Emotions and Feelings

The Bill of the Ages

He shall live to the end of this mad old world, he has lived since the world began,
He never has done any good for himself, but was good to every man.
He never has done any good for himself, and I’m sure that he never will,
He drinks and he swears and he fights at times, and his name is mostly Bill.
He carried a freezing mate to his cave, and nursed him, for all I know,
When Europe was mostly a sheet of ice, thousands of years ago.
He has stuck to many a mate since then, he is with us everywhere still
(He loves and gambles when he is young, and the girls stick up for Bill.)


He has rowed to a wreck, when the lifeboat failed, with Jim in a crazy boat;
He has given his lifebelt many a time, and sunk that another might float.
He has ‘stood ’em off’ while others escaped, when the niggers rushed from the hill,
And rescue parties who came too late have found what was left of Bill.


He has thirsted on deserts that others might drink, he has given lest others should
lack,
He has staggered half-blinded through fire or drought with a sick man on his back.
He is first to the rescue in tunnel or shaft, from Newcastle to Broken Hill,
When the water breaks in or the fire breaks out, Oh! a leader of men is Bill.


No humane societies’ medals he wears for the fearful deaths he braved;
He seems ashamed of the good he did, and ashamed of the lives he saved.
If you chance to know of a noble deed he has done, you had best keep still;
If you chance to know of a kindly act, you mustn’t let on to Bill.


He is fierce at a wrong, he is firm in right, he is kind to the weak and mild;
He will slave all day and sit up all night by the side of a neighbour’s child.
For a woman in trouble he’d lay down his life, nor think as another man will;
He’s a man all through, but no other man’s wife has ever been worse for Bill.


He is good for the noblest sacrifice, he can do what few other men can;
He can break his heart that the girl he loves may marry a better man.
There’s many a mother and wife to-night whose heart and whose eyes will fill
When she thinks of the days of the long ago when she well might have stuck to Bill.


Maybe he’s in trouble or hard up now, and travelling far for work,
Or fighting a dead past down to-night in a lone camp west of Bourke.
When he’s happy and flush, take your sorrow to him and borrow as much as you will;
But when he’s in trouble or stony-broke, you never will hear from Bill.


And when, because of its million sins, this earth is cracked like a shell,
He will stand by a mate at the Judgment Seat!—and comfort him down in—Well,
I haven’t much sentiment left, but let the cynic sneer as he will;
Perhaps God will fix up the world again for the sake of the likes of Bill.

The Bill of the Ages

He shall live to the end of this mad old world, he has lived since the world began,
He never has done any good for himself, but was good to every man.
He never has done any good for himself, and I’m sure that he never will,
He drinks and he swears and he fights at times, and his name is mostly Bill.
He carried a freezing mate to his cave, and nursed him, for all I know,
When Europe was mostly a sheet of ice, thousands of years ago.
He has stuck to many a mate since then, he is with us everywhere still
(He loves and gambles when he is young, and the girls stick up for Bill.)


He has rowed to a wreck, when the lifeboat failed, with Jim in a crazy boat;
He has given his lifebelt many a time, and sunk that another might float.
He has ‘stood ’em off’ while others escaped, when the niggers rushed from the hill,
And rescue parties who came too late have found what was left of Bill.


He has thirsted on deserts that others might drink, he has given lest others should
lack,
He has staggered half-blinded through fire or drought with a sick man on his back.
He is first to the rescue in tunnel or shaft, from Newcastle to Broken Hill,
When the water breaks in or the fire breaks out, Oh! a leader of men is Bill.


No humane societies’ medals he wears for the fearful deaths he braved;
He seems ashamed of the good he did, and ashamed of the lives he saved.
If you chance to know of a noble deed he has done, you had best keep still;
If you chance to know of a kindly act, you mustn’t let on to Bill.


He is fierce at a wrong, he is firm in right, he is kind to the weak and mild;
He will slave all day and sit up all night by the side of a neighbour’s child.
For a woman in trouble he’d lay down his life, nor think as another man will;
He’s a man all through, but no other man’s wife has ever been worse for Bill.


He is good for the noblest sacrifice, he can do what few other men can;
He can break his heart that the girl he loves may marry a better man.
There’s many a mother and wife to-night whose heart and whose eyes will fill
When she thinks of the days of the long ago when she well might have stuck to Bill.


Maybe he’s in trouble or hard up now, and travelling far for work,
Or fighting a dead past down to-night in a lone camp west of Bourke.
When he’s happy and flush, take your sorrow to him and borrow as much as you will;
But when he’s in trouble or stony-broke, you never will hear from Bill.


And when, because of its million sins, this earth is cracked like a shell,
He will stand by a mate at the Judgment Seat!—and comfort him down in—Well,
I haven’t much sentiment left, but let the cynic sneer as he will;
Perhaps God will fix up the world again for the sake of the likes of Bill.

The Ballad of the Elder Son

A son of elder sons I am,
Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,
Through ages of domestic sham
And family lies and family cant.
Come, elder brothers mine, and bring
Dull loads of care that you have won,
And gather round me while I sing
The ballad of the elder son.


’Twas Christ who spake in parables—
To picture man was his intent;
A simple tale He simply tells,
And He Himself makes no comment.
A morbid sympathy is felt
For prodigals—the selfish ones—
The crooked world has ever dealt
Unjustly by the elder sons.


The elder son on barren soil,
Where life is crude and lands are new,
Must share the father’s hardest toil,
And share the father’s troubles too.
With no child-thoughts to meet his own
His childhood is a lonely one:
The youth his father might have known
Is seldom for the eldest son.


It seems so strange, but fate is grim,
And Heaven’s ways are hard to track,
Though ten young scamps come after him
The rod falls heaviest on his back.
And, well I’ll say it might be caused
By a half-sense of injustice done—
That vague resentment parents feel
So oft towards the eldest son.


