Southerly Busters

THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE,

Fytte the First

The squatter kings of New South Wales —The squatter kings who reignO'er rocky hill, and scrubby ridge,O'er swamp, and salt-bush plain —Fenced in their runs, and coves appliedFor shepherding in vain.The squatters said that closed should beTo tramps each station-store;That parties on the "cadging suit"Should ne'er have succour more;And when Bill the shepherd heard the sameHe bowed his neck and swore.Now, though that ancient shepherd feltSo mad he couldn't speak,No sighs escape his breast, no tearsFrom out his eyelids leak,But he swore upon the human raceA black revenge to wreak.He brooded long, and a fiendish lightLit up the face of Bill;He saw the way to work on menA dark and grievous ill,And place them far beyond the aidOf senna, salts, or pill.He hied him to his lonely hutBy a deep dark, lakelet's shore;He passed beneath its lowly roof —He shut and locked the door;And he emptied out his flour bagUpon the hard clay floor.Awhile he eyed the mighty moundWith dark, malignant zeal,And then, a shovel having found,"Their fates," said he, "I'll seal";And he made a "damper" broad and roundAs a Roman chariot-wheel.He soddened it with water drawnFrom out that black lagoon,And he smiled to think that those who ateA piece of it would soonBe where they'd neither see the lightOf sun, nor stars, nor moon.For when that damper came to beDug from its glowing bed,Its fell specific gravityWas far o'er gold or lead,And a look of satisfaction o'erThat shepherd's features spread.

