CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 9599.L42P8 
 
 Popular verses. 
 
 3 1924 013 249 598 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013249598 
 
POPULAR VERSES 
 
POPULAR VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY LAWSON 
 
 Author of Send Round the Hat ; 
 
 When the World Was Wide, and Other Verses ; On the Track , 
 
 While the Billy Boils ; The Romance of the Swag : 
 
 Joe Wilson's Mates ; Joe Wilson ; 
 
 Over the Sliprails ; Humorous Verses ; When I Was King ; 
 
 The Elder Son ; Ah Soon ; The Rising of the Court, etc. 
 
 SYDNEY 
 
 ANGUS AND ROBERTSON Ltd. 
 
 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET ', 
 1914 
 
Bloxbam & ChamberE, Prlntefs, Sydney. 
 
PEBPACB 
 
 My acknowledgments of the courtesy of the 
 editors and proprietors of the newspapers in 
 which most of these verses were first published are 
 due and are gratefully discharged on the eve of my 
 departure for England. Chief among them is the 
 Sydney Bulletin ; others are the Sydney Town and 
 Country Journal, Freemar^s Journal, and Truth, 
 and the New Zealand Mail. 
 
 A few new pieces are included in the collection. 
 
 H. L. 
 Sydney, March 17th, 1900. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FA« 
 
 THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA 
 
 Down here where the ships loom large in 1 
 
 THE THREE KINGS 
 
 The East is dead and the West is done, 
 and again our course lies thus : — . 6 
 
 THE OUTSIDE TRACK 
 
 There were ten of us there on the moonlit 
 
 quay, 8 
 
 SYDNEY-SIDE 
 
 Where's the steward? — Bar-room steward? 
 
 Berth? Oh, any berth will do — . 10 
 
 THE ROVERS 
 
 Some born of homely parent* . . 13 
 
 FOREIGN LANDS 
 
 You may roam the wide eeas over, follow, 
 
 meet, and cross the sun, . . 18 
 
 vlL 
 
Tiii. CONTENTS 
 
 MARY LEMAINE 
 
 Jim Duff was a • native,' as wild as could 
 be ; 
 
 THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR 
 
 Set me back for twenty summers — 
 
 REEDY RIVER 
 
 Ten miles down Reedy River , ■ 
 
 OLD STONE CHIMNEY 
 
 The rising moon on the peaks was blending 
 
 SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER 
 
 Far Back in the days when the blacks 
 used to ramble ..... 
 
 THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. 
 
 Fire lighted, on the table a meal for 
 sleepy men, ..... 
 
 HOW THE LAND WAS WON 
 
 The future was dark and the past was 
 dead ...... 
 
 THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD 
 
 When he's over a rough and unpopular 
 shed, ...... 
 
CONTENTS ix. 
 
 TAm 
 WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE SHEAR- 
 ING SHED 
 
 ' The ladies are coming,' the super says . 52 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT 
 
 A rouseabont of rouseabouts, from any 
 
 land — or none — ..... 56 
 
 YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 
 The big rough boys from the runs out 
 back were first -where the balls flew 
 free, .60 
 
 THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER 
 
 The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the 
 
 bar, ... . . . 67 
 
 THE CHRIST OF THE 'NEVER' 
 
 With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce 69 
 
 THE CATTLE-DOG'S DEATH 
 
 The plains lay bare on the homeward 
 
 route, 71 
 
 THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER 
 
 The skies are brass and the plains are bare, 73 
 
 RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 The valley's full of misty cloud. 
 
 57 
 
r. CONTENTS 
 
 A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 'Tis a wonderful time w^hen these hours 
 begin 
 
 THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO 
 
 Let bushmen think as bushmen will, . 
 
 THE DONS OF SPAIN 
 
 The Eagle screams at the beck of trado^ 
 so Spain, as the world goes round, 
 
 THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 
 
 The shipping office clerks are * short,' the 
 manager is gruff — .... 
 
 ANTONY VILLA 
 
 Over there, above the jetty, stands the 
 mansion of the Vardens, 
 
 SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE 
 
 On suburban railway stations — you may 
 see them as you pass — 
 
 THE SHIPS THAT WON'T GO DOWN 
 We hear a groat commotion . 
 
 THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN 
 When God'a wrath-cloud is o'er me . 
 
CONTKNTS si. 
 
 Hl»m 
 
 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 When fairer faces turn from mo, . . 10* 
 
 THE BATTLING DAYS 
 
 So, sit jou down in a straight-backed 
 chair, with your pipe and your wife 
 content, lOS 
 
 WRITTEN AFTERWARDS 
 
 So the days of my tramping are over, . 108 
 
 THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS 
 CULTURED CRITICS 
 
 Fight through ignorance, want, and care — 111 
 
 THE WRITER'S DREAM 
 
 A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and 
 
 he followed their tracks afar ; . . 113 
 
 THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH 
 
 If I oyer be worthy or famoKS — . . 121 
 
THE PORTS OP THE OPEN SEA 
 
 Down here where the ships loom large in 
 
 The gloom when the sea-storms veer, 
 Down here on the south-west margin 
 
 Of the western hemisphere, 
 Where the might of a world-wide ocean 
 
 Bound the youngest land rolls free — 
 Storm-hound from the world's commotion, 
 
 Lie the Forts of the Open Sea. 
 
 By the bluff where the grey sand reaches 
 
 To the kerb of the spray-swept street, 
 By the sweep of the black sand beaches 
 
 From the main-road travellers' feet, 
 By the heights like a work Titanic, 
 
 Begun ere the gods' work ceased, 
 By a bluff-lined coast volcanic 
 
 Lie the Ports of the wild South-east. 
 
THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA 
 
 By the steeps of the snow-capped ranges, 
 
 By the scarped and terraced hills — 
 Far away from the swift life-changes, 
 
 From the wear of the strife that kills — 
 Where the land in the Spring seems younger 
 
 Than a land of the Earth might be — 
 Oh ! the hearts of the rovers hunger 
 
 For the Ports of the Open Sea. 
 
 But the captains watch and hearken 
 
 For a sign of the South Sea wrath — 
 Let the face of the South-east darken. 
 
 And they turn to the ocean path. 
 Ay, the sea-boats dare not linger, 
 
 Whatever the cargo be ; 
 When the South-east lifts a finger 
 
 By the Ports of the Open Sea. 
 
 South by the bleak Blufif faring, 
 
 North where the Three Kings wait, 
 South-east the tempest daring — 
 
 Flight through the storm-tossed strait ; 
 Yonder a white-winged reamer 
 
 Struck where the rollers roar — 
 Where the great green froth-flaked comber 
 
 Breaks down on a black-ribbed shore. 
 
THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA 
 
 For the South-east lands are dread lands 
 
 To the sailor in the shrouds, 
 Where the low clouds loom like headlands, 
 
 And the black bluffs blur like clouds. 
 When the breakers rage to windward 
 
 And the lights are masked a-lee, 
 And the sunken rocks run inward 
 
 To a Port of the Open Sea. 
 
 But oh ! for the South-east weather — 
 
 The sweep of the three-days' gale,— 
 When, far through the flax and heather, 
 
 The spindrift drives like hail. 
 Glory to man's creations 
 
 That drive where the gale grows gruff. 
 When the homes of the sea-coast stations 
 
 Flash white from the dark'ning bluff ! 
 
 When the swell of the South-east rouses 
 
 The wrath of the Maori sprite, 
 And the brown folk flee their houses 
 
 And crouch in the flax by night, 
 And wait as they long have waited — 
 
 In fear as the brown folk be — 
 The wave of destruction fated 
 
 For the Ports of the Open Sea. 
 
THE PORTS OF THE OPEN SEA 
 
 Grey cloud to the mountain bases, 
 
 Wild boughs that rush and sweep ; 
 On the rounded hills the tussocks 
 
 Like flocks of flying sheep ; 
 A lonely storm-bird soaring 
 
 O'er tussock, fern and tree ; 
 And the boulder beaches roaring 
 
 The Hymn of the Open Sea. 
 
THE THREE KINGS » 
 
 The East is dead and the West is done, and again 
 
 our course lies thus : — 
 South-east by Fate and the Rising Sun where the 
 
 Three Kings wait for us. 
 When our hearts are young and the world is wide, and 
 
 the hsights seem grand to climb — 
 We are off and away to the Sydney-side ; hut the Three 
 
 Kings hide their time. 
 
 ' I've been to the West,' the digger said : he was 
 
 bearded, bronzed and old : 
 Ah, the smothering curse of the East is wool, and 
 
 the curse of the West is gold. 
 I went to the West in the golden boom, with Hope 
 
 and a life-long mate, 
 'They sleep in the sand by the Boulder Soak, and 
 long may the Three Kings wait.' 
 
 * Three seA.girt pinnacles off North Cape, New Zealand. 
 
 i 
 
THE THREE KINGS 
 
 ' I've had my fling on the Sydney-side,' said a black- 
 sheep to the sea, 
 
 'Let the young fool learn when he can't be taught: 
 I've learnt what's good for me.' 
 
 And he gazed ahead on the sea-line dim — grown dim 
 in his softened eyes — 
 
 With a pain in his heart that was good for him — as 
 he saw the Three Kings rise. 
 
 A pale girl sits on the foc'sle head — she is back, 
 
 Three Kings ! so soon ; 
 But it seems to her like a life-time dead since she fled 
 
 with him ■ saloon.' 
 There is refuge still in the old folks' arms for the chUd 
 
 that loved too well ; 
 They will hide her shame on the Southern farm — and 
 
 the Three Kings will not tell. 
 
 'Twas a restless heart on the tide of life, and a false 
 
 star in the skies 
 That led me on to the deadly strife where the 
 
 Southern London lies ; 
 But I dream in peace of a home for me, by a glorious 
 
 southern sound, 
 As the sunset fades from a moonlit sea, and the 
 
 Three Kings show us round. 
 
THE THREE KINGS 7 
 
 Our hearts are young and the old hearts old, and life on 
 
 the /arms is slow, 
 And away in the world there is fame and gold — and the 
 
 Three Kings watch us go. 
 Our heads seem wise and the world seems wide, and its 
 
 heights are ours to climb, 
 80 i^s of and away in our youthful pride — but the 
 
 Three Kings bide our time. 
 
THE OUTSIDE TRACK 
 
 There were ten of us there on the moonlit quay, 
 
 And one on the f or'ard hatch ; 
 No straighter mate to his mates than he 
 
 Had ever said : ' Len's a match ! ' 
 'Twill be long, old man, ere our glasses clink, 
 
 'Twill be long ere we grip your hand ! — 
 And we dragged him ashore for a final drink 
 
 Till the whole wide world seemed grand. 
 
 For they marry and go as the world rolls back, 
 They marry and vanish and die ; 
 
 But their spirit shall live on the Outside Track 
 As long as the years go by. 
 
 The port-lights glowed in the morning mist 
 
 That rolled from the waters green ; 
 And over the railing we grasped his fist 
 
 As the dark tide came between. 
 
THE OUTSIDE TRACK 
 
 We cheered the oaptain and cheered the crew, 
 
 And our mate, times out of mind ; 
 We cheered the land he was going to 
 
 And the land he had left behind. 
 
 We roared Lang Syne as a last farevell, 
 
 But my heart seemed out of joint ; 
 I well remember the hush that fell 
 
 When the steamer had passed the point 
 We drifted home through the public bars, 
 
 We were ten times less by one 
 Who sailed out under the morning stars. 
 
 And under the rising sun. 
 
 And one by one, and two by two, 
 
 They have sailed from the wharf since then j 
 I have said good-bye to- the last I knew, 
 
 The last of the careless men. 
 And I can't but think that the times we had 
 
 Were the best times after all, 
 As I turn aside with a lonely glass 
 
 And drink to the bar-room wall 
 
 But I'll try my luck for a cheque Out Back, 
 Then a last good-bye to the bush ; 
 
 For my heart's away on the Outside Track, 
 On the track of the steerage push. 
 
SYDNEY-SIDE 
 
 Where's the steward ? — Bar-room steward 1 Berth ? 
 
 Oh, any berth will do — 
 I have left a three-pound billet just to come along 
 
 with you. 
 Brighter shines the Star of Rovers on a world that's 
 
 growing wide, 
 But 1 think I'd give a kingdom for a glimpse of 
 
 Sydney-Side. 
 
 Run of rocky shelves at sunrise, with their base on 
 
 ocean's bed ; 
 Homes of Coogee, homes of Bondi, and the lighthouse 
 
 on South Head ; 
 For in loneliness and hardship — and with just a 
 
 touch of pride — 
 Has my heart been taught to whisper, ' You belong 
 
 to Sydney-Side.' 
 
SYDNEY-SIDE 11 
 
 Oh, there never dawned a morning, in the long and 
 
 lonely days, 
 But I thought I saw the ferries streaming out across 
 
 the bays — 
 And as fresh and fair in fancy did the picture rise 
 
 again 
 As the sunrise flushed the city from Woollahra to 
 
 Balmain : 
 
 And the sunny water frothing round the liners black 
 
 and red. 
 And the coastal schooners working by the loom of 
 
 Bradley's Head ; 
 And the whistles and the sirens that re-echo far and 
 
 wide — 
 All the life and light and beauty that belong to 
 
 Sydney-Side. 
 
 And the dreary cloud-line never veiled the end of one 
 
 day more, 
 But the city set in jewels rose before me from ' The 
 
 Shore." 
 Round the sea-world shine the beacons of a thousand 
 
 ports o' call. 
 But the harbour-lights of Sydney are the grandest of 
 
 them all ! 
 
12 SYDNEY-SIDE 
 
 ToCing out beyond Ooolgardie— h.iart and back and 
 
 spirit broke, 
 Where the Rover's Star gleams redly in the desert by 
 
 the ' soak ' — 
 But says one mate to the other, ' Brace your lip and 
 
 do not fret, 
 We will laugh on trams and 'buses — Sydney's in the 
 
 same place yet.' 
 
 Working in the South in winter, to the waist in 
 
 dripping fern. 
 Where the local spirit hungers for each ' saxpence ' 
 
 that we earn — 
 We can stand it for a season, for our world is 
 
 growing wide. 
 And they all are friends and strangers who belong to 
 
 Sydney-Side. 
 
 ' T'other-siders ! T'other-siders ! ' Yet we wake the 
 
 dusty dead ; 
 It is we that send the backward province fifty years 
 
 ahead ; 
 We it is that ' trim ' Australia — making narrow 
 
 country wide — 
 Yet we're always T'other-siders till we sail for 
 
 Sydney-side. 
 
THE ROVERS 
 
 SoHK bom of homely parents 
 
 For ages settled down — 
 The steady generations 
 
 Of village, farm, and town ; 
 And some of dusky fathers 
 
 Who wandered since the flood — 
 The fairest skin or darkest 
 
 Might hold the roving blood — 
 
 Some born of brutish peasants, 
 
 And some of dainty peers. 
 In poverty or plenty 
 
 They pass their early years ; 
 But, born in pride of purple, 
 
 Or straw and squalid sin. 
 In all the far world corners 
 
 The wanderers are kin. 
 
 IS 
 
U THE ROVERS 
 
 A rover or a rebel, 
 
 Conceived and born to roam. 
 As babies they will toddle 
 
 With faces turned from home ; 
 They've fought beyond the vanguard 
 
 Wl^j^ever storm hag raged, 
 And home is but a prison 
 
 They pace like lions caged. 
 
 They smile and are not happy ; 
 
 They sing and are not gay ; 
 They weary, yet they wander ; 
 
 They love, and cannot stay ; 
 They marry, and are single 
 
 Who watch the roving star, 
 For, by the family fireside, 
 
 Oh, lonely men they are ! 
 
 They die of peace and quiet-^ 
 
 The deadly ease of life ; 
 They die of home and comfort ; 
 
 They live in storm and strife ; 
 No poverty can tie them. 
 
 Nor wealth nor place restrain 
 
 Girl, wife, or child might draw them, 
 
 But they'll be gone again ! 
 
THE ROVERS 15 
 
 Across the glowing desert ; 
 
 Through naked trees and snow ; 
 Across the rolling prairies 
 
 The skies have seen them go ; 
 They fought to where the ocean 
 
 Receives the setting sun ;-V 
 But where shall fight the rovers 
 
 When all the lands are won ? 
 
 They thirst on Greenland snowfields, 
 
 On Never-Never sands ; 
 Where man is not to conquer 
 
 They conquer barren lands ; 
 They feel that most are cowards, 
 
 That all depends on ' nerve,' 
 They lead who cannot follow, • 
 
 They rule who cannot serve. 
 
 Across the plains and ranges, 
 
 Away across the seas, 
 On blue and green horizons 
 
 They camp by twos and threes j 
 They hold on stormy borders 
 
 Of states that trouble earth 
 The honour of the country 
 
 That only gave them birth. 
 
