b. Young gentlemen getting their "colonial experience" in the bush are called "jackeroos" by the station-hands. The term is seldom heard except in the remote "back-blocks" of the interior.

c. It was formerly the practice of squatters to give a ration of flour, mutton, and, occasionally, tea and sugar, to all persons travelling ostensibly in search of work. The custom, however, as might have been expected, became frightfully abused by loafers, and has of late fallen into disuse, to the intense disgust of the tramping fraternity in general.

d. The Yanko is a noted sheep-station in the Murrumbidge district (the Paradise of loafers), where travellers were, and, I believe, still are, feasted at the expense of the owners, on a scale of great magnificence, and somewhat mistaken liberality.

e. The utterly refined and unsophisticated reader is informed that to "whip the cat" signifies, in nautical parlance, to weep or lament.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

I AM assured that something in the way of an apologetic preface is always expected from a "new-chum" author who has had the hardihood to jump his Pegasus over the paddock fence (so to speak), and drop, uninvited, into the field of letters; and so, having induced a publisher, in a moment of weakness, to bring me before the public, it behoves me to conciliate that long-suffering body by conforming to all established rules. I am aware that my excuse for inflicting this work on mankind is somewhat "thin" but, such as it is, I will proceed to state it, as a "plea in bar" against all active and offensive expressions of indignation on the part of outraged humanity.

Having "got me some ideas," as Mr Emmett says in the character of "Fritz," and feeling the necessity for inflicting them on somebody imminent, I tried their effect on my own immediate circle of friends. It was not satisfactory. They listened, indeed, for a while, thinking that I was suffering from a slight mental derangement which would be best treated by judicious humouring. Some even affected to be entertained, and laughed (what a hollow mockery of merriment it was!) at atrocious puns; but I could see the look of hate steal over countenances which had hitherto beamed on me with interest and affection, and was not deceived.

I saw that friendship would not long survive such a test and desisted; but it was too late. They perceived I had what Artemus Ward calls the "poetry disease;" feared that it might be infectious; knew that it was an insufferable bore to the afflicted party's circle of acquaintances; and – forgot to visit me.

When their familiar knocks no longer resounded on the door of my lodging in – street, and their familiar footsteps ceased to crush the cockroaches on the dark and winding staircase leading to my apartment, I bethought me of that institution which I had always heard alluded to as the "kind and generous public." Here, I thought (for I was unsophisticated), is the very friend I am in need of, which will receive me with its thousand arms, laugh with me with its thousand mouths, weep with me with its thousand eyes, and whose thousand hearts will beat in unison with mine whether my mood be one of sadness or of joy; behave itself, in fact, like a species of benevolent and sympathetic Hydra, shorn of its terrors, and fit to take part in the innocent and arcadian recreations of the millenium, when the (literary) lion shall lie down with the critic, and newspapers shall not lie any more – even for money.

During my hunt for that all essential auxiliary, a publisher, without whom the first step on the road to literary distinction (or extinction) cannot be taken, I learnt a few plain truths about my hydra-headed friend; amongst others that he was not to be hoodwinked, and would neither laugh, weep, nor sympathise unless he saw good and sufficient cause. I am in consequence not quite so sanguine as I was. However, I have gone too far to recede, and have concluded to throw myself on the bosom or bosoms of that animal and take my chances of annihilation.

One of my unsympathising friends assured me the other day that my book would certainly send anyone to sleep who should attempt its perusal. I gave him a ballad to read, and watched him anxiously while he skimmed a page or two. He did not sleep – not he, but a raging thirst overcame him at the fourteenth verse, and he begged me to send for a jug of "half-and-half" with such earnestness that a new and dreadful apprehension filled my breast. If this was to be the effect of my work on the Public at large, I should empty the Temperance Hall, and fill the Inebriate Asylum in six months! As I had hitherto prided myself that my work was entirely free from any immoral tendency, I earnestly hoped that his organization was a peculiar one, and that its effect on him was exceptional, and not; likely to happen again.

Sleep, indeed! Would that these pages might be found to possess the subtle power of inducing "tired Nature's sweet restorer" to visit the weary eyelids of knocked-up humanity; that they might become a domestic necessity, like Winslows "soothing-syrup," and "a blessing to mothers;" that the critic – pausing midway in a burst of scathing invective against their literary and metrical deficiencies – overcome by their drowsy influence – might sink in dreamless slumber, and wake to sing in praise of their narcotic properties, and chaunt their merits as a soporific.

