The song goes round, we yarn and chaff,

And cheerily the bushman's laugh

Rolls 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 ones

Among hard-handed labour's sons,

With minds at rest from debts and duns—

As only these can do—

Until the daylight's first faint streak

Has 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 mist

And flowing waves of light;

As yet untouched by noon-tide heat,

Like rocks where broken waters meet,

'Tis wrapped as by a winding sheet

In billows fleecy white.

Onward, and soon the sun's fierce rays

Will 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 charge

Some dark "Yapunya-swamp."

We gather first a quiet lot,

Then off again with hurried trot

Upon 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 cast

Time 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 sight

One "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 black

Have 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 how

Things go; we've got them steadied now

And 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 face

The widely open gate.

Whips crack, and voices shout in vain;

The cattle "ring," and strive again

To force a passage to the plain.

Impatiently we wait,

Till one old charger glares around,

And snuffing cautiously the ground

Stalks through between the posts.

With lowered heads the others "bore"

And jam, and squeeze, and blindly gore;

And with a hollow muttered roar

Pour 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.

Original

In youth he met with sad rebuffs,

Hard, hard was William's lot,

And most unnecessary cuffs

And kicks he often got.

At length one night both dark and black

A window he got through,

And with fresh weals upon his back

He joined a whaler's crew.

He learnt to "hand," and "reef," and steer,

And knew the compass pat;

He learnt to honour and revere

The boatswain and his "cat."

He went to every coral isle

Down in the Southern seas,

Where dark-eyed beauties beam and smile

Beneath the bread-fruit trees.

His foot was firm upon the deck

As Norval's on his heath;

He dared the tempest and the wreck

For 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 pink

With grog and weather stains;

He looked much like the missin link

When in the mizen chains.

Original

II.

Bill Blubber's gone, and he'll be missed

By 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 curl

In north Atlantic gales;

No more the keen harpoon he'll hurl

At spermaceti whales.

Ah! never more he'll heave the log—

A harsh decree was Fate's;

He took an over-dose of grog

When up in Be(e)hring Straits.

Death blew a bitter blast and chill

Which struck his sails aback,

And round the corse of Workhouse Bill

They wound a Union Jack.

A "longing, lingering look" they cast,

Then sewed him in a bag,

And half way up the lofty mast

They 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 log

No livin' soul could read.

And then a ghastly laugh he laughed

His spirits to exhalt,

And then he called the boatswain aft

And 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 come

To 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 Bill

Awaits the final heave.

He had no spicy hearse and three,

No gay funereal car;

But, at the word, souse in the sea

They pitch that luckless tar.

Short-handed then those whalemen toil

Upon their oily cruise,

And many and many a cruse of oil

For want of Bill they lose.

The mate and captain in despair

His cruel fate deplore;

His mess-mates swore they never were

In such a mess before.

The crew, who had a bitter cup

To drink with their salt-horse,

When next they hauled the mainsel up,

Bewailed his missin corse. *

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.

Original

Original

This Christmas-eve? This stifling night?

The leaves upon the trees?

The temperature by Farenheit

Some ninety odd degrees?

Ah me! my thoughts were off at score

To Christmases I've passed,

Before upon this Southern shore

My 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 fogs

Of 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 ice

To drive to distant "hops,"

But here, alas! the only ice

Is in the bars and shops!

I've Christmased since those palmy days

In many a varied spot,

And suffered many a weary phase

Of Christmas cold and hot.

When cherished hopes were stricken down-

Hopes born but to be lost—

And when the world's chill blighting frown

Seemed colder than the frost.

'Tis hard to watch—when from within

The heart all hope has flown—

The old year out, the new year in,

Unfriended and alone

When whispers seem to rise and tell

Of scenes you used to know—

You almost hear the very bells

You heard so long ago.

I've Christmased in a leaky tub

Where briny billows roll,

And Christmased in the Mulga scrub

Beside a water-hole.

With ague in my aching joints,

And in my quivering bones;

My bed, the rough uneven points

Of sharp and jaggÈd stones.

Where life a weary burden was

With all the varied breeds

Of creeping things with pointed stings,

And snakes, and centipedes.

'Twas not a happy Christmas that:

How can one happy be

With bull-dog ants inside your hat,

And black ants in your tea?

Australian child, what cans't thou know

Of Christmas in its prime?

Not flower-wreathed, but wreathed in snow,

As in yon northern clime.

Thou hast not seen the vales and dells

Arrayed in gleaming white,

Nor heard the sledge's silver bells

Go tinkling through the night.

For thee no glittering snow-storm whirls;

Thou hast instead of this

Only 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 cut

Strange figures out with skates,

Nor practised in the water-butt,

Nor heard those dismal "waits."

For thee no "waits" lugubrious voice

Breaks forth in plaintive wail;

Rejoice, Australian child, rejoice!

That balances the scale.

I see in fancy once again

The London streets at night—

Trafalgar square, St. Martin's Lane—

Each well remembered sight.

Past twelve! and Nature's winding-sheet

Is 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 drags

His life along from day to day

In wretchedness and rags.

I see a wandering carriage lamp

Glide silently and slow;

The night-policeman's heavy tramp

Is 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 sights

Come trooping through my brain

Of 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 deck

With ferns and flowers fair;

I would not breathe a word to check

The mirth I cannot share.

For, though my barque's a shattered hull,

And I could be at best

But 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.

ECHO VERSES.

Some years ago I chanced upon a magazine article containing a dissertation upon a now almost obsolete kind of versification, much affected by Ben Jonson and some of the last century poets, in which the first two or three lines of each verse ask a question, and the echo of the concluding words gives an answer more or less appropriate. An amusing example was given in the article above mentioned, which was equally rough on the great violinist of the past and his audience, thus:

"What are they who pay six guineas

To hear a string of Paganini's?"

(Echo) "Pack 'o ninnies!"

I read this and a few other examples, and was straightway stricken with a desire to emulate this eccentric and somewhat difficult species of versification, and now with considerable diffidence, and a choking prayer for mercy at the hands of the critic, I lay my attempt before the reader. The following echo-verses are not on any account whatever to be understood as reflecting on the present or any past Government of this Colony. They are merely to be taken as shadowing forth a state of things possible in the remote future.