Fytte the Second

The shepherd sat by the gloomy shoreOf the black and dark lagoon;His face was lit, and his elf-locks hoarBy the rays of the rising moon.His hand was clenched, and his visage woreA deadly frown and black,And his eye-balls glare, for a stranger fairIs wending down the track.The shepherd hath bidden the stranger haltWith courtesy and zeal,And hath welcomed him to his low roof-tree,And a share of his evening meal.As the fare he pressed on his hungry guest,And thought of its deadly weight,With savage glee he smiled for heImagined his after fate.The stranger hath eaten his fill I weenOf that fell and gruesome cake,And hath hied him away in the moon-light's sheenFor a stroll by the deep, dark lake;For he thought he'd lave each stalwart limbIn the wavelet's curling crest,And take a dive and a pleasant swim'Ere he laid him down to rest.The coat that covered his ample chestOn the lakelet's marge he threw;His hat, his boots, and his flannel-vest,And his moleskin trowsers too.He hummed a tune, and he paused awhileTo hear the night-owl sing;His ears were cocked, and his palms were locked,Prepared for the final spring.An unsuspecting look he castAt the objects on the shore —A splash! a thud! and beneath the floodHe sank to rise no more!The shepherd saw from his lonely hutThe dread catastrophé;A notch on a withered stick he cut —"That's number one," said he,"But, if I live 'till to-morrow's sun"Shall gild the blue-gum tree,"With more, I'll stake my soul, that cake"Of mine will disagree."Then down he sat by his lonely hutThat stood by the lonely track,To the lakelet nigh, and a horse came byWith a horse-man on his back.And lean and lank was the traveller's frameThat sat on that horse's crup:'Twas long I ween since the wight had seenThe ghost of a bite or sup."Oh! give me food!" to the shepherd oldWith plaintive cry he cried;A mildewed crust or a pint o'dust3Or a mutton cutlet fried."In sooth in evil case am I,Fatigue and hunger tooHave played the deuce with my gastric juice,It's 'got no work to do.'"I've come o'er ridges of burning sandThat gasp for the cooling rain,Where the orb of day with his blinding rayGlares down on the salt-bush plain"O'er steaming valley, lagoon, and marshWhere the Sun strikes down 'till, phew!The very eels in the water feelsA foretaste of a stew."I hungered long 'till my wasting formWas a hideous sight to view;But fit on a settler's fence to sitTo scare the cockatoo."My hair grew rank, and my eyeballs sank'Till – wasted, withered, and thin —The ends and points of my jarring jointsStuck out through my parched up skin."Shrunk limb and thew, 'till at length I grewAs thin as a gum-tree rail;At the horrid sight of my hideous plightEach settler's face turned pale:"And as I travelled the mulga scrubs,And forced a passage throughI scared the soul of the native blackA gathering his 'nardoo.'"On snake or lizard I'd fain have fed,But piteous was my plight,And the whole of the brute creation fledIn horror at the sight."Scrub turkeys, emus, I appall;Their eggs I longed to poach,But they collared their eggs, their nests and all,And fled at my approach!"And the possums 'streaked' it up the trees,And frightened the young gallârs,And all the hairs on the native-bearsStood stiff as iron bars!"The shepherd came from his low roof-treeAnd gazed at the shrunken wight;He gave him welcome courteously,And jested at his plight.He led the traveller 'neath his roof,And gazed in his wan, worn face,Where want was writ, and he bid him sitOn an empty 'three-star' case.And a smile of evil import playedOn the face of ancient BillAs some of the damper down he laid,And bid him take his fill.With mute thanksgiving in his breastThe food the stranger tore;Piece after piece he closely pressedDown on the piece before.And