Southerly Busters

WHERE IS FREEDOM?

Oh! Mother, say, for I long to know,Where doth the tree of Freedom grow,And strike its roots in the heart of manAs deep and far as the famed banyan?Is it 'mid those groups in the Southern Seas,In the Coral Isles, or the far Fijis,Where the restless billows seeth and toss'Neath the gleaming light of the Southern Cross?"Not there – not there, my child."Then tell me, mother, can it be whereThe cry of "Liberty" rends the air?Where grow the maize and the maple tree,In the fertile "bottoms" of Tennessee?Or is it up where the north winds roar,Away by the fair Canadian shore,Where the Indians shriek with insane halloos —As drunk as owls in their bark canoes?"Not there – not there, my child."Or is it back in the Western States,Where Colt's revolver rules the fates,And Judges lounge in a liquor shopWhile Dean and Adams's pistols pop?Where Justice is but a shrivelled ghostAs deaf and blind as a stockyard post,And License sits upon Freedom's chair —Oh, say, dear mother, can it be there?"Not there – not there, my child."Is it on the banks of the wild Paroo,Where the emu stalks, and the kangarooBounds o'er the sand-hills free and light,And the dingo howls through the sultry night;Where the native gathers the nardoo-seedFor his frugal meal; and the centipede —While the worn-out traveller lies inert,Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?"Not there – not there, my child."Is it where yon death-like stillness reignsO'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewesFor the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,And the most enchanting visions comeTo his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,While the sun rays strike through his garments scant —Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?"Not there – not there, my child."Or Southward, down where our brethren holdThose keys of power, rich mines of gold —That land of rumour and vague reports,Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz —Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"And let in in the way of "scrip;"Where all men vapour, and vaunt, and boast,And manhood suffrage rules the roast?"Not there – not there, my child."Is it where the blasts of the simoom fan,The blazing valleys of Hindustan;Where the Dervish howls, and their dupes are fleecedBy the swarth Parsee, and the Brahmin priest;Where men believe in their toddy-bowls,And the transmigration of human souls,And the monkeys battle with countless fleasOn the twisted boughs of the tamarind trees?"Not there – not there, my child."Or is it more to the northward, moreToward the ice-bound rivers of Labrador,Where the glittering curtain of gleaming snowEnshrouds the home of the Esquimaux;Or further still to the north, awayWhere the bones of the Artic heroes layLong, long on the icy surface bare,To bleach and dry in the frosty air?"Not there – not there, my child."Then is it, mother, among the treesThat shade the paths in the Tuilleries,Where the students walk with the pale grisettes,And scent the air with their cigarettes?Or doth it bloom in that atmosphereOf mild tobacco and lager beer,Where gutteral curses mingle tooWith the croupiers patter of "faites votre jeu?""Not there – not there, my child.""Boy, 'tis a plant that loves to blowWhere the fading rays of the sunset go;Up where the sun-light never sets,And angels tootle their flageolets;Up through the fleecy clouds, and farBeyond the track of the farthest star,Where the silvery echoes catch no toneOf a simmering sinner's stifling groan:'Tis there – 'tis there, my child!"Countless sheep and countless cattleO'er his vast enclosures roam;But you heard no children prattle'Round that squatter's hearth and home.Older grew that squatter, older,Solitary and alone,And they said his heart was colderThan a granite pavin'-stone.Other squatters livin handy,Wot had daughters in their prime.For that squatter "shouted" brandyIn the Township many a time;And those gals kept introdoocin'In their toilets every artWith the object of sedoocin'That old sinner's stony heart.Thus they often made exposuresOf their ankles, I'll be bound,When they, in his vast enclosures,Met that squatter ridin' round.Their advances he rejected,Scornin' both their hands and hearts,'Till one day a cove selectedForty acres in those parts.And that stalwart free-selectorHad the handsomest of gals;Conduct couldn't be correcterThan his youngest daughter Sal's.Prettily her head she tosses —Loves a thing she don't regard;Rides the most owdacious hossesWot was ever in a yard.She was lithe and she was limber —Farmers daughter every inch —Not averse to sawin' timberWith her father at a pinch.In remotest dells and dingles,Where most gals