While The Billy BoilsSearchTheir new house stood just off the road,A fine, big brick two-storey,All gabled, tiled, and porticoed,To flaunt its owners’ glory.It had verandahs round about,With flow’ring creepers smiling,And canvas chairs for sitting outThe summer nights beguiling.And from the road there could be seenA painted iron railing;And clust’ring rose and hedges greenPeeped out across the paling.Inside the regal sumptuousnessSurpassed imagination;But this, at least, I must confess,Was purely speculation.We never had, to tell the truth,At Careys’ door alighted;We had good reason, too, forsooth—We hadn’t been invited.But down to Mass we passed the gate,And passed it, too, returning,And hid away in mien sedateThe thoughts within us burning.But in the Old Mass Shandry-dan—Well, envy little varies—We heard herself and her good manDiscourse about the Careys:
“Wisha, that new house of Carey’s, with its doors and fal-de-daries!”“Faith, he’s in the banks to build it, so I hear the people say.”“It will break him now or near it; for he’ll never, never clear it.”“Wish’ I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day.”
They came here in the early days,And settled down as neighbours;In tilted carts and bullock drays,They shared our griefs and labours;They shared with us the joy, the fear,The flood, the drought, the burning;The pluck that kept the pioneerHis face to westward turning.We trudged it to the Old Bush School,In fine or rainy weather,And there upon the dunce’s stoolWe took our knocks together;But now they stood for caste amongOur little congregation,And as they passed us by they flungMere scraps of toleration.Their talk was pitched in strident tone,With titters running through it,They’d grown an accent of their own;And they were welcome to it.And sometimes down to Mass they’d bringFine strangers holidaying,Who laughed and gushed at everythingWithin their orbit straying;By soft white hands and modish gownsThey sought the world to measure,And seemed to think our reach-me-downsWere staged to give them pleasure.While in the church they plied the fanAnd practised like vagaries;So in the Old Mass Shandry-danWe gave it to the Careys:
“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-fallutin’ fairies,”“Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?”“Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s on and gigglin’.”“Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day?”
They sometimes drove a spanking pair,Which brought them speed and honour;They sometimes drove a pacing mare,With straps and pads upon her;They covered us with clouds of dustAs thick as we could wear it,And we could plod—as needs we must—And keep the faith, and bear it.(Well, p’raps to-day they drive a car,With bank-account expanded,And p’raps they may be scattered far,And p’raps they may be stranded.)When skies were blue and days were bright,And leaf and bud were sprouting,They came to Mass in splendour dight,To make a Sunday’s outing;But when the morn was blank with storm,And winter blasts complaining,The Careys kept devotion warm,Beside their fire remaining;So while the chilling torrents ranAnd soaked our best figaries,Within the Old Mass Shandry-dan,We fired into the Careys:
“Wisha, where were all the Careys? P’raps the rain would melt the fairies!”“Faith! and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.”“That would be another story. There they’d be in all their glory.”“Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day?”
They always strove to take the leadIn everything we started,And we could sink our pride, indeed,And follow chicken-hearted;So when to launch the big bazaar,The priest convened a meeting,And people came from near and far,In early zeal competing;The Careys took the country stall,And asked for our assistance;They sent us in to sweep the hall,And kept us at a distance;We might have been in Amsterdam,Or somewhere out in Flanders;We sold some tickets for “the ham,”And stalked about like ganders;’Twas rush and gush and fulsomness,And Careys sup’rintending,They raced about in evening dress,And deftly dodged the spending;So when we gathered up the clan,And sought our distant eyries,Within the Old Mass Shandry-danWe blazed into the Careys:
“Wisha, did you see the Careys? Like some wild things from the prairies.”“Pshaw, but they were only bunglin’ things and gettin’ in the way.”“Faith, it’s pounds we would have taken with them tickets for the bacon,“If them thuckeens of the Careys hadn’t quite so much to say.”
Though in the church the slightest soundFrom thoughts devout would draw them,Still, when the little plate went roundThey kept their eyes before them;Or p’raps lest spiteful tongues may wag;With airs that killed the flippants,From out a fifteen-guinea bagThey’d bring to light a threepence.And when the modest choir we hadIn tender hope was springing,And nervous lass and awkward ladWere mobilised for singing;The Careys took supreme control,And held some fine rehearsals;They went ahead with heart and soul,And heeded no reversals.Now, Mary Casey thrilled a fytteHer native thrush had taught her,Our Nellie also sang a bit,And so could Regan’s daughter;We all went down our own to hear,As holy triumph crowned them;But Careys sailed in shrill and clear,And silenced all around them;Our Nellie’s range they quite outran,And even Laughing Mary’s,So in the Old Mass Shandry-danWe pitched into the Careys:
“Wisha, did you hear the Careys? Don’t they think they’re fine canaries!”“Wisha, wouldn’t you think they’d hold their tongues and let the people pray!”“Faith, my head is all a-reelin’ from them Careys and their squealin’;“Wisha, did you hear the Careys there to-day?”
Now, angels in their peaceful skiesThrough starry paddocks straying,Must sometimes smile with friendly eyesTo see the pranks we’re playing.’Tis fox and goose and fire away,In fancied stings of sorrow,And here are you the goose to-day,And I the goose to-morrow;We fix the blame, and pine and fret,And tear our hearts to tatters,Then turn around and quite forget,And find there’s nothing matters.For tiny things they rend in twain,And tiny things they perk us,And then we pick up sides again;And so the world’s a circus.Now, rosy-cheeked and smart and fair,Was Careys’ youngest daughter,And, lo! our Peter did his hair,And sallied forth to court her;But days and days the lovers spentOn thorns and roses treading,Till down to Careys’ house we went,Invited to the wedding.We dined, we did, with folk elite—A bank clerk, an attorney—Who came to toast the bride and Pete,And bless them on their journey.And we were there. Yes, we were thereWith strange and vague sensations,And gaped around us everywhereAmong our new relations.Ho! life’s a fine comedian,Whose programme shifts and varies;For in the Old Mass Shandry-danWe wired into the Careys:
“Wisha, did you see the Careys in their weddin’ fal-de-daries?”“Faith, I mind the time the Careys slept beneath their bullock-dray!”“Sure, we’ll jog along without them, with their mighty friends about them;“And only ’twas for Peter’s sake, I’d not be there to-day.”