then – his heart fresh buoyed with hope —Essayed to mount his steed,But the horse shut flat as an opera-hatWith the weight of his master's feed;And horse and man sunk through the sodSome sixty feet or less!No crust, I swear, of the Earth could bearThe weight of the gruesome mess!Then the shepherd grinned with a grizzly grinAs he notched his stick again;The night passed by and the sun rose highAnd glared on the salt-bush plain.Two "gins" set forth in a bark canoeTo traverse the gloomy lake,And he bid them take enough for two,For lunch, of the deadly cake.Enough for two! 'twas enough I weenTo settle the hash of four,For the barque o'er-flowed with the crushing load —They sank to rise no more.And ever his fiendish lust for blood —His thirst for vengeance grows;In sport he threw a crumb or twoTo the hawks and carrion crows;And as they helpless, fluttering lay,His eldrich laughter rings;One crumb to bear through the lambent airWas past the power of wings.Beside his door he sat 'till noonWhen a bullock-team came by;The echoes 'round with the whips resound,And the drivers' cheery cry.Upon the dray a piece he threwNo bigger than your hand,Of the cursed thing, 'twas enough to bringThe bullocks to a stand.And, though they bend their sinewy necks'Till red with their crimson gore,And fiercely strain yoke, pole, and chainWith savage, muttering roar,The wheels sank down to the axle-tree —Through the hard baked clay they tore,And a single jot from out that spotThey shifted never more.Then the shepherd called to the drivers, "Ho!My frugal meal partake."And, though they ate but a crumb or twoOf the fell, unholy cake,Down, down they sank on the scorching track,Immovable and prone,And steel blue ants crawled up their pantsAnd ate them to the bone!For days by his lonely hut sat Bill,The hut to the lakelet nigh,And he wrought his dark revengeful willOn each traveller that came by.And he eats nor drinks meat, bread, nor gruel,Nor washes, nor combs, nor shaves,But he yelled, and he danced a wild pas seulO'er each of his victims' graves.Three weeks passed by, but his end was nigh —His day was near its close,For rumour whispered his horrid deeds,And in arms the settlers rose.They came, hinds, shepherds, and shearers too,And squatters of high degree;His hands they tied, and his case they tried'Neath the shade of a blue gum tree.They sentence passed, and they gripped him fast,Though to tear their flesh he tried;His teeth he ground, but his limbs they boundWith thongs of a wild bull's hide.They laid him down on a "bull-dog's" nest,For the bull-dog ants to sting;On his withered chest they pile the restOf the damnèd cursèd thing.They gather round and they stir the ground'Till the insects swarm again,And the echoes wake by the gloomy lakeWith his cry of rage and pain.O'er his writhing form the insects swarm —O'er arm, o'er foot, and leg;The damper pressed on his heaving chest,And he couldn't move a peg.'Till eve he lay in the scorching heat,And the rays of the blinding sun,Then the black-ants came and they soon completeWhat the bull-dogs have begun.'Tis o'er at last, and his spirit passedWith a yell of fiendish hate,And down by the shore of that black lagoon,Where his victims met their fate —Where the "bunyip" glides, and the inky tidesLip, lap on the gloomy shore,And the loathsome snake of the swamp abides,He wanders ever more.And when the shadows of darkness fall(As hinds and stock-men tell)The plains around with his howls resound,And his fierce, blood-curdling yell.The kangaroos come forth at nightTo feed o'er his lonely grave,And above his bones with disma' tonesThe dingos shriek and rave.And when drovers camp with a wild-mob thereThey shiver with affright,And quake with dread if they hear his treadIn the gloom of the ebon night!

