Kitabı oku: «Southerly Busters», sayfa 6

A PEELER'S APPEAL

Against the Helmet of Modern Times

 
I was a peeler of a kind
That's seldom met with now;
I used to part my hair behind,
It clustered o'er my brow
 
 
In glossy ringlets, crisp and dark;
I had a massive chest,
And oft I lit love's fatal spark
Within the female breast.
 
 
The buttons on my coat of blue
Shone with effulgent light,
And cooks with eyes of dazzling hue
Fell prostrate at the sight.
 
 
At almost every kitchen door
They met me with a smile;
But then in modest pride I wore
The regulation tile.
 
 
No more they come with outstretched arms
My person to enwrap;
No more they hold the mutton cold
As sacred to the trap.
 
 
They never asks me into sup;
No smoking joints they bile;
They hates this cursed new-come-up —
This 'elmet mean and vile.
 
 
The boys what vends the "Evenin' News,'"
When I comes stalkin' by,
Awakes each alley, lane and mews,
With, "Crikey! 'ere's a guy!"
 
 
The cabbies stare so hard at me,
No wonder I gets huffed;
They grins, and axes who I be,
And if I'm "real or stuffed"
 
 
And when I walks about my beat
The hosses dreads the sight;
They stands up endways in the street
A snortin' with affright.
 
 
The 'bus-conductors winks and leers,
And holds their sides and splits;
And kids of very tender years
I frightens into fits.
 
 
I once was right at forty-four
For supper, lunch, and tea;
Upon this bosom Susan swore
She'd never love but me.
 
 
Alas! for that inconstant cook
The 'elmet 'ad no charms;
A most sanguineous butcher took
My Susan to his arms.
 
 
My Susan's cheeks were fair and sleek —
So were the chops she cooked;
But on her chops, and on her cheek,
My last I fear I've looked.
 
 
That butcher said as how 'twas meat
That me and she should part,
And never more for me will beat
That culinary 'eart.
 
 
Now listen you who've got to fix
What bobbies is to wear,
And if your 'earts aim 'ard as bricks,
Oh! 'ear a peelers prayer.
 
 
Oh! take the elmet from my brow —
The curse from off my 'ed;
You aint no sort o' notion ow
I wishes I wos dead.
 
 
There's nothing calculated more
A cove's good looks to spile;
Oh! if you've 'carts, restore, restore,
The regulation tile!
 
 
You can't give back that cook's fond 'eart —
Her chops, her cheek, her smile;
But if you'd make amends in part,
Restore, restore my tile!
 

THE following verses will probably be more intelligible to the bush reader than the metropolitan one. The latter is at liberty to "pass": —

THE OLD HAND

 
I'm forty years in New South Wales,
And knows a thing or two;
Can build a hut, and train a slut,
And chaff a "Jackeroo."⁸
I chiefly sticks to splittin' rails —
It's contract work, d'ye see;
I hates to ave a station-boss
A-overlookin' me.
 
 
I left my country for its good,
But not my own, I fear;
I makes big cheques a splittin' wood,
And knocks 'em down in beer.
 
 
I knows the Murrumbidgee's bends,
Though not a "whaler"⁹ now,
And many a score of sheep I've shore
For good old Jacky Dow.
 
 
I used to knock about on farms,
And plough a "land" or two;
But now for me that has no charms —
I hates a "Cockatoo."¹⁰
 
 
I'm splittin' for a squatter now
Down here upon the creek;
He often says as how I've got
A sight too much o' cheek.
 
 
They've got a new-chum over there —
I hates new-chums, I do;
I often tries to take a rise
Out of that Jackeroo.
 
 
One day when we was in the yard
A draftin' out some ewes,
We axed him for to lend a hand,
He couldn't well refuse.
 
 
I watched 'un for a minute just
To see what he would do;
Bless'd if he warn't a chuckin' out
A lot o' wethers too!
 
 
He keeps the store and sarves the "dust" —
I only wish he'd slope;
I knows he often books to me
Too many bars o' soap.
 
 
In them it ain't no sort o' use
Instruction to infuse;
There ain t a gleam o' intellect
In new-chum Jackeroos.
 
 
As soon as July fogs is gone
I chucks my axe up there,
And gets a stock of Ward and Payne's¹¹
At six and six a pair.
 
 
I've been a shearin' off an' on
For such a precious while,
I knows most every shearin' shed,
And each partickler style.
 
 
I'm able for to shear 'em clean,
And level as a die;
But I prefers to 'tommy-hawk,"
And make the "daggers" fly.
 
 
They mostly says that to the skin
They means to have 'em shore;
I alius knocks off skin an' all
When they begins to jawr.
 
 
My tally's eighty-five a day —
A hundred I could go,
If coves would let me "open out"
And take a bigger "blow."
 
 
I allus roughs 'em when the boss
Ain't on the shearin' floor;
It wouldn't pay to shear 'em clean
For three and six a score.
 
 
But when I see the super come
Paradin' down the "board,"
I looks as meek as any lamb
That ever yet was shored.
For, though by knockin' sheep about
You're causin' him a loss,
It's 'ard to have a squatter come
And mark 'em with a cross.¹²
 
 
They say us shearers sulks and growls —
I'm swearing half the day,
Because them blasted "pickers-up"
Won't take the wool away.
 
 
At sundown to the hut we goes;
The young 'uns lark and fun;
The cook and I exchanges blows
If supper isn't done.
 
 
And when the tea and mutton's gone,
And each has had enough,
We shoves the plates and pints away,
And has a game o' "bluff."¹³
 
 
I works a little "on the cross,"
I never trusts to luck;
I hates to have to "ante-up,"
And likes to "pass the buck."
 
 
I've got a way of dealin' cards
As ain't exactly square;
I does some things with jacks and kings
As makes the young 'uns stare.
 
 
I've mostly got four aces though,
Or else a "routine flush
I wins their cash and 'bacca, and
They pays for all my lush.
 
 
I likes to get 'em in my debt
For what their cheque '11 clear;
I've got a sort o' interest then
In every sheep they shear.
 
 
I'm cunnin', and my little games
They never does detect;
But I never was partickler green
As I can recollect.
 

PREFACE TO THE PIC-NIC PAPERS,

IF I were asked to state the most noticeable feature of the social economy of Sydney – the thing which pre-eminently distinguishes her from other metropolises – I should, unhesitatingly, say pic-nics. I once held the proud position of occasional reporter to a weekly paper, and my mental calibre not being considered heavy enough, or my temperament sufficiently stolid to do justice to parliamentary debates, I was sent to report the pic-nics. In Sydney every trade gives one, and every private family about six in the course of the summer. Carpenters, butchers, barbers, blacksmiths, undertakers, even grave-diggers, all give their pic-nic during the season; and why should they not? Is it for me to ridicule the practice? Shall I, who have been received as an honoured guest at all (and retired to make three half-pence a line out of an account of the proceedings), splinter my puny lance of satire against a firmly-rooted and meritorious custom? I who have hobnobbed with the publicans, waltzed with the wheelwrights, done the lard i da with the pork-butchers' wives and daughters, danced coatillions with the tailors, and indulged in sootable amusements with the sweeps? Never!

I have retired from the pic-nic business now, and though my reports were not masterpieces of descriptive writing, and never wrung even the smallest tribute of gratitude from those they were intended to immortalize, I give a specimen or two to serve as models to those who hereafter may be called upon to report pic-nics for journals, religious or otherwise.

