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 PR 9599.B88R3 1903 
 
 Re-echoes from Coondambo. 
 
 3 1924 013 248 137 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 32481 37 
 
/'Te^t-o 
 
 y€^ /?^^oo<_^ 
 
Re-Echoes 
 from Coondambo 
 
 By 
 
 Robert Bruce 
 
 Author of 
 Benbonuna," "Reminiscences of an Old Squatter,' 
 
 etc 
 
 London 
 
 John Long 
 
 13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket 
 1903 
 
A 
 
 %q=\ ^4 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY WIFE 
 AS THE TRUEST FEIEND I POSSESS. 
 
 ROBT. Bruce. 
 
TO MY READERS. 
 
 I HAVE named this book " Re-Echoes from Coondambo " 
 to distinguish it from its predecessor, " Echoes from 
 Coondambo," now out of print. In the present volume, 
 while retaining most of the contents of " The Echoes," 
 I have added a considerable amount of new matter, 
 while in order to suit, if possible, the prevailing taste 
 for galloping rhymes, I have reconstructed several of 
 the old pieces. I think it will be patent to observant 
 readers that my aim has been to present life-like pictures in 
 these pages rather than to pose as a poet, and I trust they 
 will be able to jancy they see the scenes described. I have 
 every reason to believe that the " Echoes" met with a large 
 amount of favour from the reading public of South Aus- 
 tralia, to whom till now my books have alone been offered. 
 I may say that when a young man I made a long East 
 Indian voyage before the mast, and since then a good many 
 sea trips both in sailing vessels and steamers as passenger, 
 consequently sea life is nearly as familiar to me as that of 
 the bush. That I ought to know from long experience all 
 the phases of a bush life the notices which follow by the 
 two leading South Australian Journals will prove, and I have 
 only to add that I trust HOME readers who take the 
 trouble to peruse the " Re-Echoes " will be interested and 
 
 amused. 
 
 I am, &c., 
 
 ROBT. BRUCE. 
 
i. AUTHOR'S COEEECTIONS. 
 
 AUTHOR'S COERECTIONS. 
 
 Page 3, last line, for " Those dusky gangs " read "Then 
 dusky gangs. " 
 
 Page 42, line 1, for " In a very " read " In very." 
 
 Page 57, line 10, for "A wager is laid " read " A wager he's 
 laid." 
 
 Page 81, last line, for '"Neath every" read '"Neath ev'ry." 
 
 Page 88, line 21, for "I mean scrubby" read "but yon 
 scrubby." 
 
 Page 93, line 4, for "dolphin and seaniew'' read "Dolphin 
 and Seamew." 
 
 Page 139, line 3, for "re Noah and the vine,'' read "re 
 Noah and vine." 
 
 Page 149, line 8, for " The saddest heart " read " Of saddest 
 heart." 
 
 Page 179, line 16, for "Yet I remarked " read "yet still 
 remarked." 
 
 Page 209, line 28, for " and for market stock but too" read 
 " and market stock but all too." 
 
 Page 219, line 1, for "With thick masses" read " With 
 thicker masses. " 
 
 Page 220, line 3, for "raindrops fingered" read " raindrop 
 fingered. " 
 
 Page 397, line 2, for "her lofty taper " read "her taut and 
 taper. " 
 
 Note. — As the word iron to my ear will not sound rhythmi- 
 cally, except as one of two syllables, I always use it as such. 
 Perhaps over many pieces in this book are marked "Air, 
 Bonny Dundee," but it is my favourite measure, and one that 
 I find lends itself most readily as a vehicle of description. Of 
 course, there is no reason why any irrepressible Harris amongst 
 my readers should not surfeit musical tea parties with the said 
 pieces, but I do not expect or wish him to do so. 
 
 RoBT. Bruce. 
 
PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 A South Australian Novel.— Messrs. W. K. Thomas & Co. 
 have published a new novel entitled " Benbonuna : A Tale of the 
 Fifties," for Mr. Robert Bruce, the well-known squatter, and have 
 sent us a copy for review. The fact that this work of fiction has 
 already been published in The Evening Journal Vfill doubtless be 
 accepted by judicious readers as a sort of hallmark attesting its 
 possession of merit. On account of his literary style Mr. Bruce 
 has been termed " The Rolf Boldrewood of South Australia," and 
 it is in no excess of compliment that we express the opinion that 
 few, if any, of Mr. Browne's writings excel in literary quality the 
 best of Mr. Bruce's. The latter, moreover, has the additional 
 advantage of being a poet as well as a, prose writer. Even those 
 who may be disposed to question the justice of the comparison 
 made herein will not cavil at the proposition that few men in any 
 part of the colonies know more of bush life than the author of 
 "Benbonuna." The mysterious solitudes of the interior of the 
 Australian Continent are an open book to him, and in this romance 
 of his he reveals to those in less fortunate circumstances some of 
 the invaluable knowledge which he gained while enduring the 
 privations and vicissitudes of a pastoral pioneer's life. The work 
 is full of what is known as local colour, and if the plot contains 
 nothing particularly sensational it is very human and very faithful 
 alike to life and to nature. We confidently advise our readers 
 to purchase "Benbonuna." — The Register (Adelaide, South Aus- 
 tralia), March 17th, 1900. 
 
 Messrs. W. K. Thomas & Co., the publishers, have sent us a 
 copy of the latest work of Mr. Robert Bruce, author of "Benbo- 
 nuna" and "Echoes from Coondambo." It contains the "Remi- 
 niscences of an Old Squatter. " Mr. Bruce's first entry into Port 
 Augusta was on a hot morning in January, 1858, and since then 
 he resided almost continuously in the Far North until his removal 
 
Vlll. PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 to Adelaide a few months ago. No one knows more of pastoral 
 life in the country where his station was situated than does Mr. 
 Bruce, and as he possesses a charming style he is able to make his 
 narrative exceedingly interesting. His book abounds in humour, 
 and it also contains a, large amount of useful information, while 
 interspersed among the more solid relations are many poetical 
 eiiusions, for Mr. Bruce is an expert in rhyme as in ordinary prose. 
 There are now very few of the old regime of pastoralists left in 
 Australia, but these reminiscences call up many pleasing memories 
 of those ancient days when the Burra was accounted "Far North," 
 and when the areas as wheat-growing districts had not been heard 
 of. — The Advertiser (Adelaide, South Australia), March 15, 1902. 
 
Ke-gchees fi[0m geendamb® 
 
 TKE H0»T OF THE MAHAWtRTA COOOt^A.^ 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 Where now than you, a kangaroo, grown reader, is much 
 
 smaller, 
 In prehistoric times they grew till bulkier and taller ; 
 Indeed, gigantic was their size. See skeletons discovered 
 On Callabonna's famous lake, which were for ages covered 
 By saline grime that in this clime oft takes the place of 
 
 howie," 
 And so the name, from Nigs obtain, (up here) of muccai 
 
 cowie. 
 Now, mucca me your time will waste, but start at once my 
 
 story — 
 That deals with monster kangaroo — I got from legend hoary.. 
 So stretch your ears. I mean, prepare with grain of salt, ta 
 
 Swallow 
 A narrative of hunting field, which beats all others hollow..' 
 
 1, Manawirta Coodla^Very big kangaroo. 2. Howie or cowie— water.. 
 
EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 FYTTE I. 
 
 Quoth Ooratunga's stalwart King, unto his dusky henchmen, 
 " Since record drought, 'tis hard to find fit game on which 
 
 to trench men, 
 For tho' we stumble now and then on wardoo,^ 'tis a buppa' 
 That certainly would scarce suffice for fifty strong men's 
 
 supper ; 
 While all the manawirta ones are bogged in Callabonna,' 
 As fatal to the famished brutes as dose of belladonna ; 
 But then, before the drought broke up, they lived on sticks 
 
 and water, 
 And therefore, save as bone mill grist, would barely pay for 
 
 slaughter. 
 But with this grass on saltbush flat, in watercourse, and 
 
 gutter, 
 \ionly they were living now they'd all be fat as butter." 
 " My worde ! " " Him bin big one fat ! " " Me plenty like 
 
 to eat 'em ! " 
 As interjected here, will show how Callabdns would treat 
 
 'em. 
 "The Tacta,* doubt you, gentlemen" — His Majesty con- 
 tinues — 
 " You've lately run far more to teeth, than useful bones and 
 
 sinews ; 
 But listen, now, there's little left of wobma' with the body 
 Of bulky wirra,^ which I slew with boomerang and waddy ; 
 
 1. Wardoo-wombat. 2. Buppa-Uttle. 3. Callabouna-lake where great 
 fossil bones were found. 4. Tacta-dertl or derils. 5. Wobma-carpet snake. 
 6. Wura— gum tree. 
 
THE HUNT OF THE MANAWIETA COODLA, ?. 
 
 At least, no saddle joint is left to please our royal eye, sirs — 
 It lives again in momerty -^ besides, 'tis rather high, sirs, 
 So leaving it for wocalla,'' for wildoo,' and for weepa,^ 
 We'll slay the last big coodla left — that spring-heeled 
 
 gnoorie" leaper. 
 Yes, Ikey Mo', of Palestine — for Solomon gold buying — 
 Arrived in broken-winded state, averring he'd been flying 
 From kangaroo that, to his view, lopp'd easily creation — 
 For spread of ears, for length of tail, and total elevation. 
 You know the rest — old Ikey Mo' was fat, and over forty j 
 We therefore kindly ioo& him in — when hungry we're not 
 
 haughty. 
 Well, now he's gone, and 'tis a case of hunting will I, nil I, 
 So rouse those lazy varlets up, my faithful Bardoo Billy." 
 
 All slowly rise the Ooratungs, in garbs of grease and ashes. 
 With yawns that open up their heads like thrown-wide 
 
 window sashes ; 
 They rub their eyes, they scratch their heads, and stretch 
 
 like thriving cattle. 
 Yet seem too tight about the chest for chase of game or 
 
 battle. 
 But, hunt again, must those wild men, or dine oiF Jew too. 
 
 tender 
 To be fit meat for blacks to eat, or cross a kitchen fender. 
 So, grasping toes on long spears close to save distressful) 
 
 bending, 
 Those dusky gangs, with boomerangs and figures still un- 
 bending, 
 
 1. Momerty— gentles. 2. Wocalla — crows, 3. WUdoo — Eagle or Eagles, 
 4. Weepa — ^Aiite. . 6. Gnoorie— silTer wattle. 6. Bardoo Billy— Meat Billy, 
 
4 RE-ECHOES PKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Troop off iti,to the forest near of eucalypts primeval. 
 Like swart, uncanny, brood of him — the Father of all evil. 
 
 «' Manawirta Coodla, 
 
 Tura^ plenty ketch 'em ! 
 Plenty kill 'em, cut 'em up ; 
 
 To the wurleys fetch 'em. 
 Plenty lubra eat 'em — 
 
 Pickaninny too ; 
 Plenty dig corroboree 
 
 Long o' Moolooloo." 
 
 Like feline concert highly pitched, when Tib to Tom is 
 
 calling, 
 This hymn into the atmosphere is hurled in squalls ap- 
 palling 
 By toothless hags whose skins, like bags, hang o'er their 
 
 frames too loosely — 
 For time, you know, long, long ago, has wrinkled them 
 
 profusely. 
 And so the lot like huge toads squat, their poolkas^ near 
 
 them sprawling, 
 While crows hop round, on plunder bound, by pickaninnies 
 
 crawling. 
 It is a scene, right well I ween, to eyes aud nose affecting, 
 And so we'll haste to hunt that beast and leave them camp 
 
 protecting. 
 
 " But hark to that banging ! that ponderous clanging ! 
 Like din of huge hammers when pounding away 
 
 1. Tura— blackfellow. 2. Poolka— old man. 
 
THE HUNT OF THE MANAWIETA COODLA. 5 
 
 On mass hot and chunkey, or that of steam monkey, 
 When driving a pile down in Wallaroo Bay ; 
 
 But only far faster. By Jingo ! my master ! 
 That CQodla, it must be ! 'tis coming this way ! 
 
 O ! if he should drop on us, that is, should hop on us, 
 Ramm'd out of sight we will be in the clay. 
 
 Here, slip round this gum-tree, and whate'er may come, be 
 
 As cool as a cucumber, ready to dodge 
 His toenails and cadley,-' that tear and bang badly 
 
 When he from tight corners a foe would dislodge ; 
 And now, without lying, you'd swear he was flying. 
 
 As over those mulgas and myalls he sails. 
 Just look, how he's going ! while blackfellows, blowin g, 
 
 Through cuticles sodden, pour sweat by the pails. 
 
 There's Pooteperunta — a ring-tailed old hunter — 
 
 He's leading the niggers, altho' about done. 
 While royal Pangiltie, who runs with Ooliltie, 
 
 Already has had quite enough of the fun. 
 So roars out " Coo ! ^ Coolga, wandinga ! ^ A mulga 
 
 Might just as well try up to Tintoo* to grow. 
 As we, by still running, to capture that cunning 
 
 Old Coodla, so off to the wurlies we'll go." 
 
 Where now the springy step % the poise 
 Of ochered head ? the glutton's joys ? 
 Ah, where ? 
 
 1. Cadley— tail. 2. Coo— equivalent to Hoi 3, Coolga, wandinga— stop 
 that's enough. 4. Tintoo— the sun. 
 
fi Ej;-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Those dusky hunters homeward go 
 Like funeral procession — slow ; 
 
 For bare 
 Are brawny backs, which now should bend 
 'Neath provender for wife and friend 
 
 To eat ; 
 And who so long for grimey spoil — 
 These niggers don't object to soil 
 
 on meat — 
 But, ah ! as they to camp draw near 
 This discord rises shrill and clear. 
 
 " Me l>zg one hungry ; 
 
 Me big one growl ; 
 J\/0 good that Pangiltie ; 
 
 Me like wilkah^ howl. 
 Eat 'em pickaninny 
 
 S'pose 'em not get bardoo ; ^ 
 What for not catch coodla ? 
 
 No good that one nardoo ! " ' 
 
 Here savage Pangiltie, who scowls thro' his miltie, 
 
 Observes in a tone that is meant to convince — 
 " Just shut up that howling, or else there'll be growling ; 
 
 I'll chop your old baggages up into mince ; 
 'Tis time you were waddied, or well with spears prodded, 
 
 So thank your kind stars that you're skinny and tough. 
 For, if fit for cooking, and succulent looking, 
 
 There'd be for the rest of us bardoo enough. 
 
 1. Wilkah— wild dog. 2. Bardoo— meat. 3. Nardo— very innutricious seed 
 f bund in Bwamps. 
 
THE HUNT OF THE MANAWIRTA COODLA. '" 
 
 Like terrified winkles those bundles of wrinkles 
 
 Shrink into their shells, represented by skins, 
 And even the poolkas, like timid old oolkas,^ 
 
 Have never a word in defence of their gins ; 
 That camp as if under a sky full of thunder 
 
 Is scarcely the place to feel wholly at ease, 
 For, lacking the carving, all hands are near starving, 
 
 Excepting the insects we'll write down as fleas. 
 
 Each gin with small baby now mutters, " He'll, may be, 
 
 Just order my darling by way of a snack ; 
 I'll give it its gnummie,^ and then if 'tis dumb, he 
 
 May not, in the darkness, get on to its track. 
 Yes, things at low water are now in this quarter, 
 
 With never a halfcaste of eatable age 
 To tide over matters, in " toad-in-hole" batters. 
 
 So, reader, we'll turn to a livelier page. 
 
 FYTTE II. 
 
 A fierce dust is rising, in manner surprising — 
 It rushes and whirls on the furious blast, 
 
 Till wretched old niggers — deplorable figures — 
 All blind, and begrimed, on their beam-ends are cast. 
 *Where, firmly believing their spooks will be leaving 
 On dust bother'd pinions for regions unknown, 
 
 1. Oolkaa— Kangaroo rats. 2. Gnummie— milk. 
 In a very heavy dust storm, in the great drought of '64, the natives told 
 me " all about blackfellow and all about white fellow tumble down," and 
 meant what they said. Blacks believe that their vital essences prowl about 
 after death, with a predilection for old wurlies they occupied in life.— R.B. 
 
KE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 They crouch with a stoical patience, heroical, 
 'Cause inside and out they're too solid to groan. 
 
 But sturdy Gerunta, tho' rarely a grunter, 
 
 Just hints 'tis Nick's weather and very own wind, 
 While royal Pangiltie and Doctor Pilliltie 
 
 Expectorate brickbats and bits of their mind, 
 Which last I'll not render in English, for tender 
 
 Young readers might find them a little too rough. 
 For even as mutter'd, sneez'd, cough'd up, and splutter'd, 
 
 The audience finds them quite risky enough. 
 
 But hark to that rumbling. 
 
 Electrical grumbling ! 
 And mark ! through the dense dust huge storms drops are 
 tumbling, 
 
 Which, quicker, and quicker. 
 
 And thicker, and thicker. 
 Descend till the landscape is one sheet of liquor, 
 
 While creeks, lately dry. 
 
 Are all foaming bank high. 
 And lightning in zigzags is rending the sky — 
 Or rather, vast thunderclouds, rolling in masses. 
 Now blacker than tar lakes, now green as molasses, 
 While as for the natives, well, barring their grease, 
 They're clean when the rain stops and leaves them in 
 peace. 
 
 Now Tintoo shines out, as he does to this day, 
 A trifle too hotly, perhaps, by the way. 
 
THE HUNT OF THE MANAWIETA COODLA. 
 
 And, seeking for scraps of malodorous fare, 
 Some natives poke here, and some others poke there ; 
 But, just as late downpour washed cuticles clean, 
 It wisk'd off the bardoo, for none can be seen. 
 O! what can they forage? O! what shall they eat ? 
 Why, catch that big coodla, and bring home his meat, 
 
 " Gnookaka ! gnookaka ! ^ (plenty make haste) 
 If you the old gentleman's titbits would taste, 
 
 For country all boggy 
 
 Will make him go groggy ; 
 Now, Turas,^ just help me to capthur the baste." 
 Thus, bellows Pangiltie, as he with his toe 
 Is turning the ground as you would with a hoe ; 
 Till, scratching a boomerang up, then a spear. 
 He takes a long water — because there's no beer — 
 And, striding away, with his blackguards behind him, 
 Goes after big coodla, determined to find him. 
 
 That kangaroo clings to a eucalypt trunk 
 
 As if 'twere a lamppost, and he very drunk ; 
 
 But do not suppose the great beast has been drinking. 
 
 He's merely afraid in the mud he'll be sinking. 
 
 Just look how his ears 
 
 Wave about, when appears 
 That cannibal concourse, and see how he clears. 
 Or, rather, attempts to 'scape from his foes ; 
 His toes thro' the mud sink, he sprawls on his nose, 
 Then, staggers up wildly, his hindlegs thrown wide. 
 But loses much time ere he gets to his stride, 
 
 1. Gnookaka — make haste, hurry. 2. Turas— blackfellows. 
 
10 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And then, well, no tree-tops he'll fly in his way, 
 Too bothered is he by the fast-clinging clay. 
 
 Still, knowing full well how his swart foes will treat hira. 
 He firmly resolves that the varments shan't eat him ; 
 So bounds at his best, with his tail upward jerking, 
 The while, nasty bog holes, he tries to be shirking. 
 
 But all is in vain. 
 
 For his enemies gain, 
 As thin crust he sinks thrd their weight will sustain ; 
 Besides, though he clears quite ten yards at a hop. 
 His strength is fast failing — he'll soon have to stop. 
 
 Hooroo ! Be the powers ! Whoop ! Now thin ye turas. 
 Like warrachies run, an' we'll have him as sure as 
 Wildoo can wheel high, an' thin, me bould gluttons, 
 We'll bulge out our vests, till we start all the buttons ; 
 Be jabers, we're imply enough just at prisent, 
 So, go it ye divils, an' thry to look plisant. 
 Thus monarch of old, with his black skin bespattered, 
 To equally mud-begrimed brigands, who scattered 
 For miles in the rear — say a couple, at least — 
 Are doggedly bent upon skin filling feast. 
 
 Now, hurry up rodent, and don't wait to pick 
 The clay from your cadley j ^ 'twill e'en have to stick. 
 For close on your quarters Queen Yertamaruka," 
 Who takes at a meal what would sink a feluca, 
 Runs just as if coupled with sweat-drench'd Pangiltie, 
 The pair of them plastered all over with miltie,' 
 
 1. Cadley— tail. 2. Yertamaruka— big breasts. 3. Miltie— red ochre mizedE 
 ■with fat and whites of eggs. 
 
THE HUNT OF THE MANAWIRTA COODLA. 11 
 
 While, certainly not from sweet Mitcham, in Surrey, 
 Came perfume their majesties waste in their hurry ; 
 Unless by mistake, and from aught but the true bin, 
 The stuff had been sent out by Piesse & Lubin ; 
 But, barring their bouquets, the right royal couple 
 Are fitter than fiddles — than hickories supple. 
 And soon, with a perfect tornado of bangs, 
 Will beat out your brains with their big boomerangs ; 
 Besides, half their subjects are hard on their tracks. 
 Like bees, and will cover your body with whacks, 
 While even the yowries^ and poolkas are there, 
 And mumble their gums at the thought of such fare. 
 The umetas,^ too, all as naked as sin, 
 And yackerties,^ do, their trebles join in 
 With general hub-bub and hull-a-baloo — 
 For gold by the chaldron I would not be you. 
 
 With lab'ring breath and panting sides, 
 What rage and fear within hfs heart 
 That diprote feels, and then, besides. 
 Behind he feels a stinging smart, 
 For Pooteperunta, who comes with a rush, 
 Is running hands down, well in front of the crush, 
 And jabbing his spear — he's too shaky to throw it — 
 Gets in a smart stab, while his comrades cry " go it.'' 
 This seems to encourage the fugitive most. 
 For, leaving behind him malodorous host 
 As if he had run all his field to standstil, 
 He crosses a plain and pops over a sandhill, 
 
 1. Yowrie— old wowan. 2. Umetas— little girls. 3. Yackerties— Uttle boya. 
 
12 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And now he has hopped where no tracker can find him, 
 Though plain as (jFeat r rilTier his prints show 
 
 behind him. 
 Round " Eat-em-up-hole " is a pretty to do, 
 For niggers — all staring — have nothing in view, 
 Save shallow flood waters that cover the mud, 
 And, floating upon them, a few spots of blood. 
 For swallowed in toto, and still sinking deeper 
 In nature's own birdlime, is late gnoorie leaper : 
 And there will his bones lie till Big-wig, delighted. 
 Shall dig out, describe them, and likely be knighted ; 
 While as for Pangiltie and rest of choice cannibals. 
 They dined, I believe, on some old and uncanny pals. 
 
 Some terrible people discredit the bible, 
 And, therefore, as fabulous, this tale may libel. 
 So let me here state, that of aboriginal 
 Legend I luckily hold the original 
 Boomerang tablets, whose hieroglyphical 
 Characters surely would cause hypercritical 
 Savants to hold up their hands, and in chorus 
 Cry, " Dear me ! Ms right ! there's the whole thing be- 
 fore us." 
 
 iT 
 
HOW I DID NOT CATCH THAT DINGO. IJ- 
 
 HOW X OtO WOT CATCtt THAT OtHGO* 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 When young and lusty, long ago, 
 
 Away to Northern station, 
 I in my travels chanced to go. 
 
 And chose the avocation 
 Of overseer ; or rather Frank — 
 
 The gay and fearless — chose me 
 To share in many a wicked prank, 
 
 As sage reflection shows me. 
 
 But there, when life's red fluid runs 
 
 In youthful veins like winking, 
 We act like other heedless ones — 
 
 To old age leave the thinking. 
 Yes, jolly times with jolly boys 
 
 Had I on grand old run then, 
 Red letter days replete with joys, 
 
 Or rather reckless fun then. 
 
 I hunted sheep of every sort, 
 
 I hunted shepherds lazy. 
 And if you fancy that was sport 
 
 You hug a notion hazy. 
 I hunted bullocks, calves, and cows 
 
 In " fats" or "branding" muster, 
 Got many a scratch from mulga boughs. 
 
 With now and then a buster. 
 
l4 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And then one blazing Sabbath-day 
 
 I rode away to break it, 
 But just in common bushland way. 
 
 And much as bushmen take it. 
 For like as not if asked to name 
 
 The day, as lass by beau, sir, 
 Your answer would be much the same, 
 
 " I'm sure I do not know, sir." 
 
 But wasting time you'll say am I, 
 
 So promptly to my story 
 I'll turn, and state that sailing high 
 
 Sol shone with too much glory. 
 In cloudless arch of brilliant blue, 
 
 And deluged with caloric 
 The landscape sere of saddest hue. 
 
 Where only flies might frolic. 
 
 When I old Teaser told to stand, 
 
 And soon the good horse saddled, 
 To hunt, as I o'er night had planned. 
 
 Two steers that had skedaddled 
 From Humpy Bill, who swore they were- 
 
 In bushland phraseology — 
 A somewhat wild and useless pair. 
 
 I'll skip his lame apology 
 
 For losing them, and merely say 
 
 My way I quickly wended 
 To broken range some miles away, 
 
 Delightfully attended 
 
HOW I DID NOT CATCH THAT DINGO IS,, 
 
 By countless flies that sang in air, 
 
 Or soothed me when they'd settle 
 To tangle in my ears or hair, 
 
 And sting like boyhood's nettle. 
 
 I wished a million Nero's then 
 
 Off legs and wings were hauling 
 From filthy pests, or other men 
 
 Monopolised their crawling. 
 But ah ! they plagued me with a will 
 
 And skill for irritating, 
 Until I saw on wooded hill 
 
 Some cattle ruminating. 
 
 And with them there those vagrants lay — 
 
 The cause of Sabbath breaking ; 
 A whistling snort, and then away, 
 
 O'er ground to hoof strokes quaking. 
 The mob dashed off at racing pace, 
 
 Heads up and tails out^treaming, 
 But Teaser just devoured space 
 
 O'er boulders hotly gleaming. 
 
 Past jutting rocks, through blind creek beds, 
 
 And mulgas, all went crashing. 
 Till soon that pair of quadrupeds 
 
 With stockwhip I was lashing, 
 When swiftly swerving here and there, 
 
 Together then I got them. 
 And, keeping up their headlong bat, 
 
 From out the mob I shot them. 
 
I'6 EE-KCHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But presently on sylvan track 
 
 I had them fairly steady, 
 Just thinking how, when I got back, 
 
 I should be more than ready 
 For damper, beef, and boiled black tea — 
 
 Fit pabulum for emu, 
 Which then right well agreed with me, 
 
 Who'd relish e'en a seamew. 
 
 Thirst next thing occupied my mind. 
 
 And, quite resolved on drinking, 
 I turned towards a creek to find 
 
 The beverage — when, slinking. 
 Red dingo met my startled sight 
 
 As, trotting close behind us. 
 He really seemed delighted quite 
 
 As company to find us. 
 
 From burning thirst his eyes were red, 
 
 His tongue far down was hanging ; 
 Said I, " I'll knock you on the head 
 
 No sheep, henceforth, a fang in 
 Shall you, my friend, for bloodshed stick ; 
 
 And barring, say, a buster. 
 My heels upon your hide I'll kick, 
 
 Your tail shall be a duster." 
 
 Old Teaser needed not the spur 
 Or whii)-thong on him falling 
 
 Too bent was he to catch that cur, 
 And soon was overhauling 
 
HOW I DID NOT CATCH THAT DINGO. 17 
 
 The squatter's foe, that now lay out 
 
 To make the gum creek winding, 
 'Beneath its broken bank, no doubt, 
 
 A hole intent on finding. 
 
 •He gained the creek, but close behind 
 
 We on his footsteps followed, 
 No cover he had time to find 
 
 In bank or gum tree hollowed ; 
 So out again on open plain 
 
 He bounded with a rattle, 
 I thinking not to tighten rein 
 
 Nor glance round for my cattle, 
 
 But went as fast as Teaser could. 
 
 And evidently faster 
 Than all poor wilka's' members would 
 
 Then carry off their master. 
 ^' Hurrah ! hurrah 1 we've got him now, 
 
 As sure as eggs are eggs, sir.'' 
 He doubles back it seems, somehow, 
 
 'Twixt Teaser's very legs, sir. 
 
 Now both again, at tip top speed. 
 
 For very life are racing. 
 And Teaser, with the greater greed, 
 
 The dingo is outpacing. 
 But headlong over ugly bank 
 
 Of great creek, all are diving, 
 We ranging on the varment's flank, 
 
 When 'mongst the stones arriving. 
 
 1. Native name for dingo. 
 
18 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Hand over hand we're gaining ground, 
 
 My stock whip I am swinging 
 The wild dog's well mark'd ribs to pounds 
 
 With thong strokes loudly ringing. 
 A few more strides old horse, and then 
 
 We'll give him his quietus ; 
 But ah ! into a bankside den 
 
 He bolts to fairly beat us. 
 
 Vexation ! only think of it ! 
 
 When he was fairly beaten, 
 Just gathered fruit, of which a bit 
 
 The niggers might have eaten, 
 And yet might eat, if only I 
 
 From out that hole could poke him ;- 
 At any rate I could but try. 
 
 Or, failing that, to smoke him. 
 
 From Teaser's back I blunder'd down,. 
 
 My bridle reins neglecting, 
 Thus acting like a simple clown 
 
 Who grief might be expecting. 
 I saw that dog, no need of scent, 
 
 " This heavy stone will do him ! " 
 He bolted out, and off he went 
 
 And I could not pursue him. 
 
 Except afoot, for on the plain 
 My horse was slowly walking,, 
 
 I felt that I might call in vain. 
 So started off horse stalking,. 
 
HOW I DID NOT CATCH 'THAT DINGO. 19 
 
 "He led me here, he led me there, 
 
 At times I thought I'd caught him, 
 -So sidled vip, and spoke him fair, 
 
 Then hissed out what I thought him. 
 
 But all in vain, for trailing rein 
 
 His forelegs would not tangle ; 
 And soon I saw, with rage and pain, 
 
 For him I need not angle. 
 Yet still pursued him up and down 
 
 O'er hills and plains, too stony. 
 Till I, just 'ere the sun went down 
 
 Near knocked up ' Shanks' pony ! 
 
 IFor by that time the heat and flies 
 
 Had made me sad and weary ; 
 "While perspiration filled my eyes 
 
 Till smarting much and bleary. 
 My feet were sore, my thorax dry. 
 
 Habiliments all soaking ; 
 Nine miles from home, and, by-the-by. 
 
 New boots ! and future joking ! 
 
 To empty sheep hut standing nigh 
 
 I bent my way to forage, 
 And in the tank, unto my eye 
 
 Appeared some thin, warm porridge. 
 But how was I to get it out, 
 
 As nauseous draught to try it ? ' 
 There was no twine-hung tin about, 
 . My boot would not reach nigh it. 
 
20 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Red hornets by the dozen flew 
 
 And dipped into the water, 
 While of their number not a few 
 
 Were victims to self-slaughter. 
 This did not much improve the look 
 
 Of pug in which they floated ; 
 But when you'd drink by hook or crook 
 
 Such trifles are not noted. 
 
 To shepherd's spouse that tank seemed small,* 
 
 To me far too capacious ; 
 No tap appeared in rusty wall, 
 
 A circumstance vexatious. 
 But then the orifice on top 
 
 Was round and fairly roomy, 
 I found my head it would not stop, 
 
 So muttered, " It will do me." 
 
 One arm, of course including wrist, 
 
 To head close pressed I thrust in, 
 And then with wriggle and with twist 
 
 My other shoulder burst in. 
 With legs like those on Manxman's coin. 
 
 Above the tank slow waving, 
 I quenched, as Denis would say, " foine," 
 
 My awful thirsty craving. 
 
 * A 400-gallon tank of water had to suffice a shepherd's wife for all purposes; 
 for six weeks, hence she might be pardoned for not looking at the size of the tank 
 in a similar light to myself. I may say here that those iron tanks were 
 regular man traps, for I have heard of nearly a score of cases, including that of 
 woman, in which thirsty people have been caught in their IS^-in. circular 
 man-holes as I was. Of these, some few extricated themse Ives as I did, while* 
 others would have certainly perished had they not been rescued. 
 
HOW I DID NOT CATCH THAT DINGO. 21 
 
 From stifling tank I tried to win 
 
 My shoulders — they said never ; 
 My trousers did not care a pin 
 
 If they waved there for ever. 
 I thought of ancient oaken chest, 
 
 With skeleton there lying ; 
 And though I soon might be " at rest " — 
 
 I did not fancy dying. 
 
 My memory no well kept log 
 
 Was needed then to freshen ; 
 The past came back till shameless dog 
 
 Had caused my indiscretion. 
 For as when vivid lightning flash 
 
 Unveils the face of night, sir, 
 A fine ghost party gathered there 
 
 To add to my delight, sir. 
 
 My boyhood's song, " The Workhouse Boy," 
 
 I did not then start humming ; 
 For me 'twas solemn, silent joy. 
 
 Save now and then for drumming 
 Of blucher heels on sounding tank 
 
 To prove myself still living ; 
 There was not then " Salvation Rank," 
 
 And I was not thanksgiving. 
 
 It somehow popped into my mind 
 
 What trouble Frank might suffer 
 When he my sad remains should find, 
 
 And murmur, " Poor old buffer ! " 
 
22 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But no good boards need wasted be 
 My gathered bones to bury, 
 
 A pickle case would do, you see, 
 Nailed roughly up by Jerry. 
 
 But " hang the pickle case," thought I, 
 
 When sense succeeded flurry ; 
 An iron berth I'll rather try, 
 
 From which a man may worryi 
 So trouser-band with fingers fleet 
 
 I downward tugged, and then, sir, 
 Much mud begrimed, regained my feet 
 
 And man- hole pass'd again, sir. 
 
 You bet ! I from that beastly tank 
 
 Incontinently hurried 
 Like bolting manager of bank, 
 
 Or widow to be married. 
 And when again in hot pursuit 
 
 I went of dodging dingo, 
 From Teaser's back I'd slay the brute, 
 
 Else let the thieving thing go. 
 
 'Twas late when I got home that night, 
 
 With never horse or cattle, 
 In awful dusty, draggled plight, 
 
 And how the boys did prattle ! 
 I had a pair of blistered feet. 
 
 And suffered from dejection — 
 Like ^sop's dog, I'd drop'd the meat 
 
 To gain a vain reflection. 
 
110° IN THE SHADE. 23 
 
 mO° m THE SHAOS* 
 Alack ! this heat, with flying dust. Oh, dear ! 
 
 'Tis much foo near to burning fever's point. 
 Our parboil'd livers will be cook'd, I fear. 
 
 And all our functions roasted like a joint. 
 
 Save far too fluent one that doth anoint 
 Our sodden cuticles with perspiration, 
 
 Which might indeed be measur'd by the pint 
 And calls incessantly for perportation — 
 
 Successive -liquid loans soon lost in liquidation. 
 
 Too hot for work, we therefore loll about 
 In coolest quarters handy to be found : 
 
 And here I'll hazard just a lurking doubt. 
 
 That mystic bourne, to which bad souls are bound 
 By Nick and Company to be well brown'd. 
 
 Can give a flamelet to this filthy place 
 
 On Torrens' border, where the gasping ground, 
 
 By open fissures in its drought-scarr'd face, 
 Gulps superheated air like fainting human race ! 
 
 The dust-grimed bindings of the books curl up, 
 As if those volumes would some ass invite 
 
 To search their pages for refreshing sup 
 
 From learning's fount ; but who, with fiy-vex'd sight. 
 Would leave the printing in a sorry plight, 
 By pouring on it perspiration's rains 
 
 In mighty splashes, like the pelting flight 
 Of hissing drops that rattle on the plain. 
 
 When Jupiter, as " Pluv," turns on his thunder main. 
 
24 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 That cunning collie, in capacious hole 
 
 Scratch'd by himself beneath a leaky tank — 
 
 Forgetting sheep's head he so lately stole 
 And, crows to baffle, buried in a bank — 
 Tries hard to sleep, with slowly-heaving flank ; 
 
 His vertebrae too limp his tail to wag, 
 With founder'd oyster he might justly rank ; 
 
 For seedy swagsmen, flapping sweat-grimed rag, 
 May pass him slowly by with billycan and swag. 
 
 The panting fowls are gasping in the shade — 
 Their dingy plumage hanging loosely round — 
 
 While chanticleers, with warfare for their trade, 
 Mope side by side, and nothing now would hound 
 Them on to combat, or, indeed, to sound 
 
 The bumptious challenge with their bagpipes shrill. 
 Are these the warriors that strut the mound 
 
 For pullets' sake to gamely die or kill ? 
 Too hot it is for love — e'en jealousy is still ! 
 
 That grim grimalkin on the earthen floor 
 Is surely dead, so motionless he lies \ 
 
 On musine race he'll fiercely pounce no more ; 
 But, if defunct, e'en death can't stand those flies, 
 For see, he clutches at his winking eyes 
 
 With sudden claw to scare those torments vile, 
 Which shirk the blow and all adroitly rise 
 
 On active wing to poise a little while, 
 Then settle swiftly down, the luckless cat to rile. 
 
110° IN THE SHADE. 25 
 
 On listless ear sounds forth no songster's note 
 To break the stillness of oppressive air. 
 
 'Tis silent all, unless should sheep or goat 
 To water hurry with unhappy blare, 
 'Neath bushes dodging to avoid the glare 
 
 Of sultry Sol, who seeks to burn the lot, 
 And is as pleasant as a scalded bear. 
 
 But pause I must to take refreshing tot — 
 A nasty one I mean — the water's nearly hot. 
 
 Please take me straight to iceberg's leeward side. 
 But not too near it, for extremes are bad. 
 
 And here, I wonder that the dogs ne'er tried 
 To ease their sufiferings by going mad, 
 But there, e'en rabid canines would be glad 
 
 To snap at flies and churn their venom'd slime 
 In cool shade couchant, for their harmless fad 
 
 Of biting legs, while breaking record time, 
 Too imbecile would be for madness in this clime. 
 
 To drown my thirst I'll deluge it with tea — 
 
 Of course you know, when nothing else remains ; 
 But, by-the-bye, it vastly puzzles me 
 
 How quickly whisky from a bottle wanes ; 
 
 The heated glass must certainly have drains 
 Through which the " blood of barleycorn " can ooze. 
 
 But liquid problems overcome the brains. 
 And so I'd aid them with refreshing snooze. 
 
 Did not each pore outpour the Hebrew widow's cruse . 
 
26 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 HOW Ttts cny man spent his cnmsTMAS 
 
 m THE 80SH* 
 
 What ! been spoiling my complexion ? Why, I fancied it 
 
 perfection ; 
 Quite like Tottie's, here, or Lottie's, shaded so that it 
 
 should score 
 Points against your parchments sallow (tinted to the tones 
 
 of tallow), 
 Tightly stretched on jaw-bones callow. Go up North and 
 
 try a splore — 
 Go and lubricate with Scotty ; drink, as I did, from his 
 
 store. 
 
 Till you're tight — then take no more. 
 
 You would hear me glibly telling how I found my new 
 
 friend's dwelling ; 
 How I, drinking — scarcely thinking — slept too soundly on 
 
 his floor j 
 Slept as though (in draught mistaken) hemlock at the least 
 
 I'd taken ; 
 Slept as though I'd ne'er awaken till I woke for evermore ; 
 Looked like subject for a jury no true Justice might ignore. 
 Now we'll start at Scottie's door ! 
 
 Saddle-sore, begrimed, and crusty from my ride on roads 
 
 too dusty, 
 I, benighted, was invited by a Scot at pine-hut door 
 
HOW THE CITY MAN SPENT HIS CHRISTMAS IN THE BUSH. 27 
 
 To a shakedown in his shanty furnished in a manner 
 
 scanty — 
 Bunk, two stools, a table (anty), and a cupboard on the 
 
 floor — 
 Cupboard built of branded cases (cupboard topers would 
 
 explore). 
 
 Padlocked like-a bonded store. 
 
 While the slush-lamp flared and flickered Scotty brough t a 
 
 bottle (wickered) 
 From that branded, strongly banded, cupboard with now 
 
 opened door, 
 Saying, in his rich Scotch lingo, " Will ye hae some richt 
 
 guid stingo?" 
 Which I thought it not, by Jingo ! when he'd helped me 
 
 from his store — 
 When he'd, helped me from big bottle (demijohn) and 
 
 offered more! 
 
 Quantum suff ! I'd drank galore. 
 
 But, deriding my denial, Scotty urged just one more trial 
 Of that tangleleg — 'twould strangle even Scotchmen by the 
 
 score — 
 Till I, pestered by his pleading, yielded to his kind 
 
 misleading — 
 Till I, though not bruised or bleeding, lay a corpse — which 
 
 yet might snore — 
 One more victim to the bottle, flattened • out on flagstone 
 
 floor. 
 
 Ah ! had I but drank no more ! 
 
28 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then at sunrise — when with splitting headache I was sadly 
 
 sitting 
 On a dusty, torn, and musty sheepskin on that shanty 
 
 floor — 
 Came a feeling o'er me stealing that no more I would have 
 
 dealing 
 In a bushland pub or sheeling. Here a solemn oath I 
 
 swore — 
 With such tipple hot from Tophet — burning brimstone 
 
 Nick might pour — 
 
 " Tangleleg I'd tope no more." 
 
 But friend Scotty, sad old sot he, here advised "a wee 
 
 sma' tot ; " he 
 Said 'twould mak me reicht, an' tak me — wi ma heid no 
 
 langer soor — 
 Till his neighbours, auld McSneishes, wha aye drank, like 
 
 sauted feeshes 
 Till they crackit croons like dishes — they wad hae me on 
 
 the splore.* 
 Would they ? Not if splore meant stingo — that I'd tipple 
 
 nevermore — 
 
 Never ! never ! ! nevermore ! ! ! 
 
 Did I visit Scottie's neighbours to prolong my Christmas 
 
 labours — 
 Tossing mutchkins off — not cabers ; did I join them in a 
 
 splore ? 
 What a question ! Am I not here? Walker's mine — I see 
 
 you've got beer. 
 
 * Splore is the Scotch expression for a heavy drinking bout. 
 
HOW THE CITY MAN SPENT HIS CHRISTMAS IN THE BUSH. 29 
 
 "Where's my extra special, Tot, dear ? Glad I'm humming 
 
 round once more. 
 Now, boys, here's to good old Scotty, may his head be 
 
 never sore, 
 
 Barring from McSneishes' splore. 
 
30 RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 A SUHOOWtJER'S PHtLOSOPHY*. 
 
 'Neath scorching blaze of solar rays 
 
 I rode at snail-slow pace, 
 While swarming flies beset my eyes 
 
 And sweat stream'd down my face. 
 The heat and glare were hard to bear — 
 
 I scarce rny breath could draw — 
 When rugged man, with billy-can 
 
 And huge blue swag, I saw. 
 
 On dusty road, with bulky load, 
 
 A camel he might be. 
 He stopp'd, I stopp'd, his swag he dropp'd, . 
 
 And thus accosted me — 
 " 'Tis bloomin' hot, boss, hev yer got 
 
 Some water you cud spare ? 
 My bag's run out, and 'tis about 
 
 Ten miles 'fore I'll git there." 
 
 Yes ; ten miles tramp had he to camp, 
 
 Where water he might find, 
 And so, altho' my bag was low, 
 
 I gave with anxious mind. 
 He wiped his mouth, and then his drouth.. 
 
 With breathless draught dispell'd. 
 I viewed that bag with visage sad — 
 
 Scant water then it held. 
 
A sundowner's PHILOJOPHY. 31 
 
 :Said I, " My friend, how can you wend 
 
 Your way without a nag ? " 
 IJe lit his pipe and tried to wip.e 
 
 His brow with tattered rag. 
 '" Well, don't yer see," at length quoth he, 
 
 " I'm used to it, an' so 
 As I've no hoss I'm forced ter, boss, 
 On shank's hoss ter go. 
 
 ■" Yer wants to know why does I go 
 
 In summer on the pad ? 
 Well, look here mate, yer see I hate 
 
 Them tpwnships mighty bad. 
 Where you're run in, if you've some tin, 
 
 An' takes a drop or two, 
 An' gits it wuss fer bloomin' cuss — 
 
 I hates them chaps in blue ! 
 
 " Down there 'tis work — no blooming shirk 
 
 Them blokes '11 see yer do ! 
 It's wusser here ? No bloomin fear, 
 
 Tho'.seemin' so ter you. 
 Ter hump my swag an' tucker-bag 
 
 An' billy 's nought ter me ; 
 And when 'tis hot I biles ther pot 
 
 And camps 'neath shady tree." 
 
 I wondered much how furnace such 
 
 As he called heat might feel, 
 -And if, indeed, more fire he'd need 
 To cook al -fresco meal ; 
 
32 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBOi 
 
 For certainly it seemed to me 
 
 One more degree e'en then 
 Would fry a steak, would bake a cake,. 
 
 And fairly ro^t most men. 
 
 For it no doubt was he cut out, 
 
 And p'r'aps enjoyed it too, 
 Lacerta like— but then they'd strike- 
 
 Against that load of blue. 
 Well, Providence gives evidence 
 
 Of adaptation wise, 
 And by it's plan this aimless man 
 
 Sustain'd the heat and flies. 
 
 For what, indeed, did Nature need 
 
 This homeless vagrant ? What ? 
 As sport for fate, with blacks to mate — 
 
 A pale-faced Hottentot ? 
 Endurance, strength, of limb good lengthy. 
 
 Rare physique — all had he ; 
 Yet, with sole aim bare meals to claim — 
 
 Rags, " bacca," and black lea. 
 
 Yet, stay, for he a " bloomin' spree " 
 
 May now and then attain, 
 With shouting friend and poison's blend, . 
 
 To shanty-keeper's gain. 
 Yes, still a tie with those of high 
 
 And low degree had he, 
 And e'en might sing like vinous kbg,'. 
 
 And better, too, maybe. 
 
A sundowner's philosophy. 33 
 
 Across my mind the thoughts outlined 
 
 Pass'd rapidly, and I 
 Produced a flask, but did not ask 
 
 If he a drop would try — 
 I handed one. He said, " Here's fun — 
 
 No water — spiles it quite." 
 Then, with a twist of lip and wrist, 
 
 He hid it from my sight. 
 
 The reckless grin of harden'd sin 
 
 O'erspread his visage brown. 
 As on the road, like giant toad, 
 
 He straighway squatted down ; 
 One knee he bent, his weight then leant. 
 
 Upon his heel behind. 
 And hej 'twas clear, if I would hear, 
 
 For yarning was inclined. 
 
 Then, just to show no pride, you know,. 
 
 I also took a tot, 
 But did not care to swelter there 
 
 Upon that shadeless spot. 
 Yet e're I went, without intent 
 
 His confidence to gain, 
 He gave it me. — as you shall see — 
 
 He hoped for one more drain I 
 
 " Yes ; 111 allow yer sees as how 
 
 The stages an' ther heat 
 Is much like work a cove can't shirk ;. 
 
 I'm good, tho', on my feet ; 
 
34 KE-ECHOBS FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 An' you can bet I mostly get 
 
 At outside camps a spell ; 
 The blokes, d'ye see, likes company, 
 
 An' alius treats me well. 
 
 " Their masters, eh ? The grub, yer say ? 
 
 An ' 'tisn't theirn to give' ? 
 Well, look here, Boss, they feels no loss. 
 
 An' all on us must live. 
 Besides, d'ye see, them boys maybe 
 
 '111 hev ter pad ther hoof, 
 An' come ter me fer grub an' tea 
 
 When J've an old tin roof 
 
 *' Me work, yer asts ? Not while them lasts 1 
 
 But bloomin' boots wears out ; 
 So then a job to make a bob 
 
 I takes as ' knockabout.' 
 I don't stop long ? You're not far wrong ; 
 
 'Tain't likes o' me as stops — 
 The squatter's good, he finds the wood. 
 
 An' fries my bloomin' chops. 
 
 ■" What'll I do when nearly thro'. 
 
 An' I can't tramp no more ? 
 Well, that, d'ye see, don't trouble me, 
 
 I'm easy on that score. 
 The world to come ? Well, it, by gum ! 
 
 Can't be much wuss nor here 
 For heat and flies ; and, blank my eyes, 
 
 I don't see nought to fear." 
 
HOW HE PERISHED. 35 
 
 I thought old Nick might likely kick 
 
 At lodgers such as he — 
 Such restless tramps, ungodly scamps, 
 
 And whales for strong black tea ! 
 So then that flask — which, if a cask, 
 
 He'd squat before till dry — 
 Was absently concealed by me 
 
 From his beseeching eye. 
 
 I would not see his drift, so he 
 
 From bended knee arose, 
 Unheeding crust of clinging dust 
 
 On ragged nether clothes. 
 Then " slung " his swag, picked up his bag. 
 
 Said " So long"— I, " Good day." 
 'Midst glare and heat he plied his feet — 
 
 I, musing, rode away. 
 
 iT 
 
 ttOW HE PEmSHEO. 
 
 A TRUE TALE OF THE NOR'-WBST TABLELANDS. 
 
 The sunbeams fall with scorching heat on boulders gleam>- 
 
 ing grey. 
 Like time-worn tombs of ages dead 'neath mighty dome of 
 
 day. 
 No living thing is heard or seen, no cloud is sailing high ; 
 No verdant tree to lend its shade or soothe the aching eye. 
 
36 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Whilst winding 'midst the saltbush sere, o'er lonely waste of 
 
 stones, 
 The rugged track is grimly mark'd by ghastly heaps of 
 
 bones — 
 By skeleton of steed and steer that died from drought and 
 
 toil; 
 The awful aftermath of Death — his sternly gathered spoil. 
 
 On pinions strong the burning blast is rushing from the 
 
 North, 
 The willing slave of tyrant Drought, fierce agent of his 
 
 wrath : 
 But, ah 1 a miserable man comes toiling o'er a rise ; 
 That ruthless wind, it seems to say, " Behold my helpless 
 
 prize ! 
 Behold his empty waterbag ! Behold his fainting state ! 
 No chance has he to foil me now — he staggers to his fate ! 
 No water he may hope to reach, no kindly succour find ; 
 A desert grave for such as he, is cruel to be kind !" 
 
 His galling load the man lets fall, then staggers on again ; 
 He knows the road, but, oh, 'tis far to haunt of fellow men : 
 And bitterly of faults he thinks which he would fain forget, 
 But, conscience urged, his memory recalls them for regret ; 
 Too lightly he of folly thought — he weighs it justly now — 
 And sighs, as with a sodden rag, he wipes his fever'd brow. 
 Fast failing is his strength he finds; his heart hath stra,ngled 
 
 beat. 
 And on that lonely, sun-scorch'd track 'tis Death he soon 
 
 must meet. 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 37 
 
 Yet bravely still he struggles on — he will not own despair, 
 But oh, the heat is terrible, and hard his thirst to bear ! 
 On, on, still on — rise after rise — till ah ! a bush at last ; 
 His trembling limbs are to it dragged — his form beneath it 
 
 cast : 
 Too late, too late, that shade is found, for o'er his troubled 
 
 eyes 
 A misty curtain seems to fall, and vision from them flies. 
 He swoons upon the burning ground — no human aid is 
 
 nigh- 
 He had but found that kindly bush beneath its boughs to 
 
 die. 
 
 iT 
 
 THE BtrStt MtSStOJSAay. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 (Air — " Bonnie Dundee.") 
 
 Our friend, Mr. Roily, who comes up to push 
 His cure — evangelical — far in the bush. 
 Arrives, if he can, in the shearing time when 
 The station is crowded with godless young men — 
 Who feasted on fearful and wonderful tarts. 
 Rich pudding, and mutton, have Nick in their hearts, 
 But cash in their pockets, to further the cause 
 That sends Mr. Roily to cripple his claws ! 
 
38 EE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Our Roily of raven has eye and the voice — 
 The last at vast distance I suffer by choice— 
 At praying he's great and at preaching he's grand, 
 " Ah ! he is in touch with the bush-roaming band, 
 For has he not met with at stations galore 
 Old Dick, when he cooked, and with Ringer, who shore 1 
 He prays with, he chaifs them, drinks tea by the pail, 
 And then at lie swapping he is such a whale. 
 
 His costume is queer, for his felt hat is frayed, 
 His coat has forgotten the year it was made. 
 Yet curls in its collar to tickle his neck ; 
 His shirt is without one — a buttonless wreck — 
 Then as for his trousers, or pants, which ye will, 
 They reach to his "spring sides,'' and try hard to fill 
 The backs of those bulgers — protruding behind — 
 Their finger straps floating like flags in the wind. 
 
 His gloves and his socks — well, he leaves them at liome 
 When starting, like Moses, the desert to roam ; 
 Yet still he is cleanly, and washes sometimes, 
 Though mixed grease and dust his apparel begrimes. 
 He's plucky enough. He in Providence trusts. 
 And makes a square meal off cold water and crusts 
 When nothing else offers, yet still, by-the-bye, 
 A good knife and fork at a banquet would ply. 
 
 Of medium stature, with shock head of hair. 
 His black beard would pad well " Gengulphian chair " ; 
 He might have been handsome while yet very young, 
 Is awfully pious, and has such a tongue ! 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 39 
 
 He Ogles the matrons, he ogles the girls, 
 And praises their bright eyes, complexions, and curls ; 
 And ah ! if his blessings would only bear fruit. 
 What futures would spring from each family root. 
 
 His horse, well acquainted with hard times and dust, 
 Can get up a road-ramming jog when it must. 
 And oft would go faster when Roll and he wrangle 
 If tilt-pole and axle the whip would not tangle. 
 His dam was " Neglected," his pa was " Unknown," 
 From each of his parents he's taken the tone ; 
 The head and the legs of a carthorse has he. 
 The body of mantis of lofty degree. 
 
 He comes and he goes with the preacher, but still 
 It is not, I own, with an equine good will ; 
 For hunger and thirst on the vilest bush tracks 
 Are mixed in his mind with the hardest of thwacks ; 
 Yet, tho' such a rum one, he seems to hang out 
 Through seasons of plenty and seasons of drought 
 When many a better-bred, showier horse 
 Would leave on the road its malodorous corse. 
 
 And now for the buggy — which never is wet, 
 
 Unless from the clouds it a sprinkle may get ; 
 
 It rattles and shakes at the old horse's heels 
 
 As if the top part was at war with the wheels ; 
 
 'Tis all right, however, and under the seat 
 
 The Reverend Roily each night will retreat 
 
 To snore like a doormouse, whatever the weather — 
 
 The tilt is of watertight counterfeit leather. . 
 
40 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And now for the service in woolstore at night — 
 The bullock bell rung, there is plenty of light, 
 For slush-lamps are blazing in jam tins, on plates, 
 While wool bales come handy for pulpit and seats, 
 But as for the hearers, alas ! there are few 
 Who care to abandon their poker or loo. 
 The " devil's own books " have a charm for their mind 
 Which beats RoUy's singing and sermon combined. 
 
 A prayer being offered, a hymn is begun — 
 Some singing in earnest, some singing in fun ; 
 But, what is surprising, the men most profane 
 Are those who excel in the soul-raising strain. 
 Yes, they in their boyhood, who seem so rough now. 
 In church or in chapel each Sabbath would bow 
 Their heads in devotion, the verses would sing. 
 Which now from wild bushland toward the stars ring. 
 
 But who would expect from our Roily to hear 
 
 A sermon in words so well chosen and clear 
 
 That few of the preachers in surplice or gown 
 
 Could better, if equal it, even in town. 
 
 And then from his queer eyes such strange fervour gleams^ 
 
 The Roily you know seems a man of your dreams. 
 
 His turnout absurd and his dress you forget, 
 
 And that he's a true man you're open to bet. 
 
 The service is over, and back to their poker 
 The shearers depart, while our Roily — the joker. 
 The odd fish, so outre, so scaly to view — 
 Is once more the greatest enigma to you. 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 41 
 
 And not only you, but to all in the land, 
 For his little game one ca.n-not understand ; 
 Yes, he may be saint, or the Father of Lies, 
 For all you can judge from his raven-grey eyes. 
 
 Well, if you'd be married or christen'd with ease. 
 
 Just make up your minds, and at once, if you please ; 
 
 Yes, now is the time you such business can fix, 
 
 For Roily is licensed to do both the tricks. 
 
 And till his next visit, when twelve months are run. 
 
 Can neither the tying nor sprinkling be done. 
 
 So hunt in your pockets, pay Roily his fee. 
 
 You won't? Wellj you heathens, just e'en let it be. 
 
 Now, e'er we quite finish with Roily, I'd state, 
 A Papist he'd been at an earlier date ; 
 Yet whether he ratted, or was he kicked out, 
 I grant is a matter much open to doubt. 
 • But, sinking the question, a tale he told me 
 Which may or may not be what Scots call a " lee ;" 
 And though mix'd with truth there should lurk a good few, 
 I reckon, my readers, I'll tell it to you ! 
 
 THE BUSH MISSIONARY'S STORY : HOW TONY 
 BLAKE BECAME A PAPIST. 
 
 Near Limerick town, by the broad Shannon's tide, 
 A Protestant gentleman used to reside 
 
42 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 In a very fine mansion, with garden to match, 
 
 And shrub-bordered fish pond in which you might 
 
 catch 
 The choicest of carp, if you'd only a slice 
 Of extra good fortune, or skill to entice 
 Those tasteless dry ancients by dodges Waltonian, 
 Or took them in fishstews, a method Monks'-ownian ; 
 But there, we will leave those big carp in possession 
 Of Mr. Blake's fish pond, and end this digression. 
 
 Our Protestant worthy possessed a kind heart, 
 
 And, guided by " Golden Rule," played well his part : 
 
 For never a peasant in parishes round 
 
 Who went to bed supperless then could be found ; 
 
 He'd sweet pretty daughters, and also a son 
 
 Of whose doubtful doings you'll hear e'er we're done ; 
 
 While as for the charming old lady, his wife. 
 
 She had been and still was the joy of his life. 
 
 But ah ! the time came, as it will to us all. 
 
 When Death to the kindly pere Blake made his call, 
 
 And so, much bedewed by his family's tears, 
 
 He drew his last breath full of honours and years. 
 
 Boom ! Boom ! tolls the bell, 
 
 'Tis.a sorrowful knell 
 
 That seems from the old ivyed steeple to tell 
 
 The peasants who hear it : "A friend you have lost — 
 
 One hard to replace, as you'll find to your cost ; 
 
 For, though a Black Proddy, his heart and his hand 
 
 Were aye the most open ones found in the land ; 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 43 
 
 And now he is dead, why, your little gossoons 
 May git little porridge to ate wid their spoons ; 
 While little girleens and their mothers may find 
 Few garments they'll get now to kape out the wind ; 
 Then, as for yourselves, you will miss the kind greetin' 
 Himself would be givin' 'ach boy he'd be meetin'." 
 
 The sombre hearse with lifeless load 
 
 Rolls slowly down the dreary road. 
 
 While those who scarce can realise 
 
 That he has gone, with tears and sighs 
 
 Lament the ever faithful friend 
 
 Whose dust with dust so soon shall blend ; 
 
 Recall his deeds, his sterling worth. 
 
 And tell of void he'll leave on earth — 
 
 A void, like writing on the shore. 
 
 Shall soon be noticed nevermore, 
 
 Especially if Tony Blake 
 
 His father's friends will welcome make 
 
 To share his provender and wine. 
 
 In fact invite them oft to dine. 
 
 What need to paint the last sad scene, 
 That open tomb midst hillocks green. 
 Those solemn words of faith and hope, 
 And harshly grating lowered rope ? 
 But ah ! the mourners standing round 
 All shudder at the hollow sound 
 On coffin lid of scattered soil, 
 Fit symbol of the churchyard's spoil. 
 
44 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 "Ashes to ashes ; " be it so ; 
 From gates of birth to death we go 
 For Adam's sin this debt we pay 
 As one by one we pass away. 
 But gloom flies at the wicket gate, 
 Our friend — not us — has met his fate. 
 
 " Ould Misther Blake was an illigant man, 
 And wantin' will be all the praties and male 
 Himself did be sindin' ; and sorra a wan 
 Will shtip in his brogans ; we'll miss him a dale. 
 But whisht, now, yez Riverence, phwat do ye think, 
 Himself will be takin' up there for his dhrink ? 
 
 That question to Padre put Paddy Maloney, 
 
 Who of the departed had been the tried crony — 
 
 A humble one, truly, but to him devoted. 
 
 For kindness received since, as gossoon short-coated, 
 
 He'd often received from his patron a pat 
 
 On tuft of red hair that grew up through his hat. 
 
 The pious old father uplifted his eyes. 
 
 As if he was looking for Blake in the skies. 
 
 Then, with a dry cough and a scratch at his ear. 
 
 Said, " Though our kind friend was a good man whilst 
 
 here — 
 That is, to a loose and profane way of thinking. 
 In the place where he^i now there's no eating or 
 
 drinking, 
 Yet, though he may miss his old sherry and tripe 
 He'll never need matches when lighting his pipe." 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 45 
 
 Behind a big tree by the lane where then stood 
 The Padre and Paddy, and not looking good, 
 Is planted young Tony, who hisses out " Beast ! 
 I'll make the old scoundrel eat dirt, though a priest. 
 I'll teach him to talk of poor father like that. 
 The dirty foul skunk, the mean clerical rat, 
 I'll — well, I'll consider the best thing to do ; 
 That black-hearted papist shall dine upon rue." 
 
 Below, in big kitchen of Anthony Blake, 
 Is soup (vermicelli), a carp from the lake, 
 A plump brace of pheasants, a woodcock on toast, 
 A saddle of mutton by way of a roast. 
 Queer curry and rice, for the rice has been boiled 
 In crude English fashion, and therefore is spoiled, 
 For, 'stead of the grains being firm, full, and free, 
 They're flaccid and moist to a nauseous degree- 
 But done to a turn are the mealy potatoes. 
 And also the seakale which on the estate grows 
 (A bad rhyme the last) now the menu to take on. 
 There's Brussels sprouts boiled with a small scrap of 
 
 bacon. 
 And, added to this rather long list of cheer, a 
 Dish of the esculent root called " scoresnera.'' , 
 There's cold apple pie, there are custards and tarts, 
 And trifles stuck over with almonds, like darts ; 
 There's mouldy old Stilton well mottled with port. 
 And celery, quite of the snowiest sort ; 
 There's walnuts, with crackers, lest guest's jaws be 
 
 hurt. 
 And almonds and raisins to crown the dessert. 
 
46 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Yet Stay, there are pears and ripe medlars, these 
 Not all Tony's friends are expected to please, 
 But Barney will sample his best bins of wine. 
 For is not the Praste wid the masther to dine ? 
 
 Ignatius Flynn is of manners austere. 
 But still he well loveth good Protestant cheer ; 
 And his old yellow chaise and lean-headed nag, 
 With keenly cock'd ears and full eyes of a stag, 
 Are bringing the Father, who sniffs at the roast, 
 To hobnob and feast with his heretic host. 
 
 The footman, Tim Dooley, the sittingroom door 
 
 Throws open, announcing the priest to the fore, 
 
 And Anthony cries, with a flash of his eyes, 
 
 " Good Father, step in, there's a chair to your size." 
 
 Then, turning the key of the d oor as it closes, 
 
 To rather astonished old cleric discloses 
 
 His rooted conviction that he is a liar. 
 
 Who now without shrift will go " lower " or " higher " 
 
 Unless he can prove that the late Mr. Blake 
 
 Was really and truly plunged into that lake 
 
 Where brimstone excessive (at least 'tis reported) 
 
 Is always on hand but is never exported. 
 
 ■" Now look at these pistols — I heard what you sed — 
 
 I don't miss my mark, and I aim at your head ; 
 
 So prove your words true, or you'll quickly perspire, 
 
 And light your own pipe in the flames of your sire." 
 
 Just fancy a prodigal led to believe 
 
 His father's vast wealth he is bound to receive, 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. iT 
 
 And who, after raising post obits a few, 
 
 Has spent every penny he got from the Jew — 
 
 Just fancy his feeling when, spite of much pilling, 
 
 The poor pater dies 
 
 And departs for the skies, 
 But, ere that, had cut his son off with a shilling. 
 
 Or take, for example, a monarch, when he 
 Is morally certain as monarch can be 
 That scattered by bombshell he'll every way fly. 
 Yet finds, when he's ready and anxious to die, 
 
 That Nihilist fellow, 
 
 Through getting too mellow, 
 Has nabbed been, head shortened, and burned like a 
 
 guy- 
 But never was monarch, or prodigal son, 
 Or mutineer blown from the muzzle of gun. 
 
 So utterly disconcerted , 
 As Flynn, when his erstwhile convivial chum, 
 With scowl of a bandit, bull-headed and glum. 
 
 His truculent words outblurted. 
 
 'Tis past — that fear, that sharp surprise ; 
 Though pistol clutched, relentless eyes, 
 And door fast locked by iron will 
 Sustains the sense of peril still. 
 The man is holy priest again 
 Disdaining earthly fears as vain. 
 And who, with calm, unflinching gaze, 
 And low clear voice, unfaltering says, 
 
48 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 " I own my words you heard aright ; 
 My hands are tied, I cannot fight. 
 So if you will that I should prove 
 The state of father whom you love, 
 Let me my breviary, bring, 
 And stole; now for my chaise please ring, 
 But do not blame me for the pain 
 You soon must suffer — 'twill be vain." 
 
 " Ring for your chaise," young Blake replies, 
 With murder gleaming from his eyes ; 
 " That door for you shall never move 
 Till you your vile assertion prove. 
 Or, should you fail, to let you pass 
 To poison worms and graveyard grass. 
 False priest ! false friend ! no vain pretence 
 From just revenge shall take you hence. 
 Come, prove your words, or quickly hie 
 To him who reigns, like you, to lie." 
 
 ■" Send for my book ; but once again 
 I warn you yours will be the pain ; 
 Not mine the fault, I only know 
 What's happening in flames below, 
 And that yourself will surely burn 
 Unless you to the true faith turn. 
 Still obstinate ? Well, be it so. 
 For book and stole let Egan go." 
 
 The groom, despatched, has now returned ; 
 The stole assumed, the leaves are turned 
 
IHE BUSH MISSIONARY. 49 
 
 ■Of breviary ; in that book 
 The words you'll find, if you will look, 
 The Padre reads in tone of voice 
 As if the task was his by choice ; 
 But, surely, tis a strong earths hock 
 That causes now the room to rock ; 
 And Tony glances to the ceiling 
 To note the plaster of it peeling, 
 Yet not a crack can there be seen, 
 While placid is the Padre's mien. 
 
 But ah I those narrow-piercing moans. 
 
 That clank of chains, those dismal groans. 
 
 And rumbling thunderpeals which sound . 
 
 As if they issued from the ground, 
 
 A dread diablerie presage, 
 
 Which all Blake's faculties engage. 
 
 No claptrap imitations these, 
 
 In cooler place his blood would freeze ; 
 
 That Padre's business is no sell. 
 
 The old man comes in haste from Hell, 
 
 With crowds of flaming fiends en suite. 
 
 And worse than Aden's grows the heat. 
 