16 THE ROVERS 
 
 Unlisted, uncommissioned, 
 
 Untaught of any school, 
 In far-away world corners 
 
 Unconquered tribes they rule ; 
 The lone hand and revolver — 
 
 Sad eyes that never quail — 
 The lone hand and the rifle 
 
 That win where armies fail. 
 
 They slumber sound where murder 
 
 And treachery are bare — 
 The pluck of self-reliance, 
 
 The pluck of past despair ; 
 Thin brown men in pyjamas — 
 
 The thin brown wiry men ! — 
 The helmet and revolver 
 
 That lie beside the pen. 
 
 Through drought and desolation 
 
 They won the way Out Back j 
 The commonplace and selfish 
 
 Have followed on their track ; 
 They conquer lands for others, 
 
 For others find the gold, 
 
 But where shall go the rovers 
 
 When all the lands are old 1 
 
THE ROVERS 17 
 
 A rover and a rebel — 
 
 And so the worlds commence ! 
 Their hearts shall beat as wildly 
 
 Ten generations hence ; 
 And when the world is crowded — 
 
 'Tis signed and sealed by Fate — 
 The roving blood will rise to make 
 
 The countries desolate. 
 
FOREIGN LANDS 
 
 Yo0 may roam the wide seas over, follow, meet, and 
 
 cross the sun. 
 Sail as far as ships can sail, and travel far as trains 
 
 can run ; 
 You may ride and tramp wherever range or plain or 
 
 sea expands. 
 But the crowd has been before you, and you'll not 
 
 find ' Foreign Lands ;' 
 
 For the Early Days are over, 
 And no more the white-winged rover 
 Sinks the gale-worn coast of England bound for bays 
 
 in Foreign Lands. 
 
 Foreign Lands are in the distance dim and dream- 
 like, faint and far, 
 
 Long ago, and over yonder, where our boyhood 
 fancies are, 
 
 18 
 
FOREIGN LANDS 19 
 
 For the land is by the railway cramped as though 
 
 with iron bands, 
 And the steamship and the cable did away with 
 Foreign Lands. 
 
 Ah ! the days of blue and gold ! 
 When the news was six months old — 
 But the news was worth the telling in the days of 
 Foreign Lauds. 
 
 Here we slave the dull years hopeless for the sake of Wool 
 
 and Wheat — 
 Here the homes of ugly Commerce — niggard farm and 
 
 haggard street ; 
 Yet our mothers and ou/r/athers wan the life the heart 
 
 demands — 
 Less than fifty years gone over, we were born in Foreign 
 
 Lands. 
 
 When the gipsies stole the children still, in village 
 
 tale and song. 
 And the world was wide to travel, and the roving 
 
 spirit strong j 
 When they dreamed of South Sea Islands, summer 
 
 seas and coral strands — 
 
80 FOREIGN LANDS 
 
 Then the bravest hearts of England sailed a,yra,j to 
 Foreign Lands, 
 
 ' Fitting foreign ' — flood and field — 
 Half the world and orders sealed — 
 And the first and best of Europe went to fight in 
 Foreign Lands. 
 
 Canvas towara on the ocean — homeward bound and 
 
 outward bound — 
 Glint of topsails over islands — splash of anchors in 
 
 the sound ; 
 Then they landed in the forests, took their strong lives 
 
 in their hands, 
 And they fought and toiled and conquered — making 
 
 homes in Foreign Lands, 
 
 Through the cold and through the drought — 
 Further on and further out — 
 Winning half the world for England in the wilds of 
 
 Foreign Lands. 
 
 Love and pride of life inspired them when the simple 
 
 village hearts 
 Followed Master Will and Harry — gone abroad to 
 
 ' furrin parts ' — 
 
FOREIGN LANDS 21 
 
 By our townships and our cities, and across the desert 
 
 sands 
 Are the graves of those who fought and died for us 
 in Foreign Lands — 
 
 Gave their young lives for our sake 
 (Was it all a grand mistake 1) 
 Sons of Master WiU and Harry born abroad in 
 Foreign Lands ! 
 
 Ah, my girl, our lives are narrow, and in sordid days 
 
 like these, 
 I can hate the things that bamshed ' Foreign Lands 
 
 across the seas,' 
 But with all the world before us. Qod above us — hearts 
 
 and hands, 
 I can sail the seas in fancy far away to Foreign Lands. 
 
MARY LEMAINB 
 
 Jim Duff was a ' native,' as wild as could be ; 
 
 A stealer and duffer of cattle was he, 
 
 But back in his youth he had stolen a pearl — 
 
 Or a diamond rather — the heart of a girl ; 
 
 She served with a squatter who lived on the plain. 
 
 And the name of the girl it was Mary Lemaine. 
 
 'Twas a drear, rainy day and the twilight was done. 
 When four mounted troopers rode up to the run. 
 They spoke to the squatter — he asked them all in. 
 The homestead was small and the walls they were thin ; 
 And in the next room, with a cold in her head. 
 Our Mary was sewing on buttons — in bed. 
 
 She heard a few words, but those words were 
 
 enough — 
 The troopers were all on the track of Jim Duff. 
 
MARY LEMAINE iS 
 
 The super, his rival, was planning a trap 
 
 To capture the scamp in Maginnis's Gap. 
 
 ' I've warned him before, and I'll do it again ; — 
 
 ' I'll save him to-night,' whispered Mary Lemaine. 
 
 No petticoat job — there was no time to waste. 
 The suit she was mendmg she slipped on in haste. 
 And five minutes later they gathered in force, 
 But Mary was off, on the squatter's best horse ; 
 With your hand on your heart, just to deaden the 
 
 pain, 
 Bide hard to the ranges, brave Mary Lemaine ! 
 
 She rode by the ridges all sullen and strange, 
 And far up long gullies that ran through the range. 
 Till the rain cleared away, and the tears in her eyes 
 Caught the beams of the moon from Maginnis's Rise. 
 A fire in the depths of the gums she espied — 
 ' Who's there V shouted Jim. ' It is Mary !' she cried. 
 
 Next morning the sun rose in splendour again. 
 And two loving sinners rode out on the plain ; 
 And baffled, and angry, and hungry and damp. 
 The four mounted troopers rode back to the camp. 
 But they hushed up the business — the reason is plain 
 They all had been ' soft ' on fair Mary Lemaine. 
 
2* MARY LEMAINE 
 
 The squatter got back all he lost from his mob, 
 And old Sergeant Kennedy winked at the job ; 
 Jim Duff keeps a shanty far out in the west, 
 And the sundowners call it the ' Bushranger's Rest. 
 But the bushranger lives a respectable life. 
 And the law never troubles Jim Duff or his wife, 
 
THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR 
 
 Sbt me back for twenty summers — 
 
 For I'm tired of cities now — 
 Set my feet in red-soil furrows 
 
 And my hands upon the plough, 
 With the two ' Black Brothers ' trudging 
 
 On the home stretch through the loam^ 
 While, along the grassy siding. 
 
 Come the cattle grazing home. 
 
 And I finish ploughing early, 
 
 And I hurry home to tea — 
 There's my black suit on the stretcher, 
 
 And a clean white shirt for me ; 
 There's a dance at Rocky Rises, 
 
 And, when all the fun is o'er. 
 For a certain favoured party 
 
 There's a shake-down on the floor. 
 
26 THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR 
 
 You remember Mary Carey, 
 
 Bushmen's favourite at the Rise t 
 With her sweet small freckled features, 
 
 Red-gold hair, and kind grey eyes ; 
 Sister, daughter, to her mother. 
 
 Mother, sister, to the rest — 
 And of all my friends and kindred, 
 
 Mary Carey loved me best. 
 
 Far too shy, because she loved me, 
 
 To be dancing oft with me ; 
 What cared I, because she loved me, 
 
 If the world were there to see 1 
 But we lingered by the slip-rails 
 
 While the rest were riding home, 
 Ere the hour before the dawning, 
 
 Dimmed the great star-clustered dome. 
 
 Small brown hands that spread the mattress 
 
 While the old folk winked to see 
 How she'd find an extra pillow 
 
 And an extra sheet for me. 
 For a moment shyly smiling, 
 
 She would grant me one kiss more 
 
 Slip away and leave me happy 
 
 By the shake-down on the floor. 
 
THE SHAKEDOWN ON THE FLOOR 27 
 
 Rock me hard in steerage cabina, 
 
 Rock me soft in wide saloons, 
 Lay me on the sand-hill lonely 
 
 Under waning western moons ; 
 But wherever night may find me 
 
 Till I rest for evermore — 
 I will dream that I am happy 
 
 On the shake-down on the floor. 
 
 Ah ! she often watched at sunset — 
 
 For her people told me so — 
 Where I left her at the slip-rails 
 
 More than fifteen years ago. 
 And she faded like a flower, 
 
 And she died, as such girls do, 
 While, away in Northern Queensland, 
 
 Working hard, I never knew. 
 
 And we suffer for our sorrows. 
 
 And we suffer for our joys, 
 From the old bush days when mother 
 
 Spread the shake-down for the boys. 
 But to cool the living fever. 
 
 Comes a cold breath to my brow, 
 And I feel that Mary's spirit 
 
 Is beside me, even now, 
 
REEDY RIVER 
 
 Ten miles down Reedy River 
 
 A pool of water Ues, 
 And all the year it mirrors 
 
 The changes in the skies, 
 And in that pool's broad bosom 
 
 Is room for all the stars ; 
 Its bed of sand has drifted 
 
 O'er countless rocky bars. 
 
 Around the lower edges 
 
 There waves a bed of reeds, 
 Where water rats are hidden 
 
 And where the wild duck breeds ; 
 And grassy slopes rise gently 
 
 To ridges long and low, 
 Where groves of wattle flourish 
 
 And native bluebells grow. 
 
REEDy RIVER 
 
 Beneath the granite ridges 
 
 The eye may just discern 
 Where Rocky Creek emerges 
 
 From deep green banks of fern j 
 And standing tall between them, 
 
 The grassy sheoaks cool 
 The hard, blue-tinted waters 
 
 Before they reach the pool. 
 
 Ten miles down Reedy River 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, 
 I rode with Mary Campbell 
 
 To that broad bright lagoon ; 
 We left our horses grazing 
 
 Till shadows climbed the peak, 
 And strolled beneath the sheoaks 
 
 On the banks of Rocky Creek. 
 
 Then home along the river 
 
 That night we rode a race, 
 And the moonlight lent a glory 
 
 To Mary Campbell's face ; 
 And I pleaded for my future 
 
 All thro' that moonlight ride^ 
 Until our weary horses 
 
 Drew closer side by side. 
 
30 REEDY RIVER 
 
 Ten miles from Ryan's crossing 
 
 And five below the peak, 
 I built a little homestead 
 
 On the banks of Rocky Creek ; 
 I cleared the land and fenced it 
 
 And ploughed the rich red loan 
 And my first crop was golden 
 
 When I brought Mary home. 
 
 Now still down Reedy River 
 
 The grassy sheoaks sigh, 
 And the waterholes still mirror 
 
 The pictures in the sky ; 
 And over all for ever 
 
 Go sun and moon and stars. 
 While the golden sand is drifting 
 
 Across the rocky bars ; 
 
 But of the hut I builded 
 
 There are no traces now. 
 And many rains have levelled 
 
 The furrows of the plough ; 
 And my bright days are olden, 
 
 For the twisted branches wave 
 And the wattle blossoms golden 
 
 On the hill by Mary's grave. 
 
OLD STONE CHIMNEY 
 
 The rising moon on the peaks was blending 
 
 Her silver light with the sunset glow, 
 When a swagman came as the day was ending 
 
 Along a path that he seemed to know. 
 But all the fences were gone or going — 
 
 The hand of ruin was everywhere ; 
 The creek unchecked in its course was flowing, 
 
 For none of the old clay dam was there. 
 
 Here Time had been with his swiftest changes, 
 
 And husbandry had westward flown ; 
 The cattle tracks in the rugged ranges 
 
 Were long ago with the scrub o'ergrown. 
 It must have needed long years to soften 
 
 The road, that as hard as rock had been ; 
 The mountain path he had trod so often 
 
 Lay hidden now with a carpet green. 
 
 SI 
 
32 OLD STONE CHIMNEY 
 
 He thought at times from the mountain courses 
 
 He heard the sound of a bullock bell, 
 The distant gallop of stockmen's horses, 
 
 The stockwhip's crack that he knew so well : 
 But these were sounds of his memory only, 
 
 And they were gone from the flat and hill. 
 For when he listened the place was lonely. 
 
 The range was dumb and the bush was still. 
 
 The swagman paused by the gap and faltered, 
 
 For down the gully he feared to go. 
 The scene in memory never altered — 
 
 The scene before him had altered so. 
 But hope is strong, and his heart grew bolder, 
 
 And over his sorrows he raised his head. 
 He turned his swag to the other shoulder, 
 
 And plodded on with a firmer tread. 
 
 Ah, hope is always the keenest hearer. 
 
 And fancies much when assailed by fear ; 
 The swagman thought, as the farm drew nearer. 
 
 He heard the sounds that he used to hear. 
 His weary heart for a moment bounded. 
 
 For a moment brief he forgot his dread ; 
 For plainly still in his memory sounded 
 
 The welcome bark of a dog long dead. 
 
OLD STONE CHIMNEY 33 
 
 A few steps more and hia face grew ghostly, 
 
 Then white as death in the twilight grey ; 
 Deserted wholly, and ruined mostly, 
 
 The Old Selection before him lay. 
 Iiike startled spectres that paused and listened. 
 
 The few white posts of the stockyard stood ; 
 And seemed to move as the moonlight glistened 
 
 And paled again on the whitened wood. 
 
 And thus he came, from a life long banished 
 
 To other lands, and of peace bereft, 
 To find the farm and the homestead vanished. 
 
 And only the old stone chimney left. 
 The field his father had cleared and gardened 
 
 Was overgrown with saplings now j 
 The rain had set and the drought had hardened 
 
 The furrows made by a vanished plough. 
 
 And this, and this was the longed-for haven 
 
 Where he might rest from a life of woe ; 
 He read a name on the mantel graven — 
 
 The name was his ere he stained it so. 
 • And so remorse on my care encroaches — 
 
 ' I have not sufiered enough,' he said ; 
 ' That name is pregnant with deep reproaches— 
 
 ' The past won't bury dishonoured dead ! ' 
 
SI OLD STONE CHIMNEY 
 
 Ah, now he knew it was long years after, 
 
 And felt how swiftly a long year speeds ; 
 The hardwood post and the beam and rafter 
 
 Had rotted long in the tangled weeds. 
 He found that time had for years been sowing 
 
 The coarse wild scrub on the homestead path, 
 And saw young trees by the chimney growing, 
 
 And mountain ferns on the wide stone hearth. 
 
 He wildly thought of the evil courses 
 
 That brought disgrace on his father's name ; 
 The escort robbed, and the stolen horses, 
 
 The felon's dock with its lasting shame. 
 ' Ah, God ! Ah, God ! is there then no pardon ?' 
 
 He cried in a voice that was strained and hoarse ; 
 He fell on the weeds that were once a garden. 
 
 And sobbed aloud in his great remorse. 
 
 But grief must end, and his heart ceased aching 
 
 When pitying sleep to his eye-lids crept. 
 And home and friends who were lost in waking. 
 
 They all came back while the stockman slept. 
 And when he woke on the empty morrow, 
 
 The pain at his heart was a deadened pain j 
 And bravely bearing his load of sorrow. 
 
 He wandered back to the world again. 
 
SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER 
 
 Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble 
 
 In long single file 'neath the evergreen tree, 
 The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble, 
 
 And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea. 
 'Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were 
 stronger, 
 For those were the days when the bushman was 
 bred. 
 We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer 
 Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren 
 tread. 
 
 With mates who have gone to the great Never- 
 Never, 
 
 And mates whom I've not seen for many a day, 
 I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River 
 
 And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray. 
 
 36 
 
36 SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVEH 
 
 I would summon them back from the far Riverina, 
 From days that shall be from all others distinct, 
 
 And sing to the sound of an old concertina 
 
 Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were 
 linked. 
 
 We never were lonely, for, camping together, 
 
 We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away, 
 And little I cared for the signs of the weather 
 
 When snug in my hammock slung under the dray. 
 We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly. 
 
 When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with 
 frost. 
 And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy. 
 
 Where high on the camp-fire the branches were 
 tossed. 
 
 On flats where the air was suggestive of 'possums. 
 
 And homesteads and fences were hinting of change, 
 We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms. 
 
 And far in the distance the blue of the range ; 
 And here in the rain,- there was small use in flogging 
 
 The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the 
 load, 
 When down to the axles the waggons were bogging 
 
 And traffic was making a marsh of the road. 
 
SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER 37 
 
 'Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches, 
 
 Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load, 
 And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches, 
 
 Half-way to the summit they clung to the road. 
 And then, when the last of the pinches was bested, 
 
 (You'll surely not say that a glass was a sin ?) 
 The bullocks lay down 'neath the gum trees and 
 rested — 
 
 The buUockies steered for the bar of the inn. 
 
 Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally 
 
 Of miles that were passed on the long journey 
 down. 
 We saw the wild beauty of Oapertee Valley, 
 
 As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown. 
 But, ah ! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded 
 
 WhUe climbing the hills from the flats and the 
 Tales ; 
 'Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded 
 
 That all knew the meaning of ' counting your bales.' 
 
 And, oh ! but the best-paying load that I carried 
 Was one to the run where my sweetheart was 
 nurse. 
 
 We courted awhile, and agreed to get married, 
 And couple our futures for better or worse. 
 
38 SONG OF THE OLD BULLOCK-DRIVER 
 
 And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on 
 The miles of rough metal they met by the way, 
 
 My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon — 
 He's plodding along by the bullocks to-day. 
 
THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. 
 
 Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men, 
 A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then ; 
 The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon 
 
 and star, 
 The growl of sleepy voices — a candle in the bar ; 
 A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad ; 
 A swear-word from a bedroom — the shout of 'AH 
 
 aboard ! ' 
 •Tchk-tchk! Git-up ! ' 'Hold fast, there!' and 
 
 down the range we go ; 
 Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for 
 
 Cobb and Co. 
 
 Old coaching towns already ' decaying for their sins,' 
 
 Uncounted 'Half- Way Houses,' and scores of 'Ten 
 
 Mile Inns ; ' 
 
 The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks ; 
 
 S9 
 
40 THE LIGHTS Of COBB AND CO. 
 
 The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle 
 
 creeks ; 
 The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ' Digger's 
 
 Rest ; ' 
 The diggers on the Lachlan ; the huts of Furthest 
 
 West; 
 Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or 
 
 woe ; 
 The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb 
 
 and Co. 
 
 The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are 
 gone, 
 
 In one of those grand mornings which but on moun- 
 tains dawn ; 
 
 A flask of friendly whisky — each other's hopes we 
 share — 
 
 And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain 
 air. 
 
 The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all com- 
 plete ; 
 
 The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses' feet, 
 
 The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go — 
 
 The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb 
 and Co. 
 
THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. 41 
 
 We take a bright girl actress through western dust 
 
 and damps, 
 To bear the home-world message, and sing for .sinful 
 
 camps, 
 To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that 
 
 hope and ache — 
 (Ah 1 when she thinks of those days her own must 
 
 nearly break !) 
 Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant 
 
 shout : 
 Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the 
 
 horses out : 
 With ' Auld Lang Syne ' in chorus through roaring 
 
 camps they gc — 
 That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer 
 
 for Cobb and Co. 
 
 Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and 
 
 deep, 
 A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings 
 
 sweep, 
 A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly 
 
 white; 
 Weird bush and scattered remnants of ' rushes in 
 
 the night ; ' 
 
42 THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. 
 
 Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford : 
 Ride hard to warn the driver ! He's drunk or mad, 
 
 good Lord ! ' 
 But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant 
 
 glow — 
 A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb 
 
 and Co. ! 
 
 Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch 
 
 by inch ; 
 Pause, bird-like, on the summit — then breakneck 
 
 down the pinch 
 Past haunted half-way houses — where convicts made 
 
 the bricks — 
 Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five 
 
 and six — 
 By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks 
 
 run high, 
 Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against 
 
 the sky ; 
 Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and 
 
 pine we go ; 
 New camps are stretching 'cross the plains the routes 
 
 of Cobb and Co. 
 
THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. 43 
 
 Throw down the reins, old driver — there's no one left 
 
 to shout ; 
 The ruined inn's survivor must take the horses out. 
 A poor old coach hereafter ! — we're lost to all such 
 
 things — 
 No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your 
 
 leathern springs 
 When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings 
 
 drear, 
 Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year — 
 Oh, who'll think how in those days when distant 
 
 fields were broad 
 You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five 
 
 on board. 
 
 Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days 
 
 are done — 
 Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the 
 
 trains that run. 
 Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts— for men shall 
 
 never know 
 Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb 
 
 and Co. 
 The ' greyhounds ' race across the sea, the ' special ' 
 
 cleaves the haze, 
 
44 THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO. 
 
 But these seem dull and slow to me compared with 
 
 Roaring Days ! 
 The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls 
 
 are weak and slow, 
 The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for 
 
 Cobb and Co. 
 
HOW THE LAND WAS WON 
 
 The future was dark and the past was dead 
 
 As tliey gazed on the sea once more — 
 But a nation was born when the immigrants said 
 
 ' Good-bye ! ' as they stepped ashore ! 
 In their loneliness they were parted thus 
 
 Because of the work to do, 
 A wild wide land to be won for U3 
 
 By hearts and hands so few. 
 
 The darkest land 'neath a blue sky's dome, 
 
 And the widest waste on earth ; 
 The strangest scenes and the least like home 
 
 In the lands of our fathers' birth ; 
 The loneliest land in the wide world then, 
 
 And away on the furthest seas, 
 A land most barren of life for men — 
 
 And they won it by twos and threes ! 
 
46 HOW THE LAND WAS WON 
 
 With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept 
 
 By the camp-fires' ghastly glow, 
 Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept 
 
 With ' nulla ' and spear held low ; 
 Death was hidden amongst the trees, 
 
 And bare on the glaring sand 
 They fought and perished by twos and threes — 
 
 And that's how they won the land ! 
 
 It was two that failed by the dry creek bed, 
 
 While one reeled on alone — 
 The dust of Australia's greatest dead 
 
 With the dust of the desert blown ! 
 G-aunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin 
 
 That scorched in the blazing sun. 
 Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin — 
 
 And that's how the land was won ! 
 
 Starvation and toil on the tracks they went, 
 
 And death by the lonely way ; 
 The childbirth under the tilt or tent, 
 
 The childbirth under the dray! 
 The childbirth out in the desolate hut 
 
 With a half-wild gin for nurse — 
 That's how the first were born to bear 
 
 The brunt of the first man's curse ! 
 
HOW THE LAND WAS WON 47 
 
 They toiled and they fought through the shame of it — 
 
 Through wilderness, flood, and drought ; 
 They worked, in the struggles of early days, 
 
 Their sons' salvation out. 
 The white girl-wife in the hut alone, 
 
 The men on the boundless run. 
 The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown — 
 
 And that's how the land was won. 
 
 No armchair rest for the old folk then — 
 
 But, ruined by blight and drought. 
 They blazed the tracks to the camps again 
 
 In the big scrubs further out. 
 The worn haft, wet with a father's sweat, 
 
 Gripped hard by the eldest son, 
 The boy's back formed to the hump of toil — 
 
 And that's how the land was won ! 
 
 And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back, 
 
 And the rainless belt, they ride, 
 The currency lad and the ne'er-do-weel 
 
 And the black sheep, side by side ; 
 In wheeling horizons of endless haze 
 
 That disk through the Great North-west, 
 They ride for ever by twos and by threes — 
 
 And that's how they win the rest. 
 
THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD 
 
 When he's over a rough and unpopular shed, 
 With the sins of the bank and the men on his head ; 
 When he musn't look black or indulge in a grin, 
 And thirty or forty men hate him like Sin — 
 I am moved to admit — when the total is scored — 
 That it's just a bit off for the Boss-of-the-board, 
 I have battled a lot. 
 But my dream's never soared 
 To the lonely position of Boss-of-the-board. 
 
 'Twas a black-listed shed down the Darling : the 
 
 Boss 
 Was a small man to see — though a big man to 
 
 cross — 
 We had nought to complain of — except what we 
 
 thought, 
 And the Boss didn't boss any more than he ought j 
 
 48 
 
THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD 49 
 
 But the Union was booming, and Brotherhood soared, 
 So we hated hke poison the Boss-of-the-board. 
 
 We could tolerate ' hands ' — 
 
 We respected the cook ; 
 But the name of a Boss was a blot in our book. 
 
 He'd a row with Big Duggan — a rough sort of 
 
 Jim — 
 Or, i-ather, Jim Duggan was ' laying for ' him ! 
 His hate of Injustice and Greed was so deep 
 That his shearing grew rough — and he ill-used the 
 
 sheep. 
 And I fancied that Duggan his manliness lower'd 
 When he took off his shirt to the Boss-of-the-board, 
 For the Boss was ten stone. 
 And the shearer full-grown, 
 And he might have, they said, let the crawler 
 
 alone. 
 
 Though some of us there wished the fight to the 
 
 strong. 
 Yet we knew in our hearts that the shearer was 
 
 wrong, 
 And the crawler was plucky, it can't be denied, 
 For he had to fight Freedom and Justice beside, 
 
60 THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD 
 
 But he came up so gamely, as often as floored, 
 That a blackleg stood up for the Boss-o£-the-board 1 
 And the fight was a sight. 
 And we pondered that night — 
 ' It's surprising how some of those blacklegs oan 
 fight !' 
 
 Next day at the office, when sadly the wreck 
 
 Of Jim Duggan came up like a lamb for his cheque, 
 
 Said the Boss, ' Don't be childish 1 It's all past and 
 
 gone; 
 ' I am short of good shearers. You'd better stay on.' 
 And we fancied Jim Duggan our dignity lower'd 
 When he stopped to oblige a damned Boss-of-th«- 
 board. 
 
 We said nothing to Jim, 
 
 For a joke might be grim, 
 And the subject, we saw, was distasteful to him. 
 
 The Boss just went on as he'd done from the first. 
 And he favoured Big Duggan no more than the 
 
 worst ; 
 And when we'd cut out and the steamer came 
 
 down — 
 With the hawkers and spielers— to take us to town, 
 
THE BOSS OVER THE BOARD 51 
 
 And we'd all got aboard, 'twas Jim Duggan, good 
 
 Lord! 
 Who yelled for three cheers for the Boss-of-the-board. 
 'Twas a bit off, no doubt — 
 And with Freedom about — 
 But a lot is forgot when a shed is cut out. 
 
 With Freedom of Contract maintained in his shed, 
 And the curse of the Children of light on his head, 
 He's apt to long sadly for sweetheart or wife. 
 And his views be inclined to the dark side of life. 
 The Truth must be spread and the Cause must be 
 
 shored — 
 But it's just a bit rough on the Boss-of-the-board. 
 
 I am all for the Right, 
 
 But perhaps (out of sight) 
 As a son or a husband or father he's white. 
 
WHEN THE LADIES COME TO THE 
 SHEARING SHED 
 
 ' The ladies are coming,' the super says 
 
 To the shearers sweltering there, 
 And ' the ladies ' means in the shearing shed : 
 
 ' Don't cut 'em too bad. Don't swear.' 
 The ghost of a pause in the shed's rough heart. 
 
 And lower is bowed each head ; 
 And nothing is heard, save a whispered word, 
 
 And the roar of the shearing-shed. 
 
 The tall, shy rouser has lost his wits, 
 
 And his limbs are all astray ; 
 He leaves a fleece on the shearing-board, 
 
 And his broom in the shearer's way. 
 There's a curse in store for that jackaroo 
 
 As down by the wall he slants — 
 And the ringer bends with his legs askew 
 
 And wishes he'd ' patched them pants.' 
 
WHEN THE LADIES COME 53 
 
 They are girls from the city. (Our hearts rebel 
 
 As we squint at their dainty feet.) 
 And they gush and say in a girly way 
 
 That ' the dear little lambs ' are ' sweet.' 
 And BUI, the ringer, who'd scorn the use 
 
 Of a childish word like ' damn,' 
 Would give a pound that his tongue were loose 
 
 As he tackles a lively lamb. 
 
 Swift thoughts of homes in the coastal towns — 
 
 Or rivers and waving grass — 
 And a weight on our hearts that we cannot define 
 
 That comes as the ladies pass. 
 But the rouser ventures a nervous dig 
 
 In the ribs of the next to him ; 
 And Barcoo says to his pen-mate : ' Twig 
 
 ' The style of the last un, Jim.' 
 
 Jim Moonlight gives her a careless glance — 
 
 Then he catches his breath with pain — 
 His strong hand shakes and the sunlights dance 
 
 As he bends to his work again. 
 But he's well disguised in a bristling beard. 
 
 Bronzed skin, and his shearer's dress ; 
 And whatever Jim Moonlight hoped or feared 
 
 Were hard for his mates to guess. 
 
54 TO THE SHEARING SHED 
 
 Jim Moonlight, wiping his broad, white brow, 
 
 Explains, with a doleful smile : 
 • A stitch in the side," and • he's all right now '— 
 
 But he leans on the beam awhile, 
 And gazes out in the blazing noon 
 
 On the clearing, brown and bare — 
 She has come and gone, like a breath of June, 
 
 In December's heat and glare. 
 
 The bushmen are big rough boys at the best, 
 
 With hearts of a larger growth ; 
 But they hide those hearts with a brutal jest. 
 
 And the pain with a reckless oath. 
 Though the Bills and Jims of the bush-bard sing 
 
 Of their life loyes, lost or dead. 
 The love of a girl is a sacred thing 
 
 !N'ot Toiced in a shearing-sked. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT 
 
 A ROUSEABOUT of rouseabouts, from any land — or 
 
 none — 
 I bear a nick-name of the bush, and I'm — a woman's 
 
 son; 
 I came from where I camp'd last night, and, at the 
 
 day-dawn glow, 
 I rub the darkness from my eyes, roll up my swag, 
 
 and go. 
 
 Some take the track for bitter pride, some for no 
 
 pride at all — 
 (But — to us all the world is wide when driven 
 
 to the wall) 
 Some take the track for gain in life, some take the 
 
 track for loss — 
 And some of us take up the swag as Ohrist took up 
 
 the Cross. 
 
56 THE BALLAD OV THE ROUSEABOUT 
 
 Some take the track for faith in men — some take the 
 
 track for doubt — 
 Some flee a squalid home to work their own salvation 
 
 out. 
 Some dared not see a mother's tears nor meet a 
 
 father's face — 
 Born of good Christian families some leap, head-long, 
 
 from Grace. 
 
 Oh we are men who fought and rose, or fell from 
 
 many grades ; 
 Some born to lie, and some to pray, we're men of 
 
 many trades ; 
 We're men whose fathers were and are of high and 
 
 low degree — 
 The sea was open to us and we sailed across the 
 
 sea. 
 
 And — were our quarrels wrong or just 1 — has no 
 
 place in my song — 
 We seared our souls in puzzling as to what was right 
 
 or wrong; 
 We judge not and we are not judged 'tis our 
 
 philosophy — 
 There's something wrong with every ship that sails 
 
 upon the sea. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT 67 
 
 From shearing shed to shearing shed we tramp to 
 
 make a cheque — 
 Jack Cornstalk and the ne'er-do-weel — the tar-boy 
 
 and the wreck. 
 We learn the worth of man to man — and this we 
 
 learn too well — 
 The shanty and the shearing shed are warmer spots 
 
 in hell 1 
 
 I've humped my swag to Bawley Plain, and further 
 
 out and on ; 
 I've boiled my bUly by the Gulf, and boiled it by the 
 
 Swan — 
 I've thirsted in dry lignum swamps, and thirsted on 
 
 the sand, 
 And eked the fire with camel dung in Never-Never 
 
 Land. 
 
 I know the track from Spencer's Gidf and north of 
 
 Cooper's Creek — 
 Where falls the half-caste to the strong, ' black velvet' 
 
 to the weak — 
 (From gold-top Flossie ia the Strand to half-caste and 
 
 the gin — 
 If they had brains, poor animals ! we'd teach them 
 
 how to sin.) 
 
68 THE BALLAD OF THE ROUSEABOUT 
 
 I've tramped, and camped, and ' shore ' and drunk 
 
 with many mates Out Back — 
 And every one to me is Jack because the first was 
 
 Jack — 
 A ' lifer ' sneaked from jail at home — the 'straightest' 
 
 mate I met — 
 A 'ratty ' Russian Nihilist — a British Baronet ! 
 
 I know the tucker tracks that feed — or leave one in 
 
 the lurch — 
 The 'Burgoo' (Presbyterian) track — the 'Murphy' 
 
 (Roman Church) — 
 But more the man, and not the track, so much as it 
 
 appears, 
 For • battling ' is a trade to learn, and I've served 
 
 seven years. 
 
 We're haunted by the past at times — and this is very 
 
 bad. 
 And so we drink till horrors come, lest, sober, we go 
 
 mad — 
 So much is lost Out Back, so much of hell is 
 
 realised — 
 A man might skin himself alive and no one be 
 
 surprised. 
 
THE BALLAD OP THE ROUSEABOUT 69 
 
 A. rouseabout of rouseabouts, above — beneath regard, 
 I know how soft is this old world, and I have learnt; 
 
 how hard — 
 A rouseabout of rouseabouts — I know what men can 
 
 feel, 
 I've seen the tears from hard eyes slip as drops from 
 
 polished steel. 
 
