Southerly Busters

CHRISTMAS

By a New ChumWhat means that merry clanging chimeWhich fills the air with melody?They tell me that 'tis Christmas time,But that I think can scarcely be.This explanation is, I say,A little bit too thin for me,While fiercely strikes the solar rayThrough hat of straw and puggaree.The centigrade, I grieve to see,Stands up at figures past belief,And naught but frequent S and BGives my perspiring soul relief.No veil of snow enwraps the lea,And as for skating in the Park,Or sledging, one as well might beOn Ararat in Noahs ark.Where is the icy blast, and whereThe white hoar frost, and driving sleet?At night I suffocate and swearWith nothing on me but a sheet.Mosquitoes hum the whole night through,And flies salute me when I wakeIn numbers anything but few,And yesterday I saw a snake.No leaf decays; no flower dies;All nature seems as fair and brightAs, when beneath Judean skies,The shepherds watched their flocks by night.[In fair Judea's sunny clime,Among its mountain gorges lone,Those shepherds had a rosy time,For wire-fencing wasn't known.They were not prone to "knocking-down"Of cheques or going on the spree,For "pubs" and "shanties" were not foundBeside the Lake of Galilee.They groaned not 'neath the squatters yoke;A life of pure arcadian easeWas theirs-ah! happy, happy blokes!For this digression, pardon, please.]Those Christmas chimes, indeed! their notesAwake no passing thought in me,Of flannel vests, and Ulster coats,So Christmas chimes they cannot be.A drowsy hum is in the air —There's perspiration on my skin;The locusts eat the grass-plots bare,And deafen with their noisy din.The folks were drinking summer drinksWhen first I landed here last "fallTis summer still, alas! methinksThey have no Christmas here at all.But stay! that paper pile sublime —Of I O.U. and unpaid bill —Breathes somewhat of the festive timeOf "peace on earth – to man good-will."There's Starkey's bill for lemonade,And Peape's and Shaw's for summer suits,A host of others, all unpaid,For ice, and cubas, and cheroots.Enough! 'tis proof enough for me —Proof stronger far than Christmas chime;Your pardon, friend, for doubting thee,Beyond a doubt 'tis Christmas time.

"THE CATARACT."5

I stood by the trunk of a giant boxAnd watched the Cataract down the rocksWith ceaseless thunder go.The boiling waters seethed and hissed,And glittering clouds of gleaming mistAscended from below.The fading glow of the sunlight slantsO'er the frowning cliff which the creeping plants,And moss, and lichens drape.The mist spread forth on the sultry air —'Twas wreathed in figures, some foul, some fair;I traced the form of a spectre thereOf weird and ghastly shape.There was silence, save for the summer breezeWhich swayed the tops of the mess-mate trees,And the torrent's noisy flow.Awhile the figure seemed to stand,Then waved a shadowy, spectral hand,And pointed down below.With wild vague thoughts my fancy stroveOf hidden riches, and treasure trove,And gems and jewels bright;And what, thought I, if the omen's true?And thick and fast such fancies grewTill rock, and torrent, and spectre tooAll faded from my sightI saw the crust of the earth removed —Each wild conjecture fairly proved —I saw, 'twas even so,Peerless gems of price untold,Piles on piles of glittering gold,And the moon-beams glinted clear and coldOn the wealth that lay below.Ere long men came to that valley "fair;They sought for coal-black diamonds there,And they dragged them from below:And the furnace fires, the hiss of steam,And the whirr of fly-wheel, belt, and beamFulfilled that shadowy, golden dreamI dreamt so long ago.

THE STOCKMAN'S GRAVE

Tom the stockman's gone – he'll neverUse again his supple thong,Or, dashing madly through the mulga,Urge the scattered herd along.O'er for Tom is life's hard battle!Well he rode, and nothing feared;Never more among the cattleShall his cheery voice be heard.Liked he was with' all his failings;Let no idle hand efface.That rude ring of rough split palings,Marking out his resting place.Sadly have his comrades left himWhere the cane-grass, gently stirredBy the north wind, bends and quivers —Where the bell-bird's note is heard;Where the tangled "boree" blossoms,Where the "gidya" thickets wave,And the tall yapunyah's6 shadowRests upon the stockman's grave.