 Poor Tony vastly wishes now 
 
 He'd ponder'd e'er he'd sought that row. 
 
 Or if he quarrell'd he at least 
 
 Had fought shy of a potent priest ; 
 
 And so he starts with downcast eye 
 
 On hardest crusts of humble pie, 
 
50 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Yes, he so lately cock-a-hoop 
 
 Is surely troubled with the croup ; 
 
 For hark, to speak he scarcely can 
 
 To vindicated holy man. 
 
 " I'm satisfied, good father, stay 
 
 Your mandate of attendance, pray, 
 
 For as poor dad is down below 
 
 'Twere best to leave him there you know." 
 
 As you might hail a ship at sea, 
 
 It passing swiftly on your lee. 
 
 Your words borne on the raging blast, 
 
 May reach the ears for which they're cast. 
 
 But to you no response can win 
 
 Its way against the deaf'ning din, 
 
 So nought but doubt remains behind 
 
 To exercise and vex the mind ; 
 
 Thus Tony speaks to Padre grim. 
 
 But gets no answering word from him, 
 
 Save only in perplexing Latin — 
 
 A language he appears quite pat in. 
 
 Now strongest of sulphur fumes rise from the floor 
 
 And fly up the chimney — they can't by the door. 
 
 While Tony who closed it would cheerfully be 
 
 Afflicted by mal-de-mer far out at sea. 
 
 Or brave fiercest tempest a tar has been in 
 
 For nearing him fast is a horrible din. 
 
 As if, say, ten thousand fierce convicts in chains 
 
 Had pounced on their wardens to beat out their brains; 
 
 Yes, curses and cries. 
 
 Entreaties and sighs. 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 51 
 
 Would flood with salt water an image's eyes. 
 Assail the tympanum of Tony, poor fellow, 
 Who if not so tongue-tied would lustily bellow. 
 As you my dear readers would probably do 
 if seized with a funk so remarkably blue, 
 Unless by a fit apoplectical taken 
 Your soul from your body was suddenly shaken ; 
 
 Yet Padre Flynn 
 
 Not caring a pin, 
 Proceeds with his Latin as though he would win. 
 A wager is laid that he'd read without stopping 
 Though Nimble and Co. to the room should be popping- 
 
 That uproar astounding it suddenly ceases 
 While steadily still the caloric increases. 
 And Tony knows well there's a room full of jokers 
 Who playfully touch him he thinks with hot pokers, 
 Or hornpoints perhaps. 
 Or sharp tails, for those chaps 
 Have doubtless of those things far more than mere 
 
 scraps, 
 Though as he can feel the whole business — not view 
 
 it- 
 He cannot quite see how the dickens they do it. 
 
 Now gasping from mingled strong sulphur and fright. 
 Young Tony perceives a deplorable sight, 
 For there close beside him a gloomy shade grows 
 He knows is his parent by cut of its clothes, 
 Besides which its boots with big bulges like onions 
 Recall to his mind the old gentleman's bunions. 
 
52 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then despite its horns and a rather hot stare 
 The demon retains a benevolent air. 
 
 Yes, Anthony Blake 
 
 Has returned from the Lake, 
 And is not a bogus Papistical fake, 
 While, though of course mute, it with eyes plies the 
 
 priest 
 And Tony, who'd call'd the good father a beast. 
 As if it is saying, " What, do you not know me? 
 I think the cold shoulder you certainly show me. 
 You lov'd me in life, or pretended to do so ; 
 And were you both devils I would not treat you so ; 
 By torments tremendous I'm fairly unhinged ; 
 Do come and embrace me — you'll not be much singed. 
 
 In vain is appeal of Tartarean thing 
 
 Which thus to its mundane affections can cling. 
 
 Poor Tony's afraid to shake hands, while His Reverence 
 
 Regards his old chum as a fiend past deliverance ;. 
 
 Alas and alack 
 
 That it ever came back 
 From warmth in abundance to chilly experience. 
 At least for itself as for Tony, ah, well. 
 He thinks in Avernus he's taking a spell. 
 
 'Tis a terrible fix for without any doubt 
 A devil once in is right hard to get out ; 
 And even the mildest satanical shade, 
 Like vulgar and shabby old father in trade,, 
 A nasty sharp thorn is, and Tony begins 
 To feel as if sitting on needles and pins 
 
THE BUSH MISSIONARY. 5a 
 
 So whispers the Padre (who shuts up his book) — 
 " Do send him back, Father, by hook or by crook, 
 I own you were right, and that good deeds, while here. 
 Are apprais'd in Heaven as very small beer." 
 
 " Me ? send it away again after the trouble 
 
 I've taken to get it here ? No, not for double 
 
 The regular charge I'm entitled to make 
 
 For dragging a fiend from the Nethermost Lake. 
 
 Now, as I subscribe to the hunt ball and hounds, 
 
 I think I must trouble you, Sir, for ten pounds — 
 
 I'm greatly obliged, and you now have your will, 
 
 He is what he is, and a Protestant still, 
 
 While you, my dear fellow, no mercy may hope 
 
 Except through confession, the Saints, and the Pope." 
 
 The clergyman goes, but the what you may call it 
 Would puzzle the biggest of footman to haul it. 
 While never Archbishop of Protestant faith 
 Could send back or rescue Old Gentleman's wraith, 
 
 So always at night 
 
 When they've blown out each light 
 It kicks up, says Barney, the Devil's delight. 
 Its clatter infernal 
 Would frighten a Colonel, 
 And almost reverse the earth's motion diurnal. 
 Yes, Terror from Tophet, far worse than mere ghost, 
 Has come to make Tony its permanent host 
 And he who was lately defiant is now 
 As meek as decrepit old donkey or cow. 
 
54 Ei;-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 He cannot get married-; then, if he keeps single, 
 He knows very well he'll be short of a shingle. 
 While Barney declares that the sorra a wan. 
 Will shtop in the house, aither colleen or man, 
 Onless — and he gives you a comical wink — 
 We slape altogether wid lashins ov dhrink ; 
 Ah ! thin 'tis mesilf that is bothered, an' sure 
 The masther must go to Himself for a cure. 
 
 That smart groom, Mick Egan, is leading a dapple 
 Grey plump little cob to and fro by the chapel, 
 While Tony, the boaster, is down on his knees 
 At feet of the Padre, too frightened to sneeze ; 
 But what he is saying, or praying, or paying 
 To get the good Father to shunt the thing straying 
 Too far from hot quarters, I'll leave you to guess — 
 I haven't a notion, I'll frankly confess. 
 But past all belief is the look of relief 
 Which lights up the face of that worse than a thief, 
 When, being absolved by Ignatius Flynn, 
 He cares for the Devil no longer a pin ; 
 For now, being quit of sin's burthen enormous. 
 He'll eat like a dray horse and sleep like a dormouse, 
 And make no mistake, this new pervert to Rome 
 In arms of the Church is already at home. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 A moral, dear readers, you'll surely expect, 
 And so from my story I this one select 
 
TULIP. 55 
 
 Thus : Don't with revolver assault a Divine 
 When he on your invite has dropped in to dine ; 
 For though 'tis unlikely he'd summons the Devil, 
 He surely would you, for your conduct uncivil. 
 
 TtJttP. 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF A BLACK LUBRA. 
 
 Farewell to Tulip, who in Austral wild 
 
 Did all she could to fill with grace a wurley. 
 
 "Come, come," you say, "just please to draw it mild ;" 
 But I maintain her hair was soft and curly, 
 
 Her eyes black diamonds, her nose not snubby, 
 
 While, as she wash'd, you'd rarely see her grubby. 
 
 Two rows of ivory, that flash'd like pearls, 
 
 Adorned her mouth, which might have been extensive ; 
 Yet, taken with the diamonds and curls — 
 
 All native grown and therefore inexpensive : 
 A face completed — when the maid was merry — 
 Which /d/cyi'*/, they said, each bushland Tom and Jerry. 
 
 Besides, she mov'd as if on, shapely head 
 
 She'd balanced pitchers to the distant fountain, 
 
 And swiftly chased, with modern Dian's tread, 
 The banded wallabies upon the mountain. 
 
 Sweet nymph was Tulip, though not quite the lily, 
 
 In trailing skirts, you meet in Piccadilly. 
 
.56 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Most certainly before sun-freckl'd dames 
 
 Of age mature, in horrible sun-bonnets, 
 Gay sylvan bards acknowledged Tulip's claims 
 
 For preference as subject of their sonnets ; 
 Which, when completed, shunn'd their pious mothers, 
 Yet circled freely 'mongst their bushland brothers. 
 
 And now, methinks, I've made it vastly clear 
 
 That, while her years danc'd through her teens to twenty. 
 
 Our dusky heroine was quite a dear 
 
 Who had, be sure, of would-be lovers plenty ; 
 
 But old Tanbelta, as her parents told him, 
 
 Just took her home to cuddle or to scold him, 
 
 And fight with Jenny — oft prefixed by Wonna — 
 
 Who'd borne his burthens and had baked his lizards ; 
 
 And who, resenting rival thrust upon her, 
 Involved the wurley in domestic blizzards. 
 
 Yet not one-sided was the warfare bitter. 
 
 For Tulip slang'd the gentle Jane and hit her. 
 
 But though, like camels, dusky ribs are treated 
 By consorts — indolent in ought save hunting — 
 
 The wurlies oftentimes become o'er heated, 
 
 When gins, like white wives, hoist rebellion's bunting ; 
 
 And then a Tura,^ e'en the most heroic. 
 
 Just knuckles down and takes it like a stoic. 
 
 But how those termagants sustain'd the thwacks 
 
 Their heads received from deftly-wielded waddies — 
 That left in craniums deep gaping cracks 
 
 1. Tura— Blackfellow. 
 
TULIP. 57" 
 
 Which gore distill'd to trickle down their bodies — 
 I'll leave to reader's shock'd imagination : 
 Their lord looked on in silent approbation ; 
 
 And would the corpse have quietly interred 
 Had heavy yam stick bitten home too deeply. 
 
 Whilst safely also, it may be inferred, 
 That cute old Tan had gotten soon and cheaply 
 
 Rib number three to pound his tasteless nardoo,^ 
 
 Make matters warm, and help to eat his bardoo. 
 
 But each good wife had crown like clout-head nail — 
 That tougher grows the harder it is hammer'd — 
 
 And, so when myall was of scant avail. 
 
 Our brace of beauties at each other clamour'd, 
 
 As fishfags would if situated like 'em ; 
 
 But then their blokes might interfere and strike 'em. 
 
 It grieved me sore to know those matrons fought, 
 
 Especially about so mean a master, 
 Who look'd on scrimmage as a kind of sport 
 
 While /provided Bate.^s Salve and plaster : 
 For peace poor Tulip might hot know what hopfe meant 
 Had Tura Jemmy not proposed elopement. 
 
 That is, I, thinking old Tanbelta greedy. 
 
 With lady fair told Jemmy to levant ; 
 When he, with promptitude, though rather seedy. 
 
 The blooming Tulip managed to transplant 
 In neatest style. Yet still I've heard that awful 
 Were adjectives by cultivator lawful. 
 
 1. Nardoo— A swamp seed which Burke and Wills starved on. 
 
58 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But as old Tan had not the least idea 
 
 Of legal agency in crim. con. cases, 
 Like savage hound he hunted for his dear 
 
 And her abductor in all sorts of places ; 
 And, by good luck and, on their part, much dodging, 
 He found them not in any sylvan lodging. 
 
 Then, by-and-by, his wrath began to cool. 
 
 As did the ardour of the other rascal. 
 Tanbelta found he'd been a hoary fool — 
 
 The gay Lothario, that he'd to task all 
 A sated hubbie's tactics to be pleasant 
 To pouting spouse — when no one else was present. 
 
 So to Society the pair returned 
 And went to visit at Tanbelta's wurley — 
 
 To leave their cards our friends had not then learned, 
 And little cared if they call'd late or early ; 
 
 But still, I fancy, that in presence, greasy. 
 
 Of sable friend — the bridegroom — felt uneasy. 
 
 The bride's late husband wore a sullen air 
 
 Which might mean treachery, so Jemmy eyed him 
 
 With wary optics, while the charming pair 
 
 Of Eve's dark daughters prattled on beside him ; 
 
 For both — well satisfied with late transaction — 
 
 Were full of peace as kill'd out Irish faction. 
 
 Though lacking tea, they whiled the time away 
 
 In gossip light, just like their fairer sisters, 
 Who vastly relish chats on topics gay. 
 
TULIP. 59. 
 
 But more especially on social blisters, 
 Which, though they sting their dearest friends most keenly » 
 With meaning smiles they revel in serenely. 
 
 But as I did not happen to be there, 
 
 And phonographs were yet to be invented, 
 
 I cannot favour you with scandal rare 
 Those ladies whisper'd and with eyes accented ; 
 
 So please suppose the pretty dears, like others. 
 
 Discoursed, at length, on other black gins brothers. 
 
 Or fairer beaux — for be it known that both 
 Were vastly partial to a white-skinn'd lover. 
 
 And prized his presents — being nothing loth 
 To take a blue shirt as a fancy cover ; 
 
 While more especially was either willing 
 
 To close her fingers on a proffer'd shilling. 
 
 'Twas quite millenium, altho' the old one 
 Would sometimes try his Tulip to regain ; 
 
 When, 'stead of braining Jemmy, like a bold one, 
 He'd track the spoiler on secluded plain ; 
 
 And had he caught him in a state unguarded. 
 
 Black James' caul would soon his hide have larded. 
 
 But, weasel like, our Tura kept one eye 
 
 On constant guard, while he with 'tother slumber'd ; 
 And though undoubtedly his foe was spry, 
 
 Jem's mangled corpse no solitude has cumber'd. 
 Indeed, the vagabond — now fat and fifty — 
 Is, like one " Larry " — happy though unthrifty. 
 
^0 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 A sluggish tide had Tulip's sea of life, 
 With Jemmy's jealousy to stir its ripples 
 
 And make things pleasant to his faithful wife. 
 
 Your green-eyed man is like the one who tipples : 
 
 His bete noir bolts if once 'tis fairly going, 
 
 And when 'twill stop there's certainly no knowing. 
 
 A little incident I'll now relate 
 
 That illustrates how mischief sometimes sways us 
 From path respectable to deviate ; 
 
 Then, Judas-like, all shamefully betrays us ; 
 And this queer business, prompted sure by devil, 
 O'erspread the land like fabled Satyr's revel. 
 
 For was not Tulip by her pro. tem. lord 
 Most kindly sent to old Tanbelta's wurley, 
 
 While Tan, to show his mind was richly stor'd 
 With notions liberal as well as surly, 
 
 Dispatch'd his Jenny to the couch vacated, 
 
 And, presto ! change ! the couples were cross mated. 
 
 But in such action there was nothing strange, 
 For all their friends and relatives were doing 
 
 The self-same thing along the Flinders Range ; 
 And which I told them they'd be likely rueing — 
 
 They only laugh'd, and seemed to think me foolish. 
 
 While I thought them a vast deal worse than mulish. 
 
 But times are changeable, and fancies too ; 
 And so it was that Jemmy and Tanbelta, 
 With other members of free-thinking crew — 
 
TULIP. 61 
 
 Who'd spouses swapped, as others would a pelta^ — 
 From rampant sin to purity subsided 
 By being coupled as though ne'er divided. 
 
 That freak was singular in dual sense 
 
 Because 'twas strange, and not again repeated. 
 
 While parties to it came without pretence 
 To be by me medicinally treated ; 
 
 Indeed, they paid — and over many dearly — 
 
 For having acted (we will put it) queerly. 
 
 And after that I neither saw nor heard 
 Of Jemmy's lubra, till from home returning 
 
 I passed the place where she had been interr'd 
 In leafy tomb, which last, from lack of learning 
 
 In grieving relatives, bore no inscription 
 
 To father fibs and practice kind deception. 
 
 So then, said I, poor Tulip shall not fade 
 
 From face of earth and leave no trace behind her, 
 
 And though less skilful with a pen than spade 
 I'll do my best an epitaph to find her. 
 
 An epitaph ! Her story would be better — 
 
 So here Iv'e told what incidents beset her. 
 
 1. Pelta— garment. 
 
 iT 
 
62 KB-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 TO A DEAD BLACK GIH* 
 
 Alas, poor Wongaty ! But yesterday 
 
 With coaxing smile a pipeful yoM. were asking, 
 When with your friends you at the woodheap lay^ 
 
 Like some huge lizard in the sunshine basking.. 
 O, freak of fate ! In effort to provide 
 
 A future harvest for the Reaper's sickle 
 Upon yourself the trenchant blade was tried, 
 
 And truest tears down dusky cheeks now trickle.. 
 
 A cheery daughter of the soil were you, 
 
 And sad to say at times a shocking sinner ; 
 That is to strict, enUghtened, people's view — 
 
 But folks will sin who sadly need a dinner. 
 Besides, propriety you never learned 
 
 From pious parents or chaste friend's example ;- 
 Your livelihood by queerest means was earned. 
 
 And you of Black Gins were an honest sample. 
 
 When plenty reigned exhibited would be 
 
 Two rows of pearls in dazzling white condition. 
 Which open'd wide that feasting friends might see 
 
 The way by which you gave good things admission.. 
 And then your sigh ! when all had entered in 
 
 To spacious storeroom's flexible concealment ; 
 For shafts of fate you'd care no single pin. 
 
 But knew the peace an anaconda's meal meant. 
 
TO A DEAD BLACK GIN. 63 
 
 When drought prevailed and you could rarely find 
 
 A scanty meal in dust o'er-laden blizzard, 
 JE'en patient Job had envied you your mind 
 
 While slowly grill'd attenuated lizard. 
 And so with sunshine and with shadow cast 
 
 Across your path by mingled joy and sorrow, 
 Uncertainty had so usurp'd your past 
 
 That little reek'd you what might bring the morrow. 
 
 Whate'er your thoughts were of a future state 
 
 You realised that you were surely dying ; 
 Yet all resignedly you met your fate 
 
 While grieving friends around your couch were crying. 
 Yoii said " Good-bye " as pious Christian might. 
 
 Then closed your eyes in slumber never ending. 
 Your soul released has wingd its viewless flight 
 
 And left its clay for elemental blending. 
 
 Should some believe — self-righteous prigs — that you 
 
 Are surely doom'd to torments everlasting. 
 Let sinless members of the bigot crew 
 
 Stand boldly forth and start the missile casting. 
 Far greater culprits, when by death dismay'd. 
 
 With prayers and tears profess a late repentance ; 
 Then fondly deem their peace with Heaven they've made 
 
 And so escaped an outraged God's just sentence. 
 
 Where wings thy soul, poor dusky heathen, where ? 
 
 And will its case be judged on all its merits ] 
 Untutor'd here, must it be /«««jA'</ there 
 
 Like well taught Christendom's rebellious spirits 1 
 
64 KB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Your peccadilloes you did not repent 
 
 Unknown to you were conscience's dread terrors ; 
 But HE, all merciful, must fain relent 
 
 And pardon grant to what were Nature's errors ! 
 
 April 30, 1897. 
 
 iT 
 
 TO A BtACK SNAKE. 
 
 To Eden's groves a scaly reptile came 
 
 On Satan's mission — guileful and delusive, 
 Who then prevailed on late-created dame 
 
 To pluck an apple — knowledge too diffusive ; 
 But had your prototype possessed your head, 
 
 Malignant eyes, and hiss so terrifying. 
 Our ancestress, like simple maid, had fled, 
 
 And found no cause for figleaf-apron tying. 
 
 By simple maid I mean a damsel who 
 
 Has little gleaned from modern trees of knowledge- 
 So passion stirring — by their sisters blue, 
 
 Who books indite and jf«w^ girls at college ; 
 For modest nymphs long dieted on such 
 
 Suggestive pabulum e'en you would grapple 
 " By hook or crook," not caring overmuch 
 
 Whatever happened — so they got the apple. 
 
THAT BLACKFELLOW. 65 
 
 But I'm digressing, and will haste to say, 
 
 Of evil things, to some you seem most evil, 
 For though you wobble openly by day, 
 
 The spirit yours of fierce vindictive devil ; 
 But, handy pandy, 'tis a question quite 
 
 If ladie^ book or you, by bushman's hovel. 
 Could injure most by promptings or by bite. 
 
 Yet odds I'll lay, and back the yellow novel. 
 
 THAT BX^ACKFELtOW. 
 That spare-limb'd, heavy-eyebrow'd black. 
 
 With unkempt locks such tangled fuzz in,. 
 Of human cards is just the Jack, 
 
 And Prince of Wales's country cousin — 
 A million times removed or so — 
 
 To tailor not so much indebted. 
 And yet amongst his tribe you know 
 
 As toadied to, perhaps, and petted. 
 
 Like Royalties, supreme at courts. 
 
 His origin from Eve he traces ; 
 And though swell suits he seldom sports, 
 
 He commonly is seen with braces. 
 Besides, he puffs the soothing weed 
 
 And casts his eye on wife of neighbour ; 
 No prince exceeds him at a feed 
 
 Or fancies less excessive labour. 
 
66 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 When summer roasts the sandhill pines, 
 
 And Boreas is far too breezy, 
 As nature's lord that nigger shines — 
 
 Especially when extra greasy. 
 He's scented too, but then his taste 
 
 Is sadly out in fragrant matters; 
 And^r ^he should always waste 
 
 The frangipani that he scatters. 
 
 And now, as copper coloured black 
 
 Improifd will soon be from creation, 
 Of photos please pile up a stack 
 
 To keep in mind your queer relation. 
 Of course, descendants he will have 
 
 With British skins and Roman noses. 
 Who'll favour Teuton, Celt, or Sclav, 
 
 While some may pass as seed of Moses. 
 
 In half a century I've seen 
 
 The blacks improving much in places, 
 Not only in their dress and mien 
 
 But other Austral airs and graces. 
 For though they're yet above the " Push " — 
 
 Vile larrikins of language ruddy — 
 Their conversation in the bush 
 
 Is crowded with " By C— t " and " Bloody." 
 
 Now e'er this notice I conclude 
 
 Of " George," or rather " Wommerrinna," 
 
 I'll own that though his ways are rude 
 He's not a,t all an outside sinner. 
 
THE THUNDERSTORM. 67 
 
 No, treat him fairly and you'll find 
 
 He's quite as honest, and e'en more so, 
 
 Than half the folks of fairer rind, 
 More beefy calves and bigger torso. 
 
 February 23rd, 1899. 
 
 THE THUNDiaSTORM. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Air — " Bonnie Dundee." 
 
 On dusty old stretcher I wide awake lie, 
 For storm that is raging is no lullaby. 
 Yet awfully jolly, for does there not fall 
 The heaviest deluge my mind can recall ; 
 I therefore just fancy all waterholes full. 
 No end of fat lambs, and a big crop of wool ; 
 As also — contingent of course on the spoil — 
 A trip down to town as a break in my toil. 
 
 The roofs a delusion, for water galore 
 
 Rains down on my bed and bespatters the floor. 
 
 But little I'm caring though all may be wet. 
 
 For pluvial presents so seldom we get ; 
 
 That lightning incessant and thunder loud crashing 
 
 The hut into fragments will surely be smashing. 
 
 But ah ! through the window the niggers I see 
 
 All running like winking to shelter with me. 
 
68 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 One moment, swart demons, they show to my sight, 
 
 The next they are lost in Cimmerian night ; 
 
 But that does not stop them, for soon on the flags 
 
 They crowd — a queer concourse, in picturesque rags. 
 
 " Hulloo !" I exclaim. " Why you come 'long o' me? 
 
 Him all about cowie' 'long inside, you see. 
 
 But sit down 'long floor and to-morrow all riqhi !" — 
 
 Poor devils ! they are in a draggle-tailed plight. 
 
 They've dogs by the dozen, pups under each arm — 
 But essence of dog is a scent without charm ; 
 At least to my fancy, and so I say, " Here, 
 You put 'em out wilkah,° or else I must clear 
 The lot of you quickly ; now, out they all go" — 
 A leg from my blanket just thrusting to show 
 The canine contingent must suffer the rain, 
 Or dogs and their masters troop out on the plain. 
 
 The niggers all beg me to let the curs be : 
 " Him poor peller puppie ; him quiet, you see." 
 But blacks are my hmit, so canes exeunt 
 Or soon from the hut will their frankincense me hunt. 
 But not without dodging and snarls, on their part. 
 Do mangy, gaunt mongrels from comfort depart ; 
 And almost might pipers be playing out there, 
 So horrid the discord of doggish despair. 
 
 Their pet curs ejected, my lodgers proceed 
 A big, blazing log fire to build up with speed ; 
 First one in the chimney, then out on the floor 
 They start for their comfort some half-dozen more. 
 
 1. Cowie— water. 2. Wilkah— dogs. 
 
THE THUNDERSTORM. 69 
 
 But, ah, when the smoke and the steam from them rise. 
 
 Assailing my scent-finding organ and eyeS, 
 
 As chairman (in bed) I just rule out the motion 
 
 As just a bit close to Tartarean notion. 
 
 My sneezing is over ; the red brands — brought back — 
 Are piled in the chimney — a high-flaming stack ; 
 While round, in dense circle, my visitors stand ; 
 A handsome, a smiling, and virtuous band. 
 But now they all tell me, in whisperings low, 
 A secret I ought as their dear friend to know : 
 And that is, in English, " The son of a gun — 
 Old Jemmy — is raising this racket for fun !" 
 
 The fierce wirra-wirra,^ with glare near incessant, 
 
 That flashes through window — too close to be pleasant — 
 
 And volleying arndooV dread rattle and roar 
 
 Are pleasantries all to be laid at his door. 
 
 They say, too, when Tintoo' the cowie shall dry 
 
 He'll raise a big poota* to wipe out the sky ; 
 
 And if bona fide the threats they let fall 
 
 'Tis certain the culprit will soon lose his caul. 
 
 I say, "You be hanged ! That old wocalla^ % What for 
 You monkey 'long me % What you tell'em me that for? 
 Him no can't make arndoo or cowie — him gammon. 
 His gin's tumbled down, and 'tis so with his lemon ; 
 Him plenty all right when him young lubra ketch 'em, 
 So one of you go 'longa sandhill and fetch 'em — 
 You, Pooteperunta !" But he, or the rest, 
 Would rather face Nick ; so I give the thing b^st. 
 
 l-SlWina wina— lightning. 2. Arndoo— thunder. 3. Tintoo— the sun. 
 4. Poota— duststorm. 6. Wocalla — crow. 
 
70 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Now, when they are warmer they soon want to sleep, 
 
 So out on the flagstones 'neath wet rags they creep 
 
 In family circles — a dozen or more — 
 
 And, crowded quite closely, just fill up the floor. 
 
 While O ! from the perfume pervading the air 
 
 I well might imagine myself in the lair 
 
 Of polecat or weasel, or, still better, skunk ! 
 
 'Tis too rough outside tho' ; I'll stick to my bunk. 
 
 But, saving a wail from an infant — with wind — 
 Or some other ache to young infants unkind, 
 My guests all sleep soundly as dormice might do, 
 Till Tintoo the Western Plains rises to view ; 
 When leaving their scent, as a keepsake for me, 
 They get a grand tuck-out of damper and tea. 
 Then joining old Jemmy — with ne'er a grunt — 
 Start off' in high glee for a kangaroo hunt ! 
 
 THE SA:L0R*S FjaST KA«GAaOO HUKT* 
 
 You want to chase a kangaroo 
 
 Aboard that clean-heel'd clipper ? 
 Well, shipmate, he may carry you 
 
 If you're a quiet skipper. 
 There's Badger, there ! You'd rather ride 
 
 The chestnut ? Well then, catch him ! 
 You'll think a yardarm you're astride, 
 
 But jerking yard can't match him. 
 
THE sailor's FIEST KANGAROO HUNT. 7S 
 
 Hi ! Starn all toes from Ringtail's girth, 
 
 Or wrinkle he may shew you ; 
 A lovely buck ! Excuse my mirth, 
 
 He could not fairly throw you. 
 There ! Up you get ! You're right as rain, 
 
 Bar dust and blubber bruise. Jack, 
 And mind me, when aloft again. 
 
 Just hang on for the cruise, Jack ! 
 
 My AB ! You are under weigh. 
 
 But don't go crowding sail so. 
 Unless you'd later in the day 
 
 Like knot a twelvemonth snail go. 
 Your weather helm ; now, carCt you mind. 
 
 You've lufFd into my craft. Jack, 
 And next thing, two to one, you'll find 
 
 He'll rake you fore and aft, Jack ! 
 
 A big red buck, and flying doe ! 
 
 'Ware doe, and go for " boomer " ! 
 Hi ! Crabholes there ! I told you so, 
 
 You've caught a rare old tumour. 
 There ! That's your sort ! Keep jib-sheets taut, 
 
 Don't roll like ship in seaway ; 
 The much mix'd sort is best of sport, 
 
 And you'll fetch up your leeway. 
 
 In saddle you had better sit, 
 
 Though Ring's neck legs don't stretch so. 
 The crupper's too far aft a bit, 
 
 But Hop-a-long, you'll ketch so. 
 
72 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Paul Pry has pinn'd him by the tail, 
 
 Old Kaiser by the windpipe, 
 And soon will need a coat of mail 
 
 In Coodla's far from kind gripe. 
 
 They've got him down ! He's up again 
 
 And clinching Kaiser tightly. 
 Just hear the big dog yell with pain 
 
 From long red gash, unsightly. 
 Hi ! Look out Jack ! He'll have you too ! — 
 
 The blooming fool ! He's got him ! 
 And bully 'tis for kangaroo 
 
 Unless I quickly pot him. 
 
 Was that Jack's head ? or dog's ? or whose 
 
 I crack'd, like nut, I wonder ? 
 They're so mix'd up 'twould Scratch confuse 
 
 To pick out top from under. 
 Ah ! Longtail's down, with fractured crown, 
 
 They're tearing out his throttle. 
 Here, Jack, my lad, if feeling bad. 
 
 Take soundings of this bottle. 
 
 There's nothing broke — a scratch or two — 
 
 Your rig-out though needs mending. 
 You've pepper'd that old kangaroo, 
 
 And made a dusty ending. 
 Now sling the tail to side-strap. Jack, 
 
 I'll see to dogs — poor wretches — 
 And then we'll head a homeward track 
 
 For bohea and whole breeches. 
 
•VEEDANT GREKN'S ACCOUNT OF HIS FIRST BUCKJUMPBR. 73 
 
 ;VBROA»T GHSHN'S ACCOUNT OP HIS 
 FIRST BtrCKiItJiVtPEa. 
 
 I sat upon the stockyard rails — 
 
 From home I'd recently come out, 
 And watched the horses with their tails 
 
 Switch one another, turn about. 
 Yes, head and tail the creatures stood, 
 
 The swarming flies to keep away, 
 -As if they fully understood 
 
 The true co-operative lay. 
 
 -Save one, the creatures all were lean. 
 
 Like country donkeys when the snow 
 Lies thickly on the village green, 
 
 With nothing eatable below ; 
 The fat one looked an equine king, 
 
 With little ears and shining skin ; 
 Within an exhibition ring 
 
 I felt convinced a prize he'd win. 
 
 Just then old " Doggy Joe " came down 
 
 To get his horse — a wretched beast, 
 Whose fluffy hair of rusty brown 
 
 Was long as shaggy goat's at least. 
 That creature had an earnest gaze 
 
 As if it sorrow long had known ; 
 I know not where it went to graze — 
 
 It seemed to be but hair and bone. 
 
74 EE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 I rather liked its owner — Joe, 
 
 Who'd been a poacher, so they said, 
 But hunted now the squatters' foe. 
 
 The dingo, at a pound per head. 
 And so I asked — although of course 
 
 It mattered not one pin to me — 
 " Why do you ride your wretched horse 
 
 And leave that fine, fresh, fat one free ? " 
 
 " Vy does I ride my wretched hoss 
 
 An' leave that fine, fresh, fat one free ? 
 A shame it is : but look here, boss, 
 
 H^s much too sood a hoss for me. 
 My dirty pants an' old blue shirt 
 
 U'd look bad-like upon his back. 
 Young man, you try him for a spurt, 
 
 You'll find him jes a tip-top hack. 
 
 " With them there boots an' bran' new spurs- 
 
 You jes would shine " — he gave a grin. 
 Which made me hate him — " I prefers 
 
 Old Dandy, there, altho' he's thin ; 
 For where I camps, why, there he'll stay. 
 
 And fill hisself on sticks an' stones. 
 Up here that 'ere's the hoss to pay ; 
 
 I rather likes to see their bones." 
 
 " Well," I remarked, " I'd like to see 
 Some flesh on such anatomy ; 
 
 And as to ride I feel inclined 
 
 I'll take him, if you do not mind." 
 
VERDANT green's ACCOUNT OF HIS FIRST BUCKJUMPKR. 75' 
 
 The handsome horse of course I meant, 
 
 And quickly for my saddle went ; 
 And, oh ! how eager was my friend. 
 
 As he rushed up a hand to lend. 
 
 " I'll bail him up for you," he said ; 
 
 And quickly at the quadruped 
 He threw a stone, when with a snort 
 
 The beast came trotting to be caught. 
 On which I was assured by Joe 
 
 " 'Tweren't much /le didn't know." 
 I asked, " Is he the owner's horse ? " 
 
 His captor grinned, and said, " Of course." 
 
 " If that's the case he might object 
 
 To have him ridden ?" " No ; not he. 
 You take him, Boss, for I expect 
 
 The gaffer pleased as Punch will be." 
 With that, my nice new saddlecloth 
 
 Joe used as currycomb and brush ; 
 I certainly felt rather wroth. 
 
 He did not seem to care a rush. 
 
 Joe knew no better, though he seemed 
 
 To have low cunning of a sort. 
 That horse's eyes they strangely gleamed, 
 
 While now and then he'd give a snort. 
 " Whoa, Ringtail ! whoa, boy ! " cried the man. 
 
 And quickly put the saddle on. 
 " Jes jump up slippy, that's your plan ; 
 
 My word ! I see you are a don." 
 
76 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 I was ; but yet I somehow thought 
 
 'Twas rather odd those station men 
 Should crowd around, as if soihe sport 
 
 Was just upon the iapis then. 
 The cook, with fryingpan in hand, 
 
 The stockman, and a black or two ; 
 I did not stop to count the band, 
 
 Biit wAy they came I quickly knew. 
 
 I said that horse's ears were small, 
 
 But to my sight they smaller grew ; 
 I could not see his head at all — 
 
 Where it had gone I scarcely knew. 
 I heard him give one horrid yell, 
 
 I felt his back beneath me jerk, 
 While Joe exclaimed, " This is a sell ! 
 
 By jingo, how he goes to work ! " 
 
 If work meant bounding from the earth 
 
 Like bombshell from a mortar thrown. 
 Then work it was, but cause for mirth 
 
 I could not see in it, I own. 
 And so, not caring to amuse, 
 
 I threw a somersault, and sat 
 Upon a spot I did not chose, 
 
 Which proved the summit of my Aa(. 
 
 Twas lucky that my hat was there, 
 And that my brains were in my kead; 
 
 I was not certain if they were. 
 
 But that's what Master Joseph said. 
 
TO A BUSH CROW. 77 
 
 As for that dreadful horse, he knew 
 
 I should not ride again that day, 
 So after me my saddle threw, 
 
 But took my other traps away. 
 
 Did I blaspheme that bad old man, 
 
 And kick him where his brains were not ? 
 No, Sir ; but now will, if I can, 
 
 A moral from my story trot. 
 Thus, should you to a station go, 
 
 Where all the steeds are poor save one. 
 And people whom you do not know — 
 
 Beware of fat, or you'll be done. 
 
 TO A BUSH CaOW. 
 Thou, Satan's own, that prowls the Austral plains 
 To ghoul-like feast on horrible remains 
 Of drought's dread harvest and the reptile brood- 
 Your ways are filthy as your mien is rude. 
 And if the souls of murderers are free 
 To choose fresh tenements, they dwell in thee : 
 All helpless things to ruthlessly invade 
 With cruel beak, and ply their felon trade. 
 
 A taunting fiend, the lost one you attend. 
 To mock his thirst and prophecy the end ; 
 All plainly hinting that, before he dies. 
 You'll gaily banquet on his anguish'd eves. 
 
78 EB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then luckless lambs you noisily attack 
 To strew their entrails on the bushland track, 
 And— worse than devil ! — on their vitals feed, 
 While bleating victims blindly stray and bleed. 
 
 Than even strain of blatant love-lorn goat 
 I hate your vile, exasperating note, 
 Which — self conceited — you yourself enjoy 
 As does his discord, catgut-scraping boy. 
 And much I wish all crows that so can sing 
 Had one neck only — one that I could wring. 
 And so perchance cause countless fiends to fly 
 Where reigns their father, and the flames leap high. 
 
 HE TOOK THS WHOUG tttTMBHa 
 
 A TALE OF BLOOD AND DARKNESS. 
 
 The time had come for closing at the Jolly Bushman Inn — 
 A decent country " public," not a bushland den of sin — 
 When Drummer, cold and hungry, from his buggy ent'ring 
 
 said — 
 " I'll take a scalding Walker, do a feed, and go to bed ; 
 For no one's here to yarn to, and I've done enough to-day." 
 Then muttered, " Master Lambdown seemeth anything but 
 
 gay." 
 Yet soon forgot the subject when the beef and pickles came. 
 And he was warmed by whisky and the malice's dancing 
 
 flame ; 
 
HE TOOK THE WRONG NUMBER. 79 
 
 Indeed, he little heeded when for bed he turned to go 
 The landlord's plain direction, " Please take number so-and- 
 so." 
 
 Dick Samples climb'd the staircase and commenc'd a round 
 
 ' of calls 
 At what seem'd boot encumber'd, dark recesses in the walls. 
 Until it dawn'd upon him that his number he'd forgot, 
 Yet down again to ask it he resolved he would not trot ; 
 For though old Lambdown linger'd in his little private den, 
 No light was elsewhere burning in that silent building then. 
 Well, any shop would suit him, be it's number what it might, 
 A bed was what he wanted just to coil in for the night. 
 Ah ! here a handle turning to a room admitted him 
 Where reigned Egyptian darkness, so he sought to light a 
 
 glim, 
 And groped around for matches where he fancied some 
 
 should be, 
 But could not light on any — and of course he could not see. 
 ■" Confound the blooming landlord, and " (well, something 
 
 else) " the maid ; 
 ■Old Lambdown is a miser who deserves to lose his trade." 
 Thus, grumbhng, down he sat on what he took to be a trunk, 
 But sprang up crying, " Scissors ! 'tis a blooming bushman 
 
 drunk. 
 Yes, boots and all are on him, so, altho' he does not snore, 
 He'll certainly be safer when he's fairly on the floor !" 
 
 ■Our Drummer was an athlete, used his fists well, and was 
 
 strong. 
 So choosing line of business did not take him very long ; 
 
80 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Thus grasping hard the blankets, as for dogged tug-of-war, 
 He gave that too full toper an extremely nasty jar ; 
 Receiving, though, a ditto quite sufficient e'en to floor 
 A free-and-easy bagman, for the bed was drenched in gore ;. 
 So too was cheerful room-mate, who himself the deed had" 
 
 done 
 To aggravate the landlord, as a jim-jam bit of fun. 
 
 That picture flash'd on Richard as when nightmare fancy 
 
 warps. 
 And made him shriek like syren and collapse upon the- 
 
 corpse, 
 While carpenters with coffin and old lady with a light — 
 Who'd entered in soft slippers at the moment known as- 
 
 right — 
 Concluded it was Satan, there before them for his prey. 
 So dropp'd the oblong casket in their zeal to shun delay. 
 And as loud bang resounded and the candle flame went out 
 They took the bun from Samples with a wild, unearthly* 
 
 shout ; 
 Then charging through the doorway and stampeding to the 
 
 stairs 
 They swarm'd to lower regions like an avalanche of bears. 
 And Mrs. Smiff who led 'em got a broken limb, they say. 
 While /refj'gang, falling on her, started sudden crops of grey. 
 
 But while that heap was squirming, with an awful yell and- 
 
 roar, 
 The demon cleared it flying and departed by the door. 
 As if for further mischief till the crowing of the cock, 
 Yet Trooper Nabwell caught him in the town at ten o'clock,. 
 
TO A BABBIT. 81 
 
 And took him to a building where attendants strictly see 
 He's safe in barr'd apartment that is numbered 93 ; 
 Where oftentimes he's sleepless and declares the sheets are 
 
 red, 
 And so to keep them on him, why, they strap him down in 
 
 bed. 
 
 Sage Reflections. 
 
 I'm sorry for poor Samples, though I cannot blame the stiff. 
 The undertaker's myrmidons or luckless Mrs. Smiff ; 
 But oh ! I do old Lambdown for allowing corpse to be 
 Where it might be mistaken for a bushman on the spree ! 
 
 Note. — I will not be responsible for the entire truth of the above story 
 though the colonial papers of the period were the sources from which I derived 
 it.— E.B. 
 
 iT 
 
 TO A BABBJT 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE TOP OF A NETTED FENCE. 
 
 bunny, 'tis surprising how you've changed your simple 
 
 ways 
 Since first I watched your gambols in my happy boyhood's 
 
 days 
 And hunted you with " Scottie," who was also fond of cats 
 Of barn-door brood (clandestinely), and openly of rats. 
 "For though you'd deftly burrow, like a sapper at a siege, 
 Neath every rural obstacle and also " go and squeege," 
 
82 E?;-ECHOES FROM (X)ONDAMBO. 
 
 As vulgar urchins had it, through a crack would cause to 
 
 sneeze 
 A sunbeam in consumption, why, you could not climb the 
 
 trees ! 
 
 You could not, but you can now, to the mulga's topmost 
 
 limbs, 
 Where little bush canaries used to sing their matin hymns ; 
 Yes, there you go for supper, while the dingo howls below. 
 Till, weary grown with waiting, he for other fare must go ; 
 While slyly you are winking with your round and jocund eye 
 At pretty lop-eared sweetheart who is coyly perching nigh ; 
 Then after Sol has risen, or a little time before, 
 You do your little courting and escort her to her door. 
 
 You'll soon be evoluted till you clinch prehensile tail, 
 And warble like a nightingale on myall branch or rail ; 
 Yes, paws will, soon be changing for true-perching feet and 
 
 legs, 
 And boys will tumble out of trees while hunting for your 
 
 eggs. 
 Then iguanas calling in to each deserted burrow 
 Will miss your tender progeny, and turn away in sorrow ; 
 While carpet snakes will have to climb to clasp you with 
 
 their fangs, 
 And natives send up billet-doux in shape of boomerangs. 
 
 Improving you are also in the populating line, 
 
 For, oh ! 'tis truly wonderful when youthful pair combine 
 
 To start a little colony of evoluting things. 
 
 How every moment in the day more little strangers brings ; 
 
TO A KABBIT. 83- 
 
 At least each minute surely must, for though no Bun you'll 
 
 see, 
 We'll say, to-day, why, on the next, an overflowing sea 
 Of bobbing scuts, of fur and ears, will roll across the 
 
 scene, 
 
 And leave behind it scarce a stick, much less a blade of 
 green. 
 
 Then, Bunny, dear, just evolute with e'en indecent haste ; 
 Don't wait to work out fancy plan — a moment do not 
 
 waste ; 
 Don't mind about prehensile tails, or secondary things, 
 But imp yourself, at double quick, with migratory wings ; 
 Too sultry here it is for you, your fur's not worth a rap, 
 Your body, save for niggers' dogs, unpayable to trap ; 
 Besides, you've worked these diggings out to starving point, 
 
 I fear; 
 Then sprout those wings I spoke about, my blessing take, 
 
 and clear. 
 
 March 14, 1899. 
 
 Note.— Since the rabbits came to this part of the country they have, owing 
 to a total absence of ground feed obtaining during severe droughts, become very 
 expert climbers, and really go for their suppers into the tops of fairly high 
 bushes, where they literally peel the bark from the topmost twigs. The old 
 doe referred to in the above verses no doubt imagined the new vermin fence 
 was put there for her to practice on, and so lost no time in availing herself of 
 the accommodation. The space, however, between top of netting and barbed 
 wire above it proved to be rather too tight even for a rabbit, and so the old lady 
 remained there to personally testify against the inadequate provision, according 
 to a rabbit's point of view.— E.B. 
 
fti RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 T«E smciors souloquy. 
 
 (A woman in an American prison lately killed herself by swallowing live 
 spiders, and died in horrible torture. — Vide March (1899) papers.] 
 
 'Tis horrible ! this worse than Uving death 
 That torment breeds with ev'ry passing breath : 
 For mocking fiends molest me while 'tis light 
 And drive me mad in sleepless hours of night. 
 W/iy should I live ? when hope may never more 
 Breathe cheering promises of joys in store, 
 Yet leaves me memory, with scorching tongue. 
 To trace the steps of soul to Satan flung. 
 
 WAy should I live ? when living means but pain, 
 And fiercest longings, which must be in vain ! 
 Yet even death — so easy for the free — 
 By prying gaoler is debarr'd for me; 
 Knife, rope, and poison, a// of them denied, 
 With potent fumes and kindly river's tide. 
 And oh ! to 'scape this solitary cell 
 I'd dare the worm and quenchless fire of hell ! 
 
 How can I die 1 To those on dying ient 
 
 By God or devil is solution sent ; 
 
 That lurking spider ! Ves, with venom'd fangs 
 
 He slays the fiy while in his net it hangs ; 
 
 Then wAy not me ? Besides there's more to aid 
 
 The goblin insect in his deadly trade. 
 
 I'll swallow them — yet shudder at the thought. 
 
 For even death may be too dearly bought !" 
 
A FEW POSITIVE FACTS BY THE N.W. PITCHER. 85 
 
 Can this be dying ? Surely it must be 
 
 A foretaste here of hell's eternity ! 
 
 Or is it but excruciating toll 
 
 A sinner pays for liberated soul ? 
 
 O h, God ! have mercy * * * 
 
 A FEW POSITIVE FACTS BY THE ».W. 
 PITCHER. 
 
 A young man is down from the drought-stricken West 
 Who loveth, of all things, veracity best ; 
 His lingual member is long, but we know 
 'Tis dwarf d to mere nothing by pliant long-bow ; 
 For though at odd times he may pose as an " Orson" 
 He'd snuff out in no time old Baron Munchausen j 
 For urged and sustain'd by same truthful intention. 
 On much grander scale is his bump of invention. 
 I therefore do hope you will bolt without trouble 
 The following /arfj by old Gulliver's double, 
 Which I and the boys in my bachelor's den 
 Will tempt him to feed to my truth-loving pen ; 
 So hazard this question — to start the thing going — 
 " Oh ! how is the crop of young myall-trees growing T 
 
 " From seed that I planted the year before last ? 
 Why, twenty feet high ! and they're still growing fast ; 
 I mean the culls left, which the coves would not cut 
 For telegraph poles and the new shearers' hut ; 
 
86 KR-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And if no more icebergs should happen to fall 
 
 As biggest of gumtrees they'd soon be as tall ; 
 
 And you'd better bet, I'd much rather import 
 
 My ice from the North Pole than pick up the sort 
 
 Of marbles that smash'd the trees, stockyard, and fences, 
 
 And smother'd the station in extra expenses. 
 
 By Jingo ! that day when Tim Toughpants and me 
 
 Were out at Gibraltar, the new yard to see. 
 
 Up came a black cloud bank all choke full of thunder ; 
 
 And Thomas observed : " I say, Pard, let's get under 
 
 That myall on high stony rise, for, you bet. 
 
 We'll bog in the flat here, besides getting wet. 
 
 So, hot foot, we started, but ruddy big boulders 
 
 Came peppering down on our red heads and shoulders. 
 
 Which smash'd up the mulgas in two two's to chaff: 
 
 A fact, I assure you / so don't start to laugh — 
 
 Oh, how about us ? Well, we dodg'd 'em, d'ye see. 
 
 Else telling this yarn I'd not likely to be. 
 
 Per after they'd melted a lot, this Til swear, 
 
 A small one would go a good cubic yard square !" 
 
 " The last time you told us, you said that ice brickbats 
 Kewobbled the saltbush and dealt out such quick pats ! 
 But never you mind, it but shows you're improving! 
 Don't think for one moment I thought of reproving 
 A man so renown'd as yourself for strict piety. 
 Adhesion to truth, and unbroken sobriety ! 
 But comments are always allowable, Jack — 
 And, now, for Black's battle — best lie in the pack ! " 
 " I bows to you, Pard, who would frighten a dingo 
 Or ruddy jew-lizard with doggrelly lingo. 
 
A FEW POSITIVE FACTS BY THE N.W. PITCHER. 87 
 
 I'll give you best there, but at positive facts 
 I'd have you laid out in the shortest of acts. 
 And don't you young fellows make ruddy mistake — 
 I'd run old De Rogeymong hard for the cake; 
 While you'd better bet that 'twas me and no other 
 Who started the beast as a blackfellow's brother ; 
 And when he came back, bad with witcher (that's itch) 
 Well plastered the beggar with sulphur and pilch." 
 " Oh ! give us Xhe fight, Jack !" " As gospel, that's true ; 
 And, now, for \hQ first time I'll give it to you. 
 D'ye mind in the drought, when on none of the stations 
 A lizard was left or an ounce of black's rations. 
 The niggers stream'd in and soon started to fight, 
 Because the poor wretches had nothing to bite. 
 Well, having to ride down to old Miemucca, 
 And, meaning to camp out, I carried some tucker. 
 But found, s'elp me Bob, all the creeks in full flood. 
 And, sure as yot^re there, boys, 'twas frothing fresh blood ; 
 So, thinking big fighting was going on higher, 
 I gruell'd my Nanto, and, call me a liar. 
 If ten thousand blacks were not smother'd in gore 
 And up to their ruddy sharp elbows in more ; 
 . So what did I do but just gallop among 'em 
 And this way and that way like empty shucks flung 'em ; 
 Then roared out — ^you know how I roar — Just you drop it ! 
 I'll have no more fighting ! You ruddy fools, stop it ! 
 Well, that was enough boys, they knock'd off and sed 
 " We too muchee hungry, you give it us bread ? " 
 " Bread/ atiy amount ! So come up to the spring 
 And don't you forget all the wounded to bring ! " 
 
) RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 You know where the spring is — ^just inside the gap. 
 
 Well ! hang me, before I had time to unstrap 
 
 My bluey, that had all the tucker inside, 
 
 The niggers roll'd up like the sea at flood-tide. 
 
 And that with a curious rustle like snakes 
 
 Through shedding dried blood from their hides in wide 
 
 flakes ; 
 It did make me cackle, for there they were dotted 
 All over, as birdseye swell neckties are spotted. 
 And wasn't they hungry 1 You'd better believe 
 I hadn't much left when they'd finish'd their feed. 
 Then, what do you think, boys, they sat up all night 
 To warble like ten thousand tomcats, and skite ; 
 And devil a wink I'd have got had I not 
 Gone over with waddy and polish'd the lot.'' 
 
 " Yes, John, from old Virgil you've taken the tip 
 
 KuA. polishing been till you've managed to strip 
 
 With utter good taste and consummate ability 
 
 From true battle story the least probability. 
 
 But now, if you'll tell us a much truer yarn 
 
 On Fame's blazing scroll a fresh good mark you'll earn !" 
 
 " Oh ! all right, deah boy ; I mean, Scrubby Old Stink i 
 You might have provided some decentish drink. 
 My tongue must be hanging low down on my belt 
 From drought, that around here can always be felt. 
 Your credit is gone ? Well, allow me to say 
 It cannot knock up on the rest of the way. 
 But, seeing there's nothing to tipple bar tea. 
 Just pour out a pannican, full up, for me. 
 
A PEW POSITIVE FACTS BY THE N,W. PITCHER. SQ' 
 
 Then stretch your long ears for the essence of truth — 
 The stuff I've been suckled on right up from youth." 
 " Well, put some on tap, man ; we thought it was gas." 
 " Excuse me, dear sir, if I call you an ass ! 
 But, look here, time's money, want follows on waste, 
 And so some more essence of truth you shall taste. 
 
 Old Buffalo Bill and his spindle-shank'd " cowboys" 
 Some pumpkins might think themselves — tell you as how, 
 
 boys. 
 We'd knock 'em all into a crimson cock'd hat 
 At warrigal riding " " And pitching." " What's 
 
 that? 
 Truth drawing too fine ? Well, I never did try to, 
 And neither will you if you hate lies as 1 do ! 
 But listen one moment ; you've got as much prattle 
 As mob of sweet, long-hair' d, young towny-bred cattle. 
 A fellow can't hear himself speak'' " What a pity !" 
 " My friend, you're a long way from handsome or witty ; 
 So please to close down while I tell you " " More 
 
 lies !" 
 " I'll soon tell you something to cause more surprise. 
 But, gentlemen, all, I appeal for protection !" 
 " You mean that you're dying for whisky injection 
 By way of the throttle ; but trot out your fact— 
 'Twas something about some wild colt that you back'd," 
 
 " Yes, ' Spectress ' colt by old ' Sparrowhawk,' you know. 
 The man-eating stallion that ran down at Brunow. 
 Then, as for the colt, he was ditto yo7i bet 
 And so I just kept him about as a pet. 
 
so KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Well ! One thing it did not cost me much to treat him 
 If Sundowner call'd, he'd just stick up and eat him, 
 Till soon the home paddock was sprinkled with boots 
 And skulls that had their hair grubbed by the roots j 
 But swagsmen grew scarce, so I thought I'd best back 
 
 him." 
 " Why did you not lunge him for ten years, then pack 
 
 him." 
 " O pack him, be sugar'd, he'd eat off your leg ; 
 But if I'm to go on, attention I beg !" 
 
 " Attention, you fellows ! Now go it, my hearty 
 We'll all be as mum as a deaf and dumb party ; 
 But guzzle some tea, Jack, you're husky as blazes, 
 Then ball off your yarn, with it's too truthful phases." 
 " O ! phases be hanged ! but I tell you he fought us. 
 And spooks would have flown if he only had caught us. 
 But Paddy McGrath got him roped to a post. 
 And swore that he'd serve the young something on toast. 
 Yes ! right you are, Pat, if he don't break his scrag, 
 Said I, as I Rairey'd him round with a bag ; 
 Then knotted some rope in a Chinaman's puzzle 
 And fasten'd it on to the brute for a muzzle, 
 Then girthed on my colt-breaking saddle, and then 
 Just forked him and sang out : ' Now I Let him go, men I' 
 Which let go they did, when Iscariot sails 
 Clean over the six foot six stockyard top rails. 
 Then giving a yell 
 Like scorch'd demon from hell. 
 And just as burnt brimstone I happen'd to smell, 
 
A FEW POSITIVE FACTS BY THE N.W. PITCHER. 91 
 
 He rose from the ground as a stone would from catapult 
 And turn'd, high in air, a complete double somersault, 
 Which made me observe, ' This beats Bannagher, Jack !' 
 When down came a thundering thump on my back ; 
 Yes, one, two, and three, and 'twas more than a joke, 
 For broken, high up, was hind leg of the moke ! 
 This flying-like flail- 
 Each buck — over his tail. 
 Behaved itself worse than a mad mallee rail ; 
 And as he kept going I roared out to pot him. 
 When Paddy McGrath got his rifle and shot him !" 
 ^' The next." " Well, I'll tell you about my old Snider 
 With telescope sights, that was death to a spider 
 At six hundred yards, while a bluebottle fly 
 I never did miss when 'twas buzzing sky high. 
 From eaglehawk, too, when 'twas sailing serenely, 
 I'd cut, with two shots, off its pinions so cleanly 
 That leaving the body to drop at my feet 
 They'd prowl after rabbits on regular beat ! 
 But if it was quills I was after, why then, sir. 
 The wings I declare 
 I'd bring down, while in air 
 The body bobb'd on to grown pinions agen, sir !" 
 " Oh, bully for you I After that old De Rogey," 
 In decency ought to just give up the bogey, 
 In bag put his head, or go home to his mother ; 
 But now you'd best finish us off with another !" 
 
 " You want me to tell how I got that supply 
 In Rafferty's well when all swore she was dry ? 
 
92 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 'Twas easy to me, as to Moses, you bet, 
 We both struck a rock and got flooded with wet ; 
 But Mo only .paddled in liquor that gush'd out — 
 I sixty feet flew up a shaft when it rush'd out — 
 
 Just put in a shot, 
 
 And the water, red hot, 
 Burst out with a roar from Old Beelzebub's pot ; 
 And there I was balanc'd, with shovels and things 
 A dozen miles high on the boss of all springs ; 
 And had they not sent up a special balloon 
 I'd water be getting, I guess, on the moon. 
 
 And " " That will do, Jacky, you could not rise higher 
 
 If shot into Mars as our own peerless liar ! 
 Now turn into bed, boys, and blow out the light 
 We've had enough essence of truth for one night." 
 
 THAT SEA SeRPENT. 
 
 Captain 01iver(of the S.S. "Emu") and his' supercargo agreed in saying 
 that the monster found by them on the coast of Suarrow must have been 60 feet 
 in length and of about 70 tons weight ; that it had two heads, resembling those 
 of horses, two backbones, and also that portions of its hide were covered with 
 brownish hair. Unfortunately, however, as the creature had been dead — ^in a 
 tropical climate — for three months, the effluvium was so terrible that they had 
 great difficulty in securing the heads which they had brought to Sydney. Bee 
 Australian February papers, 1899. Thinking those mariners must have 
 diagnosed that specimen incorrectly, I venture to append Tfiy version of the case^ 
 
 NEPTUNE'S COBS. 
 
 Since Neptune wax'd old and from wave throne was 
 roU'd 
 
 Outside into mythical fable, 
 His high stepping clippers no deck hands or skippers- 
 
 To properly sight have been able ; 
 
THAT SEA SERPENT. 93 
 
 But none did I say ? I'll retract, if I may, 
 
 For captain and crew of the " Emu " 
 ■On coast of Suarrow, glean'd heads, bones, and marrow 
 
 Of once prancing dolphin and seamew. 
 
 They'd wander'd together thro' cycles of weather. 
 
 Evading each curious stranger ; 
 Yet thrusting may be just an ear from the sea 
 
 When baiting at submarine mangee. 
 But, waxing too fat on whale, herring, and sprat. 
 
 They kick'd up their heels and went racing 
 One topping high tide, and were cast up broadside 
 
 On shore — some tall cocoanuts facing. 
 
 Apollo look'd down with a tropical frown 
 
 And shot the old cobs with his arrows. 
 But niggs from the village who came down to pillage. 
 
 Could never get near with their barrows. 
 Indeed, e'en the breeze and the cocoanut trees 
 
 Near kill'd were by essence of hippos ; 
 More deadly than sin, one as well might be in 
 
 That terrible iiger of Tippo's.* 
 
 For built, I declare, had still powerful pair 
 
 The strongest of rampart around 'em, 
 And none within hail could with safety well sail. 
 
 Yet brave Captain Oliver found 'em. 
 And then, with his super-cargo in a stupor 
 
 Of wonderment, scraped a big funnel 
 Thro' — pardon me, stink, and before one could wink 
 
 Returned with na^s heads by his tunnel. 
 
 * Tippo Saib'3 tiger. 
 
94 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 They bottled much smell, two brain caskets as well^ 
 
 Then steam'd in a hurry to Sydney, 
 Reporting twin snake of queer Siamese make. 
 
 Hair brownish and too tender kidney ; 
 But never agen will those nautical men 
 
 Be sailed with at less than a mile, Sir ; 
 That essence of cob was a serious job, 
 
 And none are permitted to smile, Sir, 
 
 March 6th, 1899. 
 
 .^ 
 
 Ot.0 MYAtt TREE. 
 
 TO AN OLD MYALL TREE IN THE FAR NORTH-WEST; 
 
 Old myall tree, with twisted trunk and limbs — 
 
 Like sylvan gnome by Nature's hand distorted — 
 You seldom hear a dryad's tuneful hymns. 
 
 Though in your crown strange dryads have disported j 
 That is, when winter with attendant rain 
 
 Brief visits paid, and brought our Austral Flora. 
 To brighten bushland with her modest train — 
 
 Too seldom seen by bushmen, who adore her. 
 
 When summer's heats o'er sandy wastes prevail, 
 
 And Nature gasps as if in dissolution. 
 The sultry winds amongst your branches wail 
 
 Like mourners sad o'er cloudland's destitution. 
 
OLD MYALL TEEE. 95 
 
 But now, as traveller with fevered frame 
 
 Plods slowly past for some far distant station, 
 
 A famish'd crow — his eyes intent to claim — 
 From your top twig croaks forth his exultation ; 
 
 " I'll have them yet ! you'll ' peg out ' sure as fate !" 
 
 Is what, with croak and pantomime, he's saying ; 
 " A little while is all I'll have to wait ; 
 
 But die at once — my banquet you're delaying." 
 For long, long miles that crow on demon wing 
 
 Has dogg'd the traveller with death to taunt him ; 
 And so, although you have him now to sing, 
 
 As constant vocalist you cannot vaunt him. 
 
 Like sun-dried bushman dying for a drunk, 
 
 You somehow live until the rain, descending. 
 With sap pervades those portions of your trunk 
 
 Which still have pores, through which it may be wending. 
 A veteran are you of countless years. 
 
 While time and drought your uncouth bole have shat- 
 tered ; 
 On one branch only some grey-green appears — 
 
 The rest are moribund, or round you scattered. 
 
 An ancient lizard may at times regard 
 
 Your rugged form with eyes of fish-like wonder, 
 
 To think that droughts which tried his being hard 
 Did not succeed in making you go under. 
 
96 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But SO like death have you appeared in life 
 
 That, as a sheaf ingathered, death might pass you ; 
 
 For bare existence yours the constant strife, 
 And as a mummy arborists should class you. 
 
 (Note.— In the north-west of South Australia (written of by me) we sometimes 
 do not see any bush flowers for several years, but on the return of wet winters 
 the country is covered with bright though scentless flowers — everlastings pre- 
 dominating. The birds also, which are conspicuous by their absence in times of 
 drought, return with the flowers, and what for long months was simply a dreary 
 desert becomes transformed into a sylvan Garden of Eden — with a few serpents 
 init.— B. B.] 
 
 Surely that traveller's horse I know, 
 
 Loaded with rider and swag : 
 A cripple, yet with a jaunty go — 
 
 The wreck of a right good nag. 
 Those full round eyes and those keen cocked ears 
 
 Those nostrils firm and square — 
 My thoughts hark back to the bygone years, 
 
 ■When all things seemed so fair. 
 
 Ruggy, old horse, is it really you ? 
 
 Rowel-marked, scraggy, and blind — 
 You, that as trustiest steel were true, 
 
 Fleet as the hurrying wind ; 
 You, that a stockrider's claim could test 
 
 To be as a horseman known 
 You, that have tried the seat of the best, 
 
 And many a boaster thrown ! 
 
OLD EUGGY. 97 
 
 Never, for you, was the longest day 
 
 Too long in those times gone by — 
 Others gave in, yet you still were gay 
 
 When we to the yard drew nigh ; 
 Warrigal bullock, and cunning old cow 
 
 All dodges would try in vain : 
 I seem to feel you under me now. 
 
 Once more on the moonlit plain ; 
 
 'Midst rock-crown'd hills, how the echoes woke 
 
 To mock the rattle and din, 
 When back from the gates the cattle broke 
 
 Their haunts on the run to win ; 
 To gallop had we, though thick and low 
 
 Was mallee, and bad the light. 
 For into the yard the mob must go 
 
 E'er we turn'd out for the night. 
 
 'Twas ticklish work in that woodland dim, 
 
 For a cannon'd branch or stem 
 Meant broken crown or a shatter'd limb — 
 
 But who then thought of them ! 
 For Frank on " Cricket " or " Lightning " led, 
 
 With clattering rush and shout ; 
 You made no mistake, for you had your head, 
 
 And the cattle they came out. 
 
 Yes, you could gallop for miles ou end. 
 
 Turn in the length of a stride ; 
 How you astonish'd our English friend, 
 
 Got up to the nines to ride ! 
 
KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The very first turn and his knees they flew 
 
 To snap at his clean-shaved chin ; 
 Then down on the ground he sat, while you, 
 
 The beast through the gates' put in. 
 
 A pretty close shave for you and me 
 
 Was that on the Gum Creek's bank. 
 When big steer ripped the pant from my knee 
 
 And left hi-s mark on your flank ; 
 You turn'd like a top as those horns glanc'd by, 
 
 Then off' at a tangent flew ; 
 That pretty close shave, it had been my last 
 
 With many a horse but you. 
 
 How fugitive time has hurried away 
 
 With seasons of drought and rain ! 
 While scatter'd abroad are those comrades gay 
 
 I never may meet again ; 
 And jovial Frank, the first in the fun — 
 
 The devil-may-care and free ; 
 He'll never ride more, for his. race is run — 
 
 The course grows short for me. 
 
 I'll have you, old friend, from your owner here— 
 
 I'll give him a younger nag ; 
 I'll offer a price that he'll take, no fear ! 
 
 You shall not carry a swag ! 
 Not many more summers you'll likely see, 
 
 Yet brighten you will with a spell ; 
 And, while in the paddocks you wander free, 
 
 I'll dream of the old times still. 
 
TO A BUSH Ant. 99 
 
 TO A BtJSH ANT. 
 
 Imp vastly praised by Lubbock and by Smith 
 
 In modern times — by Solomon in olden ; 
 My testimony I will add forthwith, 
 
 And ^(7«^^/ experience, methinks, is golden _; 
 But first I'll say, the parag^ons they met 
 
 Were, with their wisdom, modest and retiring, 
 While you, my anything but pleasing pet, 
 
 For too much prominence are aye aspiring. . 
 
 " Go to the ant," quoth Solomon, but you 
 
 Are always coming when you are not wanted 
 With some confounded piracy in view. 
 
 And board your prizes with a pluck undaunted ; 
 Yet, even so, if you but came alone 
 
 To bear off plunder I'd not care ; but ah me ! 
 Of sugar soon there will be likely none 
 
 If foraged for by such o'erwhelming army. 
 
 With insolence unparalleled you swarm 
 
 On raging owner of the sweets you rifie, 
 And though for thousands he may make it warm. 
 
 With hosts like yours such slaughter is a trifle ; 
 Besides, while dying you exhale perfume 
 
 Which, freely added to your vicious biting, 
 Just starts him prancing round the bushland room 
 
 While Watt^ hymns he'spioUsly reciting. 
 
100 RE-ECHOBS FEOM COOlfDAMBO. 
 
 With Streams of tar be fain would moat his store, 
 
 You cross that moat on dust or other bridges, 
 While clothes and carpets soon are coated o'er 
 
 With stinking stains which stick to them like midges ; 
 A bright idea pops into his head — 
 
 " Hoi ashes ! Yes ! against them I'll be scoring." 
 The thatch by whirlwind with his patent fed 
 
 Is wrapp'd in flames, like angry ocean roaring. 
 
 The conflagration having died away, 
 
 Though blacken'd stumps continue on still smoking. 
 The owner, in a melancholy way — 
 
 Like Marius — around the wreck goes poking : 
 " Confound it all ! " says he unto himself, 
 
 " This is a mess" ; but here, his dual garment 
 He hunteth, not for soul-destroying pelf, 
 
 But what he calls, " a cursed little varment." 
 
