BOTANY BAY
Eclogues
Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find.
Sad as the ruins of the human mind!
BOWLES.
ELINOR.
(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.[1])
Once more to daily toil—once more to wear
The weeds of infamy—from every joy
The heart can feel excluded, I arise
Worn out and faint with unremitting woe;
And once again with wearied steps I trace
The hollow-sounding shore. The swelling waves
Gleam to the morning sun, and dazzle o'er
With many a splendid hue the breezy strand.
Oh there was once a time when ELINOR
Gazed on thy opening beam with joyous eye
Undimm'd by guilt and grief! when her full soul
Felt thy mild radiance, and the rising day
Waked but to pleasure! on thy sea-girt verge
Oft England! have my evening steps stole on,
Oft have mine eyes surveyed the blue expanse,
And mark'd the wild wind swell the ruffled surge,
And seen the upheaved billows bosomed rage
Rush on the rock; and then my timid soul
Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep,
And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners.
Ah! little deeming I myself was doom'd.
To tempt the perils of the boundless deep,
An Outcast—unbeloved and unbewail'd.
Why stern Remembrance! must thine iron hand
Harrow my soul? why calls thy cruel power
The fields of England to my exil'd eyes,
The joys which once were mine? even now I see
The lowly lovely dwelling! even now
Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls
And hear the fearless red-breasts chirp around
To ask their morning meal:—for I was wont
With friendly band to give their morning meal,
Was wont to love their song, when lingering morn
Streak'd o'er the chilly landskip the dim light,
And thro' the open'd lattice hung my head
To view the snow-drop's bud: and thence at eve
When mildly fading sunk the summer sun,
Oft have I loved to mark the rook's slow course
And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought
The church-yard elm, whose wide-embowering boughs
Full foliaged, half conceal'd the house of God.
There, my dead father! often have I heard
Thy hallowed voice explain the wonderous works
Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd
Thy virtuous bosom, that thy shameless child
So soon should spurn the lesson! sink the slave
Of Vice and Infamy! the hireling prey
Of brutal appetite! at length worn out
With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt,
Should dare dishonesty—yet dread to die!
Welcome ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes,
Where angry England sends her outcast sons—
I hail your joyless shores! my weary bark
Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea,
Here hails her haven! welcomes the drear scene,
The marshy plain, the briar-entangled wood,
And all the perils of a world unknown.
For Elinor has nothing new to fear
From fickle Fortune! all her rankling shafts
Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease.
Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death
Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me.
Welcome ye marshy heaths! ye pathless woods,
Where the rude native rests his wearied frame
Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm,
As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,
Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek
The dripping shelter. Welcome ye wild plains
Unbroken by the plough, undelv'd by hand
Of patient rustic; where for lowing herds,
And for the music of the bleating flocks,
Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note
Deepening in distance. Welcome ye rude climes,
The realm of Nature! for as yet unknown
The crimes and comforts of luxurious life,
Nature benignly gives to all enough,
Denies to all a superfluity,
What tho' the garb of infamy I wear,
Tho' day by day along the echoing beach
I cull the wave-worn shells, yet day by day
I earn in honesty my frugal food,
And lay me down at night to calm repose.
No more condemn'd the mercenary tool
Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart
With Virtue's stiffled sigh, to fold my arms
Round the rank felon, and for daily bread
To hug contagion to my poison'd breast;
On these wild shores Repentance' saviour hand
Shall probe my secret soul, shall cleanse its wounds
And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.
[Footnote 1: The female convicts are frequently employed in collecting shells for the purpose of making lime.]
HUMPHREY and WILLIAM.
(Time, Noon.)
HUMPHREY:
See'st thou not William that the scorching Sun
By this time half his daily race has run?
The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore
And hurries homeward with his fishy store.
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil
To eat our dinner and to rest from toil!
WILLIAM:
Agreed. Yon tree whose purple gum bestows
A ready medicine for the sick-man's woes,
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat.
Ah Humphrey! now upon old England's shore
The weary labourer's morning work is o'er:
The woodman now rests from his measur'd stroke
Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak,
Savour'd with hunger there he eats his food,
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood.
To us no cooling streamlet winds its way,
No joys domestic crown for us the day,
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear,
Toil all the day, and all the night despair.
HUMPHREY:
Ah William! labouring up the furrowed ground
I used to love the village clock's dull sound,
Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done,
And trudge it homewards when the clock went one.
'Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner!
