The Man From Snowy River, Banjo [good short books .txt] 📗

snowy fleece from brisket to the nose; It’s lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay, They’re racing for the ringer’s place this year at Castlereagh.

The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage, He’s always in a hurry and he’s always in a rage — `You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you’d turn a fellow sick, You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick. Another broken cutter here, that’s two you’ve broke to-day, It’s awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh.’

The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din, They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin; The pressers standing by the rack are waiting for the wool, There’s room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full; Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away, Another bale of golden fleece is branded `Castlereagh’.

 

The Wind’s Message

 

There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, Above the tossing of the pines, above the river’s flow; It stirred the boughs of giant gums and stalwart ironbark; It drifted where the wild ducks played amid the swamps below; It brought a breath of mountain air from off the hills of pine, A scent of eucalyptus trees in honey-laden bloom; And drifting, drifting far away along the southern line It caught from leaf and grass and fern a subtle strange perfume.

It reached the toiling city folk, but few there were that heard — The rattle of their busy life had choked the whisper down; And some but caught a fresh-blown breeze with scent of pine that stirred A thought of blue hills far away beyond the smoky town; And others heard the whisper pass, but could not understand The magic of the breeze’s breath that set their hearts aglow, Nor how the roving wind could bring across the Overland A sound of voices silent now and songs of long ago.

But some that heard the whisper clear were filled with vague unrest; The breeze had brought its message home, they could not fixed abide; Their fancies wandered all the day towards the blue hills’ breast, Towards the sunny slopes that lie along the riverside, The mighty rolling western plains are very fair to see, Where waving to the passing breeze the silver myalls stand, But fairer are the giant hills, all rugged though they be, From which the two great rivers rise that run along the Bland.

Oh! rocky range and rugged spur and river running clear, That swings around the sudden bends with swirl of snow-white foam, Though we, your sons, are far away, we sometimes seem to hear The message that the breezes bring to call the wanderers home. The mountain peaks are white with snow that feeds a thousand rills, Along the river banks the maize grows tall on virgin land, And we shall live to see once more those sunny southern hills, And strike once more the bridle track that leads along the Bland.

 

Johnson’s Antidote

 

Down along the Snakebite River, where the overlanders camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp; Where the station-cook in terror, nearly every time he bakes, Mixes up among the doughboys half-a-dozen poison-snakes: Where the wily free-selector walks in armour-plated pants, And defies the stings of scorpions, and the bites of bull-dog ants: Where the adder and the viper tear each other by the throat, There it was that William Johnson sought his snakebite antidote.

Johnson was a free-selector, and his brain went rather queer, For the constant sight of serpents filled him with a deadly fear; So he tramped his free-selection, morning, afternoon, and night, Seeking for some great specific that would cure the serpent’s bite. Till King Billy, of the Mooki, chieftain of the flour-bag head, Told him, `Spos’n snake bite pfeller, pfeller mostly drop down dead; Spos’n snake bite old goanna, then you watch a while you see, Old goanna cure himself with eating little pfeller tree.’ `That’s the cure,’ said William Johnson, `point me out this plant sublime,’ But King Billy, feeling lazy, said he’d go another time. Thus it came to pass that Johnson, having got the tale by rote, Followed every stray goanna, seeking for the antidote.

 

… . .

 

Loafing once beside the river, while he thought his heart would break, There he saw a big goanna fighting with a tiger-snake, In and out they rolled and wriggled, bit each other, heart and soul, Till the valiant old goanna swallowed his opponent whole. Breathless, Johnson sat and watched him, saw him struggle up the bank, Saw him nibbling at the branches of some bushes, green and rank; Saw him, happy and contented, lick his lips, as off he crept, While the bulging in his stomach showed where his opponent slept. Then a cheer of exultation burst aloud from Johnson’s throat; `Luck at last,’ said he, `I’ve struck it! ‘tis the famous antidote.’