 His roaming dog he puts upon the chain. 
 
 Then you, and yours, investigate the matter ; 
 And when he cometh, presently, again, 
 
 He finds poor Carlo mad as any halter. 
 A broody hen he shuts beneath a coop. 
 
 And leaves her there to muse upon her folly, 
 Next day there's surely cocky-leekie soup, 
 
 While chuckle's friends are lost in melancholy. 
 
 The thirsty swagman, baked by Sol's fierce heat, 
 And bluey loaded, staggers through the mulga 
 
 Till, wearied out, he seeks a shady seat — 
 
 To rise in haste, with words extremely vulgar ; 
 
TO A BUSH ANT. 101 
 
 For though he searched suspiciously around 
 
 Ere plumping down, with muttered " No darn'd ants 
 here," 
 
 He might have known what travellers have found — 
 There is no spot in bushland quite from ants clear ! 
 
 Perhaps you're sleeping in your little nest, 
 
 Or extra busy, darksome chamber digging, 
 Or hugging pupae to your gentle breast ; 
 
 Or future slaves from other ants' nests prigging ; 
 But all the same, directly Jack or Bob 
 
 Flings down his drum with weary sigh and settles 
 To camp awhile, you're always on the job. 
 
 And touch him up like sharpest stinging nettles. 
 
 Those prying savants, arm'd with microscope, 
 
 Nice modest ants might cultivate with pleasure ; 
 But were they here, and had with you to cope. 
 
 In formic slaughter they'd exhaust their leisure. 
 Midst sylvan wilds I've lived mAi you, and so 
 
 Your little foibles I am up to fully ; 
 And this I'll say, who surely ought to know 
 
 You're just a vile, outrageous little bully. 
 
102i RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 TO A OUST STOBM. 
 
 Outrageous Thug,' detestable and vast, 
 
 Whose vile ambition 'tis to choke us all, 
 On rushing wings of burning northern blast 
 
 You victims hunt, and on them fiercely fall. 
 No bushland fortress may your onslaught stay 
 
 When, lion-like, you bound upon our tracks. 
 For though usurping all the face of day 
 
 You deftly swarm through mouse-denying cracks. 
 
 When first the surface of the earth you raise 
 
 And hurl it high, then whirl it round in glee, 
 We waste few moments in a mute amaze, 
 
 But breathe a prayer and from you swiftly flee ; 
 Then if a tenement be haply nigh 
 
 We to it bolt and bang the futile door, 
 While through the roof vindictively you fly 
 
 And shake the building with resounding roar. 
 
 Why hurry so 1 You little more can do ; 
 
 The Aui is full, and so am / about : 
 Thus, spite the efforts of your gusty crew. 
 
 Like surplus freight you'll soon be crowded out. 
 Pray spare the thatch — you enter fast enough 
 
 And have of missiles far too great a store ; 
 A flying rafter might come rather rough, 
 
 But pebble-stones more certainly will score. 
 
 1. Thug— Indian strangler. 
 
SYD KIDMAN'S GHOST, 103 
 
 Don't breach the walls, for you have come to stay 
 
 And make things lively till the sun goes down. 
 At mud-pie mixing you will, childlike, play 
 
 W^th grime and sweat upon my visage brown. 
 Would you were mortal arid were forced to eat 
 
 The filthy pabulum you thrust on me ; 
 For then, perchance,, though not princely neat, 
 
 Than chimney-sweep I'd sometimes cleaner be ! 
 
 jr 
 
 SYD tC:OMA«*S GttOST. 
 
 I'd left behind earth's whirling sphere, the Unknown I 
 
 explored, 
 And to the high empyrean my wand'ring spirit soared ; 
 Through frozen space in endless night it plied its eager 
 
 wings, 
 And, as it miles by millions sped, met queer uncanny 
 
 things ; 
 Yes, portly ghosts of " Guinea Pigs," Church Deacons 
 
 late of earth. 
 Who Liberator frauds had run, now caused Satanic 
 
 mirth. 
 For goblins roasted them on stars till lava-like tliere 
 
 flow'd 
 From out their flame-vexed writhing souls the molten 
 
 guinea gold. 
 
104 EE-EOHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 On tatter'd scraps of wildcat scrip it's knavish vendors 
 
 fled, 
 Pursued by ghastly suicides, a widow's at their head. 
 Fierce draggled doves rakes' wraiths pursued — plague- 
 stricken hawks in shape. 
 From slander'd nuns a Slattery was striving to escape. 
 But dodging on his part was vain, for in the photo- 
 sphere 
 Of solar furnace he was cast ; I saw him disappear 
 With hosts of other lying ones in fierce supernal flame, 
 Whose fuel they are bound to be — its volume to main- 
 tain. 
 Indeed, the great majority seem'd hastening to a fate 
 They certainly could not attain through Peter's golden 
 gate. 
 
 Anon, a spectral form I met that I could plainly note 
 
 Had worn in life a slouch'd felt hat and weather-worn 
 top coat. 
 
 As dark as night its hair and eyes had evidently been, 
 
 While for a bushland ghost 'twas staid with contemp- 
 lative mien. 
 
 Yes, well I knew that wanderer, who paused with ab- 
 sent frown, 
 
 And so I said, " How goes it Syd ? Why, when did 
 you come down ? " 
 
 " I don't know if 'twas up or down" my old friend 
 answer'd me, 
 
 " But I have been a trip to Mars, a million goats to 
 see — 
 
SYD KIDMAN'S GHOST. 105 
 
 All horns and hair — they call'd 'em beasts ; and so the 
 
 world's around 
 "The star Arcturus^ then I tried, but there I only found 
 A big boned breed of grizzly bears the giants live on 
 
 there — 
 Though oftentimes a giant finds himself inside a bear ; 
 I did not touch those brutes, you bet, so still kept on 
 
 the go 
 "To see the red Antares^ steers in central Scorpio ; 
 But, there, the way we travel here a caution is to 
 
 snakes, 
 A million miles an hour, boss — no friction and no 
 
 brakes ; 
 "We used to think the Birdsville track a caution hard to 
 
 beat ; 
 Tm on my way to RigeP now — the butchers must have 
 
 meat. 
 I don't deal much in Taurus beasts — they're staggy, 
 
 wild, and coarse ; 
 The Aries wethers are the same, but that you know of 
 
 course ; 
 Yet stop ! I did not tell you how I call'd at Spika,* 
 
 where 
 The pure-bred heifers do not breed — they keep no old 
 
 cows there. 
 I caught a crab in Cancer land and brought away the 
 
 claws 
 And saw them last at Leoville beneath a lion's paws. 
 
 1. Aicturus, alpha Bootes. 2. Antares, alpha Scorpio. 3. Kigel, beta 
 Ononis. 4. Spika, alpha Virginis. 
 
106 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But yarning here won't run the show, so, if you dodge 
 
 old Nick, 
 We'll meet again in Hindley Street some evening at 
 
 the Vic. 
 
 Syd's restless spook then disappear'd amid the phantom, 
 throng. 
 
 And presently methought I heard the crack of stock- 
 man's thong, 
 
 As if a mob of cows he'd bought and started them away 
 
 From country round the Southern Cross, low down in 
 Milky Way ; 
 
 But no ! When shortly I awoke, I found I'd dream- 
 ing been, 
 
 And then remember'd in the mail Syd Kidman I had 
 seen ! 
 
 Note. — If Syd Kidman, the travelling partner of the firm-of Kidman 
 Brothers— the widely known stockbuyers of South Australia — should be 
 more constantly on the go in the next world than he has been in this, then 
 the ghost of the Wandering Jew must grow pale with envy and take a back 
 seat, unless it chooses to knock itself up in trying to keep pace with Syd- 
 ney's. — R. B. 
 
 WITH SUITABLE APOLOGIES TO E. A. POE. 
 
 On a scorching summer's morning an old horseman, sun- 
 stroke scorning. 
 
 Looking like a fly-hive swarming with those insects waging 
 war, 
 
THE BUSHMAN'S LAST DRUNK. 107 
 
 Reached a shanty by the roadside round which careless 
 
 hands had strewed wide 
 Broken bottles by the broadside, empty bottles by the 
 
 score — 
 Bottles that had done their duty to inflame a social sore — 
 Mute mementoes on Time's shore. 
 
 To the shanty-keeper then he handed proudly every 
 
 penny 
 Of his cheque — not keeping any. " Oh, the boss would 
 
 keep the score : " 
 And the landlord and landlady, each of reputation shady ; 
 Smiled and smirked and called him Daddy — looked as if 
 
 great love they bore 
 For that frowsy, foul-mouthed fellow — love they'd lavish 
 
 evermore — 
 
 While of coin he had a store. 
 
 " Do a whisky ? Rare stuff this is ! Oh ! it's our shout, 
 
 ain't it. Missis ? 
 Who'd leave this for ladies' kisses? Here, you'd better 
 
 have some more ! 
 Then I'll take your horse to water. Feed! there's hoggins 
 
 in this quarter, 
 Grass and saltbush, and he orter fatten round the 
 
 bloomin' door.'' 
 Here the lady poured more liquor. Dad drank his — upon 
 
 the fioor — 
 
 They their poison tilted o'er. 
 
108 EB-ECHOES FROM OOONDAMBO. 
 
 Like a corpse — in close verandah, fly-besprinkled, in his 
 
 hand a 
 Dirty glass, he'd done it grand, eh ? — Daddy lay upon the 
 
 floor — 
 When the fierce sun next mom rising — all intent upon 
 
 surprising 
 Cringing caitiffs, whose carousing had defiled the night 
 
 before 
 Roused them (swarms of flies their eyes in) just to clamour 
 
 at the door — 
 
 Parched and fevered, at the door. 
 
 *' Roust up, Dad ! Come, roust up, Sonny ! 'Cause you 
 
 see we've got no money. 
 So no bloomin' score to run he won't allow us any more — 
 You're a bloated money order ! " Here old Dad rose in 
 
 disorder. 
 And with bummers a thick border gained admittance at 
 
 the door — 
 On the rude bar leaned his elbow, while uprose his liquor 
 
 score — 
 
 How those bummers drank and swore ! 
 
 Just a stride of Time, the rover, during which old Dad in 
 
 clover. 
 That is, more than " half seas over " — has been snoring on 
 
 the floor. 
 Sees his pleasures rudely ended ; for — with hundred pounds 
 
 expended. 
 
TO A MOSQUITO. J09 
 
 And his nag in pawn's rescinded his carte blanche to swell 
 
 his score^- 
 On the "high horse" is the landlord, as he growls-^" You'll 
 
 get no more, 
 
 You old Bummer I There's the door ! ! ! " 
 
 Poor old Dad — his pulses throbbing, beastly blue things 
 
 round him bobbing, 
 Not a shilling left for robbing, staggers shaking from the 
 
 door — 
 And, with swarming flies attending, takes a track that soo n 
 
 is blending 
 With the scrub which seems ne'er ending — he will bummers 
 
 treat no more : 
 Scared by crows, not cheered by clergy, seeks his soul the 
 
 silent shore — 
 
 Seeks the unknown silent shore ! 
 
 TO A MOSQUITO. 
 
 Minute musician — like the cats nocturnal— 
 
 In song detestable you much excel ; 
 Yet, unlike cats, you sing not love eternal — 
 
 Of bloodshed only do your solos tell ; 
 And when in choruses you're singing o'er me, 
 
 While members of your spectral band descend 
 For means of sustenance to fiercely bore me, 
 
 I feel right here your vocal chords should end. 
 
no KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Boots would amuse you, and mistake the window, 
 
 The lamp, or looking-glass for lawful game, 
 Vet when from vampire wings I feel the wind, Oh ! 
 
 I would for vengeance Jewish law proclaim ; 
 Yea, " blood for blood ; " but even if I got it 
 
 'Twould be my own, and not for use once more ; 
 As poison, even, could I then allot it, 
 
 'Twould lie untasted — you prefer fresh gore. 
 
 Your voice is wonderful — 'tis high soprano. 
 
 But pleasing most when read of far away 
 On mighty Amazon or sunny Arno — 
 
 As chamber music it is much too gay ; 
 Then vanish with it to the swamp or stockyard — 
 
 Ah ! wretch, I've got you — no I haven't, though — 
 With teasing burr you twit me — Do not mock, pard, 
 
 But while you're able pack your trunk and go. 
 
 iT 
 
 TO A Bt^ow-rty. 
 
 O filthy vulture of the insect world ! 
 
 The loathing you inspire no tongue can tell, 
 When, with loud buzzing, busy wings unfurled. 
 
 You sally forth upon your mission fell. 
 
 Guided afar by keenest sense of smell, 
 That laughs to scorn the bloodhounds. Thing of ill 
 
 Fiend-like, your business you perform too well. 
 
THE ■ BOSS'S NIGHTMARE. Ul 
 
 For poor maimed lambs with living tortures thrill, 
 When from fierce wild dog's fangs they 'scape for you to 
 kill! 
 
 Your horrid zeal to propagate your kind 
 
 Outrivals e'en the mad dog's rage to bite, 
 •Or tigers to destroy. Oh, wretch, designed 
 
 For foulest work ! You with obscene delight 
 
 Gloat o'er destruction, and with headlong flight 
 Speed to the carnival, that death may spread 
 
 Or strife strew broadcast. To all creatures sight 
 You are a pest to shudder at and dread ; 
 -And, could deep curses kill, then were your kind all dead 
 
 THS BOSSES mCHTMABB. 
 (A Fact). 
 
 McCuUem reclines on his bachelor's bed — 
 
 A Scotchman canny and old is he j 
 "On mutton and bread he has heartily fed. 
 
 And fiU'd — well, nearly — all chinks with tea. 
 Besides at Glenlivet he's frequently nipp'd. 
 
 With nobody there to keep the score. 
 And now in his sleep he is horribly hipp'd - 
 
 By dreamland's virulent imps galore. 
 
112 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Those incubi mask as fierce Union crowd, 
 
 And drag Mac down to the great woolpress. 
 He dreams he is dumb, but uncommonly loud 
 
 Are nasal plaints of his deep distress. 
 Now merciless wretches thrust gag in his mouth 
 
 And fiend-like gloat o'er each gurgling groan ; 
 But he breaks from their clutches, consumed by- 
 drouth. 
 
 And, yes, through window his teeth has thrown ! 
 
 Valuable Advice Gratis. 
 
 Dear elderly Bosses — wherever you be — 
 
 Who purchase your pearly incisors, 
 Do swear against spirits and take only tea. 
 
 Unless you'd be taking cockshies, sirs, 
 With ivories, costing ten guineas perhaps. 
 
 Which should be in water or waters — 
 When, after much nipping at whisky or 
 schnapps, 
 
 You've solemnly roll'd to your quarters ! 
 
 THE VtCTORtA PABK STEHPt^ECHASE. 
 
 Run June 2, 1900. 
 
 The barrier rises, and off like a flash 
 Away on their journey the thoroughbreds dash. 
 O'er emerald turf where the cloud shadows creep 
 Until the first obstacle gaily they leap. 
 
THK VICTORIA PARK STEEPLECHASE. US 
 
 Then over big fence and stone wall by the lawn 
 The gay racing silks of the jockeys are borne, 
 By horses as lithe as fleet greyhounds, and bold 
 As ever were heroes' fierce chargers of old. 
 
 O'er fence at first turn to the one-mile still leads 
 The favourite brown mare, and Brutus precedes 
 The Glorious gelding, while others appear, 
 All waiting their chances close up at the rear. 
 But now at the double see Orb drawing out, 
 Till leading his field by three lengths, or about, 
 From Brutus, brown Onkaparinga, and Duke ; 
 While Wirrawa's out of it — barring a fluke. 
 
 Now clear of his horses, at top of the hill, 
 
 The Glorious gelding is twenty lengths still, 
 
 With Duke running clear of Conphrosyne's son, 
 
 And the favourite still in the thick of the fun. 
 
 But, ah ! at the first of the treble comes down 
 
 The gallant old Orb, now a maimed heap of brown ; 
 
 But what does that matter ? Past grandstand and lawn 
 
 The rest of the field like a whirlwind has torn. 
 
 At jump at six furlongs there's changes of place. 
 And Hotspur — who strikes hard — is out of the race. 
 While Colewort's bay daughter and Wellington's son 
 By turns in the lead round the back of course run ; 
 Black Brutus, grey Snapshot, and Wirrawa all 
 Clean jumping their fences, and well within call ; 
 While Onkaparinga — who's whipping them in — 
 Is still persevering, with faint hopes to win. 
 
in KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Now game little Brutus is leading the race 
 From Wellington's son at too pumping a pace, 
 For striking the fence at the home turn he's done, 
 Though still the first money great Duke has not won ; 
 For Colefire, the sticker, is first in the straight : 
 " She'll win it !" " She will not !" Defeat is her fate. 
 For, now, through sheer stamina — not by a fluke — 
 She's beaten two lengths by that stayer, The Duke. 
 
 L'Envoi. 
 
 A feeling of sadness is mine as I write, 
 For out on the course in the fast-fading light 
 Two sharp reports ring ; and, oh, hardness of fate ! 
 No more will two grand horses race up the straight. 
 No more shall they, foam-flecked, to weigh in return, 
 No more the loud plaudits of glad winners earn ; 
 But now of their triumphs let sporting men tell : 
 Poor Brutus and Orb — we must bid you farewell. 
 
 June 4, 1900. 
 
IS ANDHLWAN A. 115- 
 
 0« January 22nd, 1878, a Britieh Column under Major Durnford was attacked' 
 At Isandhlwana by 26,000 Zulus, and was almost annihilated. The British 
 soldiers fought gallantly, but were overwhelmed by a storm of assegais. The 
 remnant of the 24th Begiment formed a square and fought while their ammuni- 
 tion lasted, then died, each man in his place, and fighting to the last. The 1st 
 Battalion of the 24th Begiment lost 600 men and officers, including Colonels 
 Pullein and Durnford. 
 
 Where, vexed by heat and sudden storms, 
 Rude kopjes rear their rugged forms, 
 Is Isandhlwana, by it pace 
 Brave sentinels of British race, 
 Who watch the jackals slinking by 
 As fade the stars from morning sky. 
 And listen till from hill to valley 
 Shall sharply sound the loud reveille. 
 
 The British force, of hundreds strong, 
 Is pitted 'gainst a dusky throng 
 Of warriors, who understand 
 The tactics of that savage land, 
 And who, from boyhood bred to arms, 
 No tremors feel midst wars alarms : 
 Than Cetewayo's Impis none 
 More truly brave have battles won. 
 
 The creeping grey of chilly dawn 
 Is merged in golden flush of morn, 
 And yawning soldiers bend their eyes 
 On glowing orb in eastern skies. 
 Whose warmth with penetrating ray 
 All lurking chills shall drive away, 
 Till night's discomforts soon will be 
 A near forgotten memory. 
 
116 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Full many a tinkling cattle bell 
 
 Is heard in near adjacent dell, 
 
 Whose dusky drivers idly smoke, 
 
 And slyly with the soldiers joke ; 
 
 For peaceably has passed the night, 
 
 Though some, perchance, might dream of fight- 
 
 A dream they laughed at, when they woke. 
 
 As dreamland's mocking wizard's joke ; 
 
 For has not Chelmsford's gallant host 
 
 From prowling Zulus purged the post 
 
 Too well for those whose bosoms glow 
 
 To prove their prowess on the foe ? 
 
 The Twenty-Fourth, which proudly bears 
 A storied name, the campaign shares 
 With levies raw of Kaffirs, who 
 To conquerors continue true, 
 As messengers to fleetly run, 
 And plunder when the fight is won ; 
 Though as the wind-tossed reeds are they 
 When carnage stalks in deadly fray. 
 
 A stir in camp as from the rear 
 Some active horsemen now appear, 
 With rocket-guns, to sharply teach 
 The Zulus modern weapon's reach ; 
 And leading them see Durnford ride. 
 Who, though in fighting fields untried. 
 By valiant heart impelled, would fain 
 Reap glory on the crimson'd plain ; 
 
ISANDHLWANA. 117 
 
 And need for all his courage yet 
 May, ere it close, this day beget. 
 
 For hark ! a scout to brave Pullein 
 Reports some prowling Zulus seen ; 
 And Durnford, who assumes command. 
 Leads forth in haste a gallant band 
 To prove the soldier's statement true, 
 And punish well the daring crew, 
 If such should lurk with prying eyes. 
 By boulders screened on rugged rise ; 
 While Pullein and his men remain 
 The camp's protection to maintain. 
 
 No skulking spies who shun the fight 
 Offend stern Durnford's eager sight, 
 But foes who to the onslaught speed 
 With strength and dash of desert steed — 
 Who haste, by hopes of plunder led. 
 To slay the cause of scorn — not dread. 
 And to the challenge rifles' ring 
 Fresh forces to the battle bring. 
 As locust swarm, with steadfast flight, 
 A sudden gloom like falling night 
 On landscape casts, as on they speed 
 To devastate with boundless greed, 
 So active foes in legions glide 
 From ravine dark and steep hillside, 
 With savage will to sweep away 
 The handful who their charge would stay. 
 
118 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Loud wakes the din, for rifle's crack 
 By ringing shriek is echoed back ; 
 And still the bow which, sickle-like. 
 From earth that martial band would strike, 
 Each moment thickens ; Zulus seem 
 Like countless locust swarm to teem, 
 And careless, all, of carnage spread, 
 Rush onward o'er their prostrate dead, 
 Till Durnford, brave, must fain recall 
 His scattered force and backward fall 
 Within the camp, where prudent mind 
 No hasty laager has designed. 
 But left it bare of breastwork strong, 
 Exposed to rush of savage throng. 
 
 Too late the movement, for around 
 The garrison the foe is found, 
 Like famished wolves intent to taste 
 The lost one's blood on frozen waste ; 
 Death busy in their ranks is nought — 
 To kill employs their every thought. 
 On, on, they rush, while in the rear 
 The native allies yield to fear 
 And flee, as hares from beaters fly 
 At hidden sportsman's hands to die ; 
 While those who would the panic stay 
 Themselves are helpless borne away. 
 By assegais to fall transfixed 
 While in the headlong stampede mixed. 
 Hope proffers not one cheering ray — 
 Brute force from valour wins the day. 
 
ISANDHLWANA. 119 
 
 As grizzled lion, grim and gaunt, 
 Surrounded in his desert haunt. 
 On enemies will glare, intent 
 His boundless rage in blood to vent, 
 And, wounds unheeding, lingers till 
 Death stays his strength and savage will, 
 So Durnford, dreaming not of flight, 
 His soul pours forth in dauntless fight. 
 And heaps of Zulus round him lie 
 Ere fades the life-light from his eye, 
 While thickly strewn like grass is spread 
 A company already dead. 
 With carnage wrought on every side 
 To prove their valour ere they died — 
 An awful epitaph of worth. 
 Self-graven by the Twenty-Fourth. 
 
 Now, past a poet's pen or tongue 
 
 To tell the teaming thoughts that throng 
 
 The minds of those who, fighting still, 
 
 Face certain death on fatal hill. 
 
 The martyrs, when the flames leap high. 
 
 Or mariners, when surges fly 
 
 O'er wreck just sinking in the sea, 
 
 Bear such unto eternity, 
 
 But breathe not unto mortal ears 
 
 Their hopes, regrets, or future fears ; 
 
 So, silent stand with steadfast eye 
 
 The gallant Twenty-Fourth to die. 
 
120 R?;-ECHOES FROM OOONDAMBO. 
 
 " Yield not an inch ! " cries brave PuUein ; 
 
 " Remember country, friends, and Queen ; 
 
 The die is cast beyond recall — 
 
 Like Britons fight ! Like Britons fall ! " 
 
 No time to cheer, but every eye 
 
 Throws back an eloquent reply ; 
 
 Hands, vice-like, clutch their weapons fast, 
 
 Of rigid steel stern lips seem cast ; 
 
 While hearts burn fiercely with a flame 
 
 That deadly danger cannot tame — 
 
 A flame the valiant soldier knows, 
 
 When fighting with relentless foes — 
 
 A flame which only hand of death 
 
 May quench, when speeds the parting breath. 
 
 The rifles, ringing o'er the din, 
 A bloody harvest sharply win. 
 For savage foes to earth are cast 
 Like tall trees by tornado's blast. 
 Full grandly prove our men their claim 
 To Britain's sons heroic fame ; 
 But hell, with loud exultant roar, 
 Its legions on them seems to pour ; 
 Unchecked by shot or crimsoned steel, 
 Though Zulu leaders lifeless reel. 
 The rest dash on and, with the rage 
 Of battle in their eyes, engage 
 Those heroes who, though all in vain. 
 In gate of death the strife maintain. 
 
 'Tis death ; for, as when ebb is past. 
 The ocean, urged by waking blast, 
 
ISANDHLWANA. 121 
 
 Rolls wave on wave with sullen roar 
 'Gainst tidal rocks which jut from shore, 
 The first, all shattered into spray, 
 From fixed resistance fall away ; 
 But rushing on, with rising tide, 
 Succeeding ones o'erleap and hide 
 The stubborn obstacles which still 
 Immovably their places fill; 
 So pour the Zulus ; those before, 
 The thirsty desert drench in gore ; 
 Yet respite none the leaguered find, 
 Each breach is filled from foes behind ; 
 One savage falls — a hundred rise 
 To stab and hurl their assegais ; 
 Whilst cruel breasts to fitly shield 
 Their comrades slain for bucklers wield ; 
 Or, as his carnage Zanthus threw 
 On him who god-like Hector slew, 
 They hurl them with intent to break 
 The fence the British weapons make ; 
 Then through the gaps their masses cast, 
 O'erwhelraing as the ocean vast. 
 
 All vainly now those doomed ones fight : 
 A bloody mist obscures their sight. 
 In vain they in their fierce despair 
 Such ghastly wounds unheeding bear ; 
 For raging Zulus round them leap 
 Like cyclone vortex on the deep, 
 And surge upon them in their wrath 
 As would the waves in cyclone's path ; 
 
122 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Yet Struggle still, like swimmers strong, 
 
 A few to battle with the throng ; 
 
 These sway a moment to and fro. 
 
 Then sink that horrid horde below ; 
 
 And soon a fierce, exultant host 
 
 Is left to plunder and to boast ! 
 
 Those soldiers fell in far-off land, 
 
 A conquered yet unyielding band ; 
 
 And British hearts must henceforth feel 
 
 Through them the cruel Zulu steel ; 
 
 While truthful tongues shall say " Well done ! 
 
 Heroic sons of Albion." 
 
 WBDDtCtG CAKK AtlGUmBS. 
 
 TTaiTTEK FOR A Young Lady on Receipt op her Wedding Cakb 
 
 A youthful myrmidon — of " Rowland Hill " — 
 Who e'en on Sunday cannot quite be still, 
 Our entrance gate is passing briskly through, 
 Which, swinging backwards, clatters loudly too. 
 But I'll forgive him, for a box he brings 
 For me, I'm certain ! How the villain rings ! 
 " A box for you, Sir," Betty says, and " Oh !" 
 The youngsters chorus, " Wedding cake, we know !" 
 
WEDDING CAKE AUGURIES. 123 
 
 "True prophets they ! true prophets, aye, indeed ! 
 
 'Come, fly ye wrappers with a lover's speed ; 
 
 Come, creamy casket, raise your lid in haste, 
 
 That scent, impatient, may be join'd to taste. 
 
 "" 'Tis wedding cake !" again the youngsters shout, 
 
 And he were senseless who such fact could doubt : 
 
 True lover's knot ! white tissue ! cards — and there 
 
 The pond'rous section lies revealed and bare. 
 
 Back, urchins ! Back ! Whilst, with an augur's sight, 
 
 I read the fortunes of the pair aright. 
 
 First, then, observe, where currants, spice, and peel, 
 
 Eggs, cream, and sugar, blend with miller's meal. 
 
 These of prosperity right fully tell 
 
 Of coming joys and comforts mingled well ; 
 
 While just above them, with their essence mix'd, 
 
 A broad, grey layer of rich sugar fix'd, 
 
 Unerring points to settled, calm delight 
 
 When flowing locks betray a tinge of white ; 
 
 Yet still with sighs the past is not deplored. 
 
 But future years seem years with pleasures stored. 
 
 And comely branches from the parent tree 
 
 Show bloom of knowledge that choice fruit shall be ; 
 
 When, though of youth is pass'd the vernal glow. 
 
 No twinge of failing sov'reign prime shall know ; 
 
 A glorious summer, cloudless and serene — 
 
 Life's springtide flowers and its snows between. 
 
 Now, crowning all, a spotless drift appears, 
 
 A tale unfolding of respected years ; 
 
 •Of placid comfort, and of calm repose, 
 
 Which conscious worth, and long-tried love bestows. 
 
124 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Enduring love, that — see the ribbon tied — 
 Shall last unbroken to dark river's side — 
 That mystic river^ o'er which Faith can see 
 A joyous vision of eternity ! 
 Such are my auguries ; and such, I pray, 
 May be your fortunes from your wedding day. 
 
 A Domestic Tragedy : Founded on Fact. 
 
 What man who loves right well his wife 
 
 But knows the longing pleasure 
 Experienced when business life 
 
 Restores him to his treasure ? 
 Then let him gauge his eagerness, 
 
 Should months have marked their parting,. 
 And think how he would haste to press 
 
 The form he pressed when starting. 
 
 Jones hurries then to Twinlove House — 
 
 Where dwells his fair Eliza — 
 And, latchkey turning, creeps like mouse 
 
 Upstairs to much surprise her ; 
 His pulses throb, as beats the heart 
 
 Of mouse in durance standing, 
 And picturing her joyous start. 
 
 He gains the wished-for landing. 
 
JONES'S EEVENGE. 125 
 
 'He ne'er has quailed at tempest's roar 
 
 In ocean's wildest weathers ; 
 But ah ! the sight through opened door 
 
 Of martial hat and feathers — 
 By military chief thrown there 
 
 On private boudoir table — 
 Excites a rage and wild despair, 
 
 To paint which I'm not able. 
 
 ■Of vengeance dread an oath he swears, 
 
 His eyeballs wildly starting ; 
 Then round the room he fiercely glares — 
 
 From husband's worse wrong smarting. 
 Blood ! Blood alone such wound atones — 
 
 He'll slay the whiskered villain, 
 And how he gloats o'er fancied groans 
 
 Exuding in the killing ! 
 
 Like bloodhound gaunt, or tiger grim, 
 
 The guilty pair he's seeking ; 
 And, yes, it now appears to him 
 
 That somebody is speaking. 
 No ! Silence reigns ! Where can they be ? 
 
 Perchance in bedroom lurking ! 
 The door is open. He will see. 
 
 And consummate the burking ! 
 
 'Tis strange ! He notes no sign of life 
 
 That dormitory wide in, 
 But ah ! the wardrobe shakes ! His wife 
 
 Her lover has in hiding ! ! 
 
126 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 With frantic bound he gains the door — 
 Great Caesar ! what a donkey 
 
 He thinks himself, when to the floor 
 Leaps organ-grinder's monkey ! 
 
 Here enters Mrs. Jones, who looks 
 
 At Jones with eyes that read all — 
 At once, as from the plainest books — 
 
 What's happened, and indeed all 
 Her husband's doubts about herself — 
 
 His murderous propensity ; 
 Aad. then she rates the luckless elf 
 
 With merciless intensity. 
 
 And Jones ! Well ! Jones has been a fool- 
 
 Than he no one knows better — 
 So, while he seeks abasement's stool, 
 
 She storms, and he must let her ; 
 There'll be a lull, though, by-and-bye. 
 
 And then, depend upon it, 
 He'll have to buy — her tears to dry — 
 
 A spicy dress or bonnet ! 
 
 JT 
 
THE NATURALIST AND THE ICHNEUMON PLY. 127 
 
 THE NATURAUST A«0 THE tCHNEUMOK 
 
 A certain benevolent bald-headed mortal 
 
 Loved butterflies, moths, and the whole of the race ; 
 
 In fact, with his yellow gauze net, he had caught all 
 The insects and ranged them in glass covered case ; 
 
 Yet, no ! lepidoptera lacked an example. 
 
 And so the collector still sought for a sample. 
 
 He offered rewards, and the bumpkins then brought in 
 " Old-ladie^'' by hundreds, of " Death-heads " a few, 
 
 With " Peacock^' and others, while one a bat caught in 
 The tool-house, but went not home rich as a jew ; 
 
 Indeed, it was owing to excellent start he 
 
 Escaped being thrashed by the angry old party 
 
 All quest was in vain, till one day in a thicket 
 The insect collector was filled with delight. 
 
 For, ah ! it's great chrysalis — yes, 'twas the ticket — 
 'Neath sheet of loose bark just appeared to his sight. 
 
 And then, as he carried it home to his study. 
 
 An acre of smiles was his countenance ruddy. 
 
 In box of dry moss he bestowed his rich treasure, 
 And covered all safely with gauze like his net. 
 
 Then early each morning with liveliest pleasure 
 He'd lovingly gaze at his curious pet. 
 
 Till, oh, his vexation and dire aggravation 
 
 Were plainly betrayed by a sharp exclamation. 
 
128 RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 For, only too plainly, from hole in the chrysalis 
 A villainous ichneumon fly had come forth, 
 
 And had our poor savant sat down on a thistle, this 
 Cushion had caused him less anguish and wrath ; 
 
 But promptly thro' slender black wasp-looking pirate 
 
 He thrust a long pin, and felt sooth'd though still irate. 
 
 Like ass of bad Balaam that fly became vocal, 
 And to the old gentleman managed to say — 
 
 " Though innocent insects to death you may poke all, 
 I'm tortured for taking my natural prey ; 
 
 We hatch'd are, in embryo moths, just to eat them — 
 
 You, prompted by Satan, impale and maltreat them 
 
 ^ 
 
 HBaO WORSHIP. 
 
 An athlete as idol we set up, 
 
 And offer gross incense until 
 Too loud are his manners and get-up — 
 
 Too prone he his tankard to fill ; 
 Too prone to believe that without him 
 
 His clubmates must go to the wall, 
 When fulsome friends surely will flout him. 
 
 And sneer at decadence and fall. 
 
 " The flannell'd young fool" (see Rud Kipling) 
 For batting or bowling we praise. 
 
 Until the vain-glorious stripling 
 
 Has head far too swelled for his bays. 
 
THE FLIES. 129 
 
 Yes, when he goes forth to the wicket, 
 
 His antics suggest to your mind 
 A turkey-cock playing at cricket, 
 
 And call for queer comments unkind. 
 
 Then, why will the people and papers 
 
 So adulate good men till they 
 Distress all true friends by their capers. 
 
 For greatest of dons have their day ; 
 And then come neglect and chill greetings 
 
 To those who knew nothing save cheers. 
 Now doggedly courting fresh beatings. 
 
 And wincing at barrackers' jeers. 
 
 'Tis good to give just commendation 
 
 To him who deserves it, but not 
 To say that he licks all creation. 
 
 And stuff him with toadying rot. 
 Then cheer and clap hands if you will, Sirs', 
 
 When present at play above par ; 
 So modest as Moses may still, Sirs, 
 
 Remain your particular star. 
 
 THE FUES. 
 Air — Bonny Dundee. 
 What came of the devils (for devils can't drown) 
 When fiend-possessed pigs to the water rushed down ? 
 Well, just in the nick, e'er the waves could surprise, 
 They popped from the porkers and into the flies ; 
 
130 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And ever since then, 'stead of plaguing one man, 
 They've fiendishly worried the whole of the clan, 
 As all here declare, to the rawest yahoo, 
 Who curses the flies and detested barcoo.^ 
 
 Chorus. 
 Then give me a tin — come, bring me a ton — 
 Of powder by which ev'ry fly may be done ; 
 Or square miles of paper — strong — catch 'em alive. 
 To capture and torture the whole buzzing hive ; 
 Or better still, Neroes by millions to catch 
 All pestilent fly chicks directly they hatch. 
 Then, legless and wingless, to fling them to — well, 
 A bakery hot with sulphurous smell. 
 
 They swarm on our dinners, they dive in our drinks, 
 They get in — the wretches — all wrinkles and chinks. 
 They crawl up our trousers, they creep down our backs. 
 And laugh in derision at blessings and whacks ; 
 They bung up our lips, and they bung up our noses, 
 They bung up our eyes, till each optic discloses 
 A lovely appearance, as if they'd had cracks on 
 From terrible " mawleys " of Mr. P. Jackson. 
 
 Chorus. — Then give me a tin, &c. 
 
 In garbage unclean they wade up to their knees. 
 To gather the germs of zymotic disease, 
 Then hasten to carry them round to mankind 
 With fiendish delight that is worse than unkind ; 
 
 1. Barcoo— Violent retching induced by^the flies. 
 
REMINISCENCES AWAKENED. 131 
 
 And theiij when we're sick unto death, they just drop in 
 Each poultice to poison, each potion to pop in. 
 And, ah, such a buzzing they make when we're dead — 
 You'd think they were gibing the soul that has fled. 
 
 Chbrus. — Then give me a tin, &c. 
 
 They go for the horses, the cats, and the dogs — 
 They go (but get into it there) for the frogs, 
 'Cause froggy just bolts his tormentors, whose devils 
 Must enter fresh flies to continue their revels. 
 The blow-flies I hate, they are Satan-possessed—^ 
 Mosquitoes are pleasant compared to the rest — 
 For when the floodwaters in northern swamps lie. 
 Ten devils at least lurk in each little fly. 
 
 Chorus. — Then give me a tin. Sec. 
 
 .jr 
 
 [ON SEEING A SPARHOW FOB THE FIRST TIME IN AUSTRALIA AFTER 
 TWENTY TEARS' ABSENCE FROM ENGLAND. 1 
 
 Here, Johnny, just tell me what small bird is that I see 
 
 In the Eucalyptus tree 
 
 O'er the way. 
 
 With it's jaunty, cunning air ? 'Tis a sparrow, I declare^ 
 
 There's another ! There's a pair ! 
 
 Chirping gay. 
 
132 EE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Yes ! they're sparrows, pert and bold ! Just such sparrows 
 as of old 
 
 Oft I've caught, e'er trouble rolled 
 O'er my head. 
 What a prize I thought one then ; and, oh, how my heart 
 beat when 
 
 One approached the small brick pen 
 Strewed with bread. 
 
 How my breath would almost stop when at last the bird 
 would hop 
 
 For a bread crumb, on the top 
 Of the trap, 
 And, suspecting not the trick, would light down on trigger- 
 stick, 
 
 When with sharp metallic click 
 Fell the flap. 
 
 How I rushed, with gleeful shout, to the trap, then paused 
 in doubt, 
 
 For to get that sparrow out 
 Was a task 
 Which oft ended in its flight to the nearest tree in sight ; 
 To the bird's, or my delight, 
 Need I ask? 
 
 Many years have passed away since those days so blithe 
 and gay. 
 
 And some playmate's hair is grey ; 
 While the grave 
 
THE CORPSE IN THE SQUAEE. 133 
 
 Hides in many lands the rest ; aye, the bravest and the 
 
 best ^ 
 
 Yet their memory to my breast, 
 Like a wave, 
 
 Rolls impetuous again, with a long attendant train — 
 Scenes of scented wood and lane, 
 At the sight 
 Of those sparrows on the tree — English sparrows, pert and 
 free; 
 
 Yes, old times come back to me 
 Fresh and bright. 
 
 THS CORPSE m THE SQUAHE. 
 
 (A Fact). 
 
 Stretched on the withered grass 
 
 In city square he lay, 
 Where heedless footsteps pass 
 
 When breaks the summer's day. 
 Upturned, his staring eyes 
 
 Were blind to earthly things ; 
 Round gaping mouth the flies 
 
 All gaily plumed their wings. 
 
 That ghastly thing, so still, 
 
 To filthy flies a prey^ 
 Which soon a grave must fill, 
 Was joyous yesterday ; 
 
1^4 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then, full of spirits, he — 
 
 And now — " Well, just look here, 
 
 That bloke too full might be ; 
 But 'twas wid bloomin' beer !" 
 
 Thus spake a Boy in blue 
 
 Who had with measured tread 
 Come callously to view 
 
 The features of the dead, 
 And added — " Ah, de brute, 
 
 He's at his games agin ; 
 I'll rousht him wid me boot, 
 
 And run the blackguard in ! " 
 
 SHE SYMPATtttZES WITH THEM. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Jones, have you been reading 
 
 Those really dreadful sweating cases ? " 
 I have ; and, oh, my heart is bleeding — ■ 
 
 I'd like to scratch the monsters' faces ! 
 Just think of friendless creatures toiling 
 
 From early morn to midnight mirk 
 For barest pittance ! My blood's boiling— 
 
 Don't talk to me of barb'rous Turk. 
 
 " Oh 1 look here, Sarah, I must show you 
 These really first-class shirts I bought 
 
 At Starve and Sinwell's. Oh, I know you 
 '11 call there early, and you ought ; 
 
SHE SYMPATHIZES WITH THEM. 135 
 
 You'd scarce believe it — good stuff in them — 
 
 Only two-and-three, my dear ! 
 For double that I'd not begin them — 
 
 I'll always deal there while I'm here. 
 
 " 'Tis harrowing ! It kills me nearly 
 
 To hear how starving wretches slave 
 At matchbox-making, late and early, 
 
 And j'usi to keep them from the grave. 
 Oh, that reminds me, Mr. Cozen, 
 
 He charges quite a penny less 
 Than other tradesmen for the dozen, 
 
 And tAat's a saving, you'll confess. 
 
 " Of course, a penny on such small things 
 
 Amounts to little, you may say. 
 But I c/o love to cheapen all things, 
 
 And oh, my dear, I make it pay ! 
 Besides, for other people's sake, you 
 
 Really ought to beat them down ; 
 To ' Starve and Sinwell's ' shall I take you ?" 
 
 " Yes." " Well, let us start for town." 
 
 iT 
 
136 RE-BCHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THB HBABSS AS A CARIUAGH OF PLEASyBB* 
 
 [Notice. — For every horse, or other beast of draught, drawing any coach, 
 Berlin, laudau, chariot, calash, hearse, caravan, chaise, or other pleasure 
 carriage, the sum of fourpenee.— Fi(te Toll Act, Black Horse Toll-gate, Sussex.] 
 
 Some people of pleasure right pleasantly prattle, 
 And notably so the quaint Town Clerk of Battle, 
 Who — vide the charge-board at Black Horse toll-bar — 
 When bent on a frolic, sticks not at a car. 
 But, doubtlessly guided by state of his purse. 
 Rides forth in chaise, caravan, calash, or hearse; 
 A carriage of pleasure is each in its way, 
 And, to our friend' s fancy , all equally gay. 
 Though to an economist nought could be clearer, 
 The hearse than its compeers must surely be dearer 
 In matter of tolls, for plus those on the road, 
 A toll meets the hearse when it sets down its load. 
 
 GBATJTUDB. 
 
 If you'd see sport of cheering sort, 
 
 However you may doubt it, 
 Just hunt the mood called gratitude. 
 
 Nor hesitate about it. 
 Go save the life of neighbour's wife 
 
 From burning house or river, 
 Then count the cost, in friendship lost — 
 
 The gain, in burn or shiver. 
 
GRATITUDE. 137 
 
 An outcast child from dreary wild 
 
 Of life, go hunt and take it 
 To home and heart, then dress it smart — 
 
 In fact, a prime pet make it. 
 Well, if a maid, I'm much afraid 
 
 She'll get you in hot water ; 
 Whilst if a lad, 'twill be as bad, 
 
 He'll bolt off with your daughter, 
 
 For cunning plan take smart young man — 
 
 More plausible the better — 
 In Co., and then with ink and pen 
 
 Do all your " biz " by letter, 
 As he was poor, you're very sure 
 
 He'll do for you discreetly j 
 But by-and-by, with starting eye, 
 
 You'll find you're done completely. 
 
 " Poor relatives," it sorely grieves 
 
 Your feeling heart to view them — 
 So down at heels, in want of meals — 
 
 With favours you bestrew them. 
 They swarm each day ; indeed, they stay 
 
 From house and home to eat you ; 
 Then when you fail they'll at you rail 
 
 And evilly entreat you. 
 
 You warn a man of rascal's plan 
 
 To ruin him, or worse, Sir, 
 And you shall find some cut unkind 
 
 Rewards you, or a curse. Sir. 
 
138 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 From " Torrens Dam,'' old classic " Cam," 
 
 Or other lake or river, 
 You fish a friend, and in the end 
 
 He's borrowing for ever. 
 
 Yes, gratitude in churl or dude. 
 
 Wherever you pursue it. 
 You'll find so shy, that in the sky 
 
 Alone you're like to view it. 
 And yet, sans doubt, no toper stout. 
 
 As bad game should ignore it. 
 For in each case he's bound to face 
 
 A great big IN(N) before it. 
 
 ^ 
 
 GUSHmGTOlt JUliltOa'S VtStT TO Etvsitrivt. 
 
 A SENTIMENTAL RECITATION. 
 
 How sweet it is at eventide to meet 
 
 One's " ownest own " in some sequestered nook. 
 Where limpid rill meanders at your feet 
 
 In tiny creek — I mean a sylvan brook — 
 Where o'er you sigh the grand old gumtree's sprays. 
 
 Where zephyrs waft the wattles' perfume sweet, 
 And where beneath chaste Dian's silver rays 
 
 The merry "jacks " their laughter oft repeat. 
 
GUSHINGTON JUNIOR'S VISIT TO ELYSIUM. 139 
 
 .Ah ! sweet indeed, and who with manhood's heart 
 
 And vernal fire would as a hermit live, 
 When he could play the favoured lover's part, 
 
 And taste delight that only love can give ? 
 Ah ! who, indeed ? And so when Ethel Ann, 
 
 To my entreaties, whispered, " I'll be there," 
 I thought myself a goddess-favoured man ; 
 
 But, oh, what goddess could with Ann compare ! 
 
 That afternoon I deemed old Time was lame. 
 
 Or sleeping soundly, heedless of his trust ; 
 But in the end the evening duly came, 
 
 As through all centuries the evenings must ; 
 Then eagerly I watch'd the twilight die — 
 
 It really seemed so slowly, that a day 
 Might through its periods inertly fly. 
 
 And yet depart without so much delay. 
 
 With beating heart I wandered forth to find 
 
 My darling girl beneath our trysting tree. 
 Could it be thunder pealing on the wind, 
 
 When signs of lightning I could nowhere see ? 
 'Twas passing strange, for diadem of night 
 
 Acknowledged then no floating cloudland veil ; 
 The insect world proclaimed a strange delight. 
 
 That mournful cry ? a nasty curlew's wail ! 
 
 I like not curlews. Ah ! a friendly root 
 
 Would claim acquaintance, when I saw it not, 
 
 -So, firmly caught my unobservant boot, 
 
 And pulled me dowji to keep me near the spot. 
 
140 EE-EGHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 I did not stay, but, brushing from my knees 
 Those pathway panicles which loosely clung,- 
 
 I hurried on — not wholly at my ease, 
 
 But what then happened shall be quickly sung: 
 
 Air — Tommy make room for your Uncle. 
 
 I whistled to show I was brave, then ; 
 
 But, oh, with a bark like a roar, 
 A snap at my breecks Caesar gave them. 
 
 And took a large patch — and some more. 
 Thus lightened, I cleared a rail fence, then 
 
 But Taurus was waiting for me. 
 And, acting with malice prepense, then 
 
 Induced me to light in a tree. 
 
 How beautiful was silent star-gemm'd space 
 
 Then stretching o'er me in stupendous bow ; 
 But 'twas, indeed, a vile contrasting case, 
 
 With dual denizens of realms below. 
 Oh ! cruel fate ! those demons raged awhile. 
 
 Then waited there, to see if I would come 
 My darling wept at what she deemed my guile, 
 
 The while I prayed, till morning, in that gum. 
 
PLANTING THE VINE. Ul 
 
 PLAwtmc run vms. 
 
 A POST-DILUVIAN LEGEND. 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 M. Rawlin Crapaud — whom you may not all know — 
 Unlike our friend Pitcher, eschews the long-bow, 
 As this his true legend re Noah and the vine 
 Will prove without any vast effort of mine. 
 
 IFriend Crapaud — a capable cuneiform scholar — 
 Translates in a manner most easy to follow. 
 And states that he got his facts straight from a par, 
 By Japhet, scratched into the " Ararat Star." 
 
 Perhaps you may tell me that after a while 
 
 The writing, on even a Nineveh tile, 
 
 Might not be so fresh as on day of its baking, 
 
 And therefore that Crapaud mistakes might be making. 
 
 iPooh ! Nonsense ! The Potters to make shards were able 
 -So awfully hard e'er the building of Babel 
 That, laughing at hammer, time's action and rust, 
 They'd see even adamant turned into dust. 
 
 If still you doubt Crapaud, to Deluge-land go, 
 And delve all its mounds and old cities below, 
 'Until you unearth contradiction ironical 
 SBy Noah himself in the " Stranded Ark Chronicle.'' 
 
142 RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THE LEGEND. 
 
 When old Captain Noah was planting the vine 
 
 Some notion had he, I imagine, of wine ; 
 
 Yet did not see Satan who, perched on a rail, 
 
 Secured himself there by a turn of his tail. 
 
 So, when he had delved with his primitive spade. 
 
 He carefully studied the cutting and laid 
 
 Its butt in the mud — that so lately had dried — 
 
 Then filled in the hole, stuck a label beside, 
 
 And muttered, " That's right ; for I'm perfectly sure- 
 
 Alluvial soil has no need of manure ; 
 
 While though I myself of sweet grapes may not eat. 
 
 They'll furnish to grandchicks a regular treat. 
 
 And now '' — looking round to inhabited quarter — 
 
 " I do wish they'd bring me that gourd of cool water ;: 
 
 By Cain, it is hot ! and if Satan were here 
 
 He'd feel, as I'm doing, remarkably queer !" 
 
 His Majesty smiled when he heard the remark 
 Of Noah (who'd dodged him so well in the ark), 
 And thought to himself, " If he faints at my heat 
 Why ! what would he do if he saw but my feet \ 
 
 Oh, little he thinks, 
 
 As in sunshine he blinks. 
 How planting that vine will result in high jinks. 
 And send to my kingdom a legion of souls. 
 All steeped well in liquor, to grill on the coals ; 
 
 Oh, bully for me ! 
 
 'Tis a red flaming spree. 
 
PLANTING THE VINE. 145 
 
 For grape's ruddy vintage a trump card shall be ; 
 
 And if I don't use it to ruin mankind 
 
 May small boys excise my extension behind ! " 
 
 Nick nodded his head and lashed round with his tail, 
 Of course, when he did so, he'd let go the rail ; 
 Then, brimming with mischief, he gave a great lurch 
 And, losing his balance, fell off of his perch ; 
 
 The terrible clatter 
 
 Made Noah's teeth chatter. 
 And caused him to bolt like a hare-pursued hatter 
 To little mud shanty, which, standing hard-by. 
 Had outbuildings round it, a cowbail and stye. 
 When, not even waiting to see if his family 
 All safely were housed, or to glance at his camel, he 
 Banged to the door, put the bar up and sank 
 Quite breathless on settle of roughly-adzed plank. 
 And there we will leave him, with terror near sick, 
 To see his pet cutting be-devilled by Nick ! 
 
 " Ho, ho ! Ha, ha ! " laughed all liars' papa ; 
 " Old Noah for valour is not a bright star ! " 
 Then added, while rubbing the fruits of his tumble, 
 " I have my own luck, so no reason to grumble, 
 
 The captain has left 
 
 With hoofs neatly cleft 
 Like my own — and indeed of my patent a theft — 
 His little pet lamb, and 'tis just what I need 
 To make two-legged lambs truly foolish indeed." 
 
144 RE-ECHOES PROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 So saying, he seized the poor beast in his paws 
 And cuts its carotid by mea^is of his claws. 
 
 Then poured out its blood, 
 
 In a red gushing flood, 
 Round queer looking stick that was stuck in the mud ; 
 And vile buzzing flies — they had swiftly increased — 
 Arrived like foul vultures in haste to the feast : 
 While Satan observed, " 'Tis a spell that will make 
 A lamb of the man who one flagon shall take." 
 
 Then added with chuckle, 
 
 " That ioo pleasant suckle 
 Will leave such an elegant taste in the throttle 
 That, thirsty or no, he'll go back to the bottle ; 
 Which means, on the highroad he quickly will be 
 To sultry dominions allotted to me ! " 
 
 Nick, then, with the air of a festive young man. 
 
 Well met with a party of comrades, began 
 
 To pass round a bottle (imagined) from whence 
 
 He poured out a bumper — with equal pretence — 
 
 Then trolled forth a ditty, which had for its chorus — 
 
 " We'll never know care, with big bottle before us." 
 
 " My care it will be," added he with a grin, 
 
 " To fully take charge when to drink they begin ! 
 
 But time I am wasting, more blends for the vine 
 
 Are needed to crown this neat project of mine ! " 
 
 In parenthesis here, I may say that, 'twas queer 
 Old Noah the noise of Nick's tumble should hear. 
 And yet not perceive him ; but such, I surmise. 
 Was truly the case, for with comic surprise 
 
PLANTING THE VINE. 145 
 
 A monkey had paused in its tail sustained gambols 
 To see Noah's garden turned into a shambles ; 
 
 For victim was there 
 
 With a terrible tear 
 That severed its throat ; in its eyes the death stare — 
 But how, or by whom was it robbed of its life ? 
 Poor pug saw no butcher, and never a knife, 
 But Jacko would see (for true monkey was he) 
 Just what was the matter, so dropped from the tree, 
 And cried, in his voluble simian way, 
 " 'Tis certainly murder, and done in broad day. 
 So now, being here, why an inquest I'll hold ! " 
 He ran to the body to find he was sold : 
 
 No time to scream ; no time to call ; 
 His neck was twisted, and that was all. 
 
 Oh, twisted was head of that monkey around 
 
 Till, like a small football, it bounced to the ground ; 
 
 And Nick, with a kick, sent it spinning away — 
 
 A forecast of football as played to this day : 
 
 While pugs, evoluted, when fuddled will find 
 
 That fond wives to Satan's fierce ways are inclined. 
 
 But now I'd best tell you the cutting was fed 
 
 With blood, to the last drop poor pug's veins would shed. 
 
 That mischievous butcher he grinned in high glee, 
 And swung, by his tail, to the branch of a tree ; 
 Then scampered, on all fours, again and again, a 
 Huge travesty strange on the small quadrumana : 
 While, oh, but his songs were of flavouring queer — 
 Not Moody's and Sankey's the verses I fear ; 
 
146 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And if'va. that garden young girls had disported 
 They certainly should not with him have consorted ! 
 But pulling up quickly, he said, " Be it so j 
 Let mask of the monkey with second flask go ; 
 For then silly tricks 
 Shall result in hard kicks 
 And often land fools in a terrible fix." 
 
 Nick pinched his chin, he scratched his ear, 
 
 And, sotto voce, said " 'Tis clear 
 
 Of animals I must \ii.ye.four. 
 
 Hey, presto ! for a couple more." 
 
 While even as the arch-fiend spoke 
 
 A lion's roar the echoes woke, 
 
 And Leo, as they loudly rang. 
 
 On slaughtered creatures fiercely sprang ; 
 
 But, ere his tongue could lap the blood. 
 
 Himself lay slaughtered in the mud 
 
 With shattered jaws, whence crimson tide 
 
 In torrents spouted far and wide. 
 
 A horrid murder blend to wine — 
 
 The future vintage of the vine. 
 
 As lion, mad with jealous rage. 
 
 His favoured rival would engage. 
 
 So, with terrific eyes aglow, 
 
 The fiend passed swiftly to and fro ; 
 
 While foam, which gathered round his jaws. 
 
 Distilled huge flakes on breast and paws. 
 
 " What's this ? " he cried ; " will caitiff cur 
 
 Upon my honour cast a slur ? 
 
PLANTING THE VINE. 147' 
 
 You did not 1 Yes, you did, you dog ! 
 You /ying son of /ying hog ! " 
 Then with anathema and bound 
 A fancied foe he struck to ground, 
 And roared with ever growing rage, 
 " Let iMt your thirst for Hes assuage ! 
 You stop me, fools ! J^eep back, I say ! 
 You won't / Then for your folly pay. 
 I'll fight you all ! " Meanwhile his blows 
 Appeared to fall on many foes ; 
 But pausing, with a laugh, said he, 
 " With third flask let brute quarrels be, 
 And if that charm but acts right well 
 There'll often be a second hell ! " 
 
 " Confound it all," mused Nicholas, 
 " I should have worked in Noah's ass ; 
 But no ! though he's a headstrong beast, 
 To human fools, in drunken feast, 
 He'd be a comely thing to see — 
 A pattern of propriety. 
 So, one more blend and potent spell 
 Shall souls of millions hurl to Hell, 
 Prepared by self-sought misery 
 In endless pain to dwell with me. 
 But, hist ! I hear the old man's sow ! 
 She wallows in yon filthy slough. 
 And in that fitting place I'll slay 
 A beast which sought it day by day ; 
 Then drag her to the vine and pour 
 Into the earth her reeking gore ; 
 
148 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And who shall say the crowning rite 
 Befits not curse on man to light ! " 
 
 'Twas done, and with a stifled groan 
 
 The dying sow to earth was thrown 
 
 Amidst the sickening purple mud, 
 
 Besmeared with slime and foam and blood. 
 
 "Lie there !" Nick cried, "thou beast unclean, 
 
 Fit emblem of the man obscene. 
 
 Who shall of sense by drink be reft, 
 
 Till he a human swine is left, 
 
 A swine in gutters foul to lie, 
 
 The butt for scornful tongue and eye — 
 
 A wretch with soul already dead. 
 
 Enough ! My spells have gaily sped : 
 
 And you, O blood baptised vine, 
 
 Shall be coadjutor of mine ! " 
 
 Thus Satan said, but waited not 
 
 To personate a hopeless sot : 
 
 Indeed, I more than half suspect 
 
 His Majesty's fine self-respect 
 
 Would not allow him e'en to ape 
 
 The thing a scavenger might scrape ; 
 
 So hied him home unto his. den, 
 
 And left the dirty work to men ! 
 
 'Tis long ago since, through the vine. 
 That curse was laid on ruddy wine ; 
 And mark ! no curse will ever blast 
 Till commonsense aside is cast ; 
 
SOLD. 14ft 
 
 Then Nicholas steps in with glee 
 
 To say, " You've done it ! Come with me ! " 
 
 And he, no doubt, to sultry shop 
 
 Has taken some who loved their drop. 
 
 But 'twould be far too much to say 
 
 He runs in every toper gay. 
 
 True, grapes' rich juice, when ripe with age, 
 
 The saddest heart can grief assuage ; 
 
 The invalid recruit, and give 
 
 Old age another chance to live. 
 
 Besides, could you be really merry 
 
 Without your decent drop of sherry ? 
 
 Or champagne ? if perchance you're able 
 
 To have the right stuff on the table. 
 
 Then, take your wine, I only ask — 
 
 Don't drain, my friends, too large a flask t 
 
 iT 
 
 sot*o. 
 
 Now, good old " Tramp," 'tis time to camp. 
 
 And you a rest must need ; 
 In rock-hole near there's water clear — 
 
 Around the best of feed ! 
 'Twas hereaway the blacks, they say. 
 
 Killed Tipperary Joe — 
 You're hobbled short, in case of sport, 
 
 And urgent hint to go ! 
 
150 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 From fuel dry the flames leaped high — 
 
 That bushman brewed his tea ; 
 On damper fed, and grimly said 
 
 " They'll soon be here for me ! " 
 Then glancing round to landscape's bound, 
 
 He saw a grey smoke rise 
 Like whirlwind slim, and it to him 
 
 Occasioned scant surprise. 
 
 Quoth he " My /at, you're after t/ia(, 
 
 But someone else's caul 
 Just gather please, your hides to grease ; 
 
 I'm certain mine's too small." 
 Then, when the night shades veiled the sight 
 
 He roused a ruddy blaze, 
 And he and steed went off at speed 
 
 To safely camp and graze. 
 
 By fallen log ! is that a dog ? 
 
 A pack of dingoes ? No ! 
 But natives, swart, who deem they've caught 
 
 An unsuspecting foe. 
 No red flames bright that camp now light 
 
 Where sweep the night winds cold ; 
 The bucks rush in, a caul to win. 
 
 But find they're nicely soM. 
 
 X* 
 
CONJUGAL CONTEAEITIES. 151 
 
 COtWUGAt COItTRAaiTmS. 
 
 CRAB HENPECK COMPLAINS. 
 
 Oh 1 who would be a benedict t 
 
 That is, wAo would if he 
 Knew only what the fates predict ! 
 
 What has befallen me ! 
 But fellows don't — poor fools I mean — 
 
 Who worship girls they love 
 As something sweet — half-way between 
 
 An angel and a dove ! 
 
 An angel ? Humph ! A gentle dove ? 
 
 A cunning crocodile ! 
 Who simulates a trusting love 
 
 In order to beguile ! 
 /know them well ! I found them out ! 
 
 But then 'twas all too late, 
 For Clara — now so coarse and stout — 
 
 Had lured me to my fate ; 
 
 As rosebud on a dewy morn 
 
 I thought her lovely then — 
 A modest rose without a thorn 
 
 (Except for other men) ; 
 And, woodbine-like, her arms she'd twine 
 
 Round wooden-headed me, 
 Who now, in folds of deadly vine. 
 
 Am like a strangled tree. 
 
152 KE-ECHOBS FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Shy ? gentle ? clinging ? What a fool 
 
 I must have been to think 
 A scholar in her mother's school 
 
 Could be a severed link 
 From Bullswool chain of impudent 
 
 And vulgar fastness. Pah ! 
 'Tis not a common incident — 
 
 A dove with kite mamma. 
 
 My Bullswool dove is fierce and false, 
 
 As is her Ma, and teeth ; 
 I only wish that I may waltz 
 
 On turf — with her beneath ! 
 But like the old maternal cat — 
 
 Or kite — she's tough as nails, 
 And will, I've not the slighest doubt, 
 
 Be leaning o'er the rails 
 
 Of certain neat suburban grave. 
 
 Profusely bathed in tears 
 She'll shed to trap another slave 
 
 For her declining years. 
 And I do hope 'twill be that brute, 
 
 With whom she's far too thick, 
 For then h^ll feast on bitter fruit 
 
 And diet her on kick ! 
 
CLAEA HENPECK ADVISES HER SISTER MARTYRS. 153 
 
 CLARA HENPECK ADVISES HER SISTER 
 MARTYRS. 
 
 My wretched, contemptible husband, I find, 
 
 Has render'd in writing his blackness of mind ; 
 
 And, just as he warns all his friends to beware, 
 
 I say to fair sisters, my dears, do take care. 
 
 For, oh, till we're married we fancy the men 
 
 Are here to protect, love, and kiss us, but when 
 
 They once get the ring on — which marks us as slaves — 
 
 We find them mean, jealous, and petulant knaves ! 
 
 Now /ook at that Crab, when I first knew him fken 
 I thought him a hero ! a god amongst men ! 
 For, oh, how he'd wait upon poor simple me ; 
 Bring choicest of bouquets and hand me my tea, 
 Then humbly solicit dear Ma to allow 
 His taking me off to ball, concert, or row, 
 While as for the pet names he'd call me — but (kere. 
 He pets me with pretty ones yet — the old bear ! 
 
 Yes, quite to our wedding he acted the spoon, 
 But when I'd the ring on he altered his tune ; 
 For then, 'stead of dancing attendance on me. 
 He'd always expect that in waiting I'd be ; 
 And though, like the rest of long-suffering wives— 
 Who waste for ungrateful cross fellows their lives — 
 I tried hard to please him, in hopes of a kiss, 
 I always succeeded in doing amiss ; 
 
154 Kf;-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 At least Crab would say so, and add with a sneer — 
 " To manage a house you're not fitted 'tis clear ; 
 Ah ! «/you could ^o things like Mrs. Fitts Blanks " — 
 (You've all heard, my dears, of her scandalous pranks) — 
 " She thinks of her husband and keeps in her place " — 
 (Except when — as always — sh^s out with young Grace) 
 " As excellent housewife she truly surprises " — 
 ( Yes, tradesmen with bills of all dates and all sizes). 
 
 Just fancy such serfdom, dear sisters, and then. 
 
 If ever you marry, sit down on the men. 
 
 For husbands will flirt, waste their money, and blame 
 
 Their innocent spouses for doing the same. 
 
 Until of mean wretches we're heartily sick, 
 
 And over the traces are tempted to kick ; 
 
 While as for myself, why the balance I strike. 
 
 And Crab ('tis delightful) the lesson don't like. 
 
 TttaOUGH THE KEYHOLE. 
 
 fSubject suggested by Mons. Loredan, of the first "Pinafore" Company.] 
 
 In the ancient " Quartier Latin," 
 
 In an attic high I dwell ; 
 If you'd know my name, 'tis Etienne — 
 
 I'm a literary swell ! 
 Yes ! a sou a line 's my business, 
 
 So I use my eyes and ears 
 
THROUGH THE KEYHOLE. 155 
 
 To ingather food for laughter, 
 
 For sensation, and for tears. 
 Therefore, when in search of "copy," 
 
 I perchance too often pry 
 Into what should not concern me. 
 
 With a pressman's ready eye, 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole, 
 
 As I toiling skyward go, 
 I just look in on my neighbours 
 
 In a friendly way, you know — 
 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole, 
 
 You must know ! 
 
 •On the first floor, as I enter, 
 
 Is the door of Monsieur B : 
 
 Thro' the keyhole I am peeping. 
 
 And 'tis luxury I see ; 
 ^Flashing silver, dainty viands. 
 
 Lacqueys gliding noiselessly, 
 -And the purse-proud banker sitting 
 
 With his napkin on his knee ; 
 And I ask, as thro' the keyhole, 
 
 I see partial favours heaped, 
 "Why one rttortal should be pampered, 
 
 I in penury be steeped % 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole. 
 
 There's a world of plenty. Ah ! 
 So close, I almost touch it. 
 
 Yet from me it is so far — 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole. 
 Oh, so far 
 
,156 BE.ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 I have passed the second landing, 
 
 I am pausing at the door, 
 I am peeping thro' the keyhole 
 
 At the majesty of law ; 
 For the judge, whose word can doom men^ 
 
 To the guillotine, is there 
 The protector of chaste women^ 
 
 But oh ! Mon Dieu ! how 1 stare, 
 For his arms are round the housemaid. 
 
 And his lips to hers are pressed ; 
 While his gleaming eye confesses 
 
 What I see is not a jest. 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole, 
 
 What a lesson meets my eye ! 
 1 can see the judge a villain, 
 
 I can note his life a lie ; 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole — 
 Yes, a lie ! 
 
 I am on the third floor landing, 
 
 I will pause to take a look 
 At another page of nature 
 
 In this interesting book ; 
 Ah ! a couple newly married !' 
 
 How the lady yawns and sighs. 
 While the bridegroom to his paper,. 
 