In conclusion, I would fain ask thee, gentlest of gentle readers, to look with leniency on the many defects and shortcomings of this volume, and to remember that the writer was long, if not an outcast, a homeless wanderer among the saltbush plains and and sandhills of Australia, and the kauri and pouriri forests of New Zealand; that, for seven years, the prototypes of "Ancient Bill," hereinafter mentioned, were his associates; and that, if these experiences have enabled him to touch with some degree of accuracy on matters relating to the Bush, they have at the same time militated against the cultivation of those refinements of style and language which commend the modern author to his reader, and which are Only to be acquired in the civilized atmosphere of a city.

N.B. – I desire here to thank my friend, Mr. Henry Wise, of Sydney, to whom I am indebted for the design which adorns the cover of the book.

I beheld a shadow dodging, on the pavement 'neath mylodging,'Neath my unpretending lodging – opposite the very door:"'Tis that prodigal," I muttered, "who enjoys the secondfloor —He it is, and nothing more."Answering my thoughts, I stated, "'Tis the artist that's locatedHere, returning home belated, seeking entrance at the door —Coming back from where he's revelled, and, like me, with locksdishevelled,Wits besotted and bedevilled, oft I've seen him so before;'Tis no rare unknown occurrence, but a customed thing ofyore —Jones it is, and nothing more."Certain then 'twas no illusion, "Sir," I said, in someconfusion,"Pardon my abrupt intrusion – Mr. Jones, we've met before;Potent drinks have o'er me bubbled, and the fact is I wastroubled,For your form seemed strangely doubled, and my brain is sickand sore —Let us seek my room and cupboard, and its mystery explore —There is gin, if nothing more."Deep into the darkness glaring, I beheld a radiance flaring,And a pair of eyes were staring – eyes I'd never seen before —And, my fear and dread enhancing, towards me came a formadvancing,And the rays of light were dancing from a lantern which itbore —'Twas a regulation bull's-eye – "'Tis a (something) Trap," Iswore —"'Tis a Trap, and nothing more."Glittering with the P. C. button, redolent of recent mutton,(Fitting raiment for a glutton) was the garment which hewore;And his vast colossal figure, in the pride of manly vigour,Looming larger, looming bigger, came betwixt me and thedoor —Cutting off my hopes of entrance to my home at number four —Stood, and stared, and nothing more.And his features, grimly smiling, calm, unmoved, (intenselyriling)I betake me to reviling, and a stream of chaff outpour —"Say, thou grim and stately brother, has thy fond and dotingmotherGot at home like thee another? Art thou really one of four?Did she, did she sell the mangle? Tell me truly, I implore!"Quoth the Peeler, "Hold your jawr!"Long I stood there fiercely glaring, most profanely cursing,swearing – .And my right arm I was baring, meaning thus the Trap tofloor —Straight he grabbed me by the collar, said 'twas worse thanvain to holler,That his person I must foller to the gloomy prison door;"'Tell me, Robert," said I sadly, "must I go the Benchbefore?"Quoth the Peeler, "'Tis the lawr!""Shall I be with felons banded, by the 'beak' be reprimanded,And with infamy be branded? – thou art versed in prisonlore —Say not, Robert, that my bread will 'ere be earned upon thetread-mill,That a filthy prison bed will echo to my fevered snore —Ever echo to the music of my wild unearthly snore!"Quoth the Peeler, "'Tis the lawr!"Thought on thought of bitter sadness, dissipating hope andgladness,Goading me to worse than madness, crowded on me by thescore;Ne'er before incarcerated, how that Peeler's form I hated,Cries for freedom, unabated – 'wrenched from out my bosom'score' —Broke upon the midnight stillness, "Robert, set me freeonce more!"Quoth the Peeler, "Never more!"Never since the days of Julian was there such a mass herculeanClad in garments so cerulean, with so little brains in store;And I cursed his name, and number, and his form as uselesslumberOnly fit to snore and slumber on a greasy kitchen floor —On the slime bespattered boarding of a greasy kitchen floor —Fit for this and nothing more!And my heart was heavy loaded with a sorrow whichcorroded,And my expletives exploded with a deep and muffled roar;But a sudden inspiration checked the clammy perspirationThat 'till now, without cessation, streaming ran from every pore,And what checked the perspiration that ran streaming fromeach poreWas a thought, and nothing more.In my pocket was a shilling! Could that giant form bewilling,Tempted by the hope of swilling beer, to set me free oncemore?Tempted by the lust of riches, and the silver shillingwhich isIn the pocket in my breeches, and my liberty restore?Hastily that garment searching, from its depths I fiercely toreBut a 'Bob,' and nothing more.Wrenched it from my trousers' pocket,While his eye within the socket gleamed and sparkled like arocket,Grimly rolled, and gloated o'er,Glared upon me – vainly mining in my pockets' depths —repiningThat its worn and threadbare liningIT should press, ah! never more.Said I, while the coin revealing, "Robert, I've a tenderfeelingFor the Force there's no concealing, and thy manly formadore;Thee I ne'er to hurt or slay meant; take, oh! take thishumble payment —Take thy grasp from off my raiment, and thy person frommy door;Though I like thee past expression, though I venerate thecorps,Fain I'd bid thee 'Au revoir!'And I view with approbation that official's hesitation,For his carnal inclination with his duty was at war;But that Peeler, though he muttered, knew which side hisbread was buttered,But a word or two he uttered, and his choking grasp fore-bore —And he, when his clutching fingers from their choking graspforebore,Vanished, and was seen no more.Oft at night when I'm returning, and the foot-path scarcediscerning —Whiskey-fumes within me burning like a molten reservoir —In imagination kneeling, oft in fancy I'm appealingTo the kind and manly feeling of that giant Trap once more —To the tender kindly feeling of the Trap I saw before —Vanished now for ever more!