would be afraid,There she went a-splittin shingles,Pretty tidy work she made.And that free selector's daughter,Driving of her father's cart,Made the very wildest slaughterIn that wealthy squatter's heart.He proposed, and wasn't blighted,Took her to his residence,With his bride he was delightedFor she saved him much expense.Older grew that aged squatter,White and grizzly grew his pate,'Till his weak rheumatic trottersCouldn't bear their owner's weight.Then he grew more helpless, 'till heCouldn't wash and couldn't shave,And one evening cold and chillyHe was carried to his grave.Then that free selector's daughterCame right slap "out of her shell;"Calm and grave as folks had thought her,She becomes a howling swell.To the neighb'ring township drove sheIn her chariot and pair,Splendid dreams and visions wove sheWhile she braided up her hair.She peruses Sydney papers,Sees a paragraph which tellsHer benighted soul the capersCut down there by nobs and swells;Then she couldn't stop contentedIn a region such as this,While the atmosphere she scentedOf the great metropolis.Her intention she impartedTo the neighbours round about;Packed her duds, farewell'd, and started,And for Sydney she set out.Now her pantin' bosom hankersSpicily her form to deck,So she sought her husband's bankersAnd she drew a heavy cheque.She, of course, in dress a part spent,Satins, sables, silk and grebe,And she took some swell apartmentsSituated near the Glebe.With the very highest classesIn her heart she longed to jine —Her opinion placed the massesLower in the scale than swine.But she found it wasn't easyClimbin' up ambition's slope;Slippy was the road, and greasy,To the summit of her hope.If into a "set" she wriggled,She'd capsize some social rule,Then those parties mostly giggled,Loadin' her with ridicule.Many an awkward solecism —Many a breach of etiquette,(Though she knew her catechism)Often made her eyelids wet.Her plebeian early trainin'Was a precious pull-back then,Which prevented her from gainin'Footin' with the "upper ten."Strugglin' after social fame wasSimply killin' her out-right,So she settled that the game wasHardly worth the candle-light.Things got worse and things got worser,'Till she had a vision strange,The forerunner and precurserOf a most decided change.In a dream she saw the stationWhere her father now was boss,And his usual occupationWas to ride a spavined hoss.Round inspectin' every shepherdWith his penetratin' sight,And those underlings got pepperedIf he found things wasn't right.When she saw her grey-haired sire"Knockin' round" among the sheep,For her home a strong desireMade her yell out in her sleep.Then she saw herself in fancyIn her strange fantastic dream,With her elder sister Nancy,Yokin up the bullock team.Up out of her sleep she started,And the tears came to her eyes;She was almost broken-hearted,To her waitin' maid's surprise.She was sad and penitential,Like the Prodigal of old,So she got a piece of pencilAnd her state of mind she toldTo her grey and aged fatherIn that far outlandish place;And she told him that she'd ratherLike to see his wrinkled face.Then that quondam free-selectorShed the biggest tears of joy;When he knew he might expect herHis was bliss without alloy.Home came Sarah, just as one fineDay in May was near its close,And the fadin' rays of sunshineGlinted oil her father's nose.She beheld it glowing brightly;Filial yearning was intense;So she made a rush and lightlyCleared the four-foot paddock fence.Hugged he her in fond embraces;Kissed she him with many a kiss;And she busted her stay-lacesIn an ecstasy of bliss.Then she wept with sorrow, thinkin',From the colour of his face,That her parent had been drinkin',Which was probably the case.But he, when he found his coat allWet with many a filial tear,Took a solemn pledge tee-totalTo abstain from rum and beer.Then she went and sought her sisters,Judy, Nancy, and the rest;On their faces she raised blistersWith the kisses she impressed.And she once more con amore"Cottoned " to the calves and sheep,Likewise for her parent hoaryShe professed affection deep.Lavished on him fond caresses,Stuck to him like cobbler's-wax,Cut up all her stylish dressesInto garments for the blacks.All her talents were befittedTo a rough-and-tumble life,And from sheep to sheep she flittedWhen the "scab" and "fluke" were rife.Sarah's heart was soft and tender,Her repentance was complete,Never sighed she more for splendour,For the "Block" or George's-street.Many a "back-block" lady-killer,Many a wealthy squatter's son,Wanted her to "douse the wilier,"But she wasn't to be won.For that free-selector's daughterSaid, when settled in her home,She'd be (somethinged) if they caught HerVenturin' again to roam.

