, he travels back. 
 
 Then at morn next day he is off' again, 
 
 ^^'ith an eager light in his aged eye^, 
 Tramping away on his journey vain 
 
 For the land of promise beyond the rise. 
 Over the range there is work to do, 
 
 There is roaring life at the shanty bars. 
 He Avill tramp the plains whilst the skies are blue» 
 And will wander the great wide bushland through,. 
 
 And be soothed to sleep by the Ijlinking stars. 
 
 68
 
 IX 'THE IJEXEVOLENT' 69 
 
 In the garden gay where the old man roams 
 
 Pied poppies sway on their supple stalks, 
 And the fair white rose on the soft hreeze foams, 
 
 And the pansies peep by the gravelled walks ; 
 But his brow by the breeze of the hills is fanned, 
 
 And the clink of bells to his quick ear comes. 
 "When he shades his eyes with a withered hand. 
 He sees silent rivers and ranges grand, 
 
 Or a still lagoon under silver gums. 
 
 ' Are you bound out back, Dan '? ' the children cry, 
 
 And they peer at him through the fence, and shout 
 * Well, it's so long, Dan,' as he hobbles by, 
 
 With his ' Ay, ay, sonny lad — tramping out ! ' 
 On his back he's bearing his house and bed. 
 
 As he bore them both in his manhood's pride, 
 Pressing on each day till his strength has fled 
 By the force of a dauntless spirit led — 
 
 There's a rush somewhere on the Sydney side. 
 
 Though his sight niciy fail and his limits give way, 
 Yet no weakness touches his brave old heart. 
 
 And he cries each night : ' At the break of day 
 I must strap up bluey and make a start ! '
 
 70 IN ' THE BENEVOLENT ' 
 
 And they humour him ; for the time is near 
 
 When he'll tramp no more under changeful skies. 
 But will leave his travels and troubles here, 
 Take the track God blazed with His stars, and steer 
 To the Never Land just across the rise.
 
 JONAH'S LUCK 
 
 Out of luck, mate ? Have a liquor. Hang it, 
 
 where's the use complaining ? 
 Take your fancy, I'm in funds now — I can stand 
 
 the racket, Dan. 
 Dump your bluey in the corner ; camp here for the 
 
 night, it's raining ; 
 Bet your life I'm glad to see you — glad to see a 
 
 Daylesford man. 
 Swell '? Correct, Dan. Spot the get up ; and I own 
 
 this blooming shanty, 
 Me the fellows christened ' Jonah ' at -lim Crow 
 
 and Blanket Flat, 
 'Cause my luck was so infernal — you remember me 
 
 and Canty ? 
 Eough times, those — the very memory keeps a chap 
 
 from getting fat. 
 
 71
 
 72 JONAH'S LUCK 
 
 AVhere'd I strike it ? That's a yavn. The fire's a 
 
 comfort — sit up nearer. 
 Hoist your heels, man ; take it easy till Kate's ready 
 
 ■with the stew. 
 Yes, I'll tell my little story ; 'tain't a long one, but 
 
 it's queerer 
 Than those lies that Tullock pitched us on The Flat 
 
 in 'o2. 
 Fancy Phil a parson now ! He's smug as grease, the 
 
 Reverend Tullock. 
 Yes, he's big — his wife and faui'ly are a high and 
 
 mighty lot. 
 Didn't I say his jaw would keep him when he tired 
 
 of puncliing mullock ? 
 "Well, it has — he's made his pile here. How d'you 
 
 like your whisky — hot ? 
 
 Luck ! Well, now, I like your cheek, Dan. You 
 
 Jiad luck, there's no denying. 
 I in thirty years had a\ei'aged just a wage of 
 
 twenty bob — 
 Why, at Alma there I saw men making fortunes 
 
 without trying, 
 While for days I lived on 'possums, and then had to 
 
 take a job.
 
 JONAH'S LUCK 78 
 
 ]>ah ! iiiiH talk aljout misfortune — my ill-luck was 
 
 always thorough : 
 Gold once ran away before me if I chased it for 
 
 a week, 
 I was starved at Tarrangower — lived on tick at 
 
 ^Maryborough — 
 And I fell and broke my thigh-bone at the start 
 
 of Fiery Creek. 
 
 At Avoca Canty left me. Jim, you know, was not 
 
 a croaker. 
 But he jacked the whole arrangement — found we 
 
 coTiIdn't make a do : 
 Said he loved me like a brother, but 'twas rough 
 
 upon a joker 
 When he'd got to fight the devil, and find luck 
 
 enough for two. 
 Jim w^as off'. I didn't blame him, seeing what he'd 
 
 had to suffer 
 When Maginnis, just beside ns, panned out fifty 
 
 to the tub. 
 We had pegged out hours before him, and had 
 
 struck another duffer, 
 And each store upon the lead, my lad, had laid us 
 
 up for grub.
 
 74 JONAH'S LUCK 
 
 After that I picked up BarloAv, but we parted at 
 
 Dunolly 
 "When we'd struggled throuj^^h at Ahiia, Adehiide 
 
 Lead, and Ararat. 
 See, my luck was hard upon hiui ; he contracted 
 
 melancholy, 
 And he hung himself one morninj;- in the shaft at 
 
 Parrot Flat. 
 Ding it ? No. AMiere gold was gettmg I was on 
 
 the job, and early, — ■ 
 Struck some tucker dirt at Armstrong's, and just 
 
 lived at Pleasant Creek, 
 Ahvays grafting like a good 'un, never hopeless-like 
 
 or surly, 
 Living partly on my earnings, Dan, l)ut hirgely on 
 
 my cheek. 
 
 Good old days, they like to call them — they Avere 
 
 tough old days to many : 
 I was through them, and they left me still the 
 
 choice to graft or beg — 
 Left me gray, and worn, and wrinkled, aged and 
 
 stumped — without a penny — 
 'With a chronic rheunuitism and this darned old 
 
 twisted le''.
 
 JONAH'S LUCK 75 
 
 Other work ? That's true — in plenty. But you 
 
 know the real old stager 
 Who has followed up the diggings, how he hangs 
 
 on to the pan, 
 How he hates to leave the pipeclay. Though you 
 
 mention it I'll wager 
 That yon never worked on top until you couldn't 
 
 help it, Dan, 
 
 Years went hy. On many fields I worked, and often 
 
 missed a meal, and 
 Then I found Victoria played out, and the yields 
 
 were very slack, 
 vSo I took a turn up Northwai'd, tried Tasmania and 
 
 New Zealand, — 
 Dan, I worked my passage over, and I sneaked the 
 
 journey back. 
 Times were Avorse. I made a cradle, and went 
 
 fossicking old places ; 
 But the Chows had been before me, and had 
 
 scraped the country bare ; 
 There was talk of splendid patches 'mongst the 
 
 creeks and round the races. 
 But 'twas not my luck to strike them, and I 
 
 think I lived on air.
 
 76 JONAH'S LUCK 
 
 Rough ■? That's not the word. So help ine, Dan, 
 
 I hadn't got a stiver 
 AVhen I caved in one fine Siinday — found I 
 
 couldn't lift my head. 
 They removed me, and the doctor said I'd got 
 
 rheumatic fever. 
 And for seven months I lingered in a ward upon 
 
 a bed. 
 Came out crippled, feeling done-up, hopeless-like 
 
 and very lonely, 
 And dead-beat right down to bed rock as I'd never 
 
 felt before. 
 Bitter ? Just ! Those hopeful years of honest graft 
 
 had left me only 
 This bent leg ; and some asylum was tbe prospect 
 
 I'd in store. 
 
 You'll be knowing how I felt then — cleaned-out, 
 
 lame, completely gravelled — 
 All the friends I'd known were scattered widely 
 
 north, and east, and west : 
 There seemed nothing there for my sort, and no 
 
 chances if I travelled ; 
 No, my digging days were over, and I had to 
 
 give it best.
 
 JONAH'S LUCK 77 
 
 Though 'twas hard, I tried to meet it like a man in 
 
 digger fashion : 
 'Twasn't good enough — I funked it ; I was fairly 
 
 on the shelf, 
 Cursed iny bitter fortune daily, and was always in a 
 
 passion 
 "With the Lord, sir, and with everyone, but mostly 
 
 with myself. 
 
 I was older twenty years then than I am this blessed 
 
 minute, 
 But I got a job one morning, knapping rock at 
 
 Ballarat ; 
 Two-and-three for two-inch metal. You may say 
 
 there's nothing in it, 
 To the man who's been through Eaglehawk and 
 
 mined at Blanket Flat. 
 "Wait — you'd better let me finish. Weak and ill, I 
 
 bucked in gladly, 
 But to get the tools I needed I was forced to pawn 
 
 my swag. 
 I'd no hope of golden patches, but I needed tucker 
 
 badly, 
 And this job, I think, just saved me being lumbered 
 
 on the vay.
 
 78 JONAHS LUCK 
 
 Fortune is a fickle p;irty, but in spite of .ill her 
 
 failings, 
 Don't revile her. Dan, as 1 did. while you've still 
 
 a little rope. 
 Well, the heap that I was put on was some heavy 
 
 quartz and tailings, 
 That was carted from a local mine, I think the 
 
 Band of Hope. 
 Take the lesson that is coming to your heai-t, old 
 
 man, and hug it : 
 For I started on the heap with scarce a soul to call 
 
 my OAvn, 
 And in less than twenty minutes I'd raked out a 
 
 bouncing nugget 
 Scaling close on ninety ounces, and just frosted 
 
 round with stone. 
 
 How is that for high, my hearty '? ^liracle ! It 
 
 was, by thunder ! 
 After forty years of following the rushes up and 
 
 down, 
 Getting old, and past all prospect, and about to 
 
 knuckle under. 
 Struck it lucky knapping metal in the middle of 
 
 a town !
 
 JONAH'S LUCK 79 
 
 Pass the bottle ! Have another ! Soon we'll get 
 
 the '\\-ord from Kitty — 
 She's a daisy cook, I tell you. Yes, the public 
 
 business pays ; 
 But my pile was made beforehand — made it 
 
 ' broking ' in the city. 
 That's the yarn I pitch the neighbours. Here's to 
 
 good old now-a-days.
 
 NIGHT SHIFT 
 
 'Hello ! that's the whistle, he uioving. 
 
 Wake ixp ! don't lie inutteriii,^' there. 
 AMiat lantfuage ! your style is improving — 
 
 It's pleasant to hear yon at prayer. 
 Turn out, man, and spare us the hlessing. 
 
 C'ril)'s cut, and the tea's on the hrew. 
 You'll have to look slippy hi dressing 
 
 For that was the half-hour that l)le\v.' 
 
 ' Half-past ! and the night's simply awful, 
 
 . The hut fairly shakes in the storm. 
 Hang night-shifts ! They shoiddu't he lawful 
 
 I've only had time to get warm. 
 I notice the hut's rarely 1)right, and 
 
 Tlie l)iuik's always cold as a stone, 
 ]^xcei)l wtien I go on at night, and 
 
 The luilf-after whistles liaxc hlown.
 
 NIGHT SHIFT 81 
 
 'Bob built up that fire just to spite me, 
 
 The conscienceless son of a swab ! 
 By Jove ! it would fairly delight me 
 
 To let Hogan be hanged with his job. 
 Oh ! it's easy to preach of contentment ; 
 
 Yoii're eloquent all on the flute. 
 Old Nick's everlasting resentment 
 
 Plague Dick if he's taken my boot ! 
 
 ' Great Caesar ! you roasted the liquor, 
 
 Whoever it was made the tea ; 
 It's hotter than hell-broth and thicker ! 
 
 Fried bacon again. Not for me ! 
 Good night, and be hanged ! Stir up. Stumpy, 
 
 You look very happy and warm ; 
 I'll hoist half the bark off' the humpy 
 
 And give you a taste of the storm.' 
 
 We laughed as he went away growling : 
 
 But down where the wind whipped the creek 
 The storm like old fury was howling, 
 
 And Fred was on top for the week. 
 'A devil's own night for the braceman,' 
 
 Muttered Con. ' It's a comfort to know 
 All weathers are one to the faceman, 
 
 All shifts are alike down below.'
 
 82 KIGHT SHIFT 
 
 We slept, and the storm was receding, 
 
 The wind moaned a dirge overhead, 
 "When men brought him, broken and bleeding, 
 
 And laid him again on the bed. 
 We saw by the flame burning dimly 
 
 The gray hue of death on his face. 
 The stoker enlightened us grimly : 
 
 ' No hope. He was blown from the brace.'
 
 A FRIENDLY GAME OF FOOTBALL 
 
 "We Avere challenged by The Dingoes — they'i'e the 
 
 piide of Squatter's Gap — 
 To a friendly game of foot1)all on the flat by Devil's 
 
 Trap. 
 And we went along on horses, sworn to triumph in 
 
 the game, 
 For the honour of Gyp's Diggings, and the glory of 
 
 the same. 
 
 And we took the challenge with us. It was beautiful 
 
 to see, 
 With its lovely, curly letters, and its pretty filagree. 
 It was very gently worded, and it made us all feel 
 
 good. 
 For it breathed the sweetest sentiments of peace 
 
 and brotherhood. 
 
 8:J
 
 8i A FRIENDLY GAME OF FOOTBALL 
 
 "We had Chang, and Trucker Hogan, and the man 
 
 who hcked The Vlng, 
 Also Heggarty, and Hoolahan, and Peter Scott, the 
 
 P",? ; 
 And we wore onr knuckle-dusters, and we took a 
 
 keg on tap 
 To our friendly game of foothall with The Dingoes 
 
 at The Gap, 
 
 All the fellows came to meet us, and we spoke like 
 
 brothers dear. 
 They'd a tip-dray full of tucker, and a waggon load 
 
 of beer, 
 And some lint done up in l)undles ; so we reckoned 
 
 there'd be fun 
 Ere our friendly game of football with the Dinga 
 
 Club was done. 
 
 Their umpire was a homely man, a stranger to the 
 
 push, 
 With a sweet, deceitful calmness, and a flavour of 
 
 the bush. 
 He declared he didn't know the game, but promised 
 
 on his oath 
 To see fair and square between the teams, or paralyse 
 
 them both.
 