Pshaw! curse this whining—let us fall to dinner.
WILLIAM:
I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot
Each joy domestic of my little cot.
For at this hour my wife with watchful care
Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare,
The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied
And my poor children prattled at my side.
Methinks I see the old oak table spread,
The clean white trencher and the good brown bread,
The cheese my daily food which Mary made,
For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade:
The jug of cyder,—cyder I could make,
And then the knives—I won 'em at the wake.
Another has them now! I toiling here
Look backward like a child and drop a tear.
HUMPHREY:
I love a dismal story, tell me thine,
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine.
I too my friend can tell a piteous story
When I turn'd hero how I purchas'd glory.
WILLIAM:
But Humphrey, sure thou never canst have known
The comforts of a little home thine own:
A home so snug, So chearful too as mine,
'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine;
For there King Charles's golden rules were seen,
And there—God bless 'em both—the King and Queen.
The pewter plates our garnish'd chimney grace
So nicely scour'd, you might have seen your face;
And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung
Well clean'd, altho' but seldom us'd, my gun.
Ah! that damn'd gun! I took it down one morn—
A desperate deal of harm they did my corn!
Our testy Squire too loved to save the breed,
So covey upon covey eat my seed.
I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim,
I fir'd, they fell, and—up the keeper came.
That cursed morning brought on my undoing,
I went to prison and my farm to ruin.
Poor Mary! for her grave the parish paid,
No tomb-stone tells where her cold corpse is laid!
My children—my dear boys—
HUMPHREY:
Come—Grief is dry—
You to your dinner—to my story I.
To you my friend who happier days have known
And each calm comfort of a home your own,
This is bad living: I have spent my life
In hardest toil and unavailing strife,
And here (from forest ambush safe at least)
To me this scanty pittance seems a feast.
I was a plough-boy once; as free from woes
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose.
Each evening at return a meal I found
And, tho' my bed was hard, my sleep was sound.
One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest
Like a great bumkin in my Sunday's best;
A primrose posey in my hat I stuck
And to the revel went to try my luck.
From show to show, from booth to booth I stray,
See stare and wonder all the live-long day.
A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came
Skill'd in man-catching to beat up for game;
Our booth he enter'd and sat down by me;—
Methinks even now the very scene I see!
The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store,
The old blind fiddler seated next the door,
The frothy tankard passing to and fro
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show;
The Serjeant eyed me well—the punch-bowl comes,
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the drums—
And now he gives a bumper to his Wench—
God save the King, and then—God damn the French.
Then tells the story of his last campaign.
How many wounded and how many slain,
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating,
The English marching on, the French retreating,—
"Push on—push on my lads! they fly before ye,
"March on to riches, happiness and glory!"
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder,
Then cried—"tis a fine thing to be a soldier!"
"Aye Humphrey!" says the Serjeant—"that's your name?
"'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame!
"March to the field—knock out a Mounseer's brains
"And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains.
"Come Humphrey come! thou art a lad of spirit!
"Rise to a halbert—as I did—by merit!
"Would'st thou believe it? even I was once
"As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce;
"But Courage rais'd me to my rank. How now boy!
"Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough-boy?
"A proper shaped young fellow! tall and straight!
"Why thou wert made for glory! five feet eight!
"The road to riches is the field of fight,—
"Didst ever see a guinea look so bright?
"Why regimentals Numps would give thee grace,
"A hat and feather would become that face;
"The girls would crowd around thee to be kist—
"Dost love a girl?" "Od Zounds!" I cried "I'll list!"
So past the night: anon the morning came,
And off I set a volunteer for fame.
"Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head,
"Stand easy!" so I did—till almost dead.
Oh how I long'd to tend the plough again
Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain,
When tir'd and sore amid the piteous throng
Hungry and cold and wet I limp'd along,
And growing fainter as I pass'd and colder,
Curs'd that ill hour when I became a soldier!
In town I found the hours more gayly pass
And Time fled swiftly with my girl and glass;
The girls were wonderous kind and wonderous fair,
They soon transferred me to the Doctor's care,
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil,
And he almost transferred me to the Devil.
'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story
Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness and glory.
At last discharg'd, to England's shores I came
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame,
Found my fair friends and plunder'd as they bade me,
They kist me, coax'd me, robb'd me and betray'd me.
Tried and condemn'd his Majesty transports me,
And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me,
So ends my dismal and heroic story
And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory.