He, too, must bear the father’s name,
He loves his younger brother, too,
And feels the younger brother’s shame
As keenly as his parents do.
The mother’s prayers, the father’s curse,
The sister’s tears have all been done—
We seldom see in prose or verse
The prayers of the elder son.


But let me to the parable
With eyes on facts but fancy free;
And don’t belie me if I tell
The story as it seems to me—
For, mind, I do not mean to sneer
(I was religious when a child),
I wouldn’t be surprised to hear



That Christ himself had sometimes smiled.


A certain squatter had two sons
Up Canaan way some years ago.
The graft was hard on those old runs,
And it was hot and life was slow.
The younger brother coolly claimed
The portion that he hadn’t earned,
And sought the ‘life’ for which untamed
And high young spirits always yearned.


A year or so he knocked about,
And spent his cheques on girls and wine,
And, getting stony in the drought,
He took a job at herding swine,
And though he is a hog that swigs
And fools with girls till all is blue—
’Twas rather rough to shepherd pigs
And have to eat their tucker too.


“When he came to himself,” he said
(I take my Bible from the shelf:
There’s nothing like a feed of husks
To bring a young man to himself.
And when you’re done with wine and girls—
Right here a moral seems to shine—
And are hard up, you’ll find no pearls
Are cast by friends before your swine)—


When he came to himself, he said—
He reckoned pretty shrewdly, too—
‘The rousers in my father’s shed
‘Have got more grub than they can chew;
‘I’ve been a fool, but such is fate—
‘I guess I’ll talk the guv’nor round:
‘“I’ve acted cronk,” I’ll tell him straight;
‘(He’s had his time too, I’ll be bound).


‘I’ll tell him straight I’ve had my fling,
‘I’ll tell him “I’ve been on the beer,
‘“But put me on at anything,
‘“I’ll graft with any bounder here.”’
He rolled his swag and struck for home—
He was by this time pretty slim
And, when the old man saw him come—
Well, you know how he welcomed him.


They’ve brought the best robe in the house,
The ring, and killed the fatted calf,
And now they hold a grand carouse,
And eat and drink and dance and laugh:
And from the field the elder son—



Whose character is not admired—
Comes plodding home when work is done,
And very hot and very tired.


He asked the meaning of the sound
Of such unwonted revelry,
They said his brother had been ‘found’
(He’d found himself it seemed to me);
’Twas natural in the elder son
To take the thing a little hard
And brood on what was past and done
While standing outside in the yard.


Now he was hungry and knocked out
And would, if they had let him be,
Have rested and cooled down, no doubt,
And hugged his brother after tea,
And welcomed him and hugged his dad
And filled the wine cup to the brim—
But, just when he was feeling bad
The old man came and tackled him.


He well might say with bitter tears
While music swelled and flowed the wine—
‘Lo, I have served thee many years
‘Nor caused thee one grey hair of thine.
‘Whate’er thou bad’st me do I did
‘And for my brother made amends;
‘Thou never gavest me a kid
‘That I might make merry with my friends.’


(He was no honest clod and glum
Who could not trespass, sing nor dance—
He could be merry with a chum,
It seemed, if he had half a chance;
Perhaps, if further light we seek,
He knew—and herein lay the sting—
His brother would clear out next week
And promptly pop the robe and ring).


The father said, ‘The wandering one,
‘The lost is found, this son of mine,
‘But thou art always with me, son—
‘Thou knowest all I have is thine.’
(It seemed the best robe and the ring,
The love and fatted calf were not;
But this was just a little thing
The old man in his joy forgot.)


The father’s blindness in the house,
The mother’s fond and foolish way
Have caused no end of ancient rows



Right back to Cain and Abel’s day.
The world will blame the eldest born—
But—well, when all is said and done,
No coat has ever yet been worn
That had no colour more than one.


Oh! if I had the power to teach—
The strength for which my spirit craves—
The cant of parents I would preach
Who slave and make their children slaves.
For greed of gain, and that alone
Their youth they steal, their hearts they break
And then, the wretched misers moan—
‘We did it for our children’s sake.’


‘And all I have’—the paltry bribe
That he might slave contented yet
While envied by his selfish tribe
The birthright he might never get:
The worked-out farm and endless graft,
The mortgaged home, the barren run—
The heavy, hopeless overdraft—
The portion of the elder son.


He keeps his parents when they’re old,
He keeps a sister in distress,
His wife must work and care for them
And bear with all their pettishness.
The mother’s moan is ever heard,
And, whining for the worthless one,
She seldom has a kindly word
To say about her eldest son.


’Tis he, in spite of sneer and jibe,
Who stands the friend when others fail:
He bears the burdens of his tribe
And keeps his brother out of jail.
He lends the quid and pays the fine,
And for the family pride he smarts—
For reasons I cannot divine
They hate him in their heart of hearts.


A satire on this world of sin—
Where parents seldom understand—
That night the angels gathered in
The firstborn of that ancient land.
Perhaps they thought, in those old camps,
While suffering for the blow that fell,
They might have better spared the scamps
And Josephs that they loved so well.


Sometimes the Eldest takes the track



When things at home have got too bad—
He comes not crawling, canting back
To seek the blind side of his dad.
He always finds a knife and fork
And meat between on which to dine,
And, though he sometimes deals in pork,
You’ll never catch him herding swine.


The happy home, the overdraft,
His birthright and his prospects gay,
And likewise his share of the graft,
He leaves the rest to grab. And they—
Who’d always do the thing by halves,
If anything for him was done—
Would kill a score of fatted calves
To welcome home the eldest son.

The Ballad of the Elder Son

A son of elder sons I am,
Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,
Through ages of domestic sham
And family lies and family cant.
Come, elder brothers mine, and bring
Dull loads of care that you have won,
And gather round me while I sing
The ballad of the elder son.