 I learned what college had to teach, and in the sohool 
 
 of men 
 By camp-fires I have learned, or, say, unlearned it all 
 
 again; 
 But this I've learned, that truth is strong, and if a 
 
 man go straight 
 He'll live to see his enemy struck down by time and 
 
 fate! 
 
 We hold him tru» who's true to one however false 
 
 he be 
 (There's something wrong with every ship that lies 
 
 beside the quay) ; 
 We lend and borrow, laugh and joke, and when the 
 
 past is drowned. 
 We sit upon our swags and smoke and watch the 
 
 world go round. 
 
YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 
 
 The big rough boys from the runs out back were first 
 
 where the balls flew free, 
 And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track : ' By 
 
 God, it's a Christmas spree 1 ' 
 ' It's not too rusty ' — and ' Wool away 1 — stand clear 
 
 of the blazing shoots 1 ' — 
 ' Sheep O! Sheep O!'— 'We'll cut out to-day'— 
 
 ' Look out for the boss's boots 1 ' — 
 ' What price the tally in camp to-night ! ' ' What 
 
 price the boys Out Back ! ' — 
 ' Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride 
 
 of the Outside Track ! '— 
 ' Needle and thread ! ' — ' I have broke my comb ! ' 
 
 ' Now ride, you flour-bags, ride ! ' 
 
 'Fight for your mates and the folk at home I' 
 
 ' Here's for the Lachlan side I ' 
 
 60 
 
YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA d 
 
 Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the 
 
 gates of hell ajar, 
 And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a 
 
 yell for ' Tar ! ' 
 
 • ••■■• 
 
 I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a 
 
 luckless shot : 
 ' Look out for the blooming shell, look out ! ' — ' Gor' 
 
 bli' me, but that's red-hot ! ' — 
 'It's Bill the Slogger — poor bloke — he's done. A 
 
 chunk of the shell was his ; 
 <I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get 
 
 within reach of Liz.' 
 ' Those foreign gunners wiU give us rats, but I wish 
 
 it was Bill they missed.' 
 ' I'd like to get at their bleeding hats with a rook in 
 
 my (something) fist.' 
 
 ' Hold up, Billy ; 111 stick to you ; they've hit you 
 
 under the belt ; 
 ' If we get the waddle I'll swag you through, if the 
 
 blazing mountains melt ; 
 ' You remember the night when the traps got me for 
 
 stouihing a bleeding Chow, 
 
62 yEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 
 
 ' And you went for 'em proper and laid out three, 
 
 and I -won't forget it now.' 
 And, groaning and swearing, th« pug replied : ' I'm 
 
 done . . . they've knocked me out ! 
 ' I'd fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss 
 
 to the rouseabout. 
 ' My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives 
 
 me worse than hell ; 
 ' I trained for a scrap with a twelve-itone bloke, and 
 
 not with a bursting shell. 
 ' You needn't mag, for I knowed, old chum, I knowed, 
 
 old pal, you'd stick ; 
 'But you can't hold out till the reglars come, and 
 
 you'd best be nowhere quick. 
 ' They've got a force and a gun ashore, both of our 
 
 wings is broke ; 
 ' They'll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the 
 
 best you can do is smoke.' 
 
 And Jim exclaimed : ' You can smoke, you c^aps, 
 
 but me — Gor' bli' me, no ! 
 'The push that ran from the George-street traps 
 
 won't run from a foreign foe. 
 • I'll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and 
 
 I'll stick to what's left of Bill.' 
 
YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 63 
 
 And they hiss through their blackened teeth : ' We'll 
 
 stick ! by the blazing flame, we will ! ' 
 And long years after the war was past, they told in 
 
 the town and bush 
 How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held 
 
 by a Sydney push ; 
 How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how 
 
 they fought with their rifle-stocks, 
 And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their 
 
 ancient weapons — ' rocks.' 
 
 In the western camps it was ever our boast, when 
 
 'twas bad for the kangaroo : 
 ' If the enemy's forces take the coast, they must take 
 
 the mountains, too ; 
 •They may force their way by the western line or 
 
 round by a northern track, 
 • But they won't run short of a decent spree with the 
 
 men who are left out back ! ' 
 When we burst the enemy's ironclads and won by a 
 
 run of luck. 
 We whooped as loudly as Nelson's lads when a 
 
 French three-decker struck ; 
 
64 YEARS APXER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 
 
 And when the enemy's troops prevailed the truth 
 
 was never heard — 
 We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how 
 
 that occurred. 
 
 You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the new- 
 chum jackaroo, 
 But ' cufFs-'n'-collers ' were out that day, and they 
 
 stuck to their posts like glue ; 
 I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny 
 
 led us then ; 
 We buried his bits in the rear that night for the 
 
 honour of George-street men. 
 And Jim the Ringer — ^he fought, he did. The 
 
 regiment nicknamed Jim, 
 ' Old Heads a Caser ' and ' Heads a Quid,' but it 
 
 never was ' tails ' with him. 
 The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the 
 
 way that he finished grand ; 
 He backed the enemy every time, and died in a 
 
 hand-to-hand ! 
 ' • ■ • . . 
 
 I'll never forget when the ringer and I were first in 
 
 the Bush Brigade, 
 
 With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the 
 last grand charge we made. 
 
YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 65 
 
 And Billy died — he was full of sand — he said, as I 
 raised his head : 
 
 • I'm full of love for my native land, but a lot too 
 
 full of lead. 
 Tell 'em,' said Billy, ' and tell old dad, to look after 
 
 the cattle pup ; ' 
 But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, 
 
 and he said, as I held him up : 
 ' I have been happy on western farms. And once, 
 
 when I first went wrong, 
 ' Around my neck were the trembling arms of the 
 
 girl I'd loved so long. 
 ' Far out on the southern seas I've sailed, and ridden 
 
 where brumbies roam, 
 ' And oft, when all on the station failed, I've driven 
 
 the outlaw home. 
 'I've spent a cheque in a day and night, and I've 
 
 made a cheque as quick ; 
 ' I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the 
 
 stores had stopped our tick. 
 
 • I've led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear 
 
 the cheering still, 
 ' When mother and sister and she were there, and the 
 old man yelled for Bill ; 
 
 B 
 
66 YEARS AFTER THE WAR IN AUSTRALIA 
 
 ' But, save for her, could I lire my while again in 
 
 the old bush way, 
 ' I'd give it aU for the last half-mile in the race we 
 
 rode to-day ! ' 
 And he passed away as the stars came out — he died 
 
 as old heroes die — 
 I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the 
 
 Southern Cross was high. 
 
THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER 
 
 The old Jimmy Woodser comes into the bar, 
 
 Unwelcomed, unnoticed, unknown, 
 Too old and too odd to be drunk with, by far ; 
 And he glides to the end where the lunch baskets are 
 
 And they say that he tipples alone. 
 
 His frock-coat is green and the nap is no more. 
 
 And the style of his hat is at rest. 
 He wears the peaked collar our grandfathers wore, 
 The black-ribboned tie that was legal of yore, 
 
 And the coat buttoned over his breast. 
 
 When first he came in, for a moment I thought 
 
 That my vision or wits were astray ; 
 For a picture and page out of Dickens he brought, 
 'Twas an old file dropped in from the Chancery Court 
 
 To a wine-vault just over the way. 
 
 07 
 
68 THE OLD JIMMY WOODSER 
 
 But I dreamed as he tasted his bitters to-night, 
 
 And the lights in the bar-room grew dim, 
 That the shades of the friends of that other day's light, 
 And of girls that were bright in our grandfathers' 
 sight, 
 Lifted shadowy glasses to him. 
 
 And I opened the door as the old man passed out, 
 With his short, shuffling step and bowed head ; 
 And I sighed, for I felt as I turned me about, 
 An odd sense of respect — born of whisky no doubt — 
 For the life that was fifty years dead. 
 
 And I thought — there a.re times when our memory 
 trends 
 Through the future, as 'twere, on its own — 
 That I, out of date ere my pilgrimage ends. 
 In a new fashioned bar to dead loves and dead friends 
 Might drink like the old man alone : 
 While they whisper, ' He boozes alone.' 
 
THE CHRIST OF THE ' NEVER ' 
 
 With eyes that seem shrunken to pierce 
 
 To the awful horizons of land, 
 Through the haze of hot days, and the fierce 
 
 White heat-waves that flow on the sand ; 
 Through the Never Land westward and nor'ward, 
 
 Bronzed, bearded and gaunt on the track. 
 Quiet-voiced and hard-knuckled, rides forward 
 
 The Christ of the Outer Out-back. 
 
 For the cause that will ne'er be relinquished 
 
 Spite of all the great cynics on earth — 
 In the ranks of the bush undistinguished 
 
 By manner or dress — if by birth — 
 God's preacher, of churches unheeded — 
 
 God's vineyard, though barren the sod — 
 Plain spokesman where spokesman is needed — 
 
 Rough link 'twixt the bushman and God. 
 
70 THE CHRIST OP THE ' NEVEE ' 
 
 Hki works where the hearts of all nations 
 
 Are withered in flame from the sky, 
 Where the sinners work out their salvations 
 
 In a hell-upon-earth ere they die. 
 In the camp or the lonely hut lying 
 
 In a waste that seems out of God's sight, 
 He's the doctor — the mate of the dying 
 
 Through the smothering heat of the night. 
 
 By his work in the hells of the shearers, 
 
 Where the drinking is ghastly and grim, 
 Where the roughest and worst of his hearers 
 
 Have listened bareheaded to him. 
 By his paths through the parched desolation 
 
 Hot rides and the terrible tramps ; 
 By the hunger, the thirst, the privation 
 
 Of his work in the furthermost camps ; 
 
 By his worth in the light that shall search men 
 And prove — ay ! and justify each — 
 
 I place him in front of all churchmen 
 
 Who feel not, who know not — but preach ! 
 
THE CATTLE-DOG'S DEATH 
 
 The plains lay bare on the homeward route, 
 And the march was heavy on man and brute ; 
 For the Spirit of Drouth was on all the land, 
 And the white heat danced on the glowing sand. 
 
 The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last, 
 His strength gave out ere the plains were passed, 
 And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid 
 His languid limbs in the nearest shade. 
 
 He saved our lives in the years gone by, 
 When no one dreamed of the danger nigh, 
 And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept 
 On the silent camp where the drovers slept. 
 
 ' The dog is dying,' a stockman said, 
 As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head ; 
 ' 'Tis a long day's march ere the run be near, 
 ' And he's dying fast ; shall we leave him here 1 ' 
 
 n 
 
72 THE CATTLE- DOG'S DEATH 
 
 But the super cried, ' There's an answer there ! ' 
 As he raised a tuft of the dog's grey hair ; 
 And, strangely vivid, each man descried 
 The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide. 
 
 We laid a ' bluey ' and coat across 
 The camping pack of the lightest horse. 
 And raised the dog to his deathbed high. 
 And brought him far 'neath the burning sky. 
 
 At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude 
 His eyes grew human with gratitude ; 
 And though we parched in the heat that fags, 
 We gave him the last of the water-bags. 
 
 The super's daughter we knew would chide 
 If we left the dog in the desert wide ; 
 So we brought him far o'er the burning sand 
 For a parting stroke of her small white hand. 
 
 But long ere the station was seen ahead, 
 His pain was o'er, for the dog was dead ; 
 And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom 
 'Twas a comrade's corpse that we carried home. 
 
THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER 
 
 The only national work of the blacks vras a dam or dyke of stones 
 across the Darling Biver at Brewarrina. The stones they carried from 
 Lord knows where — and the Lord knows how. The people of Bourke 
 kept up navigation for months above the town by a dam of sand-bags. 
 The Darling rises in blazing droughts from the Queensland rains. There 
 are banks and beds of good clay and rock along the river. 
 
 The skies are brass and the plains are bare, 
 Death and ruin are everywhere — 
 And all that is left of the last year's flood 
 Is a sickly stream on the grey-black mud ; 
 The salt-springs bubble and quagmires quiver, 
 And — this is the dirge of the Darling River : 
 
 ' I rise in the drought from the Queensland rain, 
 
 ' I fill my branches again and again ; 
 
 ' I hold my billabongs back in vain, 
 
 ' For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain ; 
 
 ' And the land grows old and the people never 
 
 ' Will see th« worth of the Darling River. 
 
 7S 
 
74 THE SONG OF THE DARLING RIVER 
 
 ' I drown dry gullies and lave bare hills, 
 
 ' I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills — 
 
 ' I form fair island and glades all green 
 
 ' Till every bend is a sylvan scene. 
 
 ' I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide ! 
 
 ' But in vain I have tried, ah ! in vain I have tried 
 
 ' To show the sign of the Great All Giver, 
 
 ' The Word to a people : O ! lock your river. 
 
 ' I want no blistering barge aground, 
 ' But racing steamers the seasons round ; 
 ' I want fair homes on my lonely ways, 
 ' A people's love and a people's praise — 
 ' And rosy children to dive and swim — 
 ' And fair girls' feet in my rippling brim ; 
 ' And cool, green forests and gardens ever ' — 
 Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River. 
 
 The sky is brass and the scrub-lands glare, 
 Death and ruin are everywhere ; 
 Thrown high to bleach, or deep mi the mud 
 The hones lie buried by last year's flood. 
 And the Demons dance from the Never Never 
 To laugh at the rise of the Darling River. 
 
RAIN IN THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 Thb valley's full of misty cloud, 
 Its tinted beauty drowning, 
 
 The Eucalypti roar aloud, 
 
 The mountain fronts are frowning. 
 
 The mist is hanging like a pall 
 From many granite ledges, 
 
 And many a little waterfall 
 Starts o'er the valley's edges. 
 
 The sky is of a leaden grey, 
 Save where the north is surly, 
 
 The driven daylight speeds away. 
 And night comes o'er us early. 
 
 But, love, the rain will pass full soon. 
 Far sooner than my sorrow, 
 
 And in a golden afternoon 
 The sun may set to-morrow. 
 
A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 'Tis a wonderful time when these hours begin, 
 
 These long ' small hours ' of night, 
 When grass is crisp, and the air is thin, 
 
 And the stars come close and bright. 
 The moon hangs caught in a silvery veil. 
 
 From clouds of a steely grey, 
 And the hard, cold blue of the sky grows pale 
 
 In the wonderful Milky Way. 
 
 There is something wrong with this star of ours, 
 
 A mortal plank unsound, 
 That cannot be charged to the mighty powers 
 
 Who guide the stars around. 
 Though man is higher than bird or beast, 
 
 Though wisdom is still his boast. 
 He surely resembles Nature least, 
 
 And the things that vex her most. 
 
 76 
 
A MAY NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS 77 
 
 Oh, say, some muse of a larger star, 
 
 Some muse of the Universe, 
 If they who people those planets far 
 
 Are better than we, or worse ? 
 Are they exempted from deaths and births, 
 
 And have they greater powers. 
 And greater heavens, and greater earths, 
 
 And greater Gods than ours ? 
 
 Are our lies theirs, and our truth their truth, 
 
 Are they cursed for pleasure's sake, 
 Do they make their hells in their reckless youth 
 
 Ere they know what hells they make ? 
 And do they toil through each weary hour 
 
 Till the tedious day is o'er, 
 For food that gives but the fleeting power 
 
 To toil and strive for more ] 
 
THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO 
 
 Let bushmen think as bushmen will, 
 And say 'whate'er they choose, 
 
 I hate to hear the stupid sneer 
 At New Chum Jackaroos. 
 
 He may not ride as you can ride, 
 
 Or do what you can do ; 
 But sometimes you'd seem small beside 
 
 The New Chum Jackaroo. 
 
 His share of work he never shirks, 
 And through the blazing drought. 
 
 He lives the old things down, and worki 
 His own salvation out. 
 
 When older, wiser chums despond 
 
 He battles brave of heart — 
 'Twas he who sailed of old beyond 
 
 The margin of the chart. 
 
 n 
 
THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO 79 
 
 'Twas he who proved the world was rounds 
 
 In crazy square canoes ; 
 The lands you're living in were found 
 
 By New Chum Jackaroos. 
 
 He crossed the deserts hot and bare, 
 
 From barren, hungry shores — 
 The plains that you would scarcely dare 
 
 With all your tanks and bores. 
 
 He fought a way through stubborn hilla 
 
 Towards the setting sun — 
 Your fathers all and Burke and Wills 
 
 Were New Chums, every one. 
 
 When England fought with all the wbrld 
 
 In those brave days gone by, • 
 And all its strength against her hurled, 
 
 He held her honour high. 
 
 By Southern palms and Northern pines — 
 ) Where'er was life to lose — 
 She held her own with thin red lines 
 Of New Chum Jackaroos. 
 
80 THE NEW CHUM JACKAROO 
 
 Through shot and shell and solitudes, 
 
 Wherever feet have gone, 
 The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes 
 
 And Johnnies led them on. 
 
 And though he wear a foppish coat, 
 
 And these old things forget. 
 In stormy times I'd give a vote 
 
 For Cuffs and Collars yet. 
 