LINES BY A (PAWN)BROKEN-HEARTED YOUTH

Oh! take back the ticket thou gavest,And give me my watch and my ring,And may every sixpence thou savestBe armed with a centipede's sting!O! uncle, I never expectedSuch grief would result from my calls,When, hard-up, depressed, and dejected,I came to the Three Golden Balls.I noticed thy free invitation —Enticing (though brief) – "Money LentI came to thee, oh, my relation,For succour, for mine was all spent.Thine int'rest in me was affecting —I noticed a tear in thine eye,Without for a moment suspectingHow int'rest would tell by and bye.It's true I'd been doing the heavy,And going a trifle too fast;I've been a most dutiful 'nevvy,' —But, uncle, I know thee at last;I brought thee a gun, and a pistol,And borrowed a couple of pound,Then exit, and cheerfully whistleIn time to my heart's happy bound.I thought thee a regular "trimmer,"I thought thee a generous man;I drank to thy health in a brimmer,And pretty nigh emptied the can.I went with a mob "to do evil,"I laughed, and I danced, and I sang;Bid sorrow fly off to the Devil,And care and depression go hang.I looked on the vintage that's ruby,I "looked on the wine" that "is red,"But 'twasn't mere looking o'erthrew me,Or made it get into my head.In spite of the Israelite's warning,In spite of what Solomon said,You may look from the dusk to the dawning,And still toddle sober to bed.Away with such hollow pretences!It wasn't from watching the cupI lost the control of my senses,Or, falling, I couldn't get up.Destruction again was before me,And empty once more was my purse,But thoughts of mine uncle came o'er me,And withered my half-uttered curse.I thought that the mines of AustraliaI'd found in the meanest of men,And, smoking a fearful "regalia,"I sought thine iniquitous den.My walk, though a little unsteady,Was dignity tempered with grace;I playfully asked for the "ready,"And smiled in thy villainous face.I brought thee my best Sunday beaver,And gorgeous habiliments new;My watch – such a fine English lever! —I left, unbeliever, with you.I brought thee a coat – such a vestment!'Twas newly constructed by Poole;I've found it a losing investment—Oh! how could I be such a fool?I told thee I hadn't a "stiver;"I said I'd been "cutting it fat,"And coolly demanded a "fiver," —How thou must have chuckled at that!Thou wee can'st remember the morningSucceeding thy Sabbath, thou Jew!When cursing the year I was born in,I felt the first turn of the screw.And, hope from my bosom departing,Like dew from the rays of the sun,My wits the sad news were impartingHow I'd been deluded and done.And, borne on the telegraph wire,A message came swiftly to me;It said that my grey-headed sireWas pining his offspring to see.How face my infuriate father —My property mortgaged and gone?For darkly his anger will gather;I've hardly a rag to put on.Thine int'rest I cannot repay thee,And gone are my coat and my hat;Thou hast all my duds – I could slay thee!Oh! how could I be such a flat?I brought thee each gift of my mother,Each gift of my generous aunt;The pistol belonged to my brother —I'd like to restore it, but can't:For, uncle, thy fingers are sticky,And, if the sad truth be confessed,Thy heart is as false as the "dicky,"Which covers my sorrowful breast.I've managed the needful to borrow,My watch and my ring to redeem;I hope that the sight of my sorrowMay cause thee a horrible dream.'Twere joy should I hear that the pistolHad burst in thy villainous hand —While smoking the "bird's eye" of Bristol,My breast would dilate and expand.I leave thee, for vain is resistance,And little thou heedest my slang,But I'd barter ten years of existenceFor power to cause thee a pang.O! had I the wand of a wizard,A Nemesis cruel I'd bribeTo torture that Israelite's gizzard,And caution the rest of his tribe.O! ye who are fond of excitement,Ye students of Med'cine and Law,Be warned by this awful indictment,And never give Moses your paw!From Moses who spoiled the Egyptian,To Moses who buys your old clo',They're all of the self-same description —They take, but they never let go.Ye sons of the Man on the Barrel(That's Bacchus) – ye "Monks of the Screw!"Don't mortgage your wearing apparel,Or have any truck with a Jew;But take to cold water and virtue,And never, whatever befalls,Let any false logic convert youTo visit the "Three Golden Balls."

