'Twas to a small, up-country town,
When we were boys at school,
There came a circus with a clown,
Likewise a bucking mule.
The clown announced a scheme they had
Spectators for to bring—
They'd give a crown to any lad
Who'd ride him round the ring.
And, gentle reader, do not scoff
Nor think a man a fool—
To buck a porous-plaster off
Was pastime to that mule.
The boys got on; he bucked like sin;
He threw them in the dirt,
What time the clown would raise a grin
By asking, “Are you hurt?”
But Johnny Dacey came one night,
The crack of all the school;
Said he, “I'll win the crown all right,
Bring in your bucking mule.”
The elephant went off his trunk,
The monkey played the fool,
And all the band got blazing drunk
When Dacey rode the mule.
But soon there rose a galling shout
Of laughter, for the clown
From somewhere in his pants drew out
A little paper crown.
He placed the crown on Dacey's head
While Dacey looked a fool;
“Now, there's your crown, my lad,” he said,
“For riding of the mule!”
The band struck up with “Killaloe”,
And “Rule Britannia, Rule”,
And “Young Man from the Country”, too,
When Dacey rode the mule.
Then Dacey, in a furious rage,
For vengeance on the show
Ascended to the monkeys' cage
And let the monkeys go;
The blue-tailed ape and chimpanzee
He turned abroad to roam;
Good faith! It was a sight to see
The people step for home.
For big baboons with canine snout
Are spiteful, as a rule—
The people didn't sit it out
When Dacey rode the mule.
And from the beasts that made escape,
The bushmen all declare,
Were born some creatures partly ape
And partly native-bear.
They're rather few and far between,
The race is nearly spent;
But some of them may still be seen
In Sydney Parliament.
And when those legislators fight,
And drink, and act the fool,
Just blame it on that torrid night
When Dacey rode the mule.
The Mylora Elopement
By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,
And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep,
Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun,
Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, “cocky” on Mylora Run.
Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath.
Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa;
And Amelia loved him truly—but the course of love, if true,
Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.
Watching with his slow affection once Jim saw McGrath the boss
Riding out by Jim's selection, looking for a station 'oss
That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
Old McGrath “Good day” exchanges—off goes Jim to see his child;
Says, “The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job,
And to-morrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob.
Will you come with me to-morrow? I will let the parson know,
And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.
“I will bring my nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine,
One more kiss—don't think I'm greedy—good-bye, lass, before I'm seen—
Just one more—God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here,
Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.”
. . . . .
The daylight shines on figures twain
That ride across Mylora plain,
Laughing and talking—Jim and Jane.
“Steadily, darling. There's lots of time,
Didn't we slip the old man prime!
I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob,
I reckon he'll find it too big a job.
They've beaten us all. I had a try,
But the warrigal devils seem to fly.
That Sambo's a real good bit of stuff
No doubt, but not quite good enough.
He'll have to gallop the livelong day,
To cut and come, to race and stay.
I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good;
To see us going I don't think would.”
A turn in the road and, fair and square,
They meet the old man standing there.
“What's up?” “Why, running away, of course,”
Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned,
His eye with wild excitement burned.
“I've raced all day through the scorching heat
After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat.
But over that range I think you'll find
The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind.
Will you go and leave the mob behind?
Which will you do? Take the girl away,
Or ride like a white man should to-day,
And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?”
Says Jim, “I can't throw this away,
We can bolt some other day, of course,
Amelia Jane, get off that horse.
Up you get, Old Man. Whoop, halloo.
Here goes to put old Bowneck through!”
Two distant specks on the mountain side,
Two stockwhips echoing far and wide.
Amelia Jane sat down and cried.
. . . . .
“Sakes, Amelia, what's up now?
Leading old Sambo, too, I vow,
And him dead beat. Where have you been?
“Bolted with Jim! What do you mean?”
“Met the old man with Sambo licked
From running old Bowneck.” “Well, I'm kicked—
Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped?
What did Jim do when you were stopped?
Did you bolt from father across the plain?
Jim made you get off Crazy Jane!
And father got on, and away again
The two of 'em went to the ranges grim.
Good boy, Jimmy! Well done, Jim!
They're sure to get them now, of course,
That Tambourine is a spanking horse.
And Crazy Jane is good as gold.
And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold;
Not like your father, but very fair.
Jim will have to follow the mare.”
“It never was yet in father's hide
To best my Jim on the mountain-side.
Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.”
But here again Amelia cried.
. . . . .
The sound of a whip comes faint and far,
A rattle of hoofs, and here they are,
In all their tameless pride.
The fleet wild horses snort with fear,
And wheel and break as the yard draws near.
Now, Jim the Ringer, ride!
Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa!
And the foam-flakes fly like the driven snow,
As under the whip the horses go
Adown the mountain side.
And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set,
On a horse that never has failed him yet,
Is after them down the range.
Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel—whoa back!
And long and loud the stockwhips crack,
Their flying course they change,
“Steadily does it—let Sambo go!
Open those sliprails down below.
Smart! or you'll be too late.
They'll follow old Sambo up—look out!
Wheel that black horse—give Sam a clout.
They're in! Make fast the gate.”
. . . . .
The mob is safely in the yard!
The old man mounts delighted guard.
No thought has he but for his prize.
Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes.
“Will you come after all? the job is done,
And Crazy Jane is fit to run
For a prince's life—now don't say no;
Slip on while the old man's down below
At the inner yard, and away we'll go.
Will you come, my girl?” “I will, you bet,
We'll manage this here elopement yet.”
. . . . .
By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim.
And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him.
He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done,
There'll be numerous “Six-fortys” taken on Mylora run.
The Pannikin Poet
There's nothing here sublime,
But just a roving rhyme,
Run off to pass the time,
With nought titanic in
The theme that it supports,
And, though it treats of quarts,
It's bare of golden thoughts—
It's just a pannikin.
I think it's rather hard
That each Australian bard—
Each wan, poetic card—
With thoughts galvanic in
His fiery soul alight,
In wild aerial flight,
Will sit him down and write
About a pannikin.
He makes some new-chum fare
From out his English lair
To hunt the native bear,
That curious mannikin;
And then when times get bad
That wandering English lad
Writes out a message sad
Upon his pannikin:
“Oh, mother, think of me
Beneath the wattle tree”
(For you may bet that he
Will drag the wattle in)
“Oh, mother, here I think
That I shall have to sink,
There ain't a single drink
The water-bottle in.”
The dingo homeward hies,
The sooty crows uprise
And caw their fierce surprise
A tone Satanic in;
And bearded bushmen tread
Around the sleeper's head—
“See here—the bloke is dead!
Now where's his pannikin?”
They read his words and weep,
And lay him down to sleep
Where wattle-branches sweep,
A style mechanic in;
And, reader, that's the way
The poets of to-day
Spin out their little lay
About a pannikin.
Not on It
The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet—
The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get.
The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet
He was on it.
The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try,
The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by,
The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi!
Are you on it?”
They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told—
The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled.
The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold
Was not on it.