THE BUTCHER'S PIC-NIC

THIS event came off with an unusual amount of eclat; merchants, members of parliament, and people of all kinds, were present; and if they were not all butchers, they all became squatters when the grassy plateaux of Correy's Gardens were reached. The pic-nic took place appropriately under a ewe-tree, and fortunately the wether was remarkably fine. Saws (wise ones excepted), axes, steels, and all other implements used in the trade, were, by common consent, left behind, and the only killing done was that accomplished by several fascinating young slaughter-men, whose hair and accents were oily not to say greasy in the extreme. One of these, who went in heavily for euphuism, told his inamorata that her heart was harder than his father's block, and the satire of her tongue keener than the edge of a certain cleaver in his parent's possession.

Sir Loin Oxborough, Fifth Baron (of beef), estates strictly entailed, was unanimously voted to a deserted "bull-dog's" nest, which did duty for a chair. He occupied this position with dignity, and made a speech, interlarding his discourse with several choice cuts from Steel and other poets; e.g.,

"Reveal, reveal the light of truth to me!"

"Steak not thine all upon the die!" &c.

He said they were met to enjoy themselves, and by their joint exertions to banish dull care; adversity might come, but what of that? He had always found that a round of afflictions, or a dark cloud had a silver lining, or rather a "silver-side," like a round of beef. He had often been in trouble himself – cut down, as it were, by the cleaver of adversity; reduced, he might say, to mince-meat by the sausage-machine of ill-luck; and he and his family had been once or twice regularly salted down in the harness-cask of fate; but, thanks to his natural buoyancy, or (butcher) – boy-ancy of spirits, he had risen like a bladder to the surface of the sea of despondency, and lived to pluck the skewers of affliction from his heart.

He advocated morality and sobriety. He might say he had lived a moral and sober life, for though he had been a free and generous liver, he had always done his duty to his fellow-men according to his lights. His motto was "live and let live," except where dumb animals were concerned – those he killed on principle, as a matter of business; and he respected all religious sects, except vegetarians. He had been cut up by sorrow, and cast down by depression of trade as often as most men. He had seen beef at tuppence a pound, hides at 2s. 6d. each, and tallow at nothing at all (warm weather, and no colds in the head prevalent), but he had never lost heart; from a boy, hopefulness had always been a meat-tray (he begged pardon, he meant a sweet trait) in his character; he had persevered, worked hard, and had eventually carved his way to wealth, fame, and fortune, through bone, gristle, flesh, skin, sinew and all. He was prosperous, but he owed his rise more to shoulders of mutton than the shoulders of his friends. He had been self-reliant, just, and generous; and though he had flayed many a beast, he had never yet attempted to skin a flint. (Cheers.) He was not democratic, and he believed more in the horny-headed monsters than the horny-handed masses; still he liked to see a man rise by his own exertions; and, inasmuch as a king – Charles the First to wit – had shewn how easy was the transition from the throne to the block, he did not see why an ascent from the block to the throne might not be equally possible.

In conclusion, he recommended his friends to take the fat with the lean through life, and not to grumble because some one else appeared to have all the prime-cuts of fortune, and all the rich fat of prosperity, and they only the fag-end and the bone. He sat down (on the deserted ant's nest) amid loud and reiterated applause.

Festivities then commenced The guests sat on their haunches and drank the blood of the grape out of hogs' heads.

The toasts drunk were the "Gallus" – not the gallows; the block and cleaver, &c. The juniors played "rounders," and (raw) "hide and seek." Dancing was kept up with animation until a late hour. Old Tommy Hawk danced a porka, and his peculiar shambling gait called forth rounds of applause. Several games of chance were played for beef stakes.

A butcher who dealt largely in goat's flesh sang the touching Scotch ballad, "Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi me," and old Pork Chops sang "Those evening chines" in a most affecting manner. The festivities continued until they could not very well continue any longer, and every body returned home perfectly satisfied.