 A FRIENDLY GAME OF FOOTBALL 83 
 
 Then we bounced the ball and started, and for twenty 
 
 minutes quite 
 "Wo observed a proper courtesy and a heavenly 
 
 sense of right, 
 But Fitzpatrick tipped McDougal in a handy patch 
 
 of mud. 
 And the hero rose up, chewing dirt, and famishing 
 
 for blood, 
 
 ^Simple Simonsen, the umpire, sorted out the happy 
 
 pair, 
 And he found a pitch to suit them, and we left 
 
 them fighting there ; 
 But The Conqueror and Cop- Out met with cries 
 
 of rage and pain, 
 And wild horses couldn't part those ancient enemies 
 
 again. 
 
 So the umpii-e dragged them from the rucl<, and 
 pegged them off a patch. 
 
 And then gave his best attention to the slugging 
 and the nuitch. 
 
 You could hardly wish to come across a fairer- 
 minded chap 
 
 For a friendly game of football than that umpire 
 at The Gap.
 
 86 A FEIENDLY GAME OF FOOTBALL 
 
 In a -while young Smith, and Henty, and Bhie Ben, 
 
 and Dick, and Bkike, 
 Chose their partners from The Dingoes, and went 
 
 pounding for the cake. 
 Timniy Hogan hit the umpire, and Avas promptly put 
 
 to bed 
 'Neath the annnunition waggon, with a bolus on his 
 
 head. 
 
 Feeling lonely-like, Magee took on a local star 
 
 named Bent, 
 And four others started fighting to avoid an 
 
 argument : 
 So Simonsen postponed the game, for fear some 
 
 slight mishap 
 ]\Iight disturb the pleasant feeling then prevailing 
 
 at The Gap. 
 
 Sixty seconds later twenty lively couples held the 
 
 floor. 
 And the air was full of ^^hiskers, and the grass was 
 
 tinged with gore, 
 And the umpire kept good order in the interests of 
 
 peace, 
 "Whilst the people, to oblige him, sat severely on the 
 
 p'lice.
 
 A FRIENDLY GAME OF FOOTBALL 87 
 
 Well, we fought the friendly game out, but I 
 
 couldn't say who won ; 
 We were all stretched out on shutters when the 
 
 glorious day Avas done ; 
 Both the constables had vanished ; one was carried 
 
 off to bunk, 
 And the umpire was exhausted, and the populace 
 
 was drunk. 
 
 But we've written out a paper, with good Father 
 
 Feeley's aid, 
 Breathing brotherly affection ; and the challenge is 
 
 conveyed 
 To the Dingo Club at Squatter's, and another 
 
 friendly game 
 "Will eventuate at this end, on the flat below the 
 
 claim. 
 
 We have pressed The Gap to bring their central 
 
 umpire if they can — • 
 Here we honestly admire him as a fair and decent 
 
 man — 
 And we're building on a pleasant time beside the 
 
 Phoenix slums, 
 For The Giant feels he's got a call to plug him if 
 
 he comes.
 
 THE TALE OF STEVEN 
 
 'Tis the tale of Simon Steven, braceman at tlie 
 
 0(M-and-Even, 
 At The Nations, in the gully. They -were sinking in 
 
 the rock. 
 Sim Avas small and wiry rather, and a husband and a 
 
 father, 
 But he's gone and left his family as a conse(]uencc 
 
 of shock. 
 
 Shock was Sim's disease, we reckoned, for it took 
 
 him in a second, 
 And no doctor born could dognose what the 
 
 symptoms Avere, I think, 
 But we're missin' Sim comjjletely — he could play 
 
 the whistle sweetly, 
 And was always very sociable ami brotherly in 
 
 drink.
 
 THE TALE OF STEVEN 89 
 
 That was how poor Steven drifted into trouble — 
 
 being gifted, 
 He was hungry for an audience, and it led him up 
 
 to Coy's ; 
 But his wife made no deductions for the artist, and 
 
 the ructions 
 AYhat she raised around that public were just 
 
 fireworks for the boys. 
 
 "When she caught him on the li(pior, being stronger 
 
 like and quicker, 
 She would hammer him in company, which, I take 
 
 it, wasn't right ; 
 Yet he bore it like a martyr while his wife played up 
 
 the tartar, 
 And she gave her straight opinion of each mother's 
 
 son in sight. 
 
 Sim had marks of her corrections scattered round 
 
 in all directions 
 On his features and his figure, but he didn't seem 
 
 to care — 
 For he thought his missus clearly did her duty by 
 
 him merely 
 When she pommelled him for boosing with a poker 
 
 or a chair.
 
 90 THE TALE OF STEVEN 
 
 'Twas a Wodnosday, boss, I'm tliinkini;'. 'I'licre'd Ix'on 
 much promiscuous (Irinkiny 
 
 Up tlio gully, ■where some city chaps were 
 christeninjj; Spooner's mill ; 
 
 Sim Avas dayshift at The Nations, and he missed the 
 grand orations. 
 
 But, -with help from men and hi'others, he con- 
 trived to yet his till. 
 
 They'd been shootinj^- holes, an' Steven, when ho 
 left the Odd-and-Even, 
 
 Carried Avitli him in his pocket here a plui;' of 
 dynamite. 
 
 Sim had put it there to soften — which is done by 
 miners often, 
 
 But it's not the sort of practice that I'd recom- 
 mend as right. 
 
 Well, the braceman di(hi't worry after tea that day, 
 
 nor hurry 
 To the bosom of bis family, but look (bink for 
 
 drink with Mack ; 
 \Vlien they aimed him homewai'ds kindly, Steven 
 
 went the distance blindly, 
 And his feet performed the lockstitch all tlie way 
 
 alonji: the track.
 
 THE TALE OF STEVEN 91 
 
 Mrs. Sim was primed and ready, and she met him 
 
 with a noddy, 
 And she passed no vain I'cmarlvs, but aimed an 
 
 awful blow at him ; 
 Came a sound of roaring thunder— Mrs. Sini was 
 
 blown from under, 
 And the universe was ruined, and the sun went out 
 
 for Sim. 
 
 After search in all directions, we found very few 
 
 selections 
 Of the widow's dear departed, but we did the 
 
 best we could. 
 For, you sec, by passion goaded, and not knowing 
 
 Sim was loaded. 
 She'd concussed that plug of dynamite, and blown 
 
 him up for good. 
 
 There was room for no reproaches 'bout the hearse 
 
 and mourning coaches ; 
 Though we only buried samples, yet we 'lowed for 
 
 style and tone — 
 Man's-size coffin, grave, and preacher for a broken 
 
 fellow creature. 
 And we wrote ' In Death Divided ' at the bottom 
 
 of the stone.
 
 THE FOSSICKER 
 
 A straight old fossicker was Lanky ]\Iann, 
 
 Who chuvjr to that in spite of friends' advising : 
 
 A grim and grizzled worshipper of ' pan,' 
 All other arts and industries despising. 
 
 Bare-boned and hard, with thin long hair and beard, 
 With horny hands that gripped like iron pliers ; 
 
 A cdear, quick eye, a heart that nothing feared, 
 A soul full simple in its few desires. 
 
 No hot, impatient amateur was Jo, 
 
 Sweating to turn the slides up every minute — 
 He knew beforehand how his stuft' would go, 
 
 Could tell by instinct almost vrhat was in it. 
 
 I've known him stand for liours, and rock, and rock, 
 A-swinging now the shovel, now the ladle. 
 
 Ho sphinx-like that at Time he seemed to mock, 
 llesolved to run creation through his cradle. 
 
 92
 
 THE FOSSICKEK 93^ 
 
 No sun-shafts pricked bim through his seasoned hide,.- 
 Nor cold nor damp could bend his form heroic ; 
 
 Bare-breasted Jo the elements defied, 
 And met all fortunes like a hoary Stoic. 
 
 "Where there were tailings, tips, and mangled fields, 
 And sluggish, sloven creeks meandering slowly, 
 
 Where puddlers old and sluice-sites promised yields. 
 There Lanky might be found, contented Avholly. 
 
 Even though they'd worked the field, as Chinkies do,. 
 
 Had 'bulled' each shaft, and scraped out every 
 gutter, 
 Burnt every stick, and put the ashes through — 
 
 Yet Jo contrived to knock out bread and butter, 
 
 And something for a dead-broke mate — such men 
 
 As he have little love for filthy lucre ; 
 His luxury was a whisky now and then. 
 
 And now and then a friendly game of euchre. 
 
 They tell me he is dead : ' On top ? That's so, 
 Died at the handle, mate, which is accordin' 
 
 As he should die and if you're good, you'll know 
 Jo pannin' prospects in tlie Eiver Jordan.'
 
 THE TIN-POT MILL 
 
 <^uite a proud and happy man is Finn the Packer 
 
 Since he built his crazy mill upon the rise, 
 And he stands there in the gully, chewing 'backer,' 
 
 With a sleepy sort of comfort in his eyes, 
 Gazin' up to where the antiquated jigger 
 
 Is a-wheezing and a-hopping on the hill, 
 For up here my lord the Gov'nor isn't bigger 
 
 Than the owner of the Federation Mill. 
 
 She goes biff, puff, bang, bump, clitter-clattcr, 
 
 smash, 
 And she rattles on for half a shift, and lets up 
 
 with a crash ; 
 And then silence reigns a little while, and all 
 
 the land is still 
 "While they're tinkering awkward patches on 
 
 the tin-pot mill. 
 
 94
 
 THE TIN-POT MILL 95 
 
 It's a five-head plant, and mostly built of lumber, 
 
 'Twas erected by a man that didn't know. 
 And we've never had a decent spell of slumber 
 
 Since that battery of Finn's was got to go ; 
 For she raises just the most infernal clatter, 
 
 And we guessed the Day of Judgment had come 
 down 
 When the tin-pot mill began to bang and batter 
 
 Like an earthquake in a boiler-metal town. 
 
 All the heads are different sizes, and the horses 
 
 Are so crazy that the whole caboodle rocks. 
 And each time a stamper thunders down it forces 
 
 Little spirtings through the crannies in the box. 
 Then the feed pipe's mostly plugged and aggravating. 
 
 And the pump it sufi'ers badly from a cough ; 
 Every hour or so they burst a blooming grating, 
 
 And the shoes are nearly always coming off. 
 
 Mickey drives her with a portable, a ruin 
 
 That they used for donkeying cargo in the Ark. 
 
 ^Yhen she's got a little way ou, and is th'huj, 
 
 You should hear that spavined cofi'ee-grinder bark.
 
 90 THE TIX-POT MILL 
 
 She is loose iu all her jomts, and, through corrosion,. 
 
 Half her plates are not a sixteenth in the thick. 
 "We're expecting a sensational explosion, 
 
 And a subsequent excursion after Mick. 
 
 From the feed — which chokes — to quite the smallest 
 ripple, 
 From the bed-logs to the guides, she's mighty 
 queer, 
 And she joggles like an agitated cripple 
 
 AVith St. Vitus dance intensified by beer. 
 She stops short ; and starts with most unearlhly 
 rumbles. 
 And, distracted by the silence and the din. 
 Through the sleepless night the weary miner 
 grumbles, 
 And heaps curses on the family of Finn. 
 
 ]>ut the owner's much too cute a man to wrangle. 
 
 He is crushing for the public, understand. 
 And each ton of stufT that's hannnered througli the- 
 mangle 
 
 Adds its tribute to the value of his land. 
 For she leaks the raw amalgam, and he's able 
 
 To see daylight 'twixt the ripples an' the plates.
 
 THE TIN-POT MILL 97 
 
 And below the box and 'neath the shaking table 
 There are nest-eggs 'cumulating while he waits. 
 
 She goes biff, puff, bang, bump, clitter-clatter, 
 
 smash. 
 And she rattles on for half a shift, and lets up 
 
 with a crash ; 
 Then silence reigns a little while, and all 
 
 the land is still 
 ^Yhile they're tinkering awkward patches on 
 
 the tin-pot mill.
 
 A POOE JOKE 
 
 * No, you can't count me in, boys ; I'm off it- 
 
 I'm jack of them practical jokes ; 
 They give neither pleasure nor profit. 
 
 And the fellers that plays them are mokes. 
 I've got sense, though I once was a duffer, 
 
 And I fooled up my share, I allow, 
 But since conscience has made me to suffer— 
 
 She's pegging away at me now. 
 
 * You notice I've aged rather early, 
 
 And the wrinkles are deep on my face ? 
 That's sorrer — I'm sixty-nine, barely. 
 
 Jes' camp, and I'll tell you my case. 
 It was here on The Springs, we had hit it, 
 
 And were working the lead on this spot — 
 And we were, to my shame I admit it, 
 
 A rather unprincipled lot.
 
 A POOR JOKE 9'J 
 
 ' We were drunk all the day on the Sundays — 
 
 No wickeder habit exists ; 
 And our exercise mostly on Mondays 
 
 Was feats of endurance with fists. 
 See, the wash wasn't what we'd call wealthy — 
 
 Ten pennyweight stuff, thereabout — 
 And we took matters easy and healthy ; 
 
 Now we'd rush for the same, I've no doubt. 
 
 ' Well, one morning, from over the border 
 
 Two Mongols moved inter the camp, 
 Which we voted a thing out of order— 
 
 The climate for Chows was too damp. 
 But it happened a couple of troopers 
 
 Arrived on The Springs that same week, 
 So the Chinks, in their opium stupors. 
 
 Didn't wander down inter the creek, 
 
 ' Or get drowned in the dam at The Crescent, 
 
 As we reckoned might happen somehow ; 
 But they settled down, easy and pleasant. 
 
 And there wasn't the smell of a row, 
 Howsomever, we weren't long twigging 
 
 The Chows were an ignerent pair. 
 And knew nothin' at all about digging 
 
 And that was our chance to get square.
 
 100 A POOR JOKE 
 
 ' It was 'cording to Bastow's directions, 
 
 Though I vohmteered for the game, 
 To ensnare their Mongolian affections, 
 
 And lay them right on to a claim 
 Eound the bend where we'd bottomed a duft'er- 
 
 Myself and Pat Foley — right there. 
 Where the sinking is deep and is tougher 
 
 Than the hobs of Gehenna, I swear. 
 