EPITAPH ON A CONVIVIAL SHEARER

Here Thompson lies – good worthy man —Come, gentle reader, nearer;He's now as quiet as a lambThough once he was a shearer.Though many sheep in life he shore,He's now beyond retrieving!He's sheered off to that other shoreWhich surely there's no leaving.Though he o'er ewes and wethers tooWas often bent, I'm thinkingRough weather o'er him bends the yew—He killed himself with drinking.No more in shed, or yard, or hutWill Thompson be appearing!On wings of down his soul flew up—He's gone where there's no shearing.He often handled "Ward and Payne's,"7For he was often shearing!Alas! the pains of death rewardHis everlasting beering.And from his fingers dropped the shears,For nature's debt was pressing;Death nailed his body for arrears —His spirit effervescing.Though at his jokes we often roared,He's now a soundish sleeper!His crop of chaff at length is flooredBy Death, that mighty reaper.

A CANDIDATE FOR AN EARLY GRAVE

What makes me wear my boots so tight,And much pomatum buy,Toss restless on my bed at night,And like an earthquake sigh?I 've seen a maid, I'd fain persuadeThat girl to fancy me;Thrice happy fate with such a mateFor life as Polly C – !But then I can't without her auntThat damsel ever see;Why must there always be a "but"Between my hopes and me?And Polly C – has got to beBetween me and my peace,For though I can't endure the aunt,I idolize the neice.The aunt is forty-three at least,The neice but seventeen;For her I pine, for her so greasedMy hair of late has been.For her my feet are close compressedIn boots a deal too tight;For her I sacrifice my rest,And get no sleep at night;For her I run that tailor's billThat makes my father swear,And to the grave I fear it willBring down his grizzled hair.We met, but 'twas not in a crowd,It was not at a ball,Nor where cascades with thunder loudFrom precipices fall;Nor where the mountain torrents rush,Or ocean billows heave;Nor at the railway terminus'Mid cries of "by'r leave;"It was not in the forest wild,Nor on the silent sea —Romantic reader don't be riled —'Twas at a "spelling-bee."'Twas there I marked the jetty coilThat crowned her classic head —The perfumes of macassar oilWere all around her shed.And o'er the meaner spirits thereHer mighty soul arose;Her intellect and genius wereAspiring – like her nose.And Polly was the fairest there —'The goddess of the class —Among the polysyllablesUnscathed I saw her pass.Examiners with piercing eye,And terror-striking frownIn vain to trip her up might try —In vain to take her down.She triumphs, and the loud applauseFrom roof to basement rings —Each other girl with envy gnawsHer hat and bonnet strings.Sometimes (regardless of expense)I dressed and went to church;One glimpse of her would recompenseMy eager longing search.And, while the swelling organ rentThe air with solemn tunes,On spelling-bees my thoughts were bentAnd happy honeymoons.And where I brooding sat aloneThe wildest dreams I dreamt,And swore to win her for my ownOr "bust' in the attempt.We met at parties, and our toesWhirl in the dreamy waltz,And if at times a thought arose —Could hair like that be false?I sniffed the reassuring coilThat shamed the damask rose,And could not breathe a thought disloyalWhile that was near my nose.At length her aunt – the summer gone —The influenza got;To see my Polly to her homeIt oft became my lot.And if I took the longest wayThe fraud was never known,For organ of "locality"My darling she had none.One night, about the supper hour,Thanks to some kindly fate,We reached the entrance to her bower —I mean the garden gate.It was a gloomy night and wetWith rain and driving sleet,And more than common risk besetPedestrians in the street.From harm from wheel of cab or cartI'd kept my darling free,And in the fulness of her heartShe asked me in to tea.Her aunt, that stately dame and grand,Looked knives and forks at me;She'd "Butter's Spelling" in her hand,And "Webster" on her knee.Her bead-like eyes gleamed bright behindThe spectacles she wore;Of intellect and strength of mindShe had enough for four.And tall her figure was, and spare,And bony were her joints;Orthography and grammar wereThe strongest of her points.A morbid taste this virgin chasteFor dictionaries had;Though Polly C. might perfect be,Her aunt was spelling mad.I felt that if an angel brightTo earth from Oether fell,She'd either give that Son of LightSome heavy word to spell,Or else she'd get him on to parse,'Till sick of earthly things,He'd work his passage to the starsUpon his downy wings.At Dr. Blank's academy,I never took the lead;My grammar and orthographyWere very weak indeed,And oft those academic wallsHave echoed to my howls,Responsive to the Doctor's callsFor consonants and vow'ls.His rules respecting "Q's" and "P's"Were graven on our backs,And though we had no spelling-bees,I got my share of whacks.For what the Doctor failed to seeImpressed upon the mind,Was certain very soon to beImpressed in full