Kitabı oku: «Southerly Busters», sayfa 2

THE ANCIENT SHEPHERD

 
The shadows of the River Gums
Were stretching long and black,
As, far from Sydney's busy hum,
I trod the narrow track.
 
 
I watched the coming twilight spread,
And thought on many a plan;
I saw an object on ahead —
It seemed to be a man.
 
 
A venerable party sat
Upon a fallen log;
Upon him was a battered hat,
And near him was a dog.
 
 
The look that o'er his features hung
Was anything but sweet;
His swag and "billy"a lay among
The grass beneath his feet.
 
 
And white and withered was his hair,
And white and wan his face;
I'd rather not have ipet the pair
In such a lonely place.
 
 
I thought misfortune's heavy hand
Had done what it could do;
Despair seemed branded on the man,
And on the dingo too.
 
 
A hungry look that dingo wore —
He must have wanted prog —
I think I never saw before
So lean and lank a dog.
 
 
I said – "Old man, I fear that you
Are down upon your luck;
You very much resemble, too,
A pig that has been stuck."
 
 
His answer wasn't quite distinct —
(I'm sure it wasn't true):
He said I was (at least, I think,)
"A" – something – "jackeroo!"
 
 
He said he didn't want my chaff,
And (with an angry stamp)
Declared I made too free by half
"A-rushing of his camp."
 
 
I begged him to be calm, and not
Apologise to me;
He told me I might "go to pot"
(Wherever that may be);
 
 
And growled a muttered curse or two
Expressive of his views
Of men and things, and squatters too,
New chums and jackeroos.
 
 
But economical he was
With his melodious voice;
I think the reason was because
His epithets were choice.
 
 
I said – "Old man, I fain would know
The cause of thy distress;
What sorrows cloud thine aged brow
I cannot even guess.
 
 
"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,
And passion in thine eye,
Expressing anything but grace,
But why, old man, oh! why?
 
 
"A sympathising friend you'll find
In me, old man, d'ye see?
So if you've aught upon your mind
Just pour it into me."
 
 
He gravely shook his grizzled head
I rather touched him there —
And something indistinct he said
(I think he meant to swear).
 
 
He made a gesture with his hand,
He saw I meant him well;
He said he was a shepherd, and
"A takin' of a spell."
 
 
He said he was an ill-used bird,
And squatters they might be —
(He used a very naughty word
Commencing with a D.)
 
 
I'd read of shepherds in the lore
Of Thessaly and Greece,
And had a china one at home
Upon the mantelpiece.
 
 
I'd read about their loves and hates,
As hot as Yankee stoves,
And how they broke each other's pates
In fair Arcadian groves;
 
 
But nothing in my ancient friend
Was like Arcadian types:
No fleecy flocks had he to tend,
No crook or shepherds' pipes.
 
 
No shepherdess was near at hand,
And, if there were, I guessed
She'd never suffer that old man
To take her to his breast!
 
 
No raven locks had he to fall,
And didn't seem to me
To be the sort of thing at all
A shepherd ought to be.
 
 
I thought of all the history.
I'd studied when a boy —
Of Paris and Ænone, and
The siege of ancient Troy.
 
 
I thought, could Helen contemplate
This party on the log,
She would the race of shepherds' hate
Like Brahmins hate a dog.
 
 
It seemed a very certain thing
That, since the world began,
No shepherd ever was like him,
From Paris down to Pan.
 
 
I said – "Old man, you've settled now
Another dream of youth;
I always understood, I vow,
Mythology was truth
 
 
"Until I saw thy bandy legs
And sorrow-laden brow,
But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,
I cannot think so now.
 
 
"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,
Then very sure am I
The man who wrote mythology
Was guilty of a lie.
 
 
"But never mind, old man," I said,
"To sorrow we are born,
So tell us why thine aged head
Is bended and forlorn?"
 
 
With face as hard as Silas Wegg's
He said, "Young man, here goes."
He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,
And told me all his woes.
 
 
He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"
A flock of maiden-ewes,
And then he'd had a trip to town
To gather up the news;
 
 
But while in Bathurst's busy streets
He got upon the spree,
And publicans was awful cheats
For soon "lamm'd down" was he.
 
 
He said he'd "busted up his cheque"
(What's that, I'd like to know?)
And now his happiness was wrecked,
To work he'd got to go.
 
 
He'd known the time, not long ago,
When half the year he'd spend
In idleness, and comfort too,
A-camping in a "bend."
 
 
No need to tread the weary track,
Or work his strength away;
He lay extended on his back
Each happy summer day.
 
