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>    'i 


Uii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FAIR    GIRLS    AND    GRAY    HORSES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fairgirlsgrayhorOOogil 


FAIR     GIRLS 

AND  GRAY    HORSES 

WITH    OTHER    VERSES 


BY 

WILL    H.   OGILVIE 

AUTHOR   OF    "HEARTS   OF   GOI,D ' 


SYDNEY 

ANGUS    AND     ROBERTSON 

89    CASTI,EREAGH     STREET 
1906 

Eleventh  Thousand 


U'ebsdale,  Shoosiiiith  &  Co.,  Printers,  Sjdney. 


}'/3. 1  ^  .AjP  r 


/• 


PR 


To  HUGH  GORDON 

For  sake  of  the  meet  and  the  muster, 

The  hunts  in  the  oak-scrub  and  plain  ; 
For  sake  of  the  old  days,  whose  lustre 

May  never  shine  round  us  again  ; 
In  mind  of  the  head-rope  and  halter, 

The  mounts  in  the  dawn  and  the  dew, 
I  lay  my  poor  gift  on  the  altar 

Of  friendship,  and  pledge  it  to  You  ! 

W.  H.  0. 


542808 

LIB  SETSrAt-'5TP<*>viA:i 


0/ the  following  verges,  "Life  has  wreaths  of  each 
hue,"  "  Gold  Tresses,"  "  The  Old  Boat,"  "  The  World 
Beyond,"  "  Brdlade  of  Windy  Nights,"  and  "  To  the 
Overlanders"  are  first  printed  in  this  volume.  "  The 
Land  of  Dumh  Despair"  was  published  as  introductory 
to  "  Where  the  Dead  Men  Lie,  and  Other  Poems" 
by  Barcroft  Boake.  Most  of  the  others  originally 
appeared  in  The  Bulletin,  and  some  in  The 
Australasian,  The  Sydney  Mail,  The  Critic 
{Adelaide),  The  Western  Champion  and  The 
Independent  (Parkes,  N.S.  W.),  The  Border 
Watch  {Mount  Gambier,  S.A.),  The  Australasian 
Pastoralists'  Review,  and  The  Kelso  Mail 
{Scotland). 


FAIR  GIRLS  AND  GRAY  HORSES! 

Fair  Girls  and  Gray  horses  !  A  toast  for  you 
Who  never  u-ent  ivide  of  a  fence  or  a  kiss  : 

While  horses  are  horses  and  eyes  are  blue 
There  is  never  a  toast  in  the  u-orld  like  tliis! 

To  all  Fair  Girls  !  For  the  sake  of  one 

M'hose  hriglit  blue  eyes  ivere  awhile  my  star, 
Whose  hair  had  the  rich  red  gold  of  the  Sun 

When  his  kisses  fall  where  the  leaf  lips  are  ! 
To  all  Fair  Girls  '.   How  the  red  wine  gleams 

To  the  glass's  rim  as  it  gleamed  that  night 
In  the  jewelled  hand  of  my  Dame  of  Dreams — 

0,  jeivelled  fingers  so  soft  and  white  .' 
To  all  Fair  Girls  !  Turn  your  glasses  down. 

Ilere^s  "  Blissful  bridals  and  long  to  live  !  " 
And  if  I  am  sligliting  your  eyes  of  brown, 

Of  Gipsies  Bom  of  the  Night,  forgive  ! 


FAIR  GIRLS  AND  GRAY  HORSES 

To  all  Gray  Horses  !  Fill  up  ayain 

For  the  sake  of  a  gray  horse  dear  to  me ; 
For  a  foam-fed  bit  and  a  snatching  rein 

And  a  reaching  galloper  fast  and  free  ! 
To  all  Oray  Horses !  For  one  steed's  sake 

Who  has  carried  me  many  a  journey  tall 
In  the  daivn-mists  dun  when  the  magpies  wake, 

In  the  starry  haze  when  the  night-dews  fall  ! 
To  all  Gray  Horses  !  Noiv  drink  you  deep, 

For  red  wine  ruins  no  rider's  nerves  : 
'  Light  work  and  a  long,  long  after-sleep  !  " 

As  each  gray  horse  in  the  world  deserves. 

Fair  Girls  and  Gray  Horses  !  To  each  his  way, 
But  golden  and  gray  are  the  loves  to  hold  ; 

And  if  gold  tresses  must  turn  to  gray 

Gray  horses  need  never  he  tamed  into  gold  I 


CONTENTS 

I'AGB 

LEILA 

The  nodding  plumes  steal  slowly  by  ;        -  1 

DRAY-DREAMS 

0  the  mountains  speak  of  sadness  !  -  3 

"POUR  PASSER     .     .     ." 

No  sweep  of  hill  or  valley,        .         -         .  6 

GOLD  TRESSES 

You  stand  at  my  knee,  Gold  Tresses  !       -  8 

A  BROKEN  WEB 

A  spider  floated  a  silken  thread       -         -         10 

THE  TOWNSHIP  LIGHTS 

With  laughter  and  love-spells  and  witch- 
eyes  of  blue  -         -         -         -         -         12 


xii  CONTENTS 

I'AOE 

THE  PARTING 

There  were  trailing  roses  behind  her         -         14 

"  PERHAPS  TO-NIGHT !  " 


"  Perhaps    to-night !  "    came   flashing 

through  the  splendour  -         -         -         16 

TO  A  MISOGYNIST 

You  damn  all  ivomen   as   wantons  nr  worse  17 

WHEN  HORSES   ARE   SADDLED   FOR 
LOVE 

The  saddle-slaves  of  Love  are  we      -         -         19 

STAR  AND  STAR 

You  have  crossed  my  life  with  your  fair 

sweet  face ;  -----         22 

TO-DAY  ! 

Hear  me  now  !  for  Time  is  flying,    -         •         24 

HIS  GIPPSLAND  GIRL 

Now,    money  was    scarce  and    work  was 

slack  ......         26 

WHISPER  LOW 

We  have  rowed  together  at  even-fall        -         29 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAOE 

A  TELL-TALE  TRYST 

O,   who   was  it  saddled  White   Star  last 

night,  ..----         31 

GOOD-BYE,  LYNETTE! 

I  have  worked  for  you — toil  made  sweet, 

love !  ------         33 

IN  MULGA   TOWN 

We  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town,  -         35 

THE  OLD  BOAT 

The  Old  Boat  lies  in  the  sand  and  slime         37 

LOVE'S  MOLOCH 

How  long  shall  we  hear  the  sobbing  1       -         39 

WHERE    THE    BRUMBIES    COME    TO 
WATER 

There's  a  lonely  grave  half-hidden  where 

the  blue-grass  droops  above,  -         -         42 

GOOD-BYE 

Here     on    the   broken   strings  of   Love's 

mute  harp,  .         -         ...         45 

FROM  THE  GULF 

Store   cattle   from   Nelanjie !     The   mob 

goes  feeding  past,         -         •   '     -        -        49 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PAOK 

THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL 

He  was  the  Red  Creek  overseer,  a  trusted 

man  and  true,       -----         54 

FOUR-IN-HAND 

O  some  prefer  a  single,  -         -         -         61 

THE  STOCKYARD  LIAR 

If  ever  you're  handling  a  rough  one  -         63 

THE  BORDER  GATE 

Dawn  gilds  the  spiders'  bridges ;      -         -         66 

OUTLAWS  BOTH 

Steady  !  steady,  my  pearl !  from  the  crest 

of  the  range         -         -         -         -         -         69 

THE  COACH  OF  DEATH 

There's    a    phantom-coach    runs   nightly 

along  the  Western  creeks ;  -         -         72 

DARRELL 

So  I've  taken  his  hundred  notes  in  the 

end,  77 

OFF  THE  GRASS 

They  were  boasting  on  the  Greenhide  of 

their  nags  of  fancy  breed,     -         -         -         79 


CONTENTS  XV 

PA8K 

HIS  EPITAPH 

On  a  little   old  bush   x'acecourse  at  the 

back  of  No  Man's  Land,  -         -         84 

THE  DINGO  OF  BRIOALOW  GAP 

For  K.G.  or  coronet,  kingdom  or  crown,         87 

HOW  THE  CHESTNUT  HORSE  CAME 
HOME 

Twenty  miles  across  the  ranges  there's  a 

patch  of  cane-grass  clears  -         -         91 

A  DRAFT  FROM   TRINGADEE 

Lead  me  down  to  the  stockyard,  Jim,  to 

the  butt  of  the  old  box-tree  !         -         -         95 

TAKEN  OVER 

The  Banks  are  taking  charge,  old  man  ! — 

/  knew  how  it  would  be ;       -         -         .         99 

THE  STATION  BRAND 

Ho  !  you  in  the  boots  and  the  long-necked 

spurs, 103 

OUT  OF  THE  CHAINS 

He  has  toiled  in  his  place  since  the  break 

of  day, 106 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGP. 

THE  MAN  WHO  STEADIES  THE  LEAD 

He  was  born  in  the  light  of  red  oaths       -       109 

HOW    THE    FIRE     QUEEN     CROSSED 
THE  SWAMP 

The  flood  was  down  in  the  Wilga  swamps, 

three  feet  over  the  mud,       -         -         -       113 

THE  NEAR  SIDE  LEADER 

When  the  gear  is  on  the  horses  and  the 

knotted  trace-chains  hooked ;        -         -       118 

THE  SILENT  SQUADRON 

Down  the  long  dream-lanes      -         -         -       123 

THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

Long  years  ago — no  matter  now  how  long 

— one  fierce  December  -         -         -       125 

RIDERLESS 

A  broken  bridle  trailing,  -         -         -       135 

KINGS  OF  THE  EARTH 

We  are  heathen  who  worship  an  idol  -       137 

UNBROKEN ! 

Eyes  wild  with  fear  unspoken,  -         -       139 


CONTENTS  xvii 

PABK 

HOW  WE  WON  THE  RIBBON 

Come  and  look  around  my  office —  -         -       142 

HABET ! 

Down !    And   the   world's    war-squadron 

splashes 151 

THE  WORLD  BEYOND 

A  Poet  stood  in  the  red  day-dawn,  -         -       153 

NORTHWARD  TO  THE  SHEDS 

There's  a  whisper  from  the  regions  out  beyond 
the  Barwon  banks ;      -         -         -         -       155 

LIFE'S  OVERLAND 

Grey-lying     miles     to    the    nor'ward    of 

Nor' ward,    - 158 

AT  THE  BACK  O'  BOURKE ! 

Where  the  mulga  paddocks  are  wild  and 

wide, 161 

THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 

Let    others    chant    of    battle    and    such 

wreaths  as  Glory  gave ;         -         -         -       164 

AT  THE  BEND  O'  THE  CREEK 

Here  18  roar iny  flood  in  Winter        -         -       166 


xviii  CONTENTS 

I'AOR 

WEST  OF  THE  WORLD 

West  of  the  World  all  red  suns  sleep        -       169 

A  SCOTCH   NIGHT 

If  you  chance  to  strike  a  gathering   of 

half-a-dozen  friends       -         -         -         -       1 70 

"ABSENT  FRIENDS!" 

"  Absent  Friends  !  "  There  are  brought  to 

our  mind  again    -         -         -         -         -       174 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  FLOOD 

There's  a  whisper  away  on  the  Queens- 
land side     176 

"GODSPEED!" 

Because  we've  waked  the  morning-stars    -       1 80 

A  WIND  FROM  THE  WEST 

The  Wind  that  fires  the  blood  -         -       182 

ABANDONED  SELECTIONS 

On  the  crimson  breast  of  the  sunset  -       184 

"THE   MEN   WHO   BLAZED   THE 
TRACK ! " 

Since  the  toasts  for  the  absent  are  over,  -       188 

VTTA  BREVIS 

Oui' Life  is  but  a  moment  :      -  -         -       191 


CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

THE  TRUEST  FRIEND 

I  had  a  comrade  tried  and  true,        -  -        193 

AULD  LANG  SYNE 

O,  it's  southward  from  Southampton  !  and 

she  takes  the  Channel  gay,  -         -         -       194 

IN  TOWN 

Where  the  smoke-clouds  scarcely  drift      -       198 

BEYOND  COOLGARDIE 

They    are    fighting    beyond    Coolgardie, 

dusty  and  worn  and  brown,  -         -       200 

DESERTED 

This  is  the  homestead— the  still  lagoon     -       202 

THE  FILLING  OF  THE  SWAMPS 

Hurrah  for  the  storm-clouds  sweeping  !    -       204 

BLACK  SHEEP 

They  shepherd  their  Black  Sheep  down  to 

the  ships, 206 

THE  COMING  HOME 

The  liijht  ice  fulluiv  throiujh  a  mist  of  tears        208 


XX  CONTENTS 

PAOE 

THE  WALLABY   TRACK 

0  a    weird,   wild    road    is    the    Wallaby 
Track 210 

BEYOND  THE  BARRIER 

Are  you  tired  of  the   South  Land,   com- 
rade—          212 

RAINBOWS  AND  WITCHES 

1  remember,  ever  so  long  ago,  -         -       215 

HANDICAPPED  ! 

Life's  race  for  all  is  even-lapped       -         -       218 

MEMORY  TOWN 

From  dawning  to  dusk  moves  the  crowd  in 

her  street    -----  220 

TO  A  BUNCH  OF  HEATHER 

Was  it  early  in  the  autumn,  was  it  sunny 

summer  weather  ?         -         -         -         -        222 

THE  FRONT  RANK 

We  fight  on  far  tracks  unknown  ;    -         -       225 

THE  NEW  MOON 

"  New   Moon    to->iight  '."     you  will   hear   thevi 

say,    -------       227 


CONTENTS  xxi 

PAOE 

THE  BUSH,  MY  LOVER 

The  camp-fire  gleams  resistance        -         -       229 

A  SPIN  OF  THE  COIN 

The  Spring  is  warm  and  waking,  and  the 

Avattle's  bursting  bud ;  -         -         -       232 

A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

The  song-thrush  loves  the  laurel,      -         -       235 

THE  GRAVES  OUT   WEST 

If  the  lonely  graves  are  scattered  in  that 

fenceless  vast  God's  Acre,    -         -         -       237 

FAIRY  TALES 

I  chanced  on  an  old  brown  book  to-day  239 

VILLANELLE 

Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  as  wing,    -       241 

BEN  HALL'S  STIRRUP-IRONS 

A  lithe  young  squatter  passes  in  the  dust,       243 

BALLADE  OF  WINDY  NIGHTS 

Have   you   learnt    the    soi-row   of   windy 

nights 244 

THE  BUSHMAN'S  FRIEND 

Let  the  sailor  tell  of  the  roaring  gale        -       246 


xxii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CITY  OF  GRAY  GRIEFS 

Somewhere,    hid    in    our   hearts,    a  City 

stands  -..--.        248 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT 

The  lamps  will  be  lit  over  seas  to-night,  -       250 

THE  CRUELLEST  DREAM 

So  here  at  the  last  I  find  -         -         -       252 

BOWMONT  WATER 

O,  we  think  we're  happy  roving  !      -         -       254 

THE  ROSE  OUT  OF  REACH 

A  red  rose  grew  on  a  southward  wall,       -       257 

"SORRY  TO  GO!" 

I  watched  by  the  homestead  where  moon- 
beam and  star      -----       259 

THE  LAND  OF  DUMB  DESPAIR 

Beyond     where     farthest     drought-fires 

burn,  .-...-       262 

TO  THE  OVERLANDERS 

Take  this  farewell  from  one  must  leave    -       264 


FAIR  GIRLS 


Life  has  tvreatlis  of  each  hue 

But  the  Cypress  hinds  all  of  them  ; 
Wreaths  of  Rose  and  0/  Hue, 

Life  has  ivreaths  of  each  hue, 
Laurel  wreaths  for  a  few, 

Hemlock  wreaths  and  the  yall  of  ihem ; 
lAfe  has  wreaths  of  each  hue 

But  the  Cypress  binds  all  of  them. 


LEILA 

The  nodding  plumes  steal  slowly  by  ; 

Fair  women  turn  their  heads  aside  ; 
And  yet  the  purest  there  must  die 

As  poor  Love-Leila  died. 

In  town,  a  boy  who  never  knew 

Of  better  love  than  this 
Is  mourning  Leila's  eyes  of  blue, 

And  lone  for  Leila's  kiss. 

A  horseman  on  the  burning  plains 

A  hundred  miles  north-west 
Bends  gently  o'er  his  bridle-reins 

And  prays  for  Leila,      Rest ! 

A  man  who  buried  all  his  dreams 

Of  Love  long  years  ago, 
Has  dropped  one  other  tear  where  gleams 

Love-Leila's  breast  of  snow. 


LEILA 

All  virtuous  the  world  appears  ; 

But  those  who  turn  aside 
May  never  win  such  honest  tears 

As  fell  when  Leila  died. 


DRAY-DREAMS 

0  THE  mouutains  speak  of  sadness  ! 
There  is  gloom  ou  ridge  and  spur  ; 

But  they  cannot  dim  the  gladness 
In  my  heart  because  of  her. 

All  day  long  I  feel  her  near  me  ; 
To  my  soul  her  presence  steals  ; 

"When  I  whisper  she  can  hear  me 
Through  the  rolling  of  the  wheels. 

1  can  see  my  gold -haired  Freda 

(By  the  dull  world  undescried) 
As  I  steer  the  old  brown  leader 

Deftly  down  the  mountain  side  ; 
As  I  chide  the  lazy  shaf  ter 

Through  the  pine-spears  on  the  grass, 
I  can  hear  her  gentle  laughter 

In  the  green  boughs  as  I  pass. 


DRAY-DREAMS 

And  at  times  I  hear  her  singing 

Softly  when  the  west  winds  blow, 
And  the  feathered  pines  are  swinging 

On  the  range-top  to  and  fro  : 
Dreamily  I  drive  my  cattle, 

Lulled  to  sleep  above  their  reins 
By  the  wheels'  eternal  I'attle 

And  the  clinking  of  the  chains. 

And  her  songs  of  love  have  stirred  me, 

And  I've  answered  from  the  shaft, 
Till  the  wondering  'possums  heard  me 

And  the  kookaburras  laughed  ! 
Passion  reigns  the  wide  world  over  : 

Pi'ince  and  pauper  own  his  sway  ; 
And  a  lover  is  a  lover 

Though  he  drive  a  two-horse  dray ! 

Days  are  long  and  wheat's  to  carry 

Now ;  but  when  the  summer's  by, 
Fate  allowing,  we  shall  marry, 

Gold-haired  Freda,  you  and  I  : 
When  in  stress  of  winter  weather 

Flowers  are  dead  and  skies  are  gray, 
We'll  go  jogging  home  together, 

Loved  and  lover  in  a  dray. 


DRAY-DREAMS 

Life  is  dull  and  toil  unending  ; 

But  the  voice  of  Love  is  sweet, 
And  the  tide  is  always  tending 

To  the  ti-yst  where  lovers  meet ; 
Life  is  commonplace  and  real, 

Yet  along  its  rock-strewn  way 
Each  man  sees  his  own  ideal 

As  he  dreams  upon  his  dray  ! 


"  POUR  PASSER    ..." 

No  sweep  of  hill  or  valley, 

No  meadows  daisy -pearled, 
To  break  the  line  of  mallee 

That  bounds  our  little  world. 
The  sun  begins  his  bondage 

Behind  the  mallee  tops. 
And  through  their  soft  green  frondage 

The  sun  at  evening  drops  .   .   . 

So  day  by  day  is  given  : 

And  night  by  night  ive  pray, 

"  Help,  Lord  nj"  Hell  or  Heaven, 
To  pass  the  time  away  .'" 

A  canter  through  the  clearing 
To  where  a  white  roof  gleams  ; 

A  vow,  a  passioned  hearing, 
A  mockery  of  Love's  dreams  : 


"  POUR  PASSER    ..." 

Clasped  hands  and  burning  kisses, 

And  whispers  soft  to  say  : 
"  There's  no  such  way  as  this  is 

To  pass  the  time  away  !  " 

A  gleam  of  snow-white  shoulder, 

A  clasp  of  rounded  arms  ; 
A  month  .   .   .  and  Love  grown  colder 

Has  lost  his  luring  charms. 
A  careless  farewell  spoken 

For  ever  and  a  day — 
And  one  more  hrave  heart  broken 

To  pass  tlie  time  away ! 


GOLD  TRESSES 

You  stand  at  my  knee,  Gold  Tresses  ! 

Most  true  of  all  lovers  of  mine, 
With  lips  that  are  fashioned  for  kisses 

And  fingers  that  thrill  where  they  twine  ; 
And  bitter  at  heart  thus  early, 

And  weary  of  life  am  I, 
And  you  are  so  happy,  girlie — 

The  sun  and  the  birds  say,  why  ! 

Your  heart  is  so  pure.  Gold  Tresses  ! 

You  know  of  no  life  like  mine 
That  is  hot  to  the  brow  with  kisses 

And  red  to  the  lips  with  wine — 
The  hate  in  her  courtly  greetings, 

The  scorn  of  her  soft  replies. 
The  shame  of  her  stolen  meetings, 

The  grief  of  her  wild  good-byes. 

8 


GOLD  TRESSES 

Oh,  fashion  your  wreaths  in  the  sunlight 

Untouched  of  the  mist  and  the  rain, 
For  Youth  is  the  rose  light,  the  one  light 

That  never  will  gird  us  again  ; 
And  ours  is  the  load  you  must  borrow 

And  ours  is  the  path  you  must  fare. 
Who  have  passed  by  the  archways  of  Sorrow 

And  knocked  at  the  gates  of  Despair. 

You  nestle  with  soft  arms  around  me, 

Your  face  is  upturned  to  my  own. 
The  chains  that  have  crippled  and  bound  me 

Lie  heavy  and  cold  as  a  stone  ; 
And  out  to  the  sunlight  there  surges 

A  passionate  longing  and  wild — 
Ah,  these  are  the  whips  and  the  scourges 

The  lips  and  the  hands  of  a  child  ! 


A  BROKEN  WEB 

A  SPIDER  floated  a  silken  thread 

In  the  grey  of  a  misty  morn 
To  fetter  a  rose  to  a  i^osebud  red, 

A  bloom  to  a  bloom  forlorn. 

The  dews  brought  diamond  gifts  to  leave, 

The  winds  of  dawn  crooned  by, 
And  the  spider  toiled  with  a  heart  to  weave 

A  web  that  would  fill  the  sky. 