 ' That shaft was a regular clinker, 
 
 ^Yhich it riles me to think of to-day. 
 Quite a fortnight it took us to sink her, 
 
 And then we came through on the clay. 
 Not the ghost of a handful of gravel. 
 
 Well, we dropped it without any fuss, 
 On the hill pegged the best we could snavel. 
 
 And the devil could prospect, for us. 
 
 ' But the Pagans were not a bit wiser, 
 
 And I counted it pretty fair game 
 To appear as their friend and adviser, 
 
 And induce them to take up that claim, 
 By a-cracking the lay and position 
 
 So's to get them to sink on the clay. 
 Till they struck a hot shop in Perdition 
 
 Or tapped wat( r in Europe some day.
 
 A POOR JOKE 101 
 
 * But the heathens were mighty suspicious, 
 
 Wouldn't have it I cared for their sakes — 
 Here, I state that all Chinkies are vicious 
 
 And I hate them like fever and snakes. 
 Then I tried a new system of dealing, 
 
 And offered advice at a fee. 
 And they caught on like winking. Fine feeling 
 
 Is wasted on any Chinee. 
 
 ' So they pegged out our cast-off, the duffer. 
 
 Their rights they had made out exact. 
 And Ah Kit, who was boss, wouldn't suffer 
 
 Any little neglect of the Act : 
 And I put in their pegs to a fraction, 
 
 As grave as a brick on a hob. 
 Rigged up things to their full satisfaction, 
 
 And charged them five quid for the job. 
 
 ' Well, the heathens soon set their picks going. 
 
 And they seemed rather fond of the graft, 
 Though the boys had had trouble in stowing 
 
 A heap of dead things in the shaft. 
 And we chuckled and thought we had got 'em : 
 
 I knew I could tickle the pair 
 To keep sinking on inter the bottom 
 
 For gravel that never was there.
 
 102 A POOE JOKI', 
 
 * Next night a most harrowing rumonr 
 
 Went round, and the camp was half daft : 
 It was said that a nugget — a boomer — 
 
 Had been found by the Chows in our shaft. 
 'Point of fact, that the Pagans had stntck it, 
 
 Had knocked down a sample of wash 
 That looked good for a pound to tlie bucket, 
 
 And our joke had gone hopelessly squash. 
 
 ' It was c'rect, boys, by all that is holy ! 
 
 We'd struck a false bottom,'' no doubt, 
 And the fortune of self and of Foley 
 
 Was scooped by Ah Kit and Ah Gout. 
 We resolved that these Chinese were sapping 
 
 The wealth of the land, and agreed 
 On a project for catching them napping 
 
 ^^'hen the troopers rode on to the lead. 
 
 * It haf5 happened in sinking on Jilluvial fields that a 
 streak of the strata (the " bottom ") which usually underlies 
 the wash has been found immediately above it, the result 
 of a geological freak. This has occasionally deceived even 
 diggers of some experience, and led them to abandon claims 
 as duffers which, when subsequently sunk a little further, 
 have proved to be golden holes.
 
 A POOR JOKE 103 
 
 ' Yes, we scrambled for claims all around 'em, 
 
 And we made the foam fly for a week, 
 But the Chows had the gilt edge. Confound 'em, 
 
 They'd lobbed right on top of the streak ! 
 No, your joke, boys, I reckon is risky, 
 
 And somewhat ridic'lus, I think, 
 But I'm with you for friendship and whisky 
 
 If one of you orders the drink.'
 
 'BREAKING IT GENTLY' 
 
 All was up with Richard Tanner — 
 
 'Wait-a-Bit' we called him. Dead "? 
 Yes. The braceman dropped a spanner, 
 
 Landed Richard on the head ; 
 Cracked his skidl, sir, like a teacup, 
 
 Down the pump-shaft in the well. 
 Braceman hadn't time to speak up, 
 
 Tanner never knew what fell. 
 
 Tell the widow ? Who'd go through it '? 
 
 No one on the shift would stir ; 
 But Pat Ryan said he'd do it — 
 
 ' Nately break the news to her.' 
 Pat's a splitter, and a kinder 
 
 Heart I never wish to know. 
 Stephens told him where to find her, 
 
 Begged him gently deal the blow. 
 
 104
 
 ' BREAKING IT GENTLY ' 105 
 
 In a very solemn manner 
 
 Ryan met the dead man's wife — 
 ' Mornin' to yez, Widdy Tanner ! ' 
 
 Says he gravely, ' Such is life ! ' 
 ' I'm no widow ! ' says she, prying 
 
 For the joke in Ryan's eye. 
 * 'Sense me, mum,' says Paddy, sighing, 
 
 ' 'Sense me, mum, but that's a lie.' 
 
 ' That remark would be repented 
 
 If Dick Tanner heard,' says she. 
 ' Meanin', mum, the late lamented 
 
 Party av that name ? ' says he. 
 Still the AvidoAV missed the notion, 
 
 "Wonder only filled her eye ; 
 So Pat smothered his emotion. 
 
 Gulped, and had another try. 
 
 ' 'Tis like this, ye see, me honey, 
 
 I've been sint t' let ye know ; 
 Ye've inherited some money — 
 
 Twilve 'r fifteen pounds 'r so. 
 Through a schame av Providence's, 
 
 Which no mortal man could dodge ; 
 Poor Dick's funeral expenses 
 
 Have fell due, mum, at the lodge ! '
 
 STKUCK IT AT LAST 
 
 He was almost blind, and wasted 
 
 With the wear of many years ; 
 He had laboured, and had tasted 
 
 Bitter troubles, many cares ; 
 But his laugh was loud and ringing, 
 
 And his flag was on the mast — 
 Every day they heard him singing : 
 
 ' Bound to strike it rich at last.' 
 
 Here he brandished axe and maul ere 
 
 Buninyong, and after that 
 Fought and bled with Peter Lalor 
 
 And the boys at Ballarat. 
 East and west and northward, striving, 
 
 As the tides set fresh and fast — 
 Ever trying, rarely thriving — 
 
 Yes, he'd strike it rich at last. 
 
 106
 
 STKUCK IT AT LAST 107 
 
 Now and then she'd pan out snugly, 
 
 Mostly all the other way, 
 But he never cut up ugly 
 
 When he bottomed on the clay ; 
 Never cursed or got disgusted, 
 
 Mourned the days and chances past — 
 Geordie always hoped and trusted 
 
 He Avould strike it rich at last. 
 
 If the days were very dull, or 
 
 When the store-men cut up rough 
 And he couldn't raise a colour 
 
 From a cart-load of the stuff, 
 No man found him chicken-hearted. 
 
 He'd no time to bang and blast ; 
 Pegged her out again and started — 
 
 Bound to strike it rich at last. 
 
 Blinded by a shot in Eighty, 
 
 Sinking for the Pegleg Eeef , 
 If he sorrowed o'er his fate, he 
 
 Let no mortal see his grief. 
 In the Home there in the city 
 
 Geordie won their favor fast. 
 All the inmates learned his ditty — 
 
 ' Bound to strike it rich at last.'
 
 108 STRUCK IT AT LAST 
 
 When brought low, and bowed, and hoary. 
 
 Still his eyes alone were blind, 
 Fortune left undimmed the glory 
 
 Of his happy, tranquil mind ; 
 In his heart a flame was glowing 
 
 That defied the roughest blast, 
 And he sang : ' There is no knowing. 
 
 Mates, I'll strike it rich at last.' 
 
 As the end approached he prattled 
 
 Of old days at Ballarat, 
 And again the windlass rattled 
 
 At Jim Crow and Blanket Flat ; 
 And the nurses heard him mutter 
 
 As his dauntless spirit passed : 
 ' Streak of luck, boys ! On the gutter ! ' 
 
 Geordie struck it rich at last.
 
 THE PROSPECTORS 
 
 When the white sun scorches the fair, green land in 
 
 the rage of his fierce desires, 
 Or looms blood red on the Western hills, through 
 
 the smoke of their waning fires ; 
 When the winds at war strew the mountain side 
 
 with limbs of the mangled trees. 
 Or the flood tides wheel in the valleys low, or sweep 
 
 to the distant seas, 
 We are leading back, and the faintest track that we 
 
 leave in the desert wild 
 Or we blaze for fear through the forest drear will be 
 
 tramped by the settler's child. 
 
 We have turned our backs on the City's joys, on the 
 
 glare of its myriad lights. 
 On the measured peace of its bloodless days, and the 
 
 strife of its shining nights ; 
 
 109
 
 110 THE PEOSPECTORS 
 
 We have fled the pubs in the dull bush towns and 
 
 the furthermost shanty bars, 
 And have camped away at the edge of space, or aloft 
 
 by the brooding stars. 
 We have stirred the world as our dishes swirled and 
 
 we drummed on the matted gold, 
 x\nd from East and West we beguile their best with 
 
 a wonderful tale oft-told. 
 
 We go pushing on when the mirage glints o'er the 
 
 rim of the voiceless plain, 
 And we leave our bones to be finger posts for the 
 
 seekers Avho come again. 
 At the jealous heart of the secret bush, we have 
 
 battered with clamour loud 
 And have made a way for the squatter bold, or a 
 
 path for the busy crowd. 
 We have gone before through the shadowy door of the 
 
 Never, the Great Unknown, 
 And have journeyed back with a golden pack, or as 
 
 dust in the wild winds bloAvn. 
 
 In the chilHng breath of the ice-bound range, we 
 
 have laboured and lost and won ; 
 On the blazing hills we have striven long in the face 
 
 of the angry sun.
 
 THE PEOSPECTOKS 111 
 
 We have fallen spitted with niggers' spears in the 
 graves ourselves have dug, 
 
 And have bitten grass, with a cloven skull, and the 
 turf in our arms to hug. 
 
 From our rifled dead have the natives fled, blood- 
 drunk, to their camping place, 
 
 ^Yhilst the crows enthroned on a limb intoned to the 
 devil a measured grace. 
 
 "We have butchered too when the camp ran wild, 
 
 with a mad, malignant hate, 
 For the lust of gold, or the hope we had, or the love 
 
 of a murdered mate. 
 We have shocked the night with our ribald songs in 
 
 the sullen, savage lands. 
 And have died the death that the lone man dies in 
 
 the grip of the reeling sands, 
 Or have lived to die in a city sty, with the help of a 
 
 charity prayer, 
 Or to do the swell at a grand hotel on our thousands 
 
 of pounds a year. 
 
 We are moving still, and not love, nor fear, nor a 
 
 wife's nor mother's grief. 
 Can distract the longing that drives us forth on the 
 
 track of the hidden reef.
 
 112 THE PROSPECTORS 
 
 Some will face the heathen in lands afar by rivers 
 
 and looming peaks, 
 Some will stay to ravage their own home hills, or to 
 
 dig by the sluggish creeks. 
 Some go pushing "West on the old, old quest, and 
 
 wherever their tents abide 
 Will the world flow in and its swift tide spin till it 
 
 scatter them far and wide. 
 
 Is it greed alone that impels our ranks ? Is it only 
 the lust of gold 
 
 Drives them past where the sentinel ranges stand 
 where the plains to the sky unfold ; 
 
 Is there nothing more in this dull unrest that re- 
 mains in the hearts of man, 
 
 'Till the swag is rolled, or the pack-horse strapped, 
 or the ship sails out again ? 
 
 Is it this alone, or in blood and bone does the ven- 
 turous spirit glow 
 
 That was noble pride when the world was wide and 
 the tracks were all Westward Ho ? 
 
 We are common men, with the faults of most, and a 
 
 few that ourselves have grown, 
 With the good traits too of the common herd, and 
 
 some more that are all our own ;
 
 THE PEOSPECTORS 113 
 
 We have drunk like beasts, and have fought like 
 
 brutes, and have stolen, and lied, and slain. 
 And have paid the score in the way of men — in 
 
 remorse and fear and pain. 
 We have done great deeds in our direst needs in the 
 
 horrors of burning drought. 
 And at mateship's call have been true through all to 
 
 the death with the Furthest Out. 
 
 As the soft breeze stirs all the tender green of the 
 
 bush that is newly born, 
 And the wattles blaze on the flats and gladden the 
 
 hills with the glow of morn. 
 We are trenching high in the stony slopes, or 
 
 turning the creeks below, 
 Or the gorge re-echoes the thud of picks and the 
 
 songs that the miners know. 
 When the lode strips clean with a yellow sheen our 
 
 fortunes are fairly won ; 
 When the dish pans bare, up with tents and ware, 
 
 and hurrah ! for the outward run.
 
 OTHER LINES
 
 PETER SIMSON'S FARM 
 
 Simson settled in the timber when his arm was 
 
 strong and true 
 And his form was straight and Hmber ; and he 
 
 wrought the long day through 
 In a struggle, single-handed, and the trees fell 
 
 slowly back. 
 Twenty thousand giants banded 'gainst a solitary Jack. 
 
 Through the fiercest days of summer you 
 
 might hear his keen axe ring 
 And re-echo in the ranges, hear his twanging 
 
 crosscut sing ; 
 Then the great gums swayed and whispered, 
 
 and the birds were skyward blown, 
 As the circling hills saluted o'er a bush king 
 
 overthrown. 
 
 117
 
 118 PETER SIMSON'S FAEM 
 
 Clearing, grubbing, in the gloaming, strong in faith 
 
 the man descried 
 Heifers sleek and horses roaming in his paddocks 
 
 green and wide, 
 Heard a myriad corn-blades rustle in the breeze's 
 
 soft caress, 
 And in every thew and muscle felt a joyous 
 
 mightiness. 
 
 So he felled the stubborn forest, hacked and 
 
 hewed with tireless might. 
 And a conqueror's peace went with him to his 
 
 fern-strewn bunk at night : 
 Forth he strode next morn, delighting in the 
 
 duty to be done, 
 Whistling shrilly to the magpies trilling carols 
 
 to the sun. 
 
 Back the clustered scrub was driven, and the sun fell 
 
 on the lands, 
 And the mighty stumps were riven 'tween his bare, 
 
 brown, corded hands. 
 One time flooded, sometimes parching, still he did 
 
 the work of ten, 
 And his dog-leg fence went marching up the hills 
 
 and down a^ain.
 