’Twas Christ who spake in parables—
To picture man was his intent;
A simple tale He simply tells,
And He Himself makes no comment.
A morbid sympathy is felt
For prodigals—the selfish ones—
The crooked world has ever dealt
Unjustly by the elder sons.


The elder son on barren soil,
Where life is crude and lands are new,
Must share the father’s hardest toil,
And share the father’s troubles too.
With no child-thoughts to meet his own
His childhood is a lonely one:
The youth his father might have known
Is seldom for the eldest son.


It seems so strange, but fate is grim,
And Heaven’s ways are hard to track,
Though ten young scamps come after him
The rod falls heaviest on his back.
And, well I’ll say it might be caused
By a half-sense of injustice done—
That vague resentment parents feel
So oft towards the eldest son.


He, too, must bear the father’s name,
He loves his younger brother, too,
And feels the younger brother’s shame
As keenly as his parents do.
The mother’s prayers, the father’s curse,
The sister’s tears have all been done—
We seldom see in prose or verse
The prayers of the elder son.


But let me to the parable
With eyes on facts but fancy free;
And don’t belie me if I tell
The story as it seems to me—
For, mind, I do not mean to sneer
(I was religious when a child),
I wouldn’t be surprised to hear



That Christ himself had sometimes smiled.


A certain squatter had two sons
Up Canaan way some years ago.
The graft was hard on those old runs,
And it was hot and life was slow.
The younger brother coolly claimed
The portion that he hadn’t earned,
And sought the ‘life’ for which untamed
And high young spirits always yearned.


A year or so he knocked about,
And spent his cheques on girls and wine,
And, getting stony in the drought,
He took a job at herding swine,
And though he is a hog that swigs
And fools with girls till all is blue—
’Twas rather rough to shepherd pigs
And have to eat their tucker too.


“When he came to himself,” he said
(I take my Bible from the shelf:
There’s nothing like a feed of husks
To bring a young man to himself.
And when you’re done with wine and girls—
Right here a moral seems to shine—
And are hard up, you’ll find no pearls
Are cast by friends before your swine)—


When he came to himself, he said—
He reckoned pretty shrewdly, too—
‘The rousers in my father’s shed
‘Have got more grub than they can chew;
‘I’ve been a fool, but such is fate—
‘I guess I’ll talk the guv’nor round:
‘“I’ve acted cronk,” I’ll tell him straight;
‘(He’s had his time too, I’ll be bound).


‘I’ll tell him straight I’ve had my fling,
‘I’ll tell him “I’ve been on the beer,
‘“But put me on at anything,
‘“I’ll graft with any bounder here.”’
He rolled his swag and struck for home—
He was by this time pretty slim
And, when the old man saw him come—
Well, you know how he welcomed him.


They’ve brought the best robe in the house,
The ring, and killed the fatted calf,
And now they hold a grand carouse,
And eat and drink and dance and laugh:
And from the field the elder son—



Whose character is not admired—
Comes plodding home when work is done,
And very hot and very tired.


He asked the meaning of the sound
Of such unwonted revelry,
They said his brother had been ‘found’
(He’d found himself it seemed to me);
’Twas natural in the elder son
To take the thing a little hard
And brood on what was past and done
While standing outside in the yard.


Now he was hungry and knocked out
And would, if they had let him be,
Have rested and cooled down, no doubt,
And hugged his brother after tea,
And welcomed him and hugged his dad
And filled the wine cup to the brim—
But, just when he was feeling bad
The old man came and tackled him.


He well might say with bitter tears
While music swelled and flowed the wine—
‘Lo, I have served thee many years
‘Nor caused thee one grey hair of thine.
‘Whate’er thou bad’st me do I did
‘And for my brother made amends;
‘Thou never gavest me a kid
‘That I might make merry with my friends.’


(He was no honest clod and glum
Who could not trespass, sing nor dance—
He could be merry with a chum,
It seemed, if he had half a chance;
Perhaps, if further light we seek,
He knew—and herein lay the sting—
His brother would clear out next week
And promptly pop the robe and ring).


The father said, ‘The wandering one,
‘The lost is found, this son of mine,
‘But thou art always with me, son—
‘Thou knowest all I have is thine.’
(It seemed the best robe and the ring,
The love and fatted calf were not;
But this was just a little thing
The old man in his joy forgot.)


The father’s blindness in the house,
The mother’s fond and foolish way
Have caused no end of ancient rows



Right back to Cain and Abel’s day.
The world will blame the eldest born—
But—well, when all is said and done,
No coat has ever yet been worn
That had no colour more than one.


Oh! if I had the power to teach—
The strength for which my spirit craves—
The cant of parents I would preach
Who slave and make their children slaves.
For greed of gain, and that alone
Their youth they steal, their hearts they break
And then, the wretched misers moan—
‘We did it for our children’s sake.’


‘And all I have’—the paltry bribe
That he might slave contented yet
While envied by his selfish tribe
The birthright he might never get:
The worked-out farm and endless graft,
The mortgaged home, the barren run—
The heavy, hopeless overdraft—
The portion of the elder son.


He keeps his parents when they’re old,
He keeps a sister in distress,
His wife must work and care for them
And bear with all their pettishness.
The mother’s moan is ever heard,
And, whining for the worthless one,
She seldom has a kindly word
To say about her eldest son.


’Tis he, in spite of sneer and jibe,
Who stands the friend when others fail:
He bears the burdens of his tribe
And keeps his brother out of jail.
He lends the quid and pays the fine,
And for the family pride he smarts—
For reasons I cannot divine
They hate him in their heart of hearts.


A satire on this world of sin—
Where parents seldom understand—
That night the angels gathered in
The firstborn of that ancient land.
Perhaps they thought, in those old camps,
While suffering for the blow that fell,
They might have better spared the scamps
And Josephs that they loved so well.