THE DONS OF SPAIN 
 
 fHE Eagle screams at the beck of trade, so Spain, aa 
 
 the world goes round, 
 Must wrestle the right to live or die from the sons of 
 
 the land she found ; 
 For, as in the days when the buccaneer was abroad 
 
 on the Spanish Main, 
 The national honour is one thing dear to the hearts 
 
 of the Dons of Spain. 
 
 She has slaughtered thousands with fire and sword, 
 
 as the Christian world might know ; 
 We murder millions, but, thank the Lord ! we only 
 
 starve 'em slow. 
 The times have changed since the days of old, but 
 
 the same old facts remain — ^ 
 
 We fight for Freedom, and God, and Gold, and the 
 
 Spaniards fight for Spain. 
 
 F 81 
 
82 THE DONS OP SPAIN 
 
 We fought with the strength of the moral right, and 
 
 they, as their ships went down. 
 They only fought with the grit to fight and their 
 
 armour to help 'em drown. 
 It mattered little what chance or hope, for ever their 
 
 path was plain, 
 The Church was the Church, and the Pope the Pope 
 
 — but the Spaniards fought for Spain. 
 
 If Providence struck for the honest thief at times in 
 
 the battle's din — 
 If ever it struck at the hypocrite — well, that's where 
 
 the Turks came in ; 
 But this remains ere we leave the wise to argue it 
 
 through in vain — 
 There's something great in the wrong that dies as the 
 
 Spaniards die for Spain. 
 
 The foes of Spain may be kin to us who are English 
 
 heart and soul, 
 And proud of our national righteousness and proud 
 
 of the lands we stole ; 
 But we yet might pause while those brave men die 
 
 and the death-drink pledge again — 
 For the sake of the past, if you're doomed, say I, 
 
 may your death be a grand one, Spain ! 
 
Me dons of SPAIN 8S 
 
 Then here's to the bravest of Freedom's foes who ever 
 
 with death have stood — 
 For the sake of the courage to die on steel as their 
 
 fathers died on wood ; 
 And here's a cheer for the flag unfurled in a hopeless 
 
 cause again, 
 For the sake of the days when the Christian world 
 
 was saved by the Dons of Spain. 
 
THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 
 
 The shipping-office clerks are ' short,' the manager is 
 
 gruff — 
 ' They cannot make reductions,' and ' the fares are 
 
 low enough.' 
 They ship us West with cattle, and we go like 
 
 cattle too ; 
 And fight like dogs three times a day for what we 
 
 get to chew. . . . 
 We'll have the pick of empty bunks and lots of 
 
 stretching room. 
 And go for next to nothing at the Bursting of the 
 
 Boom. 
 
 So wait till the Boom bursts ! — we'll all get a 
 
 show : 
 Then when the Boom bursts is our time to go, 
 
 84 
 
THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 86 
 
 We'll meet 'em coming back in shoals, with looks of 
 
 deepest gloom, 
 But we're the sort that battle through at the 
 
 Bursting of the Boom. 
 
 The captain's easy-going when Fremantle comes in 
 sight; 
 
 He can't say when you'll get ashore — ' perhaps to- 
 morrow night ; ' 
 
 Your coins are few , the charges high ; you must not 
 linger here — 
 
 You'll get your boxes from the hold ' when she's 
 'longside the pier.' . . . 
 
 The launch will foul the gangway, and the trembling 
 bulwarks loom 
 
 Above a fleet of harbour craft-^-at the Bursting of 
 the Boom. 
 
 So wait till the Boom bursts ! — we'll all get a show ; 
 He'll ' take you for a bob, sir,' and where you want 
 
 to go. 
 He'll ' take the big portmanteau, sir, if he might so 
 
 presume ' — 
 You needn't hump your luggage at the Bursting of 
 
 the Boom. 
 
86 THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 
 
 It's loafers — Customs-loafers — and you pay and pay 
 
 again ; 
 They hinder you and cheat you from the gangway to 
 
 the train ; 
 The pubs and restaurants are full — they haven't 
 
 room for more ; 
 They charge us each three shillings for a shakedown 
 
 on the floor ; 
 But, ' Show this gentleman upstairs — the first front 
 
 parlour room. 
 ' We'll see about your luggage, sir ' — at the Bursting 
 
 of the Boom. 
 
 So wait till the Boom bursts ! — we'll all get a show ; 
 And wait till the Boom bursts, and swear mighty 
 
 low, 
 ' We mostly charge a pound a week. How do you 
 
 like the room 1 ' 
 And ' Show this gentleman the bath ' — at the Burst 
 
 ing of the Boom. 
 
 I go down to the timber-yard (I cannot face the 
 
 rent) 
 To get some strips of Oregon to frame my hessian 
 
 tent ; 
 
THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 87 
 
 To buy some scraps of lumber for a table or a 
 
 shelf : 
 The boss comes up and says I might just look round 
 
 for myself ; 
 The foreman grunts and turns away as silent as the 
 
 tomb — 
 The boss himself will wait on me at the Bursting of 
 
 the Boom. 
 
 So wait till the Boom bursts ! — we'll all get a load. 
 ' You had better take those scraps, sir, they're only 
 
 in the road.' 
 ' Now, where the hell's the carter 1 ' you'll hear the 
 
 foreman fume ; 
 And, ' Take that timber round at once ! ' at the 
 
 Bursting of the Boom. 
 
88 THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 
 
 It's ' Take it now or leave it now ; ' ' your money or 
 
 your room ;' — 
 But ' "Who's attending Mr. Brown 1 ' at the Bursting 
 
 of the Boom. 
 
 So wait till the Boom bursts ! — and take what you 
 
 can get, 
 ' There's not the slightest hurry, and your bill ain't 
 
 ready yet.' 
 They'll call and get your orders until the crack o' 
 
 doom, 
 And send them round directly, at the Bursting of 
 
 the Boom. 
 
 No Country and no Brotherhood — such things are 
 
 dead and cold ; 
 A camp from all the lands or none, all mad for love 
 
 of gold ; 
 Where T'othersider number one makes slave of 
 
 number two. 
 And the vilest women of the world the vilest ways 
 
 pursue ; 
 And men go out and slave and bake and die in 
 
 agony 
 
THE BURSTING OF THE BOOM 89 
 
 In western hells that God forgot, where never man 
 
 should be. 
 I feel a prophet in mj heart that speaks the one 
 
 word ' Doom ! ' 
 And aye you'll hear the Devil laugh at the Bursting 
 
 of the Boom. 
 
ANTONY VILLA 
 A Ballad of Ninety-three 
 
 Over there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of 
 the Vardens, 
 
 With a tennis ground and terrace, and a flagstaff in 
 the gardens : 
 
 They are gentlemen and ladies — they've been ' toffs ' 
 for generations, 
 
 But old Varden's been unlucky — lost a lot in specu- 
 lations. 
 
 Troubles gathered fast upon him when the mining 
 
 bubble ' busted,' 
 Then the bank suspended payment, where his little 
 
 all he trusted ; 
 And the butcher and the baker sent their bills in 
 
 when they read it. 
 Even John, the Chow that served him, has refused to 
 
 give him ' cledit.' 
 
 80 
 
ANTONY VILLA 91 
 
 And the daughters of the Vardens — they are beautiful 
 
 as Graces — 
 But the balcony's deserted, and they rarely show 
 
 their faces ; 
 And the swells of their acquaintance never seem to 
 
 venture near them, 
 And the bailiff says they seldom have a cup of tea to 
 
 cheer them. 
 
 They were butterflies — I always was a common 
 
 caterpillar, 
 But I'm sorry for the ladies over there in 'Tony Villa, 
 Shut up there in 'Tony Villa with the bailiff and 
 
 their trouble ; 
 And the dried-up reservoir, where my tears were 
 
 seems to bubble. 
 
 Mrs. Rooney thinks it nothing when she sends a brat 
 
 to ' borry ' 
 Just a pinch of tea and sugar till the grocer comes 
 
 ' temorry ; ' 
 But it's dif 'rent with the Vardens — they would starve 
 
 to death as soon as 
 Knuckle down. You know, they weren't raised 
 
 exactly like the Rooneys ! 
 
92 ANTONY VILLA 
 
 There is gossip in the ' boxes ' and the drawing-rooms 
 
 and gardens — 
 'Have you heard of Varden's failure) Have you 
 
 heard about the Vardens ? ' 
 And no doubt each toney mother on the Point across 
 
 the water's 
 Mighty glad about the downfall of the rivals of her 
 
 daughters. 
 
 (Tho' the poets and the writers say that man to man's 
 
 inhuman, 
 I'm inclined to think it's nothing to what woman is 
 
 to woman, 
 More especially, the ladies, save perhaps a fellow's 
 
 mother ; 
 And I think that men are better — they are kinder to 
 
 each other.) 
 
 There's a youngster by the jetty gathering cinders 
 
 from the ashes. 
 He was known as ' Master Varden ' ere the great 
 
 financial crashes. 
 And his manner shows the dif'rence 'twixt the nurs'ry 
 
 and gutter — 
 But I've seen him at the grocer's buying half a pound 
 
 of butter. 
 
ANTONY VILLA 93 
 
 And his mother fights har trouble in the house across 
 
 the water, 
 She is just as proud as Varden, though she was a 
 
 ' cooky's ' daughter ; 
 And at times I think I see her with the flick'ring 
 
 firelight o'er her, 
 Sitting pale and straight and quiet, gazing vacantly 
 
 before her. 
 
 There's a slight and girlish figure — Varden's youngest 
 
 daughter, Nettie — 
 On the terrace after sunset, when the boat is near 
 
 the jetty ; 
 She is good and pure and pretty, and her rivals don't 
 
 deny it. 
 Though they say that Nettie Varden takes in sewing 
 
 on the quiet. 
 
 (How her sister graced the ' circle,' all unconscious of 
 
 a lover 
 In the seedy ' god ' who watched her from the gallery 
 
 above her ! 
 Shade of Poverty was on him, and the light of Wealth 
 
 upon her. 
 But perhaps he loved her better than the swells 
 
 attending on her.) 
 
94 ANTONY VILLA 
 
 There's a white man's heart in Varden, spite of all 
 
 the blue blood in him, 
 There are working men who wouldn't stand and hear 
 
 a word agin' him ; 
 But his name was never printed by the side of his 
 
 ' donations,' 
 Save on hearts that have — in this world — very 
 
 humble circulations. 
 
 Ho was never stiff or hoggish — he was affable and 
 
 jolly. 
 
 And he'd always say ' Good morning ' to the deck 
 
 hand on the ' Polly ; ' 
 He would ' barrack ' with the newsboys on the Quay 
 
 across the ferry, 
 And he'd very often tip 'em coming home a trifle 
 
 merry. 
 
 Bnt his chin is getting higher, and his features daily 
 
 harden 
 (He will not ' give up possession ' — there's a lot of 
 
 fight in Varden) ; 
 And the way he steps the gangway ! oh, you couldn't 
 
 but admire it ! 
 Just as proud as ever hero walked the plank aboard 
 
 a pirate ! 
 
ANTONY VILLA 95 
 
 He will think about the hardships that his girls were 
 
 never ' useter,' 
 And it must be mighty heavy on the thoroughbred 
 
 old rooster ; 
 But he'll never strike his colours, and I tell a 
 
 lying tale if 
 Varden's pride don't kill him sooner than the bankers 
 
 or the bailiff. 
 
 You remember when we often had to go without our 
 
 dinners, 
 In the days when Pride and Hunger fought a finish 
 
 out within us ; 
 And how Pride would come up groggy — Hunger 
 
 whooping loud and louder — 
 And the swells are proud as we are ; they are just 
 
 as proud — and prouder. 
 
 Yes, the toffs have grit, in spite of all our sneering 
 and our scorning — 
 
 What's the crowd ? What's that 1 God help us !— 
 Varden shot himself this morning ! . . . . 
 
 There'll be gossip in the ' circle,' in the drawing- 
 rooms and gardens ; 
 
 But I'm sorry for the family ; yes — I'm sorry for the 
 Vardens. 
 
SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE 
 
 On suburban railway stations — you may see them as 
 
 you pass — 
 There are signboards on the platforms saying, ' Wait 
 
 here second class ; ' 
 And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of 
 
 running gear 
 Seem to be for ever saying, saying ' Second class wait 
 
 here ' — 
 
 • Wait here second class, 
 
 ' Second class wait here.' 
 
 Seem to be for ever saying, saying ' Second class 
 
 wait here.' 
 
 And the second class were waiting in the days of 
 
 serf and prince, 
 And the second class are waiting — they've been 
 
 waiting ever since. 
 
 M 
 
SECOND CLASS WAIT HERB 97 
 
 There are gardens in the background, and the line is 
 
 bare and drear, 
 Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering ' Second 
 
 class wait here.' 
 
 I have waited oft in winter, in the mornings dark 
 
 and damp, 
 When the asphalt platform glistened underneath the 
 
 lonely lamp. 
 Ghastly on the brick-faced cutting 'Sellum's Soap' 
 
 and ' Blower's Beer ; ' 
 Ghastly on enamelled signboards with their ' Second 
 
 class wait here. 
 
 And the others seemed like burglars, slouched and 
 
 muffled to the throats, 
 Standing round apart and silent in their shoddy 
 
 overcoats, 
 And the wind among the wires, and the poplar* 
 
 bleak and bare. 
 Seemed to be for ever snarling, snarling ' Second class 
 
 wait there.' 
 
 Out beyond the further suburb, 'neath a chimney 
 
 stack alone, 
 
 Lay the works of Grinder Brothers, with a platform 
 
 of their own ; 
 e 
 
98 SECOND CLASS WAIT HERE 
 
 And I waited there and suffered, waited there for 
 
 maay a year, 
 Slaved beneath a phantom signboard, telling our class 
 
 to wait here. 
 
 ^.h ! a man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such 
 
 as mine, 
 God ! I hate the very houses near the workshop by 
 
 the line ; 
 And the smell of railway stations, and the roar of 
 
 running gear, 
 And the scornful-seeming signboards, saying ' Second 
 
 class wait here.' 
 
 There's a train with Death for driver, which is ever 
 
 going past, 
 And there are no class compartments, and we all 
 
 must go at last 
 To the long white jasper platform with an Eden in 
 
 the rear ; 
 And there won't be any signboards, saying ' Second 
 
 class wait here. 
 
THE SHIPS THAT WON'T GO DOWN 
 
 We hear a great commotion 
 
 'Bout the ship that comes to grief, 
 That founders in mid-ocean, 
 
 Or is driven on a reef ; 
 Because it's cheap and brittle 
 
 A score of sinners drown. 
 But we hear but mighty little 
 
 Of the ships that won't go down. 
 
 Here's honour to the builders — 
 
 The builders of the past ; 
 Here's honour to the buUders 
 
 That builded ships to last ; 
 Here's honour to the captain. 
 
 And honour to the crew ; 
 Here's double-column head-lines 
 
 To the ships that battle through. 
 
100 THE SHIPS THAT WON'T GO DOWN 
 
 They make a great sensation 
 
 About famous men that fail, 
 That sink a world of chances 
 
 In the city morgue or gaol, 
 Who drink, or blow their brains out, 
 
 Because of ' Fortune's frown.' 
 But we hear far too little 
 
 Of the men who won't go down. 
 
 The world is full of trouble, 
 
 And the world is full of wrong. 
 But the heart of man is noble, 
 
 And the heart of man is strong ! 
 They say the sea sings dirges, 
 
 But I would say to you 
 That the wild wave's song's a psean 
 
 For the men that battle through. 
 
THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN 
 
 When God's wrath-cloud is o'er me, 
 
 Affrighting heart and mind ; 
 When days seem dark before me, 
 
 And days seem black behind ; 
 Those friends who think they know me — 
 
 Who deem their insight keen — 
 They ne'er forget to show me 
 
 The man I might have been. 
 
 He's rich and independent, 
 
 Or rising fast to fame ; 
 His bright star is ascendant, 
 
 The country knows his name j 
 His houses and his gardens 
 
 Are splendid to be seen ; 
 His fault the wise world pardons — 
 
 The man I might have been. 
 
102 THE MEN WE MIGHT HAVE BEENT 
 
 His fame and fortune haunt me ; 
 
 His virtues wave me back ; 
 His name and prestige daunt me 
 
 When I would take the track ; 
 But you, my friend true-hearted — 
 
 God keep our friendship green i — 
 You know how I was parted 
 
 From all I might have been. 
 
 But what avails the ache of 
 
 Remorse or weak regret 1 
 
 We'll battle for the sake of 
 
 The men we might be yet ! 
 We'll strive to keep in sight of 
 ' The brave, the true, and clean, 
 And triumph yet in spite of 
 The men we might have been. 
 
THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 When fairer faces turn from me, 
 
 And gayer friends grow cold, 
 And I have lost through poverty 
 
 The friendship bought with gold ; 
 When I have served the selfish turn 
 
 Of some all-worldly few, 
 And Folly's lamps have ceased to burn, 
 
 Then I'll come back to you. 
 