 PETEE SIMSON'S FAEM 119 
 
 By the stony creek, whose tiny streams shd 
 
 o'er the sunken bowls 
 To their secret, silent meetings in the shaded 
 
 water-holes, 
 Soon a garden flourished bravely, gemmed 
 
 with flowers, and cool and green, 
 While about the hut a busy little wife was 
 
 always seen. 
 
 Came a day at length when, gazing down the paddock 
 
 from his door, 
 Simson saw his horses grazing where the bush was 
 
 long before. 
 And he heard the joyous prattle of his children on 
 
 the rocks, 
 And the lowing of the cattle, and the crowing of the 
 
 cocks. 
 
 There was butter for the market, there was 
 
 fruit upon the trees, 
 There were eggs, potatoes, bacon, and a tidy 
 
 lot of cheese ; 
 Still the struggle was not ended with the 
 
 timber and the scrub, 
 For the mortgage is the toughest stump the 
 
 settler has to grub.
 
 120 PETER SIMSON'S FARM 
 
 But the boys grew big and bolder — one, a sturdy, 
 
 brown-faced lad, 
 With his axe upon his shoulder, loved to go to work 
 
 ' like dad,' 
 And another in the saddle took a bush-bred native's 
 
 pride. 
 And he boasted he could straddle any nag his dad 
 
 could ride. 
 
 Though the work went on and prospered there 
 
 was still hard work to do ; 
 There were floods, and droughts, and bush 
 
 fires, and a touch of pleuro, too ; 
 But they laboured, and the future held no 
 
 prospect to alarm — 
 All the settlers said : ' They're stickers up at 
 
 Peter Simson's farm ! ' 
 
 One fine evening Pete was resting in the hush of 
 
 coming night. 
 When his boys came in from nesting with a 
 
 clamorous delight ; 
 Each displayed a tiny rabbit, and the farmer eyed 
 
 them o'er. 
 Then he stamped — it was his habit — and he smote his 
 
 knee and swore.
 
 PETER SIMSON'S FAEM 121 
 
 Two years later Simson's paddocks showed 
 
 dust-coloured, almost bare, 
 And too lean for hope of profit were the cows 
 
 that pastured there, 
 And the man looked ten years older. Like 
 
 the tracks about the place 
 Made by half a million rabbits, were the lines 
 
 on Simson's face. 
 
 As he fought the bush when younger, Simson stripped 
 
 and fought again. 
 Fought the devastating hunger of the plague with 
 
 might and main, 
 Neither moping nor despairing, hoping still that 
 
 times would mend, 
 Stubborn browed and sternly facing all the trouble 
 
 Fate could send. 
 
 One poor chicken to the acre Simson's laud 
 
 will carry now. 
 Starved, the locusts have departed ; rust is 
 
 thick upon the plough ; 
 It is vain to think of cattle, or to try to raise 
 
 a crop, 
 For the farmer has gone under, and the 
 
 rabbits are on top.
 
 122 PETEE SIMSON'S FAEM 
 
 So the strong, true man, who wrested from the bush 
 
 a homestead fair. 
 By the rabbits has been bested ; yet he does not 
 
 know despair — 
 Though begirt "^dth desolation, though in trouble 
 
 and in debt, 
 Though his foes pass numeration, Peter Simson's 
 
 fighting yet ! 
 
 He is old too soon and failing, but he's game 
 
 to start anew, 
 And he tells his hopeless neighbours ' what 
 
 the Gov'mint's goin'' to do.* 
 Both his girls are in the city, seeking places 
 
 with the rest. 
 And his boys are tracking fortune in the 
 
 melancholy West.
 
 SINCE NELLIE CAME TO LIVE ALONG 
 THE CEEEK 
 
 My hut is built of stringy-bark, the window's calico, 
 The furniture a gin-case, one bush-table, and a 
 
 bunk ; 
 Thick as wheat on my selection does the towering 
 
 timber grow, 
 And the stately blue-gums' taproots to the bedrock 
 all are sunk ; 
 Then the ferns spring up like nettles. 
 And the ti-tree comes and settles 
 On my clearing if I spell-oh for a week ; 
 But I work for love of labour 
 Since I've got a handy neighbour, 
 And Miss Nelhe's come to hve along the creek. 
 
 Time was when Death sat by me, and he stalked me 
 
 through the trees ; 
 Then my arm was weak as water, and my heart a 
 
 weary thing ; 
 
 123
 
 124 SINCE NELLIE CAME 
 
 I was sullen as a wombat on such still, wan days as 
 
 these, 
 And my wedges aU were rusty, and my axe had 
 lost its ring. 
 
 Then a fear like sickness bound me, 
 
 And I cursed the trees around me, 
 For quite hopeless seemed the struggle I'd begun ; 
 
 And at night-time, cowed and sinking, 
 
 I would sit there thinking, thinking. 
 Gazing grimly down the barrels of my gun. 
 
 Then I felt the bush must crush me with its dreadful, 
 
 brooding wings, 
 And its voices seemed to mock me, till I thought 
 
 that I was mad 
 Like the mopoke, and the jackass, and the other 
 
 loony things ; 
 For beside my old dog, Brumbie, not a living mate 
 I had. 
 Then each sapling was a giant, 
 And the stumps were all defiant, 
 And my friends were very few and far to seek ; 
 But the bush is bright and splendid, 
 And my melancholy's ended. 
 Since Miss Nellie came to live along the creek !
 
 TO LIVE ALONG THE CEEEK 125 
 
 I would swear she was the sweetest if the world was 
 
 full of girls : 
 She's as graceful as a sapling, and her waist is neat 
 
 and slim ; 
 She is dimpled o'er with smiling, and has glossy, 
 
 golden curls, 
 And her eyes peep out like violets 'neath her sun- 
 hat's jealous rim. 
 If I think I see her flitting 
 On the sun-crowned hill, or sitting 
 'Neath the fern-fronds where the creek sleeps, deep 
 and cool. 
 Then my stroke is straight and steady, 
 And the white chips run and eddy, 
 And I laugh aloud at nothing, like a fool. 
 
 Now my axe rings like a sabre, and my heajt exults 
 
 with pride 
 When the green gums sweep the scrub down, and 
 
 they thunder and rebound, 
 And then lie with limbs all shattered, reaching out 
 
 on either side. 
 Like giants killed in battle, with their faces to the 
 
 ground. 
 Now the bush has many pleasures, 
 And a wondrous store of treasures,
 
 126 SINCE NELLIE CAME 
 
 And a thousand tales its eerie voices speak ; 
 
 But its strange night hushes, seeming 
 
 Sent to hire to mystic dreaming, 
 Have no terrors, now Miss NeUie's on the creek. 
 
 I am happy when the thunder bumps and bellows 
 
 on the hill. 
 And the tall trees writhe and wrestle with the fury 
 
 of the gale. 
 Or when sunshine floods the clearing, and the 
 
 bushland is so still 
 That I hear the creek's low waters tinkle, tinkle on 
 the shale. 
 In the thought that she is near me 
 There's a charm to lift and cheer me, 
 And a power that makes me mighty seems to flow 
 From Miss Nellie's distant coo-ey. 
 Or her twin lips red and dewy 
 When she comes by here, and shyly calls me ' Joe.' 
 
 She can work from dawn to nightfall, and look 
 
 handsome all the day ; 
 At her smile my garden flourished, and the vines 
 
 grew green and strong. 
 And the bush falls back before it, and it strikes tlie 
 
 scrub away,
 
 TO LIVE ALONG THE CEEEK 127 
 
 For it lingers ever with me, and it stirs me like a 
 song. 
 
 Now I labour in all weathers, 
 
 And the logs are merest feathers. 
 Nor my heart nor yet my hand is ever weak. 
 
 And a higher thing my prize is 
 
 Than all else that life comprises — 
 Pretty Nell, who's come to live along the creek.
 
 THE FKEAK 
 
 Just beyond All Alone, going back, 
 
 Is the humpy of Hatter Magee. 
 We had travelled all day on the track, 
 
 And he offered us mutton and tea. 
 Mack is rather reserved, but "\^t.11 speak 
 
 On one theme, and with eloquence too — 
 That's his angular chestnut. The Freak. 
 Here's a tale that he told through the week, 
 
 And I try to believe it is true : 
 
 ' True, he ain't no account ez a nag, 
 An' I'm not goin' to boast of his blood ; 
 
 If I hked I could pitch you a mag 
 
 'Bout his sire, once a prince of the stud ; 
 
 Give performances coloured and plain. 
 An' a pedigree long ez my arm — 
 
 128
 
 THE FREAK 129 
 
 Which is style, but I'm straight in the main, 
 So he ain't of the Wangdoodle strain. 
 Nor his dam wasn't Kate nor The Charm. 
 
 ' Fiddle-headed an' spavined ! Well, p'raps. 
 
 Yes, his legs is all over the shop, 
 An' his pacin's described by the chaps 
 
 Ez a sort of a wallaby hop. 
 He ain't good over sticks, an' a mile 
 
 In four-thirty's his best up to date ; 
 An' he's jest pure Gehenna fer guile, 
 But I wouldn't sell out fer a pile, 
 
 'Cause I'm not goin' to dog on a mate. 
 
 ' See, I'm here, and he's yonder, of course, 
 
 But I might 'a' been crow-bait by now — 
 Once my life seemed to hang on that horse, 
 
 An' I didn't get left. That is how ! 
 They've bin tellin' you — Billy an' Spence ? 
 
 Ah, they're mighty smart men down the creek, 
 An' they won't allow horses has sense, 
 But jest guy it ez chance or pretence 
 
 When I tell what was done by The Freak. 
 
 * But I'm here, an' he's there — that's enough 1 
 We were out 'mong the Misery Hills. 
 
 'Course you don't know the country. It's rough ; 
 An' the man that it corners it kilh.
 
 130 THE FREAK 
 
 I can't figure what happened us quite, 
 But we came in a heap, me an' him. 
 When I knew who I was it was night, 
 Au' my head an' my chest wasn't right, 
 An' the bone poked right outer this Hmb. 
 
 ' Fer a spell I felt horribly sick 
 
 While I held there a meetin' of me ; 
 Proposed—' It is U P with Dick,' 
 
 Put, an' carried unanermously. 
 Broken-legged, fifteen mile from the Creek — 
 
 I weighed chances, an' gave up the case. 
 But I didn't deal fair by The Freak, 
 Till he limped to me, staggered an' weak, 
 
 An' he flopped his ole Hp in my face. 
 
 < Do ? I fondled his nose like a fool, 
 
 An' I called him love names without end ; 
 Though I ain't a soft man as a rule, 
 
 There is times when I sorter unbend. 
 'Taint no use now to talk of the pain, 
 
 I endoored ez I struggled to climb 
 To his back from a log, or explain 
 How I fell back again an' again ; 
 
 But I gave up exhausted in time,
 
 THE FEEAK 131 
 
 ' An' I flung myself clown on the ground, 
 
 An' I cursed an', yes, maybe I cried, 
 But The Freak he came nosin' around, 
 
 An' he rolled over right by my side. 
 Don't rjou try to explain, I'm content 
 
 That he hicic jest ez well ez could be, 
 'Cos I looked in his eyes ez he bent. 
 By the Lord, an' I saw what he meant, 
 
 An' that's good enough talkin' fer me. 
 
 ' Well, I crawled on his back ez he lay. 
 
 An' he heaved himself up again, so, 
 An' then struck out fer home, an' till day 
 
 I hung on to him, how I don't know. 
 Not a thing do I mind after that 
 
 'Fore I came round all right at the whim. 
 Spread out on the bunk of Big Mat, 
 With a doc. on the job from The Flat, 
 
 An' my leg fairly timbered and trim. 
 
 ' Yes, I've heard all the mag of the men — 
 That he wanted to roll or to die, 
 An' it's true that he's kicked me since then. 
 An' he's likewise uncommonly sly ;
 
 132 THE FKEAK 
 
 But I'm here. If they talk fer a week 
 That one fact isn't goin' to change, 
 An' I owe it this day to The Freak 
 That a crow isn't cHppin' his beak 
 
 On my rib-bones out back by the range.'
 
 IN TOWN 
 
 Out of work and out of money — out of friends that 
 
 means, you bet — 
 Out of firewood, togs and tucker, out of everything 
 
 but debt — 
 And I loathe the barren pavements, and the crowds 
 
 a fellow meets. 
 And the maddening repetition of the suffocating 
 
 streets. 
 
 With their stinks my soul is tainted, and the tang is 
 
 on my tongue 
 Of that sour and smoky suburb and the push we're 
 
 thrown among, 
 And I sicken at the corners polished free of paint 
 
 and mirk 
 By the shoulders of the men who're always hanging 
 
 round for work. 
 
 133
 
 134 IN TOWN 
 
 Home — good Lord! a three-roomed hovel 'twixt a 
 
 puddle and a drain, 
 In harmonious connection on the left with Liver 
 
 Lane, 
 "Where a crippled man is dying, and a horde of 
 
 children fight. 
 And a woman in the horrors howls remorsefully at 
 
 night. 
 
 It has stables close behind it, and an ash-heap for a 
 
 lawn. 
 And is furnished with the tickets of the things we 
 
 have in pawn ; 
 And all day the place is haunted by a melancholy 
 
 crowd 
 Who beg everything or borrow, and to steal are not 
 
 too proud. 
 
 Through the day come weary women, too, with 
 
 famine-haunted eyes, 
 Hawking things that are not wanted — things that no 
 
 one ever buys. 
 And I hate the prying neighbours, in their animal 
 
 content. 
 And the devilish persistence of the man who wants 
 
 the rent.
 
 IN TOWN 135 
 
 I, who caved for none, and faltered at no Avork a 
 
 man might do, 
 Felt a fierce delight possess nie when the trucks 
 
 went surging through, 
 When the flood raced in the sluices, or the giant 
 
 gums swung round 
 'Fore my axe, and flung their mighty limbs all 
 
 mangled on the ground — 
 
 I who hewed and built and burrowed, and who asked 
 
 no man to give 
 When a strong arm was excuse enough for venturing 
 
 to live — 
 I am creeping by the gutters, with a simper and a 
 
 smirk. 
 To the Fates in spats and toppers for the privilege 
 
 of work. 
 