The  sun  leaned  out  of  the  lifting  mist 
And  laughed  to  the  silver  threads, 

And  wherever  his  passionate  lips  had  kissed 
Burned  beautiful  blues  and  reds. 

But  the  maiden  came  with  a  sunny  face 
And  a  butterfly-net  in  her  hand. 

And  shattered  the  web  in  her  reckless  race — 
Too  happy  to  understand. 


A  BROKEN   WEB  11 

And  she  danced  away  to  the  garden-door 
With  the  wreck  of  her  hands  unseen, 

But  a  rose  will  swing  to  a  rose  no  more 
"With  a  silver  chain  between. 


THE  TOWNSHIP  LIGHTS 

With  laughter  and  love-spells  and  witch-eyes  of  blue 
A  girl  in  the  township  is  waiting  for  you. 
There  is  nothing  that  thrills  like  a  handclasp  of  hers, 
So  bridle  your  best  horse  and  buckle  your  spurs  ; 
We'll  wait  not  for  moonlight,  but  saddle  and  ride 
With  the   lights   of  the  township   our  goal   and   our 
guide. 

There  are  glasses  to  empty  and  yarns  to  be  spun  ; 
There  are  cards  to  be  handled  and  coin  to  be  won  ; 
There  are  light-footed  dancers  that  wait  in  the  hall 
For  the  boys  from  the  station  to  open  the  ball, 
With  its  waltzes  for  wooing  and  lancers  for  love 
While  the  lights  of  the  township  are  dancing  above 

The  day  has  been  long  in  the  dust  and  the  heat, 
But  the  way  will  be  short  with  a  guerdon  so  sweet ; 


THE  TOWNSHIP  LIGHTS  13 

The  songs  of  the  rover  will  shorten  the  miles 

That  the  queen  of  our  fancy  makes  bright   with  her 

smiles ; 
And  stirrup  to  stirrup  we'll  sing  as  we  ride 
To   the  lights  of   the   township    that    glimmer    and 

guide. 

We'll  welcome  old  faces,  our  glasses  we'll  fill 
Till  the  silver  moon  drops  on  the  crest  of  the  hill ; 
The  words  of  our  love  to  the  night  shall  be  borne, 
Our  song  to  the  dawn^vind,  our  laughs  to  the  morn ; 
We'll  dance  till  the  sunbeams  are  out  in  the  sky 
And  the  lights  of  the  township  gleam  faintly  and  die. 

The  world  may  despise  us,  and  parsons  disprove 
That  the  night  is  for  dancing  and  drinking  and  love, 
But  we'll  saddle  our  horses  and  ride  to  the  dance 
And  drink  to  the  beauty  that  kills  at  a  glance ; 
We'll  hold  to  our  loves  and  we'll  stick  to  our  creed 
As  long  as  the  lights  of  the  township  may  lead ! 


THE  PARTING 

There  were  trailing  roses  behiud  her 

And  roses  tall  on  the  lawn, 
And  Love  for  a  gift  had  twined  her 

A  crown  of  the  crimson  dawn  ; 
She  pondered  on  Life's  swift  changes, 

Looked  westward  and  wondered  why, 
And  fluttered  a  scarf  to  the  ranges — 

And  this  was  the  girl's  good-bye. 

He  rode  with  his  burden  of  sorrow 

To  the  crest  of  the  Big  Divide, 
And  he  thought  of  the  long  lone  morrow 

And  bent  to  the  reins  and  sighed ; 
But  turned  with  a  great  grief  laden. 

And  looked  back  once  to  the  dell. 
And  waved  a  hand  to  the  maiden — 

And  this  was  the  man's  farewell. 


THE  PARTING  15 

Her  heart  was  untouched  as  the  snow's  is, 

And  cold  as  the  white  young  year's ; 
She  could  not  see  for  her  roses, 

And  he — for  his  blinding  tears  ; 
But  no  worlds  wait  for  a  woven  spell. 

Though  hope  in  the  heart  should  die, 
"Wliile  brave  men  part  wdth  a  fond  farewell — 

And  girls  with  a  light  good-bye  ! 


"  PERHAPS  TO-NIGHT !  " 

"  Perhaps  to-night !  "  came  flashing  through  the 

splendour 

Of  gleaming  lights  and  gems  and  faces  fair, 
The  touching  hands,  the  whispers  low  and  tender, 

The  love-lit  glances  and  the  scented  air ; 
And  then  the  beauty  flickered  down  and  faded, 

A  shadow  grew  and  lingered  on  the  light, 
The  shadow  of  a  sword  that  hung  keen-bladed 

Above  the  revellers.     "  Perhaps  to  night !  " 

"  Perhaps  to-night !  "     If  Death  had  passed  the 

dancers 

And  clasped  our  hand  in  his  before  them  all 
We  should  have  wept  those  vows  and  burning  answers 

And  all  the  glamour  of  the  lighted  hall ; 
But  far  from  love  and  lover  in  the  meadow 

We  wait  his  summons  and  our  eyes  are  bright. 
For  nothing  but  a  friend  can  be  the  shadow. 

And  nothing  but  a  hope — "  Perhaps  to-night !  " 


TO  A  MISOGYNIST 

You  damn  all  women  as  wantons  or  worse 
For  a  lover  proved  false  in  the  days  gone  by  : 

There  are  women  to  worship  as  well  as  to  cxirse — 
And  rows  will  break  while  the  sun  rides  hiyh  ! 

Had  you  never  a  sister  who  held  your  hand 

As  you  loitered  together  in  Babyland, 

Who  guided  your  steps  to  the  brightest  bowers 

Where  the  life-dawn  flushed  on  the  fairest  flowers  1 

Had  you  never  a  mother  who  heard  you  lisp 

Your  baby  prayers  at  her  dear  old  knee, 

Before  Love's  flame  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp 

Had  lured  you  away  to  the  storm-tossed  sea  1 

Had  you  never  a  lover — before  this  last — 

True  to  the  dream  ere  the  dream  had  passed  ; 

Never  a  token,  a  tress  or  a  curl, 

To  bind  your  life  to  one  true-heart  girl  1 

B  17 


18  TO  A  MISOGYNIST 

You  damn  all  women  as  wantons  or  tvorse 
For  a  lover  proved  false  in  the  days  gone  by  . 

Say,  tvas  the  hlame  of  it — all  of  it — hers? 
We  are  not  so  immaculate,  you  and  I. 


WHEN  HORSES  ARE  SADDLED  FOR  LOVE 

The  saddle-slaves  of  Love  are  we 

Who  mount  by  sun  and  moon, 
No  matter  what  the  season  be 

So  long  as  it  be  soon  ! 
The  golden  and  the  gray  light 

Have  seen  the  girth-straps  drawn 
For  Love  that  rules  the  daylight, 

The  dark  and  dusk  and  dawn. 

What  hoof  beat  on  the  gravel ! 

What  haste  with  Love  to  be  ! 
What  snatching  at  the  snaffle  ! 

What  reefing,  head  to  knee  ! 
Now  faster  still  and  faster  ! 

The  white  Moon  laughs  above  : 
She  knows  we  have  no  master 

Except  the  Lord  of  Love. 


20     WHEN  HORSES  ARE    SADDLED  FOR  LOVE 

The  low  road  keeps  the  river, 

The  high  road  skirts  the  hill — 
No  road  so  short  but  ever 

We  find  a  shorter  still ; 
And  if  the  floods  run  blindly 

Where  Love,  not  Life,  's  the  loss, 
Dame  Fortune  treats  us  kindly 

And  holds  our  hands  across. 

The  Bush- Wind  blows  to  meet  us 

As  though  she  understands  ; 
The  hop-bush  holds  to  greet  us 
A  hundred  clasping  hands  ; 
There's  not  a  bird  but  sings  us 

A  welcome  in  the  grove : 
They  know  't  is  Love  that  brings  us — 
And  all  the  world  loves  Love  ! 

Be  skies  alight  or  leaden 

Long  miles  bring  no  regret. 
And  if  the  white  spurs  redden 

Our  horses  soon  forget : 
So  toss  the  bars,  my  beauty  ! 

And  cream  the  reins  with  foam  ; 
It's  ten  moon-miles  to  duty. 

And  ten  more  dawn-miles  home  ! 


WHEN  HORSES  ARE  SADDLED  FOR  LOVE      21 

Gleam  lights  in  the  verandah  ; 

Flash  lamps  across  the  lawn  ; 
But  soft  the  shadows  yonder 

Where  reins  are  tightly  di-awn. 
Out  there  the  dews  are  glistening  ; 

The  leaves  are  scarcely  stirred, 
So  close  the  Night- Wind's  listening 

To  every  whispered  word  ! 

The  Moon  she  dips  to  morning  ; 

The  lamps  are  burning  low, 
Our  love  belated  scorning  .  .  . 

"  One  kiss  before  I  go  !  " 
Now  slowly  through  the  starlight  .   .   . 

Slow,  slow,  in  dreams  away  .  .   . 
Till  eastward  gleams  the  far  light 

That  leads  the  breaking  Day. 


STAR  AND  STAR 

You  have  crossed  my  life  with  your  fair  sweet  face  ; 

You  are  filling  my  lone  heart's  vacant  place  ; 

Your  whispered  Avords  and  your  arms  that  cling 

Are  a  link  in  Love's  remembering ; 

For  your  forms  are  alike  as  the  angels  are, 

Your  faces  are  moulded  as  star  and  star. 

I  have  taken  your  hand  that  is  soft  to  take, 
I  have  held  it  long  for  an  old  love's  sake  ; 
I  have  played  with  the  curls  of  your  golden  head 
As  I  played  with  gold  curls  in  a  day  long  dead ; 
And  your  rose-red  lips  I  have  tasted  seem 
Like  the  red-rose  lips  of  a  fading  dream. 

I  held  her  once  in  my  arms  of  old  ; 
I  kissed  her  twice,  but  her  lips  were  cold : 
I  clasped  you  close  to  my  heart  to-night, 
A  heaving  bosom  of  snowdrift  white ; 

■22 


STAR  AND  STAR  23 

But  there's  never  a  snow  could  quench  the  fire 
That  burned  in  your  passionate  lips'  desii'e  ! 

With  the  pleading  words  't  is  a  wrong  to  name 
You  are  holding  your  brow  for  the  brand  of  shame  ; 
There  is  never  a  pleasure  I  could  not  prove 
In  the  name  of  the  passion  you  think  is  Love ; 
There  is  never  a  freedom  I  might  not  take, 
But  ...  I  spare  you,  girl,  for  an  old  love's  sake  ! 

I  could  blacken  the  fame  you  hold  so  cheap 
While  moonbeams  sorrow  and  white  stars  weep  ; 
But  I  drop  your  hand,  though  it  give  you  pain — 
I  dream  no  dream  on  your  lips  again  .   .   . 
What  reck  if  your  heart,  like  mine,  shall  break  ? 
/  will  spare  your  soul  for  Her  white  soul's  sake  ! 


TO-DAY  ! 

Hear  me  now  !  for  Time  is  flying, 

And  the  beating  of  his  wings 
Drowns  the  vows  of  Love  undying. 

Dims  the  light  where  Memory  clings  ! 
All  the  saddest  songs  of  Sorrow 

Are  the  dirges  of  Delay, 
And  our  hearts  may  lose  to-morrow 

What  our  hands  may  hold  to-day. 

When  a  grave  beside  the  river 

Claims  the  last  of  Love  and  you, 
And  Death's  hand  has  dried  for  ever 

All  our  wreaths  of  rose  and  rue  ; 
When  the  winding  grass  above  you 

Hides  Hope's  brightest  lamp  away, 
How  are  you  to  know  I  love  you 

If  I  must  not  speak  to-day  1 

24 


TO-DAY  !  25 

When  above  your  silent  sleeping 

Pitying  pine-boughs  moan  and  toss, 
And  the  moonbeams  pale  with  weeping 

Fling  their  snow-white  arms  across  ; 
When  the  one  star  that  was  nearest 

Dims  and  dies  a  world  away, 
How  am  I  to  tell  you,  Dearest  1  .  . 

Let  me  speak  my  love  to-day  / 


HIS  GIPPSLAND  GIKL 

Now,  money  was  scarce  and  work  was  slack 

And  Love  to  his  heart  crept  in, 
And  he  rode  away  on  the  Northern  track 

To  war  with  the  World  and  win  ; 
And  he  vowed  by  the  locket  upon  his  breast 

And  its  treasure,  one  red-gold  curl, 
To  work  with  a  will  in  the  farthest  West 

For  the  sake  of  his  Gippsland  girl. 

The  hot  wind  blows  on  the  dusty  plain 

And  the  red  sun  burns  above, 
But  he  sees  her  face  at  his  side  again. 

And  he  strikes  each  blow  for  Love  : 
He  toils  by  the  light  of  one  far-off  star 

For  the  winning  of  one  white  pearl, 
And  the  swinging  pick  and  the  driving  bar 

Strike  home  for  the  Gippsland  girl. 

2« 


HIS  GIPPSLAND  GIRL  27 

With  aching  wrist  and  a  back  that's  bent, 

With  salt  sweat  blinding  his  eyes, 
'Tis  little  he'd  reck  if  his  life  were  spent 

In  winning  so  grand  a  prize ; 
And  his  shear-blades  flash  and  over  his  hand 

The  folds  of  the  white  fleece  curl, 
And  all  day  long  he  sticks  to  his  stand 

For  the  love  of  his  Gippsland  girl. 

When  the  shearing's  done  and  the  sheds  cut  out 

On  Barwon  and  Narran  and  Bree ; 
When  the  shearer  mates  with  the  rouseabout 

And  the  Union  man  with  the  free  ; 
When  the  doors  of  the  shanty,  open  wide, 

An  uproarious  welcome  hurl. 
He  passes  by  on  the  other  side 

For  the  sake  of  his  Gippsland  girl. 

When  Summer  lay  brown  on  the  Western  Land 

He  rode  once  more  to  the  South, 
Athirst  for  the  touch  of  a  lily  hand 

And  the  kiss  of  a  rosebud  mouth  ; 
And  he  sang  the  songs  that  shorten  the  way, 

And  he  envied  not  king  or  earl. 
And  he  spared  not  the  spur  in  his  dappled  gray 

For  the  sake  of  his  Gippsland  girl. 


28  HIS  GIPPSLAND  GIRL 

At  the  garden  gate  when  the  shadows  fell 

His  hopes  in  the  dusk  lay  dead  ; 
"  Nellie  1  Oh  !  Surely  you  heard  that  Nell 

Is  married  a  month  !  "  they  said. 
He  spoke  no  word  ;  with  a  dull,  dumb  pain 

At  his  heart,  and  his  brain  awhirl. 
He  turned  his  gray  to  the  North  again 

For  the  sake  of  his  Gippsland  girl. 

And  he  rung  the  board  in  a  Paroo  shed 

By  the  sweat  of  his  aching  brow, 
And  he  blued  his  cheque,  for  he  grimly  said  : 

"  There  is  nothing  to  live  for  now." 
And  out  and  away  where  the  big  floods  start 

And  the  Dai'ling  dust-showers  whirl. 
There's  a  drunken  shearer  that  broke  his  heart 

Over  a  Gippsland  girl ! 


WHISPER  LOW 

We  have  rowed  together  at  even-fall 
Down  the  creek  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Under  the  vines  and  the  box-trees  tall 

That  fringe  the  shores. 

Di})  fn/t  file  oars  ! 
Dip  soft  the  oars  and  whisper  low. 

We  have  ridden  away  in  the  golden  noon 
Over  the  range  where  the  sandals  grow, 
To  wander  home  by  a  summer  moon 

On  silver  plains. 

Draw  ti(jht  the  reins! 
Draw  tight  the  reins  and  whisper  low. 

We  have  sat  in  the  garden  at  close  of  day 
Watching  the  light  from  the  blossoms  go. 
And  the  darkling  branches  melt  away 

To  Shadow  Land. 

Love,  hold  my  hand  ! 
Love,  hold  my  hand  and  whisper  low. 


30  WHISPER  LOW 

And  now  we  two,  though  the  years  have  passed, 

Live  in  the  Love  of  long  ago, 

Love  that  endured,  and  Love  that  will  last 

As  long  as  life. 

Kiss  me,  my  wi/e  ! 
Kiss  me,  my  wife,  and  whisper  low. 


A  TELL-TALE  TRYST 

O,  WHO  was  it  saddled  White  Star  last  night. 

And  who  was  it  saddled  White  Star  1 
You  can  read  his  track  to  the  rails  and  back 

And  down  the  creek  ever  so  far. 
O,  moonlight  is  lovers'  light,  Somebody  knows, 

And  witch-time  the  season  to  woo, 
And  down  in  the  bend  where  the  kurrajong  grows 

The  tracks  have  been  trodden  by  two  ! 

O,  who  was  it  galloped  White  Star  last  night, 

When  gold  stars  jewelled  the  sky  1 
You  can  see  the  brand  of  saddle  and  band 

In  sweat  that  is  clotted  and  dry. 
O,  Somebody  raced,  with  the  world  asleep, 

To  a  tryst  that  Somebody  knew. 
And  over  the  blue-grass  fetlock-deep 

The  white  hoofs  scattered  the  dew  ! 

31 


32  A  TELL-TALE  TRYST 

O,  who  was  it  fastened  "White  Star  last  night 

To  a  bough  of  the  kuiTajong-tree  ? 
The  deep-set  grooves  of  his  restless  hooves 

Are  there  for  the  World  to  see. 
O,  Somebody  left  him  for  True  Love's  sake. 

And  Somebody  left  him  long, 
For  horses  may  hunger  and  bridles  break 

When  True  Love  fashions  her  song  ! 

0,  who  was  it  fondled  White  Star  last  night 

When  Somebody  whispered  adieu, 
And  plaited  the  gray  of  his  mane  in  a  way 

That  never  those  gray  locks  grew  ? 
And  who  was  it  bent  from  his  saddle-bow 

To  the  plea  of  an  upturned  face. 
While  down  in  the  bend  where  the  kurrajongs  grow 

The  World  stood  still  for  a  space  1 

O,  the  lover  who  saddled  White  Star  last  night 

It  is  very  easy  to  guess, 
For  his  face  is  bright  with  a  new-found  light 

And  a  joy  that  his  eyes  confess. 
O,  Somebody  met  in  the  moonlight  snow 

Someone  that  cared  to  be  kissed. 
And  the  veriest  dolt  in  the  world  may  know 

Who  rode  to  the  moonlight  tryst ! 


GOOD-BYE,  LYNETTE! 

I  HAVE  worked  for  you — toil  made  sweet,  love  ! 

And  never  I  grudged  an  hour ; 
Now  the  dead  leaves  drift  at  our  feet,  love, 

That  trod  by  the  trees  in  flower  ! 
The  scent  of  the  rose  blows  over — 

Dead  roses  of  all  regret ; 
And  you  were  my  only  lover, 

So  give  me  your  hand,  Lynette  ! 

0,  Love-Star  loyally  leading, 

You  fade  in  the  gathering  gray  ! 
O,  Hopes  that  have  long  lain  bleeding, 

I  bury  you  deep  to-day  ! 
If  Time  has  left  never  a  token 

The.  easier,  love,  to  forget : 
So  over  the  old  spells  broken 

Give  me  your  hand,  Lynette  ! 


34  GOOD-BYE,  LYNETTE  ! 

I  have  sounded  the  deeps  of  sorrow  ; 

I  have  drunk  to  the  dregs  of  tears  ; 
I  shall  suffer  no  more  to-morrow, 

No  more  than  in  dead  past  years  ; 
And  what  is  our  life  but  greeting 

And  parting  and  long  regret?  — 
So  here's  to  our  first  mad  meeting  ! 

And  here's  to  our  last,  Lynette  ! 


IN  MULGA  TOWN 

We  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town, 

And  O,  her  eyes  were  blue  ! 
We  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town, 

And  love's  a  game  for  two. 
If  three  should  play,  alack-a-day  ! 

There's  one  of  them  will  rue, 
Dear  Heart  ! 

There's  one  of  them  will  rue. 

Three  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town, 

True  love  they  could  not  hide ; 
Three  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town, 

Two  laughed  :  the  other  sighed  ; 
Though  two  may  woo  the  wide  world  through. 

But  one  may  kiss  the  bride. 
Deal-  Heart  ! 

But  one  may  kiss  the  bride. 

35 


36  IN  MULGA   TOWN 

Three  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town, 

And  one's  too  sad  to  weep  ; 
Three  played  at  love  in  Mulga  town— 

The  creek  runs  dark  and  deep ; 
So  warm  she  flows  no  mortal  knows 

How  cold  her  dead  may  sleep, 
Dear  Heart  / 

How  cold  her  dead  may  sleep. 


THE  OLD  BOAT 

The  Old  Boat  lies  in  the  sand  and  slime 

And  the  sun  is  springing  her  planks  ; 
She  is  drifting  away  on  the  river  of  Time 

Between  Eternity's  banks  : 
We  have  buried  the  low-toned  laughter 

And  the  whispers  the  Old  Boat  heard, 
But  the  plash  of  the  oars  comes  after 

And  the  deeps  of  the  years  are  stirred. 

She  has  sailed  with  a  burden  of  Love  and  Hope 

From  under  these  same  old  shores, 
With  white  hands  holding  her  tiller-rope 

And  brown  arms  bent  to  her  oars  .  .  . 
In  channels  too  deep  for  charting 

Lies  buried  the  freight  of  our  ship, 
And  we  go  no  more  sweet-hearting 

Where  Life  was  a  pleasure  trip. 


38  THE  OLD  BOAT 

A  new  boat  rocks  at  our  feet  to-day, 

A  picture  is  crimson  and  gold, 
The  daintiest  craft  on  the  creek,  they  say. 

But  she  carries  no  freight  hke  the  Old  ; 
She  swings  in  her  painted  splendour 

The  flood  and  the  fall  between, 
But  there's  never  a  blade  can  send  her 

The  way  that  the  Old  Boat's  been. 

You  are  sport  of  the  sunlight  and  weather  : 

See,  I  drag  you.  Old  Boat,  to  the  shade  ! 
We  were  comrades  so  often  together 

For  love  of  the  one  little  maid  .   .  . 
Should  she  come  to  the  wilgas,  I  wonder 

Would  ever  it  cost  her  a  tear 
To  see  the  new  boat  rocking  under 

And  you  in  the  dead  leaves  up  here  ! 


