While The Billy BoilsSearchThe shadows of the River GumsWere stretching long and black,As, far from Sydney's busy hum,I trod the narrow track.
I watched the coming twilight spread,And thought on many a plan;I saw an object on ahead—It seemed to be a man.
A venerable party satUpon a fallen log;Upon him was a battered hat,And near him was a dog.
The look that o'er his features hungWas anything but sweet;His swag and "billy"a lay amongThe grass beneath his feet.
And white and withered was his hair,And white and wan his face;I'd rather not have ipet the pairIn such a lonely place.
I thought misfortune's heavy handHad done what it could do;Despair seemed branded on the man,And on the dingo too.
A hungry look that dingo wore—He must have wanted prog—I think I never saw beforeSo lean and lank a dog.
I said—"Old man, I fear that youAre down upon your luck;You very much resemble, too,A pig that has been stuck."
His answer wasn't quite distinct—(I'm sure it wasn't true):He said I was (at least, I think,)"A"—something—"jackeroo!"
He said he didn't want my chaff,And (with an angry stamp)Declared I made too free by half"A-rushing of his camp."
I begged him to be calm, and notApologise to me;He told me I might "go to pot"(Wherever that may be);
And growled a muttered curse or twoExpressive of his viewsOf men and things, and squatters too,New chums and jackeroos.
But economical he wasWith his melodious voice;I think the reason was becauseHis epithets were choice.
I said—"Old man, I fain would knowThe cause of thy distress;What sorrows cloud thine aged browI cannot even guess.
"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,And passion in thine eye,Expressing anything but grace,But why, old man, oh! why?
"A sympathising friend you'll findIn me, old man, d'ye see?So if you've aught upon your mindJust pour it into me."
He gravely shook his grizzled headI rather touched him there—And something indistinct he said(I think he meant to swear).
He made a gesture with his hand,He saw I meant him well;He said he was a shepherd, and"A takin' of a spell."
He said he was an ill-used bird,And squatters they might be ———(He used a very naughty wordCommencing with a D.)
I'd read of shepherds in the loreOf Thessaly and Greece,And had a china one at homeUpon the mantelpiece.
I'd read about their loves and hates,As hot as Yankee stoves,And how they broke each other's patesIn fair Arcadian groves;
But nothing in my ancient friendWas like Arcadian types:No fleecy flocks had he to tend,No crook or shepherds' pipes.
No shepherdess was near at hand,And, if there were, I guessedShe'd never suffer that old manTo take her to his breast!
No raven locks had he to fall,And didn't seem to meTo be the sort of thing at allA shepherd ought to be.
I thought of all the history.I'd studied when a boy—Of Paris and Ænone, andThe siege of ancient Troy.
I thought, could Helen contemplateThis party on the log,She would the race of shepherds' hateLike Brahmins hate a dog.
It seemed a very certain thingThat, since the world began,No shepherd ever was like him,From Paris down to Pan.
I said—"Old man, you've settled nowAnother dream of youth;I always understood, I vow,Mythology was truth
"Until I saw thy bandy legsAnd sorrow-laden brow,But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,I cannot think so now.
"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,Then very sure am IThe man who wrote mythologyWas guilty of a lie.
"But never mind, old man," I said,"To sorrow we are born,So tell us why thine aged headIs bended and forlorn?"
With face as hard as Silas Wegg'sHe said, "Young man, here goes."He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,And told me all his woes.
He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"A flock of maiden-ewes,And then he'd had a trip to townTo gather up the news;
But while in Bathurst's busy streetsHe got upon the spree,And publicans was awful cheatsFor soon "lamm'd down" was he.
He said he'd "busted up his cheque"(What's that, I'd like to know?)And now his happiness was wrecked,To work he'd got to go.
He'd known the time, not long ago,When half the year he'd spendIn idleness, and comfort too,A-camping in a "bend."
No need to tread the weary track,Or work his strength away;He lay extended on his backEach happy summer day.
