While The Billy BoilsSearchTHE NIGHT CAMP.The song goes round, we yarn and chaff,And cheerily the bushman's laughRolls through the forest glade.The hobbled horses feed around,We hear the horse-bell's tinkling sound;The sand beneath their feet is ground,As in the creek they wade.We hear them crunch the juicy grass—The water gleams like polished glass,Beneath the moon's bright ray.Mosquitos form in solid cloud—They sting and sing, both sharp and loud;Around the prostrate forms they crowd,And keep repose at bay.We watch the stars shine over head,And lounge upon the bushman's bed—A blanket on the ground.Each feels himself Dame Nature's guest,Our heads upon our saddles rest;At length, with weariness oppressed,We sink in sleep profound.We sleep as only weary onesAmong hard-handed labour's sons,With minds at rest from debts and duns—As only these can do—Until the daylight's first faint streakHas lightly touched the distant peak,And o'er us where the branches creak,Is slowly creeping through.Reluctantly with sleep we strive,And hear the call to "look alive"!We soon desert the camp.The horses caught and blankets rolled,The "Super's" brief instructions told—We mount, and scarce our steeds can hold,Impatiently they stamp.
THE MUSTER.We ford the creek and need no bridge,And climb a steep and scrubby ridge,And then, boys, there's a sight!—The "gully," by the sun unkist,Beneath lies rolled in gleaming mistAnd flowing waves of light;As yet untouched by noon-tide heat,Like rocks where broken waters meet,'Tis wrapped as by a winding sheetIn billows fleecy white.Onward, and soon the sun's fierce raysWill dissipate the morning haze—He soars in fiery pomp.We skirt the shallow "clay-pan's" marge,Force "lignum" thickets, dense and large,And often-times we briskly chargeSome dark "Yapunya-swamp."We gather first a quiet lot,Then off again with hurried trotUpon our toilsome tramp.Each gully, range, and hill we beat,Charge every horned thing we meet—With ringing shout and gallop fleet—And "run" then "on the camp."The shaggy herd increases fast;We know by lengthened shadows castTime too has galloped hard;'Twill try our powers, howe'er we strive,This most rebellious mob to drive,E're night-fall, to the yard.
THE RUN HOME.The order comes,—"Each to his place!"And homeward now at length we face.The frightened monsters roar;Some tear the unresisting ground,And some with frantic rush and bound(Half maddened by the stockwhip's sound)Each other fiercely gore!We spread along the scattered line,Some on the "wings," and some behind,And steer them as we can.There's but one pass through yonder hill;To guide them there will need some skill,And try both horse and man.Some hidden object checks them there;The leaders snuff the wind, and glare,Then bellowing with their tails in air,Swerve madly to the right.A stockman hears our voices ring;With easy stretch and supple spring,His horse bears down along their wing,The living mass he wheels:Too close he presses; at the sightOne "breaks" and bellows with affright;Dick swoops upon him, like a kite;The cutting thong he deals;It falls with heavy sounding thwack—Such din those mountain gullies blackHave scarce or never heard.He knows his work, that well-trained hack,Nor heeds the stockwhip's echoing crack,And sullenly the bull turns back,To join the hurrying herd."Look out!" a warning voice has said,"There's 'Mulga,' boys, and right ahead!"And now begins the rub;From some their garments will be stripped,And saddle-flaps and "knee-pads" ripped,And horses' feet in holes be tripped,Before they clear the scrub.You, stockmen from the Murray's side,Who through the "Mallee" boldly ride,Beware the "mulga-stake!"'Tis strong and tough as bullock-hide,Nor will, like "mallee," turn aside;But, in its savage, sylvan pride,Will neither bend nor break!Once through the scrub, we don't care howThings go; we've got them steadied nowAnd haven't lost a beast—And, far as ranges human eye,The plains are level as a die—Our toil has nearly ceased.The Sun goes down, the day-light fails,But now we near the Stockyard rails—We've one sharp struggle more.One half the mob have never been(Forced from those gullies cool and green)In "branding-yard" before!We jam them at the open space;They ring around, and fear to faceThe widely open gate.Whips crack, and voices shout in vain;The cattle "ring," and strive againTo force a passage to the plain.Impatiently we wait,Till one old charger glares around,And snuffing cautiously the groundStalks through between the posts.With lowered heads the others "bore"And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;And with a hollow muttered roarPour in those horned hosts!Those posts are fourteen inches through—They creak, and groan, and tremble too,Before that pouring rush!They're in at last, the gates are shut;And falls o'er paddock, yard, and hut,A calm nocturnal hush.
