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

us sad to hear That it wasn’t cool and shady — and there wasn’t plenty beer, And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; Well, you know it’s not so often that he sees a swell like you; And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, And no doubt you’re better suited drinking lemon-squash in town. Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain You would find the grasses waving like a field of summer grain, And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bushland — they are loyal through it all.

 

… . .

 

But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers’ huts at night? Did they `rise up, William Riley’ by the camp-fire’s cheery blaze? Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days? And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet — Were their faces sour and saddened like the `faces in the street’, And the `shy selector children’ — were they better now or worse Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse? Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread? Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush Than the roar of trams and ‘buses, and the war-whoop of `the push’? Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange? Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range? But, perchance, the wild birds’ music by your senses was despised, For you say you’ll stay in townships till the bush is civilised. Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band Where the `blokes’ might take their `donahs’, with a `public’ close at hand? You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the `push’, For the bush will never suit you, and you’ll never suit the bush.

 

Last Week

 

Oh, the new-chum went to the back block run, But he should have gone there last week. He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun, But of turkey or duck he saw never a one, For he should have been there last week, They said, There were flocks of ‘em there last week.

He wended his way to a waterfall, And he should have gone there last week. He carried a camera, legs and all, But the day was hot, and the stream was small, For he should have gone there last week, They said. They drowned a man there last week.

He went for a drive, and he made a start, Which should have been made last week, For the old horse died of a broken heart; So he footed it home and he dragged the cart — But the horse was all right last week, They said. He trotted a match last week.

So he asked the bushies who came from far To visit the town last week, If they’d dine with him, and they said `Hurrah!’ But there wasn’t a drop in the whisky jar — You should have been here last week, He said, I drank it all up last week!

 

Those Names

 

The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong, After the hard day’s shearing, passing the joke along: The `ringer’ that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before, And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score, The tarboy, the cook, and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board, The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde. There were men from the inland stations where the skies like a furnace glow, And men from the Snowy River, the land of the frozen snow; There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles, And farmers’ sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles. They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games, And to give these stories a flavour they threw in some local names, And a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland, He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand.

He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze, And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees, And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong — Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong; He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind A thought of the old bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind. Then the shearers all sat silent till a man in the corner rose; Said he, `I’ve travelled a-plenty but never heard names like those. Out in the western districts, out on the Castlereagh Most of the names are easy — short for a man to say.

`You’ve heard of Mungrybambone and the Gundabluey pine, Quobbotha, Girilambone, and Terramungamine, Quambone, Eunonyhareenyha, Wee Waa, and Buntijo —’ But the rest of the shearers stopped him: `For the sake of your jaw, go slow, If you reckon those names are short ones out where such names prevail, Just try and remember some long ones before you begin the tale.’ And the man from the western district, though never a word he said, Just winked with his dexter eyelid, and then he retired to bed.

 

A Bush Christening

 

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, And men of religion are scanty, On a road never cross’d ‘cept by folk that are lost, One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin’ should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.’ But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole was listenin’, And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white, `What the divil and all is this christenin’?’

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts, And it seemed to his small understanding, If the man in the frock made him one of the flock, It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush, While the tears in his eyelids they glistened — `‘Tis outrageous,’ says he, `to brand youngsters like me, I’ll be dashed if I’ll stop to be christened!’

Like a young native dog he ran into a log, And his father with language uncivil, Never heeding the `praste’ cried aloud in his haste, `Come out and be christened, you divil!’

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, And his parents in vain might reprove him, Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke) `I’ve a notion,’ says he, `that’ll move him.’

`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog; Poke him aisy — don’t hurt him or maim him, ‘Tis not long that he’ll stand, I’ve the water at hand, As he rushes out this end I’ll name him.

`Here he comes, and for shame! ye’ve forgotten the name — Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?’ Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout — `Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis’!’

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub Where he knew that pursuit would be risky, The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head That was labelled `MAGINNIS’S WHISKY’!

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P., And the one thing he hates more than sin is To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke, How he came to be christened `Maginnis’!

 

How the Favourite Beat Us

 

`Aye,’ said the boozer, `I tell you it’s true, sir, I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, But gone is my glory, I’ll tell you the story How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself.

`‘Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, But found she was favourite all of a rush, The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, And several bookies were killed in the crush.

`It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep.

`We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, And old Manumission was out of condition, And most of the others were running off weight.

`No doubt someone `blew it’, for everyone knew it, The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite `If I can’t get a copper, by Jingo, I’ll stop her, Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.’

`I said to the jockey, `Now, listen, my cocky, You watch as you’re cantering down by the stand, I’ll wait where that toff is and give you the office, You’re only to win if I lift up my hand.’

`I then tried to back her — `What price is the Cracker?’ `Our books are all full, sir,’ each bookie did swear; My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up I bet every shilling against my own mare.

`I strolled to the gateway, the mare in the straightway Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around.

`They breed ‘em at Hexham, it’s risky to vex ‘em, They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out.

`I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted Away to the front when the flag was let fall, For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her — She finished a furlong in front of them all.

`You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for The moment he weighed and came out of the stand — `Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute.’ `Lord love yer,’ said he, `why you lifted your hand.’

`‘Twas true, by St. Peter, that cursed `muskeeter’ Had broke me so broke that I hadn’t a brown, And you’ll find the best course is when dealing with horses To win when you’re able, and KEEP YOUR HANDS DOWN.

 

The Great Calamity

 

MacFierce’un came to Whiskeyhurst When summer days were hot, And bided there wi’ Jock McThirst, A brawny brother Scot. Gude Faith! They made the whisky fly, Like Highland chieftains true, And when they’d drunk the beaker