behind.But still, despite the scathing look,And cane of Dr. Blank.My spelling powers never tookAn elevated rank.And if my hopes of Polly hungUpon so frail a thread,My life was blighted 'ere begun —My hopes, scarce born, were dead.All silent through that evening mealI sat with bended head,And now and then a glance I stealAt Polly while she fed;But though her eyes I often seek,I only look at most;My heart's too full of love to speak,My mouth too full of toast.Oh! sweet love-feast! – too sweet to last —Oh! bitter after-cud!Oh! spinster grim why didst thou blastLove's blossom in the bud?For, ere one happy hour could pass,That virgin grim and fellInvited me to join the classWhere Polly went to spell;And though I trembled in my shoes,In hopeless agony,Could I the aunt of her refuseWhose spell was over me?At length arrived the dreaded hour,And primed with eau de vie,I sought that orthographic bowerWhere met the spelling-bee.No hope of prizes lured me towardThose hundred gleaming eyes,For me there was but one reward,And Polly was the prize.For her my dull ambition leapt,In literary listsTo cope with lunatics who sleptWith "Webster" in their fists.Vague dread forebodings cloud my brow,And make my cheek grow pale,Oh! Dr. Johnson help me now —My hopes are in the scale!My frame with apprehension shook;To nerve me for the task,With tender, longing, yearning lookI eyed my pocket-flask,And tempted by the spirit brightThat dwelt within its lips,I put the contents out of sightIn two convulsive sips.A stony-eyed examinerCame in and took the chair;I knew a place that's spelt with "H,"And wished that he was there.I softly cursed his form erect,His "specs" with golden rim,And prayed that doctors might dissectHis body limb from limb.But soon the spirit's subtle fumeObfusticates my view;The common objects of the roomSeem multiplied by two.My breast, the late abode of funk,With courage was embued;I was a little less than drunk,And something more than screwed.And while my heart beat loud and fastWith wild convulsive pants,I saw two Pollys, and alas!A pair of Polly's Aunts!I fail to solve the mysteryWhich Polly I prefer,But thought I'd like PolygamyWith duplicates of her.Involved in intellectual gloom,I found the A. B. C.Had vanished, vanquished by the fumesOf Henessey's P. B.And when that stony-looking oneApplied at length to me,I spelt "consumption" with a "K,"And "kangaroo" with "C"!I will not paint these harrowing scenes,Nor keep thee, reader, long,Nor tell thee how I shocked the "Bee"By breaking forth in song.Two orthographic youths arose,And dragged me from the room,Despite my wild and aimless blows,Into the outer gloom.With force, and tender soothing tonesThey led me from the hall,And laid me on the cold, cold stonesBeneath the bare brick wall.They spread for me no blanket warm.No cloak or 'possum-rug,And peelers bore my helpless formIn triumph to the "Jug."Next day I found the "summons-sheet"A blanket cold indeed;I felt that liberty was sweet,I wanted to be freed:But peelers' hearts are solid rock,They wouldn't hear me speak,They dragged me to the felon's dockBefore a hook-nosed "beak."He offered me – that hook-nosed "beak" —The option of a fine,In place of many a weary weekOf punishment condign.I mutely pointed to my Sire,The fount of my supplies,And then bereft of joy I leftThe court with tearful eyes.I could not read again and liveThe note I got 'ere long,From Polly's single relativeAnent my goings on.She told me it would be as wellOur intercourse should cease —That one who drank, and couldn't spellShould never have her niece.She recommended frugal fare,And lexicons, and pumps,But when I think of Polly's hairMy own comes out in lumps!Oh! tell me not a "spelling-bee's"A sweet and pleasant thing;I've drunk of sorrow's bitter lees —I've felt that insect's sting.My hopes are dead, despair hath spreadO'er me its blackest pall;The honey and the wine of life.Are turned to bitter gall.Although I'm barely twenty-oneMy crop of care is ripe!No joy have I in moon or sun,Or in my meerchaum pipe.Oh! where are now the happy days,When first I learnt to smoke?When life seemed one long holiday —Existence but a joke?When I'd no other thought or careExcept my cane to gnaw,And train the soft incipient hairThat grew upon my jaw?They've passed away those happy dayAnd now I only craveA brief, brief life – an early death,A requiem, and a grave.And billiards now I never play;Not long my father willBe troubled by me to defrayThat tailor's lengthened bill.I never wink at bar-maids now,But soberly I treadAs walketh one whose home's amongThe cold and silent dead.One debt lies heavy on my breastI'd like to pay but can't;I'd like, before I go to rest,To settle Polly's aunt.I hope they'll take her where the timeCounts not by days and weeks —The place of which 'tis wrong to rhyme,And no one ever speaks!'Tis where the letters that she loves —The consonants and vow'ls —Are melted down in patent stoves,And moulded into howls!

