I'm forty years in New South Wales,

And knows a thing or two;

Can build a hut, and train a slut,

And chaff a "Jackeroo." *

I chiefly sticks to splittin' rails—

It's contract work, d'ye see;

I hates to ave a station-boss

A-overlookin' me.

I left my country for its good,

But not my own, I fear;

I makes big cheques a splittin' wood,

And knocks 'em down in beer.

I knows the Murrumbidgee's bends,

Though not a "whaler" * now,

And many a score of sheep I've shore

For good old Jacky Dow.

I used to knock about on farms,

And plough a "land" or two;

But now for me that has no charms—

I hates a "Cockatoo." **

I'm splittin' for a squatter now

Down here upon the creek;

He often says as how I've got

A sight too much o' cheek.

They've got a new-chum over there—

I hates new-chums, I do;

I often tries to take a rise

Out of that Jackeroo.

One day when we was in the yard

A draftin' out some ewes,

We axed him for to lend a hand,

He couldn't well refuse.

I watched 'un for a minute just

To see what he would do;

Bless'd if he warn't a chuckin' out

A lot o' wethers too!

He keeps the store and sarves the "dust"—*

I only wish he'd slope;

I knows he often books to me

Too many bars o' soap.

In them it ain't no sort o' use

Instruction to infuse;

There ain t a gleam o' intellect

In new-chum Jackeroos.

As soon as July fogs is gone

I chucks my axe up there,

And gets a stock of Ward and Payne's*

At six and six a pair.

I've been a shearin' off an' on

For such a precious while,

I knows most every shearin' shed,

And each partickler style.

I'm able for to shear 'em clean,

And level as a die;

But I prefers to 'tommy-hawk,"

And make the "daggers" fly.

They mostly says that to the skin

They means to have 'em shore;

I alius knocks off skin an' all

When they begins to jawr.

My tally's eighty-five a day—

A hundred I could go,

If coves would let me "open out"

And take a bigger "blow."

I allus roughs 'em when the boss

Ain't on the shearin' floor;

It wouldn't pay to shear 'em clean

For three and six a score.

But when I see the super come

Paradin' down the "board,"

I looks as meek as any lamb

That ever yet was shored.

For, though by knockin' sheep about

You're causin' him a loss,

It's 'ard to have a squatter come

And mark 'em with a cross. *

They say us shearers sulks and growls—

I'm swearing half the day,

Because them blasted "pickers-up"

Won't take the wool away.

At sundown to the hut we goes;

The young 'uns lark and fun;

The cook and I exchanges blows

If supper isn't done.

And when the tea and mutton's gone,

And each has had enough,

We shoves the plates and pints away,

And has a game o' "bluff." *

I works a little "on the cross,"

I never trusts to luck;

I hates to have to "ante-up,"

And likes to "pass the buck."

I've got a way of dealin' cards

As ain't exactly square;

I does some things with jacks and kings

As makes the young 'uns stare.

I've mostly got four aces though,

Or else a "routine flush

I wins their cash and 'bacca, and

They pays for all my lush.

I likes to get 'em in my debt

For what their cheque '11 clear;

I've got a sort o' interest then

In every sheep they shear.

I'm cunnin', and my little games

They never does detect;

But I never was partickler green

As I can recollect.

PREFACE TO THE PIC-NIC PAPERS,

IF I were asked to state the most noticeable feature of the social economy of Sydney—the thing which pre-eminently distinguishes her from other metropolises—I should, unhesitatingly, say pic-nics. I once held the proud position of occasional reporter to a weekly paper, and my mental calibre not being considered heavy enough, or my temperament sufficiently stolid to do justice to parliamentary debates, I was sent to report the pic-nics. In Sydney every trade gives one, and every private family about six in the course of the summer. Carpenters, butchers, barbers, blacksmiths, undertakers, even grave-diggers, all give their pic-nic during the season; and why should they not? Is it for me to ridicule the practice? Shall I, who have been received as an honoured guest at all (and retired to make three half-pence a line out of an account of the proceedings), splinter my puny lance of satire against a firmly-rooted and meritorious custom? I who have hobnobbed with the publicans, waltzed with the wheelwrights, done the lard i da with the pork-butchers' wives and daughters, danced coatillions with the tailors, and indulged in sootable amusements with the sweeps? Never!

I have retired from the pic-nic business now, and though my reports were not masterpieces of descriptive writing, and never wrung even the smallest tribute of gratitude from those they were intended to immortalize, I give a specimen or two to serve as models to those who hereafter may be called upon to report pic-nics for journals, religious or otherwise.