 
When sun-set comes and day-light flags,
And dusky looms the scrub,
He'd bundle up his ration-bags
And toddle for his grub,
 
 
And to some station-store he'd go
And get the traveller's dower —
"A pint o' dust" – that was his low
Expression meaning flour;
 
 
But now he couldn't cadge about,
For squatters wasn't game
To give their tea and sugar out
To every tramp that came.
 
 
The country's strength, he thought, was gone,
Or going very fast,
And feeding tramps now ranked among
The glories of the past.
 
 
He'd seen the "Yanko" in its pride,
When every night a host
Of hungry tramps at supper tried
For who could eat the most.
 
 
A squatter then had feelin's strong
And tender in his breast,
And if a trav'ller came along
He'd ask him in to rest.
 
 
"But squatters now!" – he stamped the soil,
And muttered in his beard,
He wished they'd got a whopping boil
For every sheep they sheared!
 
 
His language got so very bad —
It couldn't well be worse,
For every second word he had
Now seemed to be a curse.
 
 
And shaking was his withered hand
With passion, not with age —
I never thought so old a man
Could get in such a rage.
 
 
His eyes seemed starting from his head,
They glared in such a way;
And half the wicked words he said
I shouldn't like to say;
 
 
But from his language I inferred
There wasn't one in three,
Of squatters worth that little word
Commencing with a "D."
 
 
Alas! for my poetic lore,
I fear it was astray,
It never said that shepherds swore,
Or talked in such a way.
 
 
The knotted cordage of his brow
Was tightened in a frown —
He seemed the sort of party, now,
To burn a wool-shed down.
 
 
He told me, further, and his voice
Grew very plaintive here,
That now he'd got to make the choice
And work, or give up beer!
 
 
From heavy toil he'd always found
'Twas healthiest to keep,
And mostly stuck to cadgin' round,
And lookin' after sheep.
 
 
But shepherdin' was nearly "cooked" —
I think he meant to say
That shepherds' prospects didn't look
In quite a hopeful way.
 
 
A new career he must begin,
(And fresh it roused his ire)
For squatters they was fencin' in
With that infernal wire;
 
 
And sheep was paddocked everywhere —
'Twas like them squatters' cheek! —
And shepherds now, for all they'd care,
Might go to Cooper's Creek.
 
 
He said he couldn't use an axe,
And wouldn't if he could;
He'd see 'em blistered on their backs
'Fore he'd go choppin' wood;
 
 
That nappin' stones, or shovellin',
Warn't good enough for he,
And work it was a cussed thing
As didn't ought to be.
 
 
He'd known the Lachlan, man and boy,
For close on forty year,
But now they'd pisoned every joy,
He thought it time to clear.
 
 
They gave him sorrow's bitter cup,
And filled his heart with woe,
And now at last his back was up,
He felt he ought to go.
 
 
He'd heard of regions far away
Across the barren plains,
Where shepherds might be blythe and gay
And bust the squatters' chains.
 
 
To reach that land he meant to try,
He didn't care a cuss,
If 'twasn't any better, why,
It couldn't be much wuss.
 
 
Amongst the blacks, though old and grey,
Existence he'd begin,
And give his ancient hand away
In marriage to a "gin."
 
 
He really was so old and grim,
The thought was in my mind,
That any gin to marry him
Would have to be stone blind.
 
 
'Twould make an undertaker smile:
What tickled me was this,
The thought of such an ancient file
Indulging in a kiss!
 
 
And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,
That equal justice whirls,
He ought to think of Nick instead
Of thinking of the girls.
 
 
Then drooped his grim and aged head,
And closed that glaring eye,
And not another word he said
.Except a grunt or sigh.
 
 
More lean he looks and still more lank
Such changes o'er him pass,
And down his ancient body sank
In slumber on the grass.
 
 
I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,
And not the sort of coon
To lead a blushing bride about,
Or spend a honeymoon;
 
 
Or if, indeed, there were a bride
For such a withered stick,
With such a tough and wrinkled hide,
That bride should be old Nick.
 
 
As streaks of faintish light began
To mark the coming day,
I left that grim and aged man
And slowly stole away.
 
 
And when the winter nights are rough,
And shrieking is the wind,
Or when I've eaten too much duff
And dreams afflict my mind,
 
 
I see that lean and withered hand,
And, 'mid the gloom of night,
I see the face of that old man,
And horrid is the sight:
 
 
While on my head in agony
Up rises every hair,
I see again his glaring eye —
In fancy hear him swear.
 
 
At breakfast time, when I come down
To take that pleasant meal,
With pallid face, and haggard frown,
Into my place I steal;
 
 
And when they say I'm far from bright,
The truth I dare not tell:
I say I've passed a sleepless night,
And don't feel very well.
 

WHERE IS FREEDOM?