 When my admirers find I'm not 
 
 The rising star they thought. 
 And praise or blame is all forgot 
 
 My early promise brought ; 
 When brighter rivals lead a host 
 
 Where once I led a few, 
 And kinder tinffeS reward their boast. 
 
 Then I'U come back to you. 
 
 W 
 
104 THE WAY OF THE WORLD 
 
 You loved me, not for what I had 
 
 Or what I might have been. 
 Ton saw the good, but not the bad, 
 
 Was kind, for that between. 
 I know that you'll forgive again — 
 
 That you will judge me true ; 
 I'll be too tired to explain 
 
 When I come back to you. 
 
THE BATTLING DAYS 
 
 So, sit you down in a straight-backed chair, with your 
 
 pipe and your wife content, 
 And cross your knees with your wisest air, and preach 
 
 of the ' days mis-spent;' 
 Grown fat and moral apace, old man ! you prate of 
 
 the change ' since then ' — 
 In spite of aU, I'd as lief be back in those hard old 
 
 days again. 
 
 They were hard old days j they were battling days ; 
 
 they were cruel at times — but then. 
 In spite of all, I would rather be back in those hard 
 
 old days again. 
 The land was barren to sow wild oats in the days 
 
 when we sowed our own — 
 ('Twas little we thought or our friends believed that 
 
 ours would ever be sown) 
 
 106 
 
106 THE BATTLING DAYS 
 
 But the wild oats wave on their stormy path, and 
 
 they speak of the hearts of men — 
 I would sow a crop if I had my time in those hard old 
 
 days again. 
 
 Wo travel first, or we go saloon — on the planned-out 
 trips we go, 
 
 With those who are neither rich nor poor, and we 
 find that the life is slow ; 
 
 It's ' a pleasant trip ' where they cried, ' Good luck ! 
 There was fun in the steerage then — 
 
 In spite of all, I would fain be back in those vaga- 
 bond days again. 
 
 On Saturday night we've a pound to spare — a pound 
 
 for a trip down town — 
 We took more joy in those hard »ld days for a hardly 
 
 spared half-crown ; 
 We took more pride in the pants we patched than 
 
 the suits we have had since then — 
 In spite of all, I would rather be back in those 
 
 comical days again. 
 
 'Twas We and the World — and the rest go hang — as 
 
 the Outside tracks we trod ; 
 Each thought of himself as a man and mate, and not 
 
 as a martyred god ; 
 
THE BATTLING DAYS 107 
 
 The world goes wrong when your heart is strong — and 
 
 this is the way with men — 
 The world goes right when your liver is white, and 
 
 you preach of the change ' since then.' 
 
 They were hard old days ; they were battling days j 
 
 they were cruel times — but then, 
 In spite of all, we shall live to-night in those hard 
 
 old days again. 
 
WRITTEN AFTERWARDS 
 
 So the days of my tramping are over, 
 
 And the days of my riding are done — 
 I'm about as content as a rover 
 
 Will ever be under the sun ; 
 I write, after reading your letter — 
 
 My pipe with old memories rife — 
 And I feel in a mood that had better 
 
 Not meet the true tyes of the wife. 
 
 You must never admit a suggestion 
 
 That old things are good to recall ; " 
 You must never consider the question : 
 
 ' Was I happier then, after aU ? ' 
 You must banish the old hope and sorrow 
 
 That make the sad pleasures of life. 
 You must live for To-day and To-morrow 
 
 If you want to be just to the wife. 
 
 108 
 
WRITTEN AFTBRWAED8 109 
 
 I have changed since the first day I kissed her. 
 
 Which is due — Heaven bless her ! — to her ; 
 I'm respected and trusted — I'm ' Mister,' 
 
 Addressed by the children as ' Sir.' 
 And I feel the respect without feigning — 
 
 But you'd laugh the great laugh of your life 
 If you only saw me entertaining 
 
 An old lady friend of the wife. 
 
 By-the-way, when you're writing, remember 
 
 That you never went drinking with me, 
 And forget our last night of December, 
 
 Lest our seVral accounts disagree. 
 And, for my sake, old man, you had better 
 
 Avoid the old language of strife, 
 For the technical terms of your letter 
 
 May be misunderstood by the wife. 
 
 Never hint of the girls appertaining 
 
 To the past (when you're writing again), 
 For they take such a lot of explaining. 
 
 And you know how I hate to explain. 
 There are some things, we know to our sorrow, 
 
 That cut to the heart like a knife. 
 And your past is To-day and To-morrow 
 
 If you want to be true to the wife. 
 
110 WRITTEN AFTERWARDS 
 
 I believe that the creed we were chums in 
 
 Was grand, but too abstract and bold, 
 And the knowledge of Ufe only comes in 
 
 When you're married and fathered and old. 
 And it's well. You may travel as few men, 
 
 You may stick to a mistress for life ; 
 But the world, as it is, born of woman 
 
 Must be seen through the eyes of the wife. 
 
 No doubt you are dreaming as I did 
 
 And going the careless old pace. 
 While my future grows dull and decided, 
 
 And the world narrows down to the Place. 
 Let it be. If my ' treason's ' resented. 
 
 You may do worse, old man, in your life j 
 Let me dream, too, that I am contented— 
 
 For the sake of a true little wife. 
 
THE UNCULTURED RHYMER TO HIS 
 CULTURED CRITICS 
 
 Fight through ignoraace, want, and care — 
 
 Through the griefs that crush the spirit j 
 Push your way to a fortune fair, 
 
 And the smiles of the world you'll merit. 
 Long, as a boy, for the chance to learn — 
 
 For the chance that Fate denies you ; 
 Win degrees where the Life-lights burn, 
 
 And scores will teach and advise you. 
 
 My cultured friends ! you have come too late 
 
 With your bypath nicely graded ; 
 I've fought thus far on my track of Fate, 
 
 And I'll foUow the rest unaided. 
 Must I be stopped by a college gate 
 
 On the track of Life encroaching 1 
 Be dumb to Love, and be dumb to Hate, 
 
 For the lack of a college coaching ? 
 
112 THE UNCULTURED RHYMER 
 
 You grope for Truth in a language dead — 
 
 In the dust 'neath tower and steeple ! 
 What know you of the tracks we tread 1 
 
 And what know you of our people 1 
 ' I must read this, and that, and the rest,' 
 
 And write as the cult expects me ! — 
 I'll read the book that may please me best, 
 
 And write as my heart directs me ! 
 
 You were quick to pick on a faulty line 
 
 That I strove to put my soul in : 
 Your eyes were keen for a ' dash ' of mine 
 
 In the place of a semi-colon — 
 And blind to the rest. And is it for such 
 
 As you I must brook restriction 1 
 ' I was taught too little ? ' I learnt too much 
 
 To care for a pedant's diction ! 
 
 Must I turn aside from my destined way 
 
 For a task your Joss would find me 1 
 I come with strength of the living day, 
 
 And with half the world behind me ; 
 I leave you alone in your cultured halls 
 
 To drivel and croak and cavil : 
 Till your voice goes further than college walls, 
 
 Keep out of the tracks we travel ! 
 
THE WRITER'S DREAM 
 
 A WRITER wrote of the hearts of men, and he 
 
 followed their tracks afar ; 
 For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of 
 
 the things that are. 
 His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his 
 
 life was hard and grim ; 
 His land seemed barren, its people cold — yet the 
 
 world was dear to him ; — 
 So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he 
 
 travelled by land and sea, 
 In search of a people who lived a life as life in the 
 
 world should be. 
 
 A.nd he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with 
 
 forest and field and wood, 
 And all things came with the seasons there, and each 
 
 of its kind was good ; 
 
114 THE WRITER'S DREAM 
 
 There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there 
 were lights of green and gold, 
 
 And echoing caves in the clififs below, where a world- 
 wide ocean rolled. 
 
 The lives of men from the wear of Change and the 
 strife of the world were free — 
 
 For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the 
 rocks of the Open Sea. 
 
 And the last that were bom of a noble race — when 
 
 the page of the South was fair — 
 The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last 
 
 of the victors there. 
 He saw their hearts with the author's eyes who had 
 
 written their ancient lore, 
 And he saw their lives as he'd dreamed of such — ah ! 
 
 many a year before. 
 And ' I'll write a book of these simple folk ere I to 
 
 the world return, 
 ' And the cold who read shall be kind for these — and 
 
 the wise who read shall learn. 
 
 ' Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note 
 
 be heard : 
 ' Never again shall a page or line be marred by a 
 
 bitter word ; 
 
THE WRITER'S DREAM U5 
 
 ' But love and laughter and kindly hours will the 
 
 book I'll write recall, 
 • With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs 
 
 for their sorrows aU. 
 •Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the 
 
 young eyes dance with glee — 
 ' And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my 
 
 simple folk and me.' 
 
 The lines ran on as he dipped his pen — ran true to his 
 
 heart and ear — 
 Like the brighter pages of memory when every line 
 
 is clear. 
 The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days 
 
 of love and light — 
 He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought 
 
 it grand to write. 
 And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed 
 
 her twice for pride : 
 ' 'Tis a book of love, though a book of life ! and a 
 
 book you'll read ! ' he cried. 
 
 He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for 
 
 shabby and poor he came) 
 From local ' Fashion ' and mortgaged pride that 
 
 scarce could sign its name. 
 
116 THE WRITER'S DREAM 
 
 What dreamer would dream of auch paltry pride in a 
 
 scene so fresh and fair ? 
 But the local spirit intensified — with its pitiful shams 
 
 — was there ; 
 There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no 
 
 rest for a family ghost !) 
 They hated each other as women could — but they 
 
 hated the stranger most. 
 
 The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in 
 
 the face of Fate — 
 I'll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical 
 
 ghosts that wait. 
 ' 'Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,' he said 
 
 to the paltry pride — 
 (The homely tongues of the simple wives ne'er erred 
 
 on the generous side) — 
 ' They'll prove me true and they'll prove me kind ere 
 
 the year of grace be passed,' 
 But the ignorant whisper of ' axe to grind ! ' went 
 
 home to his heart at last. 
 
 The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of 
 
 the South-east gale. 
 His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a 
 
 fairy tale. 
 
THE WRITER'S DREAM 117 
 
 The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on 
 
 his aching brow, 
 As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would 
 
 never be written now. 
 ' I'll write no more ! ' But he bowed his head, for 
 
 his heart was in Dreamland yet — 
 ' The pages written I'll burn,' he said, ' and the pages 
 
 thought forget.' 
 
 But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the 
 
 old fierce anger burned, 
 And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free 
 
 as the fire of his youth returned : — 
 ' The weak man's madness, the strong man's scorn — 
 
 the rebellious hate of youth 
 ' From a deeper love of the world are born ! And 
 
 the cynical ghost is Truth ! ' 
 And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein 
 
 Doubt could have no part ; 
 ' I'U write my book and it shall be true— the truth of 
 
 a writer's heart. 
 
 ' Ay ! cover the wrong with a fairy tale — who never 
 
 knew want or care — 
 ' A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will 
 
 reek the longer there. 
 
118 THE WRITER'S DREAM 
 
 ' You may starve the writer and buy the pen — you 
 
 may drive it with want and fear — 
 ' But the lines run false in the hearts of men — and 
 
 false to the writer's ear. 
 ' The bard's a rebel and strife his part, and he'll burst 
 
 from his bonds anew, 
 ' Till all pens write from a single heart ! And so may 
 
 the dream come true. 
 
 "Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money 
 
 and dress are all, 
 ' The crawler will bully whene'er he can, and the bully 
 
 who can't will crawl. 
 ' And this is the creed in the local hole, where the 
 
 souls of the selfish rule ; 
 ' Borrow and cheat while the stranger's green, then 
 
 sneer at the simple fool. 
 ' Spit your spite at the men whom Pate has placed in 
 
 the head-race first, 
 ' And hate tiU death, with a senseless hate, the man 
 
 you have injured worst ! 
 
 ' There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but 
 
 the Hearts of the World go west ; 
 ' For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the 
 
 barren lands are best ! 
 
THE WRITER'S DREAM 119 
 
 ' The stranger's hand to the stranger, yet — for a 
 
 roving folk are mine; — 
 ' The stranger's store for the stranger set — and the 
 
 camp-fire glow the sign ! 
 ' The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best 
 
 on the barren sod, 
 ' And the selfish thrive where Nature's kind (they'd 
 
 buUy or crawl to God !) 
 
 ' I was born to write of the things that are ! and the 
 
 strength was given to me ; 
 ' I was born to strike at the things that mar the world 
 
 as the world should be ! 
 ' By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by 
 
 the hungry tracks I've trod — 
 ' I'U fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as 
 
 a martyred god. 
 ' By the heart of " Bill " and the heart of " Jim," and 
 
 the men that their hearts deem " white," 
 ' By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with 
 
 forbidden tears ! — I'll write ! 
 
 ' I'll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense 
 
 that fume and fret — 
 For against the wisdom of all their schools I would 
 stake mine instinct yet ! 
 
120 THE WRITER'S DREAM 
 
 ' For the cynical strain in the writer's song is the 
 
 world, not he, to blame, 
 ' And I'll write as I think, in the knowledge strong 
 
 that thousands think the same ; 
 ' And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim 
 
 battles by day, by night, 
 ' Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will 
 
 ■ay to the world, " He's right ! " ' 
 
THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH 
 
 If I ever be worthy or famous — 
 
 Which I'm sadly beginning to doubt — 
 When the angel whose place 'tis to name us 
 
 Shall say to my spirit, ' Pass out ! ' 
 I wish for no sniVlling about me 
 
 (My work was the work of the land), 
 But I hope that my country wiU shout me 
 
 The price of a decent brass band. 
 
 Thump ! thump ! of the drum and ' Ta-ra-rit,' 
 
 Thump ! thump ! and the music — it's grand, 
 If only in dreams, or in spirit. 
 
 To ride or march after the band ! 
 And myself and my mourners go straying. 
 
 And strolling and drifting along 
 With a band in the front of us playing 
 
 The tune of an old battle song ! 
 
 121 
 
122 THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH 
 
 I ask for no ' turn-out ' to bear me ; 
 
 I ask not for raiKngs or slabs, 
 And spare me ! my country — oh, spare me I 
 
 The hearse and the long string of cabs 1 
 I ask not the baton or ' starts ' of 
 
 The bore with the musical ear. 
 But the music that's blown from the hearts of 
 
 The men who work hard and drink beer. 
 
 And let 'em strike up ' Annie Laurie,' 
 
 And let them burst out with ' Lang Syne ' — 
 Twin voices of sadness and glory. 
 
 That have ever been Ukings of mine. 
 And give the French war-hymn deep-throated 
 
 The Watch of the Germans between. 
 And let the last mile be devoted 
 
 To ' Britannia ' and ' Wearing the Green.' 
 
 And if, in the end — more's the pity — 
 
 There is fame more than money to spare — 
 
 There's a van-man I know in the city 
 
 Who'll convey me, right side up with care. 
 
 True sons of Australia, and noble, 
 Have gone from the long dusty way, 
 
THE JOLLT DEAD MARCH 123 
 
 While the sole mourner fought down his trouble 
 With his pipe on the shaft of the dray. 
 But let them strike up ' Annie Laurie,' &o. 
 
 And my spirit will join the procession — 
 
 Win pause, if it may, on the brink — 
 Nor feel the least shade of depression 
 
 When the mourners drop out for a drink ; 
 It may be a hot day in December, 
 
 Or a cold day in June it may be. 
 And the drink wiU but help them remember 
 
 The good points the world missed in me. 
 And help 'em to love ' Annie Laurie,' 
 And help 'em to raise ' Auld Lang Syne,' &c. 
 
 ' Unhook the West Port ' for an orphan, 
 
 An old digger chorus revive — 
 If you don't hear a whoop from the coffin, 
 
 I am not being buried alive. 
 But I'll go with a spirit less bitter 
 
 Than mine own on the earth may have been. 
 And, perhaps, to save trouble. Saint Peter 
 
 Will pass me, two comrades between. 
 
124 THE JOLLY DEAD MARCH 
 
 And let them strike up ' Annie Laurie,' 
 
 And let 'em burst out with ' Lang Syno,' 
 Twin voices of sadness and glory 
 
 That have ever been likings of mine. 
 Let them swell the French war-hymn deep-throated 
 
 (And I'll not buck at ' God Save the Queen '), 
 But let the last mile be devoted 
 
 To 'Britannia' and 'Wearifig the Green.' 
 
 Thump ! thump ! of the drums we inherit — 
 
 War-drums of my dreams ! Oh it's grand, 
 If only in fancy or spirit. 
 
 To ride or march after a band ! 
 And we, the World-Battlers, go straying 
 
 And loving and laughing along — 
 With Hope in the lead of us playing 
 
 The tune of a life-battle song ! 
 
Bloxham & Chambers, Printers, Sydney. 
 