JOHN, SAMUEL, & RICHARD.
(Time, Evening.)
JOHN.
'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away,
And the Sun going down has done watch for the day.
To my mind we live wonderous well when transported,
It is but to work and we must be supported.
Fill the cann, Dick! success here to Botany Bay!
RICHARD.
Success if you will,—but God send me away.
JOHN.
Ah! you lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well;
Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell!
The sailor has no place of safety in store—
From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore!
When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth,
God be thanked in this corner I've got a good birth.
Talk of hardships! what these are the sailor don't know!
'Tis the soldier my friend that's acquainted with woe,
Long journeys, short halting, hard work and small pay,
To be popt at like pidgeons for sixpence a day!—
Thank God! I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay.
JOHN:
Ah! you know but little! I'll wager a pot
I have suffer'd more evils than fell to your lot.
Come we'll have it all fairly and properly tried,
Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide.
SAMUEL:
Done.
JOHN:
Done. 'Tis a wager and I shall be winner;
Thou wilt go without grog Sam to-morrow at dinner.
SAMUEL:
I was trapp'd by the Serjeant's palavering pretences,
He listed me when I was out of my senses.
So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow
And was drill'd to repentance and reason to-morrow.
JOHN:
I would be a sailor and plough the wide ocean,
And was soon sick and sad with the billow's commotion.
So the Captain he sent me aloft on the mast,
And curs'd me, and bid me cry there—and hold fast!
SAMUEL:
After marching all day, faint and hungry and sore,
I have lain down at night on the swamps of the moor,
Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain.
All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain.
JOHN:
I have rode out the storm when the billows beat high
And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd thro' the dark sky,
When the tempest of night the black sea overcast
Wet and weary I labour'd, yet sung to the blast.
SAMUEL:
I have march'd, trumpets sounding—drums beating—flags flying,
Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the dying,
When the shots whizz'd around me all dangers defied,
Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side,
Drove the foe from the mouth of the Cannon away,
Fought, conquer'd and bled, all for sixpence a day.
JOHN:
And I too friend Samuel! have heard the shots rattle,
But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle;
Tho' the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering around,
With the blood of our messmates tho' slippery the ground,
The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow,
We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe.
And the hard battle won, so the prize be not sunk,
The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk.
SAMUEL:
God help the poor soldier when backward he goes
In disgraceful retreat thro' a country of foes!
No respite from danger by day or by night
He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight,
Every step that he takes he must battle his way,
He must force his hard meal from the peasant away;
No rest—and no hope, from all succour afar,
God forgive the poor Soldier for going to the war!
JOHN:
But what are these dangers to those I have past
When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the blast?
When we work'd at the pumps worn with labour and weak
And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak,
Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight
From the rocks of the shore catch the light-houses light;
In vain to the beach to assist us they press,
We fire faster and faster our guns of distress,
Still with rage unabating the wind and waves roar—
How the giddy wreck reels—as the billows burst o'er—
Leap—leap—for she yawns—for she sinks in the wave—
Call on God to preserve—for God only can save!
SAMUEL:
There's an end of all troubles however at last!
And when I in the waggon of wounded was cast,
When my wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore
And I thought of the friends I should never see more,
No hand to relieve—scarce a morsel of bread—
Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead!
Left to rot in a jail till by treaty set free,
Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see!
I had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no good,
And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could.
When I think what I've suffer'd and where I am now
I curse him who snared me away from the plough.
JOHN:
When I was discharged I went home to my wife,
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life.
My wife was industrious, we earn'd what we spent,
And tho' little we had, were with little content;
And whenever I listen'd and heard the wind roar,
I bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore.
At midnight they seiz'd me, they dragg'd me away,
They wounded me sore when I would not obey,
And because for my country I'd ventur'd my life,
I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my wife.
Then the fair wind of Fortune chopp'd round in my face
And Want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace—
But all's for the best;—on the world's wide sea cast,
I am haven'd in peace in this corner at last.
SAMUEL:
Come Dick! we have done—and for judgment we call.
RICHARD:
And in faith I can give ye no judgment at all.
I've been listening to all the hard labours you've past
And think in plain troth, you're two blockheads at last.
My lads where the Deuce was the wit which God gave ye
When you sold yourselves first to the army or navy?
By land and by sea hunting dangers to roam,
When you might have been hang'd so much easier at home!
But you're now snug and settled and safe from foul weather,
So drink up your grog and be merry together.