 
Oh! Mother, say, for I long to know,
Where doth the tree of Freedom grow,
And strike its roots in the heart of man
As deep and far as the famed banyan?
Is it 'mid those groups in the Southern Seas,
In the Coral Isles, or the far Fijis,
Where the restless billows seeth and toss
'Neath the gleaming light of the Southern Cross?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Then tell me, mother, can it be where
The cry of "Liberty" rends the air?
Where grow the maize and the maple tree,
In the fertile "bottoms" of Tennessee?
Or is it up where the north winds roar,
Away by the fair Canadian shore,
Where the Indians shriek with insane halloos —
As drunk as owls in their bark canoes?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Or is it back in the Western States,
Where Colt's revolver rules the fates,
And Judges lounge in a liquor shop
While Dean and Adams's pistols pop?
Where Justice is but a shrivelled ghost
As deaf and blind as a stockyard post,
And License sits upon Freedom's chair —
Oh, say, dear mother, can it be there?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Is it on the banks of the wild Paroo,
Where the emu stalks, and the kangaroo
Bounds o'er the sand-hills free and light,
And the dingo howls through the sultry night;
Where the native gathers the nardoo-seed
For his frugal meal; and the centipede —
While the worn-out traveller lies inert,
Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Is it where yon death-like stillness reigns
O'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,
Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewes
For the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,
And the most enchanting visions come
To his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,
While the sun rays strike through his garments scant —
Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Or Southward, down where our brethren hold
Those keys of power, rich mines of gold —
That land of rumour and vague reports,
Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz —
Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"
And let in in the way of "scrip;"
Where all men vapour, and vaunt, and boast,
And manhood suffrage rules the roast?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Is it where the blasts of the simoom fan,
The blazing valleys of Hindustan;
Where the Dervish howls, and their dupes are fleeced
By the swarth Parsee, and the Brahmin priest;
Where men believe in their toddy-bowls,
And the transmigration of human souls,
And the monkeys battle with countless fleas
On the twisted boughs of the tamarind trees?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Or is it more to the northward, more
Toward the ice-bound rivers of Labrador,
Where the glittering curtain of gleaming snow
Enshrouds the home of the Esquimaux;
Or further still to the north, away
Where the bones of the Artic heroes lay
Long, long on the icy surface bare,
To bleach and dry in the frosty air?
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
Then is it, mother, among the trees
That shade the paths in the Tuilleries,
Where the students walk with the pale grisettes,
And scent the air with their cigarettes?
Or doth it bloom in that atmosphere
Of mild tobacco and lager beer,
Where gutteral curses mingle too
With the croupiers patter of "faites votre jeu?"
"Not there – not there, my child."
 
 
"Boy, 'tis a plant that loves to blow
Where the fading rays of the sunset go;
Up where the sun-light never sets,
And angels tootle their flageolets;
Up through the fleecy clouds, and far
Beyond the track of the farthest star,
Where the silvery echoes catch no tone
Of a simmering sinner's stifling groan:
'Tis there – 'tis there, my child!"
 
 
Countless sheep and countless cattle
O'er his vast enclosures roam;
But you heard no children prattle
'Round that squatter's hearth and home.
 
 
Older grew that squatter, older,
Solitary and alone,
And they said his heart was colder
Than a granite pavin'-stone.
 
 
Other squatters livin handy,
Wot had daughters in their prime.
For that squatter "shouted" brandy
In the Township many a time;
 
 
And those gals kept introdoocin'
In their toilets every art
With the object of sedoocin'
That old sinner's stony heart.
 
 
Thus they often made exposures
Of their ankles, I'll be bound,
When they, in his vast enclosures,
Met that squatter ridin' round.
 
 
Their advances he rejected,
Scornin' both their hands and hearts,
'Till one day a cove selected
Forty acres in those parts.
 
 
And that stalwart free-selector
Had the handsomest of gals;
Conduct couldn't be correcter
Than his youngest daughter Sal's.
 
 
Prettily her head she tosses —
Loves a thing she don't regard;
Rides the most owdacious hosses
Wot was ever in a yard.
 
 
She was lithe and she was limber —
Farmers daughter every inch —
Not averse to sawin' timber
With her father at a pinch.
 
 
In remotest dells and dingles,
Where most gals would be afraid,
There she went a-splittin shingles,
Pretty tidy work she made.
 
 
And that free selector's daughter,
Driving of her father's cart,
Made the very wildest slaughter
In that wealthy squatter's heart.
 
 
He proposed, and wasn't blighted,
Took her to his residence,
With his bride he was delighted
For she saved him much expense.
 
 
Older grew that aged squatter,
White and grizzly grew his pate,
'Till his weak rheumatic trotters
Couldn't bear their owner's weight.
 