CATALOGUE OF BOOKS 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 ANGUS & ROBERTSON 
 
 LIMITED 
 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY 
 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET, SYDNEY 
 
 ^ 
 
 The books in this Catalogue may be obtained through 
 any Bookseller in Australia, New Zealand and 
 all other English-speaking Countries. 
 
 Intending purchasers axe requested to write direct 
 to the publishers i( they have any difficulty in 
 obtaining the books required. 
 
 English and Foreign trade orders should be sent to 
 the publishers whose names appear in the body of 
 the - Catalogue ; where no other name appears, 
 they should be sent to the Oxford University 
 Press, Amen Comer, London, E.C. 
 
 The costs of postage stated herein are for delivery 
 to any address in the Commonwealth of Australia. 
 
 November, 1913. 
 
ANNOUNCEMENTS. 
 
 THE GEOLOGY OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 
 
 By C. A. SussMiLCH, F.G.S., Lecturer in Geology at 
 Sydney Technical College. Second edition, 
 thoroughly revised and greatly enlarged, with many 
 new illustrations, printed on best art paper, and 
 handsomely bound in cloth, 6s. (postage 2d.) 
 
 The first edition of this most readable and useful work was 
 exhausted very rapidly and before the book was generally 
 known. The second edition will embody the results of the 
 most recent researches published by the N.S.W. Mines Depart- 
 ment, the Koyal and Linnean Societies, and Australian 
 Museum, as well as much information not hitherto published. 
 It is a thorough "stock-taking" of present knowledge and will 
 not be superseded for many years. An excellent book for 
 sending abroad. 
 
 PRACTICAL HOUSE DRAINAGE. 
 
 By Geoege R. Wills, Lecturer at Sydney Technical 
 College. With numerous diagrams. Crown 4to. 
 (10 in. X 7^ in.), strongly bound in cloth, 6s. 
 (postage 2d.) 
 
 No English or American book is so thoroughly practical as 
 this work will be. It will prove indispensable to master- 
 drainers, journeymen and students alike, and will conform 
 to all the requirements of existing Government regulations and 
 the Technical College curriculum. 
 
 LIFE OF CAPTAIN MATTHEW FLINDERS, R.N. 
 
 By Professor Ernest Scott, author of "Terre 
 Napoleon," and "Life of Laperouse." In a hand- 
 some volume of over 400 pages, octavo, with many 
 maps, portraits, and manuscripts in facsimile. 
 
 This will be the last word on Flinders. Access haa been had 
 to aU available sources of information, including the Flinders 
 family papers, the Decaen papers at Caen, the Bibliothfique 
 Nationale (Paris), the Mitchell Library (Sydney), and the 
 Melbourne Public Library. Much entirely new matter will 
 see the light for the first time in this volume, which will 
 be easily the most important Australian historical work 
 published in recent years. 
 
 S 
 
AVSTBALtAhl VERSE. 
 
 THE GOLDEM TB£A8U£Y 
 OF AUSTKAUAir VXSSE. 
 
 Edited, witu introduction and JSoies, by Bertram 
 Stevens. New (fourth) edition, revised and en- 
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 FAIR GIRLS AND GRAY HORSES, 
 WITH OTHER VERSES. 
 
 By Will. H. Ogilvie. Revised edition, completing 
 twentieth thousand. With portrait. Crown 8vo., 
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AUSTBALIAN VEBSE. 
 
 WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By Baecroft Henry Boake. Second edition, revised 
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 THE POETICAL WORKS OF 
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 edges, 6s. (postage 2d.) 
 Spectatob : " There is no mistaking the vigour of Mr. Pater- 
 son's verse; there is no difficulty in feeling the strong human 
 interest which moves in it." 
 
 Bookman : " Now and again a deeper theme, like an echo 
 from the older, more experienced land, leads him to more serious 
 singing, and proves that real poetry is, after all, universal. It 
 is a hearty book." 
 
 London: Macmillan and Co., Limited. 
 
 THE SECRET KEY, AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 By George Essex Evans. With portrait. Second 
 
 edition, crown 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 3s. 6d. ; 
 
 full morocco, gilt edges, 6s. (postage 2d.) 
 
 Glasgow Hebald: "There is . . . the breath of that 
 
 apparently immortal spirit which has inspired . . . almost all 
 
 that is best in English higher song." 
 
 The Bookman : " Mr. Evans has written many charming and 
 tnusical poems, . . . many pretty and haunting lines." 
 
 8 
 
AUSTRALIAN VERSE. 
 
 WDTE Am) ROSES: A New Volvme of Poemi. 
 
 By VictcoK J. Daley. With portrait. Crown 8vo., 
 cloth gilt, gilt top, 3s. 6d.; full morocco, gilt edges, 
 6s. (postage 2d.) 
 
 Daily Telegraph: "Most of Ma verse is tinged with sad- 
 ness — as in most Irish poetry — but there is a fine imaginative 
 quality that lifts it to a far higher plane than that of the 
 conventional melancholy rhym«r. There are poems in this 
 book that recall the magic of Eossetti. . , . Victor Daley 
 has left his mark in the beginnings of an Australian literature. ' ' 
 
 AT DAWN AND DUSK: POEMS. 
 
 By Victor J. Daley. Fourth edition. With photo- 
 gravure portrait. Crov^n 8vo., cloth gilt, gilt top, 
 .3s. 6d. ; full morocco, gilt edges, 6s. {postage 2d.) 
 
 Bookman: "These verses are fuU of poetic fancy musically 
 expressed. ' ' 
 
 Sydney Moeninb Hebald: "The indefinable charm is here, 
 and the spell, and the music. ... A distinct advance for 
 Australian verse in ideality, in grace and polish, in the study 
 of the rarer forms of verse, and in the true faculty of poetic 
 feeling and expression." 
 
 Bulletin: "Open this book where you will, you are caught 
 St onc« into a land of dreams." 
 
 HOW HE DIED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By JoHiT Fareell. Fourth edition. With Memoir, 
 Appreciations, and photogravure portrait. Crown 
 8vo., cloth gUt, gilt top, 3s. 6d. ; full morocco, gilt 
 edges, 6s. {postage 2d.) 
 
 Melboubne Age : " Parrell's contributions to the literaturi 
 of this country were always distinguished by a fine, stirring 
 optimism, a genuine sympathy, and ah idealistic sentiment, 
 which in the book under notice find their fullest expression." 
 
 New Zealand Mail: " Of the part of Mr. Farrell's work con- 
 tained in this volume it Is not necessary to say more than that 
 it has long since received sincere commendation, not only from 
 other Australian writers, but from men eminent in letters in 
 England and America." 
 
AUSTRALIAN VERSE. 
 
 WHEN THE WORLD WAS WIDB, 
 AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 By Henet Lawson. Eighteenth thousand. With 
 photogravure portrait and vignette title. Crown 
 8vo., cloth got, gilt top, 3s. 6d. ; full morocco, gilt 
 edges, 6s. (postage 2d.) 
 
 The Academy: "T^ese ballada (for such they moatly ar«) 
 abound in spirit and manhood, in the colour and Bmell of Aus- 
 tralian soil. They deserve the popularity which they have won 
 in Australia, and which, we trust, this edition will now giv» 
 them in England." 
 
 The Speakeh: "There are poems in 'In the Days When the 
 World was Wide ' which are of a higher mood than any yet 
 heard in distinctively Australian poetry." 
 
 VERSES, POPULAR AND HUMOROUS. 
 
 By Henry Lawson. Seventeenth thousand. Crown 
 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. ; full morocco, gilt edges, 
 6s. (postage 2d.) 
 
 For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 12. 
 New Yoek Jotjenal : " Such pride as a man feels when 
 he has true greatness as his guest, this newspaper feels 
 in introducing to a million readers a man of ability hitherto 
 unknown to them. Henry Lawson is his name." 
 
 WHEN I WAS KING, AND OTHER VERSES. 
 
 By Henry Lawson. Eighth thousand. Crown 8vo., 
 cloth gilt, 3s. fid.; full morocco, gilt edges, 6s. 
 (postage 2d.) 
 
 Also in two parts, entitled " When I Was King," ami "The 
 Elder Son." See page 12. 
 
 Spectatob (London) : "A good deal of humour, a great deal 
 of spirit, and a robust philosophy are the main characteristics 
 of these Australian poets. Because they write of a world they 
 know, and of feelings they have themselves shared in, they art 
 far nearer the heart of poetry than the most accomplished de- 
 votees of a literary tradition." 
 
 8 
 
AUSTRALIAN STORIES. 
 
 WHILE THE BILLY BOILS. 
 
 By Henet Lawson. With eight illustrations by F. P. 
 Mahony. Thirty-first thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth 
 gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 
 For cheaper edition see Commonwealth Series, page 12. 
 The Academy: "A book of honest, direct, gympathetic, 
 humorous writing about Australia from within is worth a 
 library of travellers' tales . , . The result is a real book — a 
 book in a hundred. His language is terse, supple, and richly 
 idiomatic. He can tell a yarn with the best." 
 
 ON THE TRACK AND OVER THE SLIPRAILS. 
 
 By Heney Lawson. Nineteenth thousand. Crown 
 8vo., cloth gUt, 3s. 6d. {postage 2d.) 
 
 for cheaper edition see Commonwealth Beries, page 12. 
 
 Daily Chbonicle : " Will well sustain the reputation its 
 author has already won as the best writer of Australian short 
 stories and sketches the literary world knows." 
 
 Pail Mall Gazette: "The volume now received will do 
 much to enhance the author's reputation. There is all the 
 quiet irresistible humour of Dickens in the description of ' The 
 Darling River,' and the creator of ' Truthful James ' never did 
 anything better in the way of character sketches than Steelman 
 and Mitchell." 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE BUSH. 
 
 By Henry Lawson. Tenth thousand. Crown 8vo., 
 eloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (postage 2d.) 
 
 Also in two parts, entitled " Send Round the Bat " and " The 
 Romance of the Swag." See page IS. 
 
 Daily Telegraph: "These stories are for the most part 
 episodes which appear to have been taken direct from life 
 .... and Mr. Lawson contrives to make them wonderfully 
 vivid . . . Mr. Lawson's new stories are as good as his old 
 ones, and higher praise they could not get." 
 
 The Bulletin : " These stories are the real Australia, 
 written by the foremost living Australian author . . . Lawson's 
 genius remains as vivid and human as when he first boiled his 
 literary billy." 
 
 9 
 
AUSTRALIAN 8T0RIES. 
 
 JOE WILSON AND HIS MATES. 
 
 By Henry Lawson. Tenth thousand. Crown 8to., 
 cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. (postage 2d.) 
 
 For cheaper edition see Oommonvoealth Series, page It. 
 
 The ATHBNAE0M (London): "This is a long way tht belt 
 work Mr. Lawson has yet given us. These stories are so good 
 that (from the literary point of view of course) one hopei 
 they are not autobiographical. As autobiography they would 
 be good, as pure fiction they are more of an attainment." 
 
 London: Wm. Blackwood & Sons.. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER COCKLE'S 
 AUSTRALIAN EXPERIENCES. 
 
 By "Old Boomerang" (J. R. Hottlding). Revised 
 edition, with 2 portraits. Cloth gilt, 5s. (postage 
 2d.) 
 
 Originally published under the title " Australian Capers," 
 this volume has been out of print for many years, and copies 
 which have come into the market secondhand have been pur- 
 chased at enhanced prices. The author has at last consented 
 to its republication and has thoroughly revised it. As a 
 picture of Australian life thirty or forty years ago the book 
 is worthy of a permanent place in our literature, and it con- 
 tains plenty of fun and humour for both old and young. 
 
 STORIES OF OLD SYDNEY. 
 
 By Charles H. Bertie. With 53 pen and pencil 
 drawings by Sydney Urb Smith. Small 4to., 
 cloth cover, printed in colours, 3s. 6d. (postage 
 Id.) 
 Stdnft Mobning Hekald : " A charming and interesting 
 little book . . . they live and breathe, and he has contrived to 
 make actual to us those remote and almost, incredible days 
 . . . Mr. Smith's admirable illustrations are an equally im- 
 portant feature of the book, which, in addition to its interest, 
 presents a great antiquarian value." 
 
 10 
 
AUSTRALIAN STORIES, ETC. 
 
 THE RISING OP THE COURT, AND OTHER 
 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 By Henry Lawson With coloured cover by Lionel 
 Lindsay. Crown 8vo., wrapper {CommonweaWh 
 Series), Is. (postage Id.) 
 
 QiTEENSiAin) Times: "These stories show Lawson at hii 
 best, and Lawson at his best is not to be beaten by short story 
 writerj in current literature." 
 
 Weebxt Press (Christchureh) ; "No one else could have 
 written these sketches. Lawson has so much feeling and so 
 much humour." 
 
 AN OUTBACK MARRIAGE: A Story of Australian Life. 
 
 By A. B. Paterson, author of " The Man from Snowy 
 River," and " Rio Grande's Last Race." Eighth 
 thousand. (Commonwealth Series), Is. (postage 
 Id.) 
 
 Scotsman : " The chief virtue of the book lies in its fresh 
 and vivid presentment of the wild life and the picturesque man- 
 ners of the Australian bush, while in form and style it claims 
 recognition as a work of considerable literary distinction." 
 
 Fall Mall Gazette : " The whole tone of the book is fresh 
 and breezy . . . Altogether, this is a distinctly interesting 
 story." 
 
 Glasgow Hebald: " . . . . will stand comparison with works 
 of fiction produced in any part of the English-speaking world." 
 
 THE OLD BUSH SONGS. 
 
 Collected and edited by A. B. Paterson, author of 
 " The Man from Snowy River," " Rio Grande's 
 Last Race," &e. Twelfth thousand. Crown 8vo. 
 (Commonwealth Series), Is. (postage Id.) 
 
 Daily Teleqbaph : " Rude and rugged these old bush songs 
 are, but they carry in their vigorous lines the very impress of 
 their origin and of their genuineness . . . Mr. Paterson has 
 done his work like an artist." 
 
 11 
 
CHEAP REPRINTS. 
 
 THE COMMONWEALTH SERIES. 
 
 Crown 8vo., picture cover, Is. each (postage Id.) 
 
 The Eising of the Court. By Henry Limson 
 
 Send Round the Hat: Stobies. By Henry Lawaon 
 
 The Romance of the Swag : Stories. By Henry Lawson 
 
 When I was King: Verses. By Henry Lawson 
 
 The Elder Son: Verses. By Henry Lawsoti 
 
 Joe WujSOn: Stories. By Henry Lawson 
 
 Joe Wilson's Mates: Stories By Henry Lawson 
 
 On the Track: Stories. By Henry Lawson 
 
 Over the Sliprails: Stories. By Henry Lawson 
 
 Popular Verses. By Henry Lawson 
 
 Humorous Verses. By Henry Lawson 
 
 While the Billy Boils: Stories— First Series. 
 
 By Henry Lawson 
 
 While the Billt Boils: Stories— Second Series. 
 
 By 'Henry Lawson 
 
 An Outback MARRiiGB. By A. B. Paterson 
 
 The Old Bush Songs. Edited by A. B. Paterson 
 
 Mt Chinee Cook, and other Humorous Verses, 
 
 By Brunton Stephenn 
 
 History op Australian Bushranging. By Charles White 
 
 Part I.— The Early Days. 
 Part II. -1850 to 1862. 
 Part III.-1863 to 1869. 
 Part IV.-1869 to 1878. 
 
 For press notices of these books see pages 5, 8, 9, 10 
 and 11 of this Catalogue. 
 
 12 
 
M18CELLAME0V8. 
 
 LAURENCE HOPE'S 
 LOVE LYRICS. 
 
 Uniformly bound in fancy boards witii cloth back. 
 5s. (postage 3d.) per volume. 
 
 The Garden of Kama. 
 
 Daily Chbonici^e: "No one has so truly interpreted the 
 Indian mind — no one, transcribing Indian thought into our 
 literature, has retained so high and serious a level, and quite 
 apart from the rarity of themes and setting — the verses remain 
 — ^true poems." 
 
 Staks op the Desert. 
 
 Outlook: "It is not merely that these verses describe 
 Oriental scones and describe them with vividness, there is a 
 feeling in the rhythm — a timbre of the words that seems akin 
 to the sand and palm-trees and the changelesB Bast." 
 
 Indian Love. 
 
 Spectatob: "The poetry of Laurence Hope must hold a 
 unique place in modem letters. No woman has written lines 
 so iuU of a strange primeval savagery — a haunting music — 
 the living force of poetry." 
 
 DOT AND TEE KANGAROO. 
 
 By Ethel C. Pedlbt. Illustrated by T. P. Mahony. 
 
 Tenth thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. 
 
 {postage 2d.) For school edition see page 30. 
 Sydney Moening Hebald : " ' Dot and the Kangaroo ' is with- 
 out doubt one of the most charming books that could b« put 
 into the hands of a child. It is admirably illustrate^ by Frank 
 P. Mahony, who seems to have entered thoroughly into the 
 animal world of Australia. The story is altogether Australian. 
 ... It is told so simply, and yet so artistically, that even tha 
 ' grown-ups ' amongst us must enjoy it." 
 