Sometimes the Eldest takes the track



When things at home have got too bad—
He comes not crawling, canting back
To seek the blind side of his dad.
He always finds a knife and fork
And meat between on which to dine,
And, though he sometimes deals in pork,
You’ll never catch him herding swine.


The happy home, the overdraft,
His birthright and his prospects gay,
And likewise his share of the graft,
He leaves the rest to grab. And they—
Who’d always do the thing by halves,
If anything for him was done—
Would kill a score of fatted calves
To welcome home the eldest son.

The Bard of Furthest Out

He longed to be a Back-Blocks Bard,
And fame he wished to win—
He wrote at night and studied hard
(He read The Bulletin);
He sent in “stuff” unceasingly,
But couldn’t get it through;
And so, at last, he came to me
To see what I could do.


The poet’s light was in his eye,
He aimed to be a man;
He bought a bluey and a fly,
A brand new billy-can.
I showed him how to roll his swag
And “sling it” with the best;
I gave him my old water-bag,
And pointed to the west.


“Now you can take the train as far
As Blazes if you like—
The wealthy go by motor-car
(Some travellers go by bike);
They race it through without a rest,
And find it very tame—
But if you tramp it to the west
You’ll get there just the same.


“(No matter if the hour is late,
The morning goes Out-Back),
You do not need a dog nor mate,
You’ll find them on the track.
You must avoid such deadly rhymes
As ‘self’ and ‘elf’ and ‘shelf’.
But were it as in other times,
I’d go with you myself.


“Those days are done for me, but ah!
On hills where you shall be,
The wattle and the waratah
Are good to smell and see.
But there’s a scent, my heart believes,
That ‘travellers’ set higher
Than wattle—’tis the dried gum leaves
That light the evening fire.


“The evening fire and morning fire
Are one fire in the Bush.
(You’ll find the points that you require
As towards the west you push.)
And as you pass by ancient ways,
Old camps, and mountain springs,
The spirits of the Roaring Days



Will whisper many things.


“The lonely ridge-and-gully belt—
The spirit of the whole
It must be seen; it must be felt—
Must sink into your soul!
The summer silence-creek-oaks’ sigh—
The windy, rainy “woosh”—
’Tis known to other men, and I—
The Spirit of the Bush!


“So on, and on, through dust and heat,
When past the spurs you be—
And you shall meet whom you shall meet,
And see what you shall see,
You need not claim the stranger’s due,
They yield it everywhere,
And mateship is a thing that you
Must take for granted there.


“And in the land of Lord-knows-where—
Right up and furthest out—
You find a new Australia there
That we know nought about.
Live as they live, fight as they fight,
Succeed as they succeed,
And then come back again and write
For all the world to read.”


I’ve got a note from Hungerford,
’Tis written frank and fair;
The bushman’s grim philosophy—
The bushman’s grin are there.
And tramping on through rain and drought—
Unlooked for and unmissed—
I may have sent to furthest out
The Great Bush Novelist.

The Ballad of the Black-Sheep

A black-sheep, from England, who worked on the run –
Riding where the stockmen ride –
He sat by the hut when the day’s work was done –
Lone huts where the black sheep bide.
“I’m tired of my life!” to his lone self said he,
“My girl and my country are both done with me!”


“I’m tired of my life!” to the wide scrubs said he –
“My girl and my country are long done with me!”


He took from a packet a portrait and curl –
Such things as the exiles keep –
And sadly he gazed at the face of the girl –
Lost girl of a lost black-sheep.
“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there!” said he;
“My girl and my country are well rid of me.


“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there,” said he;
“For heart-break and country that’s well rid of me!”


He rode with a thousand, he rode with the best –
Riding as bushmen ride –
Who’d ridden alone on the wastes of the West –
Wide wastes where the drought-fiends bide,
They rode as they’d ride to an up-country ball,
And the laugh of the black-sheep was lightest of all!


The road was a shambles, the hill was a hell –
Red rosed where the reckless ride –
And he with the foremost lay torn by a shell –
(Die hard where your father died!)
“the death of a rebel!” he laughed as he groaned –
“for the land that adoptee – the land that disowned!”


the death of a black-sheep! – they laugh as they groan –
for the lands that adopt and the lands that disown!

The Ballad of the Black-Sheep

A black-sheep, from England, who worked on the run –
Riding where the stockmen ride –
He sat by the hut when the day’s work was done –
Lone huts where the black sheep bide.
“I’m tired of my life!” to his lone self said he,
“My girl and my country are both done with me!”


“I’m tired of my life!” to the wide scrubs said he –
“My girl and my country are long done with me!”


He took from a packet a portrait and curl –
Such things as the exiles keep –
And sadly he gazed at the face of the girl –
Lost girl of a lost black-sheep.
“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there!” said he;
“My girl and my country are well rid of me.


“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there,” said he;
“For heart-break and country that’s well rid of me!”


He rode with a thousand, he rode with the best –
Riding as bushmen ride –
Who’d ridden alone on the wastes of the West –
Wide wastes where the drought-fiends bide,
They rode as they’d ride to an up-country ball,
And the laugh of the black-sheep was lightest of all!


The road was a shambles, the hill was a hell –
Red rosed where the reckless ride –
And he with the foremost lay torn by a shell –
(Die hard where your father died!)
“the death of a rebel!” he laughed as he groaned –
“for the land that adoptee – the land that disowned!”


the death of a black-sheep! – they laugh as they groan –
for the lands that adopt and the lands that disown!

The Ballad of the Black-Sheep

A black-sheep, from England, who worked on the run –
Riding where the stockmen ride –
He sat by the hut when the day’s work was done –
Lone huts where the black sheep bide.
“I’m tired of my life!” to his lone self said he,
“My girl and my country are both done with me!”