In youth he met with sad rebuffs,Hard, hard was William's lot,And most unnecessary cuffsAnd kicks he often got.
At length one night both dark and blackA window he got through,And with fresh weals upon his backHe joined a whaler's crew.
He learnt to "hand," and "reef," and steer,And knew the compass pat;He learnt to honour and revereThe boatswain and his "cat."
He went to every coral isleDown in the Southern seas,Where dark-eyed beauties beam and smileBeneath the bread-fruit trees.
His foot was firm upon the deckAs Norval's on his heath;He dared the tempest and the wreckFor whale and walrus teeth.
He braved Pacific foam and spray,For oil and bêche-le-mer,Till he grew ugly, old, and grey,An ancient mariner.
His face got red, and blue, and pinkWith grog and weather stains;He looked much like the missin linkWhen in the mizen chains.
II.Bill Blubber's gone, and he'll be missedBy all on British soil;Be aisy now and hold your whist,He'll go no more for Hoyle!
No more he'll see the billows curlIn north Atlantic gales;No more the keen harpoon he'll hurlAt spermaceti whales.
Ah! never more he'll heave the log—A harsh decree was Fate's;He took an over-dose of grogWhen up in Be(e)hring Straits.
Death blew a bitter blast and chillWhich struck his sails aback,And round the corse of Workhouse BillThey wound a Union Jack.
A "longing, lingering look" they cast,Then sewed him in a bag,And half way up the lofty mastThey hoist the drooping flag.
His mess-mates crossways tossed the yards,Askew they hung the sails,Eschewed tobacco, rum, and cards,And filled the ship with wails
The grief-struck skipper drank some grog,Of solace he had need,And made an entry in the logNo livin' soul could read.
And then a ghastly laugh he laughedHis spirits to exhalt,And then he called the boatswain aftAnd mustered every salt
The whalers gave one final howl,And cursed their hard, hard lucks;They came, and though the wind was foul,They wore their whitest ducks.
The captain—kindest, best of men—Strove hard his breath to catch;(Crouched like an incubating hen,Upon the after-hatch).
He said as how the time was comeTo Bill to say good-bye;And tears of water and of rum,Stood in each manly eye.
Said he, "My lads, dispel this gloom,"Bid grief and sorrow halt;"For if the sea must be his tomb,"D'ye see it aint his f(v)ault.
"' Tis true we'll never see his like"At 'cutting in' a whale—"At usin knife an' marlin-spike,"But blubber won't avail.
"Soh! steady lads, belay all that!"'Vast heaving sobs and sighs;"Don't never go to 'whip the cat'"For William, bless his eyes!
"I knew him lads when first he shipped,"And this is certain, that"Though William by the 'cat ' was whipped,"He never 'whipped the cat!"
The skipper read the service through,And snivelled in his sleeve,While calm and still, old work'us BillAwaits the final heave.
He had no spicy hearse and three,No gay funereal car;But, at the word, souse in the seaThey pitch that luckless tar.
Short-handed then those whalemen toilUpon their oily cruise,And many and many a cruse of oilFor want of Bill they lose.
The mate and captain in despairHis cruel fate deplore;His mess-mates swore they never wereIn such a mess before.