 Like a brute, devotes his eyes. 
 And to questions of his lady 
 
 Grunts an absent " Yes," or " No >" 
 While she muses : " Would his rival: — 
 
 Handsome Henri — use her so ? " 
 
THROUGH THE KEYHOLE. 157 
 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole, 
 
 There is mischief in the air ; 
 For love has fled, with wedlock, 
 
 From an ill-assorted pair. 
 And I mutter thro' the keyhole — 
 " Fools ! Beware ! " 
 
 -Now another stair I've mounted — 
 
 AH the beau monde are below ; 
 Still, I'll look in on the lodgers. — 
 
 Just a passing peep, you know — 
 And what see I ? Birds in springtime ? 
 
 No ! 'tis Leon and Lisetle — 
 He's a reckless, purse-bare student. 
 
 She a black-eyed, trim grisette ; 
 •Crack'd each plate and cup and saucer. 
 
 Rather coarse the fare I see. 
 Yet love gilds the feast for Leon 
 
 And for Lisette — on his knee. 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole, 
 
 A queer paradise on earth. 
 Rendered bright by merry laughter. 
 
 Magic wrought by youthful mirth. 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole, 
 There is mirth. 
 
 No more stairs are now above me ; 
 
 At an attic door I pause — 
 I Ve not seen the widow lately, 
 
 And I ask myself the cause ? 
 
158 EB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then I peep in thro' the keyhole, 
 
 And a mist obscures my eye, 
 For a dead child lies before me. 
 
 With a woman kneeling by — 
 A broken chair and table, 
 
 An empty grate is there, 
 While the cupboard, standing open, 
 
 Shows its shelves all bleak and bare. 
 But, ah, a rat comes stealing, 
 
 Startled not by e'en a breath : 
 The widow starts not ! Mon Dieu ! 
 
 Joined her child has she through death T 
 Thro' the keyhole, thro' the keyhole — 
 There is death ! 
 
 iT 
 
 What ends a fellow's careless fun. 
 And causes him to take the bun 
 For groaning e'er the night be done ? 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
 What takes him from the racing path 
 And stirs 'gainst quacks his boiling wrath,. 
 When bills are but his aftermath ? 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
NEURALGIA. 159 
 
 What prompts the vow that toothache's pain 
 Would as a change be one of gain ! 
 Though vow and wish are all in vain 1 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
 What hisses " Pray for death to come, 
 Then seek oblivion in rum, 
 To be with headache still more glum ? " 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
 What threatens — " Do but dare to sneeze. 
 Much less to cough, by way of ease, 
 And with my rack I'll take fresh fees ? " 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
 What turns his wife to shrewish jade. 
 And makes her pray that burglar's blade 
 May end his nightly ghost parade ? 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
 I'm cursing as these lines I write 
 The demon that with hellish spite 
 Has tortured me throughout the night — 
 Neuralgia ! 
 
 iT 
 
160 EE-ECHOBS FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 OtJR TBAOESPEOPtB-ESPECtALXiY THE 
 SUTCSEB. 
 
 We are strangers in this city (whose Chief Magistrate is 
 Ware), 
 
 And therefore to its tradesfolk one and all ; 
 But they promptly called upon us to supply our daily fare ; 
 
 While Newsey flung the daily o'er the wall. 
 
 Bright and early in the morning a stout matron m a hat — 
 
 A sort of wide umbrella done in straw — 
 Left cowjuice on the doorstep to amuse the neighbour's cat, 
 
 Yet waited not equivalent to draw. 
 
 The greengrocer is comely, so our cook declared that he 
 Was just the man we wanted, she was sure, 
 
 But found he'd married early and had got a family — 
 His green stuff now is fit but for manure. 
 
 We understood not coupons till the baker kindly sed, 
 
 " A dozen you should purchase, so to save 
 A little fortune weekly in expenditure on bread," 
 
 (He hoped a path to business thus to pave). 
 
 The fat man bawling " Fat, oh," sought a soap and candle 
 biz. 
 
 While fisherman, with basket on his arm, 
 Just showed us what perfection in 3. fresh fish truly is ; 
 
 We paid, but do not wish him any harm. 
 
OUR TEADESPEOPLE— ESPECIALLY THE BUTCHER. 161 
 
 Now come I to the butcher, whose cognomen queer is 
 Chumps, 
 
 A name on marble headstone to be graved, 
 Should he persist in bringing raw material in lumps 
 
 At which e'en Job, the patient, would have raved. 
 
 That is, if he as carver had attempted to divide 
 Such chunks with bony framework still intact. 
 
 Till drenched in perspiration, gravy-splashed, and angry- 
 eyed. 
 He spouted verbal lava as he hacked. 
 
 I seldom swear at table ; but upon a catapult 
 
 I've fixed my mental optics, and will buy 
 A missile hurling engine and then call on Chumps to halt,. 
 
 His occipital density to try 
 
 With tough unjointed section of a badly slaughtered sheep — 
 
 I do not carve with wood-axe, so 'twill be 
 A chain-shot class projectile that will floor him in a heap 
 
 While jurymen at inquest must agree 
 
 That, far from being murder, it was simply butcher-cide — 
 
 Exasperating creatures we should kill ; 
 Then add, " You've earned our thanks, sir, so just please 
 to step outside, 
 
 We've clubbed our fees to treat you, and we will." 
 
 20^ 
 
162 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 VeaOAHT GBBEH A«0 THE CBOW. 
 
 A Story for the Boys. 
 
 Young Verdant Green saddled his horse at the rail. 
 
 Saddle and bridle and crupper were new, 
 Brand new were his breastplate and surcingle, 
 
 While Verdant himself might well pass for that, too ; 
 His spurs had no speck and were long in the neck. 
 
 His leggings and suit they were all above par, 
 But just then a crow — who appeared in the know — 
 Croaked mockingly, " Ah-r-r, 
 You are greener than grass, so you a-r-r." 
 
 Grown dirty, of course, when he'd saddled his horse, 
 
 He brushed off the dust from his sleeves and his boots ; 
 He brushed off the flies, which would cling round his eyes, 
 
 Addressing them thus — "O, you horwible bwoots ! " 
 But here a tame black ambled out with a snack — 
 
 For Verdant would meet with no public-house bar — 
 And waterbag (new), which seem'd dripping with dew , 
 That crow, when he saw it, croaked " A-h-r, 
 It will leak dry before you go f-a-r." 
 
 To saddle's side D his new waterbag he 
 
 And luncheon secured with a stout piece of twine 
 
 He took from his pocket, then mounted grey Rocket 
 In order to visit an old copper mine. 
 
VERDANT GREEN AND THE CROW. 
 
 Then somebody cried, " Take good heed where you ride, 
 For mulgas and myalls bad fingerposts are. 
 
 And often, indeed, green newcomers mislead." 
 
 That crow, as he took wing, croaked, " A-h-r, 
 These new chums are choice snacks, they a-r-r.'' 
 
 The weather was hot, but the flies, a large lot, 
 
 With Verdant elected to go in a cluster. 
 And though he objected, no chance they neglected 
 
 In all his moist cuticle's crannies to muster. 
 Not nearly all fun was that ride in the sun. 
 
 And Verdant Green's feelings received quite a jar 
 When, from a dead mulga, with air rude and vulgar. 
 That crow gave an insolent " A-h-r, 
 I'll have you my tit-bit, a-h-r." 
 
 Then somehow or other, perhaps from the bother 
 
 Our Verdant endured from that crow and those flies, 
 He got off the track and then could not get back, 
 
 Though cantering Rocket to rise after rise. 
 To see something hoping, the next moment moping 
 
 Till, ah ! he is certain he hears a sheep's ba-a ; 
 Then hastens to find it, and he who may mind it, 
 
 'Tis that fiend crow that greets him " A-h-r, 
 You are lost now, you fool, yes, you a-r-r." 
 
 That greets him with " r," and a grating " e-r " 
 Tacked on to the first " r," confound him. 
 
 Though Green fears the worst, and is certainly lost. 
 How h&'djump on that vile crow and pound him. 
 
164 RE-BCHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The hideous thing, like an imp on the wing, 
 With eye gleaming out from a setting of tar, 
 
 It gloats o'er his pain, and again and again 
 
 Just settles to greet him with, " A-h-r, 
 
 You are bound to be crow's meat, you a-r-r." 
 
 Now Rocket, who's not in condition to trot 
 
 And canter for ever and ever on end, 
 Just feels like a log, and at last will not jog, 
 
 Though drumstick-like spurs are now plied by our friend. 
 A terrible fix — one of Satan's own tricks — 
 
 And Verdant Green thinks how his pa and his ma 
 Will weep for their cherished and loved heir, who perished. 
 That crow, all exultant, croaks, " A-h-r, 
 /'// have you before your ma-m-a." 
 
 The horse at last stops, and our innocent drops 
 
 From saddle to ground by old Rocket to think ; 
 But think he can-not, nor one landmark can spot, 
 
 So clutches his bag just to have a big drink. 
 He'll have a big drink- — he of luncheon don't think — 
 
 But, ah ! the bag's dry- — as I hear deserts are — 
 The constant drip, dripping, has left not one sip in. 
 That crow, like a demon, croaks, " K-\\-x, 
 You are ready for picking, you a-r-r." 
 
 I wish you would die, so I'd have by-and-bye 
 
 Your optics, and those of old Rocket's, of course ; 
 
 I dote on fresh eyes, and a corpse is a prize 
 I greatly prefer to dead bullock or horse.'' 
 
THE TALE OF A TERRIBLE TRAP. 165 
 
 But, ah, what is that? " Tis the stockrider's hat, 
 And stockrider under it — Oh, what a jar 
 
 Is this for the crow — and, as homeward they go. 
 
 He grinds out the ghost of his former " A-h-r — 
 A woebegone, gizzard-wrung, r-r r." 
 
 iT 
 
 THE TAtE OP A THBRtBt^E TRAP. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 Come, reader, with me to Lake Torrens' border — 
 A labyrinth lonely — where scrub is the order 
 On Nature's brown face, like infectious disorder 
 
 On childhood's unfortunate cuticle. 
 For bush-covered sandhills run closely together, 
 And spines will intrude till you scarcely know whether 
 You won't have to take to twin garments of leather. 
 
 When prickles and mulga sticks you tickle. 
 
 The sun is declining but still brightly shining, 
 
 When, hark ! by that black oak, what can it be whining ? 
 
 Or rather, what can they I for I am opining 
 
 It comes from two singular creatures. 
 But just as I'm speaking a curious squeaking 
 Joins in, like a chorus, so let us be seeking 
 The gifted performers. Ah ! see, they are sneaking — 
 
 Sleek dingoes with lupuline features ! 
 
166 RE-ECHOES FHOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And there, on the sandy soil, sprawling quite handy, 
 Crawl litter of puppies, all blunt-nosed and bandy, 
 Around a large lizard that once was a dandy 
 
 Too festive, perhaps, for a saurian ; 
 But now 'tis affecting to see them dissecting 
 The luckless old berdna,^ sharp scales not protecting 
 His inward formation from those now inspecting 
 
 It, well, by the method Ccesarean. 
 
 The student insisters — fond brothers and sisters — 
 Sweet tempers are showing, as if they had blisters 
 On tenderest places ; for though they're not Jisters 
 
 They worry each other delightfully ; 
 But maybe 'tis only a thirsting for knowledge 
 Which makes them so eager, in Nature's own college 
 To study minutely, in this their dog's doll age. 
 
 The creature they fight for so spitefully. 
 
 But, ah ! there's another not happy — the mother — 
 Who glares at her hubby as if she could smother 
 Or wipe him out quickly by some means or other ; 
 
 What has he been doing, I wonder ? 
 From queer glances flying, not what they are saying, 
 I'm pretty well certain he well deserves flaying ; 
 And no doubt from virtue's strict path some vile straying 
 
 Has married love managed to sunder. 
 
 Some ladies, I fancy, are causelessly jealous, 
 But not so this female ; for Frisk is too zealous 
 In sylvan seclusion — his conscience grown callous — 
 To get in once more her good graces. 
 
 1. Berdna — Iguana. 
 
THE TALE OF A TERRIBLE TRAP. 167 
 
 Through pond he wants dragging, for see how he's wagging 
 His fine furry brush while she's shrewishly nagging : 
 He won't even hint that she well deserves gagging ; 
 Yes, guilt in his rascally face is ! 
 
 Yet though we should clout him, there's something about 
 
 him 
 A deal to his credit, howe'er we misdoubt him — 
 His equable temper ! Why, nothing will flout him, 
 
 Or make him less jaunty and festive ; 
 But, ah ! he is going — that lava a.je flowing 
 Has made things too sultry — and now there's no knowing 
 What Frisky intends, but of wild oats the sowing 
 
 His actions are more than suggestive. 
 
 Lupe, dropping her tail and her bristles together, 
 To litter retreats in great doubt as to whether 
 Her Frisky may ever return to his tether — 
 
 She may have been /us( a bit hasty ! 
 But all about buppa^ — though anxious to drown them — 
 We'll leave with the longing that some one may crown 
 
 them 
 With martyrdom gory e'er summer can brown them. 
 
 How Chang would enjoy them iri pasty ! 
 
 As damp are the sandhills from late fallen shower 
 Our dingo is shunning each rain-laden bower. 
 Because — quite per contra to buttercup's flower — 
 He thinks a dry coat the most dandy ; 
 
 1. All the puppies, tuppa meaning the young of anything. 
 
168 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 So, mischief in view, he is merrily tripping 
 Where pearls of pure water lend each leaf a tipping. 
 Just musing on lambkins, which ought to be skipping 
 Round crabholes — for playgrounds so handy. 
 
 But never a lambkin is there about playing. 
 
 Or tasty marsupial Frisk may be slaying ; 
 
 No staggering calf, no old nanny-goat straying 
 
 To furnish a dingo with dinner ; 
 But little his thinking of eating or drinking — 
 Such pleasures, at best, are but equal to rinking — 
 Oh, theris something rather more tempting I'm thinking ; 
 
 And Frisky does smile — the old sinner. 
 
 By newly-built fence a young slut's eyes are shining 
 Above parted mouth, most delightfully whining — 
 At least to our masculine dingo's opining, 
 
 And he is a judge of ability. 
 Two velvety ears — that are flirting too knowingly — 
 And lithe slender body, which bends about flowingly. 
 Compels Master Frisky to wiggle most wooingly 
 
 And caper to show his agility. 
 
 But here I declare that with sorrow and sadness 
 I view the false Frisky's expressions of gladness — 
 His sposa at home ! Why it really is badness 
 
 Quite counter to honour's commanding. 
 But ears when not hearing and eyes when not seeing 
 Are never offended ; and so in his spreeing 
 With sophistry's maxims is always agreeing — 
 
 Our rascal too well understanding. 
 
THE TALE OF A TERRIBLE TRAP. 169 
 
 His wicked old nose to the nose of the stranger 
 
 Trisk lovingly thrusts, not imaging danger 
 
 Is lurking behind him now — thanks to Joe Grainger — 
 
 His tail marks dread peril's diameter : 
 A terrible trap with a newly filed trigger 
 And powerful jaws, which would hold a wild nigger 
 Or leave him, at best, but a lame-legg'd figure — 
 
 What Mr. Muldoon calls a lameter ! 
 
 An impudent leer Frisky gives and a wriggle, 
 To which the young lady replies with a giggle ; 
 Thus causing our sad dog his thick brush to wiggle — 
 
 A motion in prudence most wanting. 
 For just where it popp'd on the smooth sand delusive 
 A trigger is sprung — an event not conducive 
 To poor dingo's fun — and an ending conclusive 
 
 Is put to his gay galavanting. 
 
 With sharp yells resounding, whose echoes rebounding 
 The parrots dislodge from dark mulgas surrounding. 
 Frisk worries the ieie noir his tail now impounding, 
 
 And even would bite fair Delilah. 
 But, oh, the sharp snap the vile trap made when closing, 
 •So shattered her nerves that they now need composing ; 
 And, see ! a dim vista is rapidly closing 
 
 On temptress — for so we may style her. 
 
 Oh ! why had Frisk's thoughts from his own Lupulina 
 E'er wandered a moment ] Ah ! would that he'd been a 
 Sad exile, like Nap, on the lone St. Helena, 
 So he were well out of this trouble. 
 
170 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But, then, though a long one, his tail is a strong one ;; 
 And, oh, its detainer is really the wrong one 
 To part from a victim, whatever the wrong done— 
 And so there's an end to the bubble 
 
 Of heart-cheering hope that deludes e'en while flattering,- 
 For fate, deaf to prayer or blue adjective scattering. 
 Is down upon Frisky, in spite of the smattering 
 
 He has of cho ce terms of invective. 
 So, howling and springing, or on the ground flinging, 
 His sand bespoiled body does nought towards bringing 
 His out-back extension from gin to its clinging — 
 
 He'll soon be a shingle defective ! 
 
 Frisk tries to bolt off but his tail gives due warning 
 
 Of tethers length reached, which he cannot be scorning — 
 
 Oh ! nought can he now do by scheming or fawning, 
 
 For he is in grip inexorable. 
 He raves and he swears in a dingo's wild fashion 
 When freezing with fright or o'erboiling with passion. 
 His captor is steel sans all fear or compassion — 
 
 His plight it is simply deplorable. 
 
 But, ah ! there's a beaming of comfort still gleaming: 
 Not hopeless his case — as it looked at iirst seeming — 
 And Frisk may escape yet by means of some scheming — 
 
 The trap has green. hide for a tether! 
 And then, though his musical-box may be bleeding. 
 His teeth are in order for biting and feeding. 
 And now gnaw a spring which, by sHpping, is leading 
 
 Directly to makings of leather. 
 
THE TALE OF A TERRIBLE TRAP. 171 
 
 But how long would leather and hide put together 
 Resist Frisky's grinders ? And now he thinks whether 
 He will or he will not expose to the weather 
 
 His quarters — like fox in the fable ! 
 But soon his fierce snapping results in deep gapping, 
 And severs completely the hide's double lapping ; 
 When, gaining his freedom — at least from the strapping — 
 
 He once more for running is able. 
 
 Like freshly slipped greyhound our Frisky is bounding, 
 Pursued by the trap, with an uproar resounding ; 
 Their speed from the jump-off is truly astounding 
 
 All records for time they are breaking. 
 Don't talk of a cur with an ending in kettle ; — 
 One ne'er ran before with a tithe of Frisk's mettle. 
 For he, in addition to hardest of fettle, 
 
 Has glutton the pace to be making ! 
 
 A runaway train down steep incline careering, 
 Or zebra, fierce lion's loud roar after hearing, 
 Might travel, but not as friend Frisky is clearing — 
 
 Or trying to clear — from the -evil 
 Persuader behind ; for how scrubby no matter 
 May sandhill or plain be, he runs like a hatter, 
 The trap bounding after with soul-scaring clatter ; 
 
 " Eclipse '' he'd eclipse on the level. 
 
 By sad chance, indeed, not of fugitives seeking, 
 A bee-line Frisk makes for his puppies all squeaking. 
 Where wife of his bosom — too sulky for speaking — 
 Is restlessly strolling quite near 'em. 
 
172 EE-KCHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Like horrible chain-shot in startled air flashing, 
 Or broadside of brickbats through bow windows crashing, 
 The engine and Frisk of iive puppies make a hashing, 
 Ere Lupe from their onslaught could clear 'em. 
 
 A loss, by-the-bye, man ! for no mutton-pie man 
 Is there to convert them to pies in his high can ; 
 Or sausage — the primest of German — ^by sly plan ; 
 
 Frisk now is not careful of trifles ! 
 Lupe gives him one glance full of anger and sorrow, 
 Then thinks on the wigging.he'll wince at to-morrow, 
 While wondering wherefor that thing he should borrow — 
 
 They've vanish'd like bullets from rifles. 
 
 Now mile after mile, and still going like winking. 
 Frisk makes all the running to stall off the clinking 
 Opponent of steel, while he's constantly thinking 
 
 It owes to old Nick its paternity. 
 But never will Frisky that dead-sticker shake off, 
 Or, after re-weighing, the extra weight take off; 
 He cannot pull up, from the course he can't make off — 
 
 He's handicapp'd now for eternity. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Now, benedicts all, when you leave your fond spouses 
 Don't visit queer friends in their shady town houses. 
 And where — in the vulgar tongue — often such rows is. 
 Or trouble you'll suffer 'tis certain ! 
 
THE TALE OF A TEREIBLE TRAP. 17S 
 
 And do not go leering at servant girls pretty, 
 Whatever their names be — Jane, Martha, or Kitty ; 
 Unless you would find, when you're home from the city, 
 Hot coffee and lectures called curtain ! 
 
 So gentlemen all, from my story take warning 
 And do not its fine moral lesson be scorning. 
 Or sooner or later you'll understand pawning 
 
 And emulate " Old Mother Hubbard." 
 For though Frisky's friend did so suddenly vanish. 
 You might get entangled with some hard to banish. 
 Who'd cling with persistence you'd find far too clannish. 
 
 And skeletons leave in your cupboard. 
 
 Then think, too, of time when your dim earthly taper 
 Is blown out by death, and on Styx bank you vapour — 
 I mean your vexed shade — and with many a caper 
 
 Try hard to gain Charon's attention ! 
 While he, poleing on, with his craft leaking badly — 
 Which, sinking or no, you would occupy gladly — 
 Will leave you behind him to think over sadly 
 
 Those sins which I scarcely need mention. 
 
 And you, married ladies — to men so superior — 
 Don't make for dear husbands too hot the interior 
 Of cottage or mansion, if once they are beery, or 
 
 Glance at the fair who so try men. 
 For though even temper'd they are at first starting 
 And love you sincerely, continual smarting 
 From lingual caustic often ends in the parting 
 
 Of bonds — both of love and of hymen ! 
 
174 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And readers, remember, each pater and mater 
 Such misgoverned doings will, sooner or later. 
 Incite to like conduct the cubs in your crater — 
 
 Your children, who share your society. 
 For infantile minds are as wax for receiving, 
 And steel for retaining, impressions, which cleaving 
 Through all after life may result in deceiving 
 
 Their owners re perfect propriety. 
 
 iT 
 
 SOtlG OF THE FAB UOBTH UhlU 
 
 AFTER HOOD. 
 
 With action weary and spent. 
 
 With eyeballs sunken and dull, 
 Four shambling, ghostlike horses strive 
 
 A lumbering coach to pull. 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 
 In terrible scorching clime. 
 Oh ! fain would stop each poor struggling nag 
 For hasty bite from a feeding bag 
 
 And moment's breathing time. 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 'Midst sweltering, shadeless bush ; 
 
 And drag I drag ! drag ! 
 While /ar« behind must push. 
 
SONG OF THE FAR NORTH MAIL. 175 
 
 'Twere better in a cart — 
 To ride with the knacker's man — 
 
 Where horses have ever to take a part 
 'When jpast cab, coach, or van ! 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 Though long their strength has failed. 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 iBy merciless whip-thong wealed. 
 Plain and sideling and creek, 
 -Creek and sideling and plain, 
 
 And over the gutters they stagger weak. 
 The end of the stage to gain. 
 
 -Oh ! mail with letters fraught ! 
 
 Oh ! mail that hurries and drives ! 
 No senseless leather you're wearing out, 
 But hapless creatures' lives. 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 In suffering, hunger, and grime ; 
 
 Away up here in the dreary North 
 Horse-killing is no crime ! 
 
 Oh ! death would be glad escape 
 
 To suffering frames of bone. 
 Which crawling on, in skeleton shape, 
 
 Would melt a heart of stone — 
 Would melt a heart of stone 
 
 To think of the pain they know. 
 Oh ! shame that horses thus should starve, 
 
 Though far from mead or mow. 
 
176 KE-ECHOES FROM COOKDAMBO. 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 The whipcord never flags 
 
 While a man for wages still will ply 
 The scourge on those wretched nags. 
 
 A hayless yard and a barren plain — 
 Starvation everywhere — 
 
 From well alone can they get their fill,. 
 And oftentimes not there. 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 A weary stage and long. 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 Urged on by ruthless thong, 
 
 Creek and sideling and plain, 
 Plain and sideling and creek, 
 
 Till staggering gait and drooping headi 
 Of sheer prostration speak. 
 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 With the noonday sun too bright, 
 And drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 Through suffocating night. 
 
 Till Larry falls asleep, 
 To wake with a sudden start. 
 
 As they soon know by the whip's sharp crack 
 And " long oats " burning smart. 
 
 Oh ! for a hearty feed 
 
 Of lucerne or hay so sweet, 
 Or e'en the town nag's bed 
 
 Down-trodden 'neath his feet — 
 
SONG OF THE FAR NORTH MAIL, .177 
 
 For only one short week, 
 
 In rural rude brush shed, 
 With portly cow and the plough nag sleek, 
 
 Where once, perchance, they fed . 
 
 Oh ! for a respite brief 
 
 From galling collar and whip. 
 From sweat-soaked trace and bit and rein, 
 
 And dusty toilsome trip ; 
 A little feeding would give them heart — 
 
 But pity nought avails : 
 There is nofeedlox those starving steeds,* 
 
 Gaunt slaves of Her Majesty's mails. 
 
 With action weary and spent. 
 
 With eyeballs sunken and dull. 
 Four shambling, ghost-like horses strive 
 
 A lumbering coach to pull. 
 Drag ! drag ! drag ! 
 In terrible scorching clime. 
 
 Oh ! fain would stop each poor struggling nag 
 
 For hasty bite from a feeding bag, 
 And moment's breathing time ! 
 
 * Note. — These verses were written in 1878, "when the horses runnimg the 
 Blininan mail had to subsist on what they could pick up on country where 
 sheep were sta/rmng^ the consequence oftentimes being that animals starting on 
 a stage had to be turned out to die before the next changing place would be 
 reached. The whole business was characterised by horrible brutality, as the 
 whip had to be constantly kept going to get eren a walk or jog out of the 
 wretched beasts. The verses appeared in The Eegiater newspaper, and were 
 the means of calling the attention of the authorities to the matter— much to the 
 horses' advantage. — E.B. 
 
178 BE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 AVEHNUS m An ATTtC. 
 
 The day had been a record one ; 
 
 And all within the city 
 Admitted they were overdone 
 Through baking in the burning sun ; 
 
 Sweat drench'd were they and gritty. 
 
 And now in tarry-smelling street 
 
 They wearily did wander ; 
 Perchance hot maidens fair to meet, 
 Or hot acquaintances to treat, 
 
 Where "cits" their money squander. 
 
 I pryed not into their affairs, 
 
 But entered certain portals ; 
 Then, mounting darksome grimy stairs, 
 Unknowing " Burford,"* much less " Pears," 
 
 I interviewed queer mortals. 
 
 In shadow-haunted barn-like room. 
 
 Where printers' ghosts might revel. 
 And where, amidst the midnight gloom, 
 When foreman did for copy fume. 
 Had flitted Printer's Devil. 
 
 *"Burford," theS.A. " Pears," the fragrance of whose factory is a scent 
 of beauty and a Joy for ever. 
 
AVBRNTJS IN AN ATTIC. 179 
 
 But now, in linotyping days, 
 
 With type-pots pewter melting, 
 Three Jobbers stood beside their trays — 
 All faintly seen 'neath gas-jet rays — 
 
 Devoid of trews or belting. 
 
 For, furnace-like, that attic's heat 
 Near held those comps in fusion : 
 
 And though they garbed were to their feet, 
 
 I nearly beat a swift retreat 
 In virgin-like confusion. 
 
 Their dress was strictly decolette — 
 
 An apron hung before, sir, 
 With one behind — which seemed to me 
 From savage state scarce one degree — 
 
 I would not be unkind, sir. 
 
 Yet I remarked to apron'd man, 
 
 " Your suit is truly breezy, 
 And fitted for the frying-pan. 
 Will fizzle soul of erring man. 
 
 For here you seem quite easy." 
 
 That comp remarked, " This is not hell. 
 Though, should you stay one minute, 
 You'll conjure up a brimstone smell. 
 With demon forms your fears to swell, 
 Until you'll swear you're in it." 
 
180 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 I did not wait a moment ! No ! 
 
 But to the street returning, 
 Had cooling B. and soda go ; 
 Then mused upon the fires below 
 
 Which are for ever burning. 
 
 LATER. 
 
 Next morning in that grimy floor 
 Those comps were soaked for evermore. 
 Yes ! there they lay in perfect peace — 
 Six aprons and three spots of grease ! 
 
 ir 
 
 THE WPE or THE UVERY HORSE. 
 
 I once was a frolicsome foal, 
 
 Presumably sleek as a mole. 
 But age, as with men, 
 Brought its troubles and then 
 
 I did not fare well on the whole. 
 
 No ! during a drought I near died, 
 And poverty speckled my hide ; 
 Then, once broken in, 
 Rough, girth-gall'd, and thin. 
 They call'd me a duffer to ride ! 
 
THE LITE OF THE LIVERY HOESE. 181 
 
 The consequence was I next found 
 Myself for Metropolis bound, 
 
 Curtailed to a cob 
 
 In a weedy cull mob ; 
 Then sold in the ring for a pound- 
 
 On cab-stand I stood for a while 
 To earn cabby sixpence per mile, 
 
 But did not grow fat 
 
 On the proceeds, for that 
 Is not quite a cab horse's style. 
 
 I pass'd on to Letting-out man, 
 And then 'twas I really began 
 
 To know what toil meant, 
 
 When long journeys I went 
 As only a hired horse can. 
 
 I might have been fairly well fed — 
 Have often turned litter for bed — 
 
 But when on the road 
 
 With a " larrikin " load, 
 I'd reason to wish myself dead ; 
 
 They'd paid their half quid for the day 
 And meant their blank oath to be gay, 
 
 So I was kept going 
 
 With sweat ever flowing 
 En route for the Hills ot the Bay ; 
 
182 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 At pub troughs they'd stop me to drink — 
 Each seeming for liquor a sink — 
 
 And then every bloke 
 
 On the road with a moke 
 They'd pass, as they'd say, "in a wink." 
 
 With nostrils distended and set. 
 
 With turned hair all salt-grime and sweat, 
 
 I'd stagger at night 
 
 In deplorable plight, 
 Brief respite from torture to get ! 
 
 What wonder then is it my knees 
 O'er hang by say forty degrees ; 
 
 The windgalls below 
 
 As I painfully go 
 To Minchin* for permanent ease. 
 
 *The Curator of the Adelaide Zoo. 
 
 hovu m A ctttracH. 
 
 A WELSH STORY FOUNDED ON HARD FACT. 
 
 One summer's morning, piously intent. 
 
 To Ruthlin Church the Circuit Judges went — 
 
LOVE IN A CHURCH. 183 
 
 A proper precedent to show, and leaven 
 Forensic lore with that which leads to heaven ; 
 And this, with psalmody and fervid prayer, 
 The pro. tem. parson deftly sandwiched there, 
 While Legal Limbs a pathway to the skies 
 Devoutly traced with rooftree searching eyes ; 
 But were their thoughts in unison ? Who cares ? 
 The " Devil's Own " may dodge the devil's snares : 
 So let them listen, or in slumber lurch — 
 My therne is love, conceived and urged in Church. 
 
 A tourist gay, who, prodigal of money. 
 
 The verger tips well, sits this morning sunny 
 
 To mark, to learn, and inwardly digest 
 
 The points of doctrine fervently expressed 
 
 By pious clergyman in surplice white, 
 
 Who oft before has guided souls aright ; 
 
 But now I fear his periods will fall 
 
 On stranger's ears, yet not his thoughts enthrall. 
 
 For summer nymph — white muslin robed and bright — 
 
 In pew adjacent captivates his sight. 
 
 In tumult wild his pulses all are toss'd ; 
 
 He looks ! he sighs ! all else to him is lost ; 
 
 By Hymen tied, right soon that maiden fair 
 
 Shall fondly love him and enjoy his care ; 
 
 His arms alone shall clasp that taper waist. 
 
 No lips save his her honeyed kisses taste — 
 
 Of course, excepting hug and kiss paternal ; 
 
 Of female relatives, and calm fraternal. 
 
 A sweet monopoly, for sure is he 
 
 By sighing swain unclasp'd, unkiss'd, is she. 
 
184 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But, oh, my brethren, we too have been 
 In love — as he is — and perhaps as green ! 
 
 Yes, archer small has winged a cunning shaft 
 That, freshly feathered, now impales the heart 
 Of scented swell — in latest thing by Poole — 
 Who looks, perhaps, but is not quite a fool. 
 To goddess fair impetuous he'd fly. 
 Be blest for ever or, rejected, die. 
 He checks the impulse for, on shining wings. 
 Kind inspiration comfort to him brings. 
 Oh, happy thought ! By Jupiter, 'twill do ! 
 His costly Bible opens to his view — 
 Its rustling pages flutter 'neath his hand — 
 His scheme, dear reader, you shall understand. 
 " The very thing !" Verse five he hghts upon 
 Of second letter of Apostle John : 
 
 " And I thy servant do beseech thee. Miss — 
 No new commandment, I maintain, is this — 
 For from the first it was ordained that we 
 Should love each other, that is, you and me I " 
 With marking pin the passage he impales, 
 Then hands the volume o'er the polished rails 
 To pride of Cambria — of course the maid — 
 Who takes it from him, with expression staid ; 
 While much she wonders, till with woman's wit 
 For problem strange she finds solution fit. 
 Then, quite resolving that the ardent youth 
 Is rich and handsome, seeks the Book of Ruth, 
 
LOVE IN A CHURCH. 18 & 
 
 Verse tenth, chap, second, which sustains the case, 
 As instanc'd here : " She, falling on her face, 
 To Boaz said," with no mock modest sound, 
 " Why in thine eyes have I such favour found. 
 And la stranger 1" Here the book again 
 She gives to that infatuated swain, 
 While conscious glances, stealing from her eyes, 
 Shame softest sunshine from sweet summer skies, 
 
 Which makes him feel How i I can scarcely tell,. 
 
 Though youthful lovers know the feeling well. 
 
 For, oh, he finds sensations round his heart 
 
 Of keenest pleasure — yet with painful smart. 
 
 And now, he murmurs, " She is mine, indeed ;" 
 
 Yet seeks the third and last of John with speed. 
 
 Which, having found, he gives to maiden's view ; 
 
 And here its paraphrase I hand to you : 
 
 " To thee so many things I have to write 
 
 That don't you think, love, we should meet to-night. 
 
 Or after service, so that, face to face, 
 
 I then can urge — and yoa can hear — my easel" 
 
 She reads the verse, returning him a look, 
 
 While still in pawn she keeps that useful book — 
 
 A happy omen in her lover's eyes, 
 
 For Paradise is seen through cloudless skies. 
 
 Not lovely only is the fair, but kind ; 
 
 Then farewell fear, let rapture flood his mind. 
 
 The sheriff nods, the judges rappee take. 
 And cough and sneeze to keep themselves awake ; 
 While wakeful wives oft nudge their heavy spouses, 
 Who, dosing off, would warble through their noses. 
 
186 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 On vagrant butterfly the children's eyes 
 Are keenly fixed, as overhead it flies 
 To hunt for honey in deceitful flowers 
 That nothing owe to sunshine or to showers, 
 But flits at last through window to the fields. 
 While glibly still his tongue the parson wields ; 
 For earnestly, yet all devoid of cant. 
 He strongly urges, though he does not rant ; 
 Brings light of reference from writ divine 
 On sermon's subject to intensely shine ; 
 His words out-gushing in a saintly flow. 
 Till hungry magistrates impatient grow 
 For tasty luncheon — cooked the day before 
 Lest his dark Majesty a point might score. 
 " Lastly, my brethren ! " to this a sigh 
 Of soft relief makes eloquent reply : 
 Soul-saving sermons satisfy the mitid, 
 But Nature's cravings still a salve must find ! 
 
 At lovely maid our hero steals a glance. 
 And meets — oh, rapture — hers by merest chance. 
 'Tis quick averted, while each pearl-shell ear 
 And swan-like neck in " blush rose " hues appear ; 
 These, like the tints on springtide landscape bright, 
 Lend added charms, and crown the swain's delight. 
 
 With gentle bang the parson shuts the book ; 
 His sermon closes, and with fervid look 
 Implores a blessing on his flock, who now 
 Their lowered heads in solemn worship bow, 
 
LOVE IN A CHUECH. 187 
 
 That is, they're buttoning their gloves and tying 
 "Young hopefuls' hats, who, near with hunger dying, 
 Are all impatient from their seats to go, 
 As is the lady and her handsome beau — 
 At least the beau is, though 1 fear I err 
 About the belle ; too well bred she by far 
 
 ■ To wish the moments fleeter than before, 
 •Or one step near Ruthlin's old church door. 
 
 The blessing said, with loud resounding swell 
 ' The organ's tones the sacred building fill. 
 While crowded audience, with decent pace, 
 Pervade the aisles and slowly leave the place. 
 ' The plebs move first and from the portals go — 
 To leave their seats their betters are more slow — ■ 
 They wait till aisles from concourse shall be free. 
 Then issue forth to sail majestically 
 Through shady porch to where a dapper page 
 
 ■ Or footman stands by stylish equipage ; 
 
 They take their places and, with conscious pride, 
 To mansion old or modern villa ride. 
 
 Now, gentle reader, you expect I'll tell 
 • Of meeting transports of our beau and belle, 
 
 But there you err ; some other bard may sing 
 
 Of wedding breakfast, and that sort of thing. 
 
 One crumb of comfort only I can fling — 
 ,He paid the jeweller, she wore the ring ! 
 
188 EE-ECHOBS PROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THH UWn Of A WOHKmG BtJt^LOCK. 
 
 A pretty young bull calf, red spotted, and sleek, 
 
 Is sporting with other calves small, 
 Which merrily race by a shady gum creek, 
 
 Unheeding each cow's loving call. 
 They flourish their tails in the ambient air. 
 
 They battle each other in sport ; 
 For little they're thinking of trouble or care, 
 
 Or anything else of the sort. 
 
 But lurking hard fortune is near as they play. 
 
 For stockkeeper, stockwhip in hand. 
 On cunning old stockhorse soon drives them away 
 
 To suffer by knife and by brand. 
 For 'tis to the station-yard now they all go — 
 
 By more they are joined on the way — 
 And echoes are ringing to whip crack and low, 
 
 This general mustering day. 
 
 Our careless young calf — as rude lesson in life — 
 Discovers the nature of pain. 
 
 For cruel thongs cut through his skin like a knife- 
 When weary he lags on the plain. 
 
 He hastens his pace with a dolorous bleat — 
 He learns that he should not delay ; 
 
 That loitering business he will not repeat- 
 But keep up the rest of the way. 
 
THE LIFE OF A WORKING BULLOCK. 189 
 
 -Now shut in a pen are the calves from the cows, 
 
 Which to them incessantly low, 
 While red flames are leaping from crooked gum boughs 
 
 Round brands that are soon at red glow. 
 Past ponderous post runs a lariat small. 
 With noose on the innermost end — 
 
 This, active young bushmen are waiting to haul, 
 -And Branders' sharp call to attend. 
 
 Now loose loop is hanging from far-reaching stick — 
 
 Our calf he is noosed by the neck, 
 And impotent all is each struggle and kick 
 
 The tide of his troubles to check. 
 Enraged and astonished he bellows aloud, 
 
 His tail is in torturing hands ; 
 Hauled in is the rope by that cynical crowd, 
 
 And he a close prisoner stands. 
 
 Then leg-rope on hind foot they speedily cast 
 
 And strain it to topmost yard rail ; 
 In similar fashion a fore they make fast, 
 
 Then drag him to ground by the tail. 
 .Now held is his head 'neath a stockkeeper's knee, 
 
 While overseer — not at all tender — 
 Leans over his flank, and our calf soon will be 
 
 A case of non-mischievous gender. 
 
 -And now on his hide with a red hissing brand 
 
 A cypher or number they sear ; 
 Then angle or curve by unfaltering hand 
 
 Is cut from a quivering ear. 
 
190 RB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 His eyes and his nostrils with filthy dust fill, 
 
 His coat it hath many a smear ; 
 Cast loose are his fetters by Harry or Bill, 
 
 And he starts on the life of a steer. 
 
 While time for our bullock has hurried away, 
 Hishfe of the freest has been, 
 
 For camped in cool creeks he has passed each hot day- 
 Has fed 'neath the bonny star's sheen. 
 
 His horns are wide spread, with a threatening curve 
 His limbs they are brawny and strong, 
 
 And one day his owner is heard to observe — 
 " I'll rope that big steer before long?" 
 
 Our sturdy, wild steer in a yard strong and high 
 
 Now circles like lion in cage. 
 And tosses his head at his enemies nigh, 
 
 While pawing up dust in his rage. 
 But soon some old cynical slaves of the yoke 
 
 Are turned in — as shelter designed — 
 The motions of man with the lassoo to cloak. 
 
 And safety from danger to find. 
 
 By noose, round his great horns, he's lassoed again- 
 
 He bellows and plunges around ; 
 This only increases his trouble and pain — 
 
 Each strand of that rope it is sound. 
 Like deep-rooted rock he then stubbornly stands,. 
 
 His lolling tongue swollen and white ; 
 The lariat strains from strong, pitiless hands — 
 
 'Tis passive resistance — not fight. 
 
THE LIFE OF A WORKING BULLOCK. 191 
 
 But, given his head, he is bounding once more ; 
 
 The roping-stick goads him, and then 
 The rocky brown hilltops re-echo his roar. 
 
 This means but a laugh for the men, 
 Who, hauling the lariat hand over hand — 
 
 As quick as he gallops almost — 
 That blustering bullock is brought to a stand 
 
 With his head drawn tight to a post. 
 
 Then surly old worker — huge, cunning, and strong — 
 
 Stands closely the captive beside, 
 And short swivel chain by a newly-cut thong 
 
 To base of the steer's horns is tied ; 
 Connected 'tis then to long-suffering neck 
 
 Of "Ranger," with pliable rope ; 
 And henceforth the peace of our friend is a wreck, 
 
 And he a dumb slave without hope. 
 
 His burly big bondsmate he rushes around — 
 
 Such vagaries will not be borne — 
 He'll presently find each obstreporous bound 
 
 Will meet with a punishing horn ; 
 And soon the old giant will lead him away, 
 
 And wear him down into submission : 
 With many wild brothers he's had his own way 
 
 And brought them to servile condition. 
 
 Our bullock now slaves with the road-weary team — 
 
 He rests not in terrible heat ; 
 No meadow for him by a murmuring stream. 
 
 No portion save dust and sore feet. 
 
192 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And should the wheels sink deep in treacherous sands 
 
 He suffers a world of abuse, 
 For heavy thong fells from unmerciful hands, 
 
 Too perfectly trained in its use. 
 
 And so he toils on ; to new masters is sold, 
 
 But never by change does he gain ; 
 No pity he finds, when starved, feeble, and old — 
 
 No respite from whip-thong or chain. 
 But now on a burning hot midsummer day 
 
 The torturing scourge it may fall ; 
 He heeds it no more, for he falls by the way 
 
 And casts off for ever his thrall. 
 
 In sweltering pass, where the wretched beast died. 
 
 There lieth a festering heap. 
 Where skeleton gleams from malodorous hide, 
 
 And beetles — the loathliest — creep. 
 The lithe lizard lurks 'neath his cavernous flank, 
 
 In wait for its sun-loving prey ; 
 While clustering weeds — that scarce hide him — are 
 rank, 
 
 For they fatten on his decay. 
 
 A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT. 
 
 On lonely bushland, silent, parched and brown, 
 A burning flood the torrid sun pours down 
 
LOST. 193 
 
 From brazen sky, where floats no fleecy speck 
 Of kindly cloud t he solar rays to check — 
 Fierce brilliant rays of searching heat and light, 
 Which fry the landscape and afiiict the sight. 
 Till gasping earth and drooping sapless leaf, 
 From thirst protracted, vainly seek relief 
 
 But, ah, before us is a lovely scene — 
 
 Where trees umbrageous form a sylvan screen 
 
 To shining waters of pellucid lake, 
 
 Whose sleeping wavelets no rude winds may wake ; 
 
 While, backing all in semi-circle high, 
 
 Cliffs grandly rise to kiss the glowing sky — 
 
 A vision fair to fascinate the sight 
 
 And fill the weary with a strange delight. 
 
 Like childhood's fairyland that bright illusion 
 Excites the fancy but defies intrusion ; 
 For hasten to it and 'twill swiftly fade. 
 Then, lost in air, the curious evade. 
 While distant mountains in its stead appear, 
 Whose lofty summits pierce the sunlight clear ; 
 And trees, adjacent, which, dejected, stand 
 Like mourning mutes in life-deserted land. 
 
 At range's foot extends an arid plain. 
 Inured to drought and hopeless now of rain. 
 Whose waste-scourged surface of all herbage bare 
 Has leafless saltbush dotted here and there. 
 
194 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 While seeming* smoke ascending all around, 
 With fires imagined, marks the circle's bound — 
 A place it is by savage nature cursed 
 With many a duststorm and enduring thirst. 
 
 Deep silence reigns like that of desert grave, 
 For zephyrs sleep and leaves forget to wave, 
 Though stalking whirlwinds, slender, grey and high, 
 Like pillared smoke-wieaths seek to scale the sky. 
 No bushland denizen relieves the sight. 
 Save soaring eagle in majestic flight, 
 Which watchful wheels in upper fields of air — 
 A dusky speck 'midst universal glare. 
 
 For thirst-urged animals have gone to seek 
 Refreshing streamlet in umbrageous creek — ■ 
 To ruminate and fight the flies until 
 The sinking sun shall touch a western hill. 
 But, ah, a fugitive invades the scene. 
 With hurried step and agitated mien, 
 Who, speeding onward, with suspicion peers 
 As if fierce foes around his path he fears. 
 
 For panic driven has been heart and brain 
 Since speedy rumour told of comrade slain 
 By ruthless savages, whose thirst for gore 
 Would send fresh victims to the Silent Shore. 
 
 * On such a day as I describe one often can fancy that fires are burning all 
 round, "while small objects, say sheep, loom up like camels, and I have often 
 mistaken them for those animals. — R. B. 
 
LOST. 195. 
 
 Himself the first ! That fate he must evade, 
 No matter how, or by what trust betrayed ; 
 And so we see him, like a hunted deer, 
 For safety fleeing to a station near. 
 
 But soon he stops — flings troubled glances round — 
 Then, stung by terror, scans the dusty ground ; 
 For now two tracks his puzzled sight confuse. 
 Each plainly marked, yet which is he to choose % 
 Ah ! which, indeed % But there is none to say 
 While abject panic will not brook delay. 
 On safety's path in doubting mood he strides. 
 Then turns, in haste — 'tis fate for him decides 1 
 
 For as the lost with little thought will do. 
 He treads the pathway plainest to the view ; 
 But danger fraught — like broad enticing one 
 Down which the reckless to destruction run — 
 For chosen track leads outward to the plain 
 Where water is not, save when welcome rain 
 A muddy store to surface pools supplies, 
 Which summer's sun in scorching mood soon dries. 
 
 And now, though fearful lest his footsteps stray. 
 
 The luckless fugitive pursues his way ; 
 
 While dread uncertainty and solar beanis 
 
 Wring blinding sweat from him in briny streams ; 
 
 But heedless all of ev'ry minor pain, 
 
 He looks for succour on that hopeless plain 
 
 Till even flies must yield the palm to fright 
 
 Which dulls the senses and distracts the sight. 
 
196 RE-BCHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The path grows fainter ; branching paths again 
 
 Diverging from it intersect the plain, 
 
 Till even he, whose commonsense seems flown, 
 
 The dusty track a cattle pad must own. 
 
 So turns in haste, but soon the track is left 
 
 For waste of stones, and shrubs of leaves bereft — 
 
 A brown expanse of desolation wild 
 
 O'er which he runs like terror-stricken child. 
 
 What, though the hills which fence the landscape round 
 With landmarks bold, all widely known, abound, 
 Which now would guide him to life-saving track. 
 He heeds them not, but hurries swiftly back ; 
 Unnumbered fears within his breast combine. 
 And Fate, relentless, all his steps incline. 
 He, seeing, sees not, has no power to think — 
 Save of fresh fears and mad desire to drink ! 
 
 To drink! but, ah, his canteen left behind — 
 Where, on that plain, shall he a clear pool find ? 
 Where shall he run ? Where strain his aching sight 
 
 In stifling heat, and all too brilliant light ? 
 
 Where ? Where, indeed ? For save in winding creek, 
 
 'Midst western hills, need he for water seek ; 
 
 But kindly hills may beckon him in vain. 
 
 Who never more shall visit them again ! 
 
 O ye who dwell in England's favoured land. 
 With wealth of water constantly at hand. 
 When from a fountain did ye drink with pleasure, 
 And truly know the value of the treasure ? 
 
LOST. 197 
 
 'Tis always so with blessings cheaply bought, 
 For on their worth men rarely waste a thought ; 
 But let them lose one, be it ne'er so small, 
 'Tis craved for then — pursued and prized by all. 
 
 No longing now has agitated man 
 For purchased pleasures from the frothing can. 
 Ah, no, indeed ! 'Tis o'er the verdant brink 
 Of stream pellucid he would stoop to drink, 
 Till banished thirst allowed his thoughts to stray 
 To potent draught in township far away. 
 For though of wine gay social bards may sing. 
 The truly thirsty long for limpid spring. 
 
 To aggravate the wanderer's despair 
 A rush of pinions agitates the air ; 
 Then, close before him, on a dead bush lights 
 A fiend-like crow, that in his woe delights ; 
 And prophecies, with croak and gleaming eyes. 
 That he — the lost one — soon will be a prize 
 To crows exultant, which on eager wing 
 Will dogs and eagles to the banquet bring. 
 
 That evil thing will haunt him to the last. 
 
 Despite the stones and curses at it cast. 
 
 And gaily gloat, with pantomime and jeer, 
 
 O'er human waif's ungovernable fear. 
 
 While, darting down from dreadful orb of day. 
 
 Flames, as from furnaces, upon him play. 
 
 No gleam of hope his tortured heart may cheer ; 
 
 It finds a hell beyond endurance here. 
 
198 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 By lofty rocks — the wallabies' abode — 
 
 He gains once more the lonely, sylvan road ; 
 
 Again to leave it for the fatal plain, 
 
 Replete (for him) with misery and pain. 
 
 In senseless haste he runs the fatal round, 
 
 Till sinks the sun, with golden glories crowned ; 
 
 And with his train of wide divergent light 
 
 Gives Western Day and leaves the plain to night. 
 
 In breathless terror, crouching on the ground, 
 
 The lost one listens for each bushland sound — 
 
 The great cicada shrieking in the trees. 
 
 And wild dog's howl that mocks the sighing breeze, 
 
 While Oolka boorachie^, devoid of fear. 
 
 Bring added terrors when approaching near ; 
 
 Till scared themselves, by great, round gleaming eyes 
 
 Of hungry night-hawks, bent on furry prize. 
 
 For luckless lost one night no more retains 
 The power to cheer or soothe his burning pains. 
 No shining orb attracts his burning eyes ; 
 They search for morning in the lower skies, 
 While welling tears from long forgotten source 
 Down fevered cheeks pursue their silent course. 
 But worn-out wanderer no more may keep 
 That fearful vigil, and he falls asleep. 
 
 Sleep? Yes ! 'tis sleep! but slumber of the kind 
 
 That seals the eyelids, yet permits the mind 
 
 To be invaded by malignant host, 
 
 Which swarm to conquest from strange dreamland's coast ; 
 
 1. Oolka boorachie — Kanfxaroo rats. 
 
LOST. 199 
 
 A goblin gang of varied terrors they 
 'Midst shades nocturnal hold their evil sway, 
 To pile on gourmands suffocating loads, 
 While spectres prowl in starving Want's abodes. 
 
 In savage guise the visitants appear 
 
 To wretched man who sleeps unhappy there ; 
 
 For huge, swart warriors, in warpaint rage 
 
 Round lonely hut — to him a fatal cage ; 
 
 In lust of blood they shake their jagged spears, 
 
 While horrid yells assail his startled ears ; 
 
 Till, bounding forth, a demon from the band 
 
 To thatch inflammable applies a brand. 
 
 Up springs the blaze and soon, with whirlwind roar. 
 Red leaping flames toward the heavens soar ; 
 And he by torture infinite must die. 
 " Oh, God ! have mercy ! " is his anguished cry. 
 But now, too great his agony, it breaks 
 Dread nightmare's spell. The sufferer awakes 
 To grim reality 'neath midnight sky ; 
 Consumed by thirst — no friend or water nigh ! 
 
 He sleeps no more, but strains his aching sight 
 For creeping rays that herald morning's light. 
 Oh, would that day, so longed for, e'er be born 
 To cheer his heart by mental anguish torn ? 
 Those weary hours seem lengthened into years. 
 Each closely crowded by a lifetime's fears ; 
 Oh, surely. Time with folded pinions stays 
 His onward flight, and cheerful dawn delays. 
 
200 EB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Those dreadful hours of darkness flee at last, 
 And night's black mantle from the scene is cast. 
 In glaring light too soon again 'tis dressed, 
 Yet comfort comes not to the lost one's breast ; 
 He swiftly starts with advent of the dawn 
 Like hunted animal, on way forlorn. 
 Ah ! whither bent ? 'Tis to no haunt of man, 
 But to that fate which yesterday began. 
 
 For now, once more upon that desert plain. 
 He bends his steps in hopelessness and pain ; 
 While, all chaotic, to his frenzied gaze 
 The landscape whirls in strange distempered haze. 
 He laughs aloud, he clasps his burning palms. 
 And in wild ecstasy waves high his arms ; 
 For madness comes in friendly guise to share 
 The awful torments no sane man might bear. 
 
 The sun, implacable, from cloudless path 
 Shoots burning arrows with unbounded wrath, 
 Till heated rocks fling back a sullen glare 
 And mirage vapours mockingly in air. 
 Yet, mutely still to searching fires a prey, 
 The tortured fugitive pursues his way 
 With dragging footsteps, in erratic lines, 
 For to no path his course he now confines. 
 
 From God's poor image, fainting and forlorn. 
 His scanty coverings are slowly torn 
 By trembling hands which heed not what they do. 
 As on the bushes they the garments strew. 
 
LOST. 201 
 
 Till naught remains ; yet still he feebly strays 
 To nudely bear the dreadful solar tays, 
 While, furnace like, its raging flames inpent, 
 With horrid heat his vital chords are rent. 
 
 O'er dreary Torrens' wild and silent shore* 
 The sun descends in cloudless glare once more. 
 Then staggers down that human wreck to die, 
 Unseen by all save Omnipotent Eye. 
 Fear dwells no more in his demented brain ; 
 From him has passed for ever earthly pain ; 
 No dread hath he of fearsome sight or sound. 
 He swooning lies on heated desert ground. 
 
 The solemn Night assumes her silent sway, 
 
 And starry hosts in numberless array 
 
 March slowly past, when Death, with kindly call. 
 
 That fainting spirit liberates from thrall, 
 
 And bids it seek elsewhere a hidden fate 
 
 Of pain eternal, or seraphic state, 
 
 As He shall judge — who judgeth all things well. 
 
 May He have mercy. Wanderer, farewell ! 
 
 * Lake Torrens. — This vast salt pan, a few inches only in depth, and 
 having a perfectly level bed, has an extreme length of 140 miles, by a 
 breadth of 25 miles at its broadest part, with a superficial area of 2,230' 
 square miles. The Lake commences near the head of Spencer's Gulf, 
 South Australia, and lies on the west side of the Flinders Eange, from 
 which it is separated by what are called the Western Plains, a strip of 
 country, say 16 to 20 miles in width, closely crowded with high scrub- 
 covered red sand dunes, which do not look too bad when free from dust- 
 storms, and when viewed from a distance. It is very seldom that water is 
 seen on Lake Torrens, except in small, very boggy creeks round its edges, 
 which are strewed with the skeletons of cattle that in the past have 
 .attempted to save time by crossing over them. The general surface of the 
 Lake is composed of salt grime, having a crust in places capable of carry- 
 
202 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 oaoacHT* 
 
 My doleful theme is long protracted drought, 
 
 That robs the landscape of its verdant charms, 
 
 The anxious squatter of his nightly sleep, 
 
 His flocks of life ; that swells his overdraft, 
 
 Till, like invading host, it sweeps away 
 
 His cash, his credit, all his dreams of wealth, 
 
 And with them, too, a crowd of venal friends ; 
 
 And leaves him stranded on life's shore — a wreck ! 
 
 With vanish'd winter gone are fruitful rains, 
 
 Whose brief beneficence had lately made 
 
 The face of Nature — erst so brown and parched — 
 
 A pleasant picture, bright with varied tints 
 
 Of luscious leafage, and the modest flowers, 
 
 Which bloom not ev'ry year, but only when 
 
 The clouds are most propitious ; gleaming gold, 
 
 Pink, bronze, and blue, with crisp and glist'ning white ; 
 
 These were their colours, which are faded now 
 
 With advent of the spring ; its scorching winds 
 
 And cloudless skies, too bright, have dried the soil, 
 
 And robbed the plants of sustenance, yet still 
 
 ing a horseman, if he is careful, while in others the proverbial dnck — so say 
 the dwellers in the vicinity — would bog. Everywhere, however, a fine blue 
 clay, sticky as birdlime, and saturated with the saltest of brine, lurks im- 
 mediately below the surface, ready for mischief, and woe to cattle or horses 
 that are caught by it. Lake Torrens at its best could never be mistaken 
 for Como or Lucerne, while in periods of drought Gustave Dor^ would not 
 have had to go further for inspiration had he desired to paint the Abomi- 
 nation of Desolation. For over twenty years I traversed the Lake ToiTens 
 sand dunes, and therefore should be able to speak with due appreciation of 
 the great salt sham and its sylvan surroundings. — R.B. 
 
DROUGHT. 203 
 
 The everlastings rustle in the wind 
 
 ■Like spectres sad of happy days and flowers. 
 
 'Farewell to verdure ! to the song of birds ! 
 To lambs' lithe gambols; to the snort and play 
 'Of wanton steeds, that, quite forgetting toil 
 And past starvation, o'er the plains career 
 With thunder waking hoofs and straining nerves. 
 In strength's elation for the leadership. 
 "So healthy boys, by pedagogue released. 
 Race helter skelter o'er the village green, 
 And gaily laugh at childhood's troubles passed, 
 •Unthinking all of troubles yet to come. 
 
 Passed is the busy shearing time ; dispersed 
 
 The roving band of shearers, who have gone 
 
 Like migratory birds to regions south. 
 
 Where still the spring is spring, in garb of green. 
 
 Refreshed by Heaven's sweet rain, which there descends 
 
 With each revolving year ; where grows the vine, 
 
 And yields its clusters to the vintner's press ; 
 
 Where wheat fields wave, where Sabbath bells are heard, 
 
 And gardens flourish, boasting scent and bloom 
 
 E'en in the year's hot prime. With shearers go 
 
 The active rouseabouts, who filled the shed 
 
 With all unwilling sheep ; who rolled and pressed 
 
 The woolly harvest from the eager shears. 
 
 And filled the bales for market. Gone the teams 
 
 Whose bells made musical the frosty nights, 
 
 In which their owners' camp fires brightly blazed 
 
204 KE-ECHOBS FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 By sheltered nooks beneath the whispering trees,. 
 Which told strange stories to their gossip wind ; 
 And now, except for sheepdogs' lusty bark. 
 The station slumbers in its normal calm. 
 
 As deepens fast the landscape's sober grey, 
 
 Evanishes the glad exuberance 
 
 Of animated nature ; fresh shorn sheep 
 
 Once more to trough and waterhole repair 
 
 To quench the thirst dry provender and heat 
 
 Engenders in their vitals — thirst that now 
 
 Will, as Sol's heat increases, still increase, 
 
 And dwell with them till copious rain shall fall. 
 
 November passes, but without the floods 
 
 That sometimes then from thunder clouds descend'! 
 
 To fill the waterholes, which winter's rains. 
 
 Too slowly, gently falling failed to do. 
 
 And so all stock must to the wells repair 
 
 To drink, as did the thirsty flocks of old. 
 
 When Jacob served with Laban to obtain 
 
 The lovely Rachel, and the weak-eyed Leah. 
 
 Thus weeks glide by, the while a few stray, clouds- 
 
 From time to time the firmament invade,. 
 
 To vanish as they form, but, save the shade; 
 
 So pleasant yet so transient, nothing give.- 
 
 To satisfy the craving of the earth 
 
 For one deep draught of all reviving rain. 
 
 Now kindly Christmas comes to hold his court, 
 'Midst sultry glare and ever-present heat ; 
 
DROUGHT. 205 
 
 rBut Still the rites to him are duly paid, 
 Though absent all are blazing fires, the snow, 
 And joyous music of the chimes, which tell 
 'Of peace and gladness from the steeples high 
 »0f dear old England's churches. In their stead 
 Are cloudless skies, a flood of solar heat 
 IPervading all things ; doors and windows thrown 
 To utmost wideness zephyrs to admit, 
 Which bear no coolness on their viewless wings, 
 'Yet still by breathing on sweat-deluged skins 
 Aid those refrigerators ; bring pure air 
 To well-nigh fainting souls, which persevere 
 In urging their perspiring frames to take 
 lln such a store of luscious Christmas lading 
 That they themselves, though lurking in odd corners. 
 Must near be crowded out. And then the tea, 
 Hot, black, and sweetened till the spoon nigh stands 
 Supported by the /luid. How they pour 
 Libations — save the mark ! — down gullets which 
 Have limitless capacities. But now, 
 Is it not Christmas ? Shall the trifling heat — 
 Some ten above the hundred in the s/iade — 
 The cricket match delay ? No ! Pitch the wickets 
 •Out on the station flat, its dust and lumps 
 Will make things lively ; those old tins will do ! 
 Now choose the sides, and if some oily stains 
 'Where fat men stand, at eventide shall mark 
 The places where they melted, be it so ; 
 Si"or Englishmen mus( play the game of cricket, 
 'Or, like great heroes, perish i' the attempt ! 
 
206 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 In January, with its length of day 
 
 And fierce o'ermastering heat, the whirlwinds stalk 
 
 Like slim, majestic giants, o'er the plain. 
 
 All undisturbed by winds, which slumber then. 
 
 But wake anon, and in outrageous mood 
 
 Pelt earth and sky with suffocating dust. 
 
 As did the hand " Kehama." All things here 
 
 Are sufferers alike ; the wretched sheep 
 
 From early hour to well-nigh sunset stand- 
 
 With hanging heads in misery— the while 
 
 'Gainst filthy atmosphere their shadows lean' — 
 
 Not falling to the ground. By oxen plods 
 
 The waterdrawer — grimly cursing — till 
 
 From gathered dust and streaming sweat his face- 
 
 A mask assumes of saline mud, while eyes, 
 
 Ears, mouth, and nostrils, aye his very lungs. 
 
 Are filled to overflowing, and his beard. 
 
 Earthed up to half its depth, becomes a mat — 
 
 Would need a hoe to free it. Ropes of mud 
 
 Hang from the muzzles of the wretched beasts. 
 
 Which he perforce must drive ; their smarting eyesj.. 
 
 Heap'd round with grime, distil great rolling tears,- 
 
 Which overflow their dams and trickle down 
 
 Upon their dusty cheeks. The traveller, 
 
 With blanket laden and with waterbag. 
 
 Fights grimly on 'gainst dust and scorching wind. 
 
 To gain the station, while profanely praying 
 
 That swift damnation may on all things fall ! 
 
 The owner, too, who sits with pipe in mouth 
 
 And watches listlessly the smoke which curls 
 
DROUGHT. 207 
 
 With thick dust eddies in his grimy room, 
 All sadly thinks of saline bush, defiled 
 And nauseous made for stock, till purified 
 By much-desired rain — and so with all, 
 Who long for sundown, when the dust will cease. 
 The squatter sees each hope of rain dispelled 
 With anxious mind, for, though not lean his stock. 
 The feed grows scanty, and remote from wells. 
 Round which now cluster, from the early morn 
 To dewless eve, his heat-vexed flocks, which drink. 
 And drink, and drink again, with sateless thirst 
 Of dipsomaniac for stronger liquor. 
 
 In February gasps the thirsty earth 
 
 For needful moisture with unnumbered mouths, 
 
 Which but inhale caloric ! Oft at morn. 
 
 At eve, and midnight hour the eager eyes 
 
 Of anxious mortals scan the heavens to find 
 
 Some hope-inspiring portents. Ah ! at last 
 
 They see vast clouds, their whirling forms surcharged 
 
 With electricity, whose baleful fires 
 
 Dart earthward, like keen javelins of flame 
 
 Hurled by a vengeful God at subjects who 
 
 Against Him have rebelled ; His awful voice, 
 
 Stupendous in its volume, following 
 
 In dread denunciation ! And in wrath 
 
 Must be the Ruler of the universe ; 
 
 For, save some scattered drops which from them fall, 
 
 He seals the clouds, and sends His stormy winds 
 
 To hurry them like fugitives away. 
 
208 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 With March come longer nights, but still the sun, 
 
 In last expiring effort to maintain 
 
 The southern summer in her fiery throne, 
 
 Shines with a heat supreme ; while round the trough 
 
 The sheep — fast failing — seek by liquid aid 
 
 To stay the pangs of hunger and of thirst. 
 
 Till, when at sundown they set off to seek 
 
 The distant acrid bush, they scarce can bear 
 
 The loads of water which distend their sides 
 
 And make them look like animated casks. 
 
 The horses, too, that for the last half-mile 
 
 Of their long journey from the far off grass, 
 
 Get up an eager canter to attain 
 
 The trough — the sheep are leaving — plainly show 
 
 Their osseous formation, while their flanks 
 
 Are like depleted purses. JRow they drink 
 
 And seem to fatten, as the fluid finds 
 
 It's way into their stomachs. Will they cease 
 
 While whole integrity their skins maintain ? 
 
 Or will they burst like overcharged retorts 
 
 And flood the dusty plain ? Ah ! see they take 
 
 Their muzzles from the water, stand and groan, 
 
 Then drink again as if those groans escaping 
 
 Provided further space. But all at last, 
 
 With heavy gait, like laden wains depart. 
 
 A pleasant temperature fair April brings, 
 And would sweet grass and herbage, if the clouds 
 Would kindly prove, by yielding liquid store, 
 Earth's harden'd crust to penetrate, and give 
 
DROUGHT. 
 
 It's potent call to germs of buried seeds, 
 
 Which wakes them to vitality ; but drought 
 
 With adverse agency their efforts mock 
 
 And mortals' hopes dispel. For what were signs 
 
 In fruitful years, of coming bounties, now 
 
 All go for naught, and, with anticipations, 
 
 Like pleasant dreams depart and leave the sky 
 
 A boundless ocean of unclouded grey. 
 
 But still, with coolness, to the sheep returns 
 
 Some slight activity to seek for food 
 
 In distant places, unexplored while heat 
 
 And thirst in durance held them. Now they stay 
 
 At troughs no longer than will well suffice 
 
 To quench their eager thirst ; then bend their steps 
 
 To paddock's bounds in quest of sustenance ! 
 
