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

the dark curtain of shame o’er the thought of it, Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy’s face.

 

How M’Ginnis Went Missing

 

Let us cease our idle chatter, Let the tears bedew our cheek, For a man from Tallangatta Has been missing for a week.

Where the roaring flooded Murray Covered all the lower land, There he started in a hurry, With a bottle in his hand.

And his fate is hid for ever, But the public seem to think That he slumbered by the river, ‘Neath the influence of drink.

And they scarcely seem to wonder That the river, wide and deep, Never woke him with its thunder, Never stirred him in his sleep.

As the crashing logs came sweeping, And their tumult filled the air, Then M’Ginnis murmured, sleeping, `‘Tis a wake in ould Kildare.’

So the river rose and found him Sleeping softly by the stream, And the cruel waters drowned him Ere he wakened from his dream.

And the blossom-tufted wattle, Blooming brightly on the lea, Saw M’Ginnis and the bottle Going drifting out to sea.

 

A Voice from the Town

A sequel to [Mowbray Morris’s] `A Voice from the Bush’

 

I thought, in the days of the droving, Of steps I might hope to retrace, To be done with the bush and the roving And settle once more in my place. With a heart that was well nigh to breaking, In the long, lonely rides on the plain, I thought of the pleasure of taking The hand of a lady again.

I am back into civilisation, Once more in the stir and the strife, But the old joys have lost their sensation — The light has gone out of my life; The men of my time they have married, Made fortunes or gone to the wall; Too long from the scene I have tarried, And, somehow, I’m out of it all.

For I go to the balls and the races A lonely companionless elf, And the ladies bestow all their graces On others less grey than myself; While the talk goes around I’m a dumb one ‘Midst youngsters that chatter and prate, And they call me `the Man who was Someone Way back in the year Sixty-eight.’

And I look, sour and old, at the dancers That swing to the strains of the band, And the ladies all give me the Lancers, No waltzes — I quite understand. For matrons intent upon matching Their daughters with infinite push, Would scarce think him worthy the catching, The broken-down man from the bush.

New partners have come and new faces, And I, of the bygone brigade, Sharply feel that oblivion my place is — I must lie with the rest in the shade. And the youngsters, fresh-featured and pleasant, They live as we lived — fairly fast; But I doubt if the men of the present Are as good as the men of the past.

Of excitement and praise they are chary, There is nothing much good upon earth; Their watchword is NIL ADMIRARI, They are bored from the days of their birth. Where the life that we led was a revel They `wince and relent and refrain’ — I could show them the road — to the devil, Were I only a youngster again.

I could show them the road where the stumps are The pleasures that end in remorse, And the game where the Devil’s three trumps are, The woman, the card, and the horse. Shall the blind lead the blind — shall the sower Of wind reap the storm as of yore? Though they get to their goal somewhat slower, They march where we hurried before.

For the world never learns — just as we did, They gallantly go to their fate, Unheeded all warnings, unheeded The maxims of elders sedate. As the husbandman, patiently toiling, Draws a harvest each year from the soil, So the fools grow afresh for the spoiling, And a new crop of thieves for the spoil.

But a truce to this dull moralising, Let them drink while the drops are of gold, I have tasted the dregs — ‘twere surprising Were the new wine to me like the old; And I weary for lack of employment In idleness day after day, For the key to the door of enjoyment Is Youth — and I’ve thrown it away.

 

A Bunch of Roses

 

Roses ruddy and roses white, What are the joys that my heart discloses? Sitting alone in the fading light Memories come to me here to-night With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.

Memories come as the daylight fades Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes; Flicker and flutter the lights and shades, And I see the face of a queen of maids Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.

Visions arise of a scene of mirth, And a ball-room belle that superbly poses — A queenly woman of queenly worth, And I am the happiest man on earth With a single flower from a bunch of roses.

Only her memory lives to-night — God in His wisdom her young life closes; Over her grave may the turf be light, Cover her coffin with roses white — She was always fond of the big white roses.

 

… . .

 

Such are the visions that fade away — Man proposes and God disposes; Look in the glass and I see to-day Only an old man, worn and grey, Bending his head to a bunch of roses.

 

Black Swans

 

As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying, Where the stars are mustering one by one.

Oh! ye wild black swans, ‘twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight, With the stars above and the dim earth under, Through the cooling air of the glorious night. As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light.

From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever, Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reedbeds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days.

Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Then for every sweep of your pinions beating, Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand.

Facing it yet! Oh, my friend stout-hearted, What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.

I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. And I know full well that the strangers’ faces Would meet us now in our dearest places; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.

There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken — We would grieve for them with a bitter pain, If the past could live and the dead could quicken, We then might turn to that life again. But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

 

… . .

 

In the silent park is a scent of clover, And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more as the swans fly over Their far-off clamour from overhead. They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread.

 

The All Right ‘Un

 

He came from `further out’, That land of heat and drought And dust and gravel. He got a touch of sun, And rested at the run Until his cure was done, And he could travel.

When spring had decked the plain, He flitted off again As flit the swallows. And from that western land, When many months were spanned, A letter came to hand, Which read as follows:

`Dear sir, I take my pen In hopes that all your men And you are hearty. You think that I’ve forgot Your kindness, Mr. Scott, Oh, no, dear sir, I’m not That sort of party.

`You sometimes bet, I know, Well, now you’ll have a show The `books’ to frighten. Up here at Wingadee Young Billy Fife and me We’re training Strife, and he Is a all right ‘un.

`Just now we’re running byes, But, sir, first time he tries I’ll send you word of. And running `on the crook’ Their measures we have took, It is the deadest hook You ever heard of.

`So when we lets him go, Why, then, I’ll let you know, And you can have a show To put a mite on. Now, sir, my leave I’ll take, Yours truly, William Blake. P.S. — Make no mistake, HE’S A ALL RIGHT ‘UN.’

 

… . .

 

By next week’s RIVERINE I saw my friend had been A bit too cunning. I read: `The racehorse Strife And jockey William Fife Disqualified for life — Suspicious running.’

But though they spoilt his game, I reckon all the same I fairly ought to claim My friend a white ‘un. For though he wasn’t straight, His deeds would indicate His heart at any rate Was `a all right ‘un’.

 

The Boss of the `Admiral Lynch’

 

Did you ever hear tell of Chili? I was readin’ the other day Of President Balmaceda and of how he was sent away. It seems that he didn’t suit ‘em — they thought that they’d like a change, So they started an insurrection and chased him across the range. They seemed to be restless people — and, judging by what you hear, They raise up these revolutions ‘bout two or three times a year; And the man that goes out of office, he goes for the boundary QUICK, For there isn’t no vote by ballot — it’s bullets that does the trick. And it ain’t like a real battle, where the prisoners’ lives are spared, And they fight till there’s one side beaten and then there’s a truce declared,

And the man that has got the licking goes down like a blooming lord To hand in his resignation and give up his blooming sword, And the other man bows and takes it, and everything’s all polite — This wasn’t that kind of a picnic, this wasn’t that sort of a fight. For the pris’ners they took — they shot ‘em; no odds were they small or great, If they’d collared old Balmaceda,