While The Billy BoilsSearchThe squatter kings of New South Wales—The squatter kings who reignO'er rocky hill, and scrubby ridge,O'er swamp, and salt-bush plain—Fenced in their runs, and coves appliedFor shepherding in vain.
The squatters said that closed should beTo tramps each station-store;That parties on the "cadging suit"Should ne'er have succour more;And when Bill the shepherd heard the sameHe bowed his neck and swore.
Now, though that ancient shepherd feltSo mad he couldn't speak,No sighs escape his breast, no tearsFrom out his eyelids leak,But he swore upon the human raceA black revenge to wreak.
He brooded long, and a fiendish lightLit up the face of Bill;He saw the way to work on menA dark and grievous ill,And place them far beyond the aidOf senna, salts, or pill.
He hied him to his lonely hutBy a deep dark, lakelet's shore;He passed beneath its lowly roof—He shut and locked the door;And he emptied out his flour bagUpon the hard clay floor.
Awhile he eyed the mighty moundWith dark, malignant zeal,And then, a shovel having found,"Their fates," said he, "I'll seal";And he made a "damper" broad and roundAs a Roman chariot-wheel.
He soddened it with water drawnFrom out that black lagoon,And he smiled to think that those who ateA piece of it would soonBe where they'd neither see the lightOf sun, nor stars, nor moon.
For when that damper came to beDug from its glowing bed,Its fell specific gravityWas far o'er gold or lead,And a look of satisfaction o'erThat shepherd's features spread.
The shepherd sat by the gloomy shoreOf the black and dark lagoon;His face was lit, and his elf-locks hoarBy the rays of the rising moon.
His hand was clenched, and his visage woreA deadly frown and black,And his eye-balls glare, for a stranger fairIs wending down the track.
The shepherd hath bidden the stranger haltWith courtesy and zeal,And hath welcomed him to his low roof-tree,And a share of his evening meal.
As the fare he pressed on his hungry guest,And thought of its deadly weight,With savage glee he smiled for heImagined his after fate.
The stranger hath eaten his fill I weenOf that fell and gruesome cake,And hath hied him away in the moon-light's sheenFor a stroll by the deep, dark lake;
For he thought he'd lave each stalwart limbIn the wavelet's curling crest,And take a dive and a pleasant swim'Ere he laid him down to rest.
The coat that covered his ample chestOn the lakelet's marge he threw;His hat, his boots, and his flannel-vest,And his moleskin trowsers too.
He hummed a tune, and he paused awhileTo hear the night-owl sing;His ears were cocked, and his palms were locked,Prepared for the final spring.
An unsuspecting look he castAt the objects on the shore—A splash! a thud! and beneath the floodHe sank to rise no more!
The shepherd saw from his lonely hutThe dread catastrophé;A notch on a withered stick he cut—"That's number one," said he,
"But, if I live 'till to-morrow's sun"Shall gild the blue-gum tree,"With more, I'll stake my soul, that cake"Of mine will disagree."
Then down he sat by his lonely hutThat stood by the lonely track,To the lakelet nigh, and a horse came byWith a horse-man on his back.
And lean and lank was the traveller's frameThat sat on that horse's crup:'Twas long I ween since the wight had seenThe ghost of a bite or sup.
"Oh! give me food!" to the shepherd oldWith plaintive cry he cried;A mildewed crust or a pint o'dust *Or a mutton cutlet fried.
"In sooth in evil case am I,Fatigue and hunger tooHave played the deuce with my gastric juice,It's 'got no work to do.'
"I've come o'er ridges of burning sandThat gasp for the cooling rain,Where the orb of day with his blinding rayGlares down on the salt-bush plain
"O'er steaming valley, lagoon, and marshWhere the Sun strikes down 'till, phew!The very eels in the water feelsA foretaste of a stew.
"I hungered long 'till my wasting formWas a hideous sight to view;But fit on a settler's fence to sitTo scare the cockatoo.
"My hair grew rank, and my eyeballs sank'Till—wasted, withered, and thin—The ends and points of my jarring jointsStuck out through my parched up skin.
"Shrunk limb and thew, 'till at length I grewAs thin as a gum-tree rail;At the horrid sight of my hideous plightEach settler's face turned pale:
"And as I travelled the mulga scrubs,And forced a passage throughI scared the soul of the native blackA gathering his 'nardoo.'
"On snake or lizard I'd fain have fed,But piteous was my plight,And the whole of the brute creation fledIn horror at the sight.