 GODS AND WOOD THINGS. 
 
 By L. H. Allen. Crown 8vo., paper boards, Is. 
 {postage Id.) 
 Sydney Mobninq Hebald: "Mr. Allen is one of the select 
 band who are saturated with classic lore and who seek to 
 translate the beings of pagan mythology to the Australian 
 bush. 'Gods and Wood Things' contains both prose and verse 
 — the latter rhapsodical, the former mystical." 
 
 19 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 A BUSH CALENDAR. 
 
 By Amy Eleanor Mack. Third edition, revised, with 
 42 photographs of birds, flowers, bush scenes, etc. 
 Small 4to., cloth, 3s. 6d. {postage Id.) 
 
 BsiiBOBNE Magazine : " It ii with a pleasing sense of sur- 
 prise that we read Mrs. Harrison's brightly-written studies of 
 Nature as she is seen by the seeing eye." 
 
 LiTEBAET WoELD: "A pleasant little book . . . There is 
 much to interest those who haye no personal knowledge of the 
 antipodes . . . and to those who know the country, the vivid 
 descriptions will bring back many happy recollections." 
 
 BUSH DAYS. 
 
 By Amy Eleanok Mack. With 39 photographs. Small 
 4to., cloth (uniform with "A Bush Calendar"), 
 3s. 6d. (postage Id.) 
 
 T. P.'s Weekly (London): "A delightful book of descrip- 
 tive studies in nature." 
 
 BooKSELLEE (London): "Utterly delightful in every sense 
 of the word." 
 
 Book LiOvee: "A succession of memories of happy times 
 with nature." 
 
 Sydney Mobninq Hbbald: "Deals with many aspects of 
 outdoor Ufe, and that fascinating inner heart of it, the hidden 
 life of the bush." 
 
 8USHLAND STORIES. 
 
 By Amy Eleanor Mack. Second edition, printed 
 from new type, with coloured illustrations. Crown 
 8vo., cloth, 2s. 6d. (postage 2d.) 
 
 Academy: "It is not often that we have the pleasure to 
 welcome from Australia a book of so many charming short stories 
 as are contained in the volume before us." 
 
 Scotsman : " Charming and simple nursery tales, appetisingly 
 touched with local colour of the Bush." 
 
 BiEMiNOHAM Daily Post : " There is a daintiness and distinct 
 charm in these fairy tales." 
 
 U 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 THE MOTHER STATE: 
 
 The Physical Featupes, Natural Resoupces. Geolo^ry, 
 Seenepy, Climate, Industpies and Commepce of Newr 
 South Wales. 
 
 By J. M. Tatloe, M.A., LL.B. With 85 illustrations 
 and maps. Cloth gUt, 3s. 6d. (postage 2d.} 
 This is the only up-to-date general description of New South 
 Wales available for sending to friends abroad. All the in- 
 formation is drawn from latest authentic sources and the 
 illustrations and maps add largely to the book's interest and 
 value. (See also page 22); 
 
 A POPULAR GUIDE TO THE WILD PLOWERS 
 OF NEW SOUTH WALES. 
 
 By Floebnce Sulman. With 51 full-page illustra- 
 tions. Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. (postage 2d.) 
 
 Sydney Mobnino Hsoalo: "Miss Suhuan has come to the 
 help of flower iovers in search of knowledge. She has given 
 ua an account of most of our common wild flowers in simple 
 
 language within the grasp of aU This book can be taken 
 
 into the bush by the flower lover, and by its aid practically any 
 flower identified without previous knowledge of botany. It is 
 a book that has been badly needed." 
 
 A second volume is in preparation, and its publication will 
 bt uotifled to aU who send their names to tha Publishers. 
 
 SOME FAMILIAR WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Photographed by A. E. Sulman. Demy Svc, paper 
 cover, 2s. (postage Id.) 
 This is the best representation by photography of Australian 
 wild flowers in book form, and it is particularly suitable for 
 sending to friends abroad. A second series is in preparation, 
 the publication of which will be notified to all who send in their 
 names beforehand. 
 
 THE PLANTS OF NEW SOUTH WALES: 
 
 An Analytical Key to the Flo'weplns Plants (except 
 Gpasses and Rushes) and Fepns of the State, ivith a 
 list of native plants dlscoveped since 1893. 
 
 By W. A. Dixon, F.LC, F.C.S. With Glossary and 
 49 diagrams. Foolgcap 8vo,, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 (pottage 2d.) 
 
 U 
 
CONSTITUTIONAL AND LEGAL. 
 
 THE STATE AND FEDERAL OONSTZTUTIONS 
 OF AUSTRALIA. 
 
 By K. R. Cbamp, M.A., Examiner, N.S.W. Depart- 
 ment of Public Instruction. With portraits and 
 illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. 
 {postage 2d.) 
 
 N.S.W. Public Insteuotion Gazette: "Not only sound 
 and scholarly, but is written by a teacher of long experience. 
 .... Has the additional advantage of being absolutely up 
 
 to date Altogether an admirable piece of work. . . . 
 
 An interesting, very helpful, and very necessary handbook," 
 
 THE ANNOTATED CONSTITUTION OF 
 THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH. 
 
 By Sir John Quick, LL.D., and E. R. Garban, C.M.Q. 
 Royal 8vo., cloth gilt, 21s. 
 The Times : " A monument of industry." 
 
 THE JUSTICES' MANUAL AND POLICE GUIDE. 
 
 A Synopsis of offences punishable by indictment and 
 on summapy conviction, definitions of cpimes, mean- 
 ing's of legal phrases, hints on evidence, ppocedupe. 
 police duties, dec, in Neiv South AVales, 
 
 Compiled by Daniel Stephen, Sub-Inspector of 
 Police. Tliird edition, thoroughly revised to 
 1913, including all new and consolidated Acts, and 
 with a chapter on Finger Prints by Inspector 
 Childs. Demy 8vo., cloth, 7s. 6d. {postage 3d.) 
 
 The Maqisteate : ' ' The three editions afford an illustration 
 of the rapid increase of size in successive editions of law books. 
 The first was a little book, the second was a great advance ou 
 it, and the, third, which contains about half as much again as 
 the second, is a well-got-up work of nearly 500 pages. Its 
 principal claim is in being accurate, handy, thorough and 
 copiously indexed. The index references number over 2,800! " 
 
 II 
 
mSTORICAL. 
 
 SOME EARLY RECORDS OF THE MACARTHURS 
 OF CAMDEN, 1789-1834. 
 
 Edited by Sibella Maoaethub Onslow. With coloured 
 
 plates and numerous facsimile reproductions of 
 
 original documents. Demy 8vo., cloth gUt, 15s. 
 
 {postage 4d.) 
 
 This volume will be recognised as a classic, giving at first 
 
 hand an insight into the times and the mode and manner of 
 
 living of a pioneer family during the first forty years of 
 
 civilised story in Australia, and above all the trials of the 
 
 pioneer of the wool trade. 
 
 iOSTOKY OF AUBIRAliASiA: 
 
 From the BapUest Times to the Present Day, virlth 
 Chapters on Australian Literature, Industries, and 
 Land Settlement. 
 
 Uy Arthub W. Jose, author of " The Growth of the 
 
 Empire." Fifth edition, thoroughly revised, with 
 
 many new maps and illustrations from rare 
 
 originals in the Mitchell Library. Crown 8vo., 
 
 cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. {postage 2d.) 
 
 The BTjiiETiN: "It is the most complete handbook on the 
 
 subject available; the tone is judicial and the workmanship 
 
 thorough . . . The new chapter on Australian Literature is the 
 
 best view yet presented." 
 
 Spectator (London) : " His book is both clear and interest- 
 ing, and this edition contains two new and very valuable 
 chapters." 
 
 LIFE OF LAPEROUSE. 
 
 By Peofessoe Eenest Scott, author of " Terra 
 Napol6on." With Chart of Voyages in the 
 Pacific, and 13 illlustrations. Small 4to, cloth, 
 3s. 6d. (postage Id.) For school edition see page 30. 
 The French nation has had no greater sailor than Lapfirouse, 
 and no better choice could have been made when Louis XVI. 
 selected this disciple and ardent admirer of the great Captain 
 Cook to conduct an enterprise in the Pacific. The story of 
 Lap6rouse'8 splendid work as an explorer, and his close associa- 
 tion with Australia, render this one of the moat important 
 contributions to our history, while the noble character of th* 
 man gives the book special value for presentation purposes. 
 The Ulustrations are from authentic sources and are very 
 interesting. 
 
 17 
 
MlLITABt. 
 
 AUSTRALIAN NAVAL AND 
 MILITARY ANNUAL. 
 
 Published for the Australian National Defence League, 
 Royal 8vo., boards, 5s. (postage 2d.) 
 
 LIGHT HORSE POCKET BOOK. 
 
 Compiled by Lieut. D. C. Howell Price, A. and I. 
 Staff. A concise guide to Regulations, Field 
 Training, Camp Duties, Equitation, etc. With 
 Nominal and other Rolls. Pocket size, limp cloth, 
 Is. 6d. (postage Id.) 
 
 INFANTRY POCKET BOOK. 
 
 Compiled by Lieut. R. Stupaet. A concise guide to 
 Regulations, Field Training, Musketry, Camp 
 Duties, etc. With prefatory note by Colonel W. 
 Holmes, D.S.O., V.D., Nominal, Section and 
 Attendance Rolls, and Duty Roster. Pocket size, 
 limp cloth. Is. 6d. (postage Id.) 
 
 THE CADET HANDBOOK. 
 
 Compiled by Lieut. R. Stupabt. A concise guide to 
 Regulations, Duties of Non-Com's., Guards and 
 Sentries, etc., with Attendance Roll for Section 
 Commanders. Second edition, revised. Pocket 
 size, limp cloth, 9d. (postage Id.) 
 
 RIFLE EXERCISES AND MUSKETRY 
 INSTRUCTION FOR CADETS. 
 
 Compiled by Lieut. R. Stupart. Paper cover, 6d. 
 (postage Id.) 
 
 Includes Care of Arms, Rifle Exercises, Aiming Instruction, 
 Firing Instruction, Muscle Exercises, Tests of Elementary 
 Training, etc. With Sketch of Rifle showing all parts. 
 
 18 
 
MILITABY. 
 
 GUARD AND SENTRY DUTIES. 
 
 What to do and how to do it. A complete Guide to 
 the Guard Duties of Field Oflicer and Captain of 
 the Day, The Commander, Sergeant, Corporal, and 
 Private Soldier of the Guard, etc., with copy of 
 Guard Report. By Lieut. R. Stupaet. Paper 
 cover, 9d. (postage Id.) 
 
 PROTECTION, OR THE SERVICE OF SECURITY. 
 
 Advanced, Flank and Rear Guards, and Outposts. 
 With a special chapter and sketch map showing 
 the Disposition of a Piquet on Night Outpost 
 Duty. By Lieut. R. Stupart. Paper cover, 9d. 
 {postage Id.) 
 
 AIMING AND FIRING 
 
 AND MINIATURE RIFLE SHOOTING. 
 
 Giving full Explanations and Reasons in accordance 
 with the Official Manuals. By Lieut. R. Stupaet. 
 nius. with numerous diagrams. Is. {postage Id.) 
 
 SOLDIER'S MUSKETRY SMALL BOOK. 
 
 Includes Hints on Shooting, Judging Distfmce, Group- 
 ing Practices, etc.^ with a large number of dia- 
 grams for keeping a Record of Scores in Instruc- 
 tional and Standard Test Practice. By Lieut. R. 
 Stupaet. 3d. {postage Id.) 
 
 A TACTICAL EXERCISE. 
 
 A description of a Staff Ride. By CoL. H. Foster. 
 78 pages, 6 diagrams, 2 maps, and a large map 
 of the Scene of Operations. 2s. {postage Id.) 
 
 SCOUTING: 
 
 Op Ppotectlve and Tactical Reconnaissance. 
 By Major F. A. Dove. 6d. {postage Id.) 
 
 SEMAPHORE ALPHABET MADE EASY. 
 
 An easy Method of Learning how to Semaphore in a 
 few hours by means of a pack of 30 cards, show- 
 ing Sender's Position "Front View." 9d. 
 {postage Id.) 
 
 1» 
 
SCIENTIFIC, ETC. 
 
 DAIUYING IN AUSTRALASIA: Farm and Factory. 
 
 By M. A. O'Callaghan, Chief of Dairy Branch, 
 Department of Agriculture. Contains oyer 700 
 pages and more than 200 plates. Royal 8vo., 
 cloth, 10s. (^postage 5d.) 
 
 Contents: I. How to Select and Equip a Dairy Farm— 
 II. The Dairy Herd— III. The Various Breeds of Cattle— IV. 
 The Jersey — V. The Gruernsey — VI. South Hams or South 
 Devons — VII. The Dairy Shorthorn — VIII. Illawarra Dairy 
 Cattle — IX. The Ayrshire — X. Holatein, Dutch, or Friesian 
 Cattle— XI. Kerry Cattle— XII. The Dexter— XIII. Other 
 Breeds of Dairy Cattle— XIV. Cattle Breeding— XV. How to 
 Judge Dairy Cattle — XVI. Guenon's Escutcheon Theory — XVII. 
 Management of the Dairy Herd — XVIII. The Feeding of Dairy 
 Cattle — XIX. Herd Testing Associations — XX. The Microbe 
 and the Dairy Farmer — XXI. Dairy Inspection and Cleanli- 
 ness — XXII. Water for Dairy Purposes, from a Bacteriological 
 Point of View— XXIII. Cattle Diseases— XXIV. Milking by 
 Machinery— XXV. CoVs Milk— XXVI. Milk Standards- 
 XXVII. The Testing of Milk and its Products— XXVIII. 
 Separating — XXIX. Butter Manufacture — XXX. The Cause 
 of Decomposition and the Means of Preserving Dairy Products 
 —XXXI. Cream Grading— XXXII. Bacterial Butter Taints— 
 XXXIII. Condensed Milk— XXXIV. Cheese Manufacture— 
 XXXV. Margarine in Relation to Butter — XXXVI. Dairying 
 in the Argentine — XXXVII. Siberia from a Dairying Point of 
 View — XXXVIII. The Pig on the Dairy Farm — Appendices. 
 
 The Dairy (London): "It gives in clear and unmistakeable 
 language the whole of the dairy manipulation from beginning 
 to end. . . . His book is of world-wide application and use- 
 fulness. ' ' 
 
 MILK AND BUTTER TABLES. 
 
 AVith Notes on Milk and Cream Testing'. 
 
 By M. A. O'Callaghan, author of "Dairying in 
 Australasia." Demy 8vo., cloth, Is. (postage Id.) 
 
 HERD TESTING RECORD BOOK. 
 
 Designed by M. A. O'Callaghan for Herd Testing 
 Associations and Stud Cattle Breeders. 200 leaves, 
 foolscap size, strongly bound, 5s. (postage Is.) 
 
 20 
 
SCIENTIFIC, ETC. 
 
 THE HOME DOCTORINO OF AMMALS. 
 
 By Haeold Lebnet, M.R.C.V.S. Fourth edition, 
 thoroughly revised and greatly enlarged, with 
 nearly 100 illlustrations. 8vo., cloth, 12s. 6d. 
 {postage 8d.) 
 
 CONTBTTTS. — I. Diseases of the Blood — II. Dinas*s of the 
 Heart — III. Diseases of the Digestive System — IV. Tumours — 
 V. Diseases of the Respiratory Organs — VI. Diseases of th« 
 Bye — VII. Diseases of the Brain and Nervous System — ^VIII. 
 Diseases of the Generative Organs — IX. Diseases connected with 
 Parturition — X. Troubles of the New Born — XI. Skin Diseases 
 — XII. Parasites and Parasitic Diseases — XIII. Diseases of the 
 Foot — XIV. Lameness and Bone Diseases — XV. Wounds and 
 their Treatment — XVI. Bleeding: How to arrest Bleeding and 
 how to Classify — XVII. Operations: Such as Castrating and 
 Docking — XVIII. Blisters, Blistering, Firing, Sertons, Seton- 
 ing — XIX. Poisons and Antidotes — XX. Antiseptics and Disin- 
 fectants — XXI. Ansesthesia, Insensibility to Pain — XXII. 
 Physicking, Purging Horses, Cattle, Sheep, Pigs, Dogs, and 
 Cats — XXIII. Diseases of Poultry — XXTV. Administration of 
 Medicines — XXV. Medicines: A Comprehensive Series of Pre- 
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 Methods of Control or Trammelling Animals — XXVIII. Vices. 
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 21 
 
SCIENTIFIC, ETC. 
 
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 22 
 
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 23 
 
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 24 
 
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 26 
 
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 26 
 
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 27 
 
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 28 
 
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 31