 Now, surely, rain will fall, for May has come — 
 
 That pleasant month by Providence oft blessed ; 
 
 But hope deferred which maketh sad the heart, 
 
 Still mocks her votaries, who do but find 
 
 Delusion in her smiles ; for scattered drops, 
 
 Which leave no record that the gauge will mark, 
 
 Or tinge of verdure on sad Nature's face, 
 
 Alone descend, like messengers of ill, 
 
 To tell of cloudland's empty treasury. 
 
 In May the mothers of the flock should give 
 Their bleating young, to crown the squatter's hopes 
 Of future harvesting for shearer bands, 
 And for market stock, but, too weakly grown 
 From grim starvation's tyranny, they lack 
 The needful milk to keep in life the lambs 
 
 209 
 
210 RE-ECHOES TROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 That owe their lives to them, and wanting milk 
 They want in love ; so, carelessly depart 
 With comrade sheep and leave their young to die 
 Of hunger's pangs, or by the cruel beaks 
 Of felon crows, which gaily feast on eyes 
 They steal from living sockets. 'Tis a scene 
 To melt the hardest heart, if yet a heart. 
 And not a stone, holds empire in the breast ! 
 
 The rainless days creep into hopeless weeks 
 And winter comes, all desolate and bare ; 
 For though the troughs at early morn oft show 
 A film of ice, the dust is still unslaked — 
 The bushes foul and sere ; while crawling sheep 
 Creep in to drink, but, drinking, overload 
 Their nerveless limbs, which, staggering, refuse 
 To bear their heavy burthens ; hopelessly 
 They lie for days — beset by cruel crows — 
 And seem to pierce with fixed far-seeing eyes 
 That mystery to all, till grown too weak 
 To offer faint resistance to their foes 
 They lose their sight and find relief in death ! 
 The horses, too, in miserable plight. 
 All masquerade in skins with shaggy hair 
 They surely must have borrowed to conceal 
 Tlieir too protruding bones ; the aged mares. 
 Which last year galloped with the heedless mob, 
 Now, with their starveling foals, creep out alone, 
 But come not back again ; the station cows. 
 That erst the pails with frothing milk o'erflowed, 
 
DROUGHT. 211 
 
 Now roam at will, and with their large-eyed calves 
 Search day and night for scanty sustenance ! 
 
 In deep'ning gloom the weary weeks drag on, 
 
 And August comes with shearing in its train, 
 
 But shearing of all fun and feasting void— 
 
 A dismal travesty on shearings past. 
 
 Few are the shearers, and the sheep they shear — 
 
 Mere frames of bones enclosed in baggy skins — 
 
 Afford no fat for pudding or for lamp, 
 
 Or carcase fit for food ; and when their wool 
 
 Is taken from them, how their lean backs arch. 
 
 As, wanting cud to chew, they grind their teeth 
 
 And shiver in the wind. The teamsters' camps 
 
 Have now no tenants, yet from smould'ring fires 
 
 The night is filled with gleams of flick'ring flames. 
 
 And odours such as sacrificial rites 
 
 Might give in days long passed. To jeering crows 
 
 It is a carnival where plenty reigns — 
 
 A ghastly feast, whose president is Death ! 
 
 The shearing over, in the shed is piled 
 
 The season's clip, excepting some few bales 
 
 The camel train, which brought the needful stores, 
 
 Has carried with it on its dreary march 
 
 To distant railway or the nearest port ; 
 
 The rest must stay till rain descending fills 
 
 The tanks once more, and opens up the track 
 
 Long closed to traffic save by " desert ships." 
 
 Few visits now the gloomy squatter pays 
 
 To distant portions of his spacious run, 
 
212 RB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 For human effort is of no avail 
 
 To stop grim ruin's march or save the stock ; 
 
 The water duly drawn — and then his store 
 
 Of precious horsefeed, once expended, he 
 
 Can get no more ; and so, as miser hoards 
 
 His shining gold, he hoards that precious chaff 
 
 For case of great emergency. Besides, whene'er 
 
 He drives abroad his eyes encounter sights 
 
 That haunt him in his dreams, and render life 
 
 A burthen to him. Here — repulsive heap 
 
 Of ghastly rottenness — was late a horse 
 
 No tempting price would buy ; those forms half hid 
 
 In drifted sand, his much prized hogget ewes ; 
 
 His oxen also, which admiring friends 
 
 So envied him as owning, lie beneath 
 
 Those shattered mulgas, while great felted balls, 
 
 In heaps, protrude from fast decaying frames, 
 
 And tell the cause of death. But why go on ? 
 
 One case word-painted, thousands are described. 
 
 'Tis hot November, and in desperate strait 
 
 Are all the animals that still have life, 
 
 Yet lack the strength, in enervating heat, 
 
 To reach e'en sticks their teeth have not yet tried. 
 
 But, when stern Fate implacable appears, 
 
 Comes rescue, borne on dust o'erladen gale 
 
 That nearly slays them e'er it yields relief ; 
 
 For, mounting up, by burning blast propelled, 
 
 A mighty cloudbank veils the northern sky, 
 
 Whence water-beetles — now in headlong flight — 
 
 Precede the coming storm. Fierce lightnings gleam 
 
A DREAM OF THE DKOTTGHT. 213 
 
 In all-pervading grandeur ; while o'erhead 
 
 Incessant thunder's awful crash and roar, 
 
 Like earthquake, shakes the ground. Great rain 
 
 drops fall; 
 Then, from vast cloudland reservoirs surcharged, 
 A deluge pours ; and presently the drought. 
 Like suffered nightmare, is a memory ! 
 
 A OaSAM OF THE OBOUGHT. 
 
 I lay and thought with harassed mind 
 Of long continued drought unkind, 
 
 That reigned a tyrant dread 
 O'er hot-wind wasted Western plain. 
 Whose leafless plants for want of rain 
 
 Were perishing or dead. 
 
 I sadly mused on fruitless toil, 
 On Providence forsaken soil. 
 
 Of vanish'd prospects fair, 
 Which, pleasuring my cozen'd sight 
 Like childhood's soaring bubbles bright. 
 
 Had burst like them in air. 
 
 To cheer me then I call'd on Hope, 
 But far too faint was she to cope 
 
 With Ruin grim and vast ; 
 She tarried not when on her ear 
 Rang out his bitter mocking jeer 
 
 From dreary howling blast. 
 
214 BE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Which, sweeping round in heavy squalls, 
 Brought choking dust through chinky walls 
 
 And from the cobwebbed thatch, 
 Where, gathering from day to day, 
 Like evil thing it lurking lay 
 
 For mischief on the watch. 
 
 With sinking heart I sought some plan 
 To baffle fate ; but what is man 
 
 When under God's dread frown ? 
 My anxious quest was all in vain, 
 Till weary grew my aching brain. 
 
 Then gentle Sleep fiew down, 
 
 And on mine eyelids set her seal. 
 Though rest I was not yet to feel, 
 
 For, oh, as if the steam 
 From magic-working witches' pot 
 Compelled me — with its vapours hot, 
 
 I dreamed a fearful dream. 
 
 Yes ! swiftly rising to my view, 
 A panoramic picture grew, 
 
 Till spread before me lay 
 The desert plain, where filthy dust. 
 Whirled high on each successive gust. 
 
 To veil the light of day. 
 
 Then silent horror shook my frame, 
 For sullen thunders upward came ; 
 While sandhill, tree, and rock. 
 
A DKEAM OF THE DROUGHT. 215 
 
 Vibrating to their very base, 
 Distorted Nature's rugged face — 
 Provoked by earthquake shock. 
 
 Shock followed shock, and dust clouds grew 
 To filthy pall of pitchy hue, 
 
 While through it lightnings burst 
 To meet the flames that from the ground 
 Rushed redly forth through rift profound. 
 
 Like Tophet's fires accursed. 
 
 With upward darting tongues of fire. 
 An uproar came as though in ire 
 
 Had risen hellish host, 
 To vanly try once more, the might 
 Of HIM who drove them from his sight — 
 
 To Kingdom of the lost. 
 
 I heard unnumbered thunders roll 
 With ceaseless crash from pole to pole 
 
 Above the ebon mass 
 Of smoke — sulphurous — which fell 
 To canopy that earthly hell 
 
 No cheering ray could pass. 
 
 Three times again strong earthquake shocks 
 From tott'ring range shook giant rocks ; 
 
 And then a spire of flame 
 Shot upward from the lofty Pound 
 And shed its baleful glare around. 
 
 While molten lava came. 
 
216 REECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 In all-consuming blood-red tide 
 Of blazing billows, down its side 
 
 To fell each lofty tree, 
 Which blazed on high and then was lost 
 Like burning vessel's hamper tossed 
 
 Into a stormy sea. 
 
 That flood infernal onward swept 
 In awful cataracts, which leaped 
 
 From earthquake-shaken height, 
 Till soon 'twould reach the spot of ground 
 Where, horror-struck, I glared around 
 
 Upon the fearsome sight. 
 
 But, suddenly, from mountain vast 
 A roar broke forth like cyclone blast : 
 
 I gazed in mute amaze ; 
 For high above the crater's rim 
 Three awful phantoms, huge and grim, 
 
 Were seated in the blaze ; 
 
 On horrible putrescent heap 
 
 Of rotting oxen, steeds, and sheep — 
 
 Fit throne for awful three. 
 Who gloated with Satanic mirth 
 On ruin rampant on the earth. 
 
 And most unhappy me. 
 
 Despairing rage within me grew : 
 I questioned that exultant crew, 
 
 And asked what they might find 
 
A DREAM OF THE DROUGHT. 217 
 
 As food for mirth, when one and all 
 
 -Affirmed they had, since Adam's fall, 
 
 Made war upon mankind ; 
 
 That, instruments of wrath divine, 
 To mercy they may ne'er incline, 
 
 But mandates stern obey ; 
 In storm or calm, on sea or land, 
 They lurking ever are at hand. 
 
 The breath of life to stay. 
 
 And then I saw that, as they spoke. 
 In livid characters there broke 
 
 A name upon each brow, 
 At which the grimmest cried, " Behold ! 
 ■For all the North to me is sold — 
 
 My hopeless slave art thou ! 
 
 To Me unwillingly each day 
 
 A ghastly tithe perforce you pay 
 
 Of oxen, steeds, and sheep — 
 Which these coadjutors of mine 
 :From mortals wring, by law divine, 
 
 And on mine altars heap. 
 
 "And thou, thyself, to fitly crown 
 The sacrifice shall — stricken down — 
 
 Resign thy vital breath ; 
 For, tortured in that burning sea, 
 A prey thou shalt become to me — 
 
 All conquering King Death ! " 
 
218 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO-. 
 
 At once each Spectre's livid name 
 
 To my enlightened eyes became 
 An alphabet of ease ; 
 
 And then I knew the comrades dread. 
 
 Of Death, were those which drought had bred- 
 Starvation and Disease ! 
 
 But, ah ! my anguish of despair 
 No mortal man might, living, bear. 
 
 Yet tied was limb and tongue ; 
 Down rolled that flood of roaring flame,. 
 Those demons' sacrifice to claim — 
 
 It close above me hung ; 
 
 One moment more, and then 'twould hide- 
 
 My calcined corpse within its tide > 
 I felt its burning heat, 
 
 Like fabled dragon's fatal breath ; 
 
 My life blood boil with blast of deaths- 
 Yet there was no retreat. 
 
 It on me leaped, while gibes and jeers- 
 From spectres three assailed my ears. 
 
 And startled slumber fled ; 
 For with a stifled cry I woke. 
 To find thick dust in place of smoke 
 
 In clouds above me spread. 
 
 The sweat had streamed from every pore,. 
 And mud was darkly coated o'er 
 My visage as I lay. 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE EAIN. 219 
 
 With thick masses round my mouth, 
 And smarting eyes, while burning drouth 
 Had made my throat a prey. 
 
 From grimy water-vessel, first, 
 
 I strove to quench the sateless thirst 
 
 Which held me in its chains ; 
 Then prayed that rain or ruin might 
 Accord relief, or haste my flight 
 
 From cursed Western Plains, 
 
 Where I for weary years had toiled. 
 To be in ev'ry object foiled 
 
 By drought, the despot grim, 
 Till, harassed out in frame and mind, 
 I curse the destiny unkind 
 
 That brought me here to him ! 
 
 iT 
 
 THE MUStC OP THS RAm. 
 
 In dear old England, long ago^ 
 
 When courting in a verdant lane, 
 Methought my sweetheart's whisper low 
 
 Was music's most delightful strain ; 
 But now, in Austral desert sere. 
 
 Where oft we woo the clouds in vain. 
 The sweetest music to mine ear 
 
 Is liquid whisper of the rain. 
 
220 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 No Other power, it seems to me, 
 
 The harassed mind so well relieves 
 As raindrops fingered symphony — 
 
 The keys unnumbered thirsty leaves. 
 With cadence low, like ocean's sigh, 
 
 Begins the all-pervading strain ; 
 Then swells, with loud-voiced winds to vie, 
 
 This cheerful music of the rain. 
 
 With magic might, that monotone 
 
 Drives haggard care in haste away ; 
 The squatter sees the run his own. 
 
 And hosts of happy lambs at play .: 
 Kind Fortune's smiles are his he deems. 
 
 While truant Hope returns again ; 
 Her whispers mingle in his dreams 
 
 With midnight music of the rain ! 
 
 FAReWEtt. TO THE WESTERK PtAttl. 
 
 Haunt of sirocco, that from arid North 
 On scorching pinions wings its headlong flight 
 
 To make untenable a garb of cloth, 
 
 I'll chant your praises, not with gay delight 
 Of mistress-toasting, banjo-strumming knight. 
 
 But vastly otherwise, indeed ; for so 
 I feel constrained by ever thirsty plight 
 
 That holds me in captivity, although 
 
 Unnumbered trickling streams adown my visage flow. 
 
FAREWELL TO THE WESTERN PLAIN. 221 
 
 Whilst, unromantic, you are not too bad 
 
 When winter's rains have washed away your veil 
 
 Of grimy dust ; and idle lass or lad 
 
 May wildflowers gather, and, in coat of mail, 
 A wheel-track-bothered wandering desert snail ; * 
 
 To wonder where that mystery had been. 
 That baked or fried was not its tender tail 
 
 By fierce Apollo ? then, with cruel mien 
 
 To crush the hapless thing amidst the herbage green . 
 
 Sweet music have you, if a curlew's scream, 
 A vile crow's bass, or dingo's alto note 
 
 Can be commended as transcendent cream, 
 A skim above the warbling of a goat — 
 That sings of love in highly-scented coat ; 
 
 I like it not ; but then I'd have you know 
 
 I don't like you, and would not grudge a groat 
 
 To any rhyming, rhapsodising beau 
 
 Who'd penny jews-harp twang and sing of dog and crow. 
 
 But still on you a score of years I've dwelt. 
 Fair, fickle Fortune courting all the while ; 
 
 Yet, though deep passion for the jade I felt, 
 Too rarely on me did she deign to smile. 
 And then, alas, 'twas merely to beguile ; 
 
 For when, elated, I my beaver cocked 
 
 And rushed to hug her in fond lover's style, 
 
 Her eldest daughter's fell companions flocked 
 
 Like brood of harpies foul, and dismal failures mocked. 
 
 * The desert snail appears amongst the aand dunes immediately after 
 heavy rains, though, perhaps, during a two years' period of drought none 
 have been seen. This desert snail is one of the dry country mysteries.— 
 
 B.B. 
 
222 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 On you, with vast temerity, I backed 
 A bounding Pegasus, and comrades fled 
 
 In abject terror at the daring act ; 
 For rightaway I gave the steed his head, 
 As was my wont with bucking quadruped. 
 
 Ah, me ! 'twas wonderful how they skedaddled ; 
 And afterwards in sheepyard, hut, or shed 
 
 I'd solus be before the brute I straddled, 
 
 Because my friends would bolt ere he was fairly saddled. 
 
 A super bombshell force within us lay — 
 My steed and I — a company to scatter, 
 
 And luckless stranger who might happen nigh 
 Would ■■^oxAtx firstly what might be the matter, 
 Then with the antics of a hair-brained hatter 
 
 With other fools incontinently fly. 
 Till presently a distant pitter-patter 
 
 To measured prancing made a faint reply. 
 Then naught save silent scrub would fill my eagle eye. 
 
 Like writhing worm impaled on cruel hook. 
 
 Or coster's ass impelled by bleeding "raw," 
 My friends grew dummeled ; read my bushland book 
 
 To even fancy they some fair verse saw. 
 
 And shyly hint at craving of the maw 
 For further provender ; though some still vowed 
 
 They'd rather listen to complaining saw 
 By file afflicted, or the screeching loud 
 Of terror-striking notes, which skirl o'qx Scottish crowd. 
 
TO ^OLUS. 22J 
 
 'Now once again my Pegasus shall spurt 
 
 With rhythmic action. Ah ! he will not gee, 
 
 I But intimates that he h&s pride to hurt ; 
 That halting prose — however lame it be — 
 Is good enough, aye, far too good for thee. 
 
 And, truly, now methinks 'twould do as well. 
 While doubtless you will readily agree 
 
 That verbal monotone should ring the knell 
 
 Of vanished, toilsome years. So Western Plains, fare- 
 well ! 
 
 January, 1877. 
 
 TO v^OtUS. 
 
 Great ruler of the restless race, 
 From Zephyr, robed in airy grace, 
 
 To Boreas the bully, 
 I Pray send us, as we sail along, 
 That member of thy gusty throng — 
 
 The one to suit us fully. 
 
 From Western plains, swift rushing down 
 Through Port Augusta's sandy town. 
 
 Let burning " Northern buster " 
 Inflate our lofty canvas stout — 
 .From Spencer's Gulf to urge us out 
 
 To where the South winds bluster 
 
224 KK-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 From Borda's light to " Stormy Cape,"' 
 O'er Ind's wide ocean, let escape 
 
 Thy Eastern subjects balmy, 
 With chilly Southern ones at times 
 To temper heat in languid climes — 
 
 Full oft too close and calmy. 
 
 And recollect, now, gentle king, 
 Don't suffer that outrageous thing. 
 
 The cyclone, to come ringing 
 In mad'ning waltz, with shrieking glee — 
 Our timbers torn on raging sea, 
 
 And corpses to be flinging. 
 
 So chain him up with double care 
 Till, favoured by the current fair. 
 
 We pass Agulhas' shallows. 
 Then never mind the homicide, 
 But loosen him to madly ride 
 
 O'er Neptune's foaming billows ; 
 
 Till " South-East Trades " we then attain, . 
 No Northern member of thy train 
 
 Permit to near us rustle : 
 For, kindly Master ^olus. 
 Although we do not make a fuss. 
 
 We're really in a bustle. 
 
 To pleasure us you will, of course, 
 Imbue the Trades with steady* force 
 In South Atlantic ocean — 
 
 » The south-east trade wind is the steadiest in the world.— B.B. 
 
TO ^OLUS. 22S 
 
 To urge our spreading, snow-white wings 
 To latitudes where slimy things 
 
 From purple sails find motion ; 
 
 Where greedily sea-lawyers* roam, 
 And Neptune used to be at home, 
 
 With barber rude and triton ; 
 And where fierce squalls, with noisy wrath 
 Like bullies, cross the vessel's path. 
 
 Poor Jack to vent their spite on ; 
 
 Be certain that when we are there 
 Those roaring imps shall all be fair 
 
 (That is, our good ship after). 
 Of outward-bounders take no heed ; 
 Vs only trouble on to speed, 
 
 Like staunch old equine shafter. 
 
 In Northern Trades much easting put. 
 
 That through the waves with cleaving "foot " 
 
 Our ship, her course aye lying, 
 Round " Western Islands,'' right or wrong. 
 Shall, checkless, reach thy vassal strong, 
 
 O'er Western Ocean flying ; 
 
 This cause to blow with steady might. 
 Till, having passed the Isle of Wight, 
 
 We take a tug and pilot ; 
 Then, gliding up the winding Thames, 
 We'll laugh at all the little games 
 
 On ocean played by thy lot ! 
 
 * Sea-lawyers, sharks. 
 
2S KB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Of course, you'll note, dear ^olus, 
 Although I've often dwelt on us 
 
 In this my prayer to you, Sir, 
 No selfishness is in it found 
 Not common to the homeward bound, 
 
 Or other vessel's crew. Sir. 
 
 So do your best ! and we will pour 
 Libations, when we reach the shore 
 
 Of proud Britannia's Island, 
 To thee, kind ^olus, and all 
 The restless vagrants from thy hall 
 
 That roam o'er sea and dry land. 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, January, 1877. 
 
 TO AN A:*BATR0SS, m the CE«TaB OF 
 THE SOUTHEBH OCEAH. 
 
 Whence came you, ocean-roaming bird. 
 That on wide pinions circles free. 
 
 As though your journey you deferred 
 To linger in our company ? 
 
 Far, far indeed the distant land. 
 
 Surf-beaten, lies o'er billows grand. 
 
 No compass have you to decide 
 Your lonely course to kin and mate 
 
 In storm or calm, o'er trackless tide. 
 You never fear a lost one's fate. 
 
TO AN ALBATROSS. 227 
 
 Though eagerly, with gleaming eyes, 
 You scan the waters for supplies. 
 
 How fare you when titanic waves 
 
 Run riot with the hurricane ? 
 When loud the hellish uproar raves, 
 
 And chaos heaps the maddened main ? 
 As sustenance what find you then 
 Till peaceful calms prevail again ? 
 
 How rest you ? Is it on the deep, 
 Rocked gently by the rolling swell ? 
 
 Does tumult minister to sleep 
 When cyclone sounds the good ship's knell ? 
 
 Or do you slumber in your flight. 
 
 Wind-wafted through the storm-scourged night ? 
 
 Full four degrees our speedy prow 
 
 Has, cleaving through the waters, sped, 
 
 Since last we saw that crimson glow 
 Flame upward from the day-god's bed ; 
 
 Yet easily you wheel around 
 
 As he descends with glory crowned. 
 
 Oh, what, with all his gold, is man ? 
 
 What all his science, ages taught ? 
 For could the wisest mortal plan 
 
 An albatross in life of thought? 
 Yet are you but a simple thing 
 To Him who gave you life and wing ! 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, Southern Ocean, January, 1877. 
 
RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 BOUHOmG TH© CAPB. 
 
 The night was dark, each starry spark 
 
 Was veiled in heavy fog ; 
 While hanging slack were sheet and tack^ 
 
 Unused the patent log. 
 Old ocean's breast no snowy crest 
 
 Of foaming wave could show ; 
 For, lacking blast, each groaning mast 
 
 Waved, ghostlike, to and fro. 
 
 The captain sighed as o'er the tide 
 
 He vainly strove to gaze, 
 And whistled low to tempt, you know, 
 
 A breeze from out the haze. 
 Then muttered he, " When shall I see 
 
 Fair London town once more ? 
 These calms so bad will drive me mad ; 
 
 I'd rather tempests roar." 
 
 I nudged his arm and said, " A calm 
 
 Was peaceful and serene ; 
 While tempests rude provided food 
 
 For sharks — white, blue, and green. 
 But, look here, Cap, you dear old chap, 
 
 What means that thoughtful scowl, 
 Dejected walk, and lack of talk ?" 
 
 He, mockingly, did growl — 
 
ROUNDINO THE CAPE. 
 
 " We're off the Cape, the noted Cape, 
 
 The dreaded Cape of Storms, 
 Where awful waves o'er seamen's graves 
 
 For ever rear their forms ; 
 And in the dark the Dutchman's bark 
 
 Is looked in vain for still, 
 When wild winds wail, and mast and sail 
 
 Must bend them to their will." 
 
 " Is that the Cape ?" quoth I, agape : 
 
 No awful storms have we. 
 Yon sullen swell alone might tell 
 
 Of some-time stormy sea. 
 But, oh ! ah me ! what's that I see ? 
 
 Flames wheresder 1 turn ! 
 Is magic might abroad to-night 
 
 To make old ocean burn ?" 
 
 " ]>io fire is there, I do declare : 
 
 You see not any flames. 
 But shark and sprat and such as that 
 
 Are at their little games. 
 "lis friction makes those shining wakes, 
 
 As when a catskin muff 
 With might and main against the grain 
 
 You rub — 'tis phosphor stuff !" 
 
 " Ah ! say you so ? That's queer you know, 
 And then those saline stars 
 That so abound in shoals around — 
 Are they what sprat mammas 
 
239 KE-ECHOES FROM COOKDAMBO. 
 
 Provide as food for ocean brood — 
 The million-teeming spawn ? 
 
 Now, captain dear, do make things clear 
 As fog-fledged London dawn." 
 
 " Though nof so green as horse marine, 
 
 I own they puzzle me ; 
 But p'raps they're bones which Davy Jones 
 
 Has ground beneath the sea. 
 Now, off you go to read below, 
 
 The lamps are burning clear ; 
 No catspaw light may blow to-night 
 
 While you are yarning near." 
 
 " My eyes are sore, and bookish lore 
 
 Will little pleasure me, 
 And so I'll walk and with you talk, 
 
 For Aere I fain would be. 
 Now, captain dear, let's have some beer, 
 
 Or else a glass of rum, 
 And Neptune then shall think us men. 
 
 Of wind to merit some." 
 
 " Oh ! you be blowed !" — that sentence flowed 
 From off" my tongue untold — 
 
 " But sAeer off now unto your vrow, 
 You prating landsman bold. 
 My heart is sad, my head is bad ; 
 Nex^ trip iAe Horn I'll round : 
 
ROUNDING THE CAPE. 231 
 
 Hang berg and floe*, should /air winds blow 
 When / am homeward bound !" 
 
 To burly mate, not too ^late, 
 
 I went to question some ; 
 His gimlet gaze transfixed the haze ; 
 
 I thought him deaf and dumb. 
 But was he though — that sea-bear ? — No ; 
 
 For sailing orders came, 
 Which had to do — I think a few — 
 
 With worse than seeming flame. 
 
 I did not stop, lest more might drop. 
 
 Like aught save honey-dew, 
 But dived below, and straight did go 
 
 To gentle partner true ; 
 Then said, " My dear, 'tis vastly queer ; 
 
 This is a sullen sea : 
 From captain brave to tarry knave 
 
 They're crusty as can be." 
 
 " With you about I've little doubt 
 Their comments would be queer ; 
 
 I'm cross myself, you prosing elf. 
 So, bother, you just clear ! " 
 
 * Note. — ^The great drawback to the Cape Horn route from Australia to 
 England is the prevalence of icebergs and still more dangerous ice floes, whick 
 greatly discount the advantages to be derived from the preraillng stroag 
 westerly winds.— E. B. 
 
232 EE-EGHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Well, clear I did, as I was bid, 
 
 And soon was sound asleep 
 In " blanket bay," as sailors say. 
 
 On ever-heaving deep. 
 
 When morning broke and I awoke 
 
 There blew a south wind strong, 
 And Nor'-Nor'-West, o'er waves foam-dressed, 
 
 Our good ship bowled along ; 
 Then bland to me the mate could be. 
 
 The skipper frank as aye : 
 Their mood unkind was left behind. 
 
 The helmsman he was gay. 
 
 " Hurrah !" quoth he, "we're bound, d'ye see, 
 For smoky village gay ; 
 The Cape's astarn, as you may lam, 
 
 Ef you'll jest squint this way ; 
 And look here. Ship, I'd like a nip — 
 
 The skipper needn't twig ; 
 "Taint every day,' as landsmen say. 
 We kills a blessed pig.' " 
 
 And now 'tis plain as seamen's bane 
 
 A calm may beat a gale. 
 And worry more than cyclone's roar 
 
 Brave tars who homeward sail. 
 So if they swear, and crusty are 
 
 To prosy landsmen — why. 
 If you reflect, you'll not expect 
 ' A smile and soft reply. 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, off the Cape of Good Hope. 
 
THE DOUBLE GHOST. 233 
 
 THE OOUBtE GHOST. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE LINE (FOE THE YOUNGSTERS). 
 FYTTE I. 
 
 Tom Tabby was a furry pet, a favourite with all 
 The company, from captain brave to happy children small ; 
 As watchful as fox terrier, than circus clown more agile, 
 In constitution most robust, not like some felines fragile ; 
 And though he knew too much by far to leap through arms 
 
 all day. 
 He used to prowl the livelong night the roaming rats to 
 
 slay, 
 And if he ate not myriads he kept those pests at bay ; 
 For though we heard them skirmishing between the decks, 
 
 none came 
 To range at night the steward's den, its toothsome tarts to 
 
 claim. 
 All stateroom doors wide open yawned, except for waving 
 
 blinds. 
 That fair lirnbs, veiled by modest Night, might woo the 
 
 cooling winds. 
 Which through the side ports rambled free, and eke some 
 
 salt seaspray — 
 The sleepers recked that little if the rats would keep away. 
 But, ah ! another state of things loomed nearer than we 
 
 thought. 
 When not an inch-wide chink might glint in doorway or in 
 
 port, 
 For Thomas, from topgallant rail, before the dawn of day. 
 Just tumbled headlong overboard abreast of Algoa Bay. 
 
234 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The mate and captain wondered much — they said he 
 
 jumped, not fell — 
 / do not know — I was asleep — and therefore cannot tell. 
 
 On wings now dark with starry sparks*, now purest water 
 
 bright, 
 Old Time, the thief, sped silently, while gay were rats at 
 
 night — 
 T hey knew our champion was dead before he well was 
 
 drowned — 
 A nd squeaking lo paeans shrill skipped gleefully around, 
 In cabin and in foc'sle rude, by swinging lanterns' light ; 
 The seamen sought to slaughter 'em, the children screamed 
 
 with fright, 
 And though the heat was terrible each stateroom door was 
 
 closed. 
 While fair ones wriggled sleeplessly when they at least had 
 
 dozed ; 
 For in their startled hearing rang unholy squeals and 
 
 squeaks 
 From quadrupedal choristers at wild nocturnal freaks. 
 While on the table mustering, or worse, upon my slate, 
 To play the dickens with the tale o'ernight I'd written 
 
 late; 
 A malison upon them all, but " Rheims' Prince Bishop " 
 
 e'en 
 Had cursed, and kept on cursing, till himself had died of 
 
 spleen 
 Before those rats had turned a hair — the foragers unclean ! 
 
 * Borrowed this beautiful simile from a kerosene case.— Author. 
 
THE DOUBLE GHOST. 235 
 
 But, ah ! black fate was pouncing then on pirates so 
 
 pernicious, 
 S'rom tender, toothless ones in nests to grey ones old and 
 
 vicious. 
 Yes, though no trap nor feline foe might rend that scented 
 
 host, 
 It scattered like a spendthrift's coin before a hybrid ghost. 
 
 FYTTE II. 
 
 We're on the sultry Rubicon our Captain calls " the line,'' 
 Where spirit loving sea god once did levy liquid fine, 
 And had his suckling seamen shaved, some luckless lands- 
 men, too. 
 With those afHicting instruments he numbered one and two, 
 Which wrung a wrathful verbiage from innocents, who then 
 Used, often, azure adjectives would shame much older 
 
 men ; 
 Indeed, far more cerulean than e'en the ocean waves. 
 From which Nep, Amphitrite, and their oakum-bearded 
 
 knaves — 
 Sham Tritons — issued foc'sleward to hold queer pagan 
 
 rites. 
 With screaming farces oft commenced to end in savage 
 
 fights. 
 When blood from noses freely flowed, evoked by brawny 
 
 fists. 
 And multitudes of shooting stars were seen through sudden 
 mists ; 
 
236 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But not of knave Neptunian, of razor, brush, or bath, 
 Have I to give description here, but eerie thing of wrath — 
 Of wrath to rats more terrible than that Achilles bore 
 To Hector, when the armour he of slain Patroclus wore. 
 Then squeak, marauders odious ! squeak ! squeak ! your 
 
 end is near ; 
 Though marlinespikes amused you much, you now must die 
 
 of fear, 
 
 Apollo in his chariot, with axle-bed on hre, 
 Had rushed above Columbus land, as if that god in ire 
 Had supped on blood-red capsicums, and tippled by mistake 
 Old Etna's seething lava floods, his burning thirst to slake, 
 Until he'd left too little heat in Cyclop's forge, or stove. 
 For one-eyed crew to make a new and tip-top bolt of Jove, 
 Yet lame old Boss, if on the watch, had judged by ruddy 
 
 glow 
 That all was right, with lots of light, in workshops down 
 
 below. 
 Then Mrs. Brown told Mrs. Jones "the morrow would be 
 
 hot ;" 
 And I — well, I just dived below to take another tot — 
 For hot or cold, we're oft-times told, there's nothing like a 
 
 sup 
 Of right down three-star battleaxe to keep the courage up ; 
 Annexing Jones's hammock then I coiled myself away 
 To muse upon the dream-like past, fast swelling day by day. 
 And watch with scarcely conscious eye the night with starry 
 
 crown 
 On wings, each moment darkening, o'er ocean lighting, 
 
 down. 
 
THE DOUBLE GHOST. 237 
 
 AVhile to and fro, like restless bear, the skipper paced his 
 deck, 
 
 As if he thought the doldrums there quite tantamount to 
 wreck ; 
 
 And, as 'neath ringing puffs of smoke he passed me swing- 
 ing there, 
 
 He peevish observations made, and I made answers fair, 
 
 For never heeding what he said I grunted " Yes," or 
 " No," 
 
 And wished he'd lash his donkey well and start for Jericho. 
 
 But, ah! dear me, that's singular — "Me-ow, me-ow, me-ow !" 
 It is a feline songster, sure, beneath our starboard bow. 
 It nearer came, it louder grew, 'twas just beside the waist, 
 And so from out that " Ashantee " I sprang in headlong 
 
 haste. 
 For sweetly, sadly musical, those tones I knew right well ; 
 Yet for a inouser it was damp beneath an ocean swell. 
 And then methought some mermaiden, all hopeless on the 
 
 shelf, 
 Had taken Thomas for a pet — the lucky furry elf; 
 -But yet that really could not be — his mew betokened pain. 
 And so I bawled out, " Captain, hi ! here's Tommy back 
 
 again ! 
 There! there! beneath the mizen chains; just hear him 
 
 crying out ! 
 'Tis Thomas for a dollar, sir — a dozen if you doubt. 
 •Call aft your salt-junk slanderers ! Quick, lower down the 
 
 gig! 
 This is a strange phenomenon, a most surprising rig ! 
 
238 EE-BCHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Here, Toby, Tom, and Wrinkly Joe, you, red-haired Davy, 
 
 come ! 
 Fish up Tom Tabby presently and drink your fill of rum !" 
 
 " On that I'll clap a stopper quick ; such things I do not 
 
 wish,'' 
 The captain growled ; " besides, the thing is just a great 
 
 catfish. 
 So forward to the cat-head, men, the cat-falls overhaul. 
 The cat-hook, and the cat-fall block, for we shall need them. 
 
 all. 
 Now, capture all the rats you can, and bait them with the 
 
 hook !" 
 " Aye, aye, sir !" cried the sailors sly, and went for rats tO' 
 
 look — 
 That is, they stowed themselves away in tarry -smelling. 
 
 nook. 
 
 We, leaning o'er the taffrail then, beheld a fearsome sight — 
 No pestilential pussy fish, but ghostly thing alight ! 
 Quite useless clumsy cat-hook there, absurd a live-rat bait :. 
 It was a frightful fellowship in phosphorescent state — 
 A shark of hue sulphurous, with horror-gleaming eyes. 
 Which glared as if astonishment had made of them a prize.. 
 And well it might feel ill at ease, for in its lantern frame 
 A " scarlet cat," all teeth and claws, ranged nimble as a 
 
 flame, 
 Or gay and festive squirrel pet, fresh caged and not too tame.. 
 But, ah ! no gall or gizzard tough that shark had left to 
 
 tear, 
 For Tom had been industrious and scratched its inside bare' I 
 
THE DOUBLE GHOST. 239 
 
 And thus, like famed Kilkenny cats, they'd rubbed each 
 
 other out, 
 Though still the fiend-fish held its prey like poacher's bag a 
 
 trout. 
 But Tom, with pangs particular, shall cause to grin and gape 
 That squaline shade satanical, which, off the stormy Cape, 
 Will share with Vanderdecken's ghost its cruising grounds 
 
 for aye, 
 Except when to Nep's shaving shop it wretchedly may 
 
 stray. 
 
 FYTTE III. 
 
 The morning's sun shines cheerily, it gildeth sea and sail. 
 And rats that to the ratlines small are hanging by the tail. 
 Not cunningly, like 'possums cute on gumtrees' waving 
 
 twigs. 
 But ghastly, as on gambles strong depend well-scalded pigs. 
 No more on choicest provender those vermin vile may 
 
 feast ; — 
 They're dead as old Methusaleh, or Caesar at the least ! 
 I gazed on them in wonderment ; I saw no mark of claws, 
 Or aught of feline handiwork that sudden death might 
 
 cause. 
 So to the captain, on the poop, I hied, and said, " Good 
 
 lack !" 
 I've seen a modern miracle since Tommy's ghost came 
 
 back : 
 
240 EE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 If rats hath slain a hecatomb ; they're hanging dead out- 
 side !" 
 
 He answered not one syllable, but stretched his talk-m il 
 wide 
 
 To give vent to the laughter rude I hoped might crack his 
 side. 
 
 The meaning of his merriment I begged to learn, and then 
 He asked, his eyes like gooseberries, to hear my tale again. 
 I said 'twas plain as sailors' duff, with not one plum at all ; 
 I thought him apoplectical — I feared lest he might fall : 
 He did not though ; for presently he caught his breath and 
 
 said, 
 " The ghost of poor old Tommy ! No ; 'twas prentice Tom 
 
 and Ned ; 
 They trapped 'em in the deckhouse there and knocked 'em 
 
 on the head !" 
 
 i' Oh ! hang it all ! Why, doiit you know ? You must 
 
 remember well 
 That feline, squaline, double ghost, like awful ones which 
 
 dwell 
 In ' pit ' pet parsons preach about, when consciences they'd 
 
 shake — 
 A crib than this more tropical — so you should surely quake. 
 While awful crammers uttering, as you've been coining now.'' 
 The captain like a lion roared, " I'd like to learn as how." 
 I wagged my head right knowingly ; I stared him in the 
 
 face, 
 Andj with my finger pointing straight, I argufied the case. 
 
THE DOUBLE GHOST. 241 
 
 " Ho ! ho !" said I, " sham Abraham, your memory is short : 
 You dorit remember all the rats you ordered to be caught ; 
 Nor yet about the pussy-fisK you sent your shellbacks all 
 To capture from the cat-head there with cat-hook and cat-fall T 
 
 At this the villain had a fit — a laughing fit, oh, dear ! — 
 As if he'd taken laughing gas, or tippled too much beer. 
 He shook his head, he stamped his feet, he sat him swiftly 
 
 down, 
 And snatching off his battered hat, on deck he dashed it 
 
 down; 
 Then, rubbing at his starting eyes, from which some moisture 
 
 ran, 
 Exclaimed, " Oh ! oh ! this is a go j you'll kill me yet, my 
 
 man ! 
 That pussy-fish ! the cat-fall block ! — you've dreaming been 
 
 again. 
 From last night stuffing cold plum-duff, enough for twenty 
 
 men L 
 I'm busy now, so off you go and yarn to Johnny Greens, 
 In very verdant rigging, of the goose-step horse marines !"^ 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, the Equator, 1877. 
 
 iT 
 
242 EE -ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 OAVEY ttOUES* LOCKEB. 
 
 A SEA DREAM. 
 
 A foaming chaos is the deep ; a storm-rent shroud the sky ; 
 
 And of the good ship Albatross the last man left am I ! 
 
 Fierce briny floods my mouth invade, like whips the surges 
 sting ; 
 
 Those eerie voices in the blast will soon my requiem sing : 
 
 For, with a shrill, despairing cry, I clutch at shattered spar; 
 
 Then sink through ocean's formless wastes frooi elemental 
 war, 
 
 Down, down, still down, till tempest's din decreases to a 
 hum, 
 
 Like echoes, indistinctly heard, of distant muffled drum ; 
 
 And presently, in silent deeps, the light grows dim and grey. 
 
 As that in grand old Gothic aisle when fades the winter's day; 
 
 And oh ! what crowds of gliding ghosts surround and wel- 
 come me, 
 
 Who just am come, though still in life, to bear them 
 company ! 
 
 Those friendly ghosts have mournful eyes, but little else 
 
 beside, 
 Though outlines, indistinctly seen, are blending with the 
 
 tide; 
 But, just as if some ocean fiend is prowling for his prey, 
 My phantom friends, whate'er they be, are spirited away 
 
DAVEY JONES' LOCKER. 24^ 
 
 And oh that I were so myself— to almost anyplace/ 
 For am I not with devil-fish now standing face to face ? 
 Yes, face to face with octopus — far worse than gorgon's 
 
 head — 
 A fearsome thing which battens on the living and the dead ! 
 And, oh ! upon my senses all a nameless horror falls 
 That surely has no parallel outside Gehenna's walls ! 
 Yes, 'tis a terror infinite — a marrow-freezing fright — 
 Past nightmare's agony supreme to gormandising wight ; 
 For awful foe, with tentacles all writhing in the sea, 
 Is there debating in it's mind how it shall torture me ! 
 Ah ! now it comes — that livid things in hell's worst goblin 
 
 shape. 
 And I from pangs unspeakable — oh ! how shall I escape ? 
 
 Than octopus a shark would cause a less ungoverned fear, 
 I surely did not wish for one, and yet a shark is here. 
 But active are my senses all : I see the monsters close. 
 And terrible the contest is of those tremendous foes : 
 With rending jaws, with trenchant beak, with tentacle and 
 
 tail, 
 They far transcend the wild waves' war, the fury of the 
 
 gale; 
 They bite, they tear, roll here and there, while bubbles fill 
 
 the sea. 
 Far better are those fiends employed than banqueting on 
 
 me, 
 And so I do not interfere ; but, urged by prudence, fly 
 Through near adjacent cavern's mouth, and bid them both 
 
 good-bye ! 
 
244 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 A cavern ! — Aye, a boundless one, roofed in by rolling 
 
 waves. 
 It's floor the ooze that dust-like falls on gallant seamen's 
 
 graves ; 
 While round about where'er I gaze are tempest-shattered 
 
 wrecks, 
 With men of every bygone age upon their silent decks : 
 Here Vikings and Phoenicians old, and there a fair-haired 
 
 boy, 
 Whose parents nightly pray for him they deem their pride 
 
 and joy ; 
 At mother's breasts small infants sleep beside decrepid age, 
 And brawny naval combatants, still grim with battle's rage ; 
 Here, too, the peaceful merchant crew, the pirate's bloody 
 
 band. 
 And slavers, with their human prey, lie stretched on every 
 
 hand ; 
 True lovers in each other's arms are locked, as if in life ; 
 Foes clutched in drowning's dread embrace ; the husband 
 
 with the wife ; 
 Of every tribe of Adam's race, of every garb and clime ; 
 They waiting are, in silent place, the end of tide and time : 
 While, mixed with shells and seaweed strange of varied hue 
 
 and form, 
 Are piled the treasures of the deep, the harvests of the 
 
 storm ; 
 Earth's merchandise, in box and bale, in heaps on heaps 
 
 are rolled ; 
 By spear and shield, by sword and gun, and wealth of coin 
 
 untold, 
 
DAVEY JONES' LOCKER. 245 
 
 Unheeded gorgeous raiment lies, unheeded precious stones. 
 But where is he, their treasurer, the dreaded Davey Jones ? 
 
 The waters wave — I gaze aloft, and view, with wond'ring 
 eyes. 
 
 The lord majestic of the place in giant bulk arise ; 
 
 For, oh ! his feet are in the ooze, his head amidst the waves 
 
 Of that far-reaching, restless thing that every country laves ; 
 
 And, while his crowning locks are bright, with thunder- 
 clouds o'erspread, 
 
 Those round his brows are snowy white and fringed with 
 icebergs dread ; 
 
 The pupil of his eye is blue, it's iris green as grass. 
 
 While through his mouth, with coral teeth, unnoticed fleets 
 might pass ; 
 
 Of many hues his tangled beard, that tosses on his breast. 
 
 And mingles with the foam of rage in tempest's wild un- 
 rest j 
 
 Scant neck has he, but rolling swells huge shoulders are,, 
 and strong 
 
 Of arms and hands — in restless waves he has a countless 
 
 throng ; 
 For weapons he has currents strange, dread icefloes, rocks, 
 
 and shoals, 
 Wherewith to slay bold voyagers , He cannot touch their 
 
 souls. 
 Small gleanings hath he from disease, rich crops from 
 
 nation's wars : 
 His charnel-house contains them all, as boundless space its 
 stars ; 
 
246 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And though irreverently talk audacious seanien of him, 
 'Tis certain, though they've cause to fear, they also ought to 
 
 love him ; 
 For when not vexed nor urged to ill by storm wind's lawless 
 
 brood, 
 His face is fair to look upon and placable his mood : 
 Then human welfare fosters he, and fosters not in vain ; — 
 He bears the commerce of the world, and sends the fruitful 
 
 rain 
 To smiling sister by his side, who soon would faint and die 
 Were he not here to work her weal with HIM who rules on 
 
 high; 
 But when black night and raging blast afflict his subject 
 
 sea, 
 He rises in terrific wrath, and terrible is he. 
 
 Now, bending down, the vast one says, " Ho ! mortal, whom 
 art thou 
 
 That to my locker penetrates ? Great risk is thine I vow ; 
 
 For art thou not far, far below those depths to which 
 descend 
 
 The divers bold, who, bribed with gold, their services will 
 lend 
 
 To grasping greed, which fain would wrest from me my 
 lawful gain, 
 
 And who, sustained by smuggled air, depart to land again ; — 
 
 On thee I see no vestment strange, no monster-scaring 
 helm. 
 
 And where thou art my weight alone should crush and over- 
 whelm. 
 
DAVEY JONES' LOCKER. 247 
 
 Then tell to me who thou may'st be, and if I find thee true, 
 To upper world thou shalt return, but falsehood thou shalt 
 rue !" 
 
 I tell my name, and say I came not willingly at all. 
 
 But that himself had hurled me there through portico and 
 
 hall; 
 And now, fair sir, if I intrude, just hurl me back agen ; 
 I like not this your residence — I almost say his den.^'' 
 He smiles, as if he reads my thoughts, and pointing all 
 
 around. 
 Exclaims, " Behold thy fellow-worms, who thickly strew the 
 
 ground, 
 For some are grim and terrible as e'er they, cursing, died. 
 And awful was their mortal fear while sinking through the 
 
 tide! 
 Now view those forms with faces bright which eastward 
 
 turnbd be; 
 They merely came for calm repose from life's aye-stormy sea. 
 Scant terrors had I in their eyes, for they had hope and trust 
 In Him, whose humble slave am I — like meanest thing of 
 
 dust. 
 At His commands I stretch mine hands to crush the haughty 
 
 pride 
 Of those who boast they rule the waves and subjugate the 
 
 tide ; 
 And though I take the good and true, with those of evil 
 
 mind. 
 They know, when in their haven fair, that I have been most 
 
 kind ; 
 
248 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then watch and pray, and hope like they. Now wake and 
 
 tell to men 
 That I am not the Evil One, and this is not his den !" 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, February, 1877. 
 
 !pHOSPHOaSSCE«T HIGH tTmKS. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE WESTERN OCEAN. 
 
 Nep's shaving shop is far astern. 
 
 With scorching calms, which well-nigh burn 
 
 The men-of-war, called Portuguese, 
 
 Whose filmy sails invite a breeze ; 
 
 The " doldrums," too, which language blue 
 
 Evoked from ever-hauling crew, 
 
 Are, with their squalls and drenching rain, 
 
 Discomforts of a distant main. 
 
 Now flying-fish and albacore 
 
 Are seldom seen our prow before. 
 
 As, gaily on the starboard tack. 
 
 Alow, aloft all sail we crack. 
 
 To woo the steady trade-wind strong, 
 
 Which wakes the waves' low-murmured song ; 
 
 While scrapers, wielded by the tars, 
 
 Precede the grease-pot down the spars, 
 
PHOSPHORESCENT HIGH JINKS. 249 
 
 And soojymoogy round the deck 
 From dingy paint removes each speck, 
 That gallant ship, when sailing in 
 To port, may shine like brand-new pin. 
 
 For Ursa Major, ranging high. 
 To famed Polaris guides the eye. 
 Which shining star, like beacon light, 
 Delights the British seaman's sight ; 
 For does it not, like compass, tell 
 The course the homeward-bound love well 
 Which leads to joys on native soil — 
 Their sweet rewards for slavish toil. 
 
 The second watch is set, and now 
 Diana, with her crescent bow. 
 O'er heaving ocean westward flown. 
 Has left the stars to shine alone ; 
 While in my hammock, swinging free, 
 I practise for a singing bee 
 A nasal song that critics might 
 Object to in the stilly night. 
 But, sweet or no, the cabin-boy 
 Now cuts it s^ori with loud " Ahoy !" 
 With heedless haste I upward spring, 
 'Gainst carline hard my head to bring, 
 And, but for far too solid deck, 
 My downward plunge the ship would wreck 
 Yet Davy's yells are not of fright ; — 
 No, rather of supreme delight ; 
 
250 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And so methinks there cannot be 
 Fresh dangers on the midnight sea, 
 Unless for Davy (by-the-way, 
 Whom, could I catch, I'd well-nigh slay). 
 
 " You scarlet imp ! you sea-cook's son ! 
 Look what your foolery has done !" 
 And then, right strange it is to tell, 
 I find we see each other .well ; 
 For, shining through the deadlight there, 
 Streams down a pallid, ghastly glare. 
 Which, lighting up that sea-boy's face. 
 Reveals no line of saintly grace. 
 
 "What's up?" I cry again, and he 
 Replies, "You'd better come and see !" 
 
 " The ship is burning ! "— " No, not it ; 
 The sea is though a little bit !" 
 
 " The sea ? They used to say in flames 
 In time I'd set the River Thames ; 
 But as for ocean, come now, Dave, 
 Confess yourself a lying knave ! " 
 He will not, so in boot-urged flight 
 Flies deckward, like a startled sprite. 
 
 Then in those things which ladies fair 
 To hear of spoken cannot bear, 
 Yet from their hubbies fiercely wrest 
 To flaunt as knight would haughty crest, 
 I rush on deck, and to my gaze 
 The ocean gleams as if ablaze, 
 
PHOSPHORESCENT HIGH JINKS. 251 
 
 ^For every wave you'd think a lamp 
 "Of " Davy " (Jones), defying damp, 
 Each glowing with phosphoric light, 
 That darker leaves the dome of night ; 
 
 Now, perching on to'-gallant rail, 
 'Neath breezy foot of swelling sail, 
 1 gaze and gaze until my eyes 
 A picture view to cause surprise ; 
 For, circus-like, and spreading wide, 
 A vast pavilion girds the tide 
 With walls of night shades dim and dark, 
 And vaulted roof with many a spark 
 ■Of shining silver, while the floor 
 With gleaming flakes is studded o'er — ■ 
 .A ballroom on the boundless deep, 
 Where Neptune's self may revels keep, 
 And, ah ! the company I see 
 iln court-dress — strict decollete. 
 
 With sudden crash and sounding din, 
 
 The cyclone bandsmen now begin 
 
 An overture, at which you'd rail, 
 
 •On shipboard in a roaring gale ; 
 
 For ^olus and gusty throng 
 
 Than Stentors are of lung more strong, 
 
 besides extemporaneous 
 
 Are all the airs they play for us, 
 
 Wagnerian, perhaps, at times, 
 
 Then softly sweet as distant chimes. 
 
252 RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO.. 
 
 When Triton concho basso plays 
 
 Uproarious becomes the praise, 
 
 For, with his cheeks like bagpipes blown>. 
 
 His music o'er the tide is thrown ; 
 
 Till starry urchin near the sky 
 
 A cat-call ventures on the sly ; . 
 
 But Jupiter, with awful frown, 
 
 Such low vulgarity puts down ; 
 
 For Jove, with vastly proper train, 
 
 Attends this pageant of the main. 
 
 Great Nep, with oakum beard and locks,. 
 
 A hornpipe encores from his box ; 
 
 For British tars aboard a wreck 
 
 All cut and shuffle on its deck ; 
 
 Yet still, with roguish, rolling eye, 
 
 Nep ogles fair Salacia sly, 
 
 And seems to care (the scamp) a mighty 
 
 Little for his Amphitrite, 
 
 While well she knows how he behaves 
 
 With naughty nymphs 'midst conscious waves.. 
 
 Nep's sposa with her father now, 
 And Doris sits with gloomy brow. 
 While they unto the " oldest gods " 
 Reply with deferential nods ; 
 For Oceanus and his wife 
 Spin prosy yarns of early life 
 And such-like twaddle, for you see; 
 No cardroom there appears to be: 
 
PHOSPHORESCENT HIGH JINKS. 253 
 
 "Where old Neptunian fogies may 
 Talk scandal while bezique they play. 
 
 Mature Eurynome, still fair, 
 "AVith daughters slim and debonair, 
 -Are here to-night, by Nep's desire, 
 While Venus lends them her attire. 
 That fascination may enhance 
 Each pose of limb and sprightly glance ; 
 And doubtless, e'er the dance be o'er, 
 •Unnumbered conquests they will score. 
 Now, as they pose themselves with care, 
 :Sea dandies crowd around to stare. 
 And, were these revels not so damp, 
 Bright Venus would permit that scamp. 
 Young Cupid, with his bow and darts. 
 At random to transfix all hearts ; 
 And, as it is, from high above. 
 The ever-watchful god of love 
 At ^olus a shaft lets fly 
 That causes him to cast his eye 
 At Dione, the grandam white 
 ■Of that young mischief-working wight : 
 
 Indeed, when " Rule Britannia " he — 
 The wind-god — tries by Nep's decree. 
 He suddenly forgets to play, 
 -And sighs in true Strephonian way, 
 When, strange to tell, fair Dione 
 In fainting state appears to be, 
 
254 KK-ECHOES FROM COONDAMEO. 
 
 And should he not resume his lay 
 Will like a snowflake pass away ; 
 But Nep, who loves to see her ride 
 To piping winds, in conscious pride, 
 On coursers blue, with crests of greert,- 
 Now touches with his trident keen 
 Great JEo, till he deems a ray 
 Has wagged its stinging tail his way, 
 So rubs and blows and feels unkind. 
 Till out of tune and out of wind, 
 While round and round the dancers fly^ 
 And Dione goes glancing by 
 In veil of phosphorescent light, 
 Before which flies the shades of nights 
 
 Fair Thetis and her nereids 
 
 Now enter, nude as Peri kids ; 
 
 For nothing can improve their lines — 
 
 See Flaxman's exquisite designs ; 
 
 These quickly mingle with the throng, 
 
 While Nep, with handshake warm and.longj. 
 
 His " ancient friend divinely fair," 
 
 Achilles' mother, welcome there, 
 
 And seats her at his dexter hand 
 
 To flourish of his conch-shell band. 
 
 Now lightly trip, with flying feet, 
 The sea-green sisters trim and neat,- 
 In gleaming garb of stellar ray. 
 Transparent as the light of day. 
 But who are they with yellow locks. 
 
PHOSPHORESCENT HIGH JINKS. 55 
 
 Who to those comely gills are jocks ? 
 
 Why, gay young river-gods who glance 
 
 At lovely nymphs, with whom they dance, 
 
 So warmly that a frozen sea 
 
 Would by their glances melted be ; 
 
 But Oceanus and his vrow, 
 
 Old Tethys, will not them allow 
 
 To more than glance, for they are old. 
 
 With wrinkled brows and pulses cold, 
 
 And so their frail descendants bright 
 
 They're guarding well throughout the night, 
 
 And even frown on Nep when he 
 
 With some sweet nymph would make too free. 
 
 Around sit passd saline dames — 
 
 Wall nosegays with unholy names — 
 
 Who sea-god partners with a glance 
 
 Entrap at times to join the dance; 
 
 While sirens, singing loud and clear, 
 
 Glide round and at the dandies leer. 
 
 But these all slily wink and laugh 
 
 At charms that are but half and half; 
 
 For though they're fresh as one might wish. 
 
 Those mermaids run to too much fish ; 
 
 But fish or flesh, in galopade 
 
 To beat their paces would be hard, 
 
 And dolphins blue which bear their trains 
 
 Get broken-winded for their pains. 
 
 A horrid shape now meets my sight. 
 Which hovers in the outside night. 
 
256 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And glowers with tremendous eye 
 
 At whirling throng, like huge Paul Pry, 
 
 Especially when Galatea 
 
 Thinks softly on her mortal dear. 
 
 And sometimes, just to soothe her mind. 
 
 Permits some giddy god to twine 
 
 His arm around her faultless waist, 
 
 The light fantastic joy to taste ; 
 
 And then, ye gods ! vast Polypheme 
 
 His single orb with rage does gleam, 
 
 And, could he get in with his club. 
 
 Old Nep will surely loose a sub ; 
 
 He cannot though, so takes to drink, 
 
 And soon has but a sightless wink ; 
 
 For, as he snores within his cave, 
 
 I see Ulysses — cunning knave — 
 
 With forky stick his eyeball tear. 
 
 And leave him groaning in despair. 
 
 But now, behind a shining bar. 
 Sly Circe passes round three-star. 
 And carries on with ocean swells 
 Like up-to-business tavern belles, 
 For over graciously she leans 
 To boldly mash the Johnny Greens ; 
 While one — the dandy of the crowd — ■ 
 Cracks broadest jokes in accents loud. 
 And paws her bust and fool's around. 
 Till fully " on the bust " he's found ; 
 Then treats his friends and drinks till he 
 Is fitted for a piggery, 
 
PHOSPHORESCENT HIGH JINKS. 257 
 
 An asinine, maudlin link between . 
 A monkey and a swine obscene. 
 
 But who are they who in the pit 
 And lower boxes dimly sit ? 
 Why, as I live, they're mortals queer ! 
 But who or what I'm not too clear ; 
 For every garb beneath the sun, 
 To that before e'en dress begun 
 To latest fashions — all are there. 
 Ah ! ah ! I know them I declare ! 
 And so I hail in accents loud, 
 " Ahoy, there, Davy Joneis crowd !" 
 
 But at my shout, like flash of light. 
 The pageant vanishes from sight ; 
 And Mr. Buntline growls, " Look here, 
 To Blanket Bay you'd better sheer, 
 Or next thing overboard you'll go ! 
 If sleep you must, just sleep below," 
 Then adds, in accents ever gruff, 
 " Oi phosphorous you'll have enough. 
 And blazing hot, I'm thinking, when 
 Old ' Davey ' gets you in his den ! " 
 
 I merely hint that he will be 
 
 A comrade kind to comfort me ; 
 
 Then dive below to try again 
 
 My hammock, like the sailor-men ; 
 
 When, cast away on dreamland's coast, 
 
 I sup with Neptune for a host ; 
 
258 BE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then; sailing off to Circe's isle, 
 
 Soon carry on in masher style. 
 
 But as I spoon and gaily quaff, 
 
 I change my shape and hear a laugh, 
 
 While someone says, " My music might 
 
 A herd of other swine delight !" 
 
 And, by-theby, the vanished thing 
 
 Was like a pig upon the wing ! 
 
 Now, readers, if this tale should test 
 
 Your credence turnpike never rest, 
 
 Till, sailing on the ocean free, 
 
 You may perhaps those high jinks see ; 
 
 But mind, be prudent when you do, 
 
 Or vanish with that phantom crew ! 
 
 Ship Carnaqueeu, May, 1877. 
 
 THE FLVmG OtJTCHMAtJ. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 Come listen to this truthful tale a mariner told me 
 About the most pig-headed tar ttiat ever sailed the sea : 
 None of your footlight singing swells — tenori, say, for 
 
 choice, 
 But just the biggest whale for rum, and blessed with fog- 
 horn voice. 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 259 
 
 Who, wind-jammed off the " Stormy Cape," swore he would 
 
 not " up stick," 
 And sold his soul, as seamen will, to Davey Jones — that's 
 
 Nick; 
 Thereafter to be played by him, as you would lusty fish, 
 For swarms of hungry imps at last to be the toughest dish : 
 Let opera Wagnerian delight the Upper Ten, 
 We'll have the Vanderdecken yarn as known to sailor men. 
 
 THE MABINEE'S STORY. 
 
 Some centuries ago or so — 1 will not be precise — 
 A fine, old-fashioned galliot, which looked just like a slice 
 From Daddy Noah's clipper craft (a bottom slice, of course). 
 With lots of beam to carry sail, was thrashing at the force 
 Of snoring gale from sou'-sou'-east and nasty chopping sea. 
 As lively as she bobbed about as such a craft could be ; 
 And on the weather-quarter loomed old Afric's stormy cape. 
 Round which the Dutch adventurer his daring course would 
 
 shape ; 
 For "Vanderdecken," of that craft, was skipper bold I ween. 
 As anyone with half an eye might easily have seen ; 
 For, speaking trumpet in his hand, he looked as if he'd hail 
 The natives swart of savage land above the roaring gale. 
 
 An oiled sou'-wester cased his head above his shaggy brows — 
 Who'd ever think that bear-like man once fancied by the 
 vrows ? 
 
260 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 For like a rat, he'd keen small eyes, and then his bottle- 
 nose 
 Had pimples of the pineapple, the colours of the rose ; 
 While wolf-like mouth, with yellow teeth, which snarled 
 
 beneath that knob. 
 Appeared as if on offer there to take a mantrap's job ; 
 His grizzled beard from heavy chin on brawny breast hung 
 
 down 
 To fairly mix the grime and grease upon his doublet brown. 
 And in the girdle that he wore was thrust a dagger long. 
 To prove its owner in the right, however in the wrong. 
 Trunk hose of leather met his boots of close-grained, hard 
 
 horse-hide, 
 Which on the luckless Johann Schmidt full often had been 
 
 tried. 
 Who, though he doubtless fancied them too large a size or 
 
 so, 
 Discovered that, like " three-leagued boots,'' they made him 
 
 swiftly go ; 
 And once, when with great energy and suddenness applied. 
 They furnished wings which carried him into the sea's salt 
 
 tide, 
 Where, being but an orphan boy of melancholy mood, 
 They left him there to fraternise with " Mother Carey's '' 
 
 brood. 
 But, oh ! as if into the breast of Stormy Petrel small 
 Had entered soul of cabin-boy, so, surely in each squall. 
 One pretty, evil-omened bird on restless wings pursued 
 With other notions, said the men, than just to seek for 
 
 food; 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 261 
 
 " For gramercy ! right well he knows,'' quoth they, " how wa 
 
 shall fare, 
 And so, to keep us company, already doth prepare. 
 For since the little Johann died hath trouble hemmed us- 
 
 round, 
 And will, till in the fatal sea like him shall we be drowned." 
 So biscuit crumbs some to him threw, while others wished 
 
 that he 
 To " certain burning latitudes " might on swift pinions flee ! 
 Still, howsoever they might wish, there still that seabird flew, 
 That troubled Vanderdecken more than e'er it did his crew» 
 And often, with his arquebus, had he, with cruel mind, 
 At little ocean wanderer aimed messenger unkind ; 
 But, oh, a charmed life it bore, for still it sailed along. 
 As if it loved the billow's crest and tempest's weird song. 
 
 That stormy petrel skimmed the waves on restless pinions 
 light, 
 
 A hated and reproachful thing in Vanderdecken's sight, 
 
 Who, as he rolled along his deck, no words of pleasure 
 spoke. 
 
 Though muttered curses from his throat in sullen thunder 
 broke ; 
 
 And, scowling on his sun-burnt crew, from foreraast-man to 
 mate, 
 
 He " blessings " in Low Dutch called down on every luck- 
 less pate. 
 
 As if those scurvy-stricken tars could help the gale so foul. 
 
 Which in derision through the gear like demons seemed to 
 howl. 
 
262 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 " Come, rouse that fore-tack down," he cried ; " be smart, 
 
 ye lubbers all !" 
 And half a dozen tarry ones responded to his call, 
 While, just as sportive rabbits drive into rude dingle dens. 
 So dived into the seething trough the " Renaud Engle- 
 
 kens," 
 For thus was Vanderdecken's craft from burgomaster 
 
 named. 
 Who little thought when she was launched that she would 
 
 be so famed. 
 
 Now, Peter Vanderbelt, the mate, a fair-haired, blue-eyed 
 
 tar. 
 Is gazing with his mental eye upon some scene afar ; 
 For, as against a shroud he leans, his heart is far away — 
 To where his loving Gretchen sits, while round the children 
 
 play, 
 And in his ears their joyous tones like music seem to ring ; 
 But him from his bright reverie his skipper's accents bring. 
 "Arouse ye! dreaming, home-sick calf!" he hears that 
 
 worthy hiss ; 
 " Ere Amsterdam ye see again it will be long I wis ; 
 For may Old Scratch seize on my soul if I for Holland turn 
 Before we weather yon black cape and leave it far astern. 
 For spice and precious stones I sailed, and mean to have 
 
 them too, 
 And so I'll stay and carry on till everything is blue ! 
 Besides, I never yet was beat wherever I did roam. 
 Go ! get below, you foolish loon, and dream no more of 
 
 home ! " 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 263 
 
 But, ah ! what fearsome sound was that which both those 
 
 seamen heard ? 
 It could not come from albatross or any other bird, 
 Though round them rustled viewless wings, and weird 
 
 shadows fell — 
 Oh, no, 'twas like exulting laugh from mocking fiend of hell ! 
 And, with a sudden change of wind, the sails were thrown 
 
 aback. 
 And stopped the " Renaud Englekens " abruptly in her 
 
 track ; 
 But e'er the startled seamen sprang to haul the yards around, 
 She filled again and gathered way, as if for Cape Horn bound. 
 But where is gallant Vanderbelt ? Not in his berth below. 
 No pillow, save a " water one," will Peter ever know; 
 For, by the jibbing main-boom flung into the raging sea. 
 No more will he his pleasant home or gentle Gretchen see : 
 With one wild cry to Heaven sent for mercy on his soul, 
 He disappears beneath the waves, which o'er him surging 
 
 roll. 
 E'en Vanderdecken's rugged heart by tragedy was wrung. 
 For still he loved his sister's son — though he no hencoop 
 
 flung. 
 Or wore his clumsy galliot, or tried to heave her to, 
 Or in a cranky cockle-shell send forth a saving crew ; 
 For well he knew that fruitless all would such endeavours be j 
 No dingey that was ever launched could live in such a sea ; 
 Besides, he saw his luckless mate like deep-sea lead go 
 
 down. 
 So turned upon the steersman bold with savage curse and 
 
 frown — 
 
264 EE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 " Just mind your helm, you lubber, you ! Why, what are 
 
 you about ? 
 I did not want, you sea-cook's son, to put the craft about. 
 And 'twas your carelessness just now that got her in the 
 
 wind. 
 And sent poor Peter overboard. By himmel, I'm inclined 
 To string you up, without a shrift, unto that yardarm there ! " 
 The man replied, " Thou skipper mine, from further threats 
 
 forbear ; 
 No fault was that of mortal man, but of the Evil One, 
 Who works for us a cruel fate which he hath well begun ; 
 For, oh ! that horrid, gibing laugh rings yet within mine ears, 
 And ever will, though I attain to all one hundred years. 
 A doomed ship is this, I trow, and all that in her sail ; 
 That fatal cape we'll never round or weather out this gale. 
 But I for one, like Christian man, will bravely meet my fate; 
 I would I were as well prepared as our departed mate ! 
 For gentle was his soul, I wis, though as a lion's bold " — 
 And, as thus spake that mariner, tears down his visage 
 
 rolled — 
 " 'Tis thirty days since first in sight of that swart cape we 
 
 came, 
 And high upon the inland hills beheld the nightly flame, 
 Which you said native blackamoors were making as a sign — 
 An ugly blackamoor, indeed, thought I and comrades mine! 
 And still a foul wind baffles us, while scurvy thins the crew; 
 Then list, mynheer, to good advice I fain would offer you." 
 