"Scrub turkeys, emus, I appall;Their eggs I longed to poach,But they collared their eggs, their nests and all,And fled at my approach!
"And the possums 'streaked' it up the trees,And frightened the young gallârs,And all the hairs on the native-bearsStood stiff as iron bars!"
The shepherd came from his low roof-treeAnd gazed at the shrunken wight;He gave him welcome courteously,And jested at his plight.
He led the traveller 'neath his roof,And gazed in his wan, worn face,Where want was writ, and he bid him sitOn an empty 'three-star' case.
And a smile of evil import playedOn the face of ancient BillAs some of the damper down he laid,And bid him take his fill.
With mute thanksgiving in his breastThe food the stranger tore;Piece after piece he closely pressedDown on the piece before.
And then—his heart fresh buoyed with hope—Essayed to mount his steed,But the horse shut flat as an opera-hatWith the weight of his master's feed;
And horse and man sunk through the sodSome sixty feet or less!No crust, I swear, of the Earth could bearThe weight of the gruesome mess!
Then the shepherd grinned with a grizzly grinAs he notched his stick again;The night passed by and the sun rose highAnd glared on the salt-bush plain.
Two "gins" set forth in a bark canoeTo traverse the gloomy lake,And he bid them take enough for two,For lunch, of the deadly cake.
Enough for two! 'twas enough I weenTo settle the hash of four,For the barque o'er-flowed with the crushing load—They sank to rise no more.
And ever his fiendish lust for blood—His thirst for vengeance grows;In sport he threw a crumb or twoTo the hawks and carrion crows;
And as they helpless, fluttering lay,His eldrich laughter rings;One crumb to bear through the lambent airWas past the power of wings.
Beside his door he sat 'till noonWhen a bullock-team came by;The echoes 'round with the whips resound,And the drivers' cheery cry.
Upon the dray a piece he threwNo bigger than your hand,Of the cursed thing, 'twas enough to bringThe bullocks to a stand.
And, though they bend their sinewy necks'Till red with their crimson gore,And fiercely strain yoke, pole, and chainWith savage, muttering roar,
The wheels sank down to the axle-tree—Through the hard baked clay they tore,And a single jot from out that spotThey shifted never more.
Then the shepherd called to the drivers, "Ho!My frugal meal partake."And, though they ate but a crumb or twoOf the fell, unholy cake,
Down, down they sank on the scorching track,Immovable and prone,And steel blue ants crawled up their pantsAnd ate them to the bone!
For days by his lonely hut sat Bill,The hut to the lakelet nigh,And he wrought his dark revengeful willOn each traveller that came by.
And he eats nor drinks meat, bread, nor gruel,Nor washes, nor combs, nor shaves,But he yelled, and he danced a wild pas seulO'er each of his victims' graves.
Three weeks passed by, but his end was nigh—His day was near its close,For rumour whispered his horrid deeds,And in arms the settlers rose.
They came, hinds, shepherds, and shearers too,And squatters of high degree;His hands they tied, and his case they tried'Neath the shade of a blue gum tree.
They sentence passed, and they gripped him fast,Though to tear their flesh he tried;His teeth he ground, but his limbs they boundWith thongs of a wild bull's hide.
They laid him down on a "bull-dog's" nest,For the bull-dog ants to sting;On his withered chest they pile the restOf the damnèd cursèd thing.
They gather round and they stir the ground'Till the insects swarm again,And the echoes wake by the gloomy lakeWith his cry of rage and pain.
O'er his writhing form the insects swarm—O'er arm, o'er foot, and leg;The damper pressed on his heaving chest,And he couldn't move a peg.
'Till eve he lay in the scorching heat,And the rays of the blinding sun,Then the black-ants came and they soon completeWhat the bull-dogs have begun.
'Tis o'er at last, and his spirit passedWith a yell of fiendish hate,And down by the shore of that black lagoon,Where his victims met their fate—
Where the "bunyip" glides, and the inky tidesLip, lap on the gloomy shore,And the loathsome snake of the swamp abides,He wanders ever more.
And when the shadows of darkness fall(As hinds and stock-men tell)The plains around with his howls resound,And his fierce, blood-curdling yell.
The kangaroos come forth at nightTo feed o'er his lonely grave,And above his bones with disma' tonesThe dingos shriek and rave.
And when drovers camp with a wild-mob thereThey shiver with affright,And quake with dread if they hear his treadIn the gloom of the ebon night!