LOVE'S  MOLOCH 

How  long  shall  we  hear  the  sobbing  1 

How  long  shall  our  hearts  beat  slow 
To  the  wail  of  a  ceaseless  sorrow 

That  follows  us  to  and  fro, 
WIkj  watch  from  our  safe  rock -ramparts 

The  wreck  of  the  ringless  brides 
On  the  flow  of  the  crimson  sunsets, 

On  the  ebb  of  the  white  moon-tides  1 

They  walk  in  the  weeping  darkness, 

They  hold  on  a  wasted  arm 
What  Love  cannot  guard  from  hunger 

Or  Passion  itself  keep  warm  ; 
They  walk  in  the  weeping  darkness, 

They  clasp  to  their  breasts  of  shame 
The  pitiful  white-faced  burdens 

The  World  will  refuse  to  name. 


40  LOVE'S   MOLOCH 

They  bend  to  the  wee  wan  faces, 

And  scald  with  their  burning  tears 
The  tiny  lips  that  will  curse  them 

When  knowledge  has  come  with  years  ; 
They  weep  to  their  rocking  cradles 

Whose  labour  should  prove  so  sweet, 
And  the  wealth  of  their  white  girl-garlands 

Lies  crushed  at  the  gray  World's  feet. 

They  creep  to  our  curtained  windows  ; 

They  stand  at  our  doors  thrice-barred ; 
And  their  feet  are  torn  and  bleeding 

Who  found  that  their  path  was  hard. 
Their  hands  that  we  held  may  touch  us  ; 

Their  lips  that  we  loved  may  plead  ; 
But  never  an  ear  will  hearken, 

And  never  a  heart  will  heed. 

They  shrink  from  the  glaring  sunlight. 

But  down  where  the  lamps  ai-e  lit 
They  stretch  a  hand  to  their  Sorrow 

And  drink  to  the  deeps  of  it ; 
There  are  sins  that  the  Night  will  pardon. 

And  smiles  for  the  roses  red  .   .  . 
0,  Woe  to  the  maiden-mothers  ! 

And  Woe  to  the  bonds  unsaid  ! 


LOVE'S  MOLOCH  41 

How  long  shall  we  lead  the  victims  ? 

How  long  in  a  crimson  flood 
Shall  the  gates  of  our  great  Gomorrah 

Be  washed  in  our  sisters'  blood  1 
How  long  shall  they  heap  the  altars  1 

How  long  shall  their  cry  be  heard 
Ere  the  fire  and  the  brimstone  teach  us 

That  the  anger  of  God  is  stirred  ! 


WHERE  THE  BRUMBIES  COME  TO  WATER 

There's  a  lonely  grave  half -hidden  where  the  blue- 
grass  droops  above, 

And  the  slab  is  rough  that  marks  it,  but  we  planted 
it  for  love  ; 

There's  a  well-worn  saddle  hanging  in  the  harness- 
room  at  home 

And  a  good  old  stock-horse  waiting  for  the  steps  that 
never  come  ; 

Thei'e's  a  mourning  rank  of  riders  closing  in  on  either 
hand 

O'er  the  vacant  place  he  left  us — he,  the  best  of  all 
the  band, 

Who  is  lying  cold  and  silent  with  his  hoarded  hopes 
unwon 

Where  the  brumbies  come  to  water  at  the  setting  of 
the  sun. 


WHERE  THE  BRUMBIES  COME  TO  WATER     43 

Some  other  mate  with  rougher  touch  will  twist  our 

greenhide  tliongs, 
And  round  the  fire  some  harsher  voice  will  sing  his 

lilting  songs  ; 
His  dog  will  lick  some  other  hand,  and  when  the  wild 

mob  swings 
We'll  get  some  slower   rider  to  replace   him   in  the 

wings ; 
His  horse  will   find  a  master  new  ere  twice  the  sun 

goes  down, 
But  who  will  kiss  his  light-o'-love  a-weeping  in  the 

town  1 — 
His  light  o'-love  who  kneels  at  night  beyond  the  long 

lagoon 
Where  the  brumbies  come  to  water  at  the  rising  of 

the  moon. 

We've  called  her  hard  and  bitter  names  who  chose — 

another's  wife — 
To  chain  our  comrade   in  her  thi-all  and  wreck  his 

strong  young  life  ; 
We've  cursed  her  for  her  cruel  love  that  seared  like 

hate — and  yet 
We   know    when    all   is  over   there  is  one  will  not 

forget, 


44     WHERE  THE  BRUMBIES   COME   TO  WATER 

As  she  piles  the  white  bush  blossoms  where  her  poor 
lost  lover  lies 

With  the  death-dew  on  his  foi'ehead  and  the  grave- 
dark  in  his  eyes, 

Where  the  shadow-line  is  broken  by  the  moonbeams' 
silver  bars, 

And  the  brumbies  come  to  water  at  the  lighting  of 
the  stars. 


GOOD-BYE 

Here,  on  the  broken  strings  of  Love's  mute  harp, 
Across  the  withered  flowers  of  all  dead  dreams, 
Give  me  your  hand  and  take  my  last  farewell ! 
One  glance  of  love  ! — the  last  from  those  dear  eyes  !- 
For  out  against  the  reddening  sky,  cut  sharp 
Rigging  and  spar,  her  head  to  the  ocean  swell. 
Cruel  as  Death  the  great  ship  waiting  lies. 

One  dear  Good-bye  ! 

Hush  !  say  not,  "  As  a  friend  "- 
The  old,  old  phrase  't  were  bitterness  to  hear 
Only  that  every  word  you  say  is  sweet ; 
For  I  have  fifty  friends,  but  not  one  love. 
And  only  ask  for  you  here  at  the  end 
As  in  those  days  when  first  we  loved  to  meet 
With  all  God's  world  our  own,  His  arm  above. 

45 


46  GOOD-BYE 

One  prayer  for  me  ! 

jSTay  !  not  "  That  you  forget !  '  — 
For  why  should  I  forget  the  sweets  of  Life 
Who  launch  into  its  bitterness  to-day  1 
But  pray  you  rather  that  I  keep  your  face 
Before  me  always,  with  its  blue  eyes  wet 
With  tears  denying  those  cold  words  you  say  ; 
Your  clinging  hands  almost  a  mute  embrace 

The  light  of  Day  is  growing  as  we  stand  ; 
The  light  of  Love  is  dying  in  your  eyes  ; 
Before  yon  sun  has  drifted  to  his  rest 
In  crimson  splendour  down  the  western  sky 
For  me  will  fall  the  dark. 

Dear  nestling  hand, 
And  soft  white  arms,  and  lips  still  unconfessed. 
The  white  sails  fill  ! 

Heart  of  my  Heart,  Gaoil-hye  ! 


GRAY  HORSES 


This  worship  of  Horse 

Is  a  sin  and  a  curse, 
So  v)e  hear  in  our  parsons  talk  ; 

Bid  we're  steering  straight 

For  the  Golden  Gate, 
And  tie  may  as  loell  ride  as  walk. 

Shall  our  frieiulship  break 

O'er  the  way  we  take 
Since  neither  will/ollov)  it  back  ? 

Let  him  hihinp  his  load 

Dow7i  the  two-chain  road — 
I'm  going  the  Bridle-Track  1 


FROM  THE  GULF 

Store  cattle  from  Nelanjie  !     The  mob  goes  feeding 

past, 
With  half -a  mile  of  sandhill  'twixt  the  leaders  and  the 

last ; 
The  nags  that  move  behind  them  are  the  good  old 

Queensland  stamp — 
Short  backs  and  perfect  shoulders  that  are  priceless 

on  a  camp  ; 
And   these  are   Men  that   ride  them,  broad  chested, 

tanned,  and  tall. 
The  bravest  hearts  amongst  us  and  the  lightest  Viands 

of  all  : 
Oh,   let   them   wade   in  Wonga  grass  and   taste  the 

Wonga  dew, 
And  let  them  spread,  those  thousand  head — for  we've 

been  droving  too  ! 


50  FROM  THE  GULF 

Store    cattle    from    Nelanjie !      By     half-a-hundred 

towns, 
By  Northern  ranges  rough  and  red,  by  rolling  open 

downs, 
By  stock-routes  brown  and  burnt  and  bare,  by  flood- 
wrapped  river-bends, 
They've  hunted  them  from  gate  to  gate — the  drover 

has  no  friends  ! 
But  idly  they  may  ride  to-day  beneath  the  scorching 

sun 
And  let  the  hungry  bullocks  try  the  grass  on  Wonga 

run; 
No  overseer  will  dog  them  here  to  "  see  the  cattle 

through," 
But  they  may  spread  their  thousand  head — for  we've 

been  droving  too  ! 

Store  cattle  from   Nelanjie  !     They've  a  naked  track 

to  steer ; 
The   stockyards  at  Wodonga  are  a  long  way  down 

from  here ; 
The  creeks   won't  run  till  God  knows  when,  and  half 

the  holes  are  dry  ; 
The  tanks  are  few  and  far  between  and  water's  dear 

to  buy  : 


FROM  THE  GULF  51 

There's  plenty  at  the  Brolga  bore  for  all  his  stock  and 

mine — 
We'll  pass   him   with   a  brave  God-speed  across  the 

Border  line  ; 
And  if   he  goes  a  five-mile  stage  and  loiters  slowly 

thi'ough, 
We'll  only   think   the   more  of  him — for  we've  been 

droving  too  ! 

Store  cattle  from  Nelanjie  !     They're  mute  as  milkers 

now; 
But  yonder  grizzled  drover,  with  the  care-lines  on  his 

brow, 

Could    tell    of    merry    musters    on    the   big   Nelanjie 

plains, 
With  blood  upon  the  chestnut's  flanks  and  foam  upon 

the  reins  ; 
Could  tell  of  nights  upon  the  road   when  those  same 

mild  eyed  steers 
Went  ringing  round  the  river  bend  and  through  the 

scrub  like  spears  ; 
And   if  his   words  are   rude  and  rough,  we  know  his 

words  are  true, 
We  know  what  wild  Nelanjies  are — and  we've  been 

droving  too  ! 


52  FROM  THE  GULF 

Store  cattle  from  Nelanjie  !  Around  the  fire  at 
night 

They've  watched  the  pine-tree  shadows  hft  before  the 
dancing  light ; 

They've  lain  awake  to  listen  when  the  weird  bush- 
voices  speak, 

And  heard  the  lilting  bells  go  by  along  the  empty 
creek  ; 

They've  spun  the  yarns  of  hut  and  camp,  the  tales  of 
play  and  work. 

The  wondrous  tales  that  gild  the  road  from  Norman- 
ton  to  Bourke ; 

They've  told  of  fortunes  foul  and  fair,  of  women  false 
and  true, 

And  well  we  know  the  songs  they've  sung — for  we've 
been  droving  too  ! 

Store  cattle  from  Nelanjie  !     Their  breath  is  on  the 

breeze  ; 
You  hear  them  tread,  a  thousand   head,  in  blue-grass 

to  the  knees  ; 
The    lead    is    on    the    netting-fence,    the    wings    are 

spreading  wide. 
The   lame  and  laggard  scarcely  move — so  slow  the 

drovers  ride  ! 


FROM  THE  GULF  5'i 

But  let  them  stay  and  feed  to-day  for  sake  of  Auld 

Lang  Syne  ; 
They'll  nevex*  get  a  chance  like  this  below  the  Border 

Line; 
And  if  they  tread  our  frontage  down,  what's  that  to 

me  or  you  ? 
What's  ours  to  /are,  by  God  they'll  share  !  for  we've  been 

droving  too  ! 


THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL 

He  Wcas  the   Red  Creek  overseer,  a  trusted  man  and 

true, 
Whose  shoulder  never  left  the  wheel  when  there  was 

work  to  do  ; 
Through  all  the  day  he  rode  the  run,  and  when  the 

lights  grew  dim 
The  sweetest  wife   that  ever  loved   would  wait  and 

watch  for  him. 
She  brought  him  dower  of  golden  hair  and  eyes  of 

laughing  blue, 
Stout  heart  and   cunning   bridle-hand  to  guide    the 

mulga  through  ; 
And  when  the  mob  was  mustered  from  the  box  flats 

far  and  wide 
She  loved  to  mount  the  wildest  colts  that  no  one  else 

would  ride. 

54 


THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL  no 

And  once  it  chanced  a  wayward  steed,  half-mouthed 

and  roughly  broke, 
Denied   the  touch  of  gentle  hand  and  gentler  words 

she  spoke, 
And,    plunging   forward   like   the  ship  that  feels  the 

autumn  gales, 
He  reared  and  lost  his  footing  and  fell  backwards  on 

the  rails. 
Her  husband  bent  above  her  A\dth  cold  terror  at  his 

heart  — 
The  form   was  still   he   loved   so   well,    the  Avan  lips 

would  not  part  ; 
And  all  the  day  in  trance  she  lay,  but  when  the  stars 

smiled  down 
He  heard  his  name  low-whispered  and  he  claimed  her 

still  his  own. 
And  afterward  he  spoke  his  fear  :   "  Heart's  Love,   if 

yoic  should  die  I  .   .   . 
Unless  you  take  your  orders  from  some  other  man 

than  I, 
You  shall  never  finger  bridle,  never  mount  on  horse's 

back. 
Till    the    outlaw    on    Gleuidol    is    a    broken     lady's 

hack  ! " 


56  THE  RIDING  OF  THP:  REBEL 

There's  an  outlaw  on  Glenidol  that  is  known  through 

all  the  West, 
And  three  men's  lives  are  on  his  head,  bold  riders  of 

the  best ; 
The  station  lads  have  heard  the  sneer  that   travelled 

far  and  wide 
And   flung   the   answering   challenge  :    "  Come   and 

teach  us  how  to  ride  ! 
Roll   up,   ye   merry  riders  all,    whose    honour    is    to 

guard  ! 
We've  mustered  up  the  ranges  and  The  Rebel's  in  the 

yard  ; 
His  open  mouth  and  stamping  foot  and    keen    eye 

flashing  fire 
Repeat  the  temper  of  his   dam,    the   mettle    of  his 

sire. 
Roll  up,  ye  merry  riders  all,  from  hut  and  camp  and 

town  ! 
You'll  have  to  stick  like  plaster  when  the   stockyard 

rails  go  down. 
But  the  boss  will  come  down  handsome,  as  the   boss 

is  wont  to  come. 
To  the  first  who  brings   The   Rebel   under  spurs  and 

"reenhide  home." 


THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL  57 

And    the   stockmen    heard    the    challenge    from    the 

Cooper  to  the  Bree, 
And  rode  from  hut  and  cattle-camp  by  one  and   two 

and  three 
To  keep  their  horseman's  honour   clean  and  play  a 

hero's  part, 
To  best  the  bold  Glenidol  boys  and  break  The  Rebel's 

heart. 

And  Ruddy    Neil,   the  breaker,    from   the   Riverine 

came  through 
With  all  the  latest  breaking-gear,  and  all  the  wiles  he 

knew, 
But  ere  the  saddle  was   secured,   before  a  girth   was 

drawn. 
The  Rebel's  forefoot  split  his  skull — they  buried  him 

at  dawn  ! 
Mai-ora  Mick,  the  half-caste,  from  the  Flinders  River 

came 
To  give  the   South-the-Border  boys  a  lesson  at  the 

game ; 
But  he  got  a  roguish  welcome  when  he  entered  New 

South  Wales, 
For  The  Rebel  used  his  blood  and  brains  to  paint  the 

stockyard  rails  ! 


58  THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL 

And    Mulga   Jack    came    over   from  the    Yuinburra 

side  — 
The  horse   was   never  foaled,    they  say,    that  Mulga 

could  not  ride  : 
With  a  mouth  as  hard  as  a  miser's  heart,    a  ^vill  like 

the  Devil's  own, 
The  Rebel  made  for  the  8tony  Range  with  the  man 

who  wouldn't  be  thrown  ; 
The  Rebel  made  for  the  Stony   Range,    where    the 

plain  and  the  scrub-land  meet, 
And  the  dead  boughs  cracked  at  his  shoulder-blade, 

the  stones  leapt  under  his  feet. 
And   the  ragged  stems  of  the  gidyas  cut  and  tore  as 

they  blundered  past 
And   Jack   lay  cold   in  the   sunset  gold — he   had  met 

with  his  match  at  last. 

And   once  again  the   challenge  rang,  the  bitterer  for 

scorn, 
And    spoke   the    bold    Glenidol    boys,    their    jackets 

mulga-torn  : 
"  A  week  have  we  been  hunting  him   and  riding  fast 

and  hard 
To  give  you  all   another  chance — The   Rebel's  in  the 
yard.' 


THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL  59 

And    the    stockineu    heard    the    challenge    from    the 

Cooper  to  the  Bree  ; 
But  "  I'm  getting  old  !  "  "  I'm  getting  stiff!  "  or  "  I've 

a  Avife,  you  see  !  " 
Came  whispered  to  the   border  :  and    the  horse  they 

could  not  tame 
Had   saved   Glenidol   from  disgrace   and    cleansed  a 

sullied  name. 
But  ere  the  reddening  sun  went  down  and  night  on 

the  ranges  broke 
A  stranger  youth   to  the  slip-rails  rode,  and  fastened 

his  horse  and  spoke 
Softly  and   low,   yet  not  so  low  but  that  every  man 

there  heard  : 
"  I've   come    to  tackle   your    outlaw    colt," — and  he 

looked  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  bridled  The  Rebel  in  failing  light,  and  saddled  the 

colt  and  drew 
The  straps  of  his  gearing  doubly  tight  and  looked  that 

his  "  length"  was  true. 
He  mounted  The  Rebel  and  gave  the  word,  and  the 

clattering  rails  went  down. 
And  the  outlaw  leapt  at  the  open  gate  and  into  the 

shadows  brown  ; 


60  THE  RIDING  OF  THE  REBEL 

But  he  settled  himself  to  the  soothing  voice  and  the 

touch  of  the  fondling  hand, 
As  it  followed  the  cui've  of   his  arching    neck  from 

wither  to  forehead-band  ; 
His  flanks   were  wet  with  the  fresh-sprung  sweat,  his 

shoulders  lathered  with  foam, 
And  he  bent  to  the  bridle  and  played  -with  the  bit  as 

he  came  at  a  canter  home. 
And  the  boys  were  dumb  with  wonder,  and  sat,  and 

the  Red  Creek  overseer 
Was  first  to  drop  from   the  stockyard  fence  and  give 

him  a  hearty  cheer. 
He  raised  his  hat  in  answer  and     .     .     the  gold  hair 

floated  free  ! 
And  the  blue  eyes  lit  with  laughter  as  she  shouted 

merrily  : 
"  You  can   reach  me  down  my  bridle,  give  my  girths 

and  saddle  back, 
For  the  outlaw  of  Glenidol  is  a  broken  lady's  hack  !  " 


FOUR-IN-HAND 

0  SOME  prefer  a  single, 

Or  double  not  too  free  ; 
But  let  the  lead  bars  jingle  — 

It's  Four-in-Hand  for  me  ; 
With  a  level  road  and  a  lively  load, 

Whose  chorus  songs  shall  beat 
To  the  hoof-struck  stars,  and  the  rattling  bars. 

And  the  ring  of  the  red  roans'  feet  I 

We'll  meet  some  risks  as  we  moA-e  along  — 

And  maybe  more  than  we  dream  ; 
But  we  only  ask  for  harness  strong, 

And  room  to  handle  the  team. 
I'll  give  the  rein,  and  give  again. 

And  whirl  the  whip-lash  free, 
Till  every  place  shall  know  my  pace 

My  four  red  roans  and  me  ! 

61 


62  FOUR-IN-HAND 

Our  Life's  too  short  for  dreaming, 

And  Life's  too  swift  for  tears, 
With  all  the  wide  world  ffleamina: 

Beyond  our  leaders'  ears  ; 
The  white  dust  whirls  to  blind  us, 

The  coach  top  rocks  and  reels, 
But  trouble's  flung  behind  us 

Beneath  our  roaring  wheels  ! 

By  day  the  sun  shall  light  us. 

The  peaks  of  pleasure  guide  ; 
No  storms  have  power  to  smite  us, 

So  fast  we  race  and  ride  ! 
By  night,  through  moon-wash  spinning. 

We'll  mock  the  million  stars. 
With  all  Luck's  goblins  grinning 

Astride  our  swingle-bars  ! 

So  lift  the  loin-cloths  from  the  reds 

And  hand  me  up  the  whip  ; 
Let  go  the  plunging  leader's  heads 

And  let  the  beauties  rip  ! 
Here's  luck  to  shoulders  foam-impearled. 

And  eyes  where  wild-fires  gleam  ! 
We'll  swing  the  red  roans  round  the  world 

Till  Death  reins  up  the  team  ! 


THE   STOCKYARD  LIAR 

If  ever  you're  handling  a  rough  one 

There's  bound  to  be  perched  on  the  rails 
Of  the  Stockyard  some  grizzled  old  tough  one 

Whose  flow  of  advice  never  fails  ; 
There  are  plenty,  of  course,  who  aspire 

To  make  plain  that  you're  only  a  dunce. 
But  the  most  insupportable  liar 

Is  the  man  who  has  ridden  'em  once. 

He  -sWll  tell  you  a  tale  and  a  rum  one. 

With  never  a  smile  on  his  face, 
How  he  broke  for  old  Somebody  Some-one 

At  some  unapproachable  place  ; 
How  they  bucked  and  they  snorted  and  squealed. 

How  he  spurred  em  and  flogged  'em,  and  how 
He  would  gallop  'em  round  till  they  reeled — 

But  he's  '*  getting  too  old  for  it  now." 

63 


64  THE  STOCKYARD  LIAR 

How  you're  standing  too  far  from  her  shoulder, 

Or  too  jolly  close  to  the  same, 
How  he  could  have  taught  you  to  hold  her 

In  the  days  when  he  "  followed  the  game  ;" 
He  will  bustle,  annoy  and  un-nerve  us 

Till  even  our  confidence  fails — 
0  Shade  of  old  Nimrod  !  preserve  us 

From  the  beggar  that  sits  on  the  rails  ! 

How  your  reins  you  are  holding  too  tightly, 

Your  girth  might  as  well  be  unloosed  ; 
How  "  young  chaps"  don't  handle  them  rightly, 

And  horses  don't  buck  "  like  they  used  ;  " 
Till  at  last,  in  a  bit  of  a  passion, 

You  ask  him  in  choicest  "  Barcoo  " 
To  go  and  be  hanged,  in  a  fashion 

That  turns  the  whole  atmosphei'e  blue  ! 

