The Gundaroo Bullock
Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,
And there's some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”;
But amongst the breeds of cattle there are very, very few
Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo.
Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows,
There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes;
For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too,
And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.
There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side,
And he said to Smith the squatter, “You must saddle up and ride,
For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo—
He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo.”
“Oh, ho!” said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run,
“I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun,
And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride,
With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide.”
That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head,
They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed.
“Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew—
The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo.”
They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full,
But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool.
“What's this?” exclaimed the trooper—“an infant, I declare;”
Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear.
I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew,
Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo.
“The times is something awful, as you can plainly see,
The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me;
We can't afford a bullock—such expense would never do—
So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo.”
And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows,
In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes,
On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew,
But you mustn't ask for “bullock” when you go to Gundaroo.
Lay of the Motor-Car
We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd
In our whiskers and teeth;
And the granite-like grey of the road
Seems to slide underneath.
As an eagle might sweep through the sky,
So we sweep through the land;
And the pallid pedestrians fly
When they hear us at hand.
We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip!
Not the fast-fleeing hare,
Nor the racehorses under the whip,
Nor the birds of the air
Can compete with our swiftness sublime,
Our ease and our grace.
We annihilate chickens and time
And policemen and space.
Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed?
How he dropped down to pray
In the road when he saw he was lost;
How he melted away
Underneath, and there rang through the fog
His earsplitting squeal
As he went—— Is that he or a dog,
That stuff on the wheel?
The Corner Man
I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep,
When fancies come and go
To vex a man in his soothing sleep
With thoughts of awful woe—
I dreamed that I was a corner-man
Of a nigger minstrel show.
I cracked my jokes, and the building rang
With laughter loud and long;
I hushed the house as I softly sang
An old plantation song—
A tale of the wicked slavery days
Of cruelty and wrong.
A small boy sat on the foremost seat—
A mirthful youngster he;
He beat the time with his restless feet
To each new melody,
And he picked me out as the brightest star
Of the black fraternity.
“Oh father,” he said, “what would we do
If the corner-man should die?
I never saw such a man—did you?
He makes the people cry,
And then, when he likes, he makes them laugh.”
The old man made reply—
“We each of us fill a very small space
In the great creation's plan,
If a man don't keep his lead in the race
There's plenty more that can;
The world can very soon fill the place
Of even a corner-man.”
. . . . .
I woke with a jump, rejoiced to find
Myself at home in bed,
And I framed a moral in my mind
From the words the old man said.
The world will jog along just the same
When its corner-men are dead.