THE CATTLE MUSTER

THE NIGHT CAMP

The song goes round, we yarn and chaff,And cheerily the bushman's laughRolls through the forest glade.The hobbled horses feed around,We hear the horse-bell's tinkling sound;The sand beneath their feet is ground,As in the creek they wade.We hear them crunch the juicy grass —The water gleams like polished glass,Beneath the moon's bright ray.Mosquitos form in solid cloud —They sting and sing, both sharp and loud;Around the prostrate forms they crowd,And keep repose at bay.We watch the stars shine over head,And lounge upon the bushman's bed —A blanket on the ground.Each feels himself Dame Nature's guest,Our heads upon our saddles rest;At length, with weariness oppressed,We sink in sleep profound.We sleep as only weary onesAmong hard-handed labour's sons,With minds at rest from debts and duns —As only these can do —Until the daylight's first faint streakHas lightly touched the distant peak,And o'er us where the branches creak,Is slowly creeping through.Reluctantly with sleep we strive,And hear the call to "look alive"!We soon desert the camp.The horses caught and blankets rolled,The "Super's" brief instructions told —We mount, and scarce our steeds can hold,Impatiently they stamp.

THE MUSTER

We ford the creek and need no bridge,And climb a steep and scrubby ridge,And then, boys, there's a sight! —The "gully," by the sun unkist,Beneath lies rolled in gleaming mistAnd flowing waves of light;As yet untouched by noon-tide heat,Like rocks where broken waters meet,'Tis wrapped as by a winding sheetIn billows fleecy white.Onward, and soon the sun's fierce raysWill dissipate the morning haze —He soars in fiery pomp.We skirt the shallow "clay-pan's" marge,Force "lignum" thickets, dense and large,And often-times we briskly chargeSome dark "Yapunya-swamp."We gather first a quiet lot,Then off again with hurried trotUpon our toilsome tramp.Each gully, range, and hill we beat,Charge every horned thing we meet —With ringing shout and gallop fleet —And "run" then "on the camp."The shaggy herd increases fast;We know by lengthened shadows castTime too has galloped hard;'Twill try our powers, howe'er we strive,This most rebellious mob to drive,E're night-fall, to the yard.

