In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses Part 5

The Shanty on the Rise

When the caravans of wool-teams climbed the ranges from the West, On a spur among the mountains stood 'The Bullock-drivers' Rest'; It was built of bark and saplings, and was rather rough inside, But 'twas good enough for bushmen in the careless days that died -- Just a quiet little shanty kept by 'Something-in-Disguise', As the bushmen called the landlord of the Shanty on the Rise.

City swells who 'do the Royal' would have called the Shanty low, But 'twas better far and purer than some toney pubs I know; For the patrons of the Shanty had the principles of men, And the spieler, if he struck it, wasn't welcome there again.

You could smoke and drink in quiet, yarn, or else soliloquise, With a decent lot of fellows in the Shanty on the Rise.

'Twas the bullock-driver's haven when his team was on the road, And the waggon-wheels were groaning as they ploughed beneath the load; And I mind how weary teamsters struggled on while it was light, Just to camp within a cooey of the Shanty for the night; And I think the very bullocks raised their heads and fixed their eyes On the candle in the window of the Shanty on the Rise.

And the bullock-bells were clanking from the marshes on the flats As we hurried to the Shanty, where we hung our dripping hats; And we took a drop of something that was brought at our desire, As we stood with steaming moleskins in the kitchen by the fire.

Oh! it roared upon a fireplace of the good, old-fas.h.i.+oned size, When the rain came down the chimney of the Shanty on the Rise.

They got up a Christmas party in the Shanty long ago, While I camped with Jimmy Nowlett on the riverbank below; Poor old Jim was in his glory -- they'd elected him M.C., For there wasn't such another raving lunatic as he.

'Mr. Nowlett, Mr. Swaller!' shouted Something-in-Disguise, As we walked into the parlour of the Shanty on the Rise.

There is little real pleasure in the city where I am -- There's a swarry round the corner with its mockery and sham; But a fellow can be happy when around the room he whirls In a party up the country with the jolly country girls.

Why, at times I almost fancied I was dancing on the skies, When I danced with Mary Carey in the Shanty on the Rise.

Jimmy came to me and whispered, and I muttered, 'Go along!'

But he shouted, 'Mr. Swaller will oblige us with a song!'

And at first I said I wouldn't, and I shammed a little too, Till the girls began to whisper, 'Mr. Swallow, now, ah, DO!'

So I sang a song of something 'bout the love that never dies, And the chorus shook the rafters of the Shanty on the Rise.

Jimmy burst his concertina, and the bullock-drivers went For the corpse of Joe the Fiddler, who was sleeping in his tent; Joe was tired and had lumbago, and he wouldn't come, he said, But the case was very urgent, so they pulled him out of bed; And they fetched him, for the bushmen knew that Something-in-Disguise Had a cure for Joe's lumbago in the Shanty on the Rise.

Jim and I were rather quiet while escorting Mary home, 'Neath the stars that hung in cl.u.s.ters, near and distant, from the dome; And we walked so very silent -- being lost in reverie -- That we heard the settlers'-matches rustle softly on the tree; And I wondered who would win her when she said her sweet good-byes -- But she died at one-and-twenty, and was buried on the Rise.

I suppose the Shanty vanished from the ranges long ago, And the girls are mostly married to the chaps I used to know; My old chums are in the distance -- some have crossed the border-line, But in fancy still their gla.s.ses c.h.i.n.k against the rim of mine.

And, upon the very centre of the greenest spot that lies In my fondest recollection, stands the Shanty on the Rise.

The Vagabond

White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier As we glide to the grand old sea -- But the song of my heart is for none to hear If one of them waves for me.

A roving, roaming life is mine, Ever by field or flood -- For not far back in my father's line Was a dash of the Gipsy blood.

Flax and tussock and fern, Gum and mulga and sand, Reef and palm -- but my fancies turn Ever away from land; Strange wild cities in ancient state, Range and river and tree, Snow and ice. But my star of fate Is ever across the sea.

A G.o.d-like ride on a thundering sea, When all but the stars are blind -- A desperate race from Eternity With a gale-and-a-half behind.

A jovial spree in the cabin at night, A song on the rolling deck, A lark ash.o.r.e with the s.h.i.+ps in sight, Till -- a wreck goes down with a wreck.

A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, When life is a waking dream, And care and trouble so far away That out of your life they seem.

A roving spirit in sympathy, Who has travelled the whole world o'er -- My heart forgets, in a week at sea, The trouble of years on sh.o.r.e.

A rolling stone! -- 'tis a saw for slaves -- Philosophy false as old -- Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, Or rot in your bed of mould!

But I'D rather trust to the darkest skies And the wildest seas that roar, Or die, where the stars of Nations rise, In the stormy clouds of war.

Cleave to your country, home, and friends, Die in a sordid strife -- You can count your friends on your finger ends In the critical hours of life.

Sacrifice all for the family's sake, Bow to their selfish rule!

Slave till your big soft heart they break -- The heart of the family fool.

Domestic quarrels, and family spite, And your Native Land may be Controlled by custom, but, come what might, The rest of the world for me.

I'd sail with money, or sail without! -- If your love be forced from home, And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, The world is your own to roam.

I've never a love that can sting my pride, Nor a friend to prove untrue; For I leave my love ere the turning tide, And my friends are all too new.

The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours, With its greed and its treachery -- A stranger's hand, and a stranger land, And the rest of the world for me!

But why be bitter? The world is cold To one with a frozen heart; New friends are often so like the old, They seem of the past a part -- As a better part of the past appears, When enemies, parted long, Are come together in kinder years, With their better nature strong.

I had a friend, ere my first s.h.i.+p sailed, A friend that I never deserved -- For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed As soon as my turn was served.

And the memory haunts my heart with shame -- Or, rather, the pride that's there; In different guises, but soul the same, I meet him everywhere.

I had a chum. When the times were tight We starved in Australian scrubs; We froze together in parks at night, And laughed together in pubs.

And I often hear a laugh like his From a sense of humour keen, And catch a glimpse in a pa.s.sing phiz Of his broad, good-humoured grin.

And I had a love -- 'twas a love to prize -- But I never went back again ...

I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes In many a face since then.

The sailors say 'twill be rough to-night, As they fasten the hatches down, The south is black, and the bar is white, And the drifting smoke is brown.

The gold has gone from the western haze, The sea-birds circle and swarm -- But we shall have plenty of sunny days, And little enough of storm.

The hill is hiding the short black pier, As the last white signal's seen; The points run in, and the houses veer, And the great bluff stands between.

So darkness swallows each far white speck On many a wharf and quay.

The night comes down on a restless deck, -- Grim cliffs -- and -- The Open Sea!

Sweeney

It was somewhere in September, and the sun was going down, When I came, in search of 'copy', to a Darling-River town; 'Come-and-have-a-drink' we'll call it -- 'tis a fitting name, I think -- And 'twas raining, for a wonder, up at Come-and-have-a-drink.

'Neath the public-house verandah I was resting on a bunk When a stranger rose before me, and he said that he was drunk; He apologised for speaking; there was no offence, he swore; But he somehow seemed to fancy that he'd seen my face before.

'No erfence,' he said. I told him that he needn't mention it, For I might have met him somewhere; I had travelled round a bit, And I knew a lot of fellows in the bush and in the streets -- But a fellow can't remember all the fellows that he meets.

Very old and thin and dirty were the garments that he wore, Just a s.h.i.+rt and pair of trousers, and a boot, and nothing more; He was wringing-wet, and really in a sad and sinful plight, And his hat was in his left hand, and a bottle in his right.