When sun-set comes and day-light flags,And dusky looms the scrub,He'd bundle up his ration-bagsAnd toddle for his grub,
And to some station-store he'd goAnd get the traveller's dower—"A pint o' dust"—that was his lowExpression meaning flour;
But now he couldn't cadge about,For squatters wasn't gameTo give their tea and sugar outTo every tramp that came.
The country's strength, he thought, was gone,Or going very fast,And feeding tramps now ranked amongThe glories of the past.
He'd seen the "Yanko" in its pride,When every night a hostOf hungry tramps at supper triedFor who could eat the most.
A squatter then had feelin's strongAnd tender in his breast,And if a trav'ller came alongHe'd ask him in to rest.
"But squatters now!"——he stamped the soil,And muttered in his beard,He wished they'd got a whopping boilFor every sheep they sheared!
His language got so very bad—It couldn't well be worse,For every second word he hadNow seemed to be a curse.
And shaking was his withered handWith passion, not with age—I never thought so old a manCould get in such a rage.
His eyes seemed starting from his head,They glared in such a way;And half the wicked words he saidI shouldn't like to say;
But from his language I inferredThere wasn't one in three,Of squatters worth that little wordCommencing with a "D."
Alas! for my poetic lore,I fear it was astray,It never said that shepherds swore,Or talked in such a way.
The knotted cordage of his browWas tightened in a frown—He seemed the sort of party, now,To burn a wool-shed down.
He told me, further, and his voiceGrew very plaintive here,That now he'd got to make the choiceAnd work, or give up beer!
From heavy toil he'd always found'Twas healthiest to keep,And mostly stuck to cadgin' round,And lookin' after sheep.
But shepherdin' was nearly "cooked"—I think he meant to sayThat shepherds' prospects didn't lookIn quite a hopeful way.
A new career he must begin,(And fresh it roused his ire)For squatters they was fencin' inWith that infernal wire;
And sheep was paddocked everywhere—'Twas like them squatters' cheek!—And shepherds now, for all they'd care,Might go to Cooper's Creek.
He said he couldn't use an axe,And wouldn't if he could;He'd see 'em blistered on their backs'Fore he'd go choppin' wood;
That nappin' stones, or shovellin',Warn't good enough for he,And work it was a cussed thingAs didn't ought to be.
He'd known the Lachlan, man and boy,For close on forty year,But now they'd pisoned every joy,He thought it time to clear.
They gave him sorrow's bitter cup,And filled his heart with woe,And now at last his back was up,He felt he ought to go.
He'd heard of regions far awayAcross the barren plains,Where shepherds might be blythe and gayAnd bust the squatters' chains.
To reach that land he meant to try,He didn't care a cuss,If 'twasn't any better, why,It couldn't be much wuss.
Amongst the blacks, though old and grey,Existence he'd begin,And give his ancient hand awayIn marriage to a "gin."
He really was so old and grim,The thought was in my mind,That any gin to marry himWould have to be stone blind.
'Twould make an undertaker smile:What tickled me was this,The thought of such an ancient fileIndulging in a kiss!
And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,That equal justice whirls,He ought to think of Nick insteadOf thinking of the girls.
Then drooped his grim and aged head,And closed that glaring eye,And not another word he said.Except a grunt or sigh.
More lean he looks and still more lankSuch changes o'er him pass,And down his ancient body sankIn slumber on the grass.
I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,And not the sort of coonTo lead a blushing bride about,Or spend a honeymoon;
Or if, indeed, there were a brideFor such a withered stick,With such a tough and wrinkled hide,That bride should be old Nick.
As streaks of faintish light beganTo mark the coming day,I left that grim and aged manAnd slowly stole away.
And when the winter nights are rough,And shrieking is the wind,Or when I've eaten too much duffAnd dreams afflict my mind,
I see that lean and withered hand,And, 'mid the gloom of night,I see the face of that old man,And horrid is the sight:
While on my head in agonyUp rises every hair,I see again his glaring eye—In fancy hear him swear.
At breakfast time, when I come downTo take that pleasant meal,With pallid face, and haggard frown,Into my place I steal;
And when they say I'm far from bright,The truth I dare not tell:I say I've passed a sleepless night,And don't feel very well.