And  the  chances  are  strong  the  old  buffer 

Has  been  talking  for  something  to  say, 
And  never  rode  anything  rougher 

Than  the  shaft  of  old  Somebody's  dray ; 
And  the  horses  he  thinks  he  has  broken 

Are  clothes-horses  sawn  out  of  pine. 
And  his  yarns  to  us  simply  betoken 

The  start  of  a  senile  decline. 


THE  STOCKYARD  LIAR  65 

There  are  laws  for  our  proper  protection 

From  murder  and  theft  and  the  rest, 
But  the  criminal  wanting  inspection 

Is  riding  a  rail  in  the  West ; 
And  the  law  that  the  country  requires 

At  the  hands  of  her  statesmen  of  sense 
Is  a  law  to  make  meat  of  the  liars 

That  can  sit  a  rouyh  buck— on  the  fence  ! 


THE  BORDER  GATE 

Dawn  gilds  the  spiders'  bridges  ; 

Morn  mocks  the  shadows'  rout ; 
A  mile  back  on  the  ridges 

They  put  the  head-lights  out ; 
A  red-topped  coach  from  Nor' ward 

Comes  down  with  clacking  bars  : 
The  waking  Day  lies  forward, 

Behind — the  drowsy  stars  ! 
A  foe  no  floods  can  ruin, 

A  force  no  droughts  abate. 
The  night  mail  from  the  Tuen 

Swings  through  the  Border  Gate  ! 

A  still  world,  faint  and  swooning 

Beneath  a  fevered  sky  ; 
Before  the  great  wheels'  groaning 

Slow  bullocks  snailing  by  ; 

66 


THE  BORDER  GATE  67 

With  dusty,  cursing  drivei's, 

And  roaring  fall  of  whips 
Comes  rocking  from  red  rivers 

The  cream  of  Queensland  clips. 
"  Get  off,  there  !     Cluum  and  Drover  !  " 

The  brown  loads  creak  and  grate. 
"  Stand  over,  thfire  !    Stand  Over  !  " 

She  clears  the  Border  Gate  ! 

A  sunset-fired  horizon 

Beyond  the  dust-wrack  dense, 
A  draft  from  Jimmy  Tyson 

Slow-feeding  to  the  fence  ; 
A  rush  of  long-horned  leaders, 

A  tramp  of  feet  below, 
A  ripping  of  red  "  bleeders  " 

And  "  Wuh,  there  !    Woh,  boys  !  WoH-H  !  " 
The  posts  are  strong — with  reason, 

Which  stand  to  such  a  weight ; 
The  finest  stores  this  season 

Crowd  through  the  Border  Gate  ! 

The  old  gay  life  is  over  ; 

We've  left  the  great  North  Road  ; 
The  red  dust  wraps  the  drover. 

The  gray  dust  hides  the  load  ; 


68  THE  BORDER  GATE 

Though  no  more  I'll  go  through  you, 

Old  Gate  of  Memories  mine  ! 
I  wave  a  brown  hand  to  you 

From  long  leagues  down  the  line 
Wherever  Time  shall  speed  me 

Before  the  winds  of  Fate 
I  know  my  dreams  will  lead  me 

Back  to  the  Border  Gate  ! 


OUTLAWS  BOTH 

Steady!    steady,    my   pearl!    from   the  crest  of  the 
range 
One  last  look  behind  us  :  the  roofs  of  the  town 
Are  lit  with  red  fires  that  quiver  and  change 

Where    the    sun    in    the    westward    goes    royally 
down  ! 
Yonder  light  will  return  to  the  township  again, 
But  we  are  cast  out  from  the  dwellings  of  men. 

You — the    pride    of    the    paddock,    the    pick    of    the 
yard, 
The   bold    one    that    scorned    to    be   bridled    and 
bound, 
Whose  mettle  and  swiftness  shall  now  be  my  guard, 

Whose  courage  and  confidence  girdle  me  round  ! 
I — who  struck  for  my  honour,  as  others  can  tell, 
The  blow  that  was  given  too  straightly  and  well ! 


70  OUTLAWS  BOTH 

Outlaws  both,  you  and  I !  Through  the  night  and  the 
day, 
From  red  flush  of  dawning  till  rise  of  the  moon, 
The  sound  of  your  hoof-beat  shall  echo  away 
By  rock-ragged  ranges  and  reedy  lagoon ; 
And  their  steeds  will  be  swift  and  their   trackers  be 

keen 
If   we   stand  to   their    challenge,    "  In  name  of  the 
Queen  !  " 

With  our  bed  in    the  bluegrass,    our   tower  on  the 
ridge. 
Our  kingdom  the  scrub-land  from  centre  to  sea, 
The  wild-fowl  that  sweep  from  the  billabong  edge 

Are  never  so  curbless  of  pinion  as  we — 
With  only  the  coast-line  for  bolts  and  for  bars, 
With  our  roof-beam  the  sky   and   our   lamp  light  the 
stars  ! 

Ay  !  they  feared  you  of  old  time,   the  cravens  that 
passed 
From  the  rails  of  the  yard  when  the  danger  began  ! 
And  now,  should  they  follow,  they'll  find  at  the  last 
There  is  more  to  be  feared  from  a  desperate  man  ; 
And  they'll  know  by  red  spurs  and  by  foam  covered 

reins 
They  are  riding  the  tracks  of  the  Pride  of  the  Plains ! 


OUTLAWS  BOTH  71 

From  the  roofs  of  the  township  the  sun-fire  has  fled, 
And  the  Night  Queen   will  reign  in  her  majesty 
soon ; 
Shall  life  be  less  dear  for  the  sunlight  that's  dead  ? 
When   the  shadows  are  falling  we'll  ride  by  the 
moon  ; 
And  the  limitless  bush  where  the  wild  cattle  roam 
Shall  lend  to  the  outlaws  a  refuge  and  home. 


THE  COACH  OF  DEATH 

There's  a  phantom-coach  runs  nightly  along  the 
Western  creeks ; 

Her  four  black  steeds  step  lightly,  her  driver  never 
speaks ; 

The  horses  keep  their  places  across  the  flood-worn 
plains 

Yet  no  man  sees  their  traces,  their  bits  or  bridle- 
reins  ; 

For  welcome  or  for  wai'ning  she  shows  no  lamp  or 
light, 

A  shadow  till  the  morning  she  steals  across  the  night. 

She  never  wants  for  passengers,  the  back-creek  settlers 

say, 
A   price  so  moderate  as  hers   the  poorest  purse  can 

payi 

72 


THE  COACH  OF  DEATH  73 

The  lost  one,  missed  by  measure  of  days  or  maybe 

weeks, 
Pays  lightly  for   the  pleasure  of  coaching  down  the 

creeks  ; 
And    station-hands    and     squatters,     alike    in    ease 

reclined. 
May  praise  the  whirling  trotters  whose  hoofs  outstrip 

the  wind. 

You  hear  no  lead-bars  creaking,  no  footfall  on  the 

ground  ; 
In  silence  past   all    speaking    the   flying    wheels    go 

round ; 
The  horses  have  no  breeders,  their  driver  has  no  name, 
But  he  swings  his   reefing   leaders  like  a  man  that 

knows  the  game  ; 
And  through  the  stony  ranges  where  swift  hoofs  strike 

no  fire 
They  want  no  wayside  changes,  these  steeds  that  never 

tire. 

They're  fit  to  "  stay  "  for  ever,  and  are  never  short  of 

work ; 
They  run  the  Darling  River  fi'om  Menindie  Lake  to 

Bourke, 


74  THE  COACH  OF  DEATH 

Where  a  thousand  watercourses,  bank-full  or  bound 

with  drought, 
Have  seen  the  silent  horses  go  gliding  in  and  out. 
Where  the  stars  in  red  battalions  are  marshalled  in 

the  sky 
To  watch  the   black-maned  stallions  with  the  muffled 

hoofs  go  by. 


They  fear  him  on  the  Barwon  and  curse  him  on  the 

Bree, 
And  wish  his  goal  a  far  one,  where'er  that  goal  may 

be ; 
But    ever    back    and    forward,    in    silence,  source  to 

mouth, 
He    runs   the   rivers  Nor'ward  and   runs  the    rivers 

South  ; 
When  winds  the  wavelets  feather  between  the  flood 

and  fall 
He    holds    the   blacks    together  and   hears  the  dead 

men  call. 

In    drifted    flood- wrack     sailing    on    every    swirling 

sti'eam 
He  hears  his  patrons  hailing,  and  checks  his  noiseless 

team  ; 


THE  COACH  OF  DEATH  75 

In  belts  of  timber  shady,    when    all  the    holes    are 

dry, 
His   guests    are    waiting    ready    when    the   phantom 

wheels  go  b}% 
For  every  man  in  good  time   must  book   for  Further 

Out: 
It   may    be    in    the    Flood-time — it   may  be  in    the 

Drought  ! 

Her  load  of  clay-cold  faces  she  never  carries  back  ; 
The  dim  wheels  leave  no  traces,  the  shoeless  hoofs  no 

track ; 
But  all  along  the   river  in   the  bends  that  she  has 

passed 
The   giant   gum-trees    shiver   in    a    strange   and   icy 

blast ; 
The  clumps  of  scented  sandal  are  tainted  with  her 

breath, 
And  teams  are  hard  to  handle   behind   the  Coach  of 

Death. 

She    lifts   no   nmd    in    winter,   and   stirs   no   summer 

dust. 
Her   pole-bars   never   splinter,    her    lock-bolts  never 

rust ; 


76  THE  COACH  OF  DEATH 

Her  parts  are  stout  for  wearing  and  strong  her  simple 
gear, 

She'll  run  without  repairing  from  year  to  deathful 
year, 

When  every  coach  is  rotten  on  the  Western  water- 
shed, 

And  Cobb  and  Co.  forgotten  and  all  their  drivers 
dead  ! 


DARRELL 

So  I've  taken  his  hundred  notes  in  the  end, 

And  now,  as  I  turn  them  over, 
I  feel  like  a  man  who's  been  false  to  a  friend, 

Or  has  broken  his  troth  to  a  lover. 
And  what  will  they  pui'chase,  when  all  is  said. 

For  me  with  the  world's  wealth  laden  1 
A  barrel  or  two  of  Kaludah  red. 

Or  the  favour  of  some  light  maiden  ! 

Our  wine  turns  gall  at  the  gray  day's  birth 
When  the  lamp  of  the  revel  paleth  ; 

We  know  what  the  kiss  of  a  woman  is  worth- 
But  a  good  horse  never  faileth. 

Your  white  arms  clinging,  my  ringless  bride, 
Are  bonds  that  the  years  will  sever  ; 

But  the  brave  hoof-thunder  of  Darrell's  stride 
Will  beat  in  my  heart  for  ever ! 


78  DARRELL 

You  know  how  little  of  truth  there  lies 

In  the  heart  of  your  hot  caresses  ; 
There  is  danger  hid  in  your  dreamful  eyes, 

There  is  death  in  your  winding  tresses  ; 
And,  since  you  would  turn  for  a  fairer  face 

Or  a  stronger  arm's  enfolding, 
You  will  never  hold  in  my  heart  the  place 

That  one  honest  horse  is  holding. 

The  stars  are  fading  by  one  and  one 

And  the  fires  of  the  dawn  are  lightening 
The  web  that  a  pitiless  Fate  has  spun, 

And  my  own  cursed  hand  is  tightening  ; 
Oh  !  better  this  arm  had  lost  its  force, 

This  brain  in  the  dust  lain  idle, 
Before  I  bartered  the  grandest  horse 

That  ever  carried  a  bridle  ! 


OFF  THE  GRASS 

They  were  boasting  on  the  Greenhide  of  tlieir  nags  of 
fancy  breed, 
And  stuffing  them   with   bran    and  oats  to  run  in 
Gumleaf  Town, 
But  we  hadn't  got  a  racehorse  that  was  worth  a  dish 
of  feed, 
So    didn't   have   a    Buckley's    show    to    take    the 
boasters  down. 

For  old  Midnight  was  in  Sydney  and  we  couldn't  get 
him  up 
In  time  for  Gumleaf  Races  if  it  had  been  worth  our 
while ; 
The  Chorus  colt  was  far  too  light  to  win  the  Gumleaf 
Cup, 
And  we  didn't  own  a  hackney  that  could  finish  out 
the  mile. 


80  OFF  THE  GRASS 

But   we  couldn't  watch  them  win  it  while  we  never 
had  a  say, 
So  we  mustered  up  the  horses,  and  we  caught  old 
Myall  King ; 
He's  as  brave  as  ever  galloped,  but  he's  twelve  if  he's 
a  day, 
And  we   couldn't   help  but   chuckle  at  the  humour 
of  the  thing. 

But,  though  shaky  in  the  shoulders,  he's  the  daddy  of 
them  all ; 
He's  the  gamest  bit  of  horseflesh  from  the  Snowy 
to  the  Bree ; 
One  of  those  that's  never  beaten,  coming  every  time 
you  call : 
One  of  those  you   sometimes  read  about  but  very 
seldom  see. 

He's  the  don  at  every  muster  and  the  king  of  every 
camp  ; 
He's  the  lad  to  stop  the  pikers  when  they  take  you 
on  the  rush; 
And  he  loves  the  merry  rattle  of  the  stockwhip  and 
the  tramp 
Of  the  cockhorned  mulga  scrubbers  when  they're 
breaking  in  the  brush. 


OFF  THE  GRASS  81 

He  can  foot   the  Greenhide  brumbies  if  they  take  a 
mile  of  start, 
And  if  they  get  him  winded  in  a  gallop  on   the 
plain 
He's  as  game  as  any    lion,   and   he  carries    such  a 
heart 
You  can  never  say  he's  beaten,  for  he'll  always  come 
again  ! 

So  we  put  up  Jack  the  Stockman  with  his  ten  pounds 
overweight, 
And  be  lengthened  out  the  leathers  half-a-foot  and 
gave  a  smile  : 
"  I   don't  suppose  you'll  see  us  when  they're  fairly  in 
the  straight. 
But  we'll  make   the  beggars  travel,  take  my  oath, 
for  half-a-mile  !  " 

And   they   started,  and    the  old  horse  jimiped   away 
a  length  in  front, 
And  every  post  they  came  to   gave  the  brown    a 
longer  lead, 
Till  it  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  else  but  ]Myall 
in  the  hunt, 
With  his  load  of  station  honour  and  bis  weight  of 
mulga  feed  ! 

F  81 


82  OFF  THE  GRASS 

Then   the   bay  mare,   Bogan  Lily,  started  out  to  cut 
him  down  ; 
She  had  travelled  out  five  hundred  miles  to  win  the 
Gumleaf  Cup, 
And  she  couldn't  well  get  beaten  by  a  hack  in  Gum- 
leaf  Town 
When    she    had   to  pay  expenses  for  her  owner's 
journey  up. 

So  she  started  out  to  catch  the  old  brown  camp-horse 
from  the  Bush, 
And   a  furlong  from  the  finish   she  could  nose  his 
rider's  knee, 
Then  you  should  have  heard  the  shouting  of  the  Bogan 
Lily  push, 
And  the  flinging  of  their  hats  up  was  a  sight  for 
you  to  see  ! 

But  old   Myall   King  j^had  often  been  as  nearly  beat 
before, 
And  he  steadied  off  a  little,  while  the  mare  shot  out 
ahead, 
Then   he  shook   his   ears   and  gripped  the  bit — you 
should  have  heard  us  roar 
As  he  came  at  Bogan  Lily  with  his  flanks  a  streak 
of  red  ! 


OFF  THE  GRASS  83 

And  the  little  bay  mare,  beaten,  gave  him  best  and 
threw  it  up, 
And  we  heard  her  rider  murmur  as  he  saw  the 
brown  horse  pass 
And  Jack  the  Stockman  drop  his  hands  and  win  the 
Gumleaf  Cup — 
"  Beat  by  a  hungry   cripple  of  a   camp-horse,  off 
the  grass  !  " 

Then  we  lead  him  in  a  winner,  and  they  cheei'ed  him 
from  the  stand, 
With  the  black  sweat  running   channels   from  his 
forearm  to  his  foot, 
And  the  white  foam  on  his  shoulder  till  you   couldn't 
see  the  brand, 
And   the   crimson   bloodstains  scattered  over  spur 
and  flank  and  boot. 

So  we  carried  off  the  honours  of  the  meeting — and  the 
notes  / 
And  the  men  on  Greenhide  River,  when  they  see 
our  fellows  pass, 
Will  tell  you  this  in  whispers,  "  You  can   train  your 
nags  on  oats. 
But  be  careful   when    you're   racing  those  dashed 
scrubbers  off  the  grass  !  " 


HIS  EPITAPH 

On  a  little  old  bush  racecourse  at  the  back   of   No 

Man's  Land, 
Where  the  mulgas  mark  the  f  ui'long,  and  a  dead  log 

marks  the  stand, 
There's   a   square  of  painted   railing  showing  white 

against  the  loam 
Where  they  fight  for  inside  running  as  they  round 

the  bend  for  home  ; 
Just  a  lonely   grave   and  graveyard    that  are   left  to 

Nature's  care, 
For  the  wild  bush-flowers  that  brighten  it  were  never 

planted  there  ; 
No  monument  or  marble  that  will  speak  his  praise  or 

blame. 
No  verse  to  tell  his  story  and  no  mark   to  prove  his 

name, 

81 


HIS  EPITAPH  85 

But  carved  upon  the  white  rail  that   is   weather-worn 

and  thin 
Is  the  simple,  rough-hewn  legend  :  He  Alwas  Rod 

TO  Win  ! 

Some  poor,  uncared-for  jockey-boy,  who  never   earned 

a  name — 
It's  the  boys  who  "  ride  to  orders"   who   can  find  the 

road  to  Fame ; 
And   the   flowers   and    marble    head-stones   and    the 

wealth  of  gear  and  gold 
Are  the  prizes  of  the   riders   who   will    "  stop   them" 

when  they're  told  ! 
Just  a   whisper   at    the    saddling  :    "  He's    the    only 

danger,  Dan, 
That's  the  boy  will  try  to   beat  you — stop  him,  any 

way  you  can  '.  " 
Just  a  crowding  at  the  corner  and  a  crossing  in  the 

straight 
And  a  plucky  little  horseman  who  is  "  pulling  out " 

too  late  ; 
A  heavy  fall,  a  loose  horse  — and  a  lightweight  carried 

in — , 
A  shallow  grave,  a  railing,  and  :  Hk  Alwas  Rod  to 

Win  ! 


86  HIS  EPITAPH 

Some  brave,  brown-handed  comrade  who  has  learned 

the  rider's  worth 
Has  carved  those  I'ough  woi'ds  o'er  him  for  the  eyes  of 

all  the  earth ; 
And  though  few  may  chance  to  pass  him  as  he  lies  in 

simple  state 
Those  few  will  hold  him  honoured  by  the  friendship 

of  his  mate. 
And  when,  in  Life's  keen  struggle,   we  shall  fight  for 

inside  place. 
When  they  crowd  us  at  the  corner  and  we  drop  from 

out  the  race, 
When  the  ringing  hoofs  go  forward  and  the  cheering 

greets  the  best, 
And  the  prize  is  for  the  winner  and  the  red  spurs  for 

the  rest, 
May  we  find  some  true-heart  comi-ade,  when  they've 

filled  the  last  clods  in, 
Who   will   carve    these  words  above  us  :  He  Alwas 

Rod  to  Win  ! 


THE  DINGO  OF  BRIG  ALOW  GAP 

For  K.G.  or  coronet,  kingdom  or  ci'own, 

The  boys  on  Kalaugada  cax'e  not  a  rap ; 
But  the  honour  they  ask  for  is  galloping  down 

The  red  and  white  dingo  of  Brigalow  Gap. 
He  has  beaten  us  fairly  at  every  exchange ; 

He  is  hard  to  keep  up  with  and  harder  to  track ; 
He  knows  every  stone  on  the  Brigalow  Range — 

The  fastest  and  wildest  and  worst  of  the  pack. 
Good  horses  behind  him  with  rowels  we've  raked  : 

On  Began  the  bushcrows  are  feasting  their  fill, 
And  Footstep  is  foundered  and  Starlight  is  staked, 

But  the  red  and  white  dingo  makes  light  of  us  still. 
For  him  a  fast  gallop  is  nothing  but  fun — 

Too-cunning  to  poison,  too  wary  to  trap, 
You  can't  get  the  sight  of  a  rifle  or  gun 

On  the  red  and  white  dingo  of  Brigalow  Gap. 


88  THE  DINGO  OF  BRIGALOW  GAP 

He  has  tasted  the  Lincohis  and  fancies  the  breed, 

He  has  tried  the  Kalangada  culls  for  a  change. 
And  we  know  that  he'll  never  go  short  of  a  feed 

As  long  as  our  wethers  run  under  the  range. 
He's  the  scourge  of  the  country,  the  plague  of  the 
spot. 

The  curse  of  the  owner,  the  bane  of  the  boss  ; 
For  he's  got  to  be  reckoned  with,  like  it  or  not. 

When  the  latter  is  squaring  his  profit  and  loss. 
On  the  walls  of  the  stable  are  trophies  galore. 

The  goal  and  the  guerdon  of  many  a  ride  ; 
And  a  place  is  reserved  at  the  top  of  the  door 

For    the   honour    of    holding    his    red    and    white 
hide  ; 
But  the  days  and  the  weeks  they  go  merrily  by. 

The  skins  on  the  stable-wall  flutter  and  flap. 
They  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  shrivelled  and  dry 

While  they  wait  for  the  dingo  at  Brigalow  Gap. 

There   are   yellows    and   brindles  and   ci'ossbreds    of 
black, 
The  pride  of  the  station,  the  talk  of  the  town. 
But  we'd  gladly  give  all  to  be  out  on  his  track. 

With  his  stride  getting  short  and  the  crows  coming 
down 


THE  DINGO  OF  BRIG  ALOW  GAP  89 

His  life  may  be  safe,  but,  believe  me  !  for  that 

He  hasn't  Kalangada  kindness  to  thank  : 
We  tracked  him  two  days  ago  over  the  flat, 

We  heard  him  last  night  at  the  Marathon  tank  ; 
And  we  saw  him  to-day  as  he  skirted  the  brush 

A  mile  from  the  corner  of  Halliday's  fence. 
We  took  to  him  then  with  a  cavalry  rush. 

And  charged  the  thick  scrub  with  more  spirit  than 
sense  ; 
For,  whenever  that  devil's  limb  leads  us  a  dance, 

We  gallop  to  glory,  whatever  may  hap  ; 
But  down  in  the  gully  we  got  our  last  glance 

At  the  red  and  white  dingo  of  Brigalow  Gap. 

