There lived in Parramatta Street

A cove—his name was Joe—

Who nightly sniffed its odours sweet

(Not very long ago.)

Its every scent right well he knew,

They often made him frown,

And he was fancy-goods-man to

A big firm here in town.

Original

As Joe lay down one night—he slept

In summer far from from well—

A nameless horror o'er him crept,

Of what he couldn't tell;

His hair was rising up he knew,

He felt his blood grow cold;

He felt a little frightened, too,

For Joseph wasn't bold.

Original

And while he vainly seeking rest,

Lay tossing to and fro,

By name he heard himself addressed—

The unknown voice said, "Joe!"

"Arise, Oh Joseph! from thy bed—

Arise, and follow me!

Hush! not a word," the spirit said,

"For I'm a ghost, d'ye see?

"Bring kerosene, and bring thy lamp,

And arm thee to the teeth,

For thou in yonder gloomy swamp

Shalt win a laurel wreath."

Original

"Now follow me," the spirit said,

"For well I know the track,

And thou shall slay the demon dread

Of Wattle Swamp the Black."

Then toward the demon's dread abode

The ghastly goblin flits—

The spirit was to show the road,

And Joe to give him "fits."

And silently they followed all

The windings of the creek;

At times they heard a night-bird call—

At times a tom-cat shriek.

Original

But of the voices of the night

They took no heed as yet;

The ghost said, "Joseph, are you right?"

And Joseph said, "You bet!"

And thus began the demon-hunt:

The road was dark and drear;

The ghost was mostly on in front,

And Joseph in the rear.

At times they crawled along a trench

That held Joe's feet like glue;

And there was many a stifling stench,

And many a cast off shoe.

Original

And oft they waded deep in slime

Where rotting herbage grew;

The ghost said, "Joseph, take your time,"

And Joseph murmured, "ph—ew!"

At length a dark and gloomy pond

Appeared to block the track;

The spirit was for goin' on,

And Joe for goin' back.

Before the breeze his shirt-tails blow,

And though he's sore distressed,

The spirit said he had to go,

And Joseph gave him best.

"Young man!" the spirit said, "'tis vain

To bandy words with me;

Just stretch those bandy legs again,

For I'm a ghost, d'ye see?"

And Joseph, making answer soft,

They thus resumed the track—

The spirit bore the lamp aloft,

And Joseph on his back.

Original

"Yon demon dread," the spirit said,

"Has reaped his human crops,

And feasted, battened on the dead

Too long—we'll give him slops!"

he ghost explained the shrieks which rose

From out the inky tides

Were made by disembodied coves

With pains in their insides.

E'en while he spoke a horrid smoke

Belched forth upon the air,

And forth fresh yells and shriekings broke,

And up went Joseph's hair.

The spirit slid him from his back,

But Joseph trembled so,

And wished devoutly he was back

With Messrs. Blank & Co.

"Stand firm!" the spirit said, "drink this

'Tis strength and courage too;

We'll awe this great metropolis

With deeds of 'derring-do.'"

Original

Then straightway rose before their sight

The demon's war-like crest;

He's green and blue, and black and white,

With plague-spots on his breast.

I could not paint the demon's form—

Distraught, convulsed with ire—

His voice was like the thunder-storm,

His eyes like lakes of fire.

He breathed forth typhoid, boils and croup

With every breath he drew;

His touch meant measles, whooping-cough

And scarlatina too.

He comes with measured steps and slow—

Earth groaned beneath his tramp—

And with one grinding, crashing blow,

He shivered Joseph's——lamp!

He glared around him, and his eyes

Shone with a baleful light:

"Who, who are ye," the demon cries,

That wander through the night?

Original

"Who, who are ye, that dare to come

My fair domain to haunt?

Go, seek some more congenial slum,

Avaunt! d'ye hear? Avaunt!"

Now Joseph felt his courage rise

From out his blucher boots,

And while the cautious curlew cries,

And while the swamp-owl hoots—

Despite a lingering touch of cramp—

His muscles he did brace,

And hurled the fragments of the lamp

Slap in the demon's face!

"Who's this?" the demon said, said he,

"A stalwart knight, I ween!

My eyes are blind, I cannot see,

They're full of keroseen"

Then Joseph's heart within him leapt—

The demon being blind—

Right gingerly he crawled and crept,

And gave him one behind.

The spirit used a two-edged sword

(He used it like an axe)

And while that outraged giant roared,

His right leg he attacks.

Thus, thu close, that warlike pair,

Upon the slimy beach,

And Joseph poked him here and there,

Wherever he could reach.

And while the giant squirmeth from

The toasting-fork of Joe,

The ghost (clean peeled) came grimly on

To strike the final blow.

Then, Joe, when he his tactics knew,

Attacked his other calf,

And swamp-owls' echoed as they flew

The spirit's ghastly laugh.

And soon, beneath those stalwart knocks

Which echo and resound,

The demon's severed person rocks

And topples to the ground

"Go in and win," the spirit said—

"Go in and win, old son!"

The demon he was nearly dead.

So Joe went in and won.

That ghost full many a 'spotted-gum'

Had felled in life, you see,

And so they felled that spotted one,

For foul and fell was he.

"Now fetch me wedges," quoth the ghost,

"For here, I guess, we'll camp;

We'll blast his trunk, split rails and posts,

And fence Blackwattle Swamp!"

But stay! what means that sounding thwack?

That agonizing roar?

And how comes Joseph on his back—

Upon his bedroom floor?

Where's now the elevated head,

The majesty and pomp

Of him who slew the demon dread

That lived in Wattle Swamp?

Mephitic odours filled the room,

And, acting on his brain,

These made him dream of blackest gloom,

And deadly demons slain.

'Till, rolling from his couch, he broke

The silence with a scream,

He bumped upon the floor—then woke, *

And found it all a dream!

Next morning, so tradition tells,

His way to church Joe took,

To curse the Corporation swells

With candle, bell, and book.

He prayed that they might cursÈd be

Within the Council hall,

At evening parties, breakfast, tea,—

At dinner most of all.

That they might feast in woe and grief,

On chicken with the croup;

That pleuro might infect their beef,

And flies invade their soup;

Original

That turtles, though so often "turned,"

Might some day turn on them,

And that at last they might be burned,

And fricasseed in-hem!

And ne'er this curse shall lifted be

From Aldermanic back,

Until from odours foul set free

Is Wattle Swamp the Black.