 
Then he grew more helpless, 'till he
Couldn't wash and couldn't shave,
And one evening cold and chilly
He was carried to his grave.
 
 
Then that free selector's daughter
Came right slap "out of her shell;"
Calm and grave as folks had thought her,
She becomes a howling swell.
 
 
To the neighb'ring township drove she
In her chariot and pair,
Splendid dreams and visions wove she
While she braided up her hair.
 
 
She peruses Sydney papers,
Sees a paragraph which tells
Her benighted soul the capers
Cut down there by nobs and swells;
 
 
Then she couldn't stop contented
In a region such as this,
While the atmosphere she scented
Of the great metropolis.
 
 
Her intention she imparted
To the neighbours round about;
Packed her duds, farewell'd, and started,
And for Sydney she set out.
 
 
Now her pantin' bosom hankers
Spicily her form to deck,
So she sought her husband's bankers
And she drew a heavy cheque.
 
 
She, of course, in dress a part spent,
Satins, sables, silk and grebe,
And she took some swell apartments
Situated near the Glebe.
 
 
With the very highest classes
In her heart she longed to jine —
Her opinion placed the masses
Lower in the scale than swine.
 
 
But she found it wasn't easy
Climbin' up ambition's slope;
Slippy was the road, and greasy,
To the summit of her hope.
 
 
If into a "set" she wriggled,
She'd capsize some social rule,
Then those parties mostly giggled,
Loadin' her with ridicule.
 
 
Many an awkward solecism —
Many a breach of etiquette,
(Though she knew her catechism)
Often made her eyelids wet.
 
 
Her plebeian early trainin'
Was a precious pull-back then,
Which prevented her from gainin'
Footin' with the "upper ten."
 
 
Strugglin' after social fame was
Simply killin' her out-right,
So she settled that the game was
Hardly worth the candle-light.
 
 
Things got worse and things got worser,
'Till she had a vision strange,
The forerunner and precurser
Of a most decided change.
 
 
In a dream she saw the station
Where her father now was boss,
And his usual occupation
Was to ride a spavined hoss.
 
 
Round inspectin' every shepherd
With his penetratin' sight,
And those underlings got peppered
If he found things wasn't right.
 
 
When she saw her grey-haired sire
"Knockin' round" among the sheep,
For her home a strong desire
Made her yell out in her sleep.
 
 
Then she saw herself in fancy
In her strange fantastic dream,
With her elder sister Nancy,
Yokin up the bullock team.
 
 
Up out of her sleep she started,
And the tears came to her eyes;
She was almost broken-hearted,
To her waitin' maid's surprise.
 
 
She was sad and penitential,
Like the Prodigal of old,
So she got a piece of pencil
And her state of mind she told
 
 
To her grey and aged father
In that far outlandish place;
And she told him that she'd rather
Like to see his wrinkled face.
 
 
Then that quondam free-selector
Shed the biggest tears of joy;
When he knew he might expect her
His was bliss without alloy.
 
 
Home came Sarah, just as one fine
Day in May was near its close,
And the fadin' rays of sunshine
Glinted oil her father's nose.
 
 
She beheld it glowing brightly;
Filial yearning was intense;
So she made a rush and lightly
Cleared the four-foot paddock fence.
 
 
Hugged he her in fond embraces;
Kissed she him with many a kiss;
And she busted her stay-laces
In an ecstasy of bliss.
 
 
Then she wept with sorrow, thinkin',
From the colour of his face,
That her parent had been drinkin',
Which was probably the case.
 
 
But he, when he found his coat all
Wet with many a filial tear,
Took a solemn pledge tee-total
To abstain from rum and beer.
 
 
Then she went and sought her sisters,
Judy, Nancy, and the rest;
On their faces she raised blisters
With the kisses she impressed.
 
 
And she once more con amore
"Cottoned " to the calves and sheep,
Likewise for her parent hoary
She professed affection deep.
 
 
Lavished on him fond caresses,
Stuck to him like cobbler's-wax,
Cut up all her stylish dresses
Into garments for the blacks.
 
 
All her talents were befitted
To a rough-and-tumble life,
And from sheep to sheep she flitted
When the "scab" and "fluke" were rife.
 
 
Sarah's heart was soft and tender,
Her repentance was complete,
Never sighed she more for splendour,
For the "Block" or George's-street.
 
 
Many a "back-block" lady-killer,
Many a wealthy squatter's son,
Wanted her to "douse the wilier,"
But she wasn't to be won.
 
 
For that free-selector's daughter
Said, when settled in her home,
She'd be (somethinged) if they caught Her
Venturin' again to roam.