 Far away the hills are all aflame ; the blossom golden 
 
 fair 
 Streams up the gladdened ranges, and its scent is 
 
 everywhere, 
 And the kiddies of the settlers on the creek are red 
 
 and sweet, 
 Whilst my youngsters have the sallowness and 
 
 savour of the street.
 
 136 IN TOWN 
 
 To escape these endless vaults of brick, and pitch a 
 
 tent out back, 
 If I get a chance I'll graft until my very sinews 
 
 crack. 
 Meanwhile may all the angels up in Paradise look 
 
 down 
 On a man of sin who died not, but was damned and 
 
 sent to town.
 
 THE DESEETED HOMESTEAD 
 
 Past a dull, grey plain where a world-old grief seems 
 
 to brood o'er the silent land, 
 When the orbed moon turns her tense, white face on 
 
 the ominous waste of sand, 
 And the wind that steals by the dreamer feels like 
 
 the touch of a phantom hand. 
 
 Through the tall, still trees and the tangled scrub 
 that has sprung on the old bush track. 
 
 In a clearing wide, where a willow broods and the 
 cowering bush shrinks backs. 
 
 Stands a house alone that no dwellers own, yet un- 
 harmed by the storm's attack. 
 
 137
 
 138 THE DESEKTED HOMESTEAD 
 
 'Tis a strange, sad place. On the shingle roof 
 mosses gather and corn-blades spring, 
 
 And a stillness reigns in the air unstirred by the 
 beat of a wild bird's wing. 
 
 He who sees believes that the old house grieves with 
 the grief of a sentient thing. 
 
 From the charmed gums that about the land in a 
 
 reverent circle throng- 
 Comes no parrot's call, nor the wild cat's cry, nor 
 
 the magpie's mellow song. 
 And their shadows chill with an icy thrill and the 
 
 sense of an awful wrong. 
 
 And the creek winds by 'neath the twisted briar and 
 the curling creepers here ; 
 
 In the dusky depths of its bed it slips on it's slime- 
 green rocks in fear. 
 
 And it murmurs low to its stealthy flow in a monotone 
 quaint and drear. 
 
 On a furrowed paddock that fronts the house grow 
 
 the saplings straight and tall, 
 And noxious weeds in the garden ground on the 
 
 desolate pathways crawl ; 
 But the briar twists back with the supple-jack 'tween 
 
 the rocks of the rubble wall.
 
 THE DESEETED HOMESTEAD 139 
 
 On the rotting wall of the gloomy rooms bats gather 
 
 with elfin wings, 
 And a snake is coiled by the shattered door where a 
 
 giant lizard clings, 
 For this house of care is the fitting lair of a myriad 
 
 voiceless things. 
 
 Once I camped alone on the clearing's edge through 
 
 the lapse of a livelong night. 
 When the wan moon flooded the house and land in a 
 
 lake of her ghostly light, 
 And the silence dread of a world long dead filled my 
 
 credulous soul with fright. 
 
 For no wind breathed by, but a nameless awe was 
 
 abroad in the open there, 
 And the camp-fire burned with a pale, thin flame in 
 
 the chill, translucent air, 
 And my dog lay prone, like a chiselled stone, with 
 
 his opaline eyes a-stare. 
 
 In the tranced air was an omen felt and the sway of 
 
 a subtle spell. 
 And I waited long for I knew not what, but the 
 
 pale night augured well — 
 At a doleful hour, when the dead have power, lo 1 a 
 
 hideous thing befell.
 
 140 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD 
 
 From the shadows flung by the far bush -svall came 
 
 a treacherous, phantom crew, 
 Like the smoke rack blown o'er the plain at morn 
 
 when the bracken is wet with dew. 
 Not a sound they made, and their forms no shade on 
 
 the moonlit surface threw. 
 
 And the night was changed to the quiet eve of a 
 
 beautiful summer's day, 
 And the old house warmed as with life and light, and 
 
 was set in a garden gay. 
 And a babe that crawled by the doorway called to a 
 
 kitten that leapt in play. 
 
 But the black fiends circled the peaceful home, and I 
 
 fathomed their e\il quest ; 
 From the ground up-springing they hurled their 
 
 spears, and danced with a demon zest. 
 And a girl lay dead 'neath the roses red with a 
 
 wound in her fair, white breast. 
 
 Through the looped wall spat a rifle's flame, and the 
 
 devilish pack gave tongue. 
 For a lean form writhed in a torment dire, on the 
 
 crimsoned stubble flung. 
 Many echoes spoke, and the sluggish smoke on the 
 
 shingles rolled and clung.
 
 THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD 141 
 
 Yet again and oft did the flame spring forth, and 
 
 each shaft from the dwelhng shore 
 Through a savage heart, but the band unawed at the 
 
 walls of the homestead tore, 
 And a man and wife fought for love and life with 
 
 the horde by the broken door. 
 
 Then ghostly and grey, from the dusky bush came 
 
 a company riding fast. 
 Seven horses strode on the buoyant air, and I 
 
 trembled and gazed aghast, 
 Such a deadly hate on the forehead sate of each rider 
 
 racing past. 
 
 With a cry they leapt on the dusky crew, and swept 
 
 them aside like corn 
 In the lusty stroke of the mower's scythe, and 
 
 distracted and overborne 
 Many demons fled, leaving many dead, by the hoofs 
 
 of the horses torn. 
 
 Not in vain — not all — though a father lay with the 
 
 light on his cold, grey face, 
 And a mother bled, with a murdered maid held 
 
 close in a last embrace. 
 For the babe laughed back at a visage black death 
 
 drawn to a foul grimace.
 
 142 THE DESEETED HOMESTEAD 
 
 Came a soft wind swaying the pendent leaves, like 
 
 the sigh of awakening day, 
 And the darkness fell on my tired eyes, for the 
 
 phantoms had passed away ; 
 And the breezes bore from a distant shore faint 
 
 echoes of ocean's play. 
 
 Past a dull, grey plain, through the tall, still trees, 
 
 where the lingering days inspire 
 An unspoken woe in the heart of man, and the nights 
 
 hold visions dire. 
 Stands a house alone that no dwellers own, yet 
 
 unmarred by the storm or fire.
 
 A NEW GIKL UP AT WHITE'S 
 
 There's a fresh track down the paddock 
 
 Through the Hghtwoods to the creek, 
 And I notice Billy Craddock 
 
 And Maloney do not speak, 
 And The Snag is slyly bitter 
 
 When he's criticising Bill, 
 And there's quite a foreign glitter 
 
 On the fellows at the mill. 
 
 Sid M'Mahon's turned out a dandy 
 
 With a masher coat and tie. 
 And the engine-driver, Sandy, 
 
 Curls his whiskers on the sly : 
 All the boys wear paper collars 
 
 And their tombstone shirts of nights, 
 So it's ten to one in dollars 
 
 There's a new girl up at White's. 
 
 143
 
 144 A NEW GIRL UP AT WHITE'S 
 
 She's a charmer from the river, 
 
 But she steeps the lads in gloom, 
 With her blue eyes all a-quiver 
 
 And her hair like wattle-bloom ; 
 Though she's pretty and beguiling, 
 
 And so lit up, like, with fun 
 That the flowers turn to her smiling, 
 
 Just as if she was the sun. 
 
 But I wish she'd leave the valley, 
 
 For the camp is dull to me. 
 Now the mill hands never rally 
 
 For the regulation spree, 
 And there's not another joker 
 
 Gives a tinker's curse for nap.. 
 Or will take a hand at poker 
 
 Or at euchre with a chap ! 
 
 Tom won't stir us with his fiddle 
 
 By the boilers as he did 
 While Bob stepped it in the middle, 
 
 And we passed the billy-lid. 
 Ah ! we had some gay old nights there, 
 
 But the boys now don't agree. 
 And they hang about at White's there, 
 
 When they've togged up after tea.
 
 A NEW GIEL UP AT WHITE'S 145 
 
 With the gloves we have no battle ; 
 
 Now they sneak away and moon 
 Round with White, discussing cattle 
 
 All the Sunday afternoon. 
 There's a want of old uprightness, 
 
 Too, has come upon the push, 
 And a sort of cold politeness 
 
 That's not called for in the bush. 
 
 They're all off, too, in that quarter ; 
 
 Kate goes sev'ral times a week 
 Seeing Andy Kelly's daughter, 
 
 Jimmy's sister, up the creek ; 
 And this difference seems a pity. 
 
 Since their chances are so slim — 
 While they are running after Kitty, 
 
 She is running after Jim.
 
 WHOSE WIFE 
 
 * Harry ! what, that yourself, back to old Vic.-, man, 
 Down from the Never Land ? Now, what's your 
 
 game ? 
 Ugly as ever. Not dropped the old trick, man ? 
 Say, what'll you take with me ? Give it a name, 
 
 'Here long ? Well, rather, lad ; five years and over, 
 Settled for good, and supporting a wife. 
 Slipped from the saddle, and living in clover. 
 Swore off a heap, and I've slung the old hfe, 
 
 'What's come of Taffy, and Brum, and the rest of 
 
 them? 
 Long since you broke with the Poverty push ? ' 
 'Bill, you're on top, you've the best of the best of 
 
 them. 
 Poor Brum's a dummy, Taff died in the bush ; 
 
 146
 
 WHOSE WIFE 147 
 
 * Bob's cook for Chows on an absentee's station, 
 Sam's tout for spielers, Pete's lumbered for life ; 
 I'm on a tramp through the whole of creation, 
 Tracking a woman, my runaway wife. 
 
 ' Left me six years ago — sloped ! I was shearing 
 Up on the Thomson. She left not a word ; 
 Last year was seen by a Barcoo man, steering 
 Bound about here, and that's all that I've heard. 
 
 ' Heard of her, know her, Bill ? — tallish and clever. 
 Blue eyes, dark hair, and she's branded here, so ; 
 Not one to liquor, or go on the never. 
 But skittish and queer in her tantrums, you know. 
 
 ' This is her picture. Bill ; just have a look at her. 
 Like any female you chance to have seen ? 
 Hallo ! here, hold up ! Say, man, what's the matter ? 
 Your \\ife ! By the Lord, Morton, what do you 
 mean ? '
 
 BATTEEED BOB 
 
 He was working on a station in the Western when I 
 knew him, 
 
 And he came from Conongamo, up the old sur- 
 veyors' track, 
 
 And the fellows all admitted that no man in Vie. 
 could ' do him,' 
 
 Since he'd smothered Stonewall Menzie, also Ander- 
 son, the black. 
 
 Bob was modelled for a fighter, but he'd run to 
 beef a trifle ; 
 
 For his science every rouseabout was satisfied to 
 vouch, 
 
 And Eed Fogarty advised us he dehvered like a rifle, 
 
 And his stopping — well, beside him Harry Sallars 
 was a slouch. 
 
 Not a man of us had met him till he settled on 
 
 the station — 
 This was early in the Sixties, what we call the 
 
 good old days — 
 
 143
 
 BATTEEED BOB 14» 
 
 And it's cheerfully admitted Eobert owed his 
 
 reputation 
 To a crijjpled jaw, a broken nose, and eyes that 
 
 looked both ways. 
 We were certain on the face of it our guess was not 
 
 an error, 
 Every feature of his phiz was marked, his chin was 
 
 pulled askew, 
 And The Critic passed the office : * Bet your buttons 
 
 he's a terror ! 
 That's the man who hammered Kelly on The Creek 
 
 in Fifty-two !' 
 
 Bob was not a shrinking blossom, and he held the 
 
 first impressions 
 By his subsequent admissions to the ringers and 
 
 the mugs. 
 And he let himself be tickled into casual confessions 
 Of his battles vnth the bruisers and the scientific 
 
 pugs. 
 How he'd mangled Matty Hardy was his earliest 
 
 narration ; 
 He'd completely flummoxed Kitchen, and had made 
 
 the climate hot 
 For Maloney, Fee, and Curran. It was quite a 
 
 consolation 
 When he graciously informed us that he hadn't 
 
 hcked the lot.
 
 150 BATTEEED BOB 
 
 The arrival of the Wonder gave a spurt to local 
 
 science, 
 And we had an exhibition every evening in the 
 
 week, 
 For the lightest joke was answered in the lingo of 
 
 defiance, 
 And our blood was cast like water on the grasses by 
 
 the creek. 
 Every fellow but the stranger had his scrap or 
 
 rough-and-tumble ; 
 No one thought of looking ugly at the slugger, 
 
 Battered Bob ; 
 And whene'er the boys addressed him 'twas in 
 
 language choice and humble, — 
 Though they ached to see him beaten, none was 
 
 anxious for the job. 
 
 How we honoured Bob, and }delded to his later 
 
 information ; 
 Let him lead in all the arguments, and gently run 
 
 the ranche ! 
 And a very small potato was the owner of the 
 
 station 
 By the man who slaughtered Melody and fought a 
 
 draw with Blanche, 
 Battered Bob became our champion, our boss, and 
 
 by degrees he
 
 BATTEEED BOB 151 
 
 Sent his fame down to the Wannon, and right up 
 
 to Spooner's Gap, 
 And he scooped the honours smiling, and he held 
 
 them just as easy. 
 For we'd never seen him shape yet, and he hadn't 
 
 fought a tap. 
 
 We'd a cook whose name was Han Cat— he was 
 
 short, and fat, and yellow. 
 Just a common, ugly Chinky, with a never ending 
 
 smile. 
 Bob was careful to avoid the corns of any other 
 
 fellow. 
 But he filled Han Cat with sorrow, and he whaled 
 
 him all the w^hile. 
 Han Cat groaned and bore it meekly, and we didn't 
 
 care to figure 
 In the antics of the Champion or his little private 
 
 rows. 
 Eobert said, ' I like a native, and I'll Hquor with a 
 
 nigger. 
 But I hate the skin and colour of these sanguinary 
 
 Chows !' 
 
 On a certain Sunday morning Eobert slyly cut a 
 
 section 
 Off the pig-tail of the pagan — 'twas Han's glory 
 
 and his pride —
 
 152 BATTERED BOB 
 
 But the trouble that came after is his saddest 
 
 recollection, 
 And the boys were so disgusted that they very nearly 
 
 died. 
 Han Cat wept a while, and then he turned and 
 
 scowled as black as thunder, 
 And he cursed the grinning spoiler till he had to 
 
 stop for breath : 
 When he shaped up like a Christian, and he waltzed 
 
 into the Wonder, 
 "We arranged a ring, and waited for the heathen's 
 
 sudden death. 
 