“I’m tired of my life!” to the wide scrubs said he –
“My girl and my country are long done with me!”


He took from a packet a portrait and curl –
Such things as the exiles keep –
And sadly he gazed at the face of the girl –
Lost girl of a lost black-sheep.
“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there!” said he;
“My girl and my country are well rid of me.


“I’ll go where there’s fighting and die there,” said he;
“For heart-break and country that’s well rid of me!”


He rode with a thousand, he rode with the best –
Riding as bushmen ride –
Who’d ridden alone on the wastes of the West –
Wide wastes where the drought-fiends bide,
They rode as they’d ride to an up-country ball,
And the laugh of the black-sheep was lightest of all!


The road was a shambles, the hill was a hell –
Red rosed where the reckless ride –
And he with the foremost lay torn by a shell –
(Die hard where your father died!)
“the death of a rebel!” he laughed as he groaned –
“for the land that adoptee – the land that disowned!”


the death of a black-sheep! – they laugh as they groan –
for the lands that adopt and the lands that disown!

The Babies of Walloon

He was lengthsman on the railway, and his station scarce deserved
That “pre-eminence in sorrow” of the Majesty he served,
But as dear to him and precious were the gifts reclaimed so soon—
Were the workman’s little daughters who were buried near Walloon.


Speak their names in tones that linger, just as though you held them dear;
There are eyes to which the mention of those names will bring a tear.
Little Kate and Bridget, straying in an autumn afternoon,
Were attracted by the lilies in the water of Walloon.


All is dark to us. The angels sing perhaps in Paradise
Of the younger sister’s danger, and the elder’s sacrifice;
But the facts were hidden from us, when the soft light from the moon
Glistened on the water-lilies o’er the Babies at Walloon.


Ah! the children love the lilies, while we elders are inclined
To the flowers that have poison for the body and the mind.
Better for the “strongly human” to have done with life as soon,
Better perish for a lily like the Babies of Walloon.


For they gather flowers early on the river far away,
Where the everlasting lilies keep their purity for aye,
And while summer brings our lilies to the run and the lagoon
May our children keep the legend of the Babies of Walloon.

The Alleys

I was welcome in a palace when the ball was at my feet,
I was petted in a garden and my triumph was complete.
But for me above the alleys there forever shone a star,
Where the third-rate public houses and the dens of Venus are.
Where the third-rate public houses
And the fourth-rate lodging houses,
And the rag-shops and the pawn-shops and the dens of Venus are.
I was born among the alleys, bred in darkness and in doubt,
And I wrote the truth in blindness and I struggled up and out;
And the world was fair before me and the way was wide and plain,
But the spirit of the alleys ever dragged me back again.
’Tis a madness I inherit
And a blind and reckless spirit.
Oh! the spirit of the alleys ever drags me down again!


There were fair girls in the garden where the spring came in a day,
But the barmaids in the alleys know a wider world than they.
There were wise men in the palace who were born to rule the earth,
But the wrecks amongst the alleys know the world for what it’s worth.
To the pewter from the chalice,
To the slum from the palace,
Aye! the wrecks sunk in the alleys know the world for what it’s worth!


Poets who have done with puzzling—men who talk but dare not think—
Men who might have moulded nations had it not been for the drink!
Wicked stories full of humour—shafts of wit that seldom miss,
Shot from blighted lips of women that the bravest dare not kiss?
Let the worst girl lead the revels
Of the reckless alley devils!—
Pure and virtuous women often, often drive men down to this.


In the days of mental torture when my life was all a hell,
It was down amongst the alleys that I learnt the tales I tell,
From the black-sheep out from England, from the boozer in from Bourke,
From the tired haggard women bending over needle-work:
Tales of wrongs, that fire the spirit,
Tales of more than human merit,
Told in quiet tones and measured, bending over needle-work.


Oh! the pathos and the humour of the shifts of poverty,
Oh! the sympathy of drunkards, wit and truth and charity,
Oh! the worn-out working women and the lives that they endure,
And the hard and callous kindness of the poor unto the poor!
(Where they blame not—those who labour—
And the prostitute’s a neighbour)
Ah! the humour and the courage and the kindness of the poor!


There is fire down in the alleys that has smouldered very long;
There is hatred in the alleys born of centuries of wrong;
And no prayer wins to heaven like a prayer from the slums,
And the thrones of empire totter when the alleys beat their drums.
(Ah! the world is very rotten!



But my sins shall be forgotten
And my work shall be remembered when the alleys beat their drums.)


It is down amongst the alleys, in the alleys dull and damp,
They find kindness in a scoundrel, they find good points in a scamp.
It is down amongst the alleys, now my star has ceased to shine,
I find sympathy with sinners and can hide what shame is mine,
For we trust and shield each other
And a sinner is a brother—
There are souls amongst the alleys who were lost the same as mine.


And if you should some day miss me, and should care to wonder why,
Ask for me amongst the alleys by the name they knew me by:
Mind your head and pick your footsteps for you’ll grope in alley gloom,
And the stairs are steep and narrow where they’ll lead you to a room.
What if floors are foul and dusty
And the air is close and musty?
In the days when I was noble then I wrote in such a room.


You will see a chair and table dimly shown by candle light,
And the pen I dropped for ever from the last line I shall write;
And some poor attempts at comfort, and a bottle—and maybe
You will find a bad girl crying over what is left of me:
Call no friends—I shall not need them;
Call no priests—I shall not heed them—
Let the bad girl do the praying over what is left of me.

That There Dog O' Mine

Macquarie the shearer had met with an accident. To tell the truth, he had been in a
drunken row at a wayside shanty, from which he had escaped with three fractured ribs,
a cracked head, and various minor abrasions. His dog, Tally, had been a sober but
savage participator in the drunken row, and had escaped with a broken leg.