`Here it is, the Grand Elixir, greatest blessing ever known, Twenty thousand men in India die each year of snakes alone. Think of all the foreign nations, negro, chow, and blackamoor, Saved from sudden expiration, by my wondrous snakebite cure. It will bring me fame and fortune! In the happy days to be, Men of every clime and nation will be round to gaze on me — Scientific men in thousands, men of mark and men of note, Rushing down the Mooki River, after Johnson’s antidote. It will cure Delirium Tremens, when the patient’s eyeballs stare At imaginary spiders, snakes which really are not there. When he thinks he sees them wriggle, when he thinks he sees them bloat, It will cure him just to think of Johnson’s Snakebite Antidote.’

Then he rushed to the museum, found a scientific man — `Trot me out a deadly serpent, just the deadliest you can; I intend to let him bite me, all the risk I will endure, Just to prove the sterling value of my wondrous snakebite cure. Even though an adder bit me, back to life again I’d float; Snakes are out of date, I tell you, since I’ve found the antidote.’

Said the scientific person, `If you really want to die, Go ahead — but, if you’re doubtful, let your sheep-dog have a try. Get a pair of dogs and try it, let the snake give both a nip; Give your dog the snakebite mixture, let the other fellow rip; If he dies and yours survives him, then it proves the thing is good. Will you fetch your dog and try it?’ Johnson rather thought he would. So he went and fetched his canine, hauled him forward by the throat. `Stump, old man,’ says he, `we’ll show them we’ve the genwine antidote.’

Both the dogs were duly loaded with the poison-gland’s contents; Johnson gave his dog the mixture, then sat down to wait events. `Mark,’ he said, `in twenty minutes Stump’ll be a-rushing round, While the other wretched creature lies a corpse upon the ground.’ But, alas for William Johnson! ere they’d watched a half-hour’s spell Stumpy was as dead as mutton, t’other dog was live and well. And the scientific person hurried off with utmost speed, Tested Johnson’s drug and found it was a deadly poison-weed; Half a tumbler killed an emu, half a spoonful killed a goat, All the snakes on earth were harmless to that awful antidote.

 

… . .

 

Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders’ camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, Shooting every stray goanna, calls them `black and yaller frauds’. And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snakebite antidote.

 

Ambition and Art

 

Ambition

 

I am the maid of the lustrous eyes Of great fruition, Whom the sons of men that are over-wise Have called Ambition.

And the world’s success is the only goal I have within me; The meanest man with the smallest soul May woo and win me.

For the lust of power and the pride of place To all I proffer. Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race For what I offer?

The choice is thine, and the world is wide — Thy path is lonely. I may not lead and I may not guide — I urge thee only.

I am just a whip and a spur that smites To fierce endeavour. In the restless days and the sleepless nights I urge thee ever.

Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, In fright upleaping At a rival’s step as it passes by Whilst thou art sleeping.

Honour and truth shall be overthrown In fierce desire; Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone To mount thee higher.

When the curtain falls on the sordid strife That seemed so splendid, Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life That thou hast ended.

Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small In fitful flashes; There has been reward — but the end of all Is dust and ashes.

For the night has come and it brings to naught Thy projects cherished, And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought — `He lived and perished.’

 

Art

 

I wait for thee at the outer gate, My love, mine only; Wherefore tarriest thou so late While I am lonely.

Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, In thee implanted Is the love of Art and the greatest gift That God has granted.

And the world’s concerns with its rights and wrongs Shall seem but small things — Poet or painter, a singer of songs, Thine art is all things.

For the wine of life is a woman’s love To keep beside thee; But the love of Art is a thing above — A star to guide thee.

As the years go by with thy love of Art All undiminished, Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart — Thy work is finished.

So the painter fashions a picture strong That fadeth never, And the singer singeth a wond’rous song That lives for ever.

 

The Daylight is Dying

 

The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to its bondage — The kingdom of sleep. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night.

When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, ‘Tis then that the stories Of bushland are told. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? Beyond all denials The stars in their glories The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains’ rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune.

But, as one half-hearing An old-time refrain, With memory clearing, Recalls it again, These tales, roughly wrought of The bush and its ways, May call back a thought of The wandering days, And, blending with each In the mem’ries that throng, There haply shall reach You some echo of song.

 

In Defence of the Bush

 

So you’re back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, And you’re cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes