Kitabı oku: «Southerly Busters», sayfa 5

SUPERNATURAL REVELATIONS OF A FANCY-GOODS MAN,

OR THE DIABOLICAL DEMON OF THE DEADLY DRAIN

 
There lived in Parramatta Street
A cove – his name was Joe —
Who nightly sniffed its odours sweet
(Not very long ago.)
 
 
Its every scent right well he knew,
They often made him frown,
And he was fancy-goods-man to
A big firm here in town.
 
 
As Joe lay down one night – he slept
In summer far from from well —
A nameless horror o'er him crept,
Of what he couldn't tell;
His hair was rising up he knew,
He felt his blood grow cold;
He felt a little frightened, too,
For Joseph wasn't bold.
 
 
And while he vainly seeking rest,
Lay tossing to and fro,
By name he heard himself addressed —
The unknown voice said, "Joe!"
 
 
"Arise, Oh Joseph! from thy bed —
Arise, and follow me!
Hush! not a word," the spirit said,
"For I'm a ghost, d'ye see?
 
 
"Bring kerosene, and bring thy lamp,
And arm thee to the teeth,
For thou in yonder gloomy swamp
Shalt win a laurel wreath."
 
 
"Now follow me," the spirit said,
"For well I know the track,
And thou shall slay the demon dread
Of Wattle Swamp the Black."
 
 
Then toward the demon's dread abode
The ghastly goblin flits —
The spirit was to show the road,
And Joe to give him "fits."
 
 
And silently they followed all
The windings of the creek;
At times they heard a night-bird call —
At times a tom-cat shriek.
 
 
But of the voices of the night
They took no heed as yet;
The ghost said, "Joseph, are you right?"
And Joseph said, "You bet!"
 
 
And thus began the demon-hunt:
The road was dark and drear;
The ghost was mostly on in front,
And Joseph in the rear.
 
 
At times they crawled along a trench
That held Joe's feet like glue;
And there was many a stifling stench,
And many a cast off shoe.
 
 
And oft they waded deep in slime
Where rotting herbage grew;
The ghost said, "Joseph, take your time,"
And Joseph murmured, "ph – ew!"
 
 
At length a dark and gloomy pond
Appeared to block the track;
The spirit was for goin' on,
And Joe for goin' back.
 
 
Before the breeze his shirt-tails blow,
And though he's sore distressed,
The spirit said he had to go,
And Joseph gave him best.
 
 
"Young man!" the spirit said, "'tis vain
To bandy words with me;
Just stretch those bandy legs again,
For I'm a ghost, d'ye see?"
 
 
And Joseph, making answer soft,
They thus resumed the track —
The spirit bore the lamp aloft,
And Joseph on his back.
 
 
"Yon demon dread," the spirit said,
"Has reaped his human crops,
And feasted, battened on the dead
Too long – we'll give him slops!"
 
 
he ghost explained the shrieks which rose
From out the inky tides
Were made by disembodied coves
With pains in their insides.
 
 
E'en while he spoke a horrid smoke
Belched forth upon the air,
And forth fresh yells and shriekings broke,
And up went Joseph's hair.
 
 
The spirit slid him from his back,
But Joseph trembled so,
And wished devoutly he was back
With Messrs. Blank & Co.
 
 
"Stand firm!" the spirit said, "drink this
'Tis strength and courage too;
We'll awe this great metropolis
With deeds of 'derring-do.'"
 
 
Then straightway rose before their sight
The demon's war-like crest;
He's green and blue, and black and white,
With plague-spots on his breast.
 
 
I could not paint the demon's form —
Distraught, convulsed with ire —
His voice was like the thunder-storm,
His eyes like lakes of fire.
 
 
He breathed forth typhoid, boils and croup
With every breath he drew;
His touch meant measles, whooping-cough
And scarlatina too.
 
 
He comes with measured steps and slow —
Earth groaned beneath his tramp —
And with one grinding, crashing blow,
He shivered Joseph's – lamp!
 
 
He glared around him, and his eyes
Shone with a baleful light:
"Who, who are ye," the demon cries,
That wander through the night?
 
 
"Who, who are ye, that dare to come
My fair domain to haunt?
Go, seek some more congenial slum,
Avaunt! d'ye hear? Avaunt!"
 
 
Now Joseph felt his courage rise
From out his blucher boots,
And while the cautious curlew cries,
And while the swamp-owl hoots —
 
 
Despite a lingering touch of cramp —
His muscles he did brace,
And hurled the fragments of the lamp
Slap in the demon's face!
 
 
"Who's this?" the demon said, said he,
"A stalwart knight, I ween!
My eyes are blind, I cannot see,
They're full of keroseen"
 
 
Then Joseph's heart within him leapt —
The demon being blind —
Right gingerly he crawled and crept,
And gave him one behind.
 
 
The spirit used a two-edged sword
(He used it like an axe)
And while that outraged giant roared,
His right leg he attacks.
 
 
Thus, thu close, that warlike pair,
Upon the slimy beach,
And Joseph poked him here and there,
Wherever he could reach.
 
 
And while the giant squirmeth from
The toasting-fork of Joe,
The ghost (clean peeled) came grimly on
To strike the final blow.
 
 
Then, Joe, when he his tactics knew,
Attacked his other calf,
And swamp-owls' echoed as they flew
The spirit's ghastly laugh.
 
 
And soon, beneath those stalwart knocks
Which echo and resound,
The demon's severed person rocks
And topples to the ground
 
 
"Go in and win," the spirit said —
"Go in and win, old son!"
The demon he was nearly dead.
So Joe went in and won.
 
 
That ghost full many a 'spotted-gum'
Had felled in life, you see,
And so they felled that spotted one,
For foul and fell was he.
 
 
"Now fetch me wedges," quoth the ghost,
"For here, I guess, we'll camp;
We'll blast his trunk, split rails and posts,
And fence Blackwattle Swamp!"
 
 
But stay! what means that sounding thwack?
That agonizing roar?
And how comes Joseph on his back —
Upon his bedroom floor?
 
 
Where's now the elevated head,
The majesty and pomp
Of him who slew the demon dread
That lived in Wattle Swamp?
 
 
Mephitic odours filled the room,
And, acting on his brain,
These made him dream of blackest gloom,
And deadly demons slain.
 
 
'Till, rolling from his couch, he broke
The silence with a scream,
He bumped upon the floor – then woke,⁴
And found it all a dream!
 
 
Next morning, so tradition tells,
His way to church Joe took,
To curse the Corporation swells
With candle, bell, and book.
 
 
He prayed that they might cursèd be
Within the Council hall,
At evening parties, breakfast, tea, —
At dinner most of all.
 
 
That they might feast in woe and grief,
On chicken with the croup;
That pleuro might infect their beef,
And flies invade their soup;
 
 
That turtles, though so often "turned,"
Might some day turn on them,
And that at last they might be burned,
And fricasseed in-hem!
 
 
And ne'er this curse shall lifted be
From Aldermanic back,
Until from odours foul set free
Is Wattle Swamp the Black.
 

CHRISTMAS

By a New Chum

 
What means that merry clanging chime
Which fills the air with melody?
They tell me that 'tis Christmas time,
But that I think can scarcely be.
 
 
This explanation is, I say,
A little bit too thin for me,
While fiercely strikes the solar ray
Through hat of straw and puggaree.
 
 
The centigrade, I grieve to see,
Stands up at figures past belief,
And naught but frequent S and B
Gives my perspiring soul relief.
 
 
No veil of snow enwraps the lea,
And as for skating in the Park,
Or sledging, one as well might be
On Ararat in Noahs ark.
 
 
Where is the icy blast, and where
The white hoar frost, and driving sleet?
At night I suffocate and swear
With nothing on me but a sheet.
 
 
Mosquitoes hum the whole night through,
And flies salute me when I wake
In numbers anything but few,
And yesterday I saw a snake.
 
 
No leaf decays; no flower dies;
All nature seems as fair and bright
As, when beneath Judean skies,
The shepherds watched their flocks by night.
 
 
[In fair Judea's sunny clime,
Among its mountain gorges lone,
Those shepherds had a rosy time,
For wire-fencing wasn't known.
 
 
They were not prone to "knocking-down"
Of cheques or going on the spree,
For "pubs" and "shanties" were not found
Beside the Lake of Galilee.
 
 
They groaned not 'neath the squatters yoke;
A life of pure arcadian ease
Was theirs-ah! happy, happy blokes!
For this digression, pardon, please.]
 
 
Those Christmas chimes, indeed! their notes
Awake no passing thought in me,
Of flannel vests, and Ulster coats,
So Christmas chimes they cannot be.
 
 
A drowsy hum is in the air —
There's perspiration on my skin;
The locusts eat the grass-plots bare,
And deafen with their noisy din.
 
 
The folks were drinking summer drinks
When first I landed here last "fall
Tis summer still, alas! methinks
They have no Christmas here at all.
 
 
But stay! that paper pile sublime —
Of I O.U. and unpaid bill —
Breathes somewhat of the festive time
Of "peace on earth – to man good-will."
 
 
There's Starkey's bill for lemonade,
And Peape's and Shaw's for summer suits,
A host of others, all unpaid,
For ice, and cubas, and cheroots.
 
 
Enough! 'tis proof enough for me —
Proof stronger far than Christmas chime;
Your pardon, friend, for doubting thee,
Beyond a doubt 'tis Christmas time.
 

"THE CATARACT."⁵

 
I stood by the trunk of a giant box
And watched the Cataract down the rocks
With ceaseless thunder go.
The boiling waters seethed and hissed,
And glittering clouds of gleaming mist
Ascended from below.
 
 
The fading glow of the sunlight slants
O'er the frowning cliff which the creeping plants,
And moss, and lichens drape.
The mist spread forth on the sultry air —
'Twas wreathed in figures, some foul, some fair;
I traced the form of a spectre there
Of weird and ghastly shape.
 
 
There was silence, save for the summer breeze
Which swayed the tops of the mess-mate trees,
And the torrent's noisy flow.
Awhile the figure seemed to stand,
Then waved a shadowy, spectral hand,
And pointed down below.
 
 
With wild vague thoughts my fancy strove
Of hidden riches, and treasure trove,
And gems and jewels bright;
And what, thought I, if the omen's true?
And thick and fast such fancies grew
Till rock, and torrent, and spectre too
All faded from my sight
 
 
I saw the crust of the earth removed —
Each wild conjecture fairly proved —
I saw, 'twas even so,
Peerless gems of price untold,
Piles on piles of glittering gold,
And the moon-beams glinted clear and cold
On the wealth that lay below.
 
 
Ere long men came to that valley "fair;
They sought for coal-black diamonds there,
And they dragged them from below:
And the furnace fires, the hiss of steam,
And the whirr of fly-wheel, belt, and beam
Fulfilled that shadowy, golden dream
I dreamt so long ago.
 

THE STOCKMAN'S GRAVE

 
Tom the stockman's gone – he'll never
Use again his supple thong,
Or, dashing madly through the mulga,
Urge the scattered herd along.
 
 
O'er for Tom is life's hard battle!
Well he rode, and nothing feared;
Never more among the cattle
Shall his cheery voice be heard.
 
 
Liked he was with' all his failings;
Let no idle hand efface.
That rude ring of rough split palings,
Marking out his resting place.
 
 
Sadly have his comrades left him
Where the cane-grass, gently stirred
By the north wind, bends and quivers —
Where the bell-bird's note is heard;
 
 
Where the tangled "boree" blossoms,
Where the "gidya" thickets wave,
And the tall yapunyah's⁶ shadow
Rests upon the stockman's grave.
 

EPITAPH ON A CONVIVIAL SHEARER

 
Here Thompson lies – good worthy man —
Come, gentle reader, nearer;
He's now as quiet as a lamb
Though once he was a shearer.
 
 
Though many sheep in life he shore,
He's now beyond retrieving!
He's sheered off to that other shore
Which surely there's no leaving.
 
 
Though he o'er ewes and wethers too
Was often bent, I'm thinking
Rough weather o'er him bends the yew—
He killed himself with drinking.
 
 
No more in shed, or yard, or hut
Will Thompson be appearing!
On wings of down his soul flew up—
He's gone where there's no shearing.
 
 
He often handled "Ward and Payne's,"⁷
For he was often shearing!
Alas! the pains of death reward
His everlasting beering.
 
 
And from his fingers dropped the shears,
For nature's debt was pressing;
Death nailed his body for arrears —
His spirit effervescing.
 
 
Though at his jokes we often roared,
He's now a soundish sleeper!
His crop of chaff at length is floored
By Death, that mighty reaper.
 

A CANDIDATE FOR AN EARLY GRAVE

 
What makes me wear my boots so tight,
And much pomatum buy,
Toss restless on my bed at night,
And like an earthquake sigh?
 
 
I 've seen a maid, I'd fain persuade
That girl to fancy me;
Thrice happy fate with such a mate
For life as Polly C – !
 
 
But then I can't without her aunt
That damsel ever see;
Why must there always be a "but"
Between my hopes and me?
 
 
And Polly C – has got to be
Between me and my peace,
For though I can't endure the aunt,
I idolize the neice.
 
 
The aunt is forty-three at least,
The neice but seventeen;
For her I pine, for her so greased
My hair of late has been.
 
 
For her my feet are close compressed
In boots a deal too tight;
For her I sacrifice my rest,
And get no sleep at night;
 
 
For her I run that tailor's bill
That makes my father swear,
And to the grave I fear it will
Bring down his grizzled hair.
 