THE OYSTERMEN'S AND FISHMONGERS' PIC-NIC

MON DAY was a great day. Though the bosom of the ocean was apparently unruffled by a zephyr, terror and excitement raged beneath its surface. Influential members of the finny tribe darted hither and thither in a manner which indicated that something unusual was afloat, and the piscatorial republic was shaken to its very centre. The military (that is, the sword-fish) were under arms, or rather fins, at an early hour, and formed a roe in martial array. The less warlike betrayed their agitation in a variety of ways. Sawfish from the Gulf of Carpentaria left their usual occupation of cutting the water, rose to the surface, and sawed the air in an agony of in tench excitement; mercantile fish abandoned their scales and took their weigh to places of security; limpets, becoming enervated, relaxed their hold upon the rock; oysters tossed restlessly on their beds, and even the jelly-fish trembled. Nor was this surprising; for were not the fishmongers and oystermen about to hold carnival – to celebrate the rites and ceremonies of their order? and, knowing this, could any member of the finny tribe remain unmoved, or even a molusc be calm?

In spite, perhaps unconscious, of all this, the jubilant fishmongers proceeded to the enjoyment of their pic-nic with light hearts. The oystermen, most of whom were natives, were appropriately clothed in shell-jackets, and wore barnacles. Miss Annet Snapperton, resplendent in a sea-green fishu, with cochineel trimmings, and a sea-anemone in her hair, proved an irresistible bait to young Codlington, a susceptible periwinkler and oysterman. He swore by the beard of the sacred oyster that she was an angel – called her his turtle and his pet (limpet, in fact) – and, while he besought her to fly with him and share a "grotter of hyster shells," he stated his intention of adhering to her heart like a limpet to its native rock, or the teeth of a skate to the finger of a too-confiding fisherman. At the conclusion of the banquet a speech was called for, and old Grampus rose. He said: – "Fishmongers and Fellow-oystermen (hear, hear), to meat you here on this ausfishous occasion" [he lisped a bit after eating salmon] "eels the wounded spirit and warms the cockles of this heart. Star-fish and stingarees! May I be scolloped if this aint the proudest moment of my life!" (Cheers.) He proceeded to state his views on things in general – regretted that a more able speaker had not been chosen to offishiate – hoped they wouldn't expect along speech from him, as he wasn't a parson – in fact he understood more about the curing of herrings, than the cure of soles – and the only school he ever attended was a "school" of mackerel which appeared off the coast one Sunday morning when he was a boy at home. His father had on that occasion taken him by the hand, and together they attended that Sunday-school. Subsequent proceedings made such an impression on his mind that he henceforth resolved to become a fish-dealer, and became one accordingly. He had read his Bible, and had heard about the "miraculous draught of fishes" – thought it must have been a brandy-p(r)awnee – always thought fish were something to eat before, though lie had known fishermen drink their whole week's catch on Saturday night – was a sober man himself, and didn't go in for mackarelous "draughts" of that kind. If not a religious man, he always strove to do his duty! Though he had been a fisherman in his time, he had never been a plaice hunter, and, Ecod! he thought few M.P's. could say that. What were his religious principles? Well, he wasn't a mussle-man, and though he dealt, in shell-fish, he abhorred shellfishness. He had heard about some all-fired heathens who worshipped Zorooyster (? Zoroaster); he couldn't say as he was acquainted with that mollusc, and wouldn't worship him if he were. Oysters was good things if you didn't put brandy a top of 'em, and he believed in cockles (the molluscs, not the pills), but worship a hoyster! Thank'eaven, he wasn't so far gone as that! Such ideas was incongerous.

He sat down amid applause, and musical and terpsichorean festivities commenced. Somebody danced the fishmongers' hornpipe. "Sets" were formed, and the (s)caly-donians gone through with great spirit. A gloomy-looking fish-dealer, with a bass voice, sang "My sole is dark and a blighted-looking young oyster-opener gave them, "Shells of the Ocean," and "Oh, shell we never part," alluding to the monotony of his occupation. Young Codlington sang "(T)winkle, (t)winkle, little Star-fish" with great taste and feeling. Fun and frolic became general, and it was late ere the (r)oysterers returned home, thoroughly wearied, but happy.