 Stern Vanderdecken answered not, but turned him on his 
 
 heel, 
 Though into his hard, wicked heart a doubt began to steal, 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 265 
 
 And as he wandered up and down on those unsteady planks, 
 
 Old recollections filled his mind of what were worse than 
 pranks ; 
 
 And then he mused on Vanderbelt, when — who would 
 think it true — 
 
 Unconsciously from his fierce eyes stole down a tear or two ! 
 
 For his good angel tried once more to turn his stubborn 
 heart — 
 
 That indurated pebble-stone which stood for vital part — 
 
 And prompted him to seek again his helmsman good and 
 true, 
 
 And growl, " Now, Diedrich, say thy say, but let thy words- 
 be few." 
 
 Then spake that skilful mariner, and this is what he said, 
 "Turn back, if there should yet be time, by prudent coun- 
 sels led. 
 And let us to Our Lady pray to help us in our strait. 
 For with her aid, perchance, e'en yet may we evade our 
 
 fate." 
 Here Vanderdecken stopped him short, with muttered curse 
 
 and scowl : 
 Quoth he, " Befits it seamen bold to helpless saints to howl 
 Whene'er a puff of wind comes down and starts a wave or 
 
 two ? 
 Pshaw ! if you call that good advice, just dew up 1 — that 
 will do." 
 
 E'en as bold Vanderdecken spoke that stormy wind veered 
 
 round. 
 And seemingly the Englekens was fairly outward bound. 
 
266 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then muttered that grim skipper old, as they the yards did 
 
 trim, 
 " Not yet hath Satan clutched my soul ; I still will weather 
 
 him. 
 Ho, steward ! bring the cheering schnapps ! Let all the 
 
 mainbrace splice ! " 
 The steward said not anything, but vanished in a trice, 
 And soon each drouthy mariner tossed high the polished 
 
 horn, 
 Then poured into their seasoned throats the blood of Barley- 
 corn. 
 E'en Diedrich took his liquor off as should a seaman brave. 
 But still it lightened not his heart or cleared his visage grave; 
 And, when a comrade to the helm came aft his trick to take. 
 He gave the tiller up to him and gazed back on the wake, 
 As if the mate once more he'd see, then crossed himself and 
 
 sighed, 
 While offering a prayer for him who slept beneath the tide ; 
 Then forward to the forecastle he silently did hie. 
 For something whispered in his ear 'twould soon be his to die. 
 
 Now merrily the galliot runs right before the wind. 
 And wildly yaws, as is the wont of vessels of her kind. 
 While albatross and moleymauks and flocks of smaller fry 
 ■On buoyant wings wheel round and round, to keep an eager 
 
 eye 
 •On white and boiling wake astern for what the cook may 
 
 cast, 
 While through the rigging whistles shrill the mighty western 
 
 blast, 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 267 
 
 And from the huge green-headed waves, with gleaming crests 
 
 of spray, 
 A school of uncouth black fish dive in strange cetacean 
 
 play. 
 Then Vanderdecken goes below to take another nip, 
 Forgetting quite the adage old anent impending slip 
 'Twixt cup and lip, although before, unto his cost, hath he 
 Oft verified the truth of it upon that very sea. 
 And, hark ! that heavy tramp of feet denotes a stir on deck, 
 So quickly up the booby-hatch he cranes his buU-liks neck. 
 To see the yards braced round again to meet the gale 
 
 unkind. 
 For, hauled upon a bowline taut, she's close upon a wind. 
 Ah! now she will not lie her course, unless they wish to land 
 At Table Bay, and soon e'en that is on their weather hand ; 
 And, blowing as 'twould blow its last, the fast-increasing gale 
 Soon forces Vanderdecken bold to take in sail by sail, 
 And though his craft " lies to like duck " in ordinary gales, 
 There's nothing now would stand to it unless sheet-iron sails ; 
 She therefore needs must scud away beneath her long bare 
 
 poles. 
 While, with her yard-arms to the brine, 'midst horrid waves 
 
 she rolls ; 
 And as the night comes rushing down upon the stormy sea. 
 E'en Vanderdecken would he were beneath some island's lee. 
 
 How fiercely that south-easter blows, so piercing, dry, and 
 
 chill, 
 And stars with cruel, steel-like gleam the cloudless heavens 
 
 filL, 
 
268 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 'Neath which the sailless vessel speeds — one instant to ssed 
 
 on high 
 On mountain seas, whose wind-shorn crests like stinging 
 
 hailstones fly, 
 Then hurled to seething, gloomy depths, by rushing waves 
 
 assailed. 
 No wonder that upon their knees the fear-cowed seamen 
 
 quailed, 
 And prayed unto their patron saints for help in this their 
 
 strait : 
 These might have heard, but if they did they left them to 
 
 their fate ; 
 For hark ! as yaws the Englekens, an awful billow breaks 
 With force terrific on the craft, which to her keelson shakes 
 Beneath the shock ; it smashes in her hatches, as a bomb 
 Descending through some dwelling's roof would carry wreck 
 
 and doom ; 
 And down into her gloomy hold invading waters pour 
 In torrents like Niagara, and with a sullen roar. 
 
 Bold Diedrich and the watch below dart out upon the deck, 
 While scurvy-stricken wretches pray and moan a certain 
 
 wreck ; 
 And well they may, for overboard the helmsmen twain are 
 
 cast, 
 Their dying cries to leeward borne upon the raging blast. 
 And Vanderdecken, where is he ? Why, on the cabin floor, 
 As full of schnapps as he can be and has been oft before. 
 The tiller and the binnacle both gone, with helmsmen brave ! 
 No wonder that the boldest now expect an ocean grave 1 
 
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 269 
 
 And e'er brave Diedrich can invent, and with the hardy crew 
 Rig up, some pro tern steering-gear, the vessel broaches to, 
 And by the wind's terrific force is thrown upon her beam. 
 While through the hatchway's gaping jaws the fatal waters 
 
 stream. 
 In vain those active mariners, with ready jack-knives bound, 
 To hack the weather lanyards tough, through rigging's dead- 
 eyes wound ; 
 For, with a suffocating sob, she rights a moment, then 
 Dives down into the depths below with all her doomed men. 
 Whose death-shrieks, ringing wild and shrill, one moment 
 
 peal on high ; 
 Then naught is left, save raging waves, beneath the cruel sky ! 
 
 AFTER. 
 
 From out the peaceful ocean deeps 
 
 The ghost of Vanderdecken 
 Arose, with phantom crew, and keeps 
 
 On cruising round, I reckon. 
 In cobweb craft that eats the wind 
 
 Right into very eye, sir. 
 When darksome nights and gales unkind 
 
 Poor modern shellbacks try, sir. 
 
 The look-out man he roars " Sail, ho ! " 
 Then whispers, " Oh, my eye. Jack, 
 
 If this here ain't a rummy go, 
 May I to Poll ne'er go back ! 
 
270 RB-BCHOKS FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 She's comin' up right head to wind, 
 
 No rag o' cloth a-showin', 
 An' if their helum they don't mind 
 
 Slap through 'em we'll be goin ! " 
 
 " 'Tis Vanderdecken cruising round, 
 On Davey Jones attending ; 
 And those who see him, if not drowned. 
 All come to still worse ending ! " 
 " A paul heave on that cuffer. Jack : 
 Of lies 'tis just a parcel ; 
 Besides, that ship on tother tack 
 Is Smith's Balmoral Castle ! " 
 
 ^ 
 
 TO A SWAJ4tOW 
 
 That came to the ship and lighted on my wife's head when we were 
 in the Western Ocean, four hundred miles from land. 
 
 Poor wanderer ! what dost thou here. 
 With weary wings and eyes of fear. 
 
 From land so far away ? 
 For over hedgerow, mead, and stream, 
 And gardens, whence sweet flowerets gleam. 
 
 Thou should'st be skimming gay. 
 
 Thy comrades twitter 'neath the eaves 
 Of human friends, the verdant leaves 
 Are singing to the wind. 
 
TO A SWALLOW. 271 
 
 The swarming gnats whirl high in air, 
 Of swallows aye the dainty fare : 
 Why left thou them behind ? 
 
 O'er ocean yet the norther blows, 
 Chill-hearted, from eternal snows ; 
 
 The petrels'* vagrant train 
 Flit lightly in our vessel's wake, 
 With eager appetite to take 
 
 The floatage of the main. 
 
 From " Stormy Cape," through cold and heat, 
 In ocean's waves they've dipped their feet. 
 
 And followed day and night ; 
 But thou, though similar in form, 
 When worsted by the cruel storm. 
 
 Where, where couldst thou alight ? 
 
 Right welcome wouldst thou be if I 
 Knew not that thou must surely die 
 
 Of hunger, friendly bird ; 
 For nothing can we offer thee 
 As provender — upon the sea 
 
 No buzzing fly is heard. 
 
 My children laugh with ringing glee 
 Thy charming confidence to see. 
 As folding pinions light. 
 
 * The name petrel is derived from the Italian diminutive for Peter, i.e., 
 " Petrillo," and was given to the petrel owing to ita habit of dipping its feet 
 into the waves as it slcims along their surface, as Peter dipped his feet when 
 attempting to follow our Saviour's example on the Sea of Gennesaret. 
 
272 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 By instinct to the gentle led. 
 Thou perchest on their mother's head 
 To rest awhile from flight. 
 
 There, pretty creature, stay awhile, 
 Then haste away, lest mouser vile 
 
 Should mark thee as his prey. 
 Thy speedy pinions yet may bear 
 Thee safely through the bracing air 
 
 O'er Biscay's stormy bay 
 
 To sunny France, where thou wouldst find 
 A welcome, doubtless, from thy kind. 
 
 Now seek the rigging high. 
 In safety there to rest until 
 The morrow's sun gilds far-off hill. 
 
 Then landward swiftly fly. 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, May 28, 1877. 
 
 THE SWAUUOW*S FATE* 
 
 Departed is the chilly wind. 
 
 The waves have sunk to rest. 
 And cheerily upon mankind 
 That jewel of the all-wise mind — 
 The sun — in glory dressed, 
 
THE swallow's FATE. 27S 
 
 Flames upward to the eastern sky 
 
 In chariot of Ught ; 
 The morning air is crisp and dry, 
 While wavelets small that ripple by 
 
 As emeralds are bright. 
 
 The canvas flutters as the ship 
 
 Is rocked by rolling swell, 
 Which chronicles, with sighing lip. 
 The fury of the storm king's whip 
 
 That late on ocean fell. 
 
 Too tranquil is the smiling morn 
 
 For gallant, home sick tars. 
 Who would from waves the foam was torn 
 By mighty western wind in scorn, 
 
 And bowed their lofty spars. 
 
 " Now, swallow, is the time for flight," 
 
 I, upward gazing, said ; 
 But never swallow met my sight, 
 And so I pictured with delight 
 
 The wanderer safely sped ; 
 
 Then, slowly pacing to and fro, 
 
 I eastward turned my eyes, 
 When, ah ! a dreadful cry of woe — 
 Loud children's sorrow from below — 
 
 Rang upward to the skies. 
 
274 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 " The birdie's dead ! the birdie's dead ! " 
 Poor Tottie cried in grief ; 
 And so it was, for fate had led 
 The swallow near that tabby dread — 
 Our skulking feline thief. 
 
 At eventide no more 'twould roam 
 Beneath the summer sky 
 
 O'er many a happy English home ; 
 
 For, oh, across the ocean's foam 
 It sought us but to die. 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, May 29, 1877. 
 
 Poor little swallow ! I thought that it was gone off safely, but after 
 passing the night in the cook's galley it fluttered aft into the cabin, when 
 to the bitter grief of the children, the weird (St. Helena) successor of the 
 " phosphorous hunter," imitating the role of the detestable prowler which 
 slew " Mrs. Throgmorfcon's bullfinch," pounced in and burked it ; but we did 
 not permit him to feast on the fruit of his crime. No ; we committed ic to 
 the deep, while that feline exhibited to perfection what a cat, duly encou- 
 raged, can perform in the way of flying up precipitous places and through 
 impossible cracks, in which a November sunbeam would share the fate 
 jEsop's weasel. He did not, however, follow his victim overboard, owing to 
 ithe insignificant fact that no one was able to capture him in time to draw 
 his attention to it ; besides, reason stepped in to the rescue, and averred that 
 .the culprit was naturally vicious, and therefore not accountable for his 
 crimes. He was let off, but has since been shy. 
 
 JT 
 
TO AN EAST WIND. 275 
 
 TO An EAST wmo. 
 
 IN THE CHOPS OB' THE CHANNEL. 
 
 Some poets rail at Boreas, 
 
 Averring he's a railer, 
 But stubborn easi winds bore, alas ! 
 
 Far more the home-sick sailor, 
 When round about the universe 
 
 He's weary months been sailing. 
 That wind and soundings he'll asperse 
 
 With fervour unavailing. 
 
 From Channel chops, like albatross, 
 
 Glide lofty outward-bounders. 
 While, with that east wind for a boss, 
 
 Athwart them thrash our sounders, 
 Who, sniffing, scent fresh provender. 
 
 Kiss almost Nance and PoUyj 
 Yet from iAese chops they cannot stir, 
 
 To kiss which would be folly. 
 
 Swift in-bound steamers, gallantly 
 
 The foaming billows cleaving, 
 Can almost hear our " Hard-a-lee,'' 
 
 And shellbacks loudly grieving. 
 Our canvas thunders in the wind, ' 
 
 As round she comes all shaking — 
 No missing stays — she's more inclined 
 
 To be a long stay making t 
 
276 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 With reddish nose and pearly eyes, 
 
 Our officers go pacing, 
 Obtesting aye the cruel skies, 
 
 Whose wind is far too bracing ; 
 For bowline is a word, oh dear ! 
 
 Our skipper's always calling, 
 While " Mainsail haul ! " e'en now I hear 
 
 Him up above me bawling. 
 
 Dull patience is an attribute 
 
 Confined, 'tis said, to females ; 
 That statement I at once confute 
 
 By swearing that all sea males 
 Must take to it, like Adam's race 
 
 To death — that's willy-nilly. 
 When east winds they with bad damns face 
 
 But then they're close on S(c)illy. 
 
 Of sharks and whales, of calms and gales. 
 
 We've had enough. Old Gusty, 
 So long to lounge in smiling vales, 
 
 And rattle on roads dusty. 
 Vouchsafe us, then, a friendly lift 
 
 To stop this ceaseless tacking : 
 Our wardrobe's done ; a decent shift 
 
 Of wind we're sadly lacking. 
 
 Great ^olus, thy burly sub, 
 
 Old Boreas, be sending 
 To kick home this vile, suily cub. 
 
 Now Neptune's sons offending. 
 
Drawn by R. Bruce. 
 
 THE BURNING OF THE COSPKTRICK, 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATBICK. 277 
 
 In sounding cave confine the knave 
 Till " outward bound " wire steering ; 
 
 Then let him free to sweep the sea, 
 And work at Channel clearing. 
 
 With sails all squared we'll gaily grin 
 
 At nasty, growling fellows, 
 Who'd to the Downs go sailing in, 
 
 And ban your howling bellows 
 For kindly helping us along 
 
 (A salt's a selfish rogue as 
 Those Ministers who change their song 
 
 To suit their oft-turned togas). 
 
 Ship Carnaqueen, 1877. 
 
 iT 
 
 THE BUimmG OF THE COSPATRtCtC. 
 
 At midnight of November I7th, 1874, when about 400 milea from the 
 Cape, the Cospatrick, bound for Auckland, with 434 passengers and a 
 crew of 43 hands, was found to be on fire, which, despite all efforts to subdue 
 it, obtained an entire mastery and raged in the vessel till she sank. Only 
 two boats finally left the burning ship. One, after keeping in company with 
 the other, disappeared, and was never afterwards heard of ; the other, with 
 poe men, out of thirty-five who started in her, was picked up by the ship 
 British Sceptre on the 27th, and of these two died after being taken on 
 board. When writing the poem, I was most careful to glean informationr 
 from the best available sources, and I believe my description of the terrible 
 maritime calamity is as nearly correct as it is possible to be.— R. B. 
 
 The orb of day has disappeared from sight 
 
 Beyond horizon's far-off western verge, 
 While summer zephyrs, vagrant-winged and light, 
 
 Stir waste of waters that has ceased to surge, 
 
278 KK-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Since loud-voiced storm king laid aside his scourge; 
 Yet rolling swells un quietly arise, 
 
 Like late-quelled rioters a word would urge 
 Again to violence, but tranquil skies 
 A peaceful night portend, and twilight swiftly dies. 
 
 But not on ocean's vast expanse descends 
 
 The gloomy darkness of cloud-curtained night ; 
 
 For, sailing high, the earth's fair consort lends 
 A silver flood of soft, reflected light, 
 Which soothes the senses and the hearts delight 
 
 Of cheery voyagers, who o'er the deep 
 
 Send, tuneful melodies, now sad, now bright. 
 
 With words of hope to bid the pulses leap. 
 
 Or plaintive ballads old might force the blithe to weep. 
 
 For now of emigrants a motley throng 
 
 The good ship brings from Britain's islands twain, 
 Who speed the moments pleasantly with song. 
 
 While idly rocking on the restless main, 
 
 Far, far from homes they ne'er may see again ; 
 For, oh ! the laugh and sportive jest go round, 
 
 While they to fancy lend a loosened rein, 
 And see themselves to certain fortune bound 
 On sunny southern shores where liberty is found. 
 
 But brazen clang of slowly-smitten bell 
 On pure air vibrates, resonant and clear. 
 
 Apprising all, as many think too well, 
 
 That evening " dog watch " to the crew so dear 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATEICK. 27* 
 
 Is but a memory ; and soon to steer 
 A man steps aft ; when comrade he reUeves, 
 
 Imparts the course to his attentive ear, 
 And gossip also, as he slowly leaves, 
 With added subtle hint that meaning gesture weaves. 
 
 By bowsprit heel the trusty look-out man 
 The deck patrols with light, well-balanced tread. 
 
 To pause at times the vessel's path to scan 
 For hidden dangers that may lurk ahead 
 In coming ship or floating wreck more dread, 
 
 While comrades rough, of watch on deck, bestow 
 Themselves around where'er by fancy led 
 
 In friendly knots, to talk in voices low, 
 
 No just offence to give to sleeping watch below. 
 
 From placid loveliness of balmy night 
 
 The yawning voyagers retire to sleep ; 
 Though some remain to watch deceptive light 
 
 Enhance the seeming of a living deep, 
 
 And shining eyes of phosphorous that peep 
 From fretwork patches of white, gleaming spray 
 
 Evolved from waves which 'gainst the- good^ship leap,. 
 Then sullen fall, and leave to pass away 
 In ghostly wake astern their bursting bubbles gray. 
 
 Of Southern Cross the pointers slowly turn. 
 
 While careful officer the poop must pace 
 To con the sails, and with wet finger learn 
 
 Whence come faint airs which fail to fan his face ; 
 
280 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And oftentimes he calls his men to brace 
 Round creaking yards to meet uncertain wind, 
 
 When they, not differing from all the race, 
 Cry " Aye, aye, sir ! " yet wish him dead or blind. 
 In muttered, surly phrase uncouth as 'tis unkind. 
 
 Thus they on deck, while heedless folks below 
 
 In darksome berths, are now beneath the spell 
 Of gentle sleep — the sweetest mortals know, 
 
 When undisturbed by fevered visions fell. 
 
 As Adam's race with gratitude can tell ; 
 And these, all confident in ship and crew, 
 
 Dream not of fear, but slumber sound and well, 
 For brightly tinted are their hopes in hue. 
 And fair the pictured paths that open to their view. 
 
 They little heed the wash against the bends. 
 
 The bell's loud stroke, and heavy roller's shock. 
 
 Or on the deck the clatter of ropes' ends. 
 Or fretful banging of a tackle block, 
 The creaking fittings, or the vessel's rock ; 
 
 Nor are they startled by the seamen's tread, 
 
 Which hollow-sounding slumber seems to mock. 
 
 Yet in reality but serves instead 
 
 To summon dreamland sprites to sport round pillowed 
 head : 
 
 For restless brains, ignoring sleep's control. 
 Have visions strange, as Pharaoh did of old. 
 
 Which wizard fancy, artist of the soul. 
 With magic pencil draws in outlines bold 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATRICK. 281 
 
 To please hot youth and those whose veins wax cold : 
 The past, the present, and the future bring 
 
 A medley strange of subjects, else untold, 
 To crowd his canvas — mirth on glancing wing, 
 And guilt and trouble, too, their subjects freely fling. 
 
 The young, strong man, with health and courage blessed, 
 Who feels not yet the force of time's fell hand, 
 
 SBut entertains a Briton's wholesome zest 
 For scenes exciting, strides on far-off strand, 
 Or breasts the flood, or views his well-tilled land ; 
 
 ■On gallant steed outstrips the bushland flame, 
 Or singly combats with some savage band, 
 
 5ees beauty his, grasps opulence and fame. 
 
 And is the winner sure in life's swift-changing game. 
 
 The buxom lass, her red cheek on her arm, 
 
 Meets once again the lover left behind ; 
 -Or better still (O dream a maid, to charm) 
 
 One rich and handsome she will shortly find. 
 
 Should Fortune's smiles to her be truly kind ; 
 ■Gay scenes of pleasure, dresses rich and bright. 
 
 All these combine to fill with joy her mind ; 
 Let anxious cares assail with morning's light — 
 She hath fair visions now to charm her mental sight. 
 
 E'en tender infant by its mother's side 
 
 Hath shadow dreams to stir its slumbers deep. 
 
 For soft lips work, as if they draw the tide 
 Which baby life can in such pleasure steep. 
 
282 BE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And aid to lull the little one to sleep ; 
 Faint wreathing smiles play o'er its dimpled facey 
 
 Its rosy limbs from 'neath the bedding peep ; 
 And, surely, o'er it from the Throne of Grace 
 A guardian angel stands and keeps its resting place.- 
 
 Of southern night 'tis now the peaceful noon. 
 
 And " Rouse, you sleepers ! " and the clang of bell 
 Bring watch below again on deck, and soon 
 
 Their weary shipmates, deeming all is well. 
 
 Turn in to rest for brief, allotted spell ; 
 While hardy deck watch, yawning as they go. 
 
 Seek cosy nooks in which salt yarns to tell. 
 And puff the weed, while time with pinions slow 
 Pursues his endless race, and dreamers dream' below. 
 
 An aged man from Erin's luckless isle 
 By fearful vision is constrained to weep ; 
 
 For, ah ! 'midst concourse of masked monsters vile- 
 He* stands perforce, while they a circle keep 
 Round lonely cot, whence half-clad creatures leap' 
 
 To 'scape the flames which red-winged soar on high, 
 The brooding clouds with glare of hell to steep. 
 
 Oh, God ! those fiends ! they hurl them back to die — 
 
 Too great grim horror's strain — he wakes with startled cry.- 
 
 * An old Tipperary man told me that in the time of the " White Boys" 
 he witnessed such a scene as here pourtrayed to his great horror ; in 
 fact, that he and several I others were forced to stay in order that they 
 would not dare to give the names of the others.— R. B. 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATEICK. 283 
 
 What pungent odour steals from hold below, 
 
 With vicious hiss and rustle as of snake ? 
 Alas ! it tells of fierce, relentless foe, 
 
 And luckless sleepers in confusion wake, 
 
 At very name of enemy to quake : 
 " Fire ! Fire ! " they cry in shrillest tones of fright, 
 
 For will not Death now gather in his stake 
 On boundless ocean, and in dead of night, 
 With fire and flood combined to aid him with their 
 might ? 
 
 The boldest don what garments they may find, 
 The women clutch their little ones and shriek, 
 
 While crew and captain, as one man combined, 
 The common foe in lurking places seek 
 With steadfast purpose, but with blanching cheek ; 
 
 For, oh ! on sails and tarry cordage fed. 
 It gathers force and rushes forth to wreak 
 
 A swift destruction on each hapless head. 
 
 So lately laid in peace on pillow void of dread, 
 
 The mariners a forceful deluge send ; 
 
 In hissing steam the red flames fling it back 
 Through open hatchway with the mists to blend, 
 
 And pass to leeward with the heavy rack 
 
 Of blinding smoke that rolls in volumes black ; 
 While raging foe, all hydra-headed, flies 
 
 On seamen bold to frustrate their attack, 
 Like famished lion, which, with blazing eyes. 
 Beats back the hunter band and bears off one as prize. 
 
284 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Distracted women to the workers cling, 
 Or screaming children to their bosoms fold, 
 
 While brawny men in desperation fling 
 The ocean water to the burning hold, 
 Till bravest hearts grow paralyzed and cold. 
 
 For vainly all their failing force they try ; 
 The bounding flames beat back those toilers bold 
 
 With burning wounds, and then exultant fly 
 
 The foremost boats to claim, and climb the rigging high. 
 
 The fated ship, now head to wind, sweeps round, 
 When lofty foremast falls with horrid crash. 
 
 Like forest king dashed headlong to the ground 
 By awful lightning's devastating flash. 
 And fear-struck people to the small boats dash ; 
 
 But overcrowding, by fell panic driven. 
 Men pile on men till massive davits smash. 
 
 And ocean's breast by frenzied forms is riven. 
 
 Whose awful cries for help assail unheeding Heaven. 
 
 For though the meanest sparrow may not fall 
 
 Without His knowledge, when man's time is come 
 
 He must obey the Conqueror of all — 
 The prayerful e'en as obstinately dumb, 
 And so those lost ones to their fate succumb : 
 
 'Tis Nature's law, and she, with stony gaze, 
 
 Sees Death's dread grasp the human heart benumb. 
 " He will be missed " is but an empty phrase : 
 
 A passing atom-man, of varied length of days ! 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATEICK. 285 
 
 Now gallant Lewis and McDonald try 
 
 The ship's great pinnace on the skids to turn, 
 
 But no one answers their imploring cry 
 
 For needful help ; 'tis therefore left to burn, 
 And eager flames soon spread from stem to stern ; 
 
 To lower then from handy davits near 
 Its buoyant burthen is their chief concern, 
 
 While others, not yet overcome by fear. 
 
 The brine-filled boat secure and quickly bale her clear. 
 
 From haggard crowd that fiercely surges there 
 A stream of fugitives down tackles slide. 
 
 Or, stung to madness by their sharp despair. 
 Spring wildly forth Irom lofty vessel's side 
 To board the boats from corpse-encumbered tide ; 
 
 Till, presently, when crowded to excess. 
 
 The crews push off and from the swimmers glide. 
 
 For now, all impotent in vast distress. 
 
 Their meagre chance of life each moment renders less. 
 
 On doomed ship the fast-encroaching pest 
 From decks and hatchways leaps toward the sky, 
 
 And soon by e'en the bravest 'tis confessed 
 That naught remains for any but to die. 
 And shrieks and prayers go up in one wild cry ; 
 
 But now to falling mainmast's thunders dread 
 The awful groans of victims make reply, 
 
 With wailings shrill of whirling flames o'erhead, 
 
 Which light with lurid glare the dying and the dead. 
 
286 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The crowded boats are heaving on the deep, 
 
 While shrieks resound and death and horror reiga 
 For flame-scorched wretches from that red hell leap 
 
 To 'scape from torture in consenting main, 
 
 When earthly hope they realise is vain. 
 Now, wife in arms, the captain courts the wave, 
 
 Through kindly agency new life to gain ; 
 And, with their child, the doctor, calmly brave. 
 Oblivion's flood explores and shares their ocean grave. 
 
 How paramount the love of Hfe must be 
 
 When men sit selfishly, while all around 
 Their hapless friends are sinking in the sea. 
 
 With cries for help, yet, lacking aid, are drowned ! 
 
 If now for them no saving ark be found. 
 Do they not think that they may well die too, 
 
 And pass away, by conscience justly crowned. 
 Than live indeed, yet evermore to view 
 By day and night in thought that lost, beseeching crew? 
 
 The mizenmast falls headlong with a crash, 
 
 And ocean trembles to concussion dread, 
 While from the ship, with sudden roar and flash. 
 
 The stern i)lows out, and soon the flames are spread 
 
 O'er all the vessel, for, by spirit* fed. 
 They mount on high with mighty whirlwind roar. 
 
 And in their midst the last sad souls are sped : 
 From clay divorced, away to swiftly soar, 
 Their Master's will to work^ah ! where ? — for evermore. 
 
 * The Coapatrick had a very large consignment of spirits on board.— E. B 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATRICK. 287 
 
 The Hull floats on, infested by fierce fire, 
 
 Which gnaws its vitals, while huge jets of steam, 
 
 With angry hiss, above the flames aspire, 
 When shattered stern admits a briny stream, 
 Or floods, invading, pour through ports abeam. 
 
 Now, one by one, the swimmers strong go down, 
 And men drop off from floating coop or beam, 
 
 With choking cry beneath the waves to drown, 
 
 Each fear-wrung visage pale fast settling in a frown. 
 
 Near flaming wreck, with miserable freight 
 
 Of human salvage, those small ship's boats lie, 
 
 When fair Aurora opens wide the gate 
 
 For pale-browed morning in the eastern sky, 
 And far and wide the seamen's glances fly 
 
 In eager hope that some tall, saving ship. 
 Approaching slowly, may delight the eye : 
 
 All gaze in vain, with indrawn breath and lip— 
 
 They see but ocean birds, that in its waters dip. 
 
 Now, as the cutter has no chief to guide 
 
 Her fateful course and helpless landsmen crew. 
 
 The brave McDonald, oft in tempests tried. 
 
 That post assumes, while from him take their cue 
 Young Bentley brave and Lewis good and true ; 
 
 Staunch seamen all, who, though without a sail , 
 Or compass guide, with haven far from view. 
 
 May, with kind Providence, reverse the scale , 
 
 ^Gainst famine-gnawing tooth and ocean's ruthless gale. 
 
288 RB-BCHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The hours creep on, the sun resigns his reign, 
 
 And weary night's long vigils, too, are passed. 
 When o'er the limitless expanse again 
 
 The morning breaks, more hopeless than the last ; 
 
 For, though all night the wreck's red beacon cast 
 Its warning light far o'er the lonely sea, 
 
 No swelling sail, no lofty, taper mast 
 In spreading circle of their sight they see. 
 And from their sinking hearts e'en hope begins to flee^ 
 
 The second day is waning fast, when lo ! 
 
 The calcined hull sends up vast clouds of steam. 
 As, plunging headlong, down she dives below, 
 
 And through the brine her red-hot ruins gleam, 
 
 While requiem wild the startled sea birds scream ; 
 Then rushing waters in the vortex meet. 
 
 And fiercely fighting for the plunder seem, 
 Till, rolling onward in their heedless beat, 
 They count one good ship more to ocean's sunken fleet. 
 
 On varied hamper which around them floats 
 
 The shipwrecked gaze, then shape their hopeless course- 
 Sans everything, in those deep-laden boats, 
 
 With scarce an oar their weary way to force ; 
 
 But brave McDonald as a faint resource 
 A garment spreads, that some poor maiden lends, 
 
 To form a sail ; this probably the source 
 In careless times of ribaldry, now tends 
 To raise fresh hopes of life as their frail mast it bends^ 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATEICK. 289 
 
 They onward drift the livelong silent night, 
 The moon's reflection silvering the deep, 
 
 And while for succour some few strain their sight, 
 The rest, o'erwearied, sink in troubled sleep. 
 And luckless women in the mate's boat weep. 
 
 Up mounts the sun, but ocean's breast again 
 No sail can show to bid their hearts to leap. 
 
 While Nature's cravings fast augment their pain. 
 
 Oh for the crust despised, the gently falling rain ! 
 
 Another day is numbered with the past, 
 
 Another night, and still another day ; 
 Then wakes to violence the western blast, 
 
 Whose fierce behest the rolling waves obey. 
 
 And rush before it in the moonlight grey : 
 On, on they speed, those gaunt and wasted forms. 
 
 Who little heed the crested billows play. 
 For once again the hope each bosom warms 
 That they a ship may meet, or reach the Cape of Storms. 
 
 Now foaming chaos they may scan in vain. 
 For consort boat has disappeared from sight. 
 
 And loudest hail brings back no hail again 
 
 To give them answer through the thickening night, 
 O'er angry surges, gleaming crisply white ; 
 
 They onward scud, while in each breast of care 
 The feeling gathers that the weary fight 
 
 With gnawing hunger, thirst, and deep despair, 
 
 Uncheered must henceforth be, alone for them to bear ! 
 
290 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The Sabbath dawns — no peaceful time of rest ; 
 
 What day it is none scarcely know or care, 
 For while they watch each coming roller's crest 
 
 Their every thought converges to despair, 
 
 And thirst becomes impossible to bear : 
 Now reckless grown and deaf to counsels given. 
 
 They drink from ocean, though its waters tear 
 Their very vitals, till by madness driven 
 They curse the hand of fate, and rave of hell and heaven. 
 
 From earthly agony their souls depart, 
 
 And leave to prowlers of the sea a prey : 
 Poor Bently, steering, leaps with sudden start 
 
 From fevered doze, and, falling, drifts away ; 
 
 His comrades see, but cannot lor him stay. 
 On, on they drive, while, like fierce lupine pack 
 
 O'er dreary waste sad fugitives to slay, 
 The raging billows follow on their track. 
 And o'er the gunwales bound to be baled hardly back. 
 
 Still howls the gale, and by fierce hunger driven 
 The ghoul-like living feed upon the dead ; 
 
 For human qualms from voyagers are riven 
 Who now must die if not on something fed, 
 And nought is there save husks of spirits fled ; 
 
 But they are many, for each awful day 
 
 Finds Death fresh victims, whose warm veins are bled 
 
 To keep in life the few who still obey 
 
 Starvation's promptings grim its horrid pangs to stay. 
 
THE BURNING OF THE COSPATEICK. 291 
 
 When coldly breaks the widely spreading dawn 
 Of eighth sad morning from the shades of night, 
 
 To eager vision of those waifs forlorn 
 Is now revealed a soul-reviving sight — 
 A barque, full sail, before the breezes light ! 
 
 To be observed, their every art employs 
 
 Those wretched castaways; but, like a blight,. 
 
 Fell disappointment transient joy destroys — 
 
 That heedless craft speeds on. None hear their faint 
 ahoys. 
 
 What sickening agony the lost ones feel 
 As speedy stranger on her voyage steers ! 
 
 In speechless misery their senses reel. 
 And dry are fountains of relieving tears, 
 Though gloomy depths of death's black gulf appears 
 
 To yawn before them ; but brave Lewis now 
 This homely comfort whispers in their ears : 
 " Come, cheer up, comrades, let that vessel go ; 
 
 We'll sight another soon ; we're in their track I know." 
 
 Nine dreary nights, nine weary days are flown. 
 
 And drifting still is ark of horrors, where 
 The mangled dead are 'midst the living strewn ; 
 
 For crouching near, like wild beasts in their lair,. 
 
 Are gaunt survivors who no longer care 
 For life or death, but 'neath the cold grey skies 
 
 In sleep recline, or round them madly glare 
 On ghastly comrades with ferocious eyes. 
 Till, like a rabid dog, one on McDonald flies 
 
292 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And bites his flesh, when, starting from a trance, 
 
 He feebly rises to repel his foe ; 
 But, ah ! what meets his eager, searching glance. 
 
 And bids new hope within his breast to grow ? — 
 
 A noble ship ' He tries to shout " Sail ho ! " 
 Yet breathlessly to cutter's gunwale clings, 
 
 And gazes mutely on the gallant show 
 The craft displays, with wide and lofty wings, 
 While o'er the crested waves her captain's hoarse hail sings. 
 
 The gaunt survivors of the wreck awake 
 
 And watch the vessel as, with gull-like sweep. 
 
 She meets the wind until her white wings shake 
 With sounding flappings on the dark -blue deep, 
 While, fawning on her, swelling billows leap. 
 
 Her fore and mizzen sails again soon fill ; 
 
 Her main are backed against the breeze to keep 
 
 Her near the spot, while, with a hearty will, 
 
 The crew stand by to save with promptitude and skill. 
 
 Oh ! who shall know the feelings of those men, 
 Who gasp for breath as they that ship draw nigh ? 
 
 Lost from their memories the blood-stained den, 
 And on their rescuers is fixed each eye, 
 While to their homes their thoughts exultant fly. 
 
 Brave friends are near whose honest faces glow 
 With eager kindness, but whose warning cry 
 
 To horror changes when the truth they know, 
 
 As 'neath their vessel's lee glides up that charnel low. 
 
MONEY. 293- 
 
 The active seamen hoist the saved on deck, 
 
 And wash away each filthy, gory stain, 
 While mangled dead — sad relics of the wreck — 
 
 With decent rites are given to the main 
 
 To sleep the sleep devoid of dreams or pain. 
 Till sharply roused by last great trumpet's call, 
 
 With perfect forms, they then shall wake again. 
 To be arraigned before the Judge of all. 
 Here let the drama end ; here let the curtain fall ! 
 
 There's nothing in this world of ours 
 
 Like potent money ; 
 It strews our daily path with flowers, 
 
 And fruit, and honey ; 
 The only pleasant salve to cure 
 Most mundane troubles is, I'm sure. 
 
 All evils' root — that's money ! 
 
 The worn-out rake a maid may buy — 
 
 'Tis sad but funny ; 
 A snob oft rules in circles high 
 
 With lots of money ; 
 While shameless plutocrats can be 
 Sad sinners with propriety : 
 
 What sm?iers i men with money t 
 
294 KErEOHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But Time his march will not delay, 
 Not e'en for money ; 
 
 No golden bribe the writ will stay 
 Of SHERIFF bony : 
 
 So I'd advise this simple plan — 
 
 Enjoy, dear brothers, while you can, 
 Your pleasure-giving money ! 
 
 .jr 
 
 A WOMAN^S smthK. 
 
 A woman's smile is a mighty thing. 
 Though softly bright as the sunny spring 
 
 Of Austral's gracious clime ; 
 For bowed to it has the race of man 
 As willing slaves since the world began, 
 
 And will through coming time. 
 
 The despot fierce who can say " Go there," 
 " Do this," " Do that," or " For death prepare," 
 
 To countless subjects, still 
 By honeyed smile of a maid can be, 
 Like sighing lover of low degree. 
 
 Compelled to woman's will. 
 
 Ho ! Ho ! The priest he may virtue preach, 
 But acts not aye as he oft doth teach : 
 Ho ! Ho ! A woman's smile 
 
A woman's smile. 295 
 
 Can move the soul of an anchorite 
 To slight his prayers in the still midnight, 
 And muse in godless style. 
 
 A lawyer's thoughts from his musty law 
 The magic smile of a maid can draw ; 
 
 E'en Justice on the Bench 
 The heedless slave of a smile can be, 
 When he and his twelve trtie men agree 
 
 To pet a comely wench. 
 
 Oh, who shall say what some smiles have done 
 For men who vowed that a heaven they'd woa 
 
 To send them down below. 
 Where Satan smiles in a sultry way 
 On sinners who fast and loose would play 
 
 The belle as well as beau ! 
 
 Yet weal or woe, while I still may live, 
 Give me the joy that a smile can give ; 
 
 And, if I'm fooled, why, then, 
 I'll write it off as a. partial \oss, 
 When positive gain I've had, of course. 
 
 Like other well-fooled men ! 
 
296 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THE SOD or TUBP. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Green land of Old Erin ! thy sons and thy daughters, 
 Where'er they may wander, think ever of thee ! 
 
 No matter how distant on earth's spreading quarters, 
 Their hearts are still with thee, thou Gem of the Seal 
 
 And here to Australia, across the wide ocean. 
 Came one whose affections were tender and true ; 
 
 Her heart warm and steadfast, her life a devotion 
 To stern self-denial for friends old and new ! 
 
 And though of a station in life poor and lowly. 
 With small earthly treasure she did what she could 
 
 To succour her neighbours ; and what is more holy 
 Than — like our Great Master — to try to do good ? 
 
 Long years had departed of mixed joy and sadness, 
 When from the Old Country came news that a friend 
 
 Intended to join them ; she heard it with gladness. 
 And wrote to her kindred a " turf-sod " to send ; 
 
 For, oh, 'twould remind her — that strange, simple trea- 
 sure — 
 
 Of scenes of her childhood in Erin's fair isle ! 
 No jewellery costly could give such a pleasure, 
 
 As that magic mirror her cares to beguile ! 
 
THE wanderer's RETURN. 297 
 
 But as o'er the billows the gallant ship bounded, 
 That brought to Australia the turf and the friend, 
 
 They laid her to slumber, 'neath mound low and rounded. 
 In silent God's Acre — her ashes to blend 
 
 With those of the pilgrims departed before her. 
 
 Who came from the country they loved till they died — 
 
 A love that her children have fervently borne her, 
 Unmatched by e'en that of a man for his bride ! 
 
 jT^ 
 
 THE WAHOBRER*S BETUatt. 
 
 (WRITTEN ON REVISITING MY NATIVE VILLAGE, AFTER AN ABSENCE FROM 
 IT OF TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS). 
 
 Where are my friends — my boyhood's friends — 
 
 I left behind at home. 
 When, young and bold, for Austral's gold, 
 
 I crossed the ocean's foam ? 
 The lark still sings on mounting wings. 
 
 The mavis on the tree ; 
 But sylvan scene and village green 
 
 Are tenantless for me. 
 
 Where are my friends — my boyhood's friends — 
 
 That long unchanged band 
 I met at night, in visions bright, 
 
 In Austral's far-off land ? 
 
298 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The winding stream, which erst did teem 
 With comrades splashing free, 
 
 Flows onward still, and ever will — 
 It empty is for me. 
 
 Where are my friends — my boyhood's friends- 
 
 The brave, the blithe, and fair ? 
 In silent grave ; beneath the wave ; 
 
 And scattered here and there ; 
 While those still left, of youth bereft. 
 
 With feelings changed I see. 
 Alone I stand on native land, 
 
 For changed is all to me ! 
 
 THE BATTX^B OF UPE. 
 
 I sing the battle fierce and long 
 Of mercenary throng with throng, 
 
 Whose legions desperate fight 
 For fame and gold, nor pause awhile 
 When Death strikes down the rank and file; 
 
 They grieve not at the sight. 
 
 Urged on by quenchless love of gain, 
 Their brains and nerves they fiercely strain — 
 Their fellows trample o'er ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 'ifO 
 
 As on the crimson battle-field 
 "The victors force their foes to yield, 
 Or seek the silent shore. 
 
 The time-scarred vet'ran, spent with toil, 
 Sinks down upon the trampled soil — 
 
 The grave receives its right. 
 When, ardent, to the front instead 
 Leaps the strong youth — by instinct led — 
 
 To join the madd'ning fight. 
 
 One motive rules the eager throng — 
 The will to prosper — riglit or wrong ; 
 
 Its motto, " All for self ! " 
 To each his neighbour is a foe, 
 Each thrives on neighbour's overthrow 
 
 Its constant aim seems pelf. 
 
 Keen competition is the cry 
 
 That steels the heart, that clears the eye. 
 
 And swells the battle's din ; 
 "That makes the soldiers sternly laugh, 
 When fellow-mortal's hopes, like chafif, 
 
 Disperse — that they may win. 
 
 The lawyer sharp, the statesman sly. 
 The merchant shrewd, the parson dry. 
 
 The busy burgess stout. 
 The sons of toil, with brawny arms, 
 And women, with resistless charms — 
 
 Their rivals strive to rout. 
 
300 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And so 'twill be while mortals still 
 
 Have frames to clothe and mouths to fill,. 
 
 And babes are born to join 
 As raw recruits the army vast 
 That surges, like a whirlwind's blast. 
 
 About almighty coin. 
 
 THE LOST ARGOSIES. 
 
 A wreck I see in shadow land, 
 
 On tideless dead sea's shore ; 
 Its ghostly company — my hopes — 
 
 Now lost for evermore ; 
 But long ago I spread her sails 
 
 To Fortune's winds that blew ; 
 For pleasant was the sea of life, 
 
 A careless band my crew. 
 
 And, ah ! a fairer barque I see, 
 
 'Neath glowing springtide skies ; 
 As freight a trusting heart had she, 
 
 And shining, love-lit eyes. 
 But as we sailed the storms of fate 
 
 My consort snatched away, 
 And she, too, lies on silent shore- 
 
 Of phantom-haunted bay. 
 
THE TEACHING OF THE WAVES. 301 
 
 Full many an eager voyager 
 
 The Corsair grim hath slain. 
 Since cast away on weird coast 
 
 Those once fair ships have lain ; 
 "Yet, drifting still in shattered craft, 
 
 On life's cold winter seas, 
 J ofttimes sigh 'neath gloomy sky 
 
 For those lost argosies. 
 
 THE TEACHmG OF THE WAVES. 
 
 Question. 
 
 IBright, restless waves that roll upon the shore, 
 Yet leave no record, save in figured sand. 
 
 Which waves succeeding blot for evermore, 
 
 As though with touch of Time's unsparing hand. 
 
 Seek ye to show the vanity of those 
 
 Whose search for pleasure all their thoughts engage ; 
 Who waste their lives ; who to themselves are foes ; 
 
 And leave at last a soiled, unwritten page ? 
 
 'Or, would ye give this motto to us all — 
 
 " Who fear not failure, fortune shall obey ! " 
 
 J"or, though impalpably ye seem to fall, 
 You wear in lime the hardest rocks away ? 
 
302 ee-echoes fkom coondamboo. 
 
 Answer. 
 
 We teach true wisdom, though the heedless band 
 Of human butterflies pause not to read ; 
 
 For them all lessons written are in sand, 
 
 Save only those which cause the heart to bleed. 
 
 The wise shall read, and from our teaching find — 
 "Like flowing waves should their endeavours run;" 
 
 The first may leave no lasting trace behind. 
 Yet, all combined, shall see their object won ! 
 
 HOTttmG TO DO. 
 
 " Nothing to do ! " 'Tis a terrible thing, 
 For mischief flits near on invisible wing, 
 
 To whisper in idle ones' ears, 
 Who, then, like the " Washford " of Ingoldsby, feel 
 An impulse for naughtiness over them steal — 
 
 The germ of remorse for long years. 
 
 ''Nothing to do ! " How some people repine 
 At having to labour, and vow 'twould be fine 
 
 To waste in inaction the hours. 
 Oh ! little they know of the ennui that blights,. 
 And renders insipid all human delights 
 Which are of existence the flowers. 
 
FAREWELL TO MY FELLOW-PASSENGERS ON THE SIAM. 303 
 
 " Nothing to do !" Yes, it sounds very nice ; 
 And so it is, too, if a very small slice 
 
 The weary just take as a tonic. 
 But sit not too long to enjoy it, or soon 
 You'll find, when too late, your much coveted boon 
 Has become a calamity chronic. 
 
 FAREWELt. TO MY FEt.LOW-PASSE«GERS 
 on THE SIAM. 
 
 Ye comrades free, who on the sea 
 Made days and weeks pass pleasantly, 
 
 To-morrow we must part. 
 The surging, eager crowd to swell, 
 All hoping aye to prosper well 
 
 In Fame and Mammon's mart, 
 
 'Tis passing strange that never more 
 We're like to meet on mundane shore, 
 
 When severed wide we're cast — 
 That only in kind fancy's dream 
 Your faces bright shall on me gleam, 
 
 Like pictures of the past. 
 
 The merry jest, the hearty laugh. 
 The " Nap" and whist — well mixed with "chaff- 
 Like transient poppy flowers 
 
304 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 With pleasant tints old time bestrewed, 
 Who dull had else been with his brood 
 Of lagging, listless hours. 
 
 But human life, from birth to grave, 
 Is — on dry land and liquid wave — 
 
 A strange kaleidoscope ; 
 The pieces, ever changing, fast 
 Bright scenes into confusion cast, 
 
 But should we therefore mope ? 
 
 For, turning onward, we may yet 
 More pleasure-raising pictures get. 
 
 To gladden heart and eye. 
 And, trusting such may really be 
 From now until eternity, 
 
 I'll bid you all " Good-bye ! " 
 
 Only old Beppo grazing nigh. 
 My camp-fire's red gleams leaping high 
 Only the whispering trees that find 
 Gossip enough with the sighing wind ; 
 Only a saddle beneath my head, 
 Only the stars above me spread. 
 Only my pipe and pot of tea, 
 Out in the lonely bushland free. 
 
CAMPING ALONE. 305 
 
 Am I alone ? Oh, no ; with me 
 
 Is met a joyous company 
 
 Of festive friends, who laugh below 
 
 The holly and the mistletoe ; 
 
 While she I love — as only can 
 
 The healthful, young, and ardent man — 
 
 Avows her love with trustful eyes 
 
 Which shine like stars in southern skies ; 
 
 And ah ! she whispers soft and low, 
 " I love you, Fred ; I love you so : 
 Then, from me, dearest, do not stray. 
 Why wait for wealth while heads grow grey ? 
 Of worldly gear what want we more, 
 That you should seek that distant shore ? 
 Oh ! sail not on the stormy sea, 
 But be content with love and me ! " 
 
 The flames are sinking low, 
 
 And the wind in a myall tree 
 
 Is whispering sadly, " Do not go," 
 
 As she whispered it to me, 
 
 And the Southern Cross below. 
 
 Lonely am I and grey. 
 
 While Annie sleeps where daisies grow. 
 
 And peep from out the lingering snow, 
 
 In churchyard far away. 
 
 JT 
 
306 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 AUSTRAUANSt BEMEMBER tTOHW MCOOUAtL 
 STUART. 
 
 O careless dwellers in this southern clime, 
 
 Come ! Answer me ! Shall heroes' hard-earned fame 
 Soon pass away upon the wings of time, 
 
 And Stuart sound an all unmeaning name ? 
 Say, shall the man who in the desert land 
 
 Vast trackless wilds through weary lengths explored— 
 Then safe brought back his brave, devoted band — 
 
 Now find his claim to gratitude ignored ? 
 
 By heat, by hunger, and by thirst oppressed ; 
 
 Racked by disease; oft sought by deadly spear ; 
 The dauntless heart that beat within his breast 
 
 Defied despair, though death oft hovered near ! 
 On, on he marched with dangers by the' way, 
 
 While unknown perils ever lurked before ; 
 Until he stood, that memorable day. 
 
 With toil-spent band on longed-for ocean's shore ! 
 
 A grand exploit which opened up the way 
 
 For lightning messages from all the world — 
 A theme far nobler for heroic lay 
 
 Than battle fought with proudest flags unfurled. 
 Its hero sleeps, far, far from conquest won, 
 
 'Neath silent churchyard's daisy-spangled sward, 
 And though right well his daring work was done, 
 
 We to the dead begrudge a due award. 
 
TO EVENIHG. 3Q7 
 
 Australia's sons ! for past neglect atone, 
 
 And rear a monument, where all may see, 
 Inscribed in bronze or long-enduring stone. 
 
 Deeds that for ages should remembered be : 
 Then o'er those words let life-like statue stand 
 
 Of John McDouall Stuart, he who gave 
 To all who read the secrets of this land, 
 
 Then found himself a lowly English grave ! 
 
 Coondambo, April 24, 1897. 
 
 TO BVEwmc. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF A VERY HOT DAY 
 
 Hail, eventide 1 for one by one appear 
 
 Thy wondrous gems, that ever softly shine ; 
 While zephyrs whisper to the myalls near 
 
 What soothing gifts are thine. 
 'Midst lurid glare down rushed the orb of day. 
 
 Like conflagration which — its rage o'erspent 
 On regions near — is spreading far away, 
 
 On fresh destruction bent. 
 
 With thy cool advent Nature breathes again. 
 And crickets hail thee with a shrill delight ; 
 
 While fainting mortals on the Austral plain 
 Now welcome coming night : 
 
308 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 For gentle sleep, with promptings kind from thee, 
 Will hover near to close each weary eye 
 
 Beneath the vast eternal canopy 
 Of starlit southern sky. 
 
 December 29, 1897. 
 
 TO A MOtOCH ttOBBJOtJS. 
 
 (THE HORNY LIZARD OP THE AUSTRALIAN DESERT), 
 
 On seeing one stand beside an ant path, taking the insects as they passed 
 Tfith its tongue, the surviving ants not seeming to notice its presence or the 
 disappearance of their fellows in the least, however close they might have 
 been to the victims when they were called away. 
 
 Like silent Fate, beside the path you stand, 
 
 While countless ants before you hurry past, 
 Your spear-like tongue a member of the band, 
 
 With lightning thrust, has caused to breathe its last. 
 They heed you not — those ants on business bent ; 
 
 They give no thought to comrades gone before : 
 On formic schemes they all are too intent 
 
 To think of death, though standing at their door. 
 
 And, like those ants, the careless human race 
 
 Grim ruin heeds not when its neighbours fall; 
 Too oftentimes the mourner's tearful face 
 
 Excites no pity in men's hearts at all : 
 Yet when our Moloch — all-destroying Death — 
 
 Shall come to claim us it would tend to cheer 
 Our fainting souls, ere yielding up our breath, 
 
 Had we been kinder to our fellows here. 
 
THE DROUGHT-RUINED FARM. 309 
 
 THS OEOUGHT-RUtKEO FARM. 
 
 A SOUTH AUSTRALIAN PICTUEB OF 1897. 
 
 A desert plain 'neath cold, grey, winter's skies, 
 
 Where fretful dust careers before the blast. 
 Like tattered signal of distress that flies 
 
 From shipwreck's shattered mast. 
 Is that a farm, where once the growing grain, 
 
 Like ocean's bosom, undulating, rolled ; 
 Where oftentimes the softly falling rain 
 
 Of fruitful harvests told ? 
 
 Those fences gaunt, which bare, red paddocks bound. 
 
 Like mocking spectres stand in grim array ; 
 No blade of grass within their lines is found, 
 
 No rick of saving hay : 
 No sturdy plough-horse occupies yon shed. 
 
 No portly cow to crown the housewife's pail : 
 'Tis roofless now ; on ihatch the creatures fed 
 
 While it might them avail. 
 
 Gone, like the past, are gatherings which years 
 
 Of patient labour wrung from wayward soil ; 
 While penury and, for the future, fears 
 
 Reward the farmer's toil : 
 Yes ; ruin reigns, and even hope, that brings 
 
 Such gentle comfort to the troubled breast. 
 From such a scene has spread her shining wings. 
 
 Its hopelessness confessed ! 
 
 May 1 6th, 1897. 
 
310 RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 TO SUSPENSE. 
 
 What rival fiend can equal thee, Suspense, 
 For mental tortures, lingering and fell ? 
 
 To virtue surely 'twould be hoist immense 
 Could we be certain that in halls of hell 
 
 Thy hateful presence Satan's powers shall swell 
 For torments terrible to souls of men, 
 Doomed for eternity in flames to dwell ! 
 
 Ah 1 if, as comrade we shall find thee, then 
 
 They'll have to drag me to detested den. 
 
 Than dwell with thee I'd rather flit in space, 
 'Midst cold and darkness of an endless night, 
 
 A lonely ghost, far, far from realms of grace. 
 From smiling planets, from vast founts of light, 
 And all things beautiful to spirit's sight. 
 
 But awful void would prove no bar to thee. 
 For thither presently thoud'st wing thy flight, 
 
 To vaguely hint that called back I might be, 
 
 Or have some spooks to bear me company ! 
 
 When dearest friend is visited by death. 
 What silent agony wrings heart and brain, 
 
 As, bending low, we listen for the breath 
 That flutters, stops, yet feebly starts again 
 For final struggle, which must be in vain ! 
 
 Then thou art near to force the stifled groan 
 By dread uncertainty's protracted pain ; 
 
 Till glad are we when definitely flown 
 
 Is errant soul to infinite unknown ! 
 
TO SUSPENSE. 311 
 
 Oh ! what is hunger to the constant pain — 
 
 Thy tugging at the heart-strings — when we watch 
 
 Long, weary months for all-reviving rain, 
 
 And wrench from nightmare, with strained ear, to catch 
 Its welcome patter in the dust-grimed thatch ? 
 
 A few drops fall, when, ah ! that gusty wind. 
 To southward veering, surely will o'ermatch 
 
 The brooding clouds, so anxious to be kind ; 
 
 They flee in haste, but thou art left behind 
 
 To jostle Hope, till with despair she blends, 
 
 And is a mixture hard to be defined ; 
 But through its agency thou gain'st thine ends, 
 
 When, vulture-like, it preys upon the mind 
 
 To banish sleep or foster dreams unkind : 
 Jhou art that mixture, and in friendly mask 
 
 You sickly tortures for your victims find, 
 Till, crushed at heart, they recklessly shall ask 
 For call of death or soul-destroying flask. 
 
 I'll write no more, for thou to all mankind 
 Art known too well, and hated as a pest — 
 
 The greatest surely even fate can find 
 As fell " familiar " for the human breast, 
 To steal its peace and snatch from Hfe its zest ; 
 
 No cheerful word can mortals say of thee. 
 Though all anathematise as fiend possessed : 
 
 So, fare thee well ! I would the same to me 
 
 You now could say, and absent ever be ! 
 
312 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 March on, young warrior ! March on 
 For spoil from Fortune to be won ; 
 
 And, breathing bold defiance. 
 Bear down on opposition, dight 
 In potent armour for the fight — 
 
 A sturdy self-reliance ! 
 
 March on ! March on ! with courage high, 
 With manful heart and steadfast eye, 
 
 And charge, with cheer like thunder. 
 Misfortune's legions, whose array. 
 With gloomy banners, bar thy way, 
 
 And fain would bear thee under ! 
 
 March on ! March on ! with Hope to lead, 
 And Faith to aid in time of need. 
 
 And Fortune's steep rock clamber ; 
 And shouldst thou fall upon the way. 
 Like knight in harness, pass away 
 
 To death's calm realms of slumber ! 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Old Time strides on with steady pace, 
 His speed he quickens never ; 
 
 Yet still he runs a winning race, 
 And keeps the course for ever ! 
 
DEPARTED FRIENDS. 313 
 
 By night and day, while worlds decay, 
 He strides along for ever. 
 
 For ever, yes, for ever ! 
 
 He glances down, with scornful face. 
 
 On mortals swift and clever. 
 And, as each drops from out the race, 
 
 He leaves them there for ever. 
 Both great and small, he leaves them all, 
 
 And strides along for ever. 
 
 For ever, yes, for ever ! 
 
 But still yourselves, ye mortals, brace 
 
 For Fame — it dieth never ! 
 And, though ye drop from out the race, 
 
 Your name may live for ever. 
 Then gain a name, and let your fame 
 
 Stride on, with Time for ever ! 
 For ever, yes, for ever ! 
 
 iT 
 
 OEPAHTEO FmBUDS. 
 
 When fortune smiles, when hopes run high, 
 And youth with pleasure glides along, 
 
 If e'en the best and dearest die, 
 
 Our mourning for them lasts not long ; 
 
 Yet, latent in our hearts, the pain 
 
 Sleeps but to wake in time again. 
 
314 EE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 For trouble comes in sombre guise, 
 And age his heavy hand extends; 
 
 Then, with sad souls and tearful eyes, 
 We muse on our departed friends ; 
 
 The mists of years before us fall, 
 
 And we their priceless worth recall. 
 
 Oh ! hearts by weary yearning wrung. 
 How all your pains and sorrows swell,. 
 
 If conscience, with upbraiding tongue. 
 Of cold neglect to them can tell ! 
 
 Ye writhe in torture, self-accused, 
 
 'Neath what once sophistry excused. 
 
 Then you to whom kind fortune gives,. 
 To cheer in life your onward way, 
 
 Dear friends and loving relatives 
 
 Devotion show them while you may,. 
 
 And, when they are no longer here, 
 
 Your lonely hours shall memory cheer. 
 
 Unloose true sorrow's tearful tide ; 
 Let all its founts be opened wide, 
 
 Ye denizens of earth ; 
 For heedless death has stricken dowm 
 A shining jewel in the crowu' 
 
 Of piety and worth. 
 
IN. MEMOEIAM : PRINCESS ALICE. 315 
 
 A lady of right royal line, 
 
 She gracious wisdom could combine 
 
 With duty in the sphere 
 Of usefulness, so grandly trod. 
 With gentle love to rnan and God, 
 
 With conscience ever clear. * 
 
 From blushing maidenhood ahvay 
 Bright virtue was the guiding ray 
 
 That led her footsteps right, 
 In godly path of narrow bound, 
 Where mortals are so seldom found. 
 
 From life's morn till its night. 
 
 Her dying sire with pious love 
 She tended till, like wearied dove. 
 
 His spirit sped away ; 
 A pattern child, a faithful wife, 
 A mother who her priceless life 
 
 For loved one's life could pay ! 
 
 Then silently, with lowered head. 
 The mem'ry of the sainted dead 
 
 All tearfully bedew, 
 And treasure it with sacred things. 
 Till, sternly on unswerving wings, 
 
 Death calls at last for you ! 
 
316 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THH trttAHSWeaEO QUESTtOtt. 
 
 Far into high immensity of space 
 
 I silent gaze, with ever-longing soul, 
 To pierce the mystery of shining place, 
 
 Where countless worlds within their orbits roll. 
 Yon tiny star — a twinkling point of light — 
 
 Js that a sun whose vivifying rays 
 Vast, unknown sphere's inhabitants delight, 
 
 Who join with us in God's eternal praise ? 
 
 Of many mansions, Christ the Saviour said. 
 
 Is God's great house ; and can those mansions be 
 Delightful worlds that, by attraction led, 
 
 Revolve round suns — -perhaps those stars we see ? 
 And if to hell, for sins committed here, 
 
 Our trembling souls shall be for ever hurled, 
 Will such dread place be found in photosphere 
 
 Of flaming orb, round which this earth is whirled ? 
 
 Shall we, unseen, revisit loved ones here ? 
 
 Shall we rejoin the dear ones gone before ? 
 Will God's stupendous mysteries be clear 
 
 When mundane things for us shall be no more ? 
 Ah ! who can say ? — for till on pinions free 
 
 From earthly dross our spirits wing their flight. 
 Of hopes conflicting and of doubts must be 
 
 Our souls communing 'neath the stars of night. 
 
 January 28th, 1897. 
 
THE CALL OF DEATH. 317 
 
 THE QAt4* OF DEATH. 
 
 O thou to whom both young and old, 
 The cringing slave, the freeman bold^ 
 
 Resign their breath ; 
 At whose dread call must haste away 
 The spirit from its house of clay, — 
 
 Thy name is Death ! 
 
 The infant, like an opening flower, 
 Is called by thee from mundane bower 
 
 To bloom above : 
 It leaves behind the storms of life 
 Its tears, its troubles, and its strife, 
 
 And iindeth love. 
 
 'Neath age's load the cripple bends ; 
 A trouble to himself and friends ; 
 
 In constant pain : 
 Yet struggles to evade the blow 
 That would in mercy lay him low, 
 
 New life to gain. 
 
 The king upon his couch of state 
 Must yield him tamely to his fate 
 
 When thou dost call ; 
 For bishop's prayer or army's might 
 Avail him nothing in thy sight, — 
 
 Thou king of all ! 
 
318 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The mendicant on wretched bed, 
 In garret or in cellar spread, 
 
 May beg of thee 
 To grant his life a longer span, 
 E'en though of want, as it began : 
 
 In vain begs he. 
 
 The lawyer, like a common thief, 
 Is summoned from existence brief 
 
 By writ of thine 
 To answer for his moral flaws, 
 And plead his soul's eternal cause 
 
 In courts divine. 
 
 No legal quibble will avail. 
 
 No point of law 'gainst thee prevail : 
 
 He must away 
 And wait, with those whom for a fee 
 In earthly courts defended he. 
 
 The Judgment Day. 
 
 The ardent soldier who would win 
 A deathless fame 'midst battle's din 
 
 In foreign land 
 Is 'whelmed beneath war's horrid wave. 
 And sinks into a nameless grave 
 
 At thy command. 
 
 The sailor, calm when tempests lower, 
 And resolute e'en in the hour 
 He meets with thee ; 
 
THE CALL OF DEATH. 319 
 
 •On Stormy coast is helpless cast, 
 And 'midst fierce breakers breathes his last 
 At thy decree. 
 
 The poor old widow's only son, 
 'Who by his toil her bread has won, 
 
 No pity gains ; 
 For, stalking grimly on thy prey, 
 'His fainting soul is forced away 
 
 With racking pains. 
 
 The spendthrift who at duns would jeer, 
 Ignoring debts contracted here. 
 
 Yet felt no shame. 
 You single out from reckless band. 
 And, with dread summons in thy hand, 
 
 Enforce your claim. 
 
 The horseman, in his manhood's pride, 
 "Who could the wildest outlaw ride 
 
 With fearless heart. 
 All helpless on the level plain 
 ;From falling, quiet horse was slain 
 
 By cruel dart. 
 
 The sneaking coward who, afraid 
 ■Of rustle that a leaf has made, 
 
 And danger shirks. 
 Although he doubles like a hare, 
 .Must fall at last into the snare 
 
 Thy fell hand works. 
 
320 EE-ECHOKS FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The miser old thou dost surprise 
 
 At midnight when, with greedy eyes,. 
 
 He counts his gold : 
 He fears thy call, but dreadeth more 
 The parting from that shining store — 
 
 So often told : 
 
 The lucre gained in many lands 
 He clutches in his skinny hands 
 
 Till his last gasp. 
 But what no tale of misery 
 . Could make him give is torn by thee 
 
 From his close grasp. 
 
 At thy approach the infidel, 
 
 Who oft has laughed at heaven and hell, 
 
 In wild despair 
 Beseeches thee, with sighs and tears. 
 To grant him yet a few more years. 
 
 Ah I fruitless prayer 1 
 
 His time is come ; he must away ; 
 But whither ? Who shall dare to say ? 
 
 He will be tried 
 By HIM who gave a soul to man, 
 And in whose sight no mortal can 
 
 Be justified. 
 
 The dying Christian calmly waits 
 The final call, and through thy gates 
 Can glory see. 
 
THE UNIVERSE. 321 
 
 And longing for the joys above, 
 Where all is painless peace and love, 
 He welcomes thee. 
 
 Though thou canst claim the mortal frame, 
 Thou canst not interfere with fame ; 
 
 For though all die, 
 A good man's name is ever dear. 
 And lives with his descendants here, 
 
 In memory. 
 