A PEELER'S APPEAL

Against the Helmet of Modern TimesI was a peeler of a kindThat's seldom met with now;I used to part my hair behind,It clustered o'er my browIn glossy ringlets, crisp and dark;I had a massive chest,And oft I lit love's fatal sparkWithin the female breast.The buttons on my coat of blueShone with effulgent light,And cooks with eyes of dazzling hueFell prostrate at the sight.At almost every kitchen doorThey met me with a smile;But then in modest pride I woreThe regulation tile.No more they come with outstretched armsMy person to enwrap;No more they hold the mutton coldAs sacred to the trap.They never asks me into sup;No smoking joints they bile;They hates this cursed new-come-up —This 'elmet mean and vile.The boys what vends the "Evenin' News,'"When I comes stalkin' by,Awakes each alley, lane and mews,With, "Crikey! 'ere's a guy!"The cabbies stare so hard at me,No wonder I gets huffed;They grins, and axes who I be,And if I'm "real or stuffed"And when I walks about my beatThe hosses dreads the sight;They stands up endways in the streetA snortin' with affright.The 'bus-conductors winks and leers,And holds their sides and splits;And kids of very tender yearsI frightens into fits.I once was right at forty-fourFor supper, lunch, and tea;Upon this bosom Susan sworeShe'd never love but me.Alas! for that inconstant cookThe 'elmet 'ad no charms;A most sanguineous butcher tookMy Susan to his arms.My Susan's cheeks were fair and sleek —So were the chops she cooked;But on her chops, and on her cheek,My last I fear I've looked.That butcher said as how 'twas meatThat me and she should part,And never more for me will beatThat culinary 'eart.Now listen you who've got to fixWhat bobbies is to wear,And if your 'earts aim 'ard as bricks,Oh! 'ear a peelers prayer.Oh! take the elmet from my brow —The curse from off my 'ed;You aint no sort o' notion owI wishes I wos dead.There's nothing calculated moreA cove's good looks to spile;Oh! if you've 'carts, restore, restore,The regulation tile!You can't give back that cook's fond 'eart —Her chops, her cheek, her smile;But if you'd make amends in part,Restore, restore my tile!