 Oh ! the sorrow of that Sunday ! Oh ! the shame 
 
 and degradation ! 
 The chaps were simply paralyzed, and everyone was 
 
 dumb. 
 For the heathen pushed the battle in the fashion of 
 
 our nation. 
 And he countered in a way that made the Wonder 
 
 fairly hum. 
 ' Bob is foohng Han,' we murmured, 'he'll surprise 
 
 him in a minute — 
 Soon he'll rise to this occasion, and display his 
 
 proper form I' 
 But, alas ! we'd nursed a viper, for our pug was 
 
 never in it —
 
 BATTEEED BOB 153 
 
 And he couldn't battle well enough to keep the 
 Pagan warm. 
 
 Han Cat beat our battered champion, beat the 
 
 conqueror of Menzie, 
 And he towed him round the paddock like a dummy 
 
 stuffed with hair, 
 And we never stirred to interfere and stop the 
 
 Chinky's frenzy 
 When he jumped upon the Wonder in a manner 
 
 most unfair. 
 You must fancy all our sorrow, and our shame and 
 
 indignation, 
 For pen can never, never tell how horrified we 
 
 felt. 
 In the morning Little Finney, for the credit of the 
 
 station. 
 Hammered Han in stylish fashion with one fist 
 
 tucked in his belt. 
 
 As for Eobert, we discussed him in a serious con- 
 vention. 
 
 And resolved that we were victims of a duffer's 
 awful skite. 
 
 And we put it up to tar him ; but he dropped to our 
 intention.
 
 154 BATTEBED BOB 
 
 And he skipped, without a character, for Hamilton 
 
 that night. 
 There's a moral, boys : Don't think a mangled boko 
 
 is a token 
 That a fellow is a fighter, as a simple thing of 
 
 course ; 
 Like Battered Bob, he may have had his features 
 
 bent and broken 
 Through his carelessness when drunk in being 
 
 walked on by a horse.
 
 THE SPLITTER 
 
 In the morn when the keen blade bites the tree, 
 
 And the chips on the dead leaves dance, 
 And the bush echoes back right merrily 
 
 Blow for blow as the sunbeams glance 
 From the axe when it sweeps in circles true, 
 
 Then the spHtter at heart is gay ; 
 He exults in the work he's set to do. 
 
 And he feels Uke a boy at play. 
 
 Swinging free with a stroke that's straight and strong 
 
 _ To the heart of the messmate sent. 
 He is cheered by the magpie's morning song 
 
 With the ring of the metal blent, 
 But the birds in their terror scatter high 
 
 When she faUs with a rush and bound, 
 And the quivering saplings split and tiy, 
 
 And the ranges all roar around. 
 
 155
 
 156 THE SPLITTEB 
 
 AMio is lord when the axeman mounts his spar, 
 
 And the breeze on his brown breast blows, 
 "When the scent of the new wood floats afar. 
 
 And the gum from its red wounds flows ? 
 With the bush at his back he laughs at care, 
 
 With a pipe and a right good mate — 
 There is drink in the billy, grub to spare, 
 
 And a bunk in the ten-by-eight. 
 
 When the sun's in the west, from nooks aloft 
 
 Where the stringy is straight and tall. 
 Come the strains of a chorus quaint and soft, 
 
 Or the clink of the wedge and maul ; 
 From the gully a murmur of broken talk 
 
 Or the song that the crosscut sings ; 
 For the bush is a-dream, and high the hawk 
 
 Hangs at rest on his cradling wings. 
 
 But at night, by the tent, when tea is done 
 
 And when euchre's begun to flag — 
 In the bush he may hear a distant gun 
 
 Or the neigh of a lonely nag — 
 Then the splitter has thoughts no longer gay. 
 
 And sorrows he cannot drown, 
 For he dreams of a girl who's far away. 
 
 Or the joys of a spree in town.
 
 TO THE THEORETICAL SELECTOR 
 
 Would you be the King, the strong man, first in 
 
 council and in toil, 
 To the men who war with nature for possession of 
 
 the soil ? 
 Take an axe upon your shoulder, take a billy and 
 
 a rug, 
 And go forward in the forest where no man has cut 
 
 and dug, 
 Where the scrub-ferns grow like magic, and the 
 
 gum-trees you must fell 
 Have their topmost boughs in heaven, and their 
 
 tap-roots deep as hell. 
 
 Take the land the Powers would cheerfully devote 
 
 to Smith or Brown, 
 Two miles or more from water and a hundred miles 
 
 from town ; 
 
 157
 
 158 TO THE THEORETICAL SELECTOR 
 
 Fell, and scrub, and hew, and hunger, and when 
 
 seven weeks are gone 
 You may have a clearing large enough to build a hut 
 
 upon. 
 Then you furnish it with saplings and you carpet it 
 
 with loam, 
 And you bring the kids and missus to their charming 
 
 country home ! 
 
 Rising early with the jackass, like a man of pith 
 
 and push, 
 With axe in hand you sally forth to face the stubborn 
 
 bush. 
 'Tis a mighty undertaking, and the odds are hard 
 
 enough, 
 But the settler must be stubborn, and the settler 
 
 must be tough, 
 And he strikes from morn till even with his strong 
 
 arm bare and brown, 
 And he counts his gain by inches when the big gum 
 
 rattles down. 
 
 So you slave and strive and suffer, for it's fearful 
 
 work and slow 
 Ere the cabbages are solid and the spuds have room 
 
 to grow.
 
 TO THE THEORETICAL SELECTOR 159 
 
 By and bye to fruit and fowls and swine, as city 
 
 swells ad\'ise, 
 You resort to make a fortune ; but the venture 
 
 proves unwise, 
 For the fruit-trees bhght and wither, and the pigs 
 
 die in their pens, 
 And the drought destroys the ducklings, and the 
 
 dingoes eat the hens. 
 
 Years go on, and still the bush-wall rings your 
 
 narrow clearing round. 
 But you've won a few good acres and a crop is on 
 
 the ground. 
 And you harvest single-handed, and you rake the 
 
 stubble clean, 
 For you lack the cash for wages and the marvellous 
 
 machine ; 
 Still you're thankful for small mercies — though you're 
 
 often sorely pushed — 
 When the missus hasn't sunstroke and the baby 
 
 isn't bushed. 
 
 Then, at last, when worn with work, and warped 
 with years, and very grey, 
 
 When your mastering the mortgage and the rail- 
 road runs your way.
 
 IGO TO THE THEORETICAL SELECTOR 
 
 ^Yhen your farm is looking home-like, and your 
 
 sons are grown-up men, 
 You may talk to brown-faced farmers — you may try 
 
 to teach them then. 
 And if any kid-gloved critic starts to give you points 
 
 on grain, 
 And a little hot-house farming does to make your 
 
 errors plain, 
 You will rise up with a waddy, and you'll sympathise 
 
 with Cain.
 
 BULLOCKY BILL 
 
 From a river sicliug, the railway town, 
 Or the dull new port there three days down, 
 Forward and back on the up-hill track, 
 With a creak of the j inker, a ringing crack, 
 Slow as a funeral, sure as steam, 
 Ballocky Bill and his old red team. 
 
 Ploughing around by the ti-tree scrub. 
 Four wheels down to the creeping hub. 
 Swaying they go, with their heads all low, 
 Bally, and Splodger, and Spot, and Jo. 
 Men in the ranges much esteem 
 Bullocky Bill and his old red team. 
 
 "Worming about where the tall trees spring. 
 Surging ahead when the clay bogs cling ; 
 
 161
 
 162 BULLOCKY BILL 
 
 A rattle of lash and of language rash 
 On the narrow edge of immortal smash. 
 He'd thread a bead or walk a beam, 
 Bullocky Bill "svdth his old red team. 
 
 CHmbing a ridge where the red stars ride ; 
 Straddling down on the other side, 
 With a whistle and grind, and a scramble blind. 
 And a thundering gum-tree slung behind. 
 But they always get there, hill or stream, 
 Bullocky Bill and his old red team. 
 
 Engines or stamps for the mines about, 
 Tools for the men who are leading out ; 
 Tucker, and boose, and the latest news 
 Back where the bunyip stirs the ooze. 
 Pioneers with the best we deem 
 Bullocky Bill and his old red team.
 
 THE DEOVEES IN EEPLY 
 
 We are wondering why those fellows who are writing 
 
 cheerful ditties 
 Of the rosy times out droving, and the dust and 
 
 death of cities, 
 Do not leave the dreary office, ask a drover for a 
 
 billet, 
 And enjoy ' the views,' ' the campfires,' and ' the 
 
 freedom ' while they fill it. 
 
 If it's fun to travel cattle or to picnic with merinoes, 
 Well the drover doesn't see it — few poetic raptures 
 
 he knows. 
 As for sleeping on the plains beneath ' the pale 
 
 moon ' always seen there, 
 That is most appreciated by the man who's never 
 
 been there. 
 
 163
 
 164 THE DROVERS IN REPLY 
 
 And the 'balmy air,' the horses, and the 'wondrous 
 
 constellations,' 
 The 'possum-rugs, and billies, and the tough and 
 
 musty rations, 
 It's strange they only please the swell in urban 
 
 streets residing. 
 Where the trams are always handy if he has a taste 
 
 for riding. 
 
 We have travelled far with cattle for the very best 
 
 of reasons — 
 For a living — we've gone droving in all latitudes and 
 
 seasons. 
 But have never had a mate content with pleasures of 
 
 this kidney. 
 And who wouldn't change his blisses for a flutter 
 
 down in Sydney. 
 
 Night watches are delightful when the stars are 
 
 really splendid 
 To the sentimental stranger, but his joy is quickly 
 
 ended 
 When the rain comes down in sluice-heads, or the 
 
 cutting hailstones pelter, 
 And the sheep drift with the blizzard, and the horses 
 
 bolt for shelter.
 
 THE DEOVEKS IN KEPLY 165 
 
 Don't imagine we are soured, but it's peculiarly 
 
 annoying 
 To be told by city writers of the pleasures we're 
 
 enjoying, 
 When perhaps we've nothing better than some fluky 
 
 water handy, 
 Whilst the scribes in showy bar-rooms take iced 
 
 seltzer with their brandy. 
 
 The dust in town is nothing to the dust the drover 
 
 curses, 
 And the dust a drover swallows, and the awful thirst 
 
 he nurses 
 When he's on the hard macadam, where the wethers 
 
 cannot browse, and 
 The sirocco drives right at him, and he follows 
 
 twenty thousand. 
 
 This droning on the plain is really charming when 
 
 the weather 
 Isn't hot enough to curl the soles right off your 
 
 u^pper leather. 
 Or so cold that when the morning wind comes 
 
 hissing through the grasses 
 You can feel it cut your eyelids like a whip-lash as 
 
 it passes.
 
 166 THE DROVERS IN REPLY 
 
 There are bull-ants in the blankets, wicked horses, 
 
 cramps, and ' skeeters,' 
 And a drinking boss like HalHgan, or one like 
 
 Humpy Peters, 
 Who is mean about the rations, and a flowing stream 
 
 of curses 
 From the break of day to camping, through good 
 
 fortune and reverses. 
 
 Yes, we wonder why the fellows who are building 
 
 chipper ditties 
 Of the rosy times out droving and the dust and 
 
 death of cities. 
 Do not quit the stuffy office, ask old Peters for a 
 
 billet. 
 And enjoy the stars, the camp-fires, and the freedom 
 
 while they fill it.
 
 THE SHANTY 
 
 There are tracks through the scrub, there's a track 
 
 down the hill, 
 And a track round the bend from M'Courteney's 
 
 mill, 
 Where they slyly emerge from the bush and con- 
 verge. 
 You'll discover the humpy — the theme of this 
 
 dirge — 
 That is used for the sale of 0' Sullivan's ' purge.' 
 And if curses and cries, 
 And a blasting of eyes. 
 And a series of blasphemies fearful arise, 
 And a lunatic din, 
 And a racket hke sin, 
 You can bet all you own the O'Sullivan's in. 
 
 167
 
 168 THE SHANTY 
 
 It's a bark and slab hut, with a bar and a bunk, 
 And a man propped before it disgustingly drunk. 
 And a nameless galoot in a hand-me-down suit, 
 Straddhng out on the grass, grim as death, and as 
 
 mute, 
 Trapping millions of rabbits that run from his boot, 
 "When eleven lie round 
 In all shapes on the mound. 
 And two navvies are fighting like fiends on the 
 ground, 
 'Tisn't needful to say 
 It's the sweet Sabbath day, 
 And that trade at the shanty's uncommonly gay. 
 
 Mrs. 0'. makes the drinks, and O'Sullivan's dart 
 Is to drink all he can to keep others in heart. 
 Though he's old in the hoof, and he reckons he's 
 
 proof 
 'Gainst infernalest liquors, in warp and in woof. 
 He's quite frequently seen howling out on the roof. 
 For from fungus or fruits. 
 From old rags or from roots, 
 Grass, cabbages, pickles, old bedding or boots, 
 Or the leaves of the gum. 
 Or whatever may come, 
 Mrs. 0'. can extract the most ' illigant ' rum.
 
 THE SHANTY 169 
 
 They've no peace in the hut and no peace on the hill, 
 Mrs. 0'. never sleeps and her hand's never still ; 
 And old constable Mack cannot hit on the track 
 As a man of the law. As a stranger in black 
 When he finds his way there he can't find his way back. 
 There's no signboard to see, 
 But those fools on the spree, 
 Or a man in his shirt shrieking prayers to a tree. 
 As for licenses — yar ! 
 They don't know what they are. 
 For they drink without license at Sullivan's bar.
 
 AH LING, THE LEPER 
 
 Up a dark and fetid alley, where the offal and the 
 
 slime 
 Of a brave and blusterous city met its misery and 
 
 crime, 
 In a hovel reeking pestilence, and noisome as the 
 
 grave, 
 Dwelt Ah Ling, the Chinese joiner, and the sweater's 
 
 willing slave. 
 