SOCIAL EVILS

I feel that any reader who has been long-suffering enough to accompany me thus far must be craving earnestly for a change of some sort, even though it but take the form of an oasis of indifferent prose in a monotonous Sahara of verse; I want it myself, and I know that the reader must yearn for it, even as the bushman who has sojourned long among the flesh-pots of remote sheep and cattle stations yearneth after the pumpkins and cabbages of the Mongolian market gardener. I am, therefore, going to write about social evils; not because I think I can say anything particularly original or striking about them, but because I must have a subject, and I know the craving of the Colonial mind after practical ones. I commence diffidently, however; not on account of the barrenness of the theme – oh! dear no – it is its very fruitfulness which baffles me; its magnitude that appals me; its comprehensiveness which gets over me; and my inability to deal with it in such limited space which "knocks me into a cocked-hat".

Even as I write, things which may be legitimately called social evils rise up before me in spectral array, like Banquo's issue, in sufficient numbers to stretch not only to the "crack of doom," – wherever that mysterious fissure may be – but a considerable distance beyond it.

Unfortunately, too, each one, like the progeny of that philoprogenitive Scotchman, "bears a glass which shows me many more," until I am as much flabbergasted as Macbeth himself, and am compelled to take a glass of something myself to soothe my disordered nerves.

If every one were permitted to give his notion of what constitutes a social evil my difficulties would be still more augmented, and the schedule swelled considerably. I know men who would put their wives down in the list as a matter of course; and others, fathers of families, who would include children. Few married men would omit mothers-in-law; most domestics would include work and masters and mistresses; and hardly anybody would exclude tax-gatherers. Fortunately, however, these well-meaning, but mistaken reformers, will have to take back seats on the present occasion, and leave me to touch on a few, at least, of what are legitimate and undeniable social evils.

Look at them, as they drag their mis-shapen forms past us in hideous review! Adulteration of food, political dishonesty, "larrikinism," barbarism on the part of the police, lemonade and gingerbeerism in the stalls of theatres, peppermintlozengism in the dress circle, flunkeyism, itinerant preacherism in the parks – what a subject this last is, by the way, and how beautifully mixed up one's faith becomes after listening to half a dozen park preachers, of different denominations, in succession! After hearing the different views propounded by these self-constituted apostles, an intelligent islander from the Pacific would receive the impression that the white man worshipped about seventy or eighty different and distinct gods (a theological complication with which his simple mind would be unable to grapple), and he would probably retire to enjoy the society of his graven image with an increased respect for that bit of carving, and any half-formed inclinations to dissent from the religion of his forefathers quenched for ever.

I have neither space, ability, nor desire to tackle such stupendous subjects as political dishonesty or adulteration. They are so firmly grafted on our social system that nothing short of a literary torpedo could affect them in the slightest degree, but I do feel equal to crushing the boy who sells oranges and lemonade in the pit – who when, in imagination, I am on the "blasted heath" enjoying the society of the weird sisters, or at a Slave Auction in the Southern States, sympathising with the sufferings of the Octoroon, ruthlessly drags me back to nineteenth century common places with his thrice damnable war- cry of "applesorangeslemonadeanabill!" a string of syllables which are in themselves death to romance, and annihilation to sentiment, irrespective of the tone and key in which they are uttered. If for one happy moment I have forgotten that Hamlet is in very truth "a king of shreds and patches," or that Ophelia is a complicated combination of rouge, paste, springs, padding, and pectoral improvers, I maintain that it is playing it particularly rough on me if I am to be recalled to a remembrance of all this by the bloodcurdling shibboleth of these soulless fruit merchants. Can lemonade compensate me for the destruction of the airy castles I have been building? Can ginger-beer steep my senses again in the elysium of romance and sentiment from which they have been thus ruthlessly awakened? Or can an ocean of orange-juice wash away or obliterate the disagreeable consciousness that I am a clerk in a Government office, or a reporter on the staff of a weekly paper, and am neither Claud Melnotte nor "a person of consequence in the 13th century?" – unhesitatingly no! And if, in addition, there be wafted towards me a whiff or two of a highly-flavoured peppermint lozenge from some antique female – on whose head be shame! and on whose false front rest eternal obliquy – my cup of sorrow is full, my enjoyment of the drama is destroyed, the Recording angel has a lively time of it for an hour or so registering execrations, and I am plunged in an abyss of melancholy from which the arm of a Hennessy (the one that holds the battle axe) or a Kinahan can alone rescue me. And here, reader, I must conclude, for your patience is in all probability exhausted, and my washerwoman has called: she is a social evil of the most malignant type.