 Then let us all improve each day 
 Of sojourn here, that, when away 
 
 We too must hie, 
 Like Christians we may meet our end. 
 And bid each sorrow- stricken friend 
 
 A calm good-bye. 
 
 THE UHIVEaSE. 
 
 When day has passed what mortal mind may grasp. 
 
 In realms of space, the Universal Plan, 
 
 Where mighty suns with fair attendant worlds 
 
 By millions shine, but from us so remote 
 
 That to our vision they are stellar dust 
 
 On solemn dome of night ! With silent awe 
 
 We gaze into the infinite, wherein 
 
 The works of Great Arch Architect are spread, 
 
322 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And where a messenger, by His command, 
 Could, with the swift velocity of light, 
 Speed on for ever and be passing aye 
 New systems vast, yet reach no final bound. 
 
 iT 
 
 THE OUTCAST TO HER BABY. 
 
 O my baby ! destitute and weary 
 
 Stray we in a wilderness of woe ; 
 Grimmest spectres crowd its pathways dreary ; 
 
 Joy's glad sunshine we can never know ; 
 Ever o'er us brood the clouds of sorrow ; 
 
 Shame and hunger to us closely cling : 
 All my longing is to 'scape the morrow — 
 
 From us now the load of life to fling. 
 
 In some deep pool of the silent river 
 
 We may find forgetfulness and rest, 
 Costing only one convulsive shiver. 
 
 One kind shiver ending all the rest. 
 Mercy, baby, we may find hereafter ; 
 
 Scorn alone has been our portion here ; 
 Mirth we've known not — ^saving ribald laughter ; 
 
 Life, not death, is what the wretched fear ! 
 
IN MEMORIAM : CARDINAL MANNING. 323 
 
 And thou art gone, O venerable priest ! 
 
 Who, though a member of that ancient Church 
 Which brooks no rival, no communion holds 
 
 With other dogma, article, or creed, 
 Would, like thy Master, when He trod this earth. 
 
 Thy hand extend to all who help might need. 
 
 By " golden rule " thy steps were ever led 
 In constant search for poverty and woe ; 
 
 And, finding them, thou couldst with words of fire 
 Burn into hearts, all adamantine else. 
 
 The stem conviction that 'tis deadly sin 
 To feast like Dives while the million starve. 
 
 A gentle pity aye thou didst extend 
 
 To want's sad moan and sin's despairing cry; 
 
 And yet — as Paladin wast ever bold 
 To seek injustice, and with high resolve 
 
 Assail it in its hold — its hydra heads 
 Defied thee only but to be excised. 
 
 Yes, thou art dead ; but in the hearts of all 
 Who reverence piety and sterling worth 
 
 Thou livest still, and will to times remote, 
 When names of kings and princes empty words 
 
 Will sound in listless ears. Upon thy tomb 
 Should be inscribed — He lives for evermore I 
 
324 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THE 01*0 mm*S BIRTHOAY. 
 
 Again my birthday, and with smiling faces 
 
 The neighbours come to wish me many more. 
 Will next one find me in earth's pleasant' places, 
 
 Or gone for ever to the Unknown Shore ? 
 Ah ! who can tell ? But when strong manhood's glamour, 
 
 With birthdays past, has long since fled away, 
 For longer sojourn we no longer clamour. 
 
 But say " 'tis well " and Providence obey. 
 
 How very far I deemed when I was starting 
 
 From youth's bright threshold was life's journey's end : 
 T/ia( seems but yesterday, yet now I'm parting, 
 
 Aye, one by one, from every ancient friend. 
 I watched them changing — youth and comely maiden — 
 
 From laughing springtide to their summer's prime. 
 In life rejoicing, but when trouble-laden, 
 
 'Neath winter's snows, they grudged not flight of time. 
 
 Aye, so it is : in youth, replete with pleasure. 
 
 We cling to life as to our all in all ; 
 To old age even it may seem a treasure — 
 
 On cheery natures life can never pall : 
 Yet still when Death is surely coming for us 
 
 We do not shrink in terror from his blow. 
 For endless rest seems opening before us ; 
 
 We've had our innings ; it is time to go. 
 
 September 19th, 1901. 
 
THE MYSTEEY OF LIFE. 325 
 
 THE MYSTHRY OF LIFE. 
 
 Good night ! good night ! " the mother said, 
 When, leaning o'er her infant's bed, 
 She kissed his mouth so rosy. 
 • Good night ! good night ! " she said again ; 
 Another loving kiss, and then 
 
 She left him warm and cosy. 
 
 And, going out with footfall light. 
 She left the candle burning bright. 
 
 Till sleep, on silent pinions, 
 With fingers deft his eyes would close. 
 While fervently her prayers arose 
 
 To Heaven's supreme dominions 
 
 That he, her son, might grow in grace. 
 To run with credit in the race 
 
 Prescribed on earth for mortals ; 
 And when, with years and honours crowned. 
 He should by kindly death be found. 
 
 His soul would win the portals 
 
 Of God's great house, where sin is not. 
 Where pain and sorrow are forgot, 
 
 Where tears can trickle never ; 
 And, doubting not that she shall fiy. 
 To self-same mansion in the sky. 
 
 Trusts they shall joy for ever. 
 
326 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And soon she seeks the little bed, 
 
 Where — sleep's bright visions round his head- 
 
 Her darling now lies dreaming ; 
 While sunnj' smiles upon his face 
 Appear to her from Throne of Grace 
 
 Replies of hopeful seeming. 
 
 So, taking up her light, she goes 
 With noiseless tread to seek repose, 
 
 And leaves him to his slumber ; 
 But never dreams that her fair child 
 Will grow up, like a nettle wild, 
 
 Earth's smiling face to cumber. 
 
 Long years in pauseless march have sped 
 To shadow land of ages dead. 
 
 Since innocent and fair 
 On snowy bed that infant lay, 
 And dreamed the peaceful night away. 
 
 In guardian angel's care. 
 
 Can this be he who, on the sand, 
 Lies dying in a desert land 
 
 From thirst and hunger's pangs ? — 
 A ghastly creature, ragged, worn. 
 Too mean for word or glance of scorn, 
 
 A prey to conscience fangs ! 
 
TO ELEPHANTA. 327 
 
 But e'er the spirit wings its flight 
 O'er paUid face there gleams a light : 
 
 It is indeed no other. 
 And, ah ! a soft word leaves that tongue, 
 Whence oft the ribald curse hath rung — 
 
 The cherished name of " Mother ! " 
 
 Oh ! heart -wrung parents, do not weep 
 
 When Death your budding flowers would reap — 
 
 'Tis surely for the better ; 
 For life is full of stormy days, 
 And mortals stray by thorny ways 
 
 To die in sin's dread fetter. 
 
 TO EUEPHANTA* 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER VISITING IT. 
 
 O lonely temple, on deserted isle ; 
 
 O pagan glory of the Ind of eld. 
 Would thou wast vocal, and could me beguile 
 
 With tales of pageants in thine honour held ; 
 And tell of sculptors, now ignored by fame, 
 
 Whose chisels wrought your monster gods from stone, 
 Which, in their silent impotence, would claim 
 
 The boundless might possessed by One alone. 
 
'328 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO 
 
 No words are thine, yet eloquent art thou 
 
 The utter nothingness of man to prove 
 Beside the grandeur of our God, who now, 
 
 As in the past, the universe can move ; 
 Whilst, like old playthings of a careless child 
 
 That Jie forgotten, broken, and despised. 
 Thy gods are shattered and with dust defiled, 
 
 Though deathless deemed by those who them devised. 
 
 A few short years, and 'neath thy caverned hill 
 A loathsome den of reptiles shall remain, 
 
 Devoid of form, a monument of nil. 
 
 And grave of gods whose attributes are vain. 
 
 A BUSHMAH'S AOOBESS TO THE MOBUma 
 STAB. 
 
 In Austral wild my vigils drear 
 Through winter's night I'm keeping h^re, 
 
 'Midst solitude supreme. 
 Where noiseless nightbirds flitting past 
 Strange ghostlike semi-shadows cast 
 
 Beneath the astral gleam. 
 
 The present creeps into the past, 
 Each moment longer than the last. 
 I heap the brands anew, 
 
A BUSHMAN'S ADDRESS TO THE MORNING STAR. 329 
 
 While cold wind's whispers mingled are 
 With eerie voices from afar 
 
 Whose authors shun my view. 
 
 Stars westward sink, as if in flight 
 From dark dominion of the night ; 
 
 Yet distant seems the day, 
 Till radiantly bright you rise. 
 The herald in the eastern skies 
 
 Of morning's advent grey. 
 
 All hail, then, planet, fairest gem 
 In night's refulgent diadem ! 
 
 I hail thee with delight 
 When in the boundless realms of space 
 You shine, a queen of matchless grace, 
 
 To my enraptured sight 
 
 Now, cheered by thee and ruddy blaze, 
 Comes fancy, as I upward gaze, 
 
 With train of musing fair ; 
 And, ah, what luxury for me. 
 My mind, like soaring lark, is free 
 
 Awhile from sordid care ! 
 
 Then hail, thou vision softly bright. 
 So dear to lonely bushman's sight ! 
 
 No star can vie with thee, 
 When, like some guardian seraph fair, 
 You watch the world from upper air 
 
 And seem to smile on me. 
 
336 RE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But now above Mount Arden plays 
 Aurora, robed in roseate rays, 
 
 Announcing Phoebus near ; 
 The stars have vanished one by one, 
 And you, your cheering mission done, 
 
 Must also disappear. 
 
 THE omcm or the horse. 
 
 AN ARAB LEGEND. 
 
 As lightning gleamed from riven cloud, 
 Whence followed thunder long and loud, 
 Great Allah's mind, with equal speed, 
 From it conceived the Arab steed. 
 The swiftness and the heart of fire, 
 These, these, the all-creating Sire, 
 In supple form of strength and grace. 
 Bestowed on first of equine race ; 
 And, tempering all with southern wind. 
 Said, " Truly love and serve mankind ! " 
 
 With flashing eyes and nostrils spread 
 The creature o'er the desert sped, 
 While boldly forth its thrilling neigh 
 In echoes floated far away. 
 Like rushing wind in whirling course 
 Careered the yet unbridled horse — 
 
THE HERO OF '91. 331 
 
 -A perfect thing, with life replete, 
 ■One only Allah could complete. 
 
 Now wheeling here, now wheeling there, 
 ^As eagles wheel in upper air, 
 
 Its hoof strokes vexed the sounding plain. 
 
 Pursued by fretful dust in vain ; 
 
 Till, flecked with foam, it snorting stood, 
 
 And Allah smiled and said, " 'Tis good ! " 
 
 •<jreat Allah's gift, the horse has been 
 The noblest friend that man has seen ; 
 In warfare and in peace his pride ; 
 To Arab dearer than his bride ; 
 And while on mundane shore shall dwell 
 The human race will story tell, 
 To those who listen or shall read, 
 'Of glory won by man and steed. 
 
 JiT 
 
 THE HERO OF 8^^ 
 
 'Come, list to the tale I'll tell to you — 
 You'll scarcely believe it, yet 'tis true. 
 
 As true as the truth can be— 
 'Of a gay young chap, with smooth-shaved chin. 
 Who swam in the jaws of death to win 
 
 A life in the tropic sea. 
 
332 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Don't prate to me of your soldiers' fame 
 
 That's won by the sword 'midst smoke and flame- 
 
 And din of the battlefield ; 
 For it to his is as star's faint ray 
 To the all-pervading light of day 
 
 Our glorious sun can yield : 
 
 For comrades' cheers in the fierce charge there, . 
 The drum's loud roll and the trumpet's blare, 
 
 Can drive from the breast all fear ; 
 While he — but my tale I'll tell, and then 
 You'll own that with all time's bravest men. 
 
 His claim to be classed is clear. 
 
 In Aden's gulf one red-hot day 
 The swift Massilia held her way 
 
 'Neath sky that had no cloud, 
 When a Lascar fell from her lofty side, 
 With sounding splash in the heaving tide. 
 
 That roused our languid crowd : 
 
 For some rushed here, and some rushed there, ■ 
 And left to cool was each easy chair ; 
 
 To deck were novels dropped ; 
 While scarce had that Lascar 'gan to swim 
 Than a buoy was snatched and flung for him. 
 
 And the engines, too, were stopped. 
 
 Our young "fourth " sprang to the davits quick,. 
 And cried, " Cast off those falls ! Be slick, 
 And lower her handsomely ; 
 
THE HERO OF '91. 333 
 
 And mind 70U, my lads, that all is clear, 
 For death won't wait if we stay long here ; 
 To give way ready be ! " 
 
 .But the cry was raised, " Sharks ! Sharks ! There's three, 
 And the boat too late to save will be ! " 
 
 With many an " Ah !" and " Oh ! " 
 iBut Cooper, seizing a seaman's knife. 
 With never a thought for his own young life. 
 
 Plunged into the waves below. 
 
 Three sharp fins stole through the dark blue brine, 
 And those three sharks seemed in haste to dine 
 
 From their helpless human prey, 
 Who well-nigh died in his mortal fear. 
 Though he saw the brave young Yankee near, 
 
 Swim past on his daring way. 
 
 'But how could a man with three sharks fight. 
 Alone, immersed, and in open sight ? 
 
 All hearts save his own stood still. 
 What could he do ? Why, his dauntless air 
 •Could even sharks from their banquet scare : 
 Hurrah for his iron will ! 
 
 'The sharks they swerved, but the man swam straight, 
 As it seemed, to death's wide-opened gate. 
 
 To stain with his gore the tide ; 
 But, ah ! like a flash, beneath the flood 
 He dived, and the waves were red with blood ; — 
 
 But 'twas from a monster's side ! 
 
334 EE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBOO. 
 
 Oh that fierce fiend-fish had then to find 
 Relentless foes in its savage kind, 
 
 And fled as the hunted may ; 
 While he who had used so well his knife 
 In fight for his own and a Lascar's life 
 
 Won a deathless fame that day. 
 
 m WATTt^H-SCSHTBO LAKE. 
 
 On vagrant wing the idle zephyr plays 
 At hide and seek in many a sylvan nook, 
 
 To linger lovingly 'midst golden sprays 
 
 Of perfume sweet that fringe the shining brook ; 
 
 With drowsy hum the honey-laden bee 
 
 O'er lengthening shadows wings its homeward flight,- 
 
 While cheerful crickets in shrill ecstasy 
 
 All " wind their horns "^ to welcome coming night. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 In boundless space the stars for night are waiting ; 
 
 I wait you here my own, my darling Jane, 
 Whilst leaflet tongues ^olian are prating 
 
 Of love's delights in wattle-scented lane. 
 
 That grand old gum, what stories it could tell 
 Of whispers low, of hand-clasp, sigh, of kiss. 
 
 And fond embrace, for long remembered well ; 
 Sweet food for dreams ; kind memories of bliss. 
 
THE WATTLE-SCENTED LANE. 335 
 
 Now merr)' Jack, with laughter, seems to say, 
 " Fool, wait no longer ; do not come again ; 
 
 Your darling Jane with favoured lover strays; 
 That goblin bird's rude mockery is vain." 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The peeping stars for coming night are waiting ; 
 I wait you here my own, my bonny Jane, 
 Whilst leaflet tongues JEoMnn are prating 
 Of love's delights in wattle-scented lane. 
 
 Now winding road I watch, with longing eyes 
 
 And bated breath, to note your coming, dear ; 
 My heart is calling, and kind Hope replies, 
 
 " She keeps her tryste ; your pretty one is near." 
 True prophet, Hope ! A graceful form I see ; 
 
 It swiftly comes, with fawn-like footsteps light ; 
 Fond whispered words are melody to me ; 
 
 Sweet lips meet mine ; I clasp you with delight. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The shining stars no more for night are waiting ; 
 
 Come, kiss me, darling ; kiss me once again ; 
 While leaflet tongues ^olian are prating. 
 
 The world for us is wattle-scented lane. 
 
 ^ 
 
336 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 BE HAPPY WHttE YOtJ^RE YOUNG. 
 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 Some good folks, when growing old, 
 
 Lament much — so I am told — 
 Youthful pleasures on their consciences, which burn ; 
 
 But I rather think that they 
 
 More regret, when growing grey. 
 Those pleasures that old age is forced to spurn. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then be happy while you're young. 
 While your joy bells still are rung. 
 
 And care from youth's glad laughter flies away ; 
 Pleasure calls us every hour, with a bright, mysterious power ; 
 
 Let us hasten, let us hasten to obey. 
 
 We are certain, you and me, 
 
 That kind, stolen kisses be 
 To maiden and to youth as honey sweet ; 
 
 *But just think of grandpapa 
 
 Kissing Jones's grandmamma, 
 And endeavouring to fancy it a treat ! 
 
 Chorus — Then kiss when yet you're young, &c. 
 
 Enjoy now tuneful songs, 
 Ere you have to list for gongs. 
 With sound-conducting trumpet at your ear ; 
 
BE HAPPY WHILE YOU'EK YOUNO. 337 
 
 And dance, too, while you can, 
 Be you maiden or young man. 
 For age is creeping on you year by year. 
 
 Chorus — Then dance, &c. 
 
 I don't say, my friends, at all 
 
 That to folly you should fall. 
 But accept of each good gift that pleasure brings ; 
 
 Just have lots of harmless fun, 
 
 Ere your springtide course is run 
 And darksome shadows fall from trouble's wings. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then be happy while you're young. 
 While your joy bells still are rung, 
 
 And care from youth's glad laughter flies away ; 
 Pleasure calls us "every hour with a bright, mysterious power : 
 
 Let us hasten, let us hasten to obey. 
 
 iT 
 
 UNITE AUSTRAUA. 
 
 Britannia's sons, who hither came 
 This land of sunny skies to claim, 
 The time has come for you to be 
 A great united family. 
 
338 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 What though you love Old England still, 
 Look round on valley, plain, and hill, 
 Look round on all you hold most dear. 
 And swear to be united here. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 United in prosperity, 
 
 United in adversity, 
 
 United, too, if war's alarms 
 
 Should loudly call " To arras ! To arms ! " 
 
 Remember, strength is unity I 
 United then for ever be ! 
 Let jealousy aside be cast : 
 There's room for all in south land vast. 
 Take each the other by the hand — 
 A faithful and undaunted band-^ 
 And 'neath one flag march on to claim 
 Prosperity and future fame. 
 
 Chorus.^ — United in prosperity, &c. 
 
 Should Fortune's frowns upon you rest. 
 Together cling and do your best. 
 And just as sunshine follows rain 
 On you shall Fortune smile again. 
 Australia united can. 
 And shall be, always in the van 
 Of progress and of liberty. 
 Strong in her sons and unity. 
 
 Chorus. — United in prosperity, &c. 
 
BULLOCKY BILL. 339 
 
 BtrtXiOCKY Bthh. 
 
 I'll sing you a song, boys, of BuUocky Bill, 
 
 Who's honest as daylight, and harder than nails ; 
 He's out in all weathers, yet never is ill ; 
 
 His pluck or his patience ne'er fails ; 
 No barber he knows, so his bushy beard flows 
 
 Far down on his dusty, broad breast. 
 And wags as its owner a flanker bestows 
 
 On kelping old Ranger with zest. 
 
 Chorus. 
 'Tis " Come hither, Major ! " and " Come hither, Mag !" 
 
 And " Come hither, Boxer and Bold ! " 
 Just hear his thong cracking, and see his team drag 
 
 (Twelve pairs of big bullocks all told). 
 
 When dingoes slink home Bill is up and away 
 
 From rug that he slept in at wagon wheel's side ; 
 By heavy, long stage in fierce heat of the day. 
 
 His team with /aie start would be tried. 
 Where storm water flows, there the mulga tree grows 
 
 In thickets his toilers love well ; 
 Each haunt of the cattle our BuUocky knows — 
 
 Can swear to the tongue of each bell. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 'Tis " ^^a back, you, Brandy !"and"Stand up there, Samr 
 And " Would you, young fellow ! Not quite ! 
 
 You'll soon be as quiet, my boy, as a lamb. 
 When worked with and coupled to Bright ! " 
 
3'iO RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 His bullocks all yoked, with strong teeth like a mill 
 
 Bill worries his damper, and drinks his black t«a ; 
 On tucker for emus he's taken his fill, 
 
 And ready for starting is he : 
 O'er tableland track, where huge rocks his wheels rack, 
 
 Through sands where they sink felloe deep. 
 He pilots his team with a driver's true knack. 
 
 And, my word ! at night he can sleep ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 'Tis " Gee way, there. Leopard ! Gee, Tiger and Tim ! " 
 If dreamland's queer team he should find. 
 
 When stars from dark canopy shine down on him. 
 And whispers the soft southern wind ! 
 
 THE SO«G or THE GOtOSEEKER. 
 
 There's plenty of gold 'neath the virgin mould 
 
 Still hid in the bushland free ; 
 Then hey for its quest with a quenchless zest — 
 
 'Twas ever the game for me ! 
 
TriE SONG OF THE GOLDSEEKEE. ."UI 
 
 I toil through the sand of this desert land, 
 
 And prospect its hills and plains ; 
 While hunger and thirst they may work their worst, 
 
 With golden salve for my pains. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then hey for the stuif, dull, yellow, and rough — 
 
 Big nuggets for choice say I — 
 And hope-beckoned tramp for some far-out camp. 
 
 Roofed in by the boundless sky ! 
 
 No thirst on the earth which from souls finds birth 
 
 Can drive like the lust for gold ; 
 No hungering urge with such wave-like surge 
 
 As that of its hunters bold : 
 For should there be heard e'en a whisper'd word 
 
 Of wonderful find, why then 
 They'll hurry along in a reckless throng, 
 
 Aye, e'en to a certain den ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then hey for the god that in rock or sod 
 
 Can summon its headstrong slaves 
 To flock to its shrines — oft fabulous mines — 
 
 And thousands, too, to their graves ! 
 
 Where salt lagoons gleam as in ghostly dream, 
 
 And drought is a tyrant grim, 
 I hustle the flies from my sweat-drenched eyes 
 
 While growling a backward hymn. 
 
342 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Oft ragged and worn and of mien forlorn, 
 Yet dodging the lost one's fate, 
 
 I peg out a claim with some sounding name. 
 And sell to a syndicate ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then hey for the ore that means wealth galore, 
 
 Or rest by a myall tree, 
 Where crows from afar with a jubilant a-r-r. 
 
 Will fossick rich claims^^« me ! 
 
 THE 8USHMAN*S DREAM. 
 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 Thousands of miles from my native land, 
 
 Out in the bushland free. 
 Wrapped in my rug 'neath the myall old. 
 
 What do you think I see ? 
 Why, a grey village on English soil. 
 
 Set in a landscape fair. 
 With many a nook and many a tree 
 
 I knew in my boyhood there. 
 
 Friends of my youth, oh ! ye laugh again- 
 Laugh with a heartfelt glee — 
 
 There in the shade of the verdant lane, 
 Down by the hollow tree. 
 
DEAR OLD ENGLAND. 343 
 
 Hark lo the singing of happy birds ! 
 
 Blithe as those birds are we ; 
 For Annie and Joe and bonny young Jane 
 
 Again are my comrades free. 
 
 Back to my heart comes its youthful glow, 
 
 Glorious hope and mirth ; 
 Jenny, I clasp you again to my heart — 
 
 Happiest boy on earth ! 
 What do I hear ? — not a lark's clear note ? 
 
 No, 'tis a curlew's scream ; 
 And the night wind sighs 'mid the myall sprajus 
 
 At the flight of a bushman's dream. 
 
 iT 
 
 England ! home of freedom ! fairest island 
 
 Earth can boast ! the birthplace of the brave ! 
 Though so distant still I call thee my land; 
 
 I shall love thee till I find a grave ! 
 Wife and children fill my home with gladness, 
 
 Friends have I as true as friends may be, 
 Health and strength, and causes few for sadness, 
 
 Still I pine, my native land, for thee ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 England, dear Old England, how I love thee ! 
 
 Though so long an exile from thy shore ; 
 As the stars that ceaseless shine above thee, 
 
 So my heart is with thee evermore ! 
 
344 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Sunshine, glorious sunshine, smiles upon me. 
 
 Plenty reigns, and liberty is here ; 
 Still I long once more to look upon thee. 
 
 And those scenes to memory ever dear. 
 Of the comrades of my boyhood golden 
 
 Few remain who roamed those scenes with me ; 
 'Tis the friends of those times sweet and olden 
 
 I so yearn for, who in dreams I see. 
 
 Chorus — England, dear Old England ! &c. 
 
 England, dear Old England ! still thy meadows, 
 
 Grey old church, and sunny cricket-green. 
 Summer clouds, with softest lights and shadows, 
 
 In my musings are like pictures seen ; 
 Still I hear my gentle mother speaking — 
 
 Jeannie's whispers — woodland minstrelsy ; 
 Nests and garlands I am once more seeking, 
 
 When alone I camp 'neath myall tree. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 England, dear Old England ! how I love thee 1 
 Though so long an exile from thy shore ; 
 
 As the stars that ceaseless shine above me, 
 So my heart is with thee ever more ! 
 
 ir 
 
THE ADVENT OF SPRING. 345 
 
 THE AOVKHT OP SPBtWG* 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 St. Valentine's Day, with its fluttering hearts, 
 
 Is over and gone for the year ; 
 Yet Love is still busily plying his darts, 
 
 For springtime, glad springtime, is here. 
 
 Though blustering winds, on bleak, rain-laden wing 
 
 Of winter still rave, as in fear. 
 Near spent is the reign of the grim, icy king, 
 
 For springtime, glad springtime, is here. 
 
 The snowdrop so pure and the crocuses gay 
 
 Proclaim that their goddess so dear 
 Is thinking of beautiful garlands for May ; 
 
 Yes, springtime, glad springtime, is here. 
 
 The swallow and cuckoo are now on the way, 
 
 Old England the happy to cheer ; 
 Forgetting the winter, come let us be gay. 
 
 For springtime, glad springtime, is here. 
 
 THE t.AST KtSS. 
 
 Air by Karl Muscat. 
 
 Oh ! my darling, since your love you told me, 
 Long ago upon that summer's eve. 
 
 Oft I've longed your arms might once enfold me, 
 Ere this bright world's pleasures I must leave 
 
34-6 KE- ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 I have longed, oh ! I have longed to hear you 
 Tell again your love in accents low ; 
 
 I could die contented were you near me, 
 Dearest love, to kiss me ere I go. 
 
 Oh ! my darling, do these eyes behold you ? 
 
 Yes, 'tis you who kneel beside me there ; 
 Do not weep, although the truth they've told you ; 
 
 I am happy ; do not so despair. 
 Say you love me, place your arras around me, 
 
 Take my head upon your bosom — so. 
 Hark ! they call me ; angel forms surround me : 
 
 Kiss me, dearest ! kiss me ere I go 1 
 
 TOM BtANK THE HOKEST LAWYBB. 
 
 Tom Blank was a lawyer so honest that he 
 Would never receive a retainer or fee. 
 Until he was certain his client was one 
 Who never the slightest injustice had done ; 
 And even had such a one come for advice, 
 'Tis certain that Tom would have said in a trice, 
 " Beware, oh ! beware of the law, if you're wise, 
 For lawyers, not clients, rake in every prize ! " 
 
 A good man was Tom, in his gown and his wig ; 
 A too utter saint in piratical rig ; 
 For though wealthy clients would come to his door, 
 He'd send them away to attend to the poor ; 
 
TOM BLANK THE HONEST LAWYER. 347 
 
 Vox justice, not law, was the aim of his life, 
 And truth even dearer to him than his wife. 
 With conscience so tender what wonder that he 
 Was never enabled to pocket a fee. 
 
 His children grew ragged, his wife she grew wan, 
 And Satan — the saint of all lawyers — began 
 To whisper to Tom that the truth was no go, 
 And justice a thing that was terribly slow ; 
 ■ So Tom took to quibbles, extortion, and lies. 
 And, from that same moment commencing to rise. 
 Is now a law magnate whose wealth and renown 
 And stylish turnout is the talk of the town. 
 
 Now those who have listened to this, my queer song, 
 ,Dr)n't think I'd advise you, my friends, to go wrong, 
 To quibble, tell lies, and extort cent, per cent., 
 For such, I assure you, is not my intent. 
 •Oh, no, not at all, for I do love a man 
 Who's good to the poor, and tells truth when he can ; 
 But this I do say, " Oh, beware of all lawyers ! 
 '"Tis fools and their money that make them top-sawyers ! 
 
348 KK-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 STUPID PETER. 
 
 DEDICATED TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.- 
 
 Air — " Juanita.'' 
 
 Leaning o'er his liquor, 
 
 Lingering lolls the fledgling fop, 
 Grins a senseless snicker, 
 
 Strokes his chin's "down crop." 
 On the barmaid slender 
 
 His sheep's eyes they love to dwell ; 
 Fuddled looks, yet tender, 
 Throws this would-be swell. 
 Peter, stupid creature ! 
 
 She don't care a pin for you >. 
 Peter, stupid creature ! 
 What I say is true ! 
 
 He'll take to pawning ; 
 
 Nought cares he, but drinks again, 
 And, prudence scorning. 
 Looks his love in vain. 
 Grog his breath all scenting, 
 Like an oyster is his eye ; 
 Oh ! he'll be repenting 
 Ere the night's gone by. 
 
 Peter, stupid creature ! 
 
 You that yet may be a man !. 
 Peter, stupid creature ! 
 By " Darwin's plan." 
 
PLEASE BUY A BUNCH OF VIOLETS. 34fl 
 
 iPtEASE BUY A BUtlCtt OF VtOt^BTS. 
 
 " Please buy a bunch of violets, 
 
 Only a penny, sir," 
 A poor child begged, whose wistful eyes 
 Were softly blue as southern skies, 
 
 Though shoeless were her feet. 
 A pretty child, half-clad, was she 
 Who shyly thus accosted me. 
 
 My custom to entreat. 
 -" Please buy a bunch of violets ; 
 
 Indeed, sir, they are sweet." 
 
 ~" Please buy a bunch of violets. 
 
 Only a penny; sir." 
 That voice, those timid eyes, they seemed 
 Like voice and eyes of which I'd dreamed 
 
 In days for me long fled. 
 When I a maiden loved, and she. 
 By parents urged, though loving me, 
 
 Their favoured one had wed. 
 My gaze was on the violets. 
 
 My thoughts were with the dead. 
 
 -" Please buy a bunch of violets. 
 
 Only a penny, sir." 
 I chose some bunches, as I said, 
 " I'll be thy friend, my little maid. 
 
 To me thy story tell." 
 
350 HE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And then I found life's changeful sea 
 Had cast a helpless waif to me 
 
 From her I loved so well. 
 That orphan no more violets 
 
 For daily bread shall sell. 
 
 **IT XS NOT MY FAUt^T, I DBCtARE/' 
 
 Air by R. Bruce. 
 
 What are you winking at, impudent star ? 
 
 Is it at Philip and me ? 
 Well, wink as you will from your station afar, 
 
 You cannot tell tales, don't you see. 
 If Philip does happen to stroll to the stile 
 
 When somehow I chance to be there. 
 And we on the top rail should linger awhile. 
 
 It is not my fault, I declare. 
 
 Dear Philip is handsome, and Philip is kind. 
 
 And Philip, they say, is my spark ; 
 So somehow or other we frequently find 
 
 It nice to just chat in the dark. 
 And if now and then our lips happen to meet,. 
 
 And he has to clasp me up there, 
 'Tis owing, of course, to that awkward old seat,. 
 
 And is not my fault, I declare. 
 
THE ZEPHYR. 351 
 
 THE ZEPHYR. 
 
 Air by R. Bruce. 
 
 " I have no home and I have no care, 
 But wander around in the realms of air 
 To hustle the gnats in a shady lane, 
 Or rifle the sweets of the floral train. 
 
 Ever a vagrant light and free ; 
 
 Never a vagrant else like me. 
 
 " I fan the cheek of the languid fair ; 
 I nestle an instant 'midst their hair, 
 And, venturesome aye, from their ruddy lips, 
 Snatch kisses sweet as a butterfly's sips. 
 
 Never a maiden frowns on me : 
 
 I am a vagrant zephyr free. 
 
 " I stir the face of the placid stream. 
 
 And mottle the calm of its silver gleam ; 
 
 Then, gliding away to the distant deep, 
 
 I settle me down on its breast to sleep. 
 
 Ever at home on land or sea, 
 
 I am a vagrant zephyr free." 
 
 jr 
 
352 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 WHtspERmG wmo. 
 
 Air by R. Bruce. 
 
 " Whispering wind from the far-reaching sea, 
 Met you his ship where you happened to 'be ? 
 Long has my lover's adventurous sail 
 Rimmed o'er the billow and courted the gale. 
 Met you my lover ? Oh ! sent he by thee. 
 Whispering wind, a kind message to me ? 
 
 Whispering wind, bring your message to me. 
 
 " Whispering wind, has the treacherous sea 
 Snatched in its rage my own true love from me ? 
 What do you whisper? Oh ! what do you say? 
 Sails my own true love in safety this way ? 
 What is the message you bring from the sea ? 
 What is the message you whisper to me ? 
 
 Whispering wind, oh ! be truthful to me." 
 
 Air by R. Bruce. 
 
 Oh, mistletoe, 
 
 Long, long ago. 
 When Britons painted blue. 
 
 The Druid's scythe 
 
 Took sacred tithe 
 From old oak tree of you. 
 
THE MISTLETOE. 35S 
 
 Then shrieks rang loud 
 
 O'er savage crowd 
 From idol's blood-red flame. 
 
 The oak is dead, 
 
 Those Druids sped, 
 But you are still the same. 
 
 Then hip, hip, hip 
 
 For th e mystic slip ! 
 
 Hurrah for the mistletoe ! 
 
 'Midst Christmas show 
 
 'Tis there you glow 
 O'er festive crowd hung high, 
 
 And maidens fair 
 
 Feign martyred air 
 When men to kiss them try. 
 
 Your berries white 
 
 Flash back the light 
 On laughing eyes below, 
 
 And hearts are cold 
 
 Which must be told 
 They're 'neath the mistletoe. 
 
 Then hip, hip, hip 
 
 For the mystic slip ! 
 
 Hurrah for the mistletoe ! 
 
 <jr 
 
354 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THE nRSr SWAUhOW. 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 Herald of summer ! hail, swallow ! you're welcome 
 
 Back to your home 'neath the sheltering eavi^s ; 
 Scarcely has Flora's first pets to each dell come, 
 
 Hiding still shyly 'midst pale-tinted leaves. 
 Chill winds, sleet-laden, may rail at your coming, 
 
 Vaunting that winter still reigns o'er the scene ; 
 Gnats will be whirling, and bees will be humming 
 
 Shortly o'er hedgerow, o'er streamlet, and green. 
 
 Welcome, blithe swallow, from sunny lands winging 
 
 Hither your flight to the land of the free ; 
 Small repairs needing, your nest is still clinging ; 
 
 It, as my roof-tree, is sacred to me. 
 Bring your mate home, then, the surly winds scorning ; 
 
 Seasons change soonest when worst they appear. 
 Rest well to-night, friend, and fear not the morning. 
 
 Summer, with sunshine attending, is near. 
 
 THE MAtDBtJ StEEPS. 
 
 The tired maiden soundly sleeps ; 
 
 She dreads no morning's call ; 
 The clamours of her farmyard friends 
 
 For her unheeded fall. 
 
NO LONGER STRAY. 355 
 
 All careless of the hints to rise 
 
 From swiftly mounting sun, 
 She dreams not of her parents' wrath 
 
 At duties left undone. 
 
 She soundly sleeps ; no jealous tear 
 
 On pillow trickles down ; 
 No phantom rival now provokes 
 
 A dark, though fleeting frown. 
 No smile upon her visage plays 
 
 Of happy dreamland mirth ; 
 She has a daisy coverlet 
 
 And narrow bed of earth. 
 
 no UOnQKB. STBAV. 
 
 In distant lands 'neath torrid ray 
 
 No longer stray. Come back ! Come back ! 
 My heart it calls thee day by day ; 
 The call of Love thou must obey. 
 
 Come back ! Come back ! No longer stray ! 
 But hasten, love, o'er billows free. 
 With eager sails, to joy and me ! 
 Haste, haste, my love, to joy and me ! 
 
 The summer bloom is fair to see ; 
 
 Then why delay ? Come back ! Come back ! 
 My heart is thine ; I'll smile on thee. 
 And you, my love, shall smile on me. 
 
356 RB-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Come back ! Come back, no more to stray ! 
 The winds blow fair o'er smiling sea ; 
 Then haste, my love, to joy and me ! 
 Haste, haste, my love, to joy and me ! 
 
 <Jf 
 
 DOWN WHERE THE POPPIES GBOW THICK 
 tn THE coatj. 
 
 Down where the poppies grow thick in the corn, 
 There on the pathway, by footfall scarce worn, 
 Jessie, dear Jessie, you promised to be 
 More than the world and its treasures to me. 
 Nature's own music was ringing, but ah ! 
 Young Love's low whisper was sweeter by far, 
 Filling our hearts with a rapturous bliss, 
 Crowned, my own Jessie, by many a kiss. 
 Down where the poppies grow thick in the corn, 
 Down where the poppies grow thick in the corn. 
 
 Down where the poppies grow thick in the corn, 
 Oh ! we were happy that bright summer's morn — 
 Happy as only true lovers may be. 
 Why were those pleasures^so fleeting for me ? 
 Poppies' bright petals too quickly are shed ; 
 Jo)j, like a wind-wafted petal, is fled ; 
 
DOWN IN THE SCENTED LANE. 357 
 
 Memory only, lost Jessie, to me, 
 Now when I wander aye whispers of thee. 
 Down where the poppies grow thick in the corn, 
 Down where the poppies grow thick in the corn. 
 
 OOWU m THE SCEtJTEO tA«B. 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 At early morn, when the old folks sleep, 
 
 Out of the house I steal with Jane, 
 To gaze, of course, at the cows and sheep, 
 
 Down in the scented lane. 
 I press her hand, and she presses mine ; 
 
 Oh ! but we kiss and kiss again ! 
 Few words we say, though our arms entwine, 
 
 Down in the scented lane. 
 
 The skylark sings in the azure sky ; 
 
 Ears have we none for his joyous strain ; 
 Sweet flowerets gleam, but we pass them by, 
 
 Down in the scented lane. 
 This life is care, so the old men say ; 
 
 Never a care have I or Jane ; 
 For, oh, we love, as the young folks may, 
 
 Down in the scented lane. 
 
358 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBOO. 
 
 THE DRAG HUNT. 
 
 Air — " Bonny Dundee." 
 
 If you'd have some fencing and company, too — 
 I mean the dear creatures who so love to view 
 A hunt that is harmless — and also to see 
 Young fellows in scarlet, why, trot out with me ; 
 Yes, trot out with me to the outskirts of town, 
 Where huiiters are gathered in tail coat and gown, 
 Who'll follow on wheels while we follow pell-mell 
 O'er wires well brushed and stiff " railers " a smell. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then give me a drink and give me a drag, 
 With plenty stiff fences and sure-jumping nag ; 
 The soft clouds hang low and the paddocks are green 
 Hurrah for the hunt of the sweet kerosene ! 
 
 There are lots of gay hunters in red coats and boots, 
 With black velvet caps, and beneath them cheroots. 
 On horses as gay as the gayest young larks. 
 And oh ! the girls beam on those sporting young sparks. 
 The soft clouds are floating across the blue sky. 
 Yet — mind, 'tis Australia — the weather is dry ; 
 There's talking and laughing, and old hands can tell 
 There's worse things in life than this hunting a smell! 
 
 Chorus — Then give, &c. 
 
THE DRAG HUNT. 359' 
 
 The dragsman has started o'er course well laid out, 
 So as to the finish of course there's no doubt, 
 Unless you get pounded at awkward big fence — 
 Small danger of that if you've pluck and good sense ; 
 But here comes the huntsman, and here comes the pack, 
 Which, though they the speed of big foxhounds may lack, 
 Will give tongue like winking and follow right well. 
 If laid on correctly, a kerosene smell. 
 Chorus — Then give, &c. 
 
 Hurrah ! we're away I Take a pull at your nag, 
 Unless half the hounds and the master you'd bag. 
 Here's a fence I Ah ! well over ! A double comes next^ 
 And, though you don't want it, a rail you've annexed. 
 Just leave it behind you ; 'tis cheaper to buy 
 Your wood from the woodyard. This creek we must fly. 
 Hullo ! What's the matter ? Well, this is a sell — 
 The hounds are at fault on another sweet smell ! 
 
 Chorus — Then give, &c. 
 
 They are laid on again, and are sailing as straight 
 As flock of wild pigeons. See, here is a gate. 
 That fence is a rasper ! You'll take it ? Then, see. 
 Just steady your horse, and be guided by me. 
 Now, stick him straight at it ; don't funk ; that'll do ; 
 We're over it flying, though someone may rue 
 That fence, I am thinking. Yes, Snapper may tell 
 He was not quite up at the end of the smell. 
 
 Chorus — Then give, &c. 
 
360 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The pace is a cracker ; but see, on the roads 
 The various wheels are well up with their loads. 
 Ah ! that drain I'd forgotten, but scramble out quick, 
 The mud will not matter; you'll yet do the trick. 
 Our journey's near ended ; this double's the last, 
 And now our drag hunt is a thing of the past ; 
 While nothing is hurt save the fellow who fell, 
 When we run in and kill the late jugative smell. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then give me a drink and give me a drag, 
 With plenty stiff fences and sure-jumping nag ; 
 The soft clouds hang low and the paddocks are green : 
 Hurrah for the hunt of the sweet kerosine ! 
 
 Note. — ^If anyone fancies that aniseed and not kerosene should form the 
 drag — or mther scent it — let them alter the rhyme to suit their fancy, or 
 «ven make a fresh song. — ^R. B. 
 
 ^ 
 
 tOVE LANE. 
 
 CHEAM, SURREY. 
 
 I know a green lane, with old stiles 
 And quaint pollard elms at each side, 
 
 Where fond lovers stray in the loitering way 
 So pleasant in glad summer-tide ; 
 
BY THE SEA. 361 
 
 O'er moss-covered rails the bright blackberry trails, 
 
 And newly-mown hay sheds perfume, 
 While Love's magic wings hide all soul-vexing things, 
 
 And drive away trouble and gloom. 
 
 That green lane it leads to the church, 
 
 And mischievous Love oft impels 
 Two innocents in, 'midst the welcoming din 
 
 Of sycophant, silver-toned bells. 
 A plain golden ring is no terrible thing. 
 
 Yet potent indeed is its might ; 
 ^or Cupid, it seems, from the bright-burnished gleams 
 
 Of wedding-rings often takes flight. 
 
 Then awkwardly high are those stiles. 
 
 All muddy the path, and besides 
 What nasty things crawl 'mongst the fierce nettles tall 
 
 And damp-laden grass at its sides ; 
 The blackberries' spray has sharp prickles they say ; 
 
 That stinging gnats swarm in the air ; 
 jFor Love in his flight takes the scales from the sight 
 
 Of foolishly happy young pair. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 'Neath grey old cliff', on stranded skiff, 
 
 My Willie sat with me ; 
 While soft winds blew and white gulls flew 
 
 Above the smiling sea. 
 
362 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 We saw, yet saw not, wavelets small. 
 That rippled on the strand : 
 
 We two were bound by Love's sweet thrall': 
 In his enchanted land. 
 
 But time has sped, and youth is fled : 
 
 My lover, where is he ? 
 Why, sunk in sleep 'neath mighty deep, 
 
 Where seaman's grave should be ; 
 Yet summer's winds and wavelets small,. 
 
 They whisper still to me 
 My Willie's tale of fond delight 
 
 Beside that smiling sea. 
 
 iT 
 
 POtiXiY AttO JACK* 
 
 Jack. 
 
 " Oh, Polly, my darling, a craft I have got. 
 
 Her skipper I am, do you see ; 
 So what say you, lass, about sharing my lot. 
 
 And sailing with me on the sea ? 
 The Mary Ann's cabin is fit for a queen ; 
 
 She's safer than houses ashore ; 
 As dewdrop she's fresh ; as a new pin she's clean f 
 
 I love you ! What can I say more ? " 
 
polly and jack. 363 
 
 Polly. 
 
 " Oh ! dreadful the storms are on ocean's rude breast, 
 And frightened I'm sure I should be." 
 
 Jack, 
 
 " You'd just be as safe as a bird in its nest ; 
 You would not be frightened with me. 
 With Love at the helm, lass, our course would be plain; 
 No quicksands or rocks should we find." 
 
 Polly. 
 
 " Dear Jack, I will venture with you on the sea, 
 And Providence, sure, will be kind." 
 
 Both. 
 
 " A ship on the sea to true lovers may be 
 
 A palace and haven of rest ; 
 We'll fear not the wind, in rude tempests unkind, 
 
 That vex in their rage ocean's breast. 
 Then oh for a life on the bonny blue tide, 
 
 With Love for our pilot and friend, 
 Contented and happy together we'll glide. 
 
 United and true to the end ! " 
 
 <^ 
 
364 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 WE'BE OFF THE HORN. 
 
 We're off the Horn, we're off the Horn, 
 Where western winds blow strong, 
 
 And icebergs glide o'er gloomy tide 
 In strange, majestic throng. 
 
 'Midst driving sleet each tack and sheet 
 
 Are thickly frozen round. 
 Yet cheerily we sail the sea. 
 
 Hurrah ! we're homeward bound ! 
 
 We're off the Horn, we're off the Horn, 
 Where sea birds, wheeling high. 
 
 To stormy sea's rude minstrelsy 
 A wild fandango fly. 
 
 The fog lies low, the deadly floe 
 
 Is in our pathway found. 
 Yet cheerily we sail the sea. 
 
 Hurrah ! we're homeward bound ! 
 
 iT 
 
 WHEW HE RETUaUS FROM SEA. 
 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 When I am waiting for my Joe, 
 Who sails the stormy deep, 
 
 'Tis little rest or peace I know, 
 Not even when I sleep ; 
 
MY JACK WAS A SAILOR. 365 
 
 For then I dream of dreadful storms 
 
 That snatch my Joe from me ; 
 But, oh, the happy times I know 
 
 When he returns from sea ! 
 
 For then I need not slave all day, 
 
 I need not grieve all night ; 
 For Joe is like a sunny ray 
 
 That renders all things bright ; 
 He laughs when I of danger talk, 
 
 And says that from the sea 
 He's bound when he has gold enough 
 
 To aye return to me. 
 
 MY JACK WAS A SAttOB. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 My Jack was a sailor, so handsome and true, 
 The envy of landsmen, the pride of his crew ; 
 But oh ! o'er the treacherous ocean he's gone ; 
 I wept when we parted, but now I'm forlorn ! 
 
 His ship was a clipper ; he said she'd outsail 
 The swiftest of sea birds, and laugh at the gale ; 
 But, ah ! to the bottom she went, like a stone, 
 And I my own true love am left to bemoan 1 
 
366 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO 
 
 How happy were we when, a long voyage o'er, 
 My Jack, with his pockets full, hastened on shore ; 
 His Sue in her rig should be second to none. 
 But now, thin and threadbare, his loss I bemoan ! 
 
 But, ah ! his dear image still sits on my knee — 
 A brave little Jack who a sailor shall be ; 
 And though, poor and friendless, I'm left here alone, 
 I've something to love, while his loss I bemoan ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE SOKG OF THE SEA. 
 
 Question. 
 
 Oh ! summer sea, thy monotone 
 
 Hath magic charm for me. 
 When wandering by thee alone. 
 
 Where I so love to be : 
 Then wavelet tongues of mighty deep. 
 
 In whispers soft and low, 
 Say, sing ye all of those who sleep 
 
 The restless tides below ? 
 
 Answer. 
 We sing their story till awake 
 
 Rude storm winds hoarse and strong, 
 When they with foaming billows take 
 
 Up, thunder-voiced, the song ; 
 
A GALE FOR ME. 367 
 
 And while old ocean is their grave, 
 
 And tides shall ebb and flow, 
 Will softly sing, and tempests rave 
 
 Of those who sleep below. 
 
 A GALE Foa mn. 
 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 The daylight dies in the cloud-capped west, 
 
 Where sea and sky in a circle sweep ; 
 Old ocean's breast is in strange unrest. 
 
 Though the waves surge not and the winds all sleep. 
 The sails they droop from the spars on high. 
 As I for a strong sou'-wester sigh. 
 My own true love 1 am bound for thee. 
 Then hey ! a piping gale for me ! 
 
 A gale, a gale, a gale for me ! 
 
 I hear thy voice in the murmurs soft 
 
 Of ocean's sigh and the breezes light ; 
 I see thine eyes in the stars aloft, 
 
 And chide old time for his tardy flight. 
 The sails they shake as I sigh below 
 For a welcome western wind to blow. 
 My own true love I am bound for thee. 
 Then hey ! a piping gale for me ! 
 
 A gale, a gale, a gale for me ! 
 
368 EK-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Hurrah ! A gust with a roar comes down f 
 The bending masts to its fury bow ; 
 
 But what care I for the storm king's frown,. 
 She lies her course with a hissing prow. 
 
 The wind it howls, but I laugh ho ! ho ! 
 
 For the sails all draw, and our course we go.. 
 
 My own true love I am bound for thee. 
 
 Then hey ! a piping gale for me ! 
 
 A gale, a gale, a gale for me ! 
 
 <Jf 
 
 The twilight fades in darkening skies. 
 
 Whence stars peep forth Uke prying eyes, 
 
 And I am waiting here for thee. 
 
 Where oft we've met 'neath old gum-tree ;. 
 
 Amidst its sprays the sighing wind 
 
 A pensive sweetheart seems to find. 
 
 Oh, Marjory, I sigh for thee ! 
 
 I'm lonely 'neath the old gum-tree. 
 
 The crickets sing, they've company ; 
 The laughing jacks, they laugh at me ;■ 
 The 'possum's happy on the limb, 
 He has his sweetheart there with him.- 
 
WITHERED LEAVES. 369 
 
 Not even moths or beetles fly 
 Without a sweetheart flitting nigh. 
 Oh, Marjory, I sigh for thee ! 
 I'm lonely 'neath the old gum-tree. 
 
 The curlews, though they sadly wail. 
 For sweethearts never seem to fail ; 
 But roam in pairs amid the gloom. 
 Where sable wattles shed perfume. 
 I only have no sweetheart, dear. 
 And long your footsteps light to hear. 
 Oh, Marjory, I sigh for thee ! 
 I'm lonely 'neath the old gum tree,. 
 
 WtTttEREO tEAVHS. 
 
 Air by Robt. Bruce. 
 
 Leaves of autumn, fallen, widely scattered. 
 Ghost-like fugitives before the wind, 
 
 Emblems are ye of my young hopes shattered, 
 Bruised and scattered by fate's gales unkind. 
 
 'Neath the bright skies of my girlhood's dreaming. 
 Fair as springtide's tender leaves were they ; 
 
 Manifold as summer's glories gleaming- 
 Like those glories have they passed away. 
 
310 KE-ECHOES FROM C00:5JDAMBO. 
 
 Leaves of autumn ! In his green grave sleeping 
 
 Arthur lies, and I am left to weep ; 
 Heedless Time for me is coldly creeping, 
 
 While beside him I so long to sleep : 
 Yet, like young leaves in due season springing. 
 
 Where it withered, hope springs in my heart. 
 Gentle comfort to my spirit bringing — ■ 
 
 I shall meet him, never more to part. 
 
 JT 
 
 StSTEBS OF ST* JOSEPH. 
 
 In quiet village, busy town, 
 
 Through our adopted land, 
 True women, garbed in russet brown, 
 Seek hopefully a heavenly crown 
 
 At their Great Master's hand. 
 
 For sorrow and for misery 
 
 They search with anxious care ; 
 No sinners vile they hurry by 
 With cruel scorn or frowning eye. 
 But help their woes to bear. 
 
 With pleasant words, with loving hearts. 
 
 They do their Master's will ; 
 With gentle hands they soothe the smarts 
 Of fell disease's rankling darts 
 
 That but for them would kill. 
 
AS TRANSIENT EIPPLES WE. 371 
 
 With Steady faith they onward go 
 
 With wretchedness to cope ; 
 The orphan's pain, the widow's woe, 
 Are softened by their ready flow 
 
 Of charity and hope. 
 
 No trumpet blast with flourish loud 
 
 They sound to tell their worth ; 
 But quietly amidst the crowd 
 They meekly glide, with visage bowed. 
 
 To do His work on earth. 
 
 Then honour show them everywhere, 
 
 Whate'er your creed or birth ; 
 These gentle souls, whose kindly care 
 Both innocent and wicked share, 
 Angels are they of earth. 
 
 iT 
 
 AS TRANSmHT BtPPX^ES WE* 
 
 We sit beside the sunlit stream, 
 And watch its ripples bright, 
 
 That for an instant's space will gleam. 
 To vanish from our sight ; 
 
372 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 When other ripples in their place 
 
 But glance to disappear, 
 And yet to us that streamlet's face 
 
 The self-same look will bear. 
 
 And so it is with river wide 
 
 Which ever onward flows ; 
 We cast a ripple on its tide 
 
 Of mingled joys and woes. 
 
 The rich, the poor, the meek, the proud. 
 
 The lowly born, and king ; 
 Each is a ripple in the crowd, 
 
 A briefly noticed thing. 
 
 The king may ripple in the light. 
 
 The pauper in the gloom ; 
 But each as speedily from sight 
 
 Is lost within the tomb. 
 
 And still flows on the human stream, 
 
 Its ripples past forgot ; 
 For careless present ripples gleam 
 
 As if they'd rippled not. 
 
 Then ye who think, with senseless pride. 
 
 Without you could not flow 
 The stream that seeks the " darksome tide," 
 
 Your value truly know 1 
 
THEN AND NOW. 373 
 
 THEN A«0 «0W* 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE. 
 
 Twas merrie to fight for St. George and right, 
 
 Or wrong as the case might be, 
 In feudal broil on Old England's soil, 
 
 Or eke in a far countree, 
 When good brown-bill it was swung to kill. 
 
 When bolts from the cross-bows flew. 
 And men-at-arms stout with a lusty shout 
 
 Themselves on their foemen threw. 
 
 'Twas sword to sword on the trampled sward, 
 
 Or battle-axe, spear, or mace, 
 In open fight by the broad daylight, 
 
 With warriors face to face ; 
 Yet many a knight, in his corselet bright, 
 
 If cast in a stalwart mould, 
 Might revel in war till of years threescore. 
 
 And die in his own strong hold ; 
 
 'Twas different far in the Transvaal war, 
 
 When stormed was that gun-crowned height, 
 'Gainst bullet and shell of a flaming hell. 
 
 But never a foe in sight ; 
 Oh, never a foe, so no last good blow 
 
 Might solace a gallant Celt, 
 When giving his life in the hopeless strife 
 
 Away on that cursed veldt. 
 
374 BE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then Here's to the brave in their silent grave, 
 
 And here's to the brave who live ; 
 For fame can't boast a more valiant host, 
 
 Nor a fitting guerdon give : 
 Yes, Death was there on a kopje bare, 
 
 And laughed 'midst the horrid din, 
 When steady as tide to his floodgates wide 
 
 Those glorious Scots swept in. 
 
 February 4, 1900. 
 
 THOSE Bt^ACtC-COATEO CaOAKERS. 
 
 By Tugela River the cannon's loud roar 
 
 Rolls down from rough kopje and back from the shore ; 
 
 For Boer and British are there face to face. 
 
 And each finds the other a mighty hard case. 
 
 Yes, backed up by trenches and nasty barbed wire, 
 
 The enemy's gunners incessantly fire ; 
 
 But find BuUer's shells like a hailstone from — well, 
 
 A certain hot shop with sulphurous smell. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then stand to your guns as if it were fun — 
 T. Atkins as Thomas you ever have done ; 
 For Roberts is there, and I'll wager that he 
 Will soon be on top as you quickly shall see. 
 
THOSE BLACK-COATED CROAKERS. 375- 
 
 There are black-coated croakers who live by their prayers, 
 And gauge other's conduct by standard of theirs, 
 Who'd have us believe that a judgment has come 
 To shrill note of pipe and the rattle of drum ; 
 But don't you believe them ; for trifling reverse 
 Is neither a knock-out nor caused by God's curse, 
 And so, 'stead of crying and praying for aid, 
 Let's go for the Boers as if 'twere our trade. 
 
 Chorus — Then stand, &c. 
 
 If route straight to Ladysmith means certain death. 
 We'd better expend more exertion and breath 
 By trying some other through Orange Free State, 
 Which is to the Transvaal a wide open gate ; 
 For then, 'stead of Cronje and trenches to storm, 
 We'll make things for Kruger uncommonly warm. 
 And show foreign cut-throats who fight for the foe 
 The shortest of routes to hot regions below. 
 
 Chorus — Then stand, &c. 
 
 We've had some hard knocks, but the British before 
 Have borne what foes gave them, then settled the score ; 
 And here be it known that the British lo-day 
 Are just as enduring and plucky as they. 
 Then shame on the subjects of peerless Queen Vic, 
 Who holes in the coat of the nation would pick ; 
 But e'en let them whimper like well-beaten curs. 
 We'll go in and win, boys, in spite of their slurs. 
 
 Chorus — Then stand, &c. 
 February 14th, 1901. 
 
376 KB-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 ERtN AHD HER CHttOHEtt* 
 
 That ancient gem, St. Patrick's Land, 
 
 The emerald of song. 
 Is set by Great Creator's hand 
 
 Atlantic waves among ; 
 And when 'tis calm they ripple round, 
 
 With music low and sweet ; 
 'Neath tempest's scourge, with thund'rous sound, 
 
 They on her bulwarks beat. 
 
 Her exiles for Old Erin pray 
 
 In foreign lands afar, 
 For she to them by night and day 
 
 Is sacred guiding star : 
 Where'er they be, on land or sea. 
 
 Their hearts are with her still — 
 Their much-loved home, where'er they roam. 
 
 Is she, and ever will. 
 
 That lovely isle with verdant gleam 
 
 Enchants the poet's sight. 
 When pasture, hill, and wood, and stream 
 
 Are bathed in God's clear light. 
 Yes, search you may the vast world round. 
 
 Wherever winds may blow. 
 And fairer land shall not be found 
 
 A summer's sun below. 
 
ERIN AND HER CHILDREN. 377 
 
 Renowned the isle where piety 
 
 And ancient learning dwelt, 
 Whose children to the Deity 
 
 'Midst pagan nations knelt ; 
 Whose daughters still the palm can claim 
 
 For virtue pure as gold ; 
 While brightly on the scroll of fame 
 
 Her sons' brave deeds are told. 
 
 Yet hard has been the lot indeed 
 
 Of Erin's ancient race, 
 Whose blood oft stained her sod so green 
 
 To England's black disgrace ; 
 But England's sons as brothers brave 
 
 Old Erin's sons must claim. 
 And base would be the traitor knave 
 
 Who'd kindle discord's flame. 
 
 Then here's to brave Old Ireland, 
 
 Her boys and colleens fair, 
 And here's to valiant hero band 
 
 Will soon the shamrock wear ; 
 Good fortune may her children know, 
 
 And presently be seen 
 Round shamrock bound, with loving bow, 
 
 The orange and the green. 
 
 March i8, 1900. 
 
378 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 BE ASy, PATt BE ASY, TIM I 
 
 See, Pat, my boy, you want to make 
 
 In Erin's Isle the laws ; 
 Yet Tim's black pate you'd like to break 
 
 In Irish friendship's cause. 
 A Protestant, of course, is Tim, 
 
 While, Pat, you go to Mass ; 
 But sure Tim's soul belongs to him ; 
 
 Then wherefore, Pat, be crass. 
 
 You know the fable of the sticks 
 
 That breakable were found, 
 Though proof against all force and tricks 
 
 While in the faggot bound ; 
 Then bind yourselves together, lads ; 
 
 Your rival colours twine ; 
 And, casting forth old hate and fads, 
 
 For common cause combine. 
 
 Now, Pat and Tim, you love the sod 
 
 On which you both were bred ; 
 Then friends be for the love of God, 
 
 By cause of Erin led. 
 And when one's bound to Sunday Mass, 
 
 To church or chapel t'other, 
 Just shake hands when you chance to pass 
 
 As brother should with brother. 
 
 March 20th, 1900. 
 
TO THE DUBLIN FUSILIERS. 379 
 
 TO THE DUBUN PtJStttERS. 
 
 A regiment old has been enrolled 
 
 For twice one hundred years ; 
 Its rank and file — true Irish style — 
 
 Are Dublin Fusiliers. 
 Yes, Fusiliers, who'll brook no jeers; 
 
 Who march at duty's call ; 
 And in the fight, by day or night. 
 
 Will win or bravely fall. 
 
 They've fought in white, in scarlet bright. 
 
 They fought in khaki brown ; 
 They've changed their name twice, thrice, yet fame 
 
 Still claims them for her own. 
 With flying years those Fusiliers 
 
 As mortal men must fly ; 
 .But from the foe 1 those Dubs ? Oh, no ! 
 
 They'll conquer or they'll die. 
 
 By brother-Celts, in tartan kilts. 
 
 With bagpipe's pibroch shrill, 
 The Dubs have fought as if 'twere sport 
 
 On blood-drenched plain and hill ; 
 'Midst fever swamps, in sun-scorched camps, 
 
 By icy rigours chilled. 
 .In war's stern game they're aye the same, 
 
 With dauntless courage filled. 
 
380 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Those Fusiliers, whom Erin rears 
 
 To be her pride and boast 
 On land and sea, must also be 
 
 Their brother-Britons' toast. 
 Then " Here's the Dubs ! the gallant Dubs I"' 
 
 True heroes they in war ; 
 So join with me in three times three — 
 
 "The Dubs ! Hip ! hip ! hurrah ! " 
 
 March 24, 1900. 
 
 THE VAt^E OP TEARS. 
 
 A beautiful sphere is our home while here, 
 
 That whirls in its sun-lit air ; 
 Yet many a one ere his race is run 
 
 Is crushed by a dull despair^ — 
 Yes, a dull despair, which is hard to bear. 
 
 And sin, with its clinging dye, 
 To cowering crowds bring their storm-fraught clouds,. 
 
 Aye, e'en 'neath the brightest sky. 
 
 Said the ancient seers, "'Tis a vale of tears 
 
 That leadeth from birth to grave ;" 
 But, trodden aright, it may yield delight 
 
 To those who are kind and brave : 
 
THE VALE OF TEARS. 381 
 
 To the kind and brave, not the sordid knave 
 
 That deemeth his friend a fool, 
 -But measures his deeds through his neighbour's needs 
 
 By merciful golden rule. 
 
 Not even the ring of bright gold can bring 
 
 Content to a churlish mind ; 
 While poverty's smart for a cheerful heart 
 
 Must part with its sting unkind : 
 Yes, part with its sting must that haunting thing 
 
 When drawn by a heartfelt mirth, 
 Which often will flee from a proud grandee, 
 
 Yet dwell by a cottage hearth. 
 
 To shadowy bourne whence none may return 
 
 We pass like an ebbing tide, 
 And the young will think that the old must sink 
 
 Right soon in the river wide : 
 In the river wide, but its deeps untried 
 
 By a babe may first be crossed. 
 And the old remain with a bitter pain 
 
 To mourn for the loved one lost. 
 
 But why should we mourn for a soul new-born ? 
 
 And why should we fear to tread 
 The valley of death, with its ebbing breath, 
 
 That leads to a dreamless bed ? 
 To a dreamless bed, for when soul has sped — 
 
 We trust to a better land — 
 Our body shall rest in the peaceful breast 
 
 Of earth with a peaceful band. 
 
382 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then never to fear yield your soul while here, 
 
 But face with a courage high 
 Those troubles which threat in life's path, but yet,. 
 
 If manfully met, will fly : 
 Yes, trouble will fly from a steadfast eye, 
 
 So, 'spite of those ancient seers, 
 Let's journey along with a mirthful song 
 
 Through beautiful vale of tears. 
 
 March 28, 1900. 
 
 TO A yOUHG SWALLOW. 
 
 THAT, WHEN LEAVING ITS NEST UNDER THE ROOF OP A CITY OFFICE, STRAYED 
 INTO A VENTILATOR IN THE WALL AND PERISHED THERE. 
 
 Poor little bird ! you came from parent's nest, 
 
 By instinct led, on buoyant wings to glide ; 
 But 'gainst those bars, all impotently pressed, 
 
 To gain sweet freedom, cruelly denied ! 
 Outside your fellows winged unfettered flight. 
 
 As free themselves as God's bright, ambient air ; 
 While you, a prey to hunger and to fright. 
 
 All helpless died a hopeless captive there. 
 
 But Fate to mortals oft is more unkind : 
 Your time of suffering was sharp and brief ; 
 
 While theirs, of body and of soul combined. 
 Is long drawn out and painful past belief 
 
INVADERS BEWARE. 383 
 
 From hopeless birth to hopeless death they go ; ' 
 
 In fevered slums a prey to every pain ; 
 Their hearts oppressed by all-absorbing woe, 
 
 From which through life they respite cannot gain. 
 
 Sad waifs and strays, 'twere better far that they 
 
 At dawn of life the keener pang should feel ; 
 From want and sin be early called away, 
 
 At Throne of Grace for peace to make appeal ; 
 And you, poor mite, with folded pinions there, 
 
 A creditor may be to early death ; 
 For even birds through life sharp troubles bear, 
 
 Like all things else that draw the vital breath. 
 
 jr 
 
 mVAOERS BEWARHt 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE IRISH CORPS. 
 
 " Should war be declared," quoth brave Barney McGtath, 
 
 " 'Twixt England and Russia, their warships 
 Would steam to the lighthouse, then over the bar 
 
 Right up to Portonian's doorsteps. 
 Then where would we be — the Protector at sea, 
 
 With Creswell and crew on a cruise, sir ? 
 Why, flat on our backs, while the Russians made tracks 
 
 With bullion from banks and the Jews, sir ! " 
 
384 KE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 " Yes, Barney agra, you are right, so you are," 
 
 Cried Larry O'Grady, the bold one ; 
 " So let us go drill, and, by jabers, we will ^ 
 
 Knock horns, hoofs, and tail off the Old One ! 
 The Russians and French ! Oh, we'd dig a big trench. 
 
 And pepper them well from its shelter. 
 Till sorra a one would delay for the fun, 
 
 But trot to their ships helter-skelter ! 
 
 " Then next thing there'd be a big battle on sea, 
 
 For Creswell would meet them and beat them ; 
 Just round up their ships and reduce them to chips, 
 
 So 's tender-toothed sea worms could eat them. 
 Now, Barney, me boy, let us rifles employ, 
 
 Till never a foe will in sight be, 
 And Salisbury say, in his jocular way, 
 
 ' Ye divils, I'll just have to knight ye ! ' " 
 
 Thus spoke those brave boys of a rifleman's joys. 
 
 And, presto, 'twas done ; and we've got, sir, 
 A grand Irish Corps that in case of a war 
 
 Will make things uncommonly hot, sir ; 
 So Russians, beware, and all Froggies take care, 
 
 For Creswell, and Sandy, and Pat '11 — 
 With permanent force and pohcemen, of course — 
 
 Just knock you clean out in one battle. 
 
