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

dry They sang `We are nae fou!’

`There is nae folk like oor ain folk, Sae gallant and sae true.’ They sang the only Scottish joke Which is, `We are nae fou.’

Said bold McThirst, `Let Saxons jaw Aboot their great concerns, But bonny Scotland beats them a’, The land o’ cakes and Burns, The land o’ partridge, deer, and grouse, Fill up your glass, I beg, There’s muckle whusky i’ the house, Forbye what’s in the keg.’

And here a hearty laugh he laughed, `Just come wi’ me, I beg.’ MacFierce’un saw with pleasure daft A fifty-gallon keg.

`Losh, man, that’s grand,’ MacFierce’un cried, `Saw ever man the like, Now, wi’ the daylight, I maun ride To meet a Southron tyke, But I’ll be back ere summer’s gone, So bide for me, I beg, We’ll make a grand assault upon Yon deevil of a keg.’

 

… . .

 

MacFierce’un rode to Whiskeyhurst, When summer days were gone, And there he met with Jock McThirst Was greetin’ all alone. `McThirst what gars ye look sae blank? Have all yer wits gane daft? Has that accursed Southron bank Called up your overdraft? Is all your grass burnt up wi’ drouth? Is wool and hides gone flat?’ McThirst replied, `Gude friend, in truth, ‘Tis muckle waur than that.’

`Has sair misfortune cursed your life That you should weep sae free? Is harm upon your bonny wife, The children at your knee? Is scaith upon your house and hame?’ McThirst upraised his head: `My bairns hae done the deed of shame — ‘Twere better they were dead.

`To think my bonny infant son Should do the deed o’ guilt — HE LET THE WHUSKEY SPIGOT RUN, AND A’ THE WHUSKEY’S SPILT!’

 

… . .

 

Upon them both these words did bring A solemn silence deep, Gude faith, it is a fearsome thing To see two strong men weep.

 

Come-by-Chance

 

As I pondered very weary o’er a volume long and dreary — For the plot was void of interest — ‘twas the Postal Guide, in fact, There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.

And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee, And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year, Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector, Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.

But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me, Quite by chance I came across it — `Come-by-Chance’ was what I read; No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it, Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.

I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward Till I come by chance across it, and I’ll straightway settle down, For there can’t be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry Where the telegraph don’t reach you nor the railways run to town.

And one’s letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges, Where a wiry young Australian leads a packhorse once a week, And the good news grows by keeping, and you’re spared the pain of weeping Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.

But I fear, and more’s the pity, that there’s really no such city, For there’s not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know, `Come-by-chance’, be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.

 

… . .

 

Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle, All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free; Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.

All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing, Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance: When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain, You have had the luck to linger just a while in `Come-by-chance’.

 

Under the Shadow of Kiley’s Hill

 

This is the place where they all were bred; Some of the rafters are standing still; Now they are scattered and lost and dead, Every one from the old nest fled, Out of the shadow of Kiley’s Hill.

Better it is that they ne’er came back — Changes and chances are quickly rung; Now the old homestead is gone to rack, Green is the grass on the well-worn track Down by the gate where the roses clung.

Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley’s Hill.

Where are the children that throve and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die.

One in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley’s Hill.

One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil, Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.

What of the parents? That unkept mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as on holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley’s Hill.

 

Jim Carew

 

Born of a thoroughbred English race, Well proportioned and closely knit, Neat of figure and handsome face, Always ready and always fit, Hard and wiry of limb and thew, That was the ne’er-do-well Jim Carew.

One of the sons of the good old land — Many a year since his like was known; Never a game but he took command, Never a sport but he held his own; Gained at his college a triple blue — Good as they make them was Jim Carew.

Came to grief — was it card or horse? Nobody asked and nobody cared; Ship him away to the bush of course, Ne’er-do-well fellows are easily spared; Only of women a tolerable few Sorrowed at parting with Jim Carew.

Gentleman Jim on the cattle camp, Sitting his horse with an easy grace; But the reckless living has left its stamp In the deep drawn lines of that handsome face, And a harder look in those eyes of blue: Prompt at a quarrel is Jim Carew.

Billy the Lasher was out for gore — Twelve-stone navvy with chest of hair, When he opened out with a hungry roar On a ten-stone man it was hardly fair; But his wife was wise if his face she knew By the time you were done with him, Jim Carew.

Gentleman Jim in the stockmen’s hut Works with them, toils with them, side by side; As to his past — well, his lips are shut. `Gentleman once,’ say his mates with pride; And the wildest Cornstalk can ne’er outdo In feats of recklessness, Jim Carew.

What should he live for? A dull despair! Drink is his master and drags him down, Water of Lethe that drowns all care. Gentleman Jim has a lot to drown, And he reigns as king with a drunken crew, Sinking to misery, Jim Carew.

Such is the end of the ne’er-do-well — Jimmy the Boozer, all down at heel; But he straightens up when he’s asked to tell His name and race, and a flash of steel Still lightens up in those eyes of blue — `I am, or — no, I WAS — Jim Carew.’

 

The Swagman’s Rest

 

We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave At the foot of the Eaglehawk; We fashioned a cross on the old man’s grave, For fear that his ghost might walk; We carved his name on a bloodwood tree, With the date of his sad decease, And in place of `Died from effects of spree’, We wrote `May he rest in peace’.

For Bob was known on the Overland, A regular old bush wag, Tramping along in the dust and sand, Humping his well-worn swag. He would camp for days in the river-bed, And loiter and `fish for whales’. `I’m into the swagman’s yard,’ he said, `And I never shall find the rails.’

But he found the rails on that summer night For a better place — or worse, As we watched by turns in the flickering light With an old black gin for nurse. The breeze came in with the scent of pine, The river sounded clear, When a change came on, and we saw the sign That told us the end was near.

But he spoke in a cultured voice and low — `I fancy they’ve “sent the route”; I once was an army man, you know, Though now I’m a drunken brute; But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave, And if ever you’re fairly stuck, Just take and shovel me out of the grave And, maybe, I’ll bring you luck.

`For I’ve always heard —’ here his voice fell weak, His strength was well-nigh sped, He gasped and struggled and tried to speak, Then fell in a moment — dead. Thus ended a wasted life and hard, Of energies misapplied — Old Bob was out of the `swagman’s yard’ And over the Great Divide.

 

… . .

 

The drought came down on the field and flock, And never a raindrop fell, Though the tortured moans of the starving stock Might soften a fiend from hell. And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave When he went to the Great Unseen — We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave To see what his hint might mean.

We dug where the cross and the grave posts were, We shovelled away the mould, When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare All gleaming with yellow gold. ‘Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk That ran from the range’s crest, And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk Is known as `The Swagman’s Rest’.

 

[The End.]

 

[From the section of Advertisements at the end of the 1911 printing.]

 

THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND OTHER VERSES.

By A. B. Paterson.

THE LITERARY YEAR BOOK: “The immediate success of this book of bush ballads is without parallel in Colonial literary annals, nor can any living English or American poet boast so wide a public, always excepting Mr. Rudyard Kipling.”

SPECTATOR: “These lines have the true lyrical cry in them. Eloquent and ardent verses.”

ATHENAEUM: “Swinging, rattling ballads of ready humour, ready pathos, and crowding adventure… . Stirring and entertaining ballads about great rides, in which the lines gallop like the very hoofs of the horses.”

THE TIMES: “At his best he compares not unfavourably with the author of `Barrack-Room Ballads’.”

Mr. A. Patchett Martin, in LITERATURE (London): “In my opinion, it is the absolutely un-English, thoroughly Australian style and character of these new bush bards which has given them such immediate popularity, such wide vogue, among all classes of the rising native generation.”

WESTMINSTER GAZETTE: “Australia has produced in Mr. A. B. Paterson a national poet whose bush ballads are as distinctly characteristic of the country as Burns’s poetry is characteristic of Scotland.”

THE SCOTSMAN: “A book like this … is worth a dozen of the aspiring, idealistic sort, since it has a deal of rough laughter and a dash of real tears in its composition.”

GLASGOW HERALD: “These ballads … are full of such