JL

MORAL PHILOSOPHY FOR LITTLE FOLKS

Little grains of rhubarb,Spatula'd with skill,Make the mighty bolusAnd the little pill.Little pence and half-pence,Hoarded up by stealth,Make the mighty totalOf the miser's wealthLittle trips to Randwick,Taking six to three,Make the out-at-elbowsSeedy swells we see.Little sprees on oysters,Bottled stout and ale,Lead but to the cloistersOf the gloomy gaol.Little tracts and tractlets,Scattered here and there,Lead the sinner's footstepsTo the house of prayer.Little bits of paper,Headed I.O.U.,Ever draw the ChristianCloser to the Jew.Little chords and octaves,Little flats and sharps,Make the tunes the angelsPlay on golden harps.Little bouts with broom-sticks,Carving forks and knives,Make the stirring dramaOf our married lives.Little flakes of soap-suds,Glenfield starch, and blue,Make the saint's white shirt-frontsAnd the sinner's too.Little tiny insects,Smaller than a flea,Make the coral inlandsIn the southern sea.Little social falsehoods,Such as "Not at home,"Lead to realms of darknessWhere the wicked roam.Likewise little cuss wordsSuch as "blast," and "blow,"Quite as much as wuss wordsFill the place below.

AN AMBITIOUS DREAM

|I walked about in Wynyard SquareAt four one afternoon;I saw a stately peeler there,He softly hummed a tune.The sun-rays lit his buttons bright;He stalked with stately stride;It was a fair and goodly sight —The peeler in his prideAnd padded was his manly breast,Such kingly mien had he,And such a chest, I thought how blestThat peeler's lot must be.I noted well his martial air,And settled that of courseHe was the idol of the fair,The angel of the Force.No cook or house-maid could resist,I felt, by any chance,That dark moustache with cork-screw twist,That marrow-searching glance.And o'er each little news-boy's headHe towered like a mast;His voice, to match that stately tread,Should shame a trumpet-blast!I pondered on the matter muchAnd thought I'd like to beEscorted to the "dock" by suchA demi-god as he.I gazed upon his form entranced —He never noticed me,For visions through his fancy dancedOf mutton cold for tea.He knew he hadn't long to stand'Till – Mary's labours o'er —She'd lead him gently by the handInside the kitchen door.Ensconced in some snug vantage-coignAt ease he'd stretch each limb,And feast on cutlet and sirloin,Purloined for love of him.I leant against a scaffold-beam —I must have had a napI think, because I had a dream —I dreamt I was a 'trap'!I thought I had allegiance swornAnd that there was for meThe regulation tile that's wornBy every trap you see;The coat and thingumbobs as well,What joy could equal this?No Gillott's patent pens could tellMy wild ecstatic bliss!I thought they portioned out my beat —A foot I'm sure I grew,And as I walked up Hunter StreetI felt a match for two.I felt my bosom throb behindMy coat of azure blue,And trembled for the peace of mindOf every girl I knew.I saw myself in future fightsThe populace enthrall,While brightly blaze the city lightsI cry "come one, come all!"To grab their leader see me try(Though rent my lovely coat)The light of battle in my eye,My hand upon his throat!The truncheon used with practised skillRequites him for his sin,In such a hand as mine it willAbraise his rebel skin.I thought of each bush-ranging chap,And for a moment sighedThat I was not a mounted trapThrough tea-tree scrub to ride.But soon the notion I dismiss,For I can plainly seeThat such a line of life as thisMuch harder lines would be.Beneath a bushel in the bushMy shining light to hide,I felt would be a gross misuseOf Sydney's hope and pride.My look alone would petrifyA breaker of the peace,And where I turned my searching eyeDishonesty would cease.Police reports my name should state,Each deed of mine should beA deed for traps to emulate,And try to be like me.My blushing honours should be wornWith unobtrusive grace,And energy and zeal adornMy calm heroic face.My beat was not in nasty slumsWhere vulgar rowdies meet;But see! the conquering hero comes —The pride of George's Street!I thought he'd be a hardy boyWho'd shout in accents coarse"Who stole the mutton-pie, ahoy!"Now I was in the force.Or should a cabby ere presumeTo overcharge a fare,My eagle glance it would consumeThat cabby then and there.Now mercy light on yonder boyWho blows the sportive pea!His visage lit with fiendish joy —For he'll get none from me.Some power save him from my care,Preserve him from my clutch,Or mutilated past repairHe 'll have to use a crutch.His form, though supple as an eel,His mother wouldn't knowAgain if I'd a chance to dealOne stiffening truncheon blow!No more his little idle handsWill scatter orange peelWhen fast enclosed in iron bands,Or brightly polished steel.I'd marked a nice secluded seat,'Twas somewhere in the park,Where I could slumber long and sweetAs soon as it got dark.I spotted out each servant galI'd let make love to me,The houses where I'd take a "spell,"And call and have my tea.I took the bearings of the doors,And windows front and backWhere I, unseen, by vulgar boors,Could go and have a "snack."Fond, foolish women, at my feetIn yearning worship fell,And one, she was uncommon sweet,Her name I'll never tell.I thought I'd never lived 'till now,Or that I'd lived in vain;It was a hardish rub, I vow,That I should wake again.Fulfilment of a nobler planAmbition couldn't crave —I was a trap! – each common manSeemed born to be my slave!But stay – whose hand is on me now?Who dares to clutch my cape?What light is this, and who art thou,Thou shadowy, ghastly shape?A fearful light is shed around,I quake and dare not stir —A voice! and husky is its sound —It says, – "'Ullo! you, Sir!"Before me was the man I'd praised,And my illusion fledWhen his infernal truncheon raisedA blister on my head.Sometimes at midnight's solemn hourI dream this dream again,And, thinking its her form once more,The pillow tightly strain;Or fiercely to the door I spring,And firmly grip the hasp,And smile to think I've got againThe truncheon in my grasp.The beads of sweat they gather fast,And from my nose they fall,I wake, and find, alas! alas!I'm not a trap at all!

SUPERNATURAL REVELATIONS OF A FANCY-GOODS MAN,

OR THE DIABOLICAL DEMON OF THE DEADLY DRAINThere lived in Parramatta StreetA cove – his name was Joe —Who nightly sniffed its odours sweet(Not very long ago.)Its every scent right well he knew,They often made him frown,And he was fancy-goods-man toA big firm here in town.As Joe lay down one night – he sleptIn summer far from from well —A nameless horror o'er him crept,Of what he couldn't tell;His hair was rising up he knew,He felt his blood grow cold;He felt a little frightened, too,For Joseph wasn't bold.And while he vainly seeking rest,Lay tossing to and fro,By name he heard himself addressed —The unknown voice said, "Joe!""Arise, Oh Joseph! from thy bed —Arise, and follow me!Hush! not a word," the spirit said,"For I'm a ghost, d'ye see?"Bring kerosene, and bring thy lamp,And arm thee to the teeth,For thou in yonder gloomy swampShalt win a laurel wreath.""Now follow me," the spirit said,"For well I know the track,And thou shall slay the demon dreadOf Wattle Swamp the Black."Then toward the demon's dread abodeThe ghastly goblin flits —The spirit was to show the road,And Joe to give him "fits."And silently they followed allThe windings of the creek;At times they heard a night-bird call —At times a tom-cat shriek.But of the voices of the nightThey took no heed as yet;The ghost said, "Joseph, are you right?"And Joseph said, "You bet!"And thus began the demon-hunt:The road was dark and drear;The ghost was mostly on in front,And Joseph in the rear.At times they crawled along a trenchThat held Joe's feet like glue;And there was many a stifling stench,And many a cast off shoe.And oft they waded deep in slimeWhere rotting herbage grew;The ghost said, "Joseph, take your time,"And Joseph murmured, "ph – ew!"At length a dark and gloomy pondAppeared to block the track;The spirit was for goin' on,And Joe for goin' back.Before the breeze his shirt-tails blow,And though he's sore distressed,The spirit said he had to go,And Joseph gave him best."Young man!" the spirit said, "'tis vainTo bandy words with me;Just stretch those bandy legs again,For I'm a ghost, d'ye see?"And Joseph, making answer soft,They thus resumed the track —The spirit bore the lamp aloft,And Joseph on his back."Yon demon dread," the spirit said,"Has reaped his human crops,And feasted, battened on the deadToo long – we'll give him slops!"he ghost explained the shrieks which roseFrom out the inky tidesWere made by disembodied covesWith pains in their insides.E'en while he spoke a horrid smokeBelched forth upon the air,And forth fresh yells and shriekings broke,And up went Joseph's hair.The spirit slid him from his back,But Joseph trembled so,And wished devoutly he was backWith Messrs. Blank & Co."Stand firm!" the spirit said, "drink this'Tis strength and courage too;We'll awe this great metropolisWith deeds of 'derring-do.'"Then straightway rose before their sightThe demon's war-like crest;He's green and blue, and black and white,With plague-spots on his breast.I could not paint the demon's form —Distraught, convulsed with ire —His voice was like the thunder-storm,His eyes like lakes of fire.He breathed forth typhoid, boils and croupWith every breath he drew;His touch meant measles, whooping-coughAnd scarlatina too.He comes with measured steps and slow —Earth groaned beneath his tramp —And with one grinding, crashing blow,He shivered Joseph's – lamp!He glared around him, and his eyesShone with a baleful light:"Who, who are ye," the demon cries,That wander through the night?"Who, who are ye, that dare to comeMy fair domain to haunt?Go, seek some more congenial slum,Avaunt! d'ye hear? Avaunt!"Now Joseph felt his courage riseFrom out his blucher boots,And while the cautious curlew cries,And while the swamp-owl hoots —Despite a lingering touch of cramp —His muscles he did brace,And hurled the fragments of the lampSlap in the demon's face!"Who's this?" the demon said, said he,"A stalwart knight, I ween!My eyes are blind, I cannot see,They're full of keroseen"Then Joseph's heart within him leapt —The demon being blind —Right gingerly he crawled and crept,And gave him one behind.The spirit used a two-edged sword(He used it like an axe)And while that outraged giant roared,His right leg he attacks.Thus, thu close, that warlike pair,Upon the slimy beach,And Joseph poked him here and there,Wherever he could reach.And while the giant squirmeth fromThe toasting-fork of Joe,The ghost (clean peeled) came grimly onTo strike the final blow.Then, Joe, when he his tactics knew,Attacked his other calf,And swamp-owls' echoed as they flewThe spirit's ghastly laugh.And soon, beneath those stalwart knocksWhich echo and resound,The demon's severed person rocksAnd topples to the ground"Go in and win," the spirit said —"Go in and win, old son!"The demon he was nearly dead.So Joe went in and won.That ghost full many a 'spotted-gum'Had felled in life, you see,And so they felled that spotted one,For foul and fell was he."Now fetch me wedges," quoth the ghost,"For here, I guess, we'll camp;We'll blast his trunk, split rails and posts,And fence Blackwattle Swamp!"But stay! what means that sounding thwack?That agonizing roar?And how comes Joseph on his back —Upon his bedroom floor?Where's now the elevated head,The majesty and pompOf him who slew the demon dreadThat lived in Wattle Swamp?Mephitic odours filled the room,And, acting on his brain,These made him dream of blackest gloom,And deadly demons slain.'Till, rolling from his couch, he brokeThe silence with a scream,He bumped upon the floor – then woke,4And found it all a dream!Next morning, so tradition tells,His way to church Joe took,To curse the Corporation swellsWith candle, bell, and book.He prayed that they might cursèd beWithin the Council hall,At evening parties, breakfast, tea, —At dinner most of all.That they might feast in woe and grief,On chicken with the croup;That pleuro might infect their beef,And flies invade their soup;That turtles, though so often "turned,"Might some day turn on them,And that at last they might be burned,And fricasseed in-hem!And ne'er this curse shall lifted beFrom Aldermanic back,Until from odours foul set freeIs Wattle Swamp the Black.