by Cheng
There’s five-and-thirty shearers here are shearing for the loot,
So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along,
The musterers are fetching them a hundred-thousand strong;
And make your collie dogs speak up—what would the buyers say
In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh!
The man that rang the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here,
That stripling from the Cooma side can teach him how to shear;
They trim away the ragged locks—and rip the cutter goes
And leaves a track of snowy wool 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 make 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 in their box 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 snowy fleece is branded ‘Castlereagh.’
From South and East the shearers come across the Overland,
Upon the slopes of Southern hills their little homesteads stand,
And all day long with desperate haste they’re shearing for their lives,
The cheque they earn at Castlereagh brings comfort to their wives.
So may each shearer tally up a hundred sheep a day,
And every year obtain a shed as good as Castlereagh.
The Bulletin, 1894
5
Bell-birds
Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
It lives in the mountain, where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges;
Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers.
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time,
They sing in September their songs of the May-time.
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder-bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters knee-deep in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten.
Then is the time when the watermoons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the morning.
* * *
The first four lines of stanza four were printed in the Australian Town and Country Journal on 26 January 1889.
* * *
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers,
Are the voices of bell-birds to thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever,
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion—
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys,
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
Poems of Henry Kendall, 1886
6
Brumby’s Run
Banjo Paterson
[The Aboriginal term for a wild horse is ‘Brumby.’
At a recent trial in Sydney a Supreme Court Judge,
hearing of ‘Brumby horses’, asked: ‘Who is Brumby, and
where is his Run?’]
It lies beyond the Western Pines
Towards the sinking sun,
And not a survey mark defines
The bounds of ‘Brumby’s run.’
On odds and ends of mountain land,
On tracks of range and rock,
Where no one else can make a stand,
Old Brumby rears his stock—
A wild, unhandled lot they are
Of every shape and breed.
They venture out ’neath moon and star
Along the flats to feed;
But when the dawn makes pink the sky
And steals along the plain,
The Brumby horses turn and fly
Towards the hills again.
The traveller by the mountain-track
May hear their hoof-beats pass,
And catch a glimpse of brown and black
Dim shadows on the grass.
The eager stockhorse pricks his ears
And lifts his head on high
In wild excitement when he hears
The Brumby mob go by.
Old Brumby asks no price or fee
O’er all his wide domains:
The man who yards his stock is free
To keep them for his pains.
So, off to scour the mountain-side
With eager eyes aglow,
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide
The gully-rakers go.
A rush of horses through the trees,
A red shirt making play;
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze,
They vanish far away!
Ah, me! before our day is done
We long with bitter pain
To ride once more on Brumby’s run
And yard his mob again.
The Bulletin, 1895
7
A Bush Christening
Banjo Paterson
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, whil
e 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 brush
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 wather 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 Patsey 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’!
The Bulletin, 1893
8
A Bush Christmas
CJ Dennis
The sun burns hotly thro’ the gums
As down the road old Rogan comes—
The hatter from the lonely hut
Beside the track to Woollybutt,
He likes to spend his Christmas with us here.
He says a man gets sort of strange
Livin’ alone without a change,
Gets sort of settled in his way;
And so he comes each Christmas day
To share a bite of tucker and a beer.
Dad and the boys have nought to do,
Except a stray odd job or two.
Along the fence or in the yard,
‘It ain’t a day for workin’ hard.’
Says Dad: ‘One day a year don’t matter much.’
And then dishevelled, hot and red,
Mum, thro’ the doorway puts her head
And says, ‘This Christmas cooking! My!
The sun’s near fit for cooking by.’
Upon her word she never did see such.
‘Your fault,’ says Dad, ‘you know it is.
Plum puddin’! On a day like this,
And roasted turkeys! Spare me days!
I can’t get over women’s ways.
In climates such as this the thing’s all wrong.
A bit of cold corn-beef an’ bread
Would do us very well instead.’
Then Rogan says, ‘You’re right; it’s hot.
It makes a feller drink a lot.’
And Dad gets up and says, ‘Well, come along.’
The dinner’s served—full bite and sup.
‘Come on,’ says Mum, ‘Now all sit up.’
The meal takes on a festive air;
And even father eats his share
And passes up his plate to have some more.
He laughs and says it’s Christmas time,
‘That’s cookin’, Mum. The stuffin’s prime.’
But Rogan pauses once to praise,
Then eats as tho’ he’d starved for days.
And pitches turkey bones outside the door.
The sun burns hotly thro’ the gums,
The chirping of the locusts comes
Across the paddocks, parched and grey.
‘Whew!’ wheezes Father. ‘What a day!’
And sheds his vest. For coats no man had need.
Then Rogan shoves his plate aside
And sighs, as sated men have sighed,
At many boards in many climes
On many other Christmas times.
‘By gum!’ he says, ‘That was a slap-up feed!’
Then, with his black pipe well alight,
Old Rogan brings the kids delight
By telling o’er again his yarns
Of Christmas tide ’mid English barns
When he was, long ago, a farmer’s boy.
His old eyes glisten as he sees
Half glimpses of old memories,
Of whitened fields and winter snows,
And yuletide logs and mistletoes,
And all that half-forgotten, hallowed joy.
The children listen, mouths agape,
And see a land with no escape
For biting cold and snow and frost—
A land to all earth’s brightness lost,
A strange and freakish Christmas land to them.
But Rogan, with his dim old eyes
Grown far away and strangely wise
Talks on; and pauses but to ask
‘Ain’t there a drop more in that cask?’
And father nods; but Mother says ‘Ahem!’
The sun slants redly thro’ the gums
As quietly the evening comes,
And Rogan gets his old grey mare,
That matches well his own grey hair,
And rides away into the setting sun.
‘Ah, well,’ says Dad. ‘I got to say
I never spent a lazier day.
We ought to get that top fence wired.’
‘My!’ sighs poor Mum. ‘But I am tired!
An’ all that washing up still to be done.’
The Herald, 1931
9
The Circus
CJ Dennis
Hey, there! Hoop-la! the circus is in town!
Have you seen the elephant? Have you seen the clown?
Have you seen the dappled horse gallop round the ring?
Have you seen the acrobats on the dizzy swing?
Have you seen the tumbling men tumble up and down?
Hoop-la! Hoop-la! the circus is in town!
Hey, there! Hoop-la! Here’s the circus troupe!
Here’s the educated dog jumping through the hoop.
See the lady Blondin with the parasol and fan,
The lad upon the ladder and the india-rubber man.
See the joyful juggler and the boy who loops the loop.
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Here’s the circus troupe!
A Book for Kids, 1921
10
Clancy of the Overflow
Banjo Paterson
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just ‘on spec,’ addressed as follows, ‘Clancy, of “The Overflow.”’
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(Which I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
’Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
‘Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.’
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving ‘down the Cooper’ where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover’s life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond’rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the ’busses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I’d like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal—
But I doubt he’d suit the office, Clancy, of ‘The Overflow.’