THE RUN HOME

The order comes, – "Each to his place!"And homeward now at length we face.The frightened monsters roar;Some tear the unresisting ground,And some with frantic rush and bound(Half maddened by the stockwhip's sound)Each other fiercely gore!We spread along the scattered line,Some on the "wings," and some behind,And steer them as we can.There's but one pass through yonder hill;To guide them there will need some skill,And try both horse and man.Some hidden object checks them there;The leaders snuff the wind, and glare,Then bellowing with their tails in air,Swerve madly to the right.A stockman hears our voices ring;With easy stretch and supple spring,His horse bears down along their wing,The living mass he wheels:Too close he presses; at the sightOne "breaks" and bellows with affright;Dick swoops upon him, like a kite;The cutting thong he deals;It falls with heavy sounding thwack —Such din those mountain gullies blackHave scarce or never heard.He knows his work, that well-trained hack,Nor heeds the stockwhip's echoing crack,And sullenly the bull turns back,To join the hurrying herd."Look out!" a warning voice has said,"There's 'Mulga,' boys, and right ahead!"And now begins the rub;From some their garments will be stripped,And saddle-flaps and "knee-pads" ripped,And horses' feet in holes be tripped,Before they clear the scrub.You, stockmen from the Murray's side,Who through the "Mallee" boldly ride,Beware the "mulga-stake!"'Tis strong and tough as bullock-hide,Nor will, like "mallee," turn aside;But, in its savage, sylvan pride,Will neither bend nor break!Once through the scrub, we don't care howThings go; we've got them steadied nowAnd haven't lost a beast —And, far as ranges human eye,The plains are level as a die —Our toil has nearly ceased.The Sun goes down, the day-light fails,But now we near the Stockyard rails —We've one sharp struggle more.One half the mob have never been(Forced from those gullies cool and green)In "branding-yard" before!We jam them at the open space;They ring around, and fear to faceThe widely open gate.Whips crack, and voices shout in vain;The cattle "ring," and strive againTo force a passage to the plain.Impatiently we wait,Till one old charger glares around,And snuffing cautiously the groundStalks through between the posts.With lowered heads the others "bore"And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;And with a hollow muttered roarPour in those horned hosts!Those posts are fourteen inches through —They creak, and groan, and tremble too,Before that pouring rush!They're in at last, the gates are shut;And falls o'er paddock, yard, and hut,A calm nocturnal hush.In youth he met with sad rebuffs,Hard, hard was William's lot,And most unnecessary cuffsAnd kicks he often got.At length one night both dark and blackA window he got through,And with fresh weals upon his backHe joined a whaler's crew.He learnt to "hand," and "reef," and steer,And knew the compass pat;He learnt to honour and revereThe boatswain and his "cat."He went to every coral isleDown in the Southern seas,Where dark-eyed beauties beam and smileBeneath the bread-fruit trees.His foot was firm upon the deckAs Norval's on his heath;He dared the tempest and the wreckFor whale and walrus teeth.He braved Pacific foam and spray,For oil and bêche-le-mer,Till he grew ugly, old, and grey,An ancient mariner.His face got red, and blue, and pinkWith grog and weather stains;He looked much like the missin linkWhen in the mizen chains.

II

Bill Blubber's gone, and he'll be missedBy all on British soil;Be aisy now and hold your whist,He'll go no more for Hoyle!No more he'll see the billows curlIn north Atlantic gales;No more the keen harpoon he'll hurlAt spermaceti whales.Ah! never more he'll heave the log —A harsh decree was Fate's;He took an over-dose of grogWhen up in Be(e)hring Straits.Death blew a bitter blast and chillWhich struck his sails aback,And round the corse of Workhouse BillThey wound a Union Jack.A "longing, lingering look" they cast,Then sewed him in a bag,And half way up the lofty mastThey hoist the drooping flag.His mess-mates crossways tossed the yards,Askew they hung the sails,Eschewed tobacco, rum, and cards,And filled the ship with wailsThe grief-struck skipper drank some grog,Of solace he had need,And made an entry in the logNo livin' soul could read.And then a ghastly laugh he laughedHis spirits to exhalt,And then he called the boatswain aftAnd mustered every saltThe whalers gave one final howl,And cursed their hard, hard lucks;They came, and though the wind was foul,They wore their whitest ducks.The captain – kindest, best of men —Strove hard his breath to catch;(Crouched like an incubating hen,Upon the after-hatch).He said as how the time was comeTo Bill to say good-bye;And tears of water and of rum,Stood in each manly eye.Said he, "My lads, dispel this gloom,"Bid grief and sorrow halt;"For if the sea must be his tomb,"D'ye see it aint his f(v)ault."' Tis true we'll never see his like"At 'cutting in' a whale —"At usin knife an' marlin-spike,"But blubber won't avail."Soh! steady lads, belay all that!"'Vast heaving sobs and sighs;"Don't never go to 'whip the cat'"For William, bless his eyes!"I knew him lads when first he shipped,"And this is certain, that"Though William by the 'cat ' was whipped,"He never 'whipped the cat!"The skipper read the service through,And snivelled in his sleeve,While calm and still, old work'us BillAwaits the final heave.He had no spicy hearse and three,No gay funereal car;But, at the word, souse in the seaThey pitch that luckless tar.Short-handed then those whalemen toilUpon their oily cruise,And many and many a cruse of oilFor want of Bill they lose.The mate and captain in despairHis cruel fate deplore;His mess-mates swore they never wereIn such a mess before.The crew, who had a bitter cupTo drink with their salt-horse,When next they hauled the mainsel up,Bewailed his missin corse.1Alas! his corpse had downward sunk,His soul hath upward sped,And Will hath left a sailor's 'bunk'To share an oyster's bed.We hope his resting place will suit —We trust he's happy now —Laid where the pigs can never root,Lulled by the ocean's sough.This Christmas-eve? This stifling night?The leaves upon the trees?The temperature by FarenheitSome ninety odd degrees?Ah me! my thoughts were off at scoreTo Christmases I've passed,Before upon this Southern shoreMy weary lot was cast.To Christmases of ice and snow,And stormy nights and dark;To holly-boughs and mistletoe,And skating in the ParkTo vast yule-logs and yellow fogsOf the vanished days of yore —To the keen white frost, and the home that's lost,The home that's mine no more.'Twas passing nice through snow and iceTo drive to distant "hops,"But here, alas! the only iceIs in the bars and shops!I've Christmased since those palmy daysIn many a varied spot,And suffered many a weary phaseOf Christmas cold and hot.When cherished hopes were stricken down-Hopes born but to be lost —And when the world's chill blighting frownSeemed colder than the frost.'Tis hard to watch – when from withinThe heart all hope has flown —The old year out, the new year in,Unfriended and aloneWhen whispers seem to rise and tellOf scenes you used to know —You almost hear the very bellsYou heard so long ago.I've Christmased in a leaky tubWhere briny billows roll,And Christmased in the Mulga scrubBeside a water-hole.With ague in my aching joints,And in my quivering bones;My bed, the rough uneven pointsOf sharp and jaggèd stones.Where life a weary burden wasWith all the varied breedsOf creeping things with pointed stings,And snakes, and centipedes.'Twas not a happy Christmas that:How can one happy beWith bull-dog ants inside your hat,And black ants in your tea?Australian child, what cans't thou knowOf Christmas in its prime?Not flower-wreathed, but wreathed in snow,As in yon northern clime.Thou hast not seen the vales and dellsArrayed in gleaming white,Nor heard the sledge's silver bellsGo tinkling through the night.For thee no glittering snow-storm whirls;Thou hast instead of thisOnly the dust-storm's eddying swirls —The hot-wind's scalding kiss!What can'st thou know of frozen lakes,Or Hyde – that Park divine?For, though by no means lacking snakes,Thou hast no "Serpentine."Thou hast not panted, yearned to cutStrange figures out with skates,Nor practised in the water-butt,Nor heard those dismal "waits."For thee no "waits" lugubrious voiceBreaks forth in plaintive wail;Rejoice, Australian child, rejoice!That balances the scale.I see in fancy once againThe London streets at night —Trafalgar square, St. Martin's Lane —Each well remembered sight.Past twelve! and Nature's winding-sheetIs over street and square,And silently now fall the feet,Of those who linger there.I see a wretch with hunger bold(An Ishmaelite 'mong men)Crawl from some hovel dark and cold —Some foul polluted den —A wretch who never learnt to pray,And wearily he dragsHis life along from day to dayIn wretchedness and rags.I see a wandering carriage lampGlide silently and slow;The night-policeman's heavy trampIs muffled by the snow.I hear the mournful chaunt ascend('Tis meaningless to you)"We're frozen out, hard-working men,We've got no work to do!"All, all the many sounds and sightsCome trooping through my brainOf London streets, and winter nights,And pleasure mixed with pain.Be happy you who have a home,Be happy while you may,For sorrow's ever quick to come,And slow to pass away.Your churches and your dwellings deckWith ferns and flowers fair;I would not breathe a word to checkThe mirth I cannot share.For, though my barque's a shattered hull,And I could be at bestBut like the famed Egyptian skull,A mirth-destroying guest,I would not play the cynic's part,Nor at thy pleasure sneer —I wish thee, Reader, from my heart,A happy, glad New year.

ECHO VERSES

Some years ago I chanced upon a magazine article containing a dissertation upon a now almost obsolete kind of versification, much affected by Ben Jonson and some of the last century poets, in which the first two or three lines of each verse ask a question, and the echo of the concluding words gives an answer more or less appropriate. An amusing example was given in the article above mentioned, which was equally rough on the great violinist of the past and his audience, thus:

"What are they who pay six guineasTo hear a string of Paganini's?"(Echo) "Pack 'o ninnies!"

I read this and a few other examples, and was straightway stricken with a desire to emulate this eccentric and somewhat difficult species of versification, and now with considerable diffidence, and a choking prayer for mercy at the hands of the critic, I lay my attempt before the reader. The following echo-verses are not on any account whatever to be understood as reflecting on the present or any past Government of this Colony. They are merely to be taken as shadowing forth a state of things possible in the remote future.

WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE AUTHOR

Author, musing:Our land hath peace, prosperity, and rhino,And Legislators true, and staunch, and tried —What trait have they, that is not pure – divine oh?(Echo interposing) "I know!"What is it, if thus closely thou hast pried?"Pride!"If thus into their hearts thou hast been prying,Thy version of the matter prithee paint;Tell us, I pray, on what are they relying?"Lying!"I thought their honour was without a taint —"Taint!"Have they forgotten all their former glories?Their virtue – what hath chanced its growth to stunt?Oh! wherefore should they change their ancient mores?"More ease!"What weapon makes the sword of Justice blunt?"Blunt!"2Thou would'st not speak thus, wert thou now before 'em:Why do I heed, why listen to thy tale?Can'st purchase, then, the honour of the Forum?For Rum!"And what would blind Dame Justice with her scale?"Ale!"Beware! the fame of Senators thou'rt crushing!Too flippantly thou givest each retort.What are they doing while for their shame I'm blushing?"Lushing!"And drinking? – pray continue thy report —PortCurse on these seeds of death, and those who sow themBut there's another thing I'd fain be told —What of the masses, the canaille below them?"B-low them!"Thou flippant one! how is the mob consoled?"Sold!"Now, by stout Alexander's sword, orRather by his Holiness the Pope!By what means keep they matters in this order?"Sawder!"With what do they sustain the people's hope?"Soap!"Take they indeed no passing thought, no care orHeed of what for safety should be done?What brought about this modern Reign of Terror?"Error!"Is there no hope for thee, my land, mine own?"None!"Base love of liquor, ease, and lucre, this itIs which coileth round her, link on link;Dark is her hope, e'en as the grave we visit!"Is it?"Of what black illustration can I think?"Ink!"Alas my country! shall I not undeceive her?Shall I not strike one patriotic blow?I'd help her had I but the means, the lever —"Leave her!"May we not hope? speak Echo, thou must know —"No!"Then shall be heard – when, round us slowly creeping,Shall come this adverse blast to fill our sails —Instead of mirth, while hope aside 'tis sweeping —"Weeping!"Instead of songs of praise in New South Wales —"Wails!"

THE following ballad suggested itself to the Author while in the remote interior and suffering from a severe attack of indigestion, he having rashly partaken of some damper made by a remorseless and inexperienced new-chum. Those who do not know what ponderous fare this particular species of bush-luxury is when ill-made may possibly think the sub-joined incidents a little over-drawn. If a somewhat gloomy atmosphere be found pervading the narrative, it is to be attributed to the fact that all the horrors of dyspepsia shadowed the Author's soul at the time it was written, and, if further extenuation be required, it may be stated that he had previously been going through a course of gloomy and marrow-freezing literature, commencing with Edgar Poe's "Raven," and winding up with the crowning atrocity (or albatrossity) which saddened the declining years of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.