It was ‘in the book’ and so—well, at that we’d let it go,
For we never would believe that print could lie;
And we all learnt pretty soon that when we came out at noon
‘The sun is in the south part of the sky.’
And Ireland! that was known from the coast line to Athlone:
We got little information re the land that gave us birth;
Save that Captain Cook was killed (and was very likely grilled)
And ‘the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth.’
And a woodcut, in its place, of the same degraded race
Seemed a lot more like a camel than the black-fellows we knew;
Jimmy Bullock, with the rest, scratched his head and gave it best;
But his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo.
But the old bark-school is gone, and the spot it stood upon
Is a cattle-camp in winter where the curlew’s cry is heard;
There’s a brick-school on the flat, but a schoolmate teaches that,
For, about the time they built it, our old master was ‘transferred.’
But the bark-school comes again with exchanges ’cross the plain—
With the Out-Back Advertiser; and my fancy roams at large
When I read of passing stock, of a western mob or flock,
With ‘James Bullock,’ ‘Grey,’ or ‘Henry Dale’ in charge.
And I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content,
With his ’eddication’ finished, with his pack-horse after him;
And perhaps if I were back I would take the self-same track,
For I wish my learning ended when the Master ‘finished’ Jim.
TROUBLE ON THE SELECTION
You lazy boy, you’re here at last,
You must be wooden-legged
Now, are you sure the gate is fast
And all the sliprails pegged
And all the milkers at the yard,
The calves all in the pen?
We don’t want Poley’s calf to suck
His mother dry again.
And did you mend the broken rail
And make it firm and neat?
I s’pose you want that brindle steer
All night among the wheat.
And if he finds the lucerne patch,
He’ll stuff his belly full;
He’ll eat till he gets ‘blown’ on that
And busts like Ryan’s bull.