THE ANCIENT SHEPHERD

The shadows of the River GumsWere stretching long and black,As, far from Sydney's busy hum,I trod the narrow track.I watched the coming twilight spread,And thought on many a plan;I saw an object on ahead —It seemed to be a man.A venerable party satUpon a fallen log;Upon him was a battered hat,And near him was a dog.The look that o'er his features hungWas anything but sweet;His swag and "billy"a lay amongThe grass beneath his feet.And white and withered was his hair,And white and wan his face;I'd rather not have ipet the pairIn such a lonely place.I thought misfortune's heavy handHad done what it could do;Despair seemed branded on the man,And on the dingo too.A hungry look that dingo wore —He must have wanted prog —I think I never saw beforeSo lean and lank a dog.I said – "Old man, I fear that youAre down upon your luck;You very much resemble, too,A pig that has been stuck."His answer wasn't quite distinct —(I'm sure it wasn't true):He said I was (at least, I think,)"A" – something – "jackeroo!"He said he didn't want my chaff,And (with an angry stamp)Declared I made too free by half"A-rushing of his camp."I begged him to be calm, and notApologise to me;He told me I might "go to pot"(Wherever that may be);And growled a muttered curse or twoExpressive of his viewsOf men and things, and squatters too,New chums and jackeroos.But economical he wasWith his melodious voice;I think the reason was becauseHis epithets were choice.I said – "Old man, I fain would knowThe cause of thy distress;What sorrows cloud thine aged browI cannot even guess."There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,And passion in thine eye,Expressing anything but grace,But why, old man, oh! why?"A sympathising friend you'll findIn me, old man, d'ye see?So if you've aught upon your mindJust pour it into me."He gravely shook his grizzled headI rather touched him there —And something indistinct he said(I think he meant to swear).He made a gesture with his hand,He saw I meant him well;He said he was a shepherd, and"A takin' of a spell."He said he was an ill-used bird,And squatters they might be —(He used a very naughty wordCommencing with a D.)I'd read of shepherds in the loreOf Thessaly and Greece,And had a china one at homeUpon the mantelpiece.I'd read about their loves and hates,As hot as Yankee stoves,And how they broke each other's patesIn fair Arcadian groves;But nothing in my ancient friendWas like Arcadian types:No fleecy flocks had he to tend,No crook or shepherds' pipes.No shepherdess was near at hand,And, if there were, I guessedShe'd never suffer that old manTo take her to his breast!No raven locks had he to fall,And didn't seem to meTo be the sort of thing at allA shepherd ought to be.I thought of all the history.I'd studied when a boy —Of Paris and Ænone, andThe siege of ancient Troy.I thought, could Helen contemplateThis party on the log,She would the race of shepherds' hateLike Brahmins hate a dog.It seemed a very certain thingThat, since the world began,No shepherd ever was like him,From Paris down to Pan.I said – "Old man, you've settled nowAnother dream of youth;I always understood, I vow,Mythology was truth"Until I saw thy bandy legsAnd sorrow-laden brow,But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,I cannot think so now."For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,Then very sure am IThe man who wrote mythologyWas guilty of a lie."But never mind, old man," I said,"To sorrow we are born,So tell us why thine aged headIs bended and forlorn?"With face as hard as Silas Wegg'sHe said, "Young man, here goes."He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,And told me all his woes.He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"A flock of maiden-ewes,And then he'd had a trip to townTo gather up the news;But while in Bathurst's busy streetsHe got upon the spree,And publicans was awful cheatsFor soon "lamm'd down" was he.He said he'd "busted up his cheque"(What's that, I'd like to know?)And now his happiness was wrecked,To work he'd got to go.He'd known the time, not long ago,When half the year he'd spendIn idleness, and comfort too,A-camping in a "bend."No need to tread the weary track,Or work his strength away;He lay extended on his backEach happy summer day.When sun-set comes and day-light flags,And dusky looms the scrub,He'd bundle up his ration-bagsAnd toddle for his grub,And to some station-store