 
We met, but 'twas not in a crowd,
It was not at a ball,
Nor where cascades with thunder loud
From precipices fall;
 
 
Nor where the mountain torrents rush,
Or ocean billows heave;
Nor at the railway terminus
'Mid cries of "by'r leave;"
 
 
It was not in the forest wild,
Nor on the silent sea —
Romantic reader don't be riled —
'Twas at a "spelling-bee."
 
 
'Twas there I marked the jetty coil
That crowned her classic head —
The perfumes of macassar oil
Were all around her shed.
 
 
And o'er the meaner spirits there
Her mighty soul arose;
Her intellect and genius were
Aspiring – like her nose.
 
 
And Polly was the fairest there —
'The goddess of the class —
Among the polysyllables
Unscathed I saw her pass.
 
 
Examiners with piercing eye,
And terror-striking frown
In vain to trip her up might try —
In vain to take her down.
 
 
She triumphs, and the loud applause
From roof to basement rings —
Each other girl with envy gnaws
Her hat and bonnet strings.
 
 
Sometimes (regardless of expense)
I dressed and went to church;
One glimpse of her would recompense
My eager longing search.
 
 
And, while the swelling organ rent
The air with solemn tunes,
On spelling-bees my thoughts were bent
And happy honeymoons.
 
 
And where I brooding sat alone
The wildest dreams I dreamt,
And swore to win her for my own
Or "bust' in the attempt.
 
 
We met at parties, and our toes
Whirl in the dreamy waltz,
And if at times a thought arose —
Could hair like that be false?
 
 
I sniffed the reassuring coil
That shamed the damask rose,
And could not breathe a thought disloyal
While that was near my nose.
 
 
At length her aunt – the summer gone —
The influenza got;
To see my Polly to her home
It oft became my lot.
 
 
And if I took the longest way
The fraud was never known,
For organ of "locality"
My darling she had none.
 
 
One night, about the supper hour,
Thanks to some kindly fate,
We reached the entrance to her bower —
I mean the garden gate.
 
 
It was a gloomy night and wet
With rain and driving sleet,
And more than common risk beset
Pedestrians in the street.
 
 
From harm from wheel of cab or cart
I'd kept my darling free,
And in the fulness of her heart
She asked me in to tea.
 
 
Her aunt, that stately dame and grand,
Looked knives and forks at me;
She'd "Butter's Spelling" in her hand,
And "Webster" on her knee.
 
 
Her bead-like eyes gleamed bright behind
The spectacles she wore;
Of intellect and strength of mind
She had enough for four.
 
 
And tall her figure was, and spare,
And bony were her joints;
Orthography and grammar were
The strongest of her points.
 
 
A morbid taste this virgin chaste
For dictionaries had;
Though Polly C. might perfect be,
Her aunt was spelling mad.
 
 
I felt that if an angel bright
To earth from Oether fell,
She'd either give that Son of Light
Some heavy word to spell,
 
 
Or else she'd get him on to parse,
'Till sick of earthly things,
He'd work his passage to the stars
Upon his downy wings.
 
 
At Dr. Blank's academy,
I never took the lead;
My grammar and orthography
Were very weak indeed,
 
 
And oft those academic walls
Have echoed to my howls,
Responsive to the Doctor's calls
For consonants and vow'ls.
 
 
His rules respecting "Q's" and "P's"
Were graven on our backs,
And though we had no spelling-bees,
I got my share of whacks.
 
 
For what the Doctor failed to see
Impressed upon the mind,
Was certain very soon to be
Impressed in full behind.
 
 
But still, despite the scathing look,
And cane of Dr. Blank.
My spelling powers never took
An elevated rank.
 
 
And if my hopes of Polly hung
Upon so frail a thread,
My life was blighted 'ere begun —
My hopes, scarce born, were dead.
 
 
All silent through that evening meal
I sat with bended head,
And now and then a glance I steal
At Polly while she fed;
 
 
But though her eyes I often seek,
I only look at most;
My heart's too full of love to speak,
My mouth too full of toast.
 
 
Oh! sweet love-feast! – too sweet to last —
Oh! bitter after-cud!
Oh! spinster grim why didst thou blast
Love's blossom in the bud?
 
 
For, ere one happy hour could pass,
That virgin grim and fell
Invited me to join the class
Where Polly went to spell;
 
 
And though I trembled in my shoes,
In hopeless agony,
Could I the aunt of her refuse
Whose spell was over me?
 
 
At length arrived the dreaded hour,
And primed with eau de vie,
I sought that orthographic bower
Where met the spelling-bee.
 