The crew, who had a bitter cupTo drink with their salt-horse,When next they hauled the mainsel up,Bewailed his missin corse. *
* Mizen-course o' course.Alas! his corpse had downward sunk,His soul hath upward sped,And Will hath left a sailor's 'bunk'To share an oyster's bed.
We hope his resting place will suit—We trust he's happy now—Laid where the pigs can never root,Lulled by the ocean's sough.
This Christmas-eve? This stifling night?The leaves upon the trees?The temperature by FarenheitSome ninety odd degrees?
Ah me! my thoughts were off at scoreTo Christmases I've passed,Before upon this Southern shoreMy weary lot was cast.
To Christmases of ice and snow,And stormy nights and dark;To holly-boughs and mistletoe,And skating in the Park
To vast yule-logs and yellow fogsOf the vanished days of yore—To the keen white frost, and the home that's lost,The home that's mine no more.
'Twas passing nice through snow and iceTo drive to distant "hops,"But here, alas! the only iceIs in the bars and shops!
I've Christmased since those palmy daysIn many a varied spot,And suffered many a weary phaseOf Christmas cold and hot.
When cherished hopes were stricken down-Hopes born but to be lost—And when the world's chill blighting frownSeemed colder than the frost.
'Tis hard to watch—when from withinThe heart all hope has flown—The old year out, the new year in,Unfriended and alone
When whispers seem to rise and tellOf scenes you used to know—You almost hear the very bellsYou heard so long ago.
I've Christmased in a leaky tubWhere briny billows roll,And Christmased in the Mulga scrubBeside a water-hole.
With ague in my aching joints,And in my quivering bones;My bed, the rough uneven pointsOf sharp and jaggèd stones.
Where life a weary burden wasWith all the varied breedsOf creeping things with pointed stings,And snakes, and centipedes.
'Twas not a happy Christmas that:How can one happy beWith bull-dog ants inside your hat,And black ants in your tea?
Australian child, what cans't thou knowOf Christmas in its prime?Not flower-wreathed, but wreathed in snow,As in yon northern clime.
Thou hast not seen the vales and dellsArrayed in gleaming white,Nor heard the sledge's silver bellsGo tinkling through the night.
For thee no glittering snow-storm whirls;Thou hast instead of thisOnly the dust-storm's eddying swirls—The hot-wind's scalding kiss!
What can'st thou know of frozen lakes,Or Hyde—that Park divine?For, though by no means lacking snakes,Thou hast no "Serpentine."
Thou hast not panted, yearned to cutStrange figures out with skates,Nor practised in the water-butt,Nor heard those dismal "waits."
For thee no "waits" lugubrious voiceBreaks forth in plaintive wail;Rejoice, Australian child, rejoice!That balances the scale.
I see in fancy once againThe London streets at night—Trafalgar square, St. Martin's Lane—Each well remembered sight.
Past twelve! and Nature's winding-sheetIs over street and square,And silently now fall the feet,Of those who linger there.
I see a wretch with hunger bold(An Ishmaelite 'mong men)Crawl from some hovel dark and cold—Some foul polluted den—
A wretch who never learnt to pray,And wearily he dragsHis life along from day to dayIn wretchedness and rags.
I see a wandering carriage lampGlide silently and slow;The night-policeman's heavy trampIs muffled by the snow.
I hear the mournful chaunt ascend('Tis meaningless to you)"We're frozen out, hard-working men,We've got no work to do!"
All, all the many sounds and sightsCome trooping through my brainOf London streets, and winter nights,And pleasure mixed with pain.
Be happy you who have a home,Be happy while you may,For sorrow's ever quick to come,And slow to pass away.
Your churches and your dwellings deckWith ferns and flowers fair;I would not breathe a word to checkThe mirth I cannot share.
For, though my barque's a shattered hull,And I could be at bestBut like the famed Egyptian skull,A mirth-destroying guest,
I would not play the cynic's part,Nor at thy pleasure sneer—I wish thee, Reader, from my heart,A happy, glad New year.