 Squatting doAvn amongst the shavings, with his 
 
 chisel and his plane, 
 Through the long, hot days of striving, dead to 
 
 pleasure and to pain, 
 Like a creature barely human, very yellow, gaunt, 
 
 and grim. 
 Ah Ling laboured on, for pleasure spread no lures 
 
 that tempted him.
 
 AH LING, THE LEPER 171 
 
 And the curious people, watching through the rotten 
 
 wall at night, 
 Saw his death's face weirdly outlined in the candle's 
 
 feeble light ; 
 Saw him still intent upon his work, ill-omened and 
 
 unclean. 
 Planing, salving, nailing, hewing — just a skin and 
 
 bone machine. 
 
 Neither kith nor kin the joiner had ; perchance he 
 
 nerved his hand 
 With the treasured hope of seeing once again his 
 
 native land 
 As a Chinaman of fortune, and of finishing his life 
 At his ease in China Proper, with a painted Chinese 
 
 wife. 
 
 But Ah Ling grew yet more grisly, and 'twas easy 
 
 now to trace 
 Signs of vice and fierce privations in his scarred and 
 
 pitted face. 
 With a dreadful something added. By this thing 
 
 the truth was known, 
 And his countrymen forsook him, and he lived and 
 
 toiled alone.
 
 172 AH LING, THE LEPEE 
 
 Still the work came in, and still he slaved and saw 
 
 his earnings grow. 
 Who's to trouble where the goods are made when 
 
 buyers will not know ? 
 Gimcrack chairs and pretty nick-nacks from infected 
 
 dens like this 
 Go to furnish happy homes to-day where ignorance 
 
 is bliss. 
 
 Now the time was come when Ling might take his 
 
 treasure up, and go 
 To enjoy celestial comforts by the flowing Hoang Ho, 
 But one day his shop was raided, and upon him fell 
 
 the hand 
 Of the Law — and death were better than the ruthless 
 
 Law's command. 
 
 ' Room for the leper, room ! ' A thing of fear. Ah 
 
 Ling was torn 
 Froru his hovel and his labour and his cherished 
 
 hopes, and borne 
 To a home of untold terrors, where to life grim 
 
 death is wed, 
 And the quick behold and know the loathly horrors 
 
 of the dead.
 
 THE EMU OF WHEOO. 
 
 We've a tale to tell you of a spavined em«, 
 
 A bird with a smile like a crack in a hat, 
 Who was owned by M'Cue, of the township of Whroo, 
 
 The county of Rodney — his front name was Pat. 
 The bird was a dandy, although a bit bandy, 
 
 Her knees, too, were queer and her neck out of 
 gauge— 
 She'd eat what was handy, from crowbars to candy. 
 
 Was tall, too, and tough for a chick of her age. 
 But her taste and her height, and her figure and 
 
 smile. 
 Were the smallest potatoes compared with her guile. 
 
 M' Cue's bird had a name, Arabella that same — 
 
 A name that was given by Pat, we may say. 
 To the memory and fame of a red-headed flame, 
 
 173
 
 174 THE EMU OF WHEOO 
 
 Because, as he said, ' she wuz builclecl that way.' 
 The bird Arabella let nothing compel her. 
 
 Her temper was bad when disturbed, as a rule. 
 She'd rupture the smeUer of any young ' feller ' 
 
 Who teased, with a kick that would honor a mule. 
 And the boys and the girls who were then Uving near 
 Were aU minus an eye — those with luck had one ear. 
 
 The emu with her smile would the new-chum beguile 
 
 To step up and study the great, gawky bird, 
 And then let out in style, and she'd hoist him a mile — 
 
 The sound of his wailing would never be heard. 
 At which she'd look stately, and mild, and sedately, 
 
 And seem to be steeped in some deep inward woe, 
 Or wondering greatly what happened there lately 
 
 That people found need to go tearing round so. 
 P. M'Cue overlooked his long bird's little craze, 
 He declared it was only her emusing ways. 
 
 Is it strange that in time these outrages should prime 
 The neighbours with ire and profanity dread ? 
 
 And at every crime, with good reason and rhyme, 
 They'd bombard the bird with old iron and lead ; 
 
 Their weapons woidd whistle by Bella and hiss ill, 
 The bird only smiled as they yearned for her gore ;
 
 THE EMU OF WHEOO 175 
 
 They wasted their gristle, she ate up each missile, 
 
 And placidly looked on and waited for more. 
 Her digestion not stones nor old nails could upset, 
 So it's strange that the men disagreed with the pet. 
 
 The late Mr. M'Cue, of the township of Whroo, 
 
 Would hear no complaints of his biped absurd, 
 And with little ado put the biggest man through 
 
 Who'd lay ' e'er a finger ' on Bella, the bird. 
 If father or teacher came flaunting a feature 
 
 Eemoved from a boy, say, an eyelid or ear, 
 He sooled on the preacher his feathery creature. 
 
 Or offered to fight him for money or beer. 
 And to shoot at this bird was but labour in vain. 
 She digested their slugs and she faced them again. 
 
 But M'Cue for his care and and anxiety rare 
 
 Got meagre rewards from his camel- shanked fowl. 
 For when on a tear she'd uproot his back hair 
 
 And peck at his ear and snatch scraps off his jowl. 
 A kick from the shoulder, a shock like a boulder 
 
 That weighed half-a-ton being twisted in quick, 
 And Patrick was older and very near cold ere 
 
 The time he recovered that feathered mule's kick. 
 At the worst he but sighed, and regretfully said 
 It reminded him so of his wife who was dead.
 
 176 THE EMU OF WHEOO 
 
 But the time came at last when anxiety cast 
 
 Its spell o'er the bird, she grew dull and deprest — 
 She felt glum, and she passed to hysterics as fast — 
 
 All day she sought round in sore mental unrest. 
 She acted like moody, hysterical Judy, 
 
 When Punch is inspired for a villainous lark ; 
 But Paddy was shrewd — he could see she was broody 
 
 And yearned in the chick-rearing biz to embark. 
 The momentous importance and stress of her case. 
 ^Yere quite plain in her actions and seen in her face. 
 
 She tried sitting on stones, and on brickbats and 
 
 bones, 
 • But moped all the time and supped grief to the 
 
 dregs — 
 There was nothing in cones, and in harrowing tones 
 
 She spoke her great yearning to cultivate eggs. 
 One morning, day-dreaming, all glossy and gleaming 
 
 She saw the bald head of the neighbour next door ; 
 Its round, egg-like seeming, set Bell wildly scheming 
 
 To sit on that skull or be happy no more ; 
 And she laid for the man by the dark and the day, 
 And he cursed and he kicked in a terrible way. 
 
 From that day, it is said, Arabella she led 
 
 The bald-headed men who lived near a hard life ;
 
 THE EMU OF WHEOO 177 
 
 They all held her in dread — for her manners iU-bred 
 M'Cue spent his time in tempestuous strife. 
 
 With eye speculative, she cornered each native 
 
 To find if his skuU would just suit her complaint; 
 
 The man's strength was great if he saved all his 
 pate, if 
 She failed to secure half his scalp in distraint. 
 
 And her owner indulged in Satanic delights, 
 
 And he egged on his bird to more furious fights. 
 
 But the downfall of spite and the triumph of right 
 
 Are bound to come round, fight we ever so hard ; 
 On one March morning bright. Old M'Cue very tight, 
 
 Returned to his home and dossed dovra in the yard. 
 He'd not long been sleeping when Bella came 
 peeping 
 
 And viewed with delight his bare head, like a cast, 
 And into her keeping she raked it, and heaping 
 
 Her ribs on the skull she was happy at last. 
 And she sat till the day and the night both were 
 
 gone, 
 And the next day and next was she still sitting on. 
 
 It was thought Pat had fled, and a week or more sped 
 E'er folks came to search, and they found for 
 their pains
 
 178 THE EMU OF WHEOO 
 
 P. M'Cue lying dead with the bird ou his head 
 Still stolidly striving to hatch out some brains. 
 
 No priest at Pat's croaking, by blessings invoking, 
 Had served to make easy the poor sinner's death. 
 
 Some folks blamed his soaking, the jury said 
 ' choking ' — 
 The bird was found guilty of stopping his breath, 
 
 And for peace, and for quiet, and morality's sake 
 
 She was killed with a slab from a Cousin Jack cake.
 
 NOVEMBER, 1900 
 
 LIST OF BOOKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 'ANGUS & ROBERTSON 
 
 SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA 
 
 SOLD IN ENGLAND BY 
 
 THE AUSTRALIAN BOOK COMPANY 
 
 38 WEST SMITHFIELO, LONDON, E.G.
 
 ON THE TRACK AND OVER 
 THE SLIPRAILS. 
 
 A New Volume of Australian Stories. 
 
 By HENEY LAWSON, Author of "While the Billy 
 Boils;" "When the World Was Wide and Other 
 Verses :" " Verses, Popular and Humorous." 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Sydney Morning' Herald : " It is not too much to 
 say for these sketches that they show an acquaintance 
 with bush life and an insight into the class of people 
 which is met with in this life that are hardly equalled 
 to-day in Australia. In a few words he can paint for 
 you the landscape of his pictures or the innermost 
 recesses of his bushman's soul." 
 
 Queenslander : "The 'yarns' are, of course, 'of 
 the bush bushy/ tales of hard, unending toil, grim 
 greyness of prospects, the hundred and one drawbacks 
 to life in the back blocks, which Lawson knows so 
 well and treats so cleverly." 
 
 Wellington (N.Z.) Evening* Post: "His sketches 
 are literally alive with the life of the land which gave 
 them birth, and they cannot but appeal strongly to 
 all Australians." 
 
 South Australian Regrister : "As a litterateur, Mr 
 Lawson has an enviable re])utation, which is not con- 
 fined to this continent. A collection of wholesome 
 and typically Australian stories, told with force and 
 originality." 
 
 Melbourne Punch : " Often the little stories are 
 wedges cut clean out of life, and presented with 
 artistic ti'uth and vivid colour."
 
 WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. 
 
 Australian Stories. 
 
 By henry LAWSON, Author of "When the World 
 Was Wide and Other Verses ;" " On the Track and 
 Over the Sliprails ;" "Verses, Popular and Humorous." 
 
 Fifth Edition, completing the Twenty-third 
 Thousand. With eight plates and vignette 
 title, by F. P. Mahony. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 The Academy : "A book of honest, direct, sympa- 
 thetic, humorous writing about Australia from within 
 is worth a library of travellers' tales. Mr. Lawson 
 shows us what living in the bush really means. The 
 result is a real book — a book in a hundred. His 
 language is terse, supple, and richly idiomatic." 
 
 Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in Literature : " A book 
 which Mrs. Campbell Praed, the Australian novelist, 
 assured me made her feel that all she had written of 
 bush life was pale and ineffective." 
 
 The Spectator : " In these days when short, dra- 
 matic stories are eagerly looked for, it is strange that 
 one we would venture to call the greatest Australian 
 writer should be practically unknown in England. 
 Short stories, but biting into the very heart of the 
 bushman's life, ruthless in truth, extraordinarily 
 dramatic, and pathetically uneven " 
 
 The Times : " A collection of short and vigorous 
 studies and stories of Australian life and character. 
 A little in Bret Harte's manner, crossed, perhaps, with 
 that of Guy de Maupassant."
 
 WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDE 
 AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 By HENKY law son, Author of "While the Billy 
 Boils;" "On the Track and Over the Sliprails ; " 
 "Verses, Popular and Humorous." 
 
 Tenth Thousand. With photogravure por- 
 trait and vignette title. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 gilt, gilt top, 5s. 
 
 Mr. R. Le Galltenne, in The Idler : " A striking 
 volume of ballad poetry. A volume to console one for 
 the tantalising postponement of Mr. Kipling's pro- 
 mised volume of sea ballads." 
 
 Newcastle Weekly Chronicle : " Swinging, rhyth- 
 mic verse." 
 
 Sydney Morning" Herald : " The verses have 
 natural vigour, the writer has a rough, true faculty 
 of characterisation, and the book is racy of the soil 
 from cover to cover." 
 
 Melbourne Agre : " ' In the Days when the World 
 was Wide and Other Verses,' by Henry Lawson, is 
 poetry, and some of it poetry of a very high order." ^' 
 
 Otagro Witness : '' It were well to have such books 
 upon our shelves . . . they are true history." 
 
 New Zealand Herald : " There is a heart-stirring 
 ring about the verses.'^ 
 
 Bulletin : " How graphic he is, liow natural, how 
 true, how strong."
 
 VERSES: POPULAR AND 
 HUMOROUS. 
 
 By HENRY LAWSON, Author of '-When the 
 World was Wide, and Other Verses," " On the Track 
 and Over the SlipraiJs," and " While the Billy Boils." 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. [Just out. 
 
 FOR THE TERM OF HIS 
 NATURAL LIFE. 
 
 By MARCUS CLARKE. 
 
 With a Memoir ©f the Author, by A. B. 
 Paterson, 15 full page plates and a por- 
 trait. Crown 8vo, oloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. 
 
 The Queenslander : " Tlie book's value is enhanced 
 by an introductory memoir of the author from the 
 pen of A. B. Paterson, and it has also many ihustra- 
 tions of various places where incidents narrated in 
 the book took place." 
 
 The Australasian : " This edition can be recom- 
 mended to all who desire to possess one of the few 
 works of original genius produced in Australia." 
 
 Maitland Mercury : " There can never be a time 
 when Australians will cease to care to read Clarke's 
 enthralling narrative, and the form in which this 
 edition submits it ought to become a very favourite 
 one." 
 
 Melbourne Argus : " The memoir written by Mr. 
 A. B. Paterson is kindly and appreciative, and, on 
 the whole, is a very just estimate of the man and of 
 the writer."
 
 THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER 
 AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 By a. B. PATERSON, Author of "In No Man's 
 Land : a Story of Australian Bush Life." 
 
 Twenty-First Thousand. With photo- 
 gravure portrait and vignette title. Crown 
 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. 
 
 The Literary Year Book, 1900 : " The immediate 
 success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel 
 in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English 
 or American poet boast so wide a public, always 
 excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling." 
 