 
No hope of prizes lured me toward
Those hundred gleaming eyes,
For me there was but one reward,
And Polly was the prize.
 
 
For her my dull ambition leapt,
In literary lists
To cope with lunatics who slept
With "Webster" in their fists.
 
 
Vague dread forebodings cloud my brow,
And make my cheek grow pale,
Oh! Dr. Johnson help me now —
My hopes are in the scale!
 
 
My frame with apprehension shook;
To nerve me for the task,
With tender, longing, yearning look
I eyed my pocket-flask,
 
 
And tempted by the spirit bright
That dwelt within its lips,
I put the contents out of sight
In two convulsive sips.
 
 
A stony-eyed examiner
Came in and took the chair;
I knew a place that's spelt with "H,"
And wished that he was there.
 
 
I softly cursed his form erect,
His "specs" with golden rim,
And prayed that doctors might dissect
His body limb from limb.
 
 
But soon the spirit's subtle fume
Obfusticates my view;
The common objects of the room
Seem multiplied by two.
 
 
My breast, the late abode of funk,
With courage was embued;
I was a little less than drunk,
And something more than screwed.
 
 
And while my heart beat loud and fast
With wild convulsive pants,
I saw two Pollys, and alas!
A pair of Polly's Aunts!
 
 
I fail to solve the mystery
Which Polly I prefer,
But thought I'd like Polygamy
With duplicates of her.
 
 
Involved in intellectual gloom,
I found the A. B. C.
Had vanished, vanquished by the fumes
Of Henessey's P. B.
 
 
And when that stony-looking one
Applied at length to me,
I spelt "consumption" with a "K,"
And "kangaroo" with "C"!
 
 
I will not paint these harrowing scenes,
Nor keep thee, reader, long,
Nor tell thee how I shocked the "Bee"
By breaking forth in song.
 
 
Two orthographic youths arose,
And dragged me from the room,
Despite my wild and aimless blows,
Into the outer gloom.
 
 
With force, and tender soothing tones
They led me from the hall,
And laid me on the cold, cold stones
Beneath the bare brick wall.
 
 
They spread for me no blanket warm.
No cloak or 'possum-rug,
And peelers bore my helpless form
In triumph to the "Jug."
 
 
Next day I found the "summons-sheet"
A blanket cold indeed;
I felt that liberty was sweet,
I wanted to be freed:
 
 
But peelers' hearts are solid rock,
They wouldn't hear me speak,
They dragged me to the felon's dock
Before a hook-nosed "beak."
 
 
He offered me – that hook-nosed "beak" —
The option of a fine,
In place of many a weary week
Of punishment condign.
 
 
I mutely pointed to my Sire,
The fount of my supplies,
And then bereft of joy I left
The court with tearful eyes.
 
 
I could not read again and live
The note I got 'ere long,
From Polly's single relative
Anent my goings on.
 
 
She told me it would be as well
Our intercourse should cease —
That one who drank, and couldn't spell
Should never have her niece.
 
 
She recommended frugal fare,
And lexicons, and pumps,
But when I think of Polly's hair
My own comes out in lumps!
 
 
Oh! tell me not a "spelling-bee's"
A sweet and pleasant thing;
I've drunk of sorrow's bitter lees —
I've felt that insect's sting.
 
 
My hopes are dead, despair hath spread
O'er me its blackest pall;
The honey and the wine of life.
Are turned to bitter gall.
 
 
Although I'm barely twenty-one
My crop of care is ripe!
No joy have I in moon or sun,
Or in my meerchaum pipe.
 
 
Oh! where are now the happy days,
When first I learnt to smoke?
When life seemed one long holiday —
Existence but a joke?
 
 
When I'd no other thought or care
Except my cane to gnaw,
And train the soft incipient hair
That grew upon my jaw?
 
 
They've passed away those happy day
And now I only crave
A brief, brief life – an early death,
A requiem, and a grave.
 
 
And billiards now I never play;
Not long my father will
Be troubled by me to defray
That tailor's lengthened bill.
 
 
I never wink at bar-maids now,
But soberly I tread
As walketh one whose home's among
The cold and silent dead.
 
 
One debt lies heavy on my breast
I'd like to pay but can't;
I'd like, before I go to rest,
To settle Polly's aunt.
 
 
I hope they'll take her where the time
Counts not by days and weeks —
The place of which 'tis wrong to rhyme,
And no one ever speaks!
 
 
'Tis where the letters that she loves —
The consonants and vow'ls —
Are melted down in patent stoves,
And moulded into howls!