he'd goAnd get the traveller's dower —"A pint o' dust" – that was his lowExpression meaning flour;But now he couldn't cadge about,For squatters wasn't gameTo give their tea and sugar outTo every tramp that came.The country's strength, he thought, was gone,Or going very fast,And feeding tramps now ranked amongThe glories of the past.He'd seen the "Yanko" in its pride,When every night a hostOf hungry tramps at supper triedFor who could eat the most.A squatter then had feelin's strongAnd tender in his breast,And if a trav'ller came alongHe'd ask him in to rest."But squatters now!" – he stamped the soil,And muttered in his beard,He wished they'd got a whopping boilFor every sheep they sheared!His language got so very bad —It couldn't well be worse,For every second word he hadNow seemed to be a curse.And shaking was his withered handWith passion, not with age —I never thought so old a manCould get in such a rage.His eyes seemed starting from his head,They glared in such a way;And half the wicked words he saidI shouldn't like to say;But from his language I inferredThere wasn't one in three,Of squatters worth that little wordCommencing with a "D."Alas! for my poetic lore,I fear it was astray,It never said that shepherds swore,Or talked in such a way.The knotted cordage of his browWas tightened in a frown —He seemed the sort of party, now,To burn a wool-shed down.He told me, further, and his voiceGrew very plaintive here,That now he'd got to make the choiceAnd work, or give up beer!From heavy toil he'd always found'Twas healthiest to keep,And mostly stuck to cadgin' round,And lookin' after sheep.But shepherdin' was nearly "cooked" —I think he meant to sayThat shepherds' prospects didn't lookIn quite a hopeful way.A new career he must begin,(And fresh it roused his ire)For squatters they was fencin' inWith that infernal wire;And sheep was paddocked everywhere —'Twas like them squatters' cheek! —And shepherds now, for all they'd care,Might go to Cooper's Creek.He said he couldn't use an axe,And wouldn't if he could;He'd see 'em blistered on their backs'Fore he'd go choppin' wood;That nappin' stones, or shovellin',Warn't good enough for he,And work it was a cussed thingAs didn't ought to be.He'd known the Lachlan, man and boy,For close on forty year,But now they'd pisoned every joy,He thought it time to clear.They gave him sorrow's bitter cup,And filled his heart with woe,And now at last his back was up,He felt he ought to go.He'd heard of regions far awayAcross the barren plains,Where shepherds might be blythe and gayAnd bust the squatters' chains.To reach that land he meant to try,He didn't care a cuss,If 'twasn't any better, why,It couldn't be much wuss.Amongst the blacks, though old and grey,Existence he'd begin,And give his ancient hand awayIn marriage to a "gin."He really was so old and grim,The thought was in my mind,That any gin to marry himWould have to be stone blind.'Twould make an undertaker smile:What tickled me was this,The thought of such an ancient fileIndulging in a kiss!And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,That equal justice whirls,He ought to think of Nick insteadOf thinking of the girls.Then drooped his grim and aged head,And closed that glaring eye,And not another word he said.Except a grunt or sigh.More lean he looks and still more lankSuch changes o'er him pass,And down his ancient body sankIn slumber on the grass.I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,And not the sort of coonTo lead a blushing bride about,Or spend a honeymoon;Or if, indeed, there were a brideFor such a withered stick,With such a tough and wrinkled hide,That bride should be old Nick.As streaks of faintish light beganTo mark the coming day,I left that grim and aged manAnd slowly stole away.And when the winter nights are rough,And shrieking is the wind,Or when I've eaten too much duffAnd dreams afflict my mind,I see that lean and withered hand,And, 'mid the gloom of night,I see the face of that old man,And horrid is the sight:While on my head in agonyUp rises every hair,I see again his glaring eye —In fancy hear him swear.At breakfast time, when I come downTo take that pleasant meal,With pallid face, and haggard frown,Into my place I steal;And when they say I'm far from bright,The truth I dare not tell:I say I've passed a sleepless night,And don't feel very well.

WHERE IS FREEDOM?

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