He  has  conquered  us  fairly,  we're  bound  to  confess 
(We  claim  to  be  sportsmen,   and  know  when  we're 
beat)  ; 
His  triumph  the  greater,  our  credit  the  less 

That   we    ride    fairly    well,     and    our    horses    are 
fleet. 
Perhaps,  when  the  days  of  the  dingo  are  done. 

And   the    race,     barring    him,    is   extinct   in    the 
land, 
When  cocky-selectors  have  swallowed  the  run, 
And  various  fortunes  have  scattered  our  band ; 


90  THE   DINGO  OF   BRIGALOW  GAP 

Pei'haps,  when  with  sorrow  that  scarce  can  be  borne 

He  watches  the  last  of  his  foemen  depart ; 
When  the  sheep-walks  are  furrowed  and  planted  with 
corn, 

And  the  want  of  a  gallop  is  breaking  his  heart ; 
When  his  life  is  a  burden  bereft  of  its  joys, 

That  old  age  embitters  and  sicknesses  sap, 
He'll  suffer  the  greybeards  that  once  were  "  the  boys  " 

To  catch  him  on  foot  in  the  Brigalow  Gap  ! 


HOW  THE  CHESTNUT  HORSE  CAME 
HOME 

Twenty  miles  across  the    ranges   there's  a  patch  of 

cane-grass  clears 
Half-a-mile  of  tangled  mulga ;  hides  a  score  of  native 

spears, 
While  the  horseman  sings  a  love-song,  with  no  shadow 

of  his  fate 
Till   the  stock-horse   swerves   and  plunges    from  the 

cane-grass  swamp — too  late  ! 
Heavy  from  his  glossy  shoulder  falls  a  dead  weight  to 

the  ground, 
And  the  dark  blood  splashes  upward  as  the  big  horse 

makes  the  bound  ; 
With  his   wld  eyes  great  with  terror  and  his  scarlet 

nostrils  spread 
Leaps  he  madly  to  the  mulga  from  the  dark  form  of 

the  dead  ; 


92      HOW  THE  CHESTNUT  HORSE  CAME  HOME 

Laden  with  the  purple  bloodstains,  for  the  words  he 

cannot  speak, 
Thundei's  down  the  crimson  sunset  to  the  homestead 

by  the  creek  ; 
Loudly  over  range  and  roadway  ring  the  hoofs  their 

notes  of  doom, 
Straight  as   arrow  to  the  gateway     ...     So  the 

chestnut  horse  came  home  ! 

What's  the  dustcloud  down  the  plain.  Jack  1     Yours 

are  younger  eyes  than  mine  ; 
Comes  too  fast  for   team   or  buggy,   and  the  coach 

ain't  due  till  nine. 
Harry  Olden  1     How  he's  riding  ?     Well,  we  needn't 

wonder,  Jack  ; 
When  a  man  is  newly-married  he  don't  linger  on  the 

track. 
There's  his  little  woman  waiting  over  by  the  cottage 

door  : 
By  the  Powers  of  Earth  and   Heaven  !     What  the 

smoke's  he  racing  for  ? 
I    would    rather    lose    a    tenner — he    must  stop  this 

blessed  game — 
I    would    rather    lose   a    hundred    than   he    ride  old 

Kliyber  lame. 


HOW  THE  CHESTNUT  HORSE  CAME  HOME      93 

Not  a  horse  upon  the  river     .     .     .     What  is  that 

you're  saying,  Jack  1 
Khyber  making  for  the  gateway  with  no  rider  on  his 

back  ! 
Bridle  bi'oken,  breastplate  flying,  chest  and  shoulder 

white  with  foam  ! 
Stand  away  there  !  Take  the  rails  down  !    .     .     .So 

the  chestnut  horse  came  home  ! 

She  is  standing  in  the  garden,  and  the  gleam  of  sun- 
set falls 

Through  the  pepper  trees  and  blue  gums  on  the  white- 
washed cottage  walls  ; 

She  is  watching  thx'ough  the  sunset  till  her  eyes  their 
guerdon  meet ; 

In  the  still  air  she  is  listening  for  the  stroke  of 
Khyber's  feet ; 

Now  she  whispers,  "  I  can  see  him  ;  he  is  riding  fast 
to-night !  " 

Eagerly  her  heart  is  beating,  and  her  eyes  have  Love's 
own  light. 

"  Khyber's  fond  of  racing  homewards  !  Dear  old 
Harry  lets  hiin  go, 

For  he  knows  that  I  am  waiting ;  anxious  when  the 
sun  gets  low. 


94       HOW  THE  CHESTNUT  HORSE  CAME  HOME 

What's    the    big    crowd    at    the    slip-rails '?  Harry's 

coming  horae  in  state  ! 
If  I  run  across  the  garden  I  shall   meet  him  at  the 

gate ! "     .     .     . 

hi  the  silent  awestruck  circle,  speechless  lips   and  brows 

ofgloom, 
Not  one  man  the  man  to  tell  her  how  the  chestnut  horse 

came  home ! 


A  DRAFT  FROM  TRINGADEE 

Lead  me  down  to  the  stockyard,  Jim,  to  the  butt  of 

the  old  box-tree  ! 
I  would  like  to  be  there   when  they're  yarding    the 

bullocks  from  Tringadee. 
They  were  always  beggars  to  rush  and  ring  and  rattle 

the  gidya  spars. 
And  gave  us  our  work  to  get  them  safe  at   the  back 

of  the  twelve-foot  bars. 

I  can  hear  them   crashing  the    blue  grass  through, 

away  in  the  river  bend, 
And  I  hear   their  thousand   voices   in   one  splendid 

challenge  blend. 
Listen  !  the  music  of  stockwhips  !  Nearer  and  nearer 

they  come  ! 
How  I  wish  I  were  out  in  the  daylight   fetching  the 

scrubbers  home  ! 

96 


96  A  DRAFT  FROM  TRINGADEE 

Yesterday  there  has  been   riding,   Jim !  on   sandhill 

and  ridge  and  plain, 
From  pines  into  tmsted  mulga,  from  mulga  to  pines 

again  ; 
Galloping  over  the  deadwood,  Jim,  and  dodging  the 

swinging  boughs ; 
Wheeling  the  Tringa  bullocks  and  trailing  the  Tringa 

cows. 

Yesterday,  out  on  the  camp,  Jim,  there  has  been 
work,  I'll  swear! 

Charge  to  be  met  with  a  stockwhip,  or  maybe  a  flank 
laid  bare ; 

And  all  last  night  in  the  moonlight  what  drowsing 
and  dropping  of  reins  ! 

As  they  dozed  with  the  tiring  cattle  over  the  salt- 
bush  plains. 

Now  they  are  close  to  the  yard,  Jim  !  the  leaders  are 

steadying  : 
Hark  !  there's   a   horseman   galloping   past  to  wheel 

them  into  the  wing  ! 
That's  Mick,  by  the  roar  of  his  stockwhip  ;  and  Wilga 

Boy  by  his  stride  ; 
I  can  almost  sft'  the  foam  on  his  neck  and  the  blood 

on  his  rowelled  side. 


A  DRAFT  FROM  TRINGADEE  97 

Come  a  little  bit   closer,  Jim  !  you   may  laugh  at  a 

blind  man's  fear  ; 
But  it's  one  thing  riding  old  Tempest,  another  thing 

crouching  here. 
I   never  knew  fear  on   the  chestnut,  and   loved  the 

thick  of  the  fight ; 
But  somehow  it  chills  the  heart  of  a  man,  this  living 

in  endless  night. 

That's  an  outlaw  broke  from  the  mob,  Jim  !    I  know 

by  his  angry  roar  ; 
And  somebody's  dropping  the  whip  so  quick  he  hasn't 

got  time  to  gore. 
They've  wheeled  him  back  to  the  others  :  my  God  !  if 

I  could  but  see  ! 
It  is  hard  to  be  standing   idle  when  they're  yarding 

from  Ti'ingadee. 

Their  breath  is  laden    with   trefoil,  and  under  their 

trampling  feet 
At  every  turn  oi  the  battle  the  smell  of  the  dust  is 

sweet ; 
Odours   more   dear  than   these  to  me   the  winds  can 

never  bring. 
Or  waft  me  grander  nmsic  than  the  march  when  cattle 

ring. 


98  A  DRAFT  FROM  TRINGADEE 

The   last   of   the   mob   is   yarded,  rails   up,  and   the 

stockwhip's  dumb ; 
It's  cold  and  the  fun  is  over— we  may  as  well  shuflBe 

home. 
Give  me  your  arm  again,  Jim  !    a  kind  mate  you  must 

be, 
To  miss,  for  a  blind  old  cripple,  a  muster  at  Txnngadee  ' 


TAKEN  OVER 

The  Banks  are  taking  charge,  old  man  .'  —  7  knew  how  it 

ivould  be ; 
The   flags    are   flyhuj    half-mast    high  for    death    of 

Tringadee ; 
The  Boss  has  left ;  the  boys  are  spread  to  all  the  winds 

— and  so 
I  think  we'd  better  get  the  nags  and  sling  the  packs  and 

go  ! 

It's  been  a  dear  old  home  to  us,  a  home  we'll  not 

forget ; 
And  we've  been  loyal  to  the  brand  and  would  be 

loyal  yet ; 
But   there  is  strife  among  the  crew  whose  captain 

leaves  the  ship — 
Tlie  team  won't  pull  together  when  a  new  hand  takes 

the  whip. 

90 


100  TAKEN  OVER 

We've  had  for  Boss  the  best  of  men — they  know  him 
far  and  wide  ; 

From  Sydney  out  to  Normanton  they  speak  his  name 
with  pride  ; 

And  though  we  search  from  now  till  doom  in  every 
clime  and  land, 

We'll  never  find  a  truer  heart  or  defter  bridle- 
hand. 

They've  got  some  new-chum  manager,   and   sent  him 

up  from  town 
To   spoil  the  mouth   of   Myall   King  and  break  old 

Yanguard  down  ; 
The  horses  that  the  Boss  was  proud  to  steer  in  scrub 

and  plain 
Will    never   toss    the    bridle-bars    beneath   his  hand 

again. 
They've    picked    their    would-be    stockmen   from  the 

raw,  rough  Sydney  push, 
That  never  saw  a   bucking  colt   or   smelt  a  sandal- 
bush  ; 
And  when  they  muster  through  the  scrub  for  fats  in 

Hawthornden, 
They'll  have  to  let  the  cattle  rip  and  muster  up  the 

men. 


TAKEN  OVER  101 

They'll  take  our  places  in  the  hut,   the  bunks  where 

we  have  lain, 
And  smoke  in  the  verandah  where  we'll  never  sraoke 

again  ; 
They'll  take  our  saddles  from  their  pegs,  our  bridles 

from  the  wall. 
And  catch  our  favourite  horses — ah  !  we'll  miss  them 

most  of  all. 
They'll   have    no   banjo  music  in  the   station-hut    at 

night — 
They'll  put  the  good  old  songs  aside   to  swear  and 

drink  and  fight  ; 
They'll    have    no   merry   dancing  when  the  off-camp 

stockmen  meet, 
And  the  old  boai'ds  creak  and  rattle  to  the  tramp  of 

spur-decked  feet. 

There'll  be  races  in  the  township  just  the  same  when 

we're  away, 
But  they'll  miss  young  Harden's  pony  and  your  finish 

on  the  gray ; 
And  when  they  meet  at  settling-time,  above  the  din 

and  noise 
They'll  be  listening  for  our  laughter,  and  they'll  miss 

the  Tringa  boys. 


102  TAKEN  OVER 

And   when  the  new-chum  Tringa   band  goes  riding 

into  town 
To  take   the  place  of   that  old  band  the  Banks  have 

broken  down, 
The  girls  will   turn   their  backs  on  them  and  never 

smile  to  greet 
The  men  who   spur  our  fancy  hacks  to  prance  along 

the  street. 

The  Banks  are  taking  charge,  old  man  '. — I  knew  hoiv  it 

woxdd  he  ; 
The   flags    mag   fly    at    lialf-moM    high  for    death   of 

2'ringadee ; 
It's  another  home  in  ashes,  and  a  name  dust-wrapped — 

and  so 
We'll  run  the  horses  in  to-night  and  sling  the  packs  and 

go! 


THE  STATION  BRAND 

Ho  !  you  in  the  boots  and  the  long-necked  spurs, 

You've  a  nice  little  hackney  there  ! 
I  rather  fancy  that  bi'and  of  hers  — 

Now,  what  will  you  take  for  the  mare  1 
You  need  not  go  oflf  on  too  wide  a  tack — 

I'm  hardly  in  want  of  a  horse  ; 
And  I'm  only  pricing  your  chestnut  hack 

For  the  sake  of  the  brand,  of  course. 
I  don't  know  where  you  were  born  or  bred, 

But  I'll  give  you  a  stranger's  hand 
For  love  of  that  lean,  game,  fiery  head. 

And  the  sake  of  the  Tringa  brand. 

No,  thanks  ;  I  don't  fancy  exchanges. 

Besides,  she's  a  bit  of  a  screw. 
As  old  as  the  Barrier  Ranges, 

And  shook  in  the  shoulders,  too  ! 

103 


104  THK  STATION  BRAND 

Now,  what  is  the  use  of  denial  1 

Much  better  have  let  things  stand — 
No,  thank  you,  I  want  no  trial  : 

I'm  buying  the  Tringa  brand  ! 
I  know  that  she'll  carry  me  fast  and  far 

In  waterless  waste  or  wet, 
For  never  the  T  li  I  and  a  Bar 

Was  burnt  on  a  bad  one  yet. 

Do  I  know  the  brand  ?     Yes,  I  think  I  do  ; 

I've  carried  it,  hell-fire  hot. 
To  the  stockyard  fence  and  passed  it  through 

For  many  a  cleanskin  lot  ; 
I've  heard  it  hiss  on  the  burning  hide, 

And  the  short,  sharp  whinny  of  pain 
As  they  lifted  it  off  to  thrust  aside 

Or  lay  to  the  lines  again. 
Do  I  know  the  brand  1  I  have  watched  it  streak 

To  the  front  in  the  mustering  days — 
But  why  do  I  tell  you— you've  heard  it  speak, 

And  you  know  what  the  old  brand  says  ! 

For  ask  of  the  drovers  from  North  of  Bourke, 

The  Kings  of  the  Overland, 
Which  are  the  horses  to  stand  the  work  : 

They  will  tell  you— the  Tringa  brand  ! 


THE  STATION   BRAND  105 

Aud  question  the  mailmen  in  flood-stress  met, 

Flogging,  down  in  the  mud, 
Which  are  the  pearls  when  the  plains  are  wet : 

They  will  tell  you — the  Tringa  blood  ! 
And  ask  the  men  of  the  Furthest  Back 

What  their  favourite  campers  are 
In  the  whirling  dust  when  the  stockwhips  crack  ; 

And  it's  T  R  I  and  a  Bar. 

You  can  have  your  price  ! — it's  a  lot  too  much 

As  horses  are  selling  to-day  ! 
But  a  man  is  a  fool  and  acts  as  such 

When  sentiment  shows  the  way  ; 
She's  spavined  and  aged  and  shoulder-shook, 

Yet  I'm  not  regretting  the  deal. 
For  the  old  brand  shows  like  an  open  book 

What  nothing  else  can  reveal — 
The  far-off  life  with  its  witching  charms 

And  the  glamour  of  sun  and  star 
In  the  happy  days  when  our  coat-of-arms 

Was  T  li  1  cmd  a  Bar  ! 


OUT  OF  THE  CHAINS 

He  has  toiled  in  his  place  since  the  break  of  day, 

And  the  collar  has  left  its  gall ; 
When  others  were  faint  in  the  holding  clay 
And  heavy  the  burden  and  steep  the  way 

He  has  taken  the  weight  from  all. 

Where  the  sun  falls  red  on  the  burning  plains 

Fx'ora  the  breast  of  a  quivering  sky, 
As  a  poor  reward  for  his  honest  pains 
They  have  loosed  the  collar  and  dropped  the  chains 

And  turned  him  adrift  to  die. 

Though  the  brown  grass  waves  by  his  weary  feet, 

Though  the  river  runs  at  his  side, 
He  has  little  desire  to  drink  or  eat ; 
And  he  crawls  away  in  the  scorching  heat 

With  torture  at  every  stride. 


OUT  OF  THE  CHAINS  107 

And  the  waggons  pass  in  the  wliirling  dust, 

And  the  ring  of  the  whip  is  gone, 
And  his  hope  with  the  human  voice  is  lost, 
And  the  crows  come  down  in  an  eager  host 

With  wings  that  l)lacken  the  sun. 

Ere  the  whip-scored  hide  has  ceased  to  smart 

Or  the  aching  limbs  grown  numb, 
Ere  pulses  slacken  and  sense  depart. 
Ere  the  hammer  stops  in  the  broken  heart 

And  sobs  in  the  throat  are  dumb, 

Will  his  thoughts  return  to  the  pastures  green, 

Of  the  bygone  hours  of  ease"? — 
To  a  golden  noon  in  a  summer  sheen, 
To  a  river  laughing  its  banks  between. 

And  the  shadow  of  blackwood  trees  ? — ■ 

To  the  mouthfuls  of  dewy  gi-ass,  the  rolls 

On  the  petals  of  painted  flowers  1 — 
To  the  races  run  with  his  comi'ade  foals. 
With  straggling  starts  and  indefinite  goals. 

To  shorten  the  idle  hours  ? 

Will  he  cherish  the  memory,  even  now 

Of  the  touch  of  a  loving  hand 
Tliat  ribboned  the  lock  on  his  open  brow 
And  fondled  the  neck  that  was  proud  to  bow 

With  a  rose  in  the  forehead-band  ] 


108  OUT  OF  THE   CHAINS 

Will  he  yearn  one  moment  to  catch  the  tone 
Of  the  voice  he  loved  long  since  1 — 

"  I  never  lift  whip  to  my  gallant  roan  ; 

He  works  for  the  voice  and  the  voice  alone ; 
And  he  draws  till  he  drops,  old  Prince  !  " 

"  I  ill  hi'  drops  /''  —the  shadaws  m-e  'latheriiig  fast 

I  o  CIO  tain  hit  bal  on  the  plain, 
And  out  rif  the  darkness  void  nnd  vast 
The  carrion  hinh  to  their  Joiil  repast 

Are  Jiying  in  endless  train. 


THE  MAN  WHO  STEADIES  THE  LEAD 

He  was  born  in  the  light  of  red  oaths 

And  nursed  by  the  drought  and  the  flood, 
And  swaddled  in  sweat-lined  saddle-cloths 

And  christened  in  spur-drawn  blood  ; 
He  never  was  burdened  with  learning, 

And  many  would  think  him  a  fool, 
But  he's  mastered  a  method  of  "  turning  " 

That  never  was  taught  in  a  school. 
His  manners  are  rugged  and  vulgar, 

But  he's  nuggets  of  gold  in  our  need, 
And  a  lightning  flash  in  the  mulga 

Is  the  Man  who  Steadies  the  Lead  ! 

When  the  stockwhips  are  ringing  behind  him 
And  the  brumbies  are  racing  abreast. 

It's  fifty  to  one  you  will  find  him 
A  furlong  or  two  from  the  rest 

109 


110        THE  MAN  WHO  STEADIES  THE  LEAD 

With  the  coils  of  his  whip  hanging  idle, 

His  eyes  on  the  mob  at  his  side, 
And  the  daintiest  touch  on  the  bi'idle  — 

For  this  is  the  man  who  can  ride  ! 
And  the  stallions  that  break  for  the  mallee 

Will  find  he  has  courage  and  speed, 
For  he  rides  the  best  horse  in  the  valley — 

This  stockman  that  steadies  the  lead. 

When  they're  fetching  in  "  stores"  to  the  station 

Through  tangles  of  broken  belar, 
And  the  road  is  a  rough  calculation 

That's  based  on  the  blaze  of  a  star  ; 
When    they're    quickening    through    sand-ridge    and 
hollow 

And  rowels  are  spattered  with  red, 
And  sometimes  you've  only  to  follow 

The  sound  of  the  hoof-beat  ahead  ; 
Then  we  know  that  he's  holding  them  nor' ward  — 

We  trust  in  the  man  and  his  steed, 
As  we  hear  the  old  brown  crashing  forward 

And  his  rider's  "  Wo  up  !  "  to  the  lead. 

And  iigain  in  a  journey  that's  longer. 

In  a  different  phase  of  the  game, 
Dropping  down  the  long  trail  to  Wodonga 

With  a  thousand  or  so  of  the  same  ; 


THE  MAN  WHO  STEADIES  THE  LEAD        111 

When  the  blue  grass  is  over  our  rollers, 

And  each  one  contentedly  rides, 
And  even  the  worst  of  the  crawlers 

Are  stuffing  green  grass  in  their  hides  ; 
He  is  ready  to  spread  them  or  ring  them 

Or  steady  them  back  on  the  feed, 
And  he  knows  when  to  stop  them  or  string  them 

The  stockman  that  rides  in  the  lead. 

But  when  from  the  bend  in  the  river 

The  cattle  break  camp  in  the  night — 
Oh,  then  is  the  season,  if  ever, 

We  value  his  service  aright  ! 
For  we  know  that  if  some  should  be  tardy. 

And  some  should  be  left  in  the  race. 
Yet  the  spurs  will  be  red  on  "  Coolgardie  " 

As  Someone  swings  out  to  his  place. 
The  mulga  boughs — hark  to  them  breaking 

In  front  of  the  maddened  stampede  ! 
A  horse  and  a  rider  are  taking 

Their  time-honored  place  in  the  lead  ! 

As  an  honest,  impartial  I'ecorder 

I'd  fain  have  you  all  recollect 
There  are  other  brave  men  on  the  Border 

Entitled  to  every  respect ; 


112        THE  MAN  WHO  STEADIES  THE  LEAD 

There's  the  man  that  thinks  bucking  a  tame  thing, 

And  rides  'em  with  lighted  cigars  ; 
And  the  man  who  will  drive  any  blamed  thing 

That  ever  was  hooked  to  the  bars  .  .  . 
Their  pluck  and  their  prowess  are  granted, 

But  all  said  and  done,  we're  agreed 
That  the  king  of  'em  all  when  he's  wanted 

Is  the  Man  who  Steadies  the  Lead  ! 