 The Times : " At his best he compares not unfavour- 
 ably with the author of ' Barrack Room Ballads. 
 
 > >) 
 
 Spectator: "These lines have the true lyrical cry 
 in them. Eloquent and ardent verses." 
 
 Athenaeum : " Swinging, rattling ballads of ready 
 
 humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure. 
 
 Stirring and entertaining ballads about great 
 
 rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of 
 
 the horses," 
 
 Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in Literature (London) : 
 " In my opinion it is the absolutely un-English, 
 thoroughly Australian stylo and character of these 
 new bush bards which has given them such immediate 
 ])opularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the 
 rising native generation." 
 
 London : MacniiUan tL- Co. , Limittd. 
 
 6
 
 AT DAWN AND DUSK: POEMS. 
 
 By victor J. DALEY. 
 
 Third Thousand. With photogravure 
 portrait. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 5s. 
 
 The Bookman : " Most of these verses had already 
 seen the light in Australia, but they are worth more 
 permanent form. They are very full of graceful 
 poetic fancy musically expressed." 
 
 The Australasian: "It is unmistakable poetry 
 Mr. Daley has a gift of delicate construction — 
 there is barely a crude idea or a thought roughly 
 moulded in the book." 
 
 RHYMES FROM THE MINES 
 AND OTHER LINES. 
 
 By EDWARD DYSON, Author of "A Golden Shanty.' 
 
 Second Thousand. With photogravure 
 portrait and vignette title. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth gilt, gilt top, OS. 
 
 The Academy : " Here from within we have the 
 Australian miner complete : the young miner, the old 
 miner, the miner in luck, and the miner out of it, the 
 miner in love, and the miner in peril. Mr. Dyson 
 knows it all. What we prize in Mr. Dyson, as in Mr. 
 Lawson, is the presentation of some observed oddity 
 of human nature." 
 
 Melbourne Punch : " The mines have wanted a 
 man to sing their stories, and the hour and the man 
 have arrived. The hour is now, and the man is 
 Edward Dyson."
 
 WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By BAKCROFT HENRY BOAKE. 
 
 Third Thousand. With photogravure 
 portrait and 32 illustrations by Mahony, 
 Lambert, and Fischer. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 gilt, gilt top, 5s. 
 
 J. Brunton Stephens, in The Bulletin : " The con- 
 tents of the volume amply justify tlieir reproduction 
 in collected form. The impression of native power 
 is confirmed by reading the poems in bulk. Boake's 
 work is often praised for its local colour ; but it has 
 something better than that. It has atmosphere — 
 Australian atmosphere, that makes you feel the air of 
 the place — breathe the breath of the life.'^ 
 
 THE MUTINEER: 
 
 A Romance of Pitcairn Island. 
 
 By LOUIS BECKE and WALTER JEFFERY. 
 
 New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 The Scotsman : " The charm of the description of 
 Tahitian scuuery, the interest of the savage mythology 
 and customs, the fine simplicity and trustfulness of 
 the native character as contrasted with the jealousies 
 and disagreements of the mutineers, all combine to 
 make an impressive story. The story is so ti'ue that 
 it will prove especially welcome." 
 
 Saturday Review : " So skilfully is fact woven up 
 with fiction that most readers will feel inclined to 
 accept the narrative as a truthful record of actual 
 events. The authors of this volume have produced a 
 story of enduring interest."
 
 TEENS. A story of Australian Schoolgirls. 
 By LOUISE MACK. 
 
 Third Thousand. With 14 full-page illus- 
 trations by F. P. Mahony. Crown 8vo, cloth 
 gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Sydney Morning Herald : " Ought to be welcome 
 to all who feel the responsibility of choosing the read- 
 ing books of the young ... its gaiety, impulsiveness, 
 and youthfulness will charm them." 
 
 Sydney Daily Telegraph : " Nothing could be 
 more natural, more sympathetic." 
 
 The Australasian : " 'Teens' is a pleasantly-written 
 story, very suitable for a present or a school prize.'' 
 
 Bulletin : " It is written so well that it could not be 
 written better." 
 
 GIRLS TOGETHER. 
 
 A Sequel to " Teens." By LOUISE MACK. 
 
 Second Thousand. Illustrated by G. W. 
 Lambert. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s, 6d. 
 
 Sydney Morning" Herald: "'Girls Together' should 
 be in the library of every girl who likes a pleasant 
 story of real life. . . Older people will read it for 
 its bright touches of human nature." 
 
 Queenslander : "A story told in a dainty style that 
 makes it attractive to all. It is fresh, bright, and 
 cheery, and well worth a place on any Australian 
 bookshelf." 
 
 9
 
 THESPIRITOFTHE BUSH FIRE 
 AND OTHER AUSTRALIAN FARIY 
 TALES. By j. m. whitfeld. 
 
 Second Thousand. With 32 illustrations 
 by G. W. Lambert. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 
 3s. 6d. 
 
 Sydney Morning Herald : " It is frankly written 
 for the young folks. The youngster will find a delight 
 in Miss Wliitfeld's marvellous company." 
 
 South Australian Register : " A number of fas- 
 cinating creations of the imagination . . . will last 
 and be popular." 
 
 HISTORY OF AUSTRALIAN 
 BUSH RANGING, by charles white. 
 
 To be completed in two vols. Crown 8vo, 
 cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. each. [Vol. I. now ready. 
 
 Press Notices of Volume I. 
 
 Year Book of Australia : " There is ' romance * 
 enough about it to make it of permanent interest as a 
 peculiar and most remarkable stage in our social 
 history." 
 
 Queenslander : " A highly-acceptable resume of the 
 conditions of life intlie colonies during the early days. 
 Mr. White has supplied material enough for twenty 
 such novels as ' Robbery Under Arms.' " 
 
 10
 
 THE GROWTH OF THE EMPIRE. 
 
 A Handbook to the History of Greater Britain- 
 
 By Arthur W. JOSE, Author of " A Short History- 
 of Australasia." 
 
 Second Edition. With 14 Maps. Crown 
 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. 
 
 Morning Post : '' This book is published in Sydney, 
 but it deserves to be circulated throughout the United 
 Kingdom. The picture of the fashion in which British 
 enterprise made its way from settlement to settlement 
 has never been drawn more vividly than in these pages. 
 Mr. Jose's style is crisp and pleasant, now and then 
 even rising to eloquence on his grand theme. His 
 book deserves wide popularity, and it has the rare 
 merit of being so written as to be attractive alike to 
 the young student and to the mature man of letters." 
 
 Literature : " He has studied thoroughly, and 
 writes vigorously. . . . Admirably done. 
 We commend it to Britons the world over." 
 
 Saturday Review • " He writes Imperially ; he also 
 often writes sympathetically. . . . We cannot 
 close Mr. Jose's creditable account of our misdoings 
 without a glow of national pride." 
 
 Yorkshire Post : " A brighter short history we do 
 not know, and this book deserves for the matter and 
 the manner of it to be as well known as Mr. 
 McCarthy's ' History of Our Own Times.' " 
 
 The Scotsman : " This admirable work is a solid 
 octavo of more than 400 pages. It is thonghful, well 
 written, and well- arranged history. There are fourteen 
 excellent maps to illustrate the text." 
 
 11
 
 A SHORT HISTORY OF 
 AUSTRALASIA. 
 
 By ARTHUR W. JOSE, Author of " The Growth of 
 the Empire." 
 
 With 6 maps and 64 portraits and illustra- 
 tions. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Town and Country Journal ; " His language is 
 graphic and simple, and he has maintained the unity 
 and continuity of the story of events despite the 
 necessity of following the subject along the seven 
 branches corresponding with the seven separate 
 colonies. The whole book shows evidence of much 
 careful work and a large amount of research among 
 the original sources of information." 
 
 Sydney Daily Teleg^raph : "There was ample room 
 for a cleverly-condensed, clear, and yet thoroughly live 
 account of these colonies, such as Mr. Jose now 
 presents us with." 
 
 The Australasian : " It is a useful summary of the 
 eventful history of Australia, Tasmania, and New 
 Zealand, from the voyages of De Quiros and Torres 
 down to the virtual accomplishment of federation." 
 
 New Zealand Herald : " The history is concise and 
 clear, and gives a mass of information in a small 
 compass." 
 
 West Australian : " A valualjle feature about this 
 little work is its accuracy. This, with the author, has 
 evidently been a condition precedent, and in pursuance 
 of it he lias had recourse to oi'iginal sources for his 
 information, and to specially authentic and contem- 
 porary documents." 
 
 12
 
 THE GEOLOGY OF SYDNEY AND 
 THE BLUE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 A Popular Introduction to the Study of Australian 
 Geology. 
 
 By Rev. J. MILNE CURRAN, Lecturer in 
 Chemistry and Geology, Technical College, Sydney. 
 
 Second Edition. With a Glossary of Scien- 
 tific terms, a Reference List of commonly- 
 occurring Fossils, 2 coloured maps, and 83 
 illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. 
 
 Melbourne Argpus : '' The book is written in a 
 popular style, and it deals with a subject of general 
 and perpetual interest. As a handbook for schools in 
 which it is desired to interest the advanced classes 
 in the study of nature^ the volume has great value." 
 
 Sydney Morning Herald : " Mr. Curran is the 
 most admirable guide that any geological student can 
 require for the interpretation of the hieroglyphics of 
 Nature." 
 
 South Australian Register : " Mr. Curran has ex- 
 tracted a charming narrative of the earth^s history out 
 of the prosaic stone. Though he has selected Sydney 
 rocks for his text, his discourse is interestingly Aus- 
 tralian." 
 
 The Australasian : " Mr. Curran lets us see at once 
 that his purpose is to deal with the geological history 
 of Australia, and not to pad his treatise out with 
 matter common to text-books in general. When he 
 introduced what appear to be hard words, he does 
 not close the remarks that they are associated with 
 without fully explaining them." 
 
 13
 
 SIMPLE TESTS FOR MINERALS; 
 
 Or, Every Man his Own Analyst. 
 
 By JOSEPH CAMPBELL, M.A., F.G S., M.LM.E 
 
 Fourth Edition, revised and enlarged (com- 
 pleting the ninth thousand). With illus- 
 trations. Cloth, round corners, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Newcastle Morning Herald : " The book is a 
 thoroughly practical one." 
 
 Bundaberg" Star : " A handy and useful book for 
 miners and all interested in the mining industry." 
 
 Daylesford Advocate : '' A very useful and valu- 
 able work." 
 
 Bendigro Evening" Mail : " Should be in every 
 prospector's kit. It enables any intelligent man to 
 ascertain for himself whether any mineral he may 
 discover has a commercial value." 
 
 Omeo Standard : " Exactly the work required." 
 
 Bendig'O Advertiser : " To those engaged in pros- 
 pecting for minerals tiiis book should be invaluable." 
 
 QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS; 
 
 Notes and Tables for the Use of Students. 
 
 By Rev. J. MILNE CURRAN, Lecturer in Chemistry 
 and Geology, Technical College, Sydney, Author of 
 "The Geology of Sydney and the Blue Mountains." 
 
 With illustrations. Deuiy 8vo, cloth gilt, 
 4s. Gd. 
 
 U
 
 THE KINGSWOOD COOKERY 
 BOOK. 
 
 By Mrs. WICKEN, M.C.A., Late Teacher of Cookery, 
 Technical College, Sydney. 
 
 Fifth edition, revised, completing the Nine- 
 teenth Thousand. 382 pages, crown 8vo, 
 paper cover, Is.; cloth, Is. 6d. 
 
 *^* This is the largest book ever published at the piice in 
 Australia. 
 
 Newcastle Morning' Herald: ''Mrs. Wicken has 
 long been recognised as an able exponent of the art 
 of cooking, and the success of her book is probably 
 due to the fact that it was written by a practical 
 teacher, of many years' Australian experience." 
 
 Sydney Morning Herald: "Her excellent 'Kings- 
 wood Cookery Book,' which is handsomely issued." 
 
 Sydney Daily Telegraph : '■ This work may be said 
 to fulfil all the requirements of a practical course of 
 instruction." 
 
 Town and Country Journal : " A real boon to 
 Australian women." 
 
 Maitland Mercury : " The merit of the book is that 
 it is written by a scientific teacher who has had ten 
 years' Australian experience." 
 
 Adelaide Advertiser: "No materials are mentioned 
 which are not easily procurable, while the quantities 
 in every case are concisely stated." 
 
 15
 
 ANNOUNCEMENTS. 
 
 THE ANNOTATED CONSTITUTION OF 
 THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 JOHN QUICK, LL.D., and R. R. GARRAN, M.A. 
 
 The book will consist of about 1000 pages, royal 8vo. 
 The first 250 pages will be devoted to a historical intro- 
 duction, divided into four parts. Parts I and II. compii.se 
 a short sketch of ancient and modern colonisation. Part 
 III. traces the progress of constitutional government in each 
 of the Australian colonies; and Part IV. describes the 
 evolution of the federal movement in Australia from its 
 beginning to the final adoption of the Federal Constitution. 
 
 Then follows the text of the Imperial Act in which the 
 Constitution is embodied. The rest, and the bulk, of the 
 work is devoted to systematic commentaries on the various 
 sections of the Imperial Act. Cloth gilt, 36s. [iJecewbcr. 
 
 RIO GRANDE'S LAST RACE AND OTHER 
 VERSES. 
 
 By A. B. PATERSON, author of '^ The Man 
 from Snowy River." Crown 8vo, cloth wilt, 
 gilt top, 5s. [Shortly. 
 
 HISTORY OF ^ 
 
 AUSTRALIAN BUSHRANGING. ^ 
 
 By CHARLES WHITE. Vol. 2—1868 to' 
 1878, illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. Gd. 
 
 [Shortly. 
 
 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
 BRUNTON STEPHENS. 
 
 With photogravure portrait, crown 8vo, cloth 
 gilt, gilt top, 5.S. [Shortly.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 {/-, 
 
 JAN 1 3 1988 
 
 ju i:i>uii 
 FEB 21988 
 
 Form L'J-Series 444
 
 -.-«-ioung Hesearch Library 
 
 PR9619.3 .D989r 
 
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 L 009 517 940 4 
 
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 A A 001 417 906 
 
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