Macquarie afterwards shouldered his swag and staggered and struggled along the track
ten miles to the Union-Town Hospital. Lord knows how he did it. He didn't exactly know
himself. Tally limped behind all the way on three legs. The doctors examined the man's
injuries and were surprised at his endurance.

Even doctors are surprised sometimes - though they don't always show it. Of course
they would take him in, but they objected to Tally. Dogs were not allowed on the
premises. 'You will have to turn that dog out,' they said to the shearer, as he sat on
the edge of a bed.

Macquarie said nothing. 'We cannot allow dogs about the place, my man,' said the
doctor in a louder tone, thinking the man was deaf. 'Tie him up in the yard then.' 'No.
He must go out. Dogs are not permitted on the grounds.'

Macquarie rose slowly to his feet, shut his agony behind his set teeth painfully
buttoned his shirt over his hairy chest, took up his waistcoat, and staggered to the
comer where the swag lay. 'What are you going to do?' they asked.

'You ain't going to let my dog stop?' 'No. It's against the rules. There are no dogs
allowed on the premises.' He stooped and lifted his swag, but the pain was too great,
and he leaned back against the wall.

'Come, come now! man alive!' exclaimed the doctor, impatiently. 'You must be mad.
You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let the wardsman help you to undress.'
'No!' said Macquarie. 'No. If you won't take my dog in you don't take me. He's got a
broken leg and wants fixing up just - just as much as - as I do.

If I'm good enough to come in, he's good enough - and - and better.' He paused
awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on. 'That - that there old dog of mine has
follered me faithful and true, these twelve long hard and hungry years. He's about about
the only thing that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursed
track.'

He rested again; then he continued: 'That - that there dog was pupped on the track,'
he said with a sad sort of smile. 'I carried him for months in a billy can and afterwards
on my swag when he was knocked up… And the old slut - his mother - she'd foller
along quite contented - sniff the billy now and again - just to see if he was all right…
She follered me for God knows how many years. She follered me till she was blind and
for a year after. She folleredme till she could crawl along through the dust no
longer, and - and then I killed her, because I couldn't leave her behind alive! '

He rested again. 'And this here old dog,' he continued, touching Tally's upturned nose
with his knotted fingers, 'this here old dog has follered me for - for ten years; through
floods and droughts, through fair times and - and hard - mostly hard; and kept me
from going mad when I had no mate nor money on the lonely track and watched over
me for weeks when I was drunk - drugged and poisoned at the cursed shanties; and
saved my life more'n once, and got kicks and curses very often for thanks; and forgave


me for it all; and - and fought for me.

He was the only living thing that stood up for me against that crawling push of curs
when they set onter me at the shanty back yonder - and he left his mark on some of
'em too; and - and so did I.' He took another spell.

Then he drew in his breath, shut his teeth hard, shouldered his swag, stepped into the
doorway, and faced round again. The dog limped out of the comer and looked up
anxiously. 'That there dog,' said Macquarie to the Hospital staff in general, 'is a better
dog than I'm a man - or you too, it seems - and a better Christian.

He's been a better mate to me than I ever was to any man - or any man to me. He's
watched over me; kep' me from getting robbed many a time; fought for me; saved my
life and took drunken kicks and curses for thanks - and forgave me. He's been a true,
straight, honest, and faithful mate to me - and I ain't going to desert him now. I ain't
going to kick him out in the road with a broken leg. I - Oh, my God! my back!'

He groaned and lurched forward, but they caught him, slipped off the swag, and laid
him on a bed. Half an hour later the shearer was comfortably fixed up. 'Where's my
dog?' he asked, when he came to himself.

'Oh, the dog's all right,' said the nurse, rather impatiently. 'Don't bother. The doctor's
setting his leg out in the yard.'

That There Dog O' Mine

Macquarie the shearer had met with an accident. To tell the truth, he had been in a
drunken row at a wayside shanty, from which he had escaped with three fractured ribs,
a cracked head, and various minor abrasions. His dog, Tally, had been a sober but
savage participator in the drunken row, and had escaped with a broken leg.

Macquarie afterwards shouldered his swag and staggered and struggled along the track
ten miles to the Union-Town Hospital. Lord knows how he did it. He didn't exactly know
himself. Tally limped behind all the way on three legs. The doctors examined the man's
injuries and were surprised at his endurance.

Even doctors are surprised sometimes - though they don't always show it. Of course
they would take him in, but they objected to Tally. Dogs were not allowed on the
premises. 'You will have to turn that dog out,' they said to the shearer, as he sat on
the edge of a bed.

Macquarie said nothing. 'We cannot allow dogs about the place, my man,' said the
doctor in a louder tone, thinking the man was deaf. 'Tie him up in the yard then.' 'No.
He must go out. Dogs are not permitted on the grounds.'

Macquarie rose slowly to his feet, shut his agony behind his set teeth painfully
buttoned his shirt over his hairy chest, took up his waistcoat, and staggered to the
comer where the swag lay. 'What are you going to do?' they asked.

'You ain't going to let my dog stop?' 'No. It's against the rules. There are no dogs
allowed on the premises.' He stooped and lifted his swag, but the pain was too great,
and he leaned back against the wall.

'Come, come now! man alive!' exclaimed the doctor, impatiently. 'You must be mad.
You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let the wardsman help you to undress.'
'No!' said Macquarie. 'No. If you won't take my dog in you don't take me. He's got a
broken leg and wants fixing up just - just as much as - as I do.

If I'm good enough to come in, he's good enough - and - and better.' He paused
awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on. 'That - that there old dog of mine has
follered me faithful and true, these twelve long hard and hungry years. He's about about
the only thing that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursed
track.'