HOW  THE  FIRE  QUEEN  CROSSED 
THE  SWAMP 

The  flood  was  down  in  the  Wilga  swamps,  three  feet 

over  the  mud, 
And  the   teamsters  camped  on  the  Wilga  range  and 

swoi'e  at  the  rising  flood  ; 
For  one  by  one  they  had  tried  tlie  trip,  double  and 

treble  teams. 
And  one  after  one  each  desert-ship  had  dropped  to 

her  axle-beams  ; 
So  they  thonged  their  leaders  and  pulled  them  round 

to  the  camp  on  the  sandhill's  crown, 
And  swore  by  the  bond  of  a  blood-red  oath  to  wait 

till  the  floods  went  down. 

There  were  side-rail  tubs  and  table-tops,  coaches  and 

bullock-drays. 
Brown   with   the  Barcoo   Wonders,  and  Speed  with 

the  dapple  grays 


114  HOW  THE  FIRE  QUEEN 

Who  pulled  the  front  of  his  waggon  out  and  left  the 
rest  in  the  mud 

At  the  Cuttaburra  crossing  in  the  grip  of  the  Ninety- 
flood. 

There  was  Burt  with  his  sixteen  bullocks,  and  never 
a  bullock  to  shirk, 

Who  twice  came  over  the  Border  line  with  twelve- 
ton-ten  to  Bourke ; 

There  was  Long  Dick  damning  an  agent's  eyes  for 
his  ton  of  extra  weight, 

And  Whistling  Jim,  for  Cobb  and  Co.,  cursing  that 
mails  were  late  ; 

And  one  blasphemed  at  a  broken  chain  and  howled 
for  a  blacksmith's  blood, 

And  most  of  them  cursed  their  crimson  luck,  and  all 
of  them  cursed  the  flood. 

The  last  of  the  baffled  had  struggled  back  and  the  sun 

was  low  in  the  sky, 
And    the  first  of   the   stars   was  creeping  out  when 

Dai'eaway  Dan  came  by. 
There's   never  a  teamster  draws   to  Bourke  but  has 

taken  the  help  of  Dan  ; 
There's  never  a  team  on  the  Great  North  Road  can 

lift  as  the  big  roans  can  : 


CROSSED  THE  SWAMP  115 

Broad-hipped  beauties  that  nothing  can  stop,  leaders 

that  swing  to  a  cough  ; 
Eight   blue-roans  on   the  near  side  yoked,  and  eight 

red-roans  on  the  oif. 
And    Long    Dick   called   from   his    pine-rail    bunk  : 

"  Where  are  you  bound  so  quick  '?  " 
And    Dareaway    Dan    spoke    low  to  the  roans,  and 

aloud,  "  To  the  Swagman's,  Dick  !  " 
"  There's  five  good  miles,"  said  the  giant,  "  lie  to  the 

front  of  you,  holding  mud  ; 
If  you  never  were  stopped   before,  old  man,  you  are 

stopped  by  the  Wilga  flood. 
The  dark  will  be   down  in  an  hour  or  so,  there  isn't 

the  ghost  of  a  moon  ; 
So  leave  your  nags  in  the  station  grass  instead  of  the 

long  lagoon  !  " 

But  Dan  stood   up  to  the  leader's  head   and  fondled 

the  big  brown  nose  : 
"  There's  many  a  mile  in   the   roan   team  yet  before 

they  are  feed  for  the  crows  ; 
Now  listen,   Dick-with-the-woman's-heart,  a  word  to 

you  and  the  rest : 
I've  sixteen  horses  collared  and  chained,  the  pick  of 

the  whole  wide  West, 


116  HOW  THE  FIRE  QUEEN 

And  111  cut  their  throats  and  leave  them  here  to  rot 

if  they  haven't  the  power 
To  carry  nie  through  the  gates  of  Hell — with  seventy 

bags  of  flour  ! 
The   light   of  the   stars  is  light  enough ;  they  have 

nothing  to  do  but  plow/li  ! 
There's   never   a  swamp   has  held   them  yet,   and  a 

swamp  won't  stop  them  now. 
They're  waiting  for  flour  at  the  Swagman's  Bend  ;  I'll 

steer  for  the  lifting  light ; 
There's  nothing  to  fear  with  a  team  like  mine,  and — 

I  camp  in  the  bend  to-night  !  " 

So  they  stood  aside  and  they  watched   them  pass  in 

the  glow  of  the  sinking  sun, 
With     straining     muscles    and    tightened    chains  — 

sixteen  pulling  like  one  ; 
"With  jingling  harness  and  droning  wheels  and  bare 

hoofs'  rhythmic  tramp. 
With  creaking  timbers  and   lurching   load   the   Fire 

Queen  faced  the  swamp  ! 
She   dipped  her  red   shafts   low    in    the  slush    as   a 

spoonbill  dips  her  beak, 
The  black  mud  clung  to  the  wheels  and  fell    in   the 

wash  of  the  Wilga  creek  ; 


CROSSED  THE  SWAMP  117 

Aud    the    big    roans    fought    for    footing,    and    the 

spreaders  threshed  like  flails, 
And  the  great  wheels  lifted  the  muddy  spume  to  the 

bend  of  the  red  float-rails  ; 
And  they  cheered  him  out  to  the  westward  with  the 

last  of  the  failing  light 
And  the  splashing  hoofs  and  the  driver's  voice  died 

softly  away  in  the  night ; 
But  some  of  them  prate  of  a  shadowy  form  that  guided 

the  leader's  reins, 
And  some  of  them  speak  of  a  shod  black  horse  that 

pulled  in  the  off-side  chains — 
How  eveiy  time  that  he  lifted  his   feet  the   waggon 

would  groan  aud  swing. 
And  every  time  that  he  dropped  his  head  you   could 

hear  the  tug-chains  ring  ! 

And  Dan  to  the  Swagman's  Bend  came  through  mud- 
spattered  from  foot  to  head. 

And  they  couldn't  tell  which  of  the  roans  were  blue 
and  which  of  the  roans  were  red. 

Now  this  is  the  tale  as  I  heard  it  told,  and  many 
believe  it  true 

When  the  teamsters  say  in  their  ofi'-hand  way — 
"  'Twas  the  Devil  that  pulled  him  through  !  " 


THE  NEAR-SIDE  LEADER 

When   the   gear  is    on  the  horses  aud   the  knotted 

trace-chains  hooked  ; 
When  the  last  bale's  on   the  waggon  and  the  ropes 

are  twitched  and  tied  ; 
When  the  brakes  are  off  the  big  wheels  and  the  way- 
bills safely  booked, 
You  can   see  the  old  gray  leader  with  his  wise  head 
turned  aside. 
Does  a  memory  come  o'er  him 
Of  the  long  stiff  road  befoi-e  him, 
With  the  lead-chains  never  slackened  as  he  holds  his 
team  to  work. 
Through  the  box-flats  and  the  gidyas, 
Ninety  miles  of  plain  and  ridges. 
To  the  white-railed  Darling  bridges   aud   the  silver 
roofs  of  Bourke  ? 

U8 


THE  NEAR-SIDE  LEADER  11 

Just  a  whisper  from  his  master  aud  he  leans   upon 

the  weight, 
Aud  the  twenty  browns  behind  him  touch  the  collar 

when  he  moves, 
Then  the  whip   rings  out    a  warning,  and   the  under- 
carriage grates, 
And  they  bend   their  backs   and   lift  her   from   the 
well-worn  loading  grooves. 
So  they  open  up  the  tourney, 
And  she  starts  her  long,  rough  journey 
Over  ninety    miles  of   noonday  and  the  e^'enings  in 
between, 
And  the  station-gates  have  freed  her, 
With  the  station  men  to  speed  her. 
And  it's  "  Buckle  down  my  leader,  on  the  road  you've 
often  been  ! " 

Now  the   red  dust  curls  behind  her,  and  the  red  dust 

rolls  before, 
And  from   shafter  up  to  leader  they  are  sweat  from 

head  to  hip. 
And  the  good  ones  take  the  collar  and  the  bad  ones 

baulk  and  bore, 
But  the  gray  hoi'se  strains  the  harder  e\ery  time  he 

hears  the  whip ; 


120  THE  NEAR-SIDE  LEADER 

So,  by  lash  and  lurid  order, 
They  will  swing  her  through  the  Border, 
With  the  dust  upon  her  loading  making  extra  weight 
to  pull, 
And  the  drunken  township  loafer 
Staggers  blindly  from  his  sofa 
Just  to  see  the  first  team  over  with  the  Thurulgoona 
wool. 

O,  the   camping  by  the   river   when  the  sun  is  riding 

low  ! 
O,  the  shifting  of  the  collars  and  the  dropping  of  the 

chains  ! 
And  the  music  of  the  big  bells,  as  they  let  the  horses 

go 
To   their  drinking  in  the  river  and  their  feeding  on 
the  plains  ! 
So,  from  camp  to  camp-fire,  daily, 
They  will  battle  through  Belalie, 
Till  they  leave   the  {)lains  behind  them  and  the  river 
at  their  back. 
Where  the  stony  hills  are  showing- 
There  is  panting  now,  and  blowing, 
But  the  gray  horse  keeps  them  going  with  the  chains 
that  never  slack. 


THE  NEAR-SIDE  LEADER  121 

So   the   toe-clips  cut  the    roadway  where  a  thousand 

hoofs  have  trod, 
While  above  the  gold  sun  glistens  and  to  West  the 

red  sun  flames 
To  the  creaking  of  the  waggon  and  the  lurching  of  the 

load 
And  the  grinding  of  the  tug-chains  in  the  hooks  upon 
the  hames  ; 
And  the  leader's  heart  thumps  loudly, 
But  he  bends  his  old  neck  proudly 
As    he    swings    them    through    the  bridges,   sticking 
staunchly  to  his  work  ; 
And  I  wish  the  gray  could  hear  him 
When  a  stranger  says,  "  I'd  spare  him, 
For  there's  not  a  horse  comes   near  him  in  the  teams 
that  draw  to  Bourke  !  " 

O,  it's  grand  to  bring  the  largest  loads  from  Thurul- 

goona  side  ! 
And  it's  grand  to  have  a  leader  that  the  smallest  child 

knows  well ; 
But,  if  you  love  an  honest  horse,  when  next  the  ropes 

are  tied 
You'll  leave  him  in  the  bluegrass,  for  the  gray  has 

earned  a  spell. 


122  THE  NEAR-SIDE  LEADER 

He  has  bonie  the  brunt  of  battle  ; 
He  has  led  your  lagging  cattle 
With   the  red  galls  on   his  shoulder,   yet    he   never 
shirked  a  start ; 
And  'twere  better  you  should  brain  him 
Ere  you  burst  him  up  and  strain  him, 
For,  just  think,  each  trip  you  chain  him  helps  to  break  a 
tvilling  heart ! 


THE  SILENT  SQUADRON 

Down,  the  long  dream-lanes 
At  the  dead  of  night, 
With  gray  mists  over  and  mists  below, 
With  loose-held  reins 
On  their  horses  white 
I  watch  whei-e  the  silent  riders  go. 

With  their  heads  bent  low 
And  a  hoof-stroke  dumb 
They  never  turn  to  the  left  or  right. 
And  the  shadows  go 
And  the  shadows  come 
But  the  silent  squadron  is  deadly  white. 

Should  a  bit-bar  play 
Or  a  saddle  creak 
It  would  free  the  blood  of  an  icy  fear, 
If  a  horse  should  neigh 
Or  a  rider  speak 
It  would  lighten  the  load  of  my  heart  to  hear. 


124  THE  SILENT  SQUADRON 

But  the  troop  i-ides  on 
With  a  measured  pace 
And  touching  stirrups  that  make  no  sound, 
And  the  stars  have  shone 
On  a  comrade's  face 
That  is  twelve  long  years  in  the  graveyard  ground. 

Here  are  the  ends 

Of  the  parted  ways — 
The  long  Dead  March  of  the  years  to  be  ; 
And  these  are  the  friends 
Of  the  olden  days 
Taking  their  last  ride  silently. 

There's  an  empty  space — 
They  keep  my  place 
In  their  ghostly  ranks  ;  and  I  catch  my  breath  ! 
Yet  hand  to  the  rein 
There  are  better  men 
Riding  to-night  with  the  Steeds  of  Death. 


THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

Long  years  ago — no  matter  now  how  long — one  fierce 
December 

I  was  travelling,  weak  and  footsore,  on  a  river  road 
Out  Back  ; 

I  was  sick  at  heart  and  weary  of  the  world,  and  I 
remember 

How  my  tucker-bags  were  empty  on  that  long- 
starvation  track. 

Oh,  the  world  is  wide  and  bitter  to  the  outcast  and 
the  friendless  ! 

But  you  never  know  how  bitter  or  how  friendless  it 
can  be 

Till  you  see  the  big  scrubs  stretching  to  the  west- 
ward, black  and  endless. 

And  the  sun-glare  and  the  sand-drift  on  the  silent 
saltbush  sea. 

125 


126  THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

Where  among  the  river  timber  flashed  a  silver  roof 

beside  me 
I  turned  from  off  the  treadmill  track  that  leads  but 

to  the  grave  : 
I  would  face  the  world's  last  welcome  were  it  offered 

or  denied  me  : 
They  could  take  me   in  or   scorn  me — 'twas  a  life  to 

lose  or  save. 

There  wei'e  hands  held  out  to  meet  me,  there  were 

pitying  words  and  kindly, 
As  they  bore  beyond  the  threshold,  through  the  roses, 

my  poor  weight ; 
And  the  fever  fought  them  daily,   and  I  lay  for  long 

weeks  blindly 
Waging  war  against  her  sword-blades  and  the  banded 

squares  of  Fate. 

Then  I  woke  on  New  Year's  morning  to  the  life  that 

had  grown  dearer, 
And   the  brown  tide  whipped  the  gum-trees   and  the 

grass  was  waving  green  ; 
And  the   world  was    not  so  hai-sh,  it  seemed,  to  one 

pale,  friendless  shearer, 
For  I  saw  glad  faces  round  me,  with  the  sunlight  in 

between. 


THE  BROKEN  SHOE  127 

And  a  strong  man,  gray  and  rugged,  and  a  white- 
haired  gentle  mother, 

And  a  daughter,  sweetly  beautiful,  brown-eyed  and 
raven-haired, 

Clasped  hands  and  prayed  in  thankfulness,  soft-voiced 
with  one  another, 

For  the  stranger  in  their  household  whom  the 
chastening  Lord  had  spared. 

Now   the  world   is   wild   and   wilful   out  beyond  the 

Darling  timber, 
And  the  further  to  the  sunset  is  the  nearer  Hell,  they 

say; 
Is  it  wonder,  then,  I   cherish   in   my  heart  and  aye 

remember 
Those  who  nursed  me  through   the  fever  as  I  saw 

them  kneel  and  pray  ? 

When  twice  the  floods  had  mustered  from  the  creeks 

above  the  Border, 
When  twice  the  plains  had  blistered  in  the  furnace  of 

the  drought, 
When  twice  the  laughing  Spring  had  come  and  gone 

in  flowery  order. 
When  the  grass  was  green  and  waving,  and  the  latest 

sheds  cut  out ; 


128  THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

Then   I  sought   the   white-roofed  homestead   by   the 

river,  lightly  laden 
With  a  few  small  gifts  as  tokens   of  remembrance. 

It  was  late 
When  the  old  folk  came  to  greet  me,  and  I  missed 

the  brown-eyed  maiden 
When  they  crossed  the  rose-grown  threshold  and  the 

pathway  to  the  gate. 

And  the  old  man,  worn  and  aged,  had  the  lines  of 
cai'e  and  sorrow 

Traced  deeply  on  his  forehead,  aiid  but  few  the  words 
he  said  ; 

And  I  saw  the  bitter  burden  of  a  weeping,  morn  to- 
morrow. 

In  the  sad  eyes  of  the  woman  as  she  raised  her 
drooping  head. 

When  the  stars  were  lit  and  burning,  and  the  crickets 

softly  singing. 
Then  he  led  me  to  the  garden,  and  he  spoke  in  accents 

strange  : 
And  his  eyes   would   wander   vaguely,  but  his  voice 

had  passion's  ringing 
That  had  lost  its   gentle  tuning,   and   I  wondered  at 

the  change. 


THE  BROKEN  SHOE  129 

So  he  fashioned  his  sad  story  :   "  When  the  last  year's 

flood  was  Hfting, 
And  the  dawn  of  every  morning  showed   a  rising  of 

the  creek, 
When  we  saw  the  wreck  of  homesteads  daily  past  our 

doorstep  drifting — 
Oh,  the  Lord  is  fierce  and  cruel  !  "  and   dark  anger 

flushed  his  cheek — 

"  I  was  rowing  up  the  river  in  the  old  boat,  searching 

vainly 
For  the  few  poor  sheep  God  left  me  " — and  his  face 

gi*ew  dark  again — 
"  I  could  hear  a  '  cooee'  ringing  down  the  water,  loud 

and  plainly. 
And  I  thanked  the  Lord  who  sent  me ;  I  believed  in 

such  things  then. 

"  And  I  saw  a  man's  form  clinging  to  a  branching 

gum  that  gave  him 
Rest  a   moment,    worn   with  waiting,  cramped   and 

numb  with  cold  and  fear. 
And  I  called  across  the  water,  and  I   prayed   God  I 

might  save  him, 
But    I    wish    these    hands  had   drowned   him  ere    I 

brought  the  hell  fiend  here  ! 


130  THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

"  He  was  weak  and  starved  with  hunger,  and  we 

nursed  him — was  it  wonder  1 
And  we  thanked  the  Lord  in  Heaven  who  had  granted 

us  this  part : 
Hell's  curses  on   him  !  Pardon  me he  rent  my 

home  asunder ; 
He  wrought  my  daughter's  ruin,  and  he  broke  her 

mother's  heart. 

"  He  was  tall,  and  straight,  and  handsome,  with  the 

soft  ways  of  the  city. 
And  he  spoke  of  home  and  mother — what  words  were 

these  for  him  1 
He  sang  psalms  and  read  his  Bible — and  we  liked 

him — more's  the  pity  ! 
And  we  almost  got  to  love  him  when  he  said  he  knew 

our  Jim. 

"  Our  Jim,  the  blue-eyed  giant,  Mary's  brother ;  he 

would  ply  her 
With  his  tales  of  Jim  and  shearing,  where  his  wild 

life  first  began  : 
How  Jim  and  he  were  comrades.     But  the  low  cur 

was  a  liar ; 
Our  Jim  was  never  mate  of  his — Jim's  honest,  and  a 

man  ! 


THE  BROKEN  SHOE  131 

"  Well,  we  learned  to  like  the  stranger,  and  our  eyes 
were  blinded  fairly, 

And  we  nursed  the  viper  warmly  who  would  bite  us 
to  the  bone, 

And  our  eyes  were  rudely  opened  when  one  spring- 
tide morning  early 

We  woke  to  find  the  scoundrel  and  our  fastest  stock- 
horse  gone. 

"  Six  hours  before  I  saddled  he  was  racing  down  the 

river  ; 
But  I  took  the  girl's  roan-chestnut  that  is  faster  than 

the  wind  ; 
No  fleet-winged  terror  fleeter  than  the  fiend  before 

me — never 
Fierce  wrath  one-half  so  bitter  as  the  man  wlio  rode 

behind  ! 

"  Across  the  hill  I  tracked  him,  to  the  river  bank  and 

over. 
And   there   the  cur   had  doubled  back  to  save  his 

wretched  hide ; 
The  watching  sun  had  never  waked  to  see  so  base  a 

lover, 
The  frightened  stars  had  never  paled   to   see  such 

vengeance  ride  ! 


132  THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

"  So  I  ran  the  tracks  out  west  to  where  the  Red 
Spring  road  runs  nor' ward, 

Though  the  hardness  of  the  surface  made  it  dainty 
work  to  do  ; 

I  can  track,  lad,  like  a  nigger,  and  I  raced  the 
chestnut  forward. 

For  there's  not  a  road  could  bluff  me  off  old  Stock- 
whip's broken  shoe  ! 

"  I  galloped  over  cane-grass  swamps,  now  madly,  now 

more  slowly ; 
I  raced  across  the  sandhills  with  dark  murder  in  my 

heart. 
And  with  the  miles  the  fierce  thoughts  grew — the  red 

resolves  unholy  : 
There's  time  for  him  to  harbour   these  who  gives  a 

six-hour  start ! 

"  The   sun  was  noon-high   in  the  gums   when,  at  the 

Red  Spring  crossing, 
I  saw  the  coward  crouching  by  a  dead  tree  on   the 

track. 
I  reined   the  horse  and  steadied  him,  and   past  his 

game  head's  tossing 
Took    aim    that  asks  for   vengeance,    but    wins   not 

honour  back. 


THE  BROKEN  SHOE  133 

"  I  halted  but  a  moment ;  in   that  moment  passed 

before  me 
The  vision  of  his  white  face  and  his  trembling,  lifted 

hands : 
He  prayed  to  me  for  mercy  ;  then  the  bitter   wrath 

came  o'er  me  : 
'  He  gave  my  girl  no  mercy,  and  I'll  shoot  him  where  he 

stands  /' 

"  Then  a  voice  came  whisp'ring  softly,  'Mine  is  ven- 
geance, so  the  Lord  said  .   .  .' 

But  the  madness  held  me  fettered,  and  I  cursed  Him 
at  the  ford. 

And  I  shouted  to  the  blue  skies,  '  For  a  God  or  devil's 
word  said 

Shall  I  lose  my  just  avenging?  Mine's  the  vengeance ; 
d n  the  Lord  !  ' 

"Then  I  felt  the  chestnut  tremble,  and  he  reeled  and 

fell  beneath  me, 
And  I  knew  no  more  that  happened  till  I  wakened  in 

the  night, 
And  all  the   stars  of  heaven   seemed  to   cluster  and 

enwreath  me. 
And  the  cold  mnd  kissed  my  forehead — and  the  man 

was  gone  from  sight. 


134  THE  BROKEN  SHOE 

"  And  we  left  our  poor  girl  sleeping  by  the  mulga 

trees  down  yonder, 
And  the  parson  said  '  The  Lord's  will  ! '  as  he  stood 

beside  her  grave  .   .  . 
And  every  word  is  true,  lad.     Tell  me  straight,  now, 

do  you  wonder 
If  I  curse  this  Lord  they  speak  of,  who   will   neither 

slay  nor  save  1 " 


RIDERLESS 

A  BROKEN  bridle  trailing, 

A  saddle  scratched  and  scarred — 
And  Brown  Bee  at  the  railing 

That  rings  the  station  yard  ; 
No  stockman  sits  astride  her, 

But,  by  those  flanks  afoam, 
Wild  Terror  was  the  rider 

That  lashed  the  good  mare  home  ! 