THE following verses will probably be more intelligible to the bush reader than the metropolitan one. The latter is at liberty to "pass": —

THE OLD HAND

I'm forty years in New South Wales,And knows a thing or two;Can build a hut, and train a slut,And chaff a "Jackeroo."8I chiefly sticks to splittin' rails —It's contract work, d'ye see;I hates to ave a station-bossA-overlookin' me.I left my country for its good,But not my own, I fear;I makes big cheques a splittin' wood,And knocks 'em down in beer.I knows the Murrumbidgee's bends,Though not a "whaler"9 now,And many a score of sheep I've shoreFor good old Jacky Dow.I used to knock about on farms,And plough a "land" or two;But now for me that has no charms —I hates a "Cockatoo."10I'm splittin' for a squatter nowDown here upon the creek;He often says as how I've gotA sight too much o' cheek.They've got a new-chum over there —I hates new-chums, I do;I often tries to take a riseOut of that Jackeroo.One day when we was in the yardA draftin' out some ewes,We axed him for to lend a hand,He couldn't well refuse.I watched 'un for a minute justTo see what he would do;Bless'd if he warn't a chuckin' outA lot o' wethers too!He keeps the store and sarves the "dust" —I only wish he'd slope;I knows he often books to meToo many bars o' soap.In them it ain't no sort o' useInstruction to infuse;There ain t a gleam o' intellectIn new-chum Jackeroos.As soon as July fogs is goneI chucks my axe up there,And gets a stock of Ward and Payne's11At six and six a pair.I've been a shearin' off an' onFor such a precious while,I knows most every shearin' shed,And each partickler style.I'm able for to shear 'em clean,And level as a die;But I prefers to 'tommy-hawk,"And make the "daggers" fly.They mostly says that to the skinThey means to have 'em shore;I alius knocks off skin an' allWhen they begins to jawr.My tally's eighty-five a day —A hundred I could go,If coves would let me "open out"And take a bigger "blow."I allus roughs 'em when the bossAin't on the shearin' floor;It wouldn't pay to shear 'em cleanFor three and six a score.But when I see the super comeParadin' down the "board,"I looks as meek as any lambThat ever yet was shored.For, though by knockin' sheep aboutYou're causin' him a loss,It's 'ard to have a squatter comeAnd mark 'em with a cross.12They say us shearers sulks and growls —I'm swearing half the day,Because them blasted "pickers-up"Won't take the wool away.At sundown to the hut we goes;The young 'uns lark and fun;The cook and I exchanges blowsIf supper isn't done.And when the tea and mutton's gone,And each has had enough,We shoves the plates and pints away,And has a game o' "bluff."13I works a little "on the cross,"I never trusts to luck;I hates to have to "ante-up,"And likes to "pass the buck."I've got a way of dealin' cardsAs ain't exactly square;I does some things with jacks and kingsAs makes the young 'uns stare.I've mostly got four aces though,Or else a "routine flushI wins their cash and 'bacca, andThey pays for all my lush.I likes to get 'em in my debtFor what their cheque '11 clear;I've got a sort o' interest thenIn every sheep they shear.I'm cunnin', and my little gamesThey never does detect;But I never was partickler greenAs I can recollect.PREFACE TO THE PIC-NIC PAPERS,

IF I were asked to state the most noticeable feature of the social economy of Sydney – the thing which pre-eminently distinguishes her from other metropolises – I should, unhesitatingly, say pic-nics. I once held the proud position of occasional reporter to a weekly paper, and my mental calibre not being considered heavy enough, or my temperament sufficiently stolid to do justice to parliamentary debates, I was sent to report the pic-nics. In Sydney every trade gives one, and every private family about six in the course of the summer. Carpenters, butchers, barbers, blacksmiths, undertakers, even grave-diggers, all give their pic-nic during the season; and why should they not? Is it for me to ridicule the practice? Shall I, who have been received as an honoured guest at all (and retired to make three half-pence a line out of an account of the proceedings), splinter my puny lance of satire against a firmly-rooted and meritorious custom? I who have hobnobbed with the publicans, waltzed with the wheelwrights, done the lard i da with the pork-butchers' wives and daughters, danced coatillions with the tailors, and indulged in sootable amusements with the sweeps? Never!

I have retired from the pic-nic business now, and though my reports were not masterpieces of descriptive writing, and never wrung even the smallest tribute of gratitude from those they were intended to immortalize, I give a specimen or two to serve as models to those who hereafter may be called upon to report pic-nics for journals, religious or otherwise.

THE BUTCHER'S PIC-NIC

THIS event came off with an unusual amount of eclat; merchants, members of parliament, and people of all kinds, were present; and if they were not all butchers, they all became squatters when the grassy plateaux of Correy's Gardens were reached. The pic-nic took place appropriately under a ewe-tree, and fortunately the wether was remarkably fine. Saws (wise ones excepted), axes, steels, and all other implements used in the trade, were, by common consent, left behind, and the only killing done was that accomplished by several fascinating young slaughter-men, whose hair and accents were oily not to say greasy in the extreme. One of these, who went in heavily for euphuism, told his inamorata that her heart was harder than his father's block, and the satire of her tongue keener than the edge of a certain cleaver in his parent's possession.

Sir Loin Oxborough, Fifth Baron (of beef), estates strictly entailed, was unanimously voted to a deserted "bull-dog's" nest, which did duty for a chair. He occupied this position with dignity, and made a speech, interlarding his discourse with several choice cuts from Steel and other poets; e.g.,

"Reveal, reveal the light of truth to me!"

"Steak not thine all upon the die!" &c.

He said they were met to enjoy themselves, and by their joint exertions to banish dull care; adversity might come, but what of that? He had always found that a round of afflictions, or a dark cloud had a silver lining, or rather a "silver-side," like a round of beef. He had often been in trouble himself – cut down, as it were, by the cleaver of adversity; reduced, he might say, to mince-meat by the sausage-machine of ill-luck; and he and his family had been once or twice regularly salted down in the harness-cask of fate; but, thanks to his natural buoyancy, or (butcher) – boy-ancy of spirits, he had risen like a bladder to the surface of the sea of despondency, and lived to pluck the skewers of affliction from his heart.

He advocated morality and sobriety. He might say he had lived a moral and sober life, for though he had been a free and generous liver, he had always done his duty to his fellow-men according to his lights. His motto was "live and let live," except where dumb animals were concerned – those he killed on principle, as a matter of business; and he respected all religious sects, except vegetarians. He had been cut up by sorrow, and cast down by depression of trade as often as most men. He had seen beef at tuppence a pound, hides at 2s. 6d. each, and tallow at nothing at all (warm weather, and no colds in the head prevalent), but he had never lost heart; from a boy, hopefulness had always been a meat-tray (he begged pardon, he meant a sweet trait) in his character; he had persevered, worked hard, and had eventually carved his way to wealth, fame, and fortune, through bone, gristle, flesh, skin, sinew and all. He was prosperous, but he owed his rise more to shoulders of mutton than the shoulders of his friends. He had been self-reliant, just, and generous; and though he had flayed many a beast, he had never yet attempted to skin a flint. (Cheers.) He was not democratic, and he believed more in the horny-headed monsters than the horny-handed masses; still he liked to see a man rise by his own exertions; and, inasmuch as a king – Charles the First to wit – had shewn how easy was the transition from the throne to the block, he did not see why an ascent from the block to the throne might not be equally possible.