 March 26, 1900. 
 
TRUE UNTO DEATH. 385 
 
 TaUE UtJTO DEATH. 
 
 An incident of the Colenso battlefield, recorded in the Southern Cross 
 of March 23. 
 
 ^' Please tend Aim first ; he's harder hit than me,'' 
 
 The wounded soldier said in husky tones, 
 When stricken down by fatal bullet he. 
 
 With life fast ebbing, heard his comrade's moans : 
 Yes ; lying there, 'neath Afric's scorching sun. 
 
 Parched by its heat and fever of his wound, 
 A noble victory that hero won, 
 
 For which Irereafter surely he'll be crowned. 
 
 Not Dives self, amidst tormenting flame. 
 
 Could long more ardently his thirst to sate 
 Than that young Briton, who forbore his claim 
 
 To proffered water, thus to soothe his mate. 
 He begged that drink for him he loved so well. 
 
 And wrestled hard with agonising pain. 
 His friend still lives pathetic tale to tell. 
 
 While faithful comrade slumbers with the slain. 
 
 He loved his neighbour better than himself. 
 
 That patient sufferer, who else might be 
 As wild a lad as ever fought for pelf. 
 
 Or pierced the secret of futurity. 
 He might be wild, I now repeat, but then 
 
 A truer Christian never marched in line, 
 And when I leave the company of men 
 
 For spirit land may such as his meet mine ! 
 
 March 31, 1900. 
 
386 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THE BRAVE n\}nS Of MAFEICmG^ 
 
 No paladins they of a mighty mould 
 That battles have fought and won, 
 
 But never has fame in her pride e'er told 
 
 Of warriors now or in days of old 
 Who nobler deeds have done. 
 
 A merciful mission is theirs while here, 
 
 And yet, 'midst the fiercest strife, 
 'Tis there they will be, with never a fear. 
 Though threatening Death in grim guise stalks near. 
 
 While horrors of war are rife. 
 
 Yes ; cannons may roar, and their shell and shot 
 
 Like terrible tempest fiy ; 
 They stand to their posts and they falter not, 
 For 'tis with the wounded they've cast their lot. 
 
 Prepared with their charge to die. 
 
 They ready alway are to soothe the pain 
 
 Of many a soldier brave, 
 Who'd otherwise sigh for a nurse in vain 
 To skilfully treat, and to pray to gain 
 
 Them respite brief from the grave. 
 
 In the sun's fierce heat, in the dead of night. 
 
 While many around them fall, 
 They fight in the cause that they know is right. 
 Unheeding the murderous missile's flight. 
 
 For they serve the Lord of All ! 
 
THE DUBLIN FUSILIEKS ARE ORDERED HOME. 387 
 
 Then honour on earth and a crown indeed, 
 
 Whenever their souls take wing. 
 Be theirs who are ready in time of need 
 To strive for their Master by word and deed, 
 
 Like the Nuns of Mafeking ! 
 
 April lo, 1900. 
 
 THE DUBtm FUSIWEBS ABE OBDEBEO 
 HOME. 
 
 " Owing to the sadly depleted condition of their ranks, the 1st and 2nd 
 Battalions Royal Dublin Fusiliers have been ordered to return home." — 
 News item. 
 
 From continent dark they are ordered back, 
 From desperate charge, and from ambushed track, 
 Those few who remain of the hardy band 
 Who yesterday sailed from their native land, 
 When flags flew free and hurrahs rang out 
 For regiment renowned to the war e?i route; 
 And now who shall share in the smiles and tears. 
 Will welcome return of those Fusiliers ? 
 
 They are ordered home from that distant shore 
 To dear little Emerald Isle once more — 
 The isle they have dreamed of in tents afar, 
 When the night winds sighed o'er the slain in war. 
 And the Boers' cannons the silence broke ; 
 While never a war-worn soldier woke. 
 But deemed in his sleep that he heard the cheers- 
 Re-echo again for the Fusiliers ! 
 
388 KK-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 They are ordered home, but many will lie 
 'Neath the blood-drenched veldt, by the kopjes high, 
 Whence thundered those tempests which none might face. 
 Unless they were sprung from a dauntless race. 
 There the Dubs charged home, as the Dubs were told. 
 And their forefathers have from days of old ; 
 While clarion fame through the coming years 
 Shall tell of those glorious Fusiliers ! 
 
 April 21, 1900. 
 
 TH© LADS Of THS tRtStt COaPS. 
 
 Great Homer sang in the bygone years 
 
 Of warriors fierce and strong, 
 Who, shaking their spears, with boasts and jeers, 
 
 In chariots rolled along. 
 With loosened rein, o'er the corpse-strewn plain. 
 
 Those merciless cut-throats tore ; 
 But give me my pick, and I'd take brave Mick 
 
 And Pat of the Irish Corps. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Irish Corps that's bound to score, 
 In piping peace, and in time of war. 
 
 Then here's to the lads, with Irish dads. 
 Who march in the Irish Corps ! 
 
THE LADS OF THE IRISH CORPS. 389^ 
 
 Old Homer's heroes had boundless pride 
 
 In armour that gleamed with gold, 
 While tough buU'shide o'er their bucklers wide 
 
 Was stretched in many a fold. 
 Those quarrelsome lads claimed gods for their dads, 
 
 And ever were seeking gore ; 
 But still I would back, when the rifles crack, 
 
 Our boys of the Irish Corps. 
 
 Chorus — The Irish Corps, &c. 
 
 They love the land where the shamrock grows 
 
 With a love that is deep and true ; 
 But plundering foes who may come for blows 
 
 Shall Irish valour rue. 
 Oh ! never a fear but they'll all be there. 
 
 With a pluck that sure must score — 
 The rank and file of the famous isle 
 
 Who march in the Irish Corps. 
 
 Chorus — The Irish Corps, &c. 
 
 Though born and bred in this vast new land, 
 
 Hibernians yet they'll be ; 
 But still they will stand with heart and hand 
 
 'Neath the flag on land and sea : 
 Yes, sturdily fight for home and right, 
 
 And first in a time of war 
 They'll ever be seen in their tunics green, 
 
 Our boys of the Irish Corps. 
 
399 re-echoes from coondambo. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Irish Corps that's bound to score, 
 In piping peace or in time of war. 
 
 Then here's to the lads, with Irish dads, 
 Who march in the Irish Corps ! 
 
 April 14, 1900. 
 
 iT 
 
 S0t*OXERS OP THH KIKG. 
 
 A nation, like young giant, to a lusty prime has sprung. 
 
 In smiling land of plenty where fair Liberty holds sway; 
 A nation come of heroes whose grand deeds have oft been 
 sung 
 In verdant little islands in the ocean far away : 
 Yes, British homes of Shamrock, of the Thistle, and the 
 Rose, 
 Whose children where they wander to their kindred fondly 
 cling ; 
 And now, in conscious vigour, sally forth to fight their foes. 
 Hardy horsemen, bold as lions, stalwart Soldiers of the 
 King! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 We are proud of boys in khaki who respond to 
 
 duty's call. 
 Who will fight their foemen bravely, who will 
 
 stand their ground with all. 
 
SOLDIERS OF THE KING. 391 
 
 Come of heroes, truly heroes, are our Sandy, Pat, 
 
 and John, 
 And they'll answer to the bugle when there's 
 
 battles to be won ; 
 Yes, they'll follow, ever follow, where the grand 
 
 old flag may fly, 
 To keep its honour spotless, or to know the reason 
 
 why; 
 So we'll tell them how we trust them, and our 
 
 cheers shall loudly ring 
 For those Austral boys in khaki, fearless Soldiers of 
 
 the King ! 
 
 'Mongst hills where blooms the wattle, and where sparkling 
 
 streamlets flow. 
 
 They leave their wives and sweethearts for the saddle, 
 
 sword, and gun : 
 
 Oh ! they go from bushland lonely where the myalls 
 
 whisper low 
 
 To storm the frowning kopje where a V.C. 's to be won. 
 
 Some have fought for Queen and country; all will fight, 
 
 true, dauntless men, 
 
 'Gainst Boers brave and aliens De Wet may chance to 
 bring. 
 
 Then hurrah for hardy heroes whom we hope to see again. 
 
 When they come back crowned with honour proven 
 
 Soldiers of the King. 
 
 Chorus — We are proud of boys in khaki, &c. 
 
S92 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 LEAP YEAR. 
 
 IN VERY SHORT METRE. 
 
 One day 
 
 A pair — 
 He gay, 
 
 She fair — 
 The breeze 
 
 Beside 
 The sea's 
 
 Salt tide 
 Enjoyed 
 And toyed. 
 
 Said Jane, 
 
 " Dear Ned, 
 I fain 
 
 Would wed ; 
 Leap-year 
 
 'Tis now ; 
 So, here 
 
 I vow, 
 I'll wed 
 Thee, Ned." 
 
 Said he, 
 " My dear, 
 
 For me, 
 I fear 
 
 Too gay 
 
AN ECHO. 393 
 
 You'd prove. 
 Good day, 
 
 My love ! 
 You'll wed 
 Not Ned ! " 
 
 Moral. 
 
 From this 
 
 True tale 
 Each Miss 
 
 Don't fail 
 To be 
 
 Well warned j 
 For she 
 
 Is scorned 
 
 Who tries, 
 
 Like Jane, 
 A prize 
 
 To gain. 
 
 Beware ! 
 
 Take care ! 
 
 ^ 
 
 All ECHO. 
 
 An old man to the altar led 
 
 A gay and frisky lass ; 
 Then afterwards, like Echo, said, 
 
 A-las ! A-las ! A-las ! 
 
394 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 THB LAST VOYAGE OF T«E tONDON. 
 
 In winter's prime, by London river, view 
 
 The stately steamship : her attentive crew, 
 
 From busy docks, through gates thrown open wide, 
 
 Warp, with due caution, to the dark flood-tide : 
 
 She slowly glides, her every motion scanned 
 
 By gazing concourse on adjacent land ; 
 
 And harbourmaster, loud-voiced and alert, 
 
 Who can his brief authority assert 
 
 And orders give, which, brooking no delay. 
 
 With prompt alacrity the tars obey : 
 
 At 'mid-stream buoy his duty ends, and he 
 
 To pilot leaves her passage to the sea. 
 
 With mighty force anon the eager steam 
 The huge ship urges o'er the turbid stream, 
 With slow commencement, till inertia vast 
 Becomes momentum, and for speed is cast ; 
 While last farewells upon the wintry wind 
 Are faintly borne from wharf, left far behind. 
 Where loving eyes are fondly strained to keep 
 In view dear friends who dare the stormy deep ; 
 Kind Fortune's smiles to court in southern land. 
 Where plenty waits the willing heart and hand ; 
 Where golden grain and fruitful vineyards share 
 The toiler's labour, and reward his care ; 
 A pleasant land, yet still their hearts shall dwell 
 In dear Old England they have loved so well. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 395 
 
 With Steady skill the waterman who steers 
 The vessel guides amidst the crowded tiers 
 Of lesser ships, whose lofty hamper shows 
 Like wintry forest with incumbent snows 
 On leafless branches, for on taper spars 
 The wind-worn sails are folded by the tairs, 
 Who oft have spread them to the welcome blast, 
 When strained the cordage and inclined the mast. 
 
 Where glides the London mark each good ship's crew 
 
 Its bulwarks swarm that stately craft to view. 
 
 And scan with keen, discriminating eyes. 
 
 Her graceful lines, her gear aloft, and size ; 
 
 Then argufy, as British seamen will, 
 
 Anent her passage and her captain's skill. 
 
 No evil portents to their vision loom 
 
 To augur wreck and mortals early doom. 
 
 No !-gold and skill too largely have combined 
 
 To leave her subject to the sea unkind. 
 
 But man is blind, and what may her befall 
 
 Is known to HIM, and HIM alone, whose call 
 
 Can wake the cyclone, and in chaos heap 
 
 O'erwhelming billows of the boundless deep. 
 
 Old twin-piered Gravesend is attained, and now 
 The anchor plunges from her lofty bow, 
 While from the deck, where folded it has lain. 
 Through sounding hawse-pipe flies the massive 
 
 chain, 
 ■Whose mimic thunder, in a rattling roar. 
 With mocking echoes rolls along the shore, 
 
396 KE-ECHOES FEOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Whence wherries launch and, o'er the brackish tide 
 
 By oarsmen urged, to anchored vessel glide, 
 
 To swell the crowds that on the good ship surge. 
 
 To cabins dive, or, rabbit-like emerge, 
 
 Obstructing all, till glad the crew will be 
 
 To find their good ship from that concourse free. 
 
 Now grimy stokers, Cyclops-like, once more 
 The fuel heap, and bid the red flames roar 
 In iron furnaces, to quickly raise 
 The toiling giant of these modern days — 
 Which water bred by all-consuming fires,, 
 Like serpent hisses, and in den perspires. 
 Impatient all to drive with matchless force 
 The noble vessel om her trackless course, 
 While rolling smoke that streams from funnel 
 
 high, 
 Like sable banner floats 'neath sullen sky. 
 
 The clearance gained, and anchor well aweigh. 
 No longer now can ling'ring friends delay 
 Their partings sad ; yet still with wish to cheer 
 They smiling gaze, in either eye a tear. 
 And tell of hope in shaking tones which thrill. 
 As if from hearts presaging deadly ill. 
 Then seek their skiffs, and on the vessel's deck 
 The form familiar fades to dusky speck. 
 Soon lost to view, for, urged by mighty steam. 
 With speedy prow the London cleaves the stream. 
 Her grand old ensign gleaming darkly through. 
 The smoky cloud that jealously from view 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 397 
 
 Conceals her hull, though still distinct and clear 
 Above it shows her lofty, taper gear ; 
 This, too, with distance disappears, and then, 
 Save ebon streak, nought greets the gazer's ken. 
 
 In far-famed Nore the shrill-voiced icy blast 
 From Downs sweeps up through night shades 
 
 falling fast, 
 With might increasing ; while 'neath leaden sky 
 The wind-rent storm-clouds, in a wild wrack, fly 
 Like routed fugitives from deadly strife 
 That dog their footsteps with destruction rife. 
 And warning give to those who on the deep, 
 ""Midst rocks and shoals, their anxious vigils keep ; 
 And so the captain, versed in Nature's signs, 
 All thoughts of progress for the time resigns ; 
 At least till morning o'er the narrow sea 
 Shall shed its light, or winter winds be free. 
 His will expressed the skilful pilot hears, 
 Then for safe holding ground the vessel steers ; 
 While toiling engines their endeavours stay 
 And sullen rest, when, slowly losing way, 
 The ship sweeps on till, at commanding word, 
 A sudden roar and heavy plunge is heard ; 
 And once again amid the waves which glide, 
 Then swelling upward lap the good ship's side, 
 She anchored lies : the while, with clamours loud, 
 The steam escaping forms a fleecy cloud, 
 "Which, freed from bondage, yields its matchless 
 
 might 
 And flies to consort with the dews of night. 
 
398 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The evening wanes, the anchor watch is set, 
 
 And in the cabin passengers are met 
 
 At loaded tables, where the viands vie 
 
 With snowy napery to please the eye ; 
 
 And pendant lamps, that shine with mellow 
 
 light. 
 Bid comfort reign, and scare the dreary night. 
 
 When weary voyagers retire to rest 
 
 What novel fancies agitate each breast ! 
 
 For all is strange ; and, though intrudes not fear,. 
 
 Disturbing noises from the night they hear — 
 
 The piping shrill of gale through pendent 
 
 blocks ; 
 The fretful splash, and oft-recurring shocks 
 Of restless waves which in the darkness roll 
 O'er winding chan nel and ensnaring shoal ; 
 While measured strokes upon resounding bell 
 Of time's slow flight with loud precision tell. 
 Then on the deck above their heads with slow 
 And ling'ring tread, parading to and fro, 
 The watch is heard, whose duty 'tis to keep 
 A piercing eye upon surrounding deep. 
 Where lofty shapes 'midst gloomy shades glide- 
 past, 
 Like shrouded ghosts before the moaning blast ; 
 Bright orbs of flame — red, green, and glowing. 
 
 white — 
 Their advent herald, while phosphoric light 
 Gleams coldly forth from out the yeasty flakes- 
 Of dancing foam which gather in their wakes ;. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 39» 
 
 They swiftly speed ; for them the wind is free ; 
 Their port near gained ; the wreck-engulfing sea 
 Devoid of terrors, till they sail away 
 To brave new dangers on some future day : 
 With cheerful zeal their seamen pull and haul, 
 And answer promptly to each duty's call ; 
 For with the morrow slavish hardship ends, 
 And hey for homes, for sweethearts, wives, and 
 friends ! 
 
 The Sabbath dawns ; the sullen sun once more 
 With feeble beams illumines sea and shore ; 
 Yet, adverse still, above the foaming waves 
 The gale protracted through the rigging raves ; 
 Still flies the scud beneath forbidding skies. 
 And warning gives to seamen — weather-wise — 
 Of warring elements, with danger fraught 
 To reckless captains who would leave their port. 
 These evil signs the careful pilot notes. 
 And one more day, with deep regret, devotes 
 To dull inaction ; then, with new-born year, 
 Upon her voyage he the ship will steer. 
 
 The lagging hours of winter night are past, 
 
 And inactivity aside is cast ; 
 
 For long ere landsmen leave their beds the crew 
 
 Are loudly called their duty to renew ; 
 
 They rouse the steam, the anchor weigh again. 
 
 When, greatly urged, the vessel stems the main. 
 
 And seaside towns, to pleasure-seekers dear. 
 
 In turn are viewed, in turn to disappear, 
 
400 RK-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBOO. 
 
 Till Goodwin Sands, so oft the greedy grave 
 Ol gallant vessels and their seamen brave, 
 Are safely passed, and o'er the dark green tide 
 The Isle of Wight looms grandly in its pride ; 
 While glancing sails of good ships homeward 
 
 bound, 
 Like sea-mews, hover o'er the waves around, 
 Whose rising fury and the gale combined 
 Bar further progress with a force unkind. 
 And drive the ship to anchor once again 
 Where stands St. Helen's by subservient main. 
 
 When in the east the frowning shades of night 
 Confess the advent of the dawn's first light. 
 The good ship, urged by willing steam, once more 
 To brave fresh dangers quits the friendly shore. 
 Great foaming waves her briny pathway strew 
 With sudden garlands of a snowy hue ; 
 Where to and fro, engaged in gambols rude. 
 Before her glide the uncouth porpoise brood. 
 Whose waving tails their sole propulsion find. 
 Yet wrest the palm from urging steam and wind. 
 With graceful ease they spurn the yielding main, 
 Sport here and there, and still the lead maintain. 
 Loud laugh the landsmen at the novel show — 
 Too well its meaning hardy seamen know ; 
 For is it not an augury unkind 
 Of foaming billows and a stormy wind ? 
 
 The Needle Rocks, which centuries have stood. 
 In stern defiance of assaulting flood, 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 401' 
 
 Are slowly passed, and to the open main 
 The London steams but to be foiled again ; 
 For, toiling hard, through adverse seas she 
 
 ploughs, 
 Whose leaping billows scale her plunging bows ; 
 Strong, gusty foes assail her rigging high. 
 While screaming gulls from rising tempest fly 
 To rock-bound coast, where, with incessant roar. 
 The breakers thunder on the rugged shore. 
 The pilot, warned by these forbidding signs. 
 For Spithead now to steer the ship designs : 
 She slowly wears ; then, like a startled steed 
 On verdant meadow, flies with doubled speed ; 
 The partial wind seems shorn of half its might ; 
 The crested waves scarce catch her in her flight ; 
 From side to side her taper spars incline 
 With graceful sweep toward the flashing brine ; 
 While far astern in undulating line 
 Bright, seething foamflakes on the waters shine, 
 And outlines rude of rocky coast appear 
 To change in form ; clifis rise to disappear : 
 For, urged to speed by wedded steam and sail. 
 She rides the billows and outstrips the gale. 
 
 The sunset gun along the gusty shore 
 From frowning fortress sends its booming roar. 
 When steers the London to the harbour where 
 Old England's fleets for threatened war prepare ; 
 But night, fast falling, spreads her dusky shroud 
 O'er naval stronghold and its busy crowd, 
 
402 RE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And soon the London oix the guarded deep 
 Quiescent lies, and those within her sleep. 
 
 When slowly past two cheerless days are sped, 
 And morning's light upon the port is shed, 
 Forth steams the vessel, once more bound to 
 
 fight 
 With wintry gales and waves' remorseless might. 
 Through gloomy day and starless night she flies, 
 Till twilight gleams in chilly eastern skies ; 
 Then through the mists which, curling, float 
 
 around 
 They dimly see the mouth of Plymouth Sound, 
 Whence sweeps a cutter o'er the angry sea, 
 Puts down her helm and rounds-to on the lee, 
 Where, bounding buoyantly on billows high, 
 A picture she to please a seaman's eye : 
 Her lofty sails reflect the morning light ; 
 Her copper sheathing glitters redly bright ; 
 Her beam is broad, a press of sail to stand 
 When, windward beating, she would leave the 
 
 land ; 
 Her entry sharp to cleave the heaving brine ; 
 Her lengthy floors from kelson steep incline 
 To swelling bends, lest adverse angle may 
 Dead water gather to impede her way ; 
 Her long, clean run allows the parted tide 
 'Neath rounded counter easily to glide. 
 To meet again enwreathed with snowy spray, 
 As when lithe dolphins through the ocean play — 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 403 
 
 With graceful ease the waters they divide — 
 The swiftest racers in the azure tide. 
 From davits now, at cutter's stern, behold 
 A boat descend to bear two pilots bold, 
 Whose brawny arms the bending paddles ply. 
 While wind and sea their skill and courage try ; 
 For low in trough, then high on summit green 
 Of foaming billow is the small craft seen : 
 Till, ah ! what pain excites each anxious breast ! 
 For, rushing onward, with aggressive crest, 
 It whirls the boat, involved in foam, on high, 
 And overturns it as it thunders by ! 
 
 " Lower the lifeboat ! " Captain Martin cries. 
 To urgent call each eager seaman flies. 
 With ready hands the gear they overhaul ; 
 The sheaves, revolving, lengthen fast each fall : 
 They ply their oars, of tough and pliant ash ; 
 The rowlocks rattle and the oar-blades flash : 
 " Pull with a will ! " the ardent steersman cries — 
 The strong ash buckles, and the lifeboat flies — 
 Alas ! too slow to save one seaman brave : 
 
 The raging sea must now become his grave. 
 
 Through startled brain, like vivid lightnings, 
 gleam 
 
 His past and present in a waking dream. 
 
 One cry he gives for mercy to his soul. 
 
 One thought to home ; and then the billows roll 
 
 With sullen fury o'er that manly form 
 
 That oft has braved them in the fiercest storm ; 
 
404 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Invading torrents force the spirit's flight, 
 And seal his senses in an endless night ! 
 But on, brave mariners, if ye would save 
 A brother seaman from untimely grave ; 
 For stoutly still he battles hard for life — 
 Not yet the sea is victor in the strife ; 
 A floating oar tenaciously he grasps, 
 By brine tormented when for breath he gasps : 
 The leaping waves on him with fury pour, 
 And seem to claim him with resounding roar ; 
 The cruel winds his fierce assailants urge ; 
 The driving spray becomes a knotted scourge ; 
 Cold, icy fingers grasp his fainting heart, 
 And Death approaching seems to launch his 
 dart. 
 
 Courage, brave pilot, for one moment more ! 
 With iron grasp clutch fast the buoyant oar ! 
 For see, advancing on that lofty wave. 
 The lifeboat flies to save thee from the grave ! 
 Bowman, prepare his sinking form to seize ! 
 Oarsmen, your labours for an instant ease ! 
 Steersman, be skilful, and yet cool withal ! 
 One ill-judged movement and ye ruin all I 
 Back-water, hard ! Hurrah ! From out the wave 
 Strong arms now lift him, and forestall the.grave ! 
 Then, hoping still his comrade yet to find, 
 They row around, but fate no more is kind : 
 In vain they search ; his earthly pain is past ; 
 The deep his grave ; his dirge the howling blast. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 405 
 
 When fruitless all would be protracted stay, 
 
 The gallant tars reluctantly obey 
 
 The captain's signal to return on board, 
 
 With him whose life they hardly have restored, 
 
 Whom now they question of his comrade, dead — 
 
 " Will helpless orphans want for daily bread ? 
 
 Will loving wife his step await in vain. 
 
 Who ne'er shall glad her longing sight again ? " 
 
 While he, replying, answers " Yes " or " No." 
 
 For now the London with extended row 
 
 Gf passengers, who line her lofty rail. 
 
 Looms overhead, and screens them from the 
 
 gale. 
 Beneath the falls at once they heedful glide, 
 And nimble seamen scale the vessel's side, 
 Save those who hook the tackles and prepare 
 The boat to steady as she mounts in air ; 
 For steam, resistless, lends the needful strain. 
 And to the davits soon she swings again. 
 
 With hollow splash the screw the water spurns. 
 Which, foam evolving, round her rudder churns : 
 Her speedy prow soon points toward the land. 
 Which, high before her, parts on either hand, 
 A passage leaving for the flowing tide, 
 'Midst lofty hills, to curves wherein to hide ; 
 While from the shore, towards the south, appears 
 A massive pier — the work of toilsome years — 
 Of huge stones built, and based on solid rocks. 
 It braves, unshaken, ocean's fiercest shocks ; 
 
406 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 For baffled waves and snowy spume recoil, 
 In whirling eddies, round its base to boil : 
 On seaward end there stands a lighthouse high — 
 A welcome sight to those who storms would fly 
 To welcome anchorage, where ofttimes meet 
 In peaceful times the ships of England's fleet ; 
 And thither now the London swiftly glides, 
 With graceful sweep, and at her anchor rides. 
 
 By rivals urged toward the vessel's side, 
 The restless shore-boats skim the heaving tide 
 To bring those voyagers who viewed with dread 
 The Channel passage, with fell dangers spread 
 When wintry gales with sullen fury roar, 
 And breakers thunder on the wild lee-shore ; 
 And those who, loth to leave their homes, delay 
 The painful parting to the latest day. 
 
 From foremast high " blue peter " flutters free 
 To summon those who still on shore may be ; 
 And all is ready — fatal Friday passed — 
 To brave once more the billows and the blast. 
 
 From daily path the sun has hurried down. 
 Pursued by night, devoid of starry crown ; 
 And darkness falls on winding sound and land 
 To hide the beach and objects near at hand j 
 While in their stead unnumbered lights appear 
 Along the shore and on the shipping near. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 407 
 
 Whose constant flames like glowing planets shine, 
 Their beams reflected in the heaving brine ; 
 While, brighter far than rival lights around, 
 The seawall beacon flashes o'er the Sound — 
 A certain guide to skilful seamen's sight 
 Who seek to gain or leave the port by night. 
 
 In spacious cabins of the London shine 
 Resplendent lamps in long extended line 
 Above the guests, now once more met around 
 The social board, with smiling plenty crowned ; 
 On snowy cloths the varied dishes steam, 
 And sparkling wines in polished crystal gleam, 
 While kindly hope and comfort join to cheer 
 All lonely hearts^ and banish lurking fear ; 
 But now to sea the ship is steaming out. 
 And heaving waters soon the diners rout. 
 
 From straining vision of the favoured few 
 Exempt from sickness fast recedes from view 
 The cloud-like streak — last glimpse of England's 
 
 shore — 
 That much-loved land they ne'er may visit more; 
 And now 'tis lost, for ocean's wide expanse, 
 With scattered sails, is all that meets the glance ; 
 'Tis ocean, too, for treachery renowned ; 
 The die is cast, the ship is outward bound. 
 
 The daylight wanes, anon the winter's night 
 In turn is banished by the source of light, 
 
408 KE-ECHOBS FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 And Sabbath dawns, but not in peace, for o'er 
 The trackless waste wind's gusty forces roar, 
 And to their call huge swelling billows rise, 
 Like foam-crowned giants, to insult the skies. 
 Or on the ship, which forward slowly ploughs, 
 To fiercely bound and break above her bows ; 
 Or aft the mainmast, with a constant din. 
 O'er futile bulwarks rush impetuous in. 
 
 On lagging wing the night has sped away, 
 And Monday dawns — a wild and stormy day — 
 Though still the voyagers, in cabins warm, 
 From sound and motion only judge the storm. 
 While hardy mariners but little reck 
 The wet discomforts of the wave-washed deck. 
 To stop the engines Martin gives command, 
 And in the rigging swarm an active band 
 Of gallant seamen to unloose each sail. 
 Which, sheeted home, stands stiffly to the gale. 
 With lessened motion soon the ship careers. 
 But from her course a spreading angle steers. 
 While groaning passengers who lie below 
 Are victims sad to landsmen's dreaded foe ; 
 But pity scant they from their comrades find — 
 The stewards deaf, their ya'Z'(7«/-f(f friends inclined 
 To leave the patients lo imagined czxq^ 
 So mount the poop to breathe the bracing air. 
 The noontide past, the gale with lessened force 
 O'er ocean hurries in its viewless course ; 
 And though the waves are monstrous as before, 
 They foaming break with less aggressive roar, 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 409 
 
 While scattered sunbeams, cheering while they last, 
 A passing glint upon the waters cast, 
 And facile Hope — too prodigal of smiles — 
 With specious tale each votary beguiles. 
 
 The sun sinks coldly in the cheerless west, 
 And night broods darkly o'er each billow's crest ; 
 Tet, phantom-like, with parti-coloured eyes. 
 The great ship glides beneath the cloud-veiled skies 
 lUntil, compelled before fair morning's face. 
 The sullen night withdraws with creeping pace ; 
 Then roars the blast, and, with redoubled wrath. 
 Hurls waves enormous in the London's path. 
 
 Yet onward still, with sharp and plunging bows. 
 The gallant vessel through their masses ploughs. 
 Whose curling crests in foaming torrents dash 
 On flooded deck with never-ceasing splash. 
 Then through the scuppers forceful spout again 
 In briny torrents to the parent main. 
 But see ! A billow of gigantic size 
 ■On storm-tried ship like famished monster flies, 
 And fiercely rends from vessel's side away 
 A buoyant lifeboat, to its might a prey. 
 With saddened hearts the tempest-beaten crew 
 Watch shattered wreck, receding fast from view; 
 jBut, ah ! Alas ! Fresh dangers, thick and fast, 
 ■Come crowding on, each greater than the last ; 
 iFor as "two bells" proclaim Time's sullen flight. 
 The ship is hoisted to a giddy height; 
 
410 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Then headlong down into the trough she dives^ 
 And in the sea her flying-jibboom drives ; 
 Above her head the whirling waters fly, 
 While high in air her stern invades the sky : 
 Thus stricken whale, with tail erected, darts 
 To 'scape its foes and ease its burning smarts ; 
 Down, down it dives, then seeks again the air, 
 Death-dealing lance-thrusts helplessly to bear — 
 So now the London in that awful gale 
 Impetuous plunges, and the boldest quail 
 As, closing round, the raging sea assails 
 Her buried head and tears away her sails : 
 Masts, yards, and cordage in confusion lie 
 About the deck, or down to leeward fly; 
 Though still aloft the huge fore-topmast swings,. 
 By rigging held, the while beside it hangs 
 The wrenched-off' royal-mast, which joins the foe,. 
 Sweeps as she rolls and deals out blow on blow;. 
 The shattered jibboom, shorn of taper sail, 
 In ocean drags, as ally to the gale ; 
 While tall main royal-mast is also torn 
 From lofty stand, and of its hamper shorn : 
 Thus raging tempest, with one stroke, despoils 
 The luckless ship that struggles in its toils. 
 
 Undaunted all will strive the hardy crew 
 
 The trailing wreckage from the ship to hew ; 
 
 With fruitless aim unnumbered strokes they try ]. 
 
 From iron cordage glancing axes fly 
 
 Like pliant canes that bow before the blast, 
 
 Yet mock the danger ere 'tis fairly passed ;. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 411 
 
 It hangs in loops and, swinging to and fro, 
 Evades the edge and disappoints each blow ; 
 While waves prodigious on her cumbered deck 
 Incessant pour, and seem to claim the wreck. 
 With hellish fury howls the awful storm 
 As night descends and veils each seaman's form ! 
 
 The creeping hours prolong the horrid night, 
 While those below begin to yield to fright. 
 And prayers arise from many who, till now, 
 Their stubborn knees in prayer disdained to bow; 
 For though the lamps may brightly burn within, 
 Too plainly heard becomes the tempest's din j 
 While to and fro on wave-scourged, straining deck 
 The waters dash, obtruding thoughts of wreck — 
 Of black despair — of dreadful death — and then 
 Of prayer to God ; for so it is with men : 
 They eat, they drink, they sleep, while all is well; 
 Of death they dream not, and they laugh at hell; 
 But danger comes, destruction hovers near — 
 Then, grov'lling low, they rave a useless prayer. 
 
 But not so all ; some trustful spirits now. 
 With steady faith, before their Master bow ; 
 Or, hopeful, cheer the sinking hearts of those 
 Whose abject fear but multiplies their woes ; 
 Whose ears drink in and magnify each sound ; 
 Who fear destruction from each sea around ; 
 In vain regret who, moaning, pass the night, 
 And all-impatient wait the morning's light. 
 
412 EE-ECHOES FKOM COONDAMBO. 
 
 The captain brave, who, trae as tempered steel, 
 Thinks not of sleep, but stationed at the wheel 
 His watch maintains, exposed to every blast 
 That sweeps the sea and bows each groaning mast : 
 With searching eyes he seeks the coming squall 
 That, sail-destroying, on his ship may fall ; 
 Or giant wave which, towering o'er the rest, 
 Comes rushing on with fiercely threatening crest ; 
 Marks with what force it thunders on his deck. 
 By fuel cumbered and bestrewn with wreck; 
 And in his mind weighs all the chances o'er 
 Of ever gaining far Australia's shore. 
 Shall he advance and dare the awful force 
 Of winds and waters which oppose his course ? 
 Or shall he turn and, fleeing from the gale. 
 Some haven seek by aid of steam and sail. 
 The storm's fell mischief to repair, and wait 
 Till warring elements their wrath abate ? 
 
 To this last view his prudent thoughts incline ; 
 Yet calls brave Harris that he may combine 
 That seaman's skill and judgment with his own, 
 And thus begins, with low and anxious tone — 
 " You see the state our storm-vex'd craft is in ; 
 You hear the tempest's wreck-declaring din ; 
 You see those seas which, with resounding roar. 
 On straining decks their mighty volumes pour. 
 Say, then, shall we 'midst elemental rage 
 The fellest fury of the storm engage ? 
 Or, turning, flee and, homeward bound once more, 
 Seek sheltering harbour by Old England's shore. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 413 
 
 Where cordage lost and spars may be replaced, 
 And all the mischief of the storm effaced ? 
 
 The careful seaman in his mind revolves 
 Each chance and danger either course involves; 
 Which, quickly done, he with his chief agrees 
 That it were wise to leave the stormy seas 
 For friendly port, wherein their ship may be 
 Again refitted and prepared for sea. 
 
 But ere the task of wearing ship, they go 
 Their charts to study and their books below ; 
 Her courses steered, her speed, the leeway 
 
 made — 
 To all attention must be duly paid; 
 And these they calculate with nicest care. 
 Consult the chart, and mark position there ; 
 Then trust, with fortune, ere two days are o'er 
 In Plymouth Sound their ship shall ride once 
 
 more. 
 
 With eager hands the seamen whirl the wheel ; 
 The plunging ship sweeps round with heavy reel; 
 While, fluttering fiercely in the raging blast, 
 Her mizen-staysails mount from mast to mast ; 
 O'er tempest's din the seamen's cries resound 
 As giant yards come slowly sweeping round 
 To meet wild gusts that, with vindictive sway, 
 The billows lop and bear their heads away. 
 
 Now o'er the waves that pile the troubled main 
 In sullen gloom the young day dawns again. 
 
414 EE- ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 While still the elements in sateless wrath 
 Crowd countless dangers in the vessel's path ; 
 But, though her hamper is in partial wreck, 
 And sea's dread legions thunder on her deck, 
 Her mighty hull, yet proof against the tide, 
 Contains no water in its dark inside ; 
 Still unimpaired and shining to the view, 
 Her toiling engines whirl the forceful screw : 
 She plunges on, while, careless of the storm, 
 Her nimble seamen in the rigging swarm, 
 With weapons keen, intent to cut away 
 All harmful wreck and injured spars to stay ; 
 Then set the staysails to each lofty mast. 
 Now well prepared to wrestle with the blast. 
 
 Pale azure rifts the driving clouds divide. 
 And scattered sunbeams gild the steamer's side, 
 When, each with sextant in extended hand — 
 The captain brave and Harris firmly stand — 
 Through coloured lenses to observe the race 
 Of day's great chieftain to his turning place, 
 That marks high noon ; then tell the time and go, 
 With anxious faces, to the deck below ; 
 There, on the chart, by measurement to find 
 Their true position on that sea unkind. 
 And work the course the London must pursue, 
 If Plymouth Sound they once more wish to 
 
 When evening falls the voices of the blast 
 Proclaim its fury as increasing fast ; 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 415 
 
 While ghastly crests of still far-distant waves 
 Arise like ghosts as if from ocean graves ; 
 Then with the billows, which they fitly crown 
 'Midst deafening clamour rush tumultuous down 
 On harassed ship, to scale her bulwarks high, 
 Invade her decks, and all her hatchways try ; 
 Then, pouring forth in cataracts, regain 
 Their raging comrades of the storm again. 
 
 Now sable night her densest veil extends 
 ■O'er awful scene, and sky with ocean blends 
 In blackest chaos, whence, with piercing wail. 
 Terrific squalls the hapless ship assail. 
 Which, under staysails, wallows in the sea, 
 While trembling voyagers, on bended knee. 
 Now mutter prayers, the while they scarcely know 
 "What words are they which from their white lips 
 flow. 
 
 But pious Draper, in his trumpet tones, 
 
 Bids them surcease their troubled tears and moans 
 
 Exhorting all in humble faith to fly 
 
 To HIM who looks with omnipresent eye 
 
 Upon His servants, and, with mighty arm, 
 
 'Can, if He will it, save from every harm. 
 
 Thus they below, while overhead the crew, 
 With doubts increasing, their position view ; 
 •For now two staysails, each with dread report, 
 •Of winds tempestuous become the sport ; 
 
416 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 In tattered shreds to leeward they are blown ; 
 The straining masts reel backward with a groan; 
 While raging billows o'er her bulwarks beat, 
 And storm-vexed mariners to nooks retreat 
 To 'scape the blast and bitter waves which fly 
 O'er every part, and leave no corner dry. 
 
 But ah ! a billow vaster than the rest. 
 With force resistless and with foaming crest, 
 Wrests for its spoil two boats from starboard 
 
 side, 
 And gives their fragments to rapacious tide — 
 A cutter that — a buoyant lifeboat this — 
 Their loss adds largely to the great distress, 
 But respite none the maddening wind allows ; 
 Its rage remorseless every instant grows. 
 Till deafening din and force of gale may be 
 No more augmented to enrage the sea. 
 In caverns vast the ocean's breast is riven, 
 And to their depths the hapless ship is driveny 
 Involved in foam, which lends its ghastly light 
 To swell the terrors of the awful night ; 
 Then upward heaved upon stupendous wave. 
 As though ejected from a yawning grave. 
 She meets the blast that, with vindictive roar. 
 Rends all her sails and seems to howl for more. 
 
 Still dauntless Martin, to his duty true. 
 With great example animates the crew ■ 
 Now here, now there, his manly accents sound,. 
 In tones superior to din around ; 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 417 
 
 And when the sails by awful squalls are rent, 
 His prompt command to engineers is sent — 
 Of fuming steam to loose the might again, 
 That, aided by it, they may stem the main : 
 Onward she drives, but soon remorseless fate 
 Hurls fresh disasters of resistless weight 
 On doomed ship, which, girt with terrors round. 
 Battles the legions of the vast profound. 
 
 Now, as the time by sounding bell is told. 
 Well may the blood of bravest heart run cold ; 
 For o'er the gangway, with prodigious weight, 
 A billow falls and seals the vessel's fate : 
 Through engine hatch, of stubborn teak and brass. 
 With iron gratings o'er the stoutest glass, 
 The waters burst with thunder-waking crash. 
 And through the breach in foaming torrents dash 
 Two seamen hurling to the shades below. 
 Where mimic waves in mimic ocean flow ; 
 While nothing now of mighty hatch remains. 
 Save splintered wood, bent bars, and shattered panes ! 
 For as an avalanche down Alpine steeps 
 From snow-crowned summit with fell fury sweeps. 
 Trees, rocks, and chalets, in fell ruin hurled. 
 Are borne before it to the lower world ; 
 Grim desolation marks it as it flies. 
 While sullen thunders shake ttie earth and skies : 
 So with like fury fell that sea on board. 
 The hatch burst in and through the chasm 
 roared!' 
 
418 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Swift to the place the mate and captain fly, 
 And shout for help ; the trusty crew reply. 
 With spars and sails the torrent they would stay : 
 The raging sea sweeps spars and sails away ; 
 Their bedding — all things portable — they bring, 
 And booms and ladders o'er the opening fling ; 
 Yet vainly all such barricades they heap : 
 With earthquake force implacably the deep 
 Hurls its vast billows, as in scorn of those 
 Who would its will with mortal force oppose ; 
 Their efforts fail ; the water bears away 
 Their frail devices to obstruct its way ; 
 Men, sails, and spars it dashes to and fro. 
 And pours in torrents to the floods below. 
 
 Brave Jones and Greenhill by their engines stand, 
 
 While stokers huddle in affrighted band, 
 
 And watch the water, with dilated eyes. 
 
 Whose deadly volumes round their bodies rise ; 
 
 While in their ears resounds the hollow roar 
 
 Of wave on wave, which down the hatchway pour. 
 
 On deck, meanwhile, brave Martin and his crew 
 Do all that men with dauntless souls can do ; 
 Some ply the pumps, the passengers assist, 
 Heroic Brooke and WooUey swell the list ; 
 Fearless themselves, what courage they inspire 
 In those 'gainst whom the elements conspire ! 
 'Midst howling gale and ocean's fiercest strife, 
 They fight and flinch not, for they fight for life. 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 419' 
 
 When cheerless hours to midnight near approach, 
 The rising floods on furnaces encroach ; 
 First hiss the bars, and in a moment more 
 The vanquished flames expire with splutt'ring 
 
 roar ; 
 Thick, noisome vapours all below assail, 
 And gallant Greenhill must convey the tale 
 Of fell disaster to his captain, who, 
 By word and action, animates the crew 
 To vast exertion, when their sinking frames 
 And hopeless hearts for respite urge their claims.. 
 True to his trust, and lab'ring here and there, 
 He cheers the weary and defies despair. 
 
 Heroic Martin like a stoic hears 
 The fatal news that Greenhill to him bears 
 Of vanquished flames, of engines which no more 
 Will pump the ship or urge her to the shore. 
 One moment's pause, then to his hardy band 
 His voice, far-reaching, gives the loud command 
 To loose the great maintopsail. At the word 
 Bold British tars, by danger undeterred. 
 Scale the bleak rigging, and, despite the gale, 
 Cast loose the buntlines and set free the sail, 
 Which thunders fiercely in a passing squall 
 As brawny arms upon its halyard haul. 
 Up giant mast the great yard slowly creeps, 
 While hoarse the cry that time for haulage keeps ; 
 But soon, unyielding to their horny hands, 
 The stout rope gives not, and the topsail stands. 
 
420 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Ah ! poor success ; for, with the loud report 
 Of bursting bomb in close-beleaguered fort, 
 The riven sail from straining boltrope flies, 
 And torn in ribbons is the tempest's prize. 
 Well may exclaim the captain 'midst his cares, 
 " My gallant fellows, we may say our prayers ! " 
 For through the hatchway wave succeeding wave 
 Resistless pours to sink her in her grave ! 
 
 Of cheerless night 'tis once again the noon, 
 And hopeless mortals seek the great saloon 
 To pray to HIM who now alone has power 
 To show them mercy in this dreadful hour, 
 And respite grant if such should be His will ; 
 For to the tempest HE can say, " Be still !" 
 And it obeys HIM who of old hath said, 
 " Have faith in ME, and be ye not afraid ! " 
 To HIM they pray, while Draper's accents sound 
 Like words of life to kneeling flock around ; 
 For, faith supported, he is undismayed, 
 And sees, past death, bright Paradise displayed, 
 With shining gates that widely open stand 
 To give glad welcome to believing band. 
 
 While Draper prays on ocean-beaten deck, 
 The seamen toil to save the sinking wreck ; 
 Strong in despair, the pumps they ply in vain ; 
 Invading floods on them each moment gain : 
 The while o'er hatchway gallant fellpws strive 
 To fasten sails, which seas succeeding drive 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 421 
 
 Through yawning aperture, as to and fro 
 Themselves are driven by resistless flow 
 Of raging waves, which, breaking o'er the rail 
 On every hand, like ravening wolves assail ; 
 Veiled in black horrors, Death, in awful form. 
 Shrieks in the tempest and pervades the storm. 
 
 From horrid noontide of that fatal night 
 
 Four hopeless hours have slowly winged their 
 
 flight. 
 When fearful billow, with o'erwhelming force. 
 Through shuttered sternports takes its ruthless 
 
 course : 
 As autumn leaves are snatched from forest trees, 
 And whisked away on swiftly-passing breeze. 
 So tears that billow from their fastenings strong; 
 Opposing guards, and tosses them along ; 
 Seas of salt water through the cabins flow, 
 And force their way to darksome decks below. 
 To flood the place where Draper still consoles. 
 And preaches mercy to repentant souls. 
 " Father," he cries, " may those who round me bow 
 In deed and truth become converted now. 
 And humbly bend beneath Thy chastening rod. 
 Nor dread Thy call, 'Prepare to meet your 
 
 God ! " 
 Faith over fear the victory hath won ; 
 " Father," we answer, " ' Lord, Thy will be done !' '^ 
 
 Meanwhile the carpenter, the ports to bar, 
 Supports strong shutters with a stout spare spar — 
 
422 RK-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBOO. 
 
 A triumph brief — for in the engine-room 
 Floods swiftly rise and expedite her doom ; 
 She deeper sinks, and by the stern again 
 The sea breaks through, with terror in its train; 
 Then hurls its billows, wave on wave, within. 
 With tenfold fury and exultant din. 
 
 But as brave soldiers in a fortress pent, 
 Beset by foes upon their death intent, 
 With silent valour fight for fame and life, 
 And falter not in sanguinary strife. 
 So, all undaunted, still the seamen toil 
 To wrest from ocean its expected spoil ; 
 Prompt to obey where duty's call commands. 
 They struggle on in two unflinching bands : 
 This, with the captain, strive with efforts vast 
 To bar the hatch — courageous to the last ; 
 But efforts all are now of scant avail ; 
 Their best devices and their labours fail. 
 For ocean's cohorts — gale incited — leap 
 Through fatal breach to swell the volumes deep 
 Of rising floods, which in her darkly flow 
 To force their prey to wreck-strewn deeps below; 
 Till Martin owns, yet with reluctant pain. 
 No cheering hope can in his breast remain. 
 
 But still he calls, when he regains the deck, 
 To toiling men who would the leakage check, 
 ■" Forbear that labour, and combine with me 
 To bar the hatchway to invading sea ; 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 423 
 
 Which, could we do, perchance we yet might 
 
 save 
 Ourselves and vessel from impending grave ! " 
 They throng around, they answer to his call ; 
 But vain their courage — vain endeavours all — 
 For cruel waves their labours vast confound. 
 And beat those heroes on the wreck around ; 
 The ocean mocks them, hope flies every heart. 
 And Death but lingers ere he hurls his dart. 
 
 While thus those strive the others pump and bale, 
 Their shrinking forms exposed to biting gale. 
 Here WooUey cheers, there Grant and others 
 
 toil 
 To frustrate fate and ocean's fury foil ; 
 There, too, is Brooke who, on the mimic stage, 
 Has fear affected, hope, despair, and rage. 
 But now, undaunted, on the stage of life 
 Heroic stands 'midst elemental strife 
 Which round him roars. He sees huge waves 
 
 descend 
 On sinking ship, as if at once to end 
 The awful struggle ; sees the sails all torn 
 In ragged shreds and on the tempest borne ; 
 Sees helpless shipmates driven o'er the side 
 To Death's embraces 'neath relentless tide ; 
 And knows the ship in ocean's deadly toils 
 Must soon be added to its garner'd spoils ; 
 Yet, with brave heart and stern, unflinching will, 
 Remains undaunted and collected still. 
 
424 KE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 With naked feet and head to tempest bare, 
 He seems all-present, aiding here and there : 
 From cabin first the floods he strives to bale. 
 That, surely rising, threat its inmates pale ; 
 Then at the pumps is he a host indeed 
 To give relief to those who respite need ; 
 Himself he spares not, but .toils bravely on, 
 Till all may see that no more can be done; 
 Then stands aside, and soon his musing brain 
 His chequered life recalls to him again 
 His home, his friends, his joys and troubles past. 
 Its summons answer, thronging thick and fast ; 
 His careless childhood, his maturer years. 
 Their lights and shadows, mingled hopes and 
 
 fears : 
 All join to stir alternately his heart ; 
 Yet tears unmanly to his eyes ne'er start : 
 So hours drag on, and still he silent stands, 
 His visage resting on supporting hands. 
 As, leaning on the half-companion door 
 He views the scene and hears the tempest's roar, 
 Awaiting calmly till his soul shall be 
 By rushing waters from his frame set free. 
 
 In last grand character he now appears 
 
 A man superior to human fears ; 
 
 Then honour give where deathless fame is due, 
 
 And drop a tear when bidding Brooke adieu ! 
 
 To longing eyes of voyagers forlorn 
 
 From eastern portals breaks the pallid morn ; 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 425 
 
 But impotent the harbinger of day 
 To scare the terrors of the night away ; 
 For, like foul vultures flocking to the slain 
 On desert sands or war-ensanguined plain, 
 Unnumbered dangers — harpy-winged — appear 
 To tell too truly of destruction near. 
 And hover round, the last faint hope to scare 
 From human hearts fast yielding to despair ; 
 For in the ocean — level with her deck — 
 The helpless vessel is a sinking wreck, 
 Waves rolling o'er her in their ruthless course. 
 As, bent on carnage, rush the charging horse. 
 'Twixt rival floods the London barely floats — 
 'Tis speedy death or rescue by the boats ! 
 
 Ah ! feeble hope ! for four alone remain — 
 The rest are swallowed in the raging main ; 
 But these, prepared, have soon a scanty load 
 Of bread and water in their depths bestowed. 
 Then first the pinnace on the starboard side 
 They fain would trust on ocean's fatal tide ; 
 For fifty men the roomy craft will bear. 
 If blessed by Providence and launched with care. 
 
 Six seamen enter as the side she leaves, 
 
 To be assaulted by the leaping waves. 
 
 Towards which she glides, o'erwhelm'd to quickly be, 
 
 And straightway swallow'd by insatiate sea. 
 
 She headlong dives, and, vanishing from view. 
 
 To ocean's fury leaves her luckless crew ; 
 
426 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 But waves, o'er-ravenous, disgorge the men 
 In sorry plight upon the deck again — 
 A respite merely from destructions maw, 
 Like that of mouse from grim grimalkin's paw. 
 
 Now toil-spent crew and passengers refrain 
 From painful toils they feel to be in vain, 
 And, hopeless all, to great saloon descend. 
 As if in company their lives to end ; 
 And here the captain, with a solemn air. 
 For painful death exhorts them to prepare, 
 Which awful warning they in silence hear ; 
 For no loud outcries own their birth to fear. 
 Then to the place where Draper prays aloud 
 They move, a pallid but collected crowd. 
 And to the Deity ascends once more 
 United prayer amid the tempest's roar. 
 
 'Tis noon again upon that stormy sea, 
 Of hope devoid as blackest night could be ; 
 Still in the ship the fatal waters rise, 
 And ocean clamours to engulf its prize. 
 Around her stern the greedy eddies swirl. 
 And mighty billows o'er her bulwarks curl, 
 When mate and captain make one effort more 
 To launch a boat that some may reach the shore ; 
 King, Grant, and Daniels aid with wilHng hands, 
 And brave young Angel by his engine stands, 
 Ready to hoist her o'er the vessel's side, 
 And drop her lightly on the seething tide. 
 By failure warned, three men alone descend 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 427 
 
 Within the boat, from off the side to fend 
 Their tiny ark, which seems as if 'twould be 
 At once engulfed within the raging sea ; 
 .But, like a cork upon the ocean cast — 
 Her sides too low to catch the howling blast — 
 rShe rises buoyantly on billows high. 
 From horrid depths to where the surges fly ; 
 But as destruction seems to claim her, few 
 Seek to augment the number of her crew, 
 Eut cling in groups upon the sea-lashed deck. 
 And wait destruction with the sinking wreck. 
 
 To GreenhiU now brave Martin gives command 
 To leave the ship and head the hardy band, 
 Which, nimbly springing o'er a chasm wide, 
 The cutter gains from sinking vessel's side — 
 An awful leap ! but desperation lends 
 A stern resolve that far mere strength transcends; 
 For nerves and sinews in the human kind 
 Are urged and governed by the mighty mind. 
 
 "Go," Martin cries, " the cutter is your care, 
 And, though not likely, may in safety bear 
 You through the' tempest ; as for me I stay, 
 My evil fortune's hard demands to pay ; 
 For, with my passengers, in death I'll sleep. 
 By vessel's wreck, in soundings dark and deep." 
 Meanwhile, below, the pious Draper still 
 Exhorts compliance with the heavenly will : 
 
 ■" Prepare ! " he cries, " Prepare at once to meet 
 The Great Creator at the judgment seat ! 
 
428 EE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 Your hour is near ! Repent ! repent ! before 
 The fatal floods annihilation pour 
 In wrath upon you ! There is now no hope, 
 Saith our good captain, with the storm to cope;: 
 Yet with the penitent the hope remains 
 Of life for ever where Jehovah reigns ! " 
 The faithful wife beside her husband stands. 
 With quiet eyes and meekly folded hands, 
 Buoyed by her faith, she sees the waves encroach,. 
 Yet falters not at dreadful Death's approach ; 
 But, thoughtful still, her sympathetic heart 
 Can feel for those who from the wreck depart. 
 " Take this,'' she cries, as to a seaman bold 
 She gives her rug ; " 'twill shield you from the cold j" 
 Nor brooks denial when, with manly mind. 
 In her own need excuses he would find ; 
 But, steadfast still, his scruples she o'errides : 
 Her will — not his — the argument decides. 
 
 What trump of fame shall adequately sound 
 The praise of him, by truest honour bound, 
 Who with his dear ones firmly takes his standi 
 In grasp of Death. an undivided band ; 
 And who, when waters on the leeward side 
 Rapacious roll in fast-increasing tide, 
 Unshaken answers o'er-persuasive friend, 
 Who, with entreaties, seeks his soul to bend , 
 "Go, haste yourself the saving boat to gain. 
 My promise made, with these will I remain ; 
 No'tempting words shall shake my steadfast heart ;. 
 Not even Death our faithful love shall part. 
 
THE LAST VOyAGB OF THE LONnON. 429 
 
 Your hand once more : a long, a last farewell ! 
 And be it yours lamenting friends to tell 
 That he they mourn, with wife and children, died 
 With firmest faith as his eternal guide." 
 Then silence falls, and Wilson speeds away, 
 Man's strongest instinct eager to obey, 
 And hails the boat ; but now its crew declare 
 That it another fugitive will bear.'' 
 "" Haste ! bring a lady ! " is the seamen's cry. 
 He pauses not for parley or reply, 
 But searches round, yet searches all in vain 
 For one, alas ! he ne'er may see again ; 
 When, as his life may with lost moment fly, 
 He questions quickly one who lingers by 
 If she for life will cast with them her lot ? 
 She looks compliance, though she answers not. 
 In lusty arms he bears her to the rail ; 
 She shrinks in horror from the sea and gale. 
 Ah ! fatal fear ! he can no longer wait, 
 So leaves the maiden and the ship to fate. 
 
 A midshipman now looks with longing eyes. 
 
 And for admission to the crew applies. 
 
 They answer " Ves ! " He leaps the chasm o'er, 
 ■ And hungry billows for him vainly roar ; 
 
 Then Jones — last fugitive from fated bark — 
 
 From bulwark bounds, and gains the tossing ark. 
 " Come, captain, come ! " the eager seamen call ; 
 
 But death approaching cannot him appal ; 
 
 To all entreaties he replies " No ! No ! 
 
 At duty's call down with my ship I'll go, ' 
 
430 RE-ECHOES FROM COONDAMBO. 
 
 That none, with justice, shall in future say, 
 ' He, scared by danger, did his trust betray.' 
 My hapless passengers remain, and I — 
 A British seaman — with my charge will die ! 
 Your course is nor-nor-east to Brest, and here. 
 Catch you this compass, by its aid to steer. 
 With God's good blessing, safely to the land. 
 Good-bye ! Good-bye ! " and waving high his hand,. 
 A farewell sad he signals to the men, 
 Who thus, in thought, shall see him oft again ; 
 Then on his ship, now sinking in the sea, 
 Awaits the time when all engulfed shall be. 
 
 But as the cutter leaves the sinking wreck, 
 A woman's voice re-echoes from its deck, 
 And o'er the rail a livid face appears. 
 The starting eyes exhausted of their tears. 
 With gestures wild those seamen she would stay — 
 Her soul to anguish and despair a prey — 
 Then shrieks the offer, o'er the tempest's din, 
 "A thousand guineas if you take me in ! " 
 But no response goes back against the blast, 
 For now the die, the fatal die, is cast ; 
 Not all the world a moment's pause would buy •.- 
 For /i/e they struggle ; she must helpless die ! 
 
 From puny boat the members of its crew 
 The final struggles of the London view ; 
 For high in air ascend her giant bows, 
 As o'er her stern the ravening billows close > 
 
THE LAST VOYAGE OF THE LONDON. 431 
 
 While from below the air — till now close pent- 
 Through bursting decks gives all its fury vent, 
 To drive the voyagers, with awful force, 
 Towards the prow in its tempestuous course. 
 Down ! down ! she plunges, and the waters sweep 
 Round horrid vortex in the riven deep, 
 Whence, madly shrill, a wild, heart-rending cry 
 The tempest pierces to the frowning sky ; 
 When rushing waters, closing o'er their prey. 
 Hide the sad victims from the face of day : 
 They sink for ever, and the stormy blast 
 Raves a wild requiem as it hurtles past ! 
 
 To My Reader. 
 
 In reference to the foregoing metrical version of " The Last Voyage of the 
 London" I have to tell you that one stem newspaper critic afiirmed that I 
 had in it totally destroyed the thread of the narrative, and I must say was 
 not at all careful whether he hurt my feelings or no. On the other hand, 
 Admiral Sir Henry Keppel, with whom I had a slight travelling acquain- 
 tanceship, wrote — " I was not aware that you were one of the survivors of 
 the London, and yet I cannot imagine any one writing the account of the 
 wreck as you have done unless he had actually heen there." Captain 
 Hector, also, a well-known and much-trusted commander of the P. & O. 
 Service, to whom I lent a hook containing "The Last Voyage of the 
 London" said, when returning it — "I could not put your book down till I 
 had finished the wreck of the London. I could fancy myself there." Now 
 either the admiral and captain were totally ignorant of nautical matters, or 
 else the paper man was. My dear reader I will leave you to determine that 
 question. — BOBT. Bruce. 
 
W. K. Thomas & Co., 
 
 Printers, 
 
 Grenfell Street, Adelaide. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Hunt of Manawirta Coodia 
 
 1 
 
 How I did not catch that Dingo 
 
 13 
 
 110° in the Shade 
 
 ... 23 
 
 How the City Man spent his Christmas in the Bu 
 
 sh ... 26 
 
 A Sundowner's Philosophy 
 
 ... 30 
 
 How he Perished 
 
 ... 35 
 
 The Bush Missionary 
 
 ... 37 
 
 The Bush Missionary's Story 
 
 41 
 
 Tulip— The Story of a Black Gin 
 
 ... 55 
 
 To a Dead Black Gin 
 
 ... 62 
 
 To a Black Snake 
 
 ... 64 
 
 That Blackfellow 
 
 ... 65 
 
 The Thunderstorm 
 
 ... 67 
 
 The Sailor's First Kangaroo Hunt 
 
 ... 70 
 
 Verdant Green's First Buckjumper..! 
 
 ... 73 
 
 To a Bush Crow 
 
 ... 77 
 
 He took the Wrong Turning 
 
 ... 78 
 
 To a Rabbit 
 
 ... 81 
 
 The Suicide's Soliloquy 
 
 ... 84 
 
 Positive Facts by the N. W. Pitcher 
 
 .. 85 
 
 That Sea Serpent 
 
 92 
 
 Old Myall Tree 
 
 94 
 
 Old Buggy 
 
 ... 96 
 
 To a Bush Ant 
 
 ... 99 
 
 To a Dust Storm 
 
 . 102 
 
 Syd Kidman's Ghost 
 
 ... 103 
 
 The Bushman's Last Drunk 
 
 ... 106 
 
 To a Mosquito 
 
 ... 109 
 
iU 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To a Blow-Fly 110 
 
 The Boss's Nightmare Ill 
 
 The Victoria Park Steeplechase 112 
 
 Isandhlwana ... • 115 
 
 Wedding Cake Auguries .. 122 
 
 Jones's Revenge 124 
 
 The Naturalist and Ichneumon Fly ... 127 
 
 Hero Worship 128 
 
 The Flies .. 129 
 
 Reminiscences Awakened ... ... ... 131 
 
 The Corpse in the Square 133 
 
 She sympathised with Them 134 
 
 The Hearse as a Carriage of Pleasure 136 
 
 Gratitude 136 
 
 Gushington Junior's Visit to Elysium ... ... ... 138 
 
 Planting the Vine 141 
 
 Sold 149 
 
 Conjugal Contrarieties — Crab Henpeck Complains ... 151 
 
 Clara Henpeck to her Sister Martyrs 153 
 
 Through the Keyhole 154 
 
 Neuralgia 158 
 
 Our Tradespeople 160 
 
 Verdant Green and the Crow 162 
 
 The Tale of a Terrible Trap 165 
 
 Song of the Far North Mail 174 
 
 Avernus in an Attic 178 
 
 The Life of a Livery Horse 180 
 
 Love in a Church ... ... ... .. 182 
 
 The Life of a Working Bullock 188 
 
 Lost 192 
 
 Drought 202 
 
 A Dream of the Drought ... ... 213 
 
 The Music of the Rain 219 
 
 Farewell to the Western Plains 220 
 
 To^olus 222 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 435 
 
 To an Albatross 
 
 ... 226 
 
 Rounding the Cape 
 
 ... 228 
 
 The Double Ghost 
 
 ... 233 
 
 Davy Jones's Locker 
 
 242 
 
 Phosphorescent High Jinks 
 
 248 
 
 The Flying Dutchman 
 
 ... 258 
 
 To a Swallow ... 
 
 ... 270 
 
 The Swallow's Fate 
 
 ... 272 
 
 To an East Wind 
 
 ... 275 
 
 The Burning of the Cospatriok 
 
 ... 277 
 
 Money 
 
 .. 293 
 
 A Woman's SmUe 
 
 ... 294 
 
 1 he Sod of Turf 
 
 ... 296 
 
 The Wanderer's'Return 
 
 ... 297 
 
 The Battle of Life 
 
 ... 298 
 
 The Lost Argosies 
 
 ... 300 
 
 The Teaching of the Waves 
 
 ... 301 
 
 Nothing to do 
 
 ... 302 
 
 Farewell to my Fellow-Passengers on the " Siam " 
 
 ... 303 
 
 Camping Alone 
 
 .. 304 
 
 Australians, Remember Stuart ! 
 
 ... 306 
 
 To Evening 
 
 ... 307 
 
 To a Moloch Horridus 
 
 ... 30S 
 
 The Drought Ruined Farm ... 
 
 ... 309 
 
 To Suspense 
 
 ... 310 
 
 Self-Reliance 
 
 ... 312 
 
 Time 
 
 ... 312 
 
 Departed Friends 
 
 ... 313 
 
 In Memoriam : Princess Alice 
 
 ... 314 
 
 The Unanswered Question 
 
 ... 316 
 
 The Call of Death 
 
 ,, 317 
 
 The Universe 
 
 ... 321 
 
 The Outcast to Her Baby 
 
 ... 322 
 
 In Memoriam : Cardinal Manning 
 
 ... 323 
 
 The Old Man's Birthday 
 
 ... 324 
 
436 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Mystery of Life 325 
 
 ToElephanta 327 
 
 A Bushman's Address to the Morning Star 328 
 
 The Origin of the Horse 330 
 
 The Hero of '91 331 
 
 In Wattle-scented Lane ... ... 334 
 
 Be Happy While you 're Young 336 
 
 Unite, Australia! 337 
 
 BuUockyBill 339 
 
 The Song of the Goldseeker 340 
 
 The Bushman's Dream 342 
 
 Dear Old England 343 
 
 The Advent of Spring 345 
 
 The Last Kiss 345 
 
 Tom Blank, the Honest Lawyer 346 
 
 Stupid Peter 348 
 
 Please Buy a Bunch of Violets 349 
 
 " It is not my Fault, I Declare " 350 
 
 The Zephyr 351 
 
 Whispering Wind 352 
 
 The Mistletoe 352 
 
 The First Swallow 354 
 
 The Maiden Sleeps 354 
 
 No Longer Stray 355 
 
 Down where the Poppies grow thick in the Corn ... 356 
 
 Down in the Scented Lane ... ... ... 357 
 
 The Drag Hunt 358 
 
 Love Lane 360 
 
 By the Sea 361 
 
 PoUyandJack 362 
 
 We're off the Horn 364 
 
 "When he returns from Sea 364 
 
 The Song of the Sea 366 
 
 A Gale for me ... 367 
 
 I'm Lonely 'neath the Old Gum Tree 363 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 4; 
 
 Withered Leaves 
 
 369 
 
 Sisters of St. Joseph 
 
 370 
 
 As Transient Ripples We 
 
 371 
 
 Then and Now 
 
 ... 373 
 
 Those Black-coated Croakers 
 
 ... 374 
 
 Erin and her Children 
 
 376 
 
 Be Aisy, Pat ! Be Aisy, Tim ! 
 
 378 
 
 To the Dublin Fusiliers 
 
 379 
 
 The Vale of Tears 
 
 380 
 
 To a Young Swallow 
 
 382 
 
 Invaders, Beware ! 
 
 383 
 
 True unto Death 
 
 385 
 
 The Brave Nuns of Mafeking 
 
 386 
 
 The Dublin Fusiliers are ordered Home ... 
 
 387 
 
 The Lads of the Irish Corps 
 
 388 
 
 Soldiers of the King 
 
 390 
 
 Leap Year 
 
 392 
 
 An Echo 
 
 393 
 
 The Last Voyage of the London 
 
 394 
 
 ?^^