She  snorts  across  the  moonlight 

Through  nostrils  red  and  wide 
The  challenge  of  the  unbacked  colt 

To  those  who  dare  to  ride ; 
She  snorts  across  the  moonlight 

Through  nostrils  wide  and  red 
The  terror  of  a  dumb  beast 

That  has  looked  upon  the  dead  .  . 


136  RIDERLESS 

His  saddle  and  his  bridle 

We've  softly  laid  aside, 
We'll  leave  the  rough  gear  idle 

Till  he  comes  hack  to  ride  ; — 
Our  eyes  are  to  the  ranges, 

And  when  the  dawning  pales 
The  hrown  mare  stands  and  whinnies 

With  her  lean  head  on  the  rails. 


KINGS  OF  THE  EARTH 

We  are  heathen  ivho  worship  an  idol 
We  keep  for  our  pleasicre  and  pride, 

We  are  slaves  of  the  saddle  and  bridle, 
Yet  kings  of  the  earth  when  we  ride  '. 

It  is  over  the  clinging  meadows 
And  the  hedges  thick  and  tall, 

Where  the  frost  still  lies  in  the  shadows 
And  the  boldest  ride  for  a  fall ; 

It  is  over  the  stretching  upland 

Where  the  breeze  is  fresh  from  the  sea, 

And  veiled  in  spray  is  the  stag  at  bay- 
That  battles  on  bended  knee. 

It  is  down  by  the  white-flagged  courses 

In  the  shimmer  of  silken  winsrs. 
Where  the  thunder  of  galloping  horses 

The  blood  to  the  pulses  brings  : 

137 


138  KINGS  OF  THE  EARTH 

When  your  mount  goes  free  to  his  fences 

And  leans  to  your  gentle  hold, 
And  the  plaudits  loud  of  the  cheering  crowd 

Are  better  than  gifts  of  gold. 

It  is  here,  in  the  southward,  under 

The  rays  of  a  sun  that  fall 
Where  the  stockwhip's  gathering  thunder 

Is  music  sweetest  of  all : 
Where  the  "  scrubbers  "  under  the  dust-clouds 

Are  challenged,  and  caught,  and  passed. 
Though  flanks  may  bleed  ere  we  wheel  the  lead 

At  the  wings  of  the  yard  at  last. 

We  are  heathen  ivho  worship  an  idol 
We  keep  for  our  honour  and  pride  ; 

We  are  slaves  of  the  saddle  and  Iridle, 
Yet  kings  of  the  earth  when  vje  ride  / 


UNBROKEN ! 

Eyes  ^vild  with  fear  unspoken, 

Tossed  manes  and  sweeping  tails, 
Our  thirty  head  unbroken 

Are  safe  behind  the  rails  ; 
Hard  won  from  stony  ridges 

And  waving  blue-grass  plains 
By  ga-shes  from  the  gidyas, 

Red  spurs  and  foamy  reins  ! 

We  woke  ^^^th  stars  a-cluster 

And  rode  ^\dth  breaking  day, 
We've  made  a  right  good  muster 

With  not  one  colt  away  ; 
Oh,  loth  they  were  at  leaving  ! 

And  twice  they  broke  for  home  ; 
And  Blue  Light's  flanks  are  heaving, 

And  Brownlocks'  white  with  foam. 


140  UNBROKEN  ! 

By  Snowdon's  son — Gray  River — 

The  best  blood  in  the  land  ! 
No  finer  draft  has  ever 

Upheld  the  station  brand; 
They'll  get  no  chance  of  hiding, 

Fenced  in  the  Mile-by-Mile  ; 
We  won  them  by  hard  riding, 

We'll  hold  them  now  by  guile. 

The  bay  colt's  there  from  Blossom  : 

By  Jove,  the  beggar's  grown  ! 
The  steel-gray  out  of  Possum  — 

The  best  the  old  mare's  thrown  ! 
And  here's  the  brown  from  Lo-lo — 

The  beggar  ought  to  race  ; 
What  price  that  chap  for  polo 

With  the  white  streak  down  the  face? 

That  big  chap  by  the  cedar, 

Full  brother  to  The  Gleam, 
We'll  mouth  him  for  a  leader 

In  the  boss's  slashing  team  ; 
Those  browns  across  the  corner 

Will  make  a  ripping  pair  ; 
That  chestnut  out  of  Lorna 

Takes  his  kicking  from  the  mare. 


UNBROKEN  !  141 

Jump  down  there  ! — what  a  scatter ! 

Get  out  the  ropes  and  gear  ; 
We  have  never  broken  better 

Than  the  colts  we'll  break  this  year ; 
Look  out  the  bits  and  rollers, 

The  halters  and  the  rest — 
This  year  they'll  know  our  colours 

On  the  township  tracks  Out  West  ! 


HOW  WE  WON  THE  RIBBON 

Come  and  look  around  my  office — 
Floors  are  littered,  walls  are  hung 

With  the  treasures  and  the  trophies 
Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ; 

Rusty  spur  and  snaffle  idle, 

Polo  stick  and  gun  and  bridle, 
In  a  sweet  confusion  flung. 


There's  my  saddle  when  a  rover — 
(That's  the  bridle  hanging  up) 

Queensland-built — a  Lachlan  drover 
Swopped  me  for  a  Kelpie  pup. 

By  the  Lord,  it  makes  one  ponder 

When  one  thinks  those  spurs  up  yonder 
Helped  to  win  the  Mulga  Cup  ! 


HOW  WE  WON  THE  RIBBON  143 

There's  the  bar  I  used  on  "Wyndham 
On  the  day  you  watched  him  "  clear  " 

With  the  four  in-hand  behind  him — 
Yet  they'll  say  it's  too  severe. 

See  that  bunch  of  faded  ribbon  ? 

It  belongs  to  Jock  McKibbon, 
But  he  always  leaves  it  here. 


And  there's  just  a  little  story 
Hanging  to  that  bunch  of  blue  ; 

I'm  not  claiming  any  glory 

AVhen  I  spin  the  yarn  to  you — 

Yarns  go  best  when  pipes  are  glowing ; 

Here's  the  "  Capstan  "  ;  set  her  going— 
And  remember  this  is  true. 


Pearl  of  price  for  hunter's  duty 

Was  the  gray  mare  Heart's  Desire, 

With  the  Snowdon's  strength  and  beauty 
And  a  dash  of  Panic  fire  ; 

And  I  never  knew  her  failine: 

At  a  dyke,  a  ditch,  or  paling — 

She  could  jump  her  height  and  higher. 


144  HOW  WE  WON  THE  RIBBON 

Now,  the  rider  courted  throwing 

Who  would  touch  her  with  the  spurs 

When  the  Snowdon  mare  got  going 
With  that  sweeping  stride  of  hers  ; 

She  was  restless,  hot,  and  heady  ; 

She  had  smashed  one  man  already, 
And  the  fright  had  made  her  worse. 


But  her  owner,  nothing  fearing, 
Brave  as  ever  man  could  he. 

Saw  the  yearly  Show  was  nearing 
While  he  nursed  a  crippled  knee ; 

So  he  called  me,  did  McKibbon  : 

"  We've  a  mortgage  on  the  ribbon — 
Will  you  ride  the  mare  for  me  1 " 


They  had  sent  their  speedy  sprinters 
Round  the  fences,  one  by  one, 

And  the  air  was  thick  with  splinters 
Till  you  couldn't  see  the  sun  ; 

Such  a  striking,  swerving,  baulking  ! 

Saddles  empty,  riders  walking  ! 
Not  a  round  was  cleanly  done. 


HOW  WE  WON  THE   RIBBON  145 

And  the  gray  mare,  Heart's  Desire, 

Stood  and  watched  and  seemed  to  know ; 

Fretted  when  they  galloped  by  her, 
Tossed  her  lean  head  to  and  fro ; 

Then  they  called  to  me,  "  Get  ready  ! " 

And  McKibbon  whispered,  "Steady  .  .   !  ' 
But  the  crowd  yelled,  "  Let  her  go  !  !" 


Now,  beyond  the"  five-foot  palings, 

As  I  set  the  mare  a-swing. 
From  below  the  grand-stand  railings 

Someone's  child  crept  in  the  ring, 
And  we  never  saw  the  youngster 
Till  the  mare  was  right  against  her 

Shortening  stride  to  make  the  spring 


So  I  loosed  her  head  and  drove  her 
With  the  red  spurs  ripping  wild ; 

It  was  take  the  lot — and  over — 
Or  God  help  the  tiny  child  ! 

And  I  watched  as  though  in  dreaming 

Where  the  snow-white  dress  was  gleaming. 
And  the  babe  looked  up  and  smiled  ! 


146  HOW  WE  WON  THE  RIBBON 

But  I  knew  the  mare  I  rode  on — 

Could  a  leap  be  found  too  far 
For  the  quarters  of  old  Snowdon 

And  the  heart  of  Blazing  Star  1 
Here  she  had  the  chance  to  show  me — 
And  the  shod-hoofs  flashed  below  me, 

Half  a  yard  above  the  bar  ! 

Then  the  dust- clouds  !     Had  we  cleared  her  ? 

Then  the  light  shock  as  we  land, 
Then — the  crowd  stood  up  and  cheered  her 

On  the  ring  fence  and  the  stand  ; 
But  my  brain  was  sick  and  spinning 
And  I  slung  my  chance  of  winning 

As  I  took  the  mare  in  hand. 

But  they  ciowded  round  to  hold  her, 
And  they  tied  the  badge  of  blue 

In  a  knot  upon  her  shoulder 
That  they  dared  me  to  undo  ! 

So  I  left  the  prize  upon  her, 

And  I  think  she  won  the  honour 
When  she  saved  the  lives  of  two. 


HOW  HE  WON  THE  RIBBON  147 

And  I  journey  Life's  gay  road  on, 

But  I  linger  when  I  pass 
Where  the  best  and  gamest  Snowdon 

Takes  her  last  sleep  in  the  grass 
With  the  wattle-boughs  above  her  ; 
And  when  others  toast  a  lover 

Then  I  pledge  her  in  my  glass. 


Now,  they  reckon  me  a  rider 
In  the  showyard  and  the  shire. 

But  I  never  faced  a  wider 
Jump,  a  tougher  or  a  higher 

Since  I  rode  for  Jock  McKibbon 

On  the  day  we  won  the  ribbon 

With  the  gray  mare  Heai't's  Desire. 


OTHER  VERSES 


Some  take  no  heed  of  any  future  day 

But  kiss  Time's  hand  while  wearing  yet  his  bonds, 
Dreaming  their  yotmg  full-blooded  life  away 

Among  Lifers  lotus-ponds. 

And  some  there  are  who  gird  them,  shield  and  sword, 
War  dawn  and  noon,  fyJit  the  red  sunset  down 

To  fall  when  night  falls,  vnth  the  same  reward 
Death's  dark-hued  cypress  croivn. 

Ah  !  when  Death's  hand  our  own  warm  hand  hath  taen 
Down  the  dark  aisles  his  sceptre  rules  stipreme, 

God  grant  the  fig  liters  leave  to  fight  again 
And  let  the  dreamers  dream  ! 


HABET ! 

Down  !   And  the  world's  war-squadron  splashes 

Past,  loose-i^eined,  iu  the  blood  and  the  mire  ; 
Brown  arms  sweep  and  the  bared  steel  Hashes 

On  to  the  goal  of  the  World's  desire. 
Down  !  By  the  war-steed's  hot  hoofs  cowering, 

Broken  the  sword  arm,  bent  the  sword, 
And  away  to  the  front  leap  the  sabres  showering 

Blows  for  the  Hell-hearth,  blows  for  the  Lord  ! 

Did  he  clutch  at  the  moon  for  jewel 

To  bind  on  his  bosom  and  wear  1 
Did  he  fight  with  a  Fate  too  cruel 

Or  follow  a  face  too  fair  ? 
What  does  it  matter  the  reason  why  ! 

He  is  down  ;  and  it's  little  the  world  will  care 
As  it  sweeps  in  a  foam-fret  by. 

15J. 


152  HA  BET  ! 

Down  !  Weeps  the  moon,  and  he  never  wore  ifc. 

Down  !  And  the  stars  mourn  into  the  mist. 
Fate's  red  weal  is  across  his  forehead  ; 

Somebody's  face  has  never  been  kissed  ! 
Flushes  the  dawn,  and  one  vulture-speck 

Spires  and  spins  in  a  reeling  sky  ; — 
Down  !  And  it's  little  the  World  will  reck 

As  it  rides  red-rowelled  by. 


THE  WORLD  BEYOND 

A  Poet  stood  in  the  red  day-dawn, 

And  the  dawn  was  more  to  his  gifted  eyes 
Than  a  songbird's  call  and  a  flush  on  the  lawn 

When  the  night  winds  drop  and  the  last  star  dies  ; 
For  he  saw  the  Goddess  of  all  sweet  sons 

Clothed  in  a  vesture  of  infinite  light, 
He  heard  the  challenge  of  Right  to  Wrong, 

The  trumpet  blast  of  the  world-old  fight. 

A  Painter  stood  in  the  golden  noon, 

And  to  him  the  world  was  something  more 
Than  a  sea  of  light  in  a  slumbrous  swoon 

On  the  golden  sands  of  a  splendid  shore  , 
For  out  and  beyond  the  gold  and  gray, 

The  silver  cloud  and  the  sweep  of  blue. 
He  could  see  the  bright  lights  quiver  and  play — 

The  wonder  of  Italy,  known  and  new. 


153 


154  THE  WORLD  BEYOND 

A  Lover  watched  in  the  evening  light, 

And  the  world  was  something  greater  to  him 
Than  a  day-death  grand  and  a  sunset  bright, 

A  sweeping  of  shadows,  a  twilight  dim  ; 
For  he  saw  far  over  the  drifting  years 

A  maiden  form  in  the  sunset  stand, 
And  his  gx*ay  eyes  filled  with  a  mist  of  tears 

For  the  soft  white  sake  of  an  unclasped  hand. 

And  so  for  the  wide  world  never  in  vain 

Blossoms  a  day-dawn,  a  noon,  or  a  night. 
For  somewhere  out  farther  than  these  again 

There  reddens  the  gleam  of  a  Hope-born  light ; 
And  the  meanest  man  on  the  round  world's  rim — 

Poet  or  Painter  though  never  he  be — 
Has  seen  for  a  moment  with  eyes  grown  dim 

The  light  that  was  nevei'  on  land  or  sea  ! 


NORTHWARD  TO  THE  SHEDS 

There's  a   whisper   from  the   regions  out  beyond  the 

Barwon  banks  ; 
There's  a  gathering  of  the  legions  and  a  forming  of 

the  ranks  ; 
There's  a  murmur  coming  nearer  with  the  signs  that 

never  fail, 
And  it's  time  for   every  shearer  to  be  out  upon  the 

trail. 
They    must   leave  their  girls  behind  them  and  their 

empty  glasses,  too, 
For  there's  plenty  left  to  mind  them  when  they  cross 

the  dry  Barcoo : 
There'll  be   kissing,  there'll   be  sorrow  such  as  only 

sweethearts  know, 
But  before  the  noon  to-morrow  they'll  be   singing  as 

they  go — 


156  NORTHWARD  TO  THE  SHEDS 

For  the  Western  creeks  are  calling 
And  the  idle  days  are  done, 
With  the  snowy  fleeces  falling 
And  the  Queensland  sheds  begun  ! 

There  is   shortening  of  the  bridle,  there  is  tightening 

of  the  girth, 
There  is  fondling  of  the  idol  that  they  love  the  best 

on  earth  ; 
Northward  from  the  Lachlan  River  and  the  sun-dried 

Castlereagh, 
Outward  to  the  Never-Never  ride  the  ringers  on  their 

way. 
From  the  green  bends  of  the  Murray  they  have  run 

their  horses  in. 
For  there's  haste  and  there  is  hurry  when  the  Queens 

land  sheds  begin ; 
On  the  Bogan  they  are  bridling,  they  are  saddling  on 

the  Bland, 
There  is  plunging  and  there's  sidling— for  the  colts 

don't  understand 

That  the  Western  creeks  are  calling, 

And  the  idle  days  are  done, 
With  the  snowy  fleeces  falling 
And  the  Queensland  sheds  begun  I 


NORTHWARD  TO  THE  SHEDS  157 

They  will  camp  below  the  station,  they'll  be  cutting 

peg  and  pole 
Rearing  tents  for  occupation   till  the  calling  of  the 

roll ; 
And  it's  time  the   nags  were   driven,  and  it's  time  to 

strap  the  pack, 
For  there's  never  license  given  to  the  laggards  on  the 

track. 
Hark  the  music  of  the  battle  !  it  is  time  to  bare  our 

swords  : 
Do  you  hear  the  rush  and   rattle  as  they  tramp  along 

the  boards  ? 
They  are  past   the    pendoors   picking   light-woolled 

weaners  one  by  one  ; 
I  can  hear  the  shear-blades  clicking,  and  I  know  the 

fight's  begun ! 


LIFE'S  OVERLAND 

Grey-Lying  miles  to  the  norVai'd  of  NorVard, 
Red-leaping  leagues  to  the  westward  of  West, 
Further  than  keenest  of  sight  follows  forward, 
Further  than  boldest  of  hearts  ever  guessed  ; 
Still  ^vith  its  secret  to  Man  unimparted. 
Still  with  its  beckoning  wealth  unattained. 
Lies  the  dim  goal  that  has  Never  been  Charted, 
Down  the  long  Road  that  has  Never  been  Chained. 

Day  after  day,  and  from  morrow  to  morrow. 
Pointing  the  way  where  the  wide  road  begins, 
Sweep  the  red  scorpion -scourges  of  Sorrow, 
Lashing  her  children  out  West  for  their  sins ; 
Beefwood  and  whitewood,  and  redgum  and  wilga, 
Lead    them  and  goad   them,   and    guide    them    and 

guard, 
Till  hidden  in  tangle  of  sandal  and  mulga. 
The  gates  to  the  East  and  the  Southward  are  barred. 

158 


LIFE'S  OVERLAND  159 

Westward  and  Nor'ward  !  and  fainter  behind  them 

The  roll  of  the  waggons,  the  roar  of  the  whips, 

The   towering  red  dust-storms  that  waltz  down  and 

wind  them, 
The  blue  mocking  mirage  that  rise  to  their  lips  ; 
Beyond  the  last  camp  of  the  furthest-west  drover, 
Beyond  the  last  team-track,  the  last  rotting  steer, 
Beyond  the  last  foot-pad  the  camels  crossed  over. 
Beyond  the  lone  grave  of  the  last  pioneer. 

Westward  and  Westward  !  Out  past  the  last  horror 
Of  thirst  and  starvation,  of  lorn  lives  and  lost. 
The  bleaching  white  bones  of  the  boldest  explorer, 
The    scrubs    and   the   plains   that    have    never  been 

crossed, — 
Where  the  heat  haze  no  lunger  in  mockery  dances, 
Where  no  more  the  sand-drift  whirls  brown  on  the  blue, 
AVhere  the  pitying  Sun  lays  at  rest  his  red  lances. 
With  white  flags  of  truce  where  his  war  banner  flew. 

The  last  birds  have  waked  them — they  sleep  now  no 

longer ! 
The  last  dark  has  lifted — they  take  no  more  rest ! 
For  the  aching  feet  heal  and  the  tired   heart  grov/s 

stronger 
As  every  league  bears  them  a  league  to  the  West. 


160  LIFE'S  OVERLAND 

Gold  !  Did  they  hear  her  sweet  voice  as  they  started  1 
Now  she  is  dumb  to  them,  scorned  and  disdained, 
And  their  goal  is  a  Goal  that  has  Never  been  Charted  ; 
Their  route  is  a  Road  that  has  Never  been  Chained. 

Westward   and — Homeward !   Brown  hands   at    the 

back  of  them ; 
Far  in  the  distance  white  hands — and  the  rest ; 
One  by  one,  outward,  we  lose  the  last  track   of  them, 
All  the  world  wending  its  way  to  the  West ; 
One  after  one,  till  the  last  shall  have  started, 
Yet  no  more  the  last  than  the  first  shall  have  gained 
In  the  lore  of  the  Goal  that  has  Never  been  Charted, 
Down  the  long  Road  that  has  Never  been  Chained. 


AT  THE  BACK  0'  BOURKE  ! 

Where  the  mulga  paddocks  are  wild  and  wide, 
That's  where  the  pick  of  the  stockmen  ride — - 

At  the  Back  o'  Bvurke  ! 
Under  the  dust-clouds  dense  and  brown, 
Moving  Southward  by  tank  and  town. 
That's  where  the  Queensland  mobs  come  down — 

Out  at  t/ie  Back  o'  Boicrke  ! 


Over  the  Border  to  and  fro, 

That's  where  the  footsore  swagmen  go — 

At  the  Back  o'  Boiirke  ! 
Sick  and  tired  of  the  endless  strife. 
Nursing  the  bones  of  a  wasted  life 
Where  all  the  sorrows  of  Earth  are  x'ife — 

Out  at  the  Back  o'  Bourke  ! 

K  161 


162  AT  THE  BACK  0'  BOURKE  ! 

Whether  the  plains  are  deep  or  dry, 
That's  where  the  struggHng  teams  go  by  — 

At  the  Back  o'  Bourke  1 
North  and  Southward,  in  twos  and  threes, 
Bullocks  and  horses  down  to  the  knees, 
Waggons  dipped  to  the  axle-trees  — 

OiU  at  the  Back  o'  Bourke  ! 


That's  the  land  of  the  lying  light 

And  the  cruel  mirage  dancing  bright — 

At  the  Back  o'  Bourke  ! 
That's  where  the  shambling  camel  train 
Crosses  the  Western  ridge  and  plain, 
Loading  the  Paroo  clips  again 

Out  at  the  Back  o'  Bourke  .' 


That's  the  land  of  the  wildest  nights. 
The  longest  sprees  and  the  fiercest  fights — 

At  the  Back  a'  Bourke  ! 
That's  where  the  skies  are  brightest  blue. 
That's  where  the  heaviest  work's  to  do, 
That's  where  the  fires  of  Hell  burn  through - 

Out  at  the  Back  o'  Bourke  ! 