He rested again; then he continued: 'That - that there dog was pupped on the track,'
he said with a sad sort of smile. 'I carried him for months in a billy can and afterwards
on my swag when he was knocked up… And the old slut - his mother - she'd foller
along quite contented - sniff the billy now and again - just to see if he was all right…
She follered me for God knows how many years. She follered me till she was blind and
for a year after. She folleredme till she could crawl along through the dust no
longer, and - and then I killed her, because I couldn't leave her behind alive! '

He rested again. 'And this here old dog,' he continued, touching Tally's upturned nose
with his knotted fingers, 'this here old dog has follered me for - for ten years; through
floods and droughts, through fair times and - and hard - mostly hard; and kept me
from going mad when I had no mate nor money on the lonely track and watched over
me for weeks when I was drunk - drugged and poisoned at the cursed shanties; and
saved my life more'n once, and got kicks and curses very often for thanks; and forgave


me for it all; and - and fought for me.

He was the only living thing that stood up for me against that crawling push of curs
when they set onter me at the shanty back yonder - and he left his mark on some of
'em too; and - and so did I.' He took another spell.

Then he drew in his breath, shut his teeth hard, shouldered his swag, stepped into the
doorway, and faced round again. The dog limped out of the comer and looked up
anxiously. 'That there dog,' said Macquarie to the Hospital staff in general, 'is a better
dog than I'm a man - or you too, it seems - and a better Christian.

He's been a better mate to me than I ever was to any man - or any man to me. He's
watched over me; kep' me from getting robbed many a time; fought for me; saved my
life and took drunken kicks and curses for thanks - and forgave me. He's been a true,
straight, honest, and faithful mate to me - and I ain't going to desert him now. I ain't
going to kick him out in the road with a broken leg. I - Oh, my God! my back!'

He groaned and lurched forward, but they caught him, slipped off the swag, and laid
him on a bed. Half an hour later the shearer was comfortably fixed up. 'Where's my
dog?' he asked, when he came to himself.

'Oh, the dog's all right,' said the nurse, rather impatiently. 'Don't bother. The doctor's
setting his leg out in the yard.'

Talbragar


Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.


By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, until the day was done
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s Run.
No Bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.


By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped—
At each he cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.


At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


At all the shanties round the place they‘d beard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof ’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.


“The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead—
A burning shame!” the people said
Next day at Talbragar.


For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough Bushmen’s eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;



But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, ten miles from Talbragar.


They knelt around.
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, “Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!”


But one short hour before he died he woke and understood;
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was good;
And then there came into his eyes a sad and softened light.
He said. “Poor Denver’s wife and kids—you’ll see that they’re all right?”
And still the careless Bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.


And far and wide
When Duggan died.
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.

Talbragar


Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head—her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the biggest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.


By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, until the day was done
And then he turned his horse’s head and made for Ross’s Run.
No Bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.


By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped—
At each he cried, “Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away—for blinding things they are—
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.


At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, “Jack Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!”


At all the shanties round the place they‘d beard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track—
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof ’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.


“The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead—
A burning shame!” the people said
Next day at Talbragar.


For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough Bushmen’s eyes were dim—
The Western Bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;



But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, ten miles from Talbragar.


They knelt around.
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, “Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!”


But one short hour before he died he woke and understood;
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was good;
And then there came into his eyes a sad and softened light.
He said. “Poor Denver’s wife and kids—you’ll see that they’re all right?”
And still the careless Bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.


And far and wide
When Duggan died.
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.

Take It Fightin’

When you’ve got no chance at all,
Take it fightin’.
When you’re driven to the wall,
Take it fightin’.


There are things that we delight in
For the wrongin’ or the rightin’,
But the fool you cannot frighten
(That you cannot bluff nor frighten)
He is King of all.
(Take it fightin’.)


When you’re down an’ out an’ utter,
Take it fightin’;
When they’ve put you in the gutter,
Take it fightin’.


There are things that we delight in
For the wrongin’ or the rightin’,
But the fool you cannot frighten
(That you cannot bluff nor frighten)
He is King of all.
(Take it fightin’.)

Sweethearts Wait on Every Shore

SHE SITS beside the tinted tide,
That’s reddened by the tortured sand;
And through the East, to ocean wide,
A vessel sails from sight of land.


But she will wait and watch in vain,
For it is said in Cupid’s lore,
“That he who loved will love again,
And sweethearts wait on every shore.”

Success


Did you see that man riding past,
With shoulders bowed with care?
There’s failure in his eyes to last,
And in his heart despair.
He seldom looks to left or right,
He nods, but speaks to none,
And he’s a man who fought the fight—
God knows how hard!—and won.
No great “review” could rouse him now,
No printed lies could sting;
No kindness smooth his knitted brow,
Nor wrong one new line bring.
Through dull, dumb days and brooding nights,
From years of storm and stress,
He’s riding down from lonely heights—
The Mountains of Success.


He sees across the darkening land
The graveyards on the coasts;
He sees the broken columns stand
Like cold and bitter ghosts;
His world is dead while yet he lives,
Though known in continents;
His camp is where his country gives
Its pauper monuments.

Success


Did you see that man riding past,
With shoulders bowed with care?
There’s failure in his eyes to last,
And in his heart despair.
He seldom looks to left or right,
He nods, but speaks to none,
And he’s a man who fought the fight—
God knows how hard!—and won.
No great “review” could rouse him now,
No printed lies could sting;
No kindness smooth his knitted brow,
Nor wrong one new line bring.
Through dull, dumb days and brooding nights,
From years of storm and stress,
He’s riding down from lonely heights—
The Mountains of Success.


He sees across the darkening land
The graveyards on the coasts;
He sees the broken columns stand
Like cold and bitter ghosts;
His world is dead while yet he lives,
Though known in continents;
His camp is where his country gives
Its pauper monuments.

Stand by the Engines

On the moonlighted decks there are children at play,
While smoothly the steamer is holding her way;
And the old folks are chatting on deck-seats and chairs,
And the lads and the lassies go strolling in pairs.


Some gaze half-entranced on the beautiful sea,
And wonder perhaps if a vision it be:
And surely their journeys no sorrow nor care,
For wealth, love, and beauty are passengers there.


But down underneath, ’mid the coal dust that smears
The face and the hands, work the ship’s engineers.
Whate’er be the duty of others, ’tis theirs
To stand by their engines whatever occurs.


The sailor may gaze on the sea and the sky;
The sailor may tell when the danger is nigh;
But when Death his black head o’er the waters uprears,
Unseen he is met by the ship’s engineers.


They are thrown from their feet by the force of a shock;
They know that their vessel has struck on a rock.
Now stand by your engines when danger appears,
For all may depend on the ship’s engineers!


No thought of their danger! No mad rush on deck!
They stand at their posts in the hull of a wreck,
Firm hands on the valves; and the white steam appears;
And down with their ship go the brave engineers!

Somewhere Up In Queensland

He's somewhere up in Queensland,
The old folks used to say;
He’s somewhere up in Queensland,
The people say to-day.
But Somewhere (up in Queensland)
That uncle used to know—
That filled our hearts with wonder,
Seems vanished long ago.
He’s gone to Queensland, droving,
The old folks used to say;
He’s gone to Queensland, droving,
The people say to-day.
But “gone to Queensland, droving,”
Might mean, in language plain,
He follows stock in buggies,
And gets supplies by train.


He’s knocking round in Queensland,
The old folks used to say;
He’s gone to Queensland, roving,
His sweetheart says to-day.
But “gone to Queensland, roving”
By mighty plain and scrub,
Might mean he drives a motor-car
For Missus Moneygrub.


He’s looking for new country,
The old folks used to say;
Our boy has gone exploring,
Fond parents say to-day.
“Exploring” out in Queensland
Might only mean to some
He’s salesman in “the drapery”
Of a bush emporium.


To somewhere up in Queensland
Went Tom and Ted and Jack;
From somewhere up in Queensland
The dusty cheques come back:
From somewhere up in Queensland
Brown drovers used to come,
And someone up in Queensland
Kept many a southern home.


Somewhere up in Queensland,
How many black sheep roam,
Who never write a letter,
And never think of home.
For someone up in Queensland
How many a mother spoke;
For someone up in Queensland
How many a girl’s heart broke.

Somewhere Up In Queensland

He's somewhere up in Queensland,
The old folks used to say;
He’s somewhere up in Queensland,
The people say to-day.
But Somewhere (up in Queensland)
That uncle used to know—
That filled our hearts with wonder,
Seems vanished long ago.
He’s gone to Queensland, droving,
The old folks used to say;
He’s gone to Queensland, droving,
The people say to-day.
But “gone to Queensland, droving,”
Might mean, in language plain,
He follows stock in buggies,
And gets supplies by train.


He’s knocking round in Queensland,
The old folks used to say;
He’s gone to Queensland, roving,
His sweetheart says to-day.
But “gone to Queensland, roving”
By mighty plain and scrub,
Might mean he drives a motor-car
For Missus Moneygrub.


He’s looking for new country,
The old folks used to say;
Our boy has gone exploring,
Fond parents say to-day.
“Exploring” out in Queensland
Might only mean to some
He’s salesman in “the drapery”
Of a bush emporium.


To somewhere up in Queensland
Went Tom and Ted and Jack;
From somewhere up in Queensland
The dusty cheques come back:
From somewhere up in Queensland
Brown drovers used to come,
And someone up in Queensland
Kept many a southern home.


Somewhere up in Queensland,
How many black sheep roam,
Who never write a letter,
And never think of home.
For someone up in Queensland
How many a mother spoke;
For someone up in Queensland
How many a girl’s heart broke.

Shearers Dream

O I dreamt I shore in a shearing shed and it was a dream of joy
For every one of the rouseabouts was a girl dressed up as a boy
Dressed up like a page in a pantomime the prettiest ever seen
They had flaxen hair they had coal black hair and every shade between

There was short plump girls there was tall slim girls and the handsomest ever seen
They was four foot five they was six foot high and every shade between

The shed was cooled by electric fans that was over every shoot
The pens was of polished mahogany and everything else to suit
The huts had springs to the mattresses and the tucker was simply grand
And every night by the billabong we danced to a German band

Our pay was the wool on the jumbucks' backs so we shore till all was blue
The sheep was washed afore they was shore and the rams were scented too
And we all of us cried when the shed cut out in spite of the long hot days
For every hour them girls waltzed in with whisky and beer on trays

There was three of them girls to every chap and as jealous as they could be
There was three of them girls to every chap and six of them picked on me
We was drafting them out for the homeward track and sharing them round like steam
When I woke with my head in the blazing sun to find it a shearer's dream

Send Round the Hat

Now this is the creed from the Book of the Bush –
Should be simple and plain to a dunce:
"If a man’s in a hole you must pass round the hat –
Were he jail-bird or gentleman once."

Say Goodbye when your Chum is Married

Now this is a rhyme that might well be carried
Gummed in your hat till the end of things:
Say Good-bye when your chum is married;
Say Good-bye while the church-bell rings;
Say Good-bye—if you ask why must you,
’Tis for the sake of old friendship true,
For as sure as death will his wife distrust you
And lead him on to suspect you, too.
Say Good-bye, though he be a brother,
Seek him not when you’re married, too—
Things that you never would tell each other
The wives will carry as young wives do.
Say Good-bye ere their tongues shall strangle
The friendship pledged ere the lights grew dim,
For, as sure as death, will those young wives wrangle,
And drag you into it, you and him.