AT  THE  BACK  0'   BOURKE  !  163 

That's  where  the  wildest  floods  have  birth 
Out  of  the  nakedest  ends  of  Earth — 

At  the  Back  o'  Bonrhe  ! 
Where  the  poor  men  lend  and  the  rich  ones  borrow  ; 
It's  the  bitterest  land  of  sweat  and  sorrow — 
But  if  I  were  free  J'd  he  off  to-murrow, 

Out  at  the  Back  o'  Bourkc  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  SONGS 

Let  others  chant  of  battle  and  such  wreaths  as  Glory 

gave; 
I  would   rather   sing   the   praises  of  the  dew  that 

dips  the  daisies, 
Of  the  wind  that  stirs  the  wattle  and  the  foam  that 

flecks  the  wave. 

When    others   sing    the    Nation    and  the   Flag  that 

sweeps  the  seas, 
Let  them  leave  me  to  deliver  the  old  message  of  the 

river 
And  the  true  interpretation  of  the  wind's  voice  in  the 

trees. 

For  when  the  drums  are  calling  men  to    Honour  and 

Renown, 
Turning  in  their  dreamy  slumbers  they  are  swayed 

by  softer  numbers, 
Music  of  a  dewdrop   falling  or  a  dead  leaf   drifting 

down. 

164 


THE   SONG  OF  SONGS  165 

And  when  the  battle  rages  and  the  grey  smoke  dims 

the  skies, 
There's  a   Voice  that  makes   them  listen   till  the 

gathering  teardrops  glisten 
And  the  Love  that  lit  the  ages  brings  the  roselight  to 

their  eyes. 


AT  THE  BEND  O'  THE  CREEK. 

Here  is  roarivg  Jlood  in   WinUr 

When  the  slorm-Jlag  flies, 
And  the  quick-fire  ligJUnings  splinter 

Gold  from  night-hlack  skies, 
And  the  rain-clouds  gather,  breaking 
Close  upon  the  box-tree  s^haking 
Like  a  lost  soul  shivering,  quaking 

With  a  fear  that  never  dies. 

Here  is  sandy  loaste  in  Summer 
Where  the  Drought  has  lain, 
Stifling  hope  for  every  comer 
From  the  hell-hot  plain  ; 
When  the  footsore  cattle  quicken 
At  the  sceut  ivhere  last  drops  thicken. 
Turning  hack  to  faint  and  sicken 
In  the  dust-dry  grass  again. 

166 


AT  THE  BEND  0'  THE  CREEK  167 

Where  the  river  bends  to  Nor'ward, 

With  the  dark  floods  done, 
And  the  Spring  flower's  flaunting  forward 

In  the  first  Spring  sun, — 
Where  the  angry  Winter  torrent 
Laden  with  some  tree's  death-warrant 
Left  the  brown  stem  'thwai't  the  current 

In  the  dead-branch  arms  lay  One 

Cold  and  still,  without  a  motion 

Save  that  in  the  tide 
Rocked  he  as  a  wreck  in  ocean 

Rocks  from  side  to  side  ; 
Silent  as  the  trunk  above  him. 
Resting  where  the  ripples  drove  him 
In  the  bed  the  flood-wash  wove  him, 

With  a  naked  bough  for  bride. 

Halts  the  brown  hawk  for  a  moment 

At  the  corpse's  head, 
Shakes  the  pearl  drops  from  his  raiment, 

Heedless  of  the  dead  ; 
Down  the  river  westward  winging. 
Pinions  broad  to  sunbeams  flinging. 
Gone  !  .   .   .  the  birds  take  up  their  singing 

Where  they  left  the  song  unsaid. 


168       AT  THE  BEND  O'  THE  CREEK 

Stoops  the  snowy  crane  to  listen 

On  the  sombre  tree, 
And  her  drooping  feathers  glisten 

White  as  white  can  be  ; 
Down  the  wind  the  wild  fowl  streaming 
Catch  a  glimpse  of  whiter  gleaming, 
Wheel  aside  with  frightened  screaming 

From  the  horror  that  they  see. 

Life  and  Death,  the  dead  and  living  !— 

None  the  woe  to  speak  ; 
And  the  sun  drops  westward  giving 

Bloodstains  to  the  creek  ; 
And  the  sun-fires  gleam  and  glower 
As  the  life-fires  leap  and  lower. 
And  the  river  runs  no  slower 

Though  a  waiting  heart  should  break  ! 


WEST  OF  THE  WORLD 

West  of  the  World  all  red  suns  sleep 
On  a  fleecy  carpet  of  crimson  cloud, 
And  the  weary  winds  from  the  eastward  creep 
To  their  shining  goal  on  the  western  steep 
In  the  golden  arms  of  the  starry  crowd- 
West  of  the  World  ! 

West  of  the  World  all  true  hearts  ride 

To  a  further  bourne  than  the  best  have  trod, 
Till  they  cross  the  last  creek  gleaming  wide 
And  wave  their  hands  from  the  last  divide 
Ere  they  drop  their  load  at  the  feet  of  God    - 
AVest  of  the  World  ! 

West  of  the  World  all  dead  hopes  drift 

On  the  heaving  heart  of  the  hiding  Day 
To  the  clinging  shadows  that  show  no  rift, 
With  a  lingering  step  that  is  all  too  swift 

For  the  eyes  that  follow  their  trackless  way — 
West  of  the  World  ! 

163 


A  SCOTCH  NIGHT 

If  you  chance  to  strike  a  gathering  of  half-a  dozen 

friends 
When  the  di'ink  is  Highland  whusky  or  some  chosen 

Border  blends, 
And  the  room  is  full  of  speirin  and  the  gruppin'  of 

brown  ban's, 
And  the  talk  is  all  of  tartans  and  of  plaidies  and  of 

clans,— 
You  can  take  things  douce  and  easy,  you  can  judge 

you're  going  right. 
For  you've  had  the  luck  to  stumble  on  a  wee  Scotch 

night ! 

When  you're  pitchfoi'ked  in  among  them  in  a  sweep- 
ing sort  of  way 

As  ''  anither  mon  an'  brither"  from  the  Tweed  or  from 
the  Tay  ; 

170 


A  SCOTCH  NIGHT  171 

When  you're  taken  by  the  oxter  and  you're  couped 
into  a  chair 

While  someone  slips  a  whusky  in  your  tumbler  un- 
aware,— 

Then  the  present  seems  less  dismal  and  the  future  fair 
and  bricht, 

For  you've  struck  Earth's  grandest  treasure  in  a  guid 
Scots  nicht ! 

When  you  hear  a  short  name  shouted  and  the  same 

name  shouted  back 
Till  you  think  in  the  confusion  that  they've  all  been 

christened  Mac  ; 
When  you  see  a  red  beard  flashing  in  the  corner  by 

the  fire, 
And   a  giant  on   the   sofa    who  is  six-foot  three  or 

higher, — 
Before  you've  guessed  the  colour  and  before  you've 

gauged  the  height 
You'll    have  jumped  at   the  conclusion   it's  a   braw 

Scotch  night ! 

When  the  red  man  in  the  corner  puts  his  strong  voice 

to  the  proof 
As  he  gives  The  Hundred  Pipers,  and  the  chorus  lifts 
-the  roof ; 


172  A  SCOTCH  NIGHT 

When  a  chiel   sings    Amiie  Laurie   with  its  tender, 

sweet  refrain 
Till  the  tears  are  on  their  eyelids   and — the  drinks 

come  round  again ; 
When  they  chant  the  stirring  war-songs  that  would 

make  the  coward  fight, — 
Then  you're   fairly   in  the   middle  of  a   wee  Scotch 

night  ! 

When  the  plot  begins  to  thicken  and  the  band  begins 

to  play ; 
When  every  tin-pot  chieftain  has  a  word  or  two  to 

say; 
When  they'd  sell  a  Queensland  station  for  a  sprig  of 

native  heath ; 
When  there's  one  Mac   on  the  table    and   a    couple 

underneath  ; 
When  half  of  them   are  sleeping  and   the   whole  of 

them  are  tight, — 
You  will  know  that  you're  assisting  at  a  [hie  !)  Scotch 

night  ! 

When   the   last   big   bottle's    empty  and  the   dawn 

creeps  gray  and  cold. 
And  the  last  clan-tartan's  folded  and  the  last  d d 

lie  is  told  ; 


A  SCOTCH   NIGHT  173 

When  they  totter  down  the  footpath  in  a  brave,  un- 
broken line, 

To  the  peril  of  the  passers  and  the  tune  of  Aiild  Lang 
Syne  ; 

You  can  tell  the  folk  at  breakfast  as  they  watch  the 
fearsome  sicht, 

"  They  have  only  been  assisting  at  a  braw  Scots 
nicht !  " 


"  ABSENT  FRIENDS  !  " 

"  Absent  Friends  !  "  There  are  brought  to  our  mind 

again 
The  scent  of  the  buddah-bush  after  the  rain  ; 
The  dawn  in  the  eastward,  the  death  of  the  stars, 
The  wet  grass  that  reaches  the  cold  stirrup  bars  ; 
The  beat  of  the  horse -hoofs  that  waken  the  day  ; 
The  jest  and  the  laughter  that  shorten  the  way  ! 

So  Past  vnth  Prese,nt  gaily  blends, 

And  merrily,  with  three  times  three, 

We  drink  to  "  Absent  Friends  !  " 

"  Absent  Friends  !  "  How  those  words  in  a  wondrous 

wise 
Can  conjure  the  lovelight  in  beautiful  eyes  ; 
The  sound  of  her  voice  that  was  tender  and  sweet, 
The  trail  of  her  robes  and  the  fall  of  her  feet ; 


"ABSENT  FRIENDS  !"  175 

The  moods  that  could  move  us  to  joy  or  to  tears 
In  the  Love  of  our  youth  in  the  long-ago  years  ! 

And  each  one  now  his  greeting  sends, 

As  earnestly,  tvith  three  times  three, 

We  toast  our  "  Absent  Friends  !  " 

"  Absent  Friends  !" — And  a  home  that  is  over  the  sea  ; 
White  snow  on  the  uplands,  white  rime  on  the  tree  ; 
The  faces  we  cherish,  whate'er  be  our  lot ; 
The  clasp  of  the  hands  will  be  never  forgot ; 
The  friends  of  our  boyhood  who  gather  and  pass 
In  the  misty  reflection  of  Memory's  glass  ! 

Our  heart  across  the  ocean  ivends, 

And  loyally,  with  three  times  three, 

We  toast  our  "  Absent  Friends  !  " 

"  Absent  Friends  !  " — The  lost  legion  that  lies  in  the 

grave ; 
The  friends  who  were  false  and  the  friends  we  for- 
gave, — 
Whose  words  had  the  edge  of  the  enemy's  knife. 
To  tortui'e  the  heart  and  to  poison  the  life ; — 
The  friends  who  lay  dying  and  never  could  know 
That  we  loved  at  the  last  as  we  loved  long  ago  ! 
So  each  across  his  nine-cup  bends, 
And  silently,  and  tear/idly, 
We  pledge  our  "  Absent  Friends  !  " 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  FLOOD 

There's  a  whisper  away  on  the  Queensland  side 

Of  the  Barwon  a  banker,  the  Warrego  wide 

Spread  from  range  to  red   range ;  of   the  siege  of  a 

town, 
Of  farms  that  are  wasted  and  cattle  that  drown. 
Of  a  trackless  road  and  a  bridgeless  sea, 
And  grey  miles  measured  from  tree  to  tree — 
And  the  people  gather  at  gate  and  rail 
For  the  latest  news  by  the  Darling  mail. 

Through  all  the  meriy  daylight 

Long  leagues  behind  her  fall 
Till  golden  turns  to  grey  light 

And  wedding-robe  to  pall ; 
Above  her  rolling  thunder 

The  shrieking  parrots  fly. 
And  the  bush- world  waits  to  wonder 

When  the  Darling  mail  goes  by  ! 

173 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE   FLOOD  177 

Through  all  the  night  she  spurns  the  ground, 

Her  headlights  shame  the  stars, 
The  rolling  dust-cloud  wraps  her  round 

From  ledge  to  leading  bars  ; 
And  like  some  half-roused  sleeper 

Stand  each  gaunt-armed  gum  aghast, 
And  the  shadows  gather  deeper 

When  the  Darling  mail  goes  past  ! 

She  takes  the  fearsome  message  down 

By  reach  and  point  and  bend. 
And  camp  and  farm  and  river  town 

Will  hail  her  as  a  friend  ; 
For  comes  she  not  as  horsemen  ride 

Who  ride  a  race  to  win  1 
What  wonder  if  they  crowd  beside 

When  the  Darling  mail  comes  in  ! 

And  close  behind  is  the  fierce  Flood  King  : 

In  the  pride  of  his  strength  he  comes 
Where  the  tangled  masses  of  drift-weed  swing 

Like  dead  men  up  in  the  gums ; 
He  sings  the  psean  of  curbless  might, 

The  song  of  a  broken  chain. 
And  he  rides  himself  in  the  foremost  fight 

With  the  scourge  of  a  loose-held  rain. 


178  THE  MARCH  OF  THE  FLOOD 

He  throws  an  arm  to  the  Southward  now, 

Now  au  arm  to  the  golden  West, 
And  the  circled  lives  to  the  bidding  bow 

And  are  lost  on  his  tawny  breast  ; 
And  day  by  day  as  he  thunders  by 

There  is  ground  to  be  captive  led, 
And  night  by  night  where  the  lowlands  lie 

Are  the  wings  of  his  army  spread. 

There's  never  the  stem  of  a  bank-fed  tree 

For  the  touch  of  his  hand  too  tall. 
And  he  leaves  his  brand  for  the  world  to  see 

On  the  hut  and  the  homestead  wall ; 
There's  never  a  star  in  the  midnight  sky 

Or  a  sunbeam  crossing  the  morn 
But  has  heard  the  boast  of  his  battle-cry 

And  the  threat  of  his  bugle-horn. 

And  down  where  the  Queen  of  the  River  lies  girt  with 

her  garland  of  green 
The  toilers  have  heard  it  and  tremble,  whose  wealth 

is  the  life  of  the  Queen  ; 
In  the  hush  of  the  evening  they  hear  his  low  beat  on 

the  shield  of  the  shore 
And  stand  to  the  dam  and  the  earthwork  :  they  know 

it  his  challenge  of  yore  ! 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  FLOOD  179 

And  the  stockmen  ride  out  in  the  dawnlight  by  billa- 
bong,  runner  and  creek 

To  gather  the  sheep  and  the  cattle  wherever  his  war- 
notes  speak  ; 

And  the  blood  will  be  red  on  the  rowel,  the  sun  will 
be  low  in  the  west 

Before  they  have  left  them  in  safety  to  camp  on  the 
red  hill's  crest. 

And  so  we  shall  live  and  suffer   so  long  as   the  big 

rains  come 
With  their  ruin  and  wreck  for  many,   their  danger 

and  death  for  some, 
Till  we  go  from  the  Culgoa  and  Darling  to  camp  on  a 

drier  shore 
Whei"e  the  Warrego  out  in  his  warpaint  shall  harry 

our  homes  no  more  ! 


"GODSPEED!" 

Because  we've  waked  the  morning-stai's 

Together,  June  to  June  ; 
Because  our  spurs  and  stirrupbars 

Have  clasped  the  same  old  tune  ; 
Because  we've  drawn  one  honour-line 

And  held  one  cross  and  creed  : 
You  will  not  lay  your  hand  in  mine 

Without  a  last  "  God-speed  !  " 

Because  we've  ridden  knee  to  knee 

In  lists  against  the  world, 
And  followed  up  one  destiny 

Beneath  one  flag  unfurled  ; 
Because  we've  lived,  a  little  space, 

One  life  in  word  and  deed  : 
You  Avill  not  meet  me  face  to  face 

Without  a  last  "  God-speed  !  " 

180 


"GOD-SPEED!"  181 

Because  one  woman  came  between— 

As  women  often  will — 
Because  we  thought  one  girl  a  queen  ; 

Because  we  think  so  still ; 
Because  no  mortal  power  can  say 

How  far  may  True  Love  lead  : 
You  will  not  say  "  Good-bye  !  "  to-day — 

"  Good-bye  !  "  ^vithout  "  God-speed  !  " 

Because  we've  watched  the  shadows  fall, 

Together  on  the  plains — 
When  all  the  night  was  musical 

With  bells  and  hobble-chains  ; 
Because  we've  gossiped  round  one  blaze, 

Agreed  and  disagreed : 
Old  Comrade,  for  the  olden  days, 

You'll  wish  your  mate  "  God-speed  !  " 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  WEST 

The  Wind  that  fires  the  blood 
Came  leaping  in  from  Westward, 

Over  stone  and  stake  and  stud, 

With  the  roar  of  reeling  dust-\vi'ack 

And  the  moan  of  lifting  flood. 

The  Wind  that  knows  no  chains 

Came  in  from  Westward,  laden 
With  the  i).icense  of  the  plains, 

With  the  breath  of  furnace-portals, 
And  the  reek  of  camel-trains — 

Brought  the  promise  of  the  West ; 

And  they  hailed  her  through  the  mountains 
With  the  honours  of  a  guest, 

For  the  gold  that  clasped  her  girdle 
And  the  gold  that  crossed  her  breast. 

182 


A  WIND  FROM  THE  WEST  183 

Oh,  a   Wind  came  in  from  Wesiioard,  hloiving  fetterless 

and  free, 
With  a  ivail  of  weeping  loomen  and  their  childrt-.n  at 

their  knee. 
With  a  dirge  of  empty  saddles  from  the  Lachlan  to  the 

Sea. 
And  the  naked    WeH    Wind  shivered,    "/  have  passed 

them  on  the  way — 
The  white  bones  all  iincovered  to  the  scornful  gaze  of 

Day— 
And  I  lorapped  the  red  sands  ruuiid  them,  and  I  kissed 

them  as  they  lay." 


ABANDONED  SELECTIONS 

On  the  crimHon  breast  of  the  sunset 

The  Gi'ay  Selections  He, 
And  their  lonely,  grief-stained  faces 

Are  turned  to  a  pitiless  sky  ; 
They  are  wrinkled  and  seamed  with  drought-fire 

And  wound  at  the  throat  with  weeds, 
They  sob  in  the  aching  loneness 

But  never  a  passer  heeds. 

I  pity  you,  Gray  Selections, 

As  I  pass  you  by  in  the  light, 
And  I  turn  again  with  the  shadows 

To  take  your  hand  in  the  night ; 
In  homesteads  and  yards  deserted 

'Tis  little  the  world  can  see, 
But  the  wail  of  your  endless  sorrow 

Throbs  under  the  moon  to  me. 

184 


ABANDONED  SELECTIONS  185 

I  come  to  you,  Gray  Selections, 

When  the  crickets  gather  and  croon, 
An  hour  at  the  back  of  the  sunset, 

An  hour  in  advance  of  the  moon  ; 
How  eager  they  are  to  whisper 

Their  tale  as  they  hear  me  pass  ! 
Twenty  at  once  in  the  oak  trees, 

Ten  at  a  time  in  the  grass. 

The  night •^vinds  are  chanting  above  you 

A  dirge  in  the  cedar  trees 
Whose  green  boughs  groan  at  your  shoulder. 

Whose  dead  leaves  drift  to  your  knees  ; 
You  cry,  and  the  curlews  answer  ; 

You  call,  and  the  wild  dogs  hear  ; 
Through  gaps  in  the  old  log-fences 

They  creep  when  the  night  is  near. 

I  stand  by  your  fenceless  gardens 

And  weep  for  the  splintered  staves  ; 
I  watch  by  your  empty  ingles 

And  mourn  by  your  white-railed  graves  ; 
I  see  from  your  crumbling  doorways 

The  whispering  white  forms  pass, 
And  shiver  to  hear  dead  horses 

Crop- cropping  the  long  gi'ay  grass. 


186  ABANDONED  SELECTIONS 

Where  paddocks  are  dumb  and  fallow 

And  wild  weeds  waste  to  the  stars 
I  can  hear  the  voice  of  the  driver, 

The  thresh  of  the  swingle-bars  ; 
I  can  hear  the  hum  of  the  stripper 

That  follows  the  golden  lanes, 
The  snort  of  the  tiring  horses. 

The  clink  of  the  bucking  chains. 

It  is  night ;  but  I  see  the  smoke- wreaths 

Float  over  the  dancing  haze  ; 
I  can  hear  the  jackass  laughing 

When  South  winds  rustle  the  maize  ; 
I  can  catch  the  axes'  ringing, 

And  out  on  the  range's  crown 
I  can  hear  the  red  fires  roaring 

And  the  great  trees  thundering  down. 

I  pity  you,  Gray  Selections, 

Your  hearths  as  cold  as  a  stone. 
The  days  you  must  pass  unaided, 

The  nights  you  must  brave  alone  ; 
But  most  when  the  wailing  curlews 

Call  over  the  drear  lagoon. 
And  out  of  the  ring-barked  timber 

Comes  blazing  the  red,  red  moon. 


ABANDONED  SELECTIONS  187 

They  fought  for  you,  Gray  Selections, 

The  battle  of  long  dry  years, 
Through  seedtimes  of  sweat  and  sorrow 

To  harvests  of  hunger  and  tears  ; 
You  turned  from  the  lips  that  wooed  you, 

And  Justice,  awake  on  her  throne, 
For  sake  of  those  brave  hearts  broken, 

Is  watching  you  brake  your  own  ! 


THE  MEN  WHO  BLAZED  THE  TRACK  !" 

SiNCK  the  toasts  for  the  absent  are  over, 

And  duly  we've  pledged  in  our  wine 
Our  Land,  and  our  Friends,  and  our  Lover, 

Here's  a  toast  for  you,  comrades  o'  mine  : 
7'o  the  jightiny  haiid  that  icon  the  land 

From  the  bitterest  icastes  out-hack  I 
From  hut  aud  hall  to  the  kiiigs  of  all — 

''The  Men  Who  Blazed  the  Track!" 

They  rode  away  into  the  forest 

In  mornings  gold-studded  with  stars, 
And  the  song  of  the  leaders  was  chorused 

To  the  clinking  of  rowel  and  bars  ; 
They  fought  for  the  fame  of  the  Islands 

And  struck  for  the  Width  of  the  World, 
They  fashioned  new  roads  in  the  silence 

And  flags  in  the  fastness  unfurled. 

188 


"  THE  MEN  WHO  BLAZED  THE  TRACK  !"     189 

Their  tents  in  the  evening  would  whiten 

The  scrub,  and  the  flash  of  their  fires 
Leap  over  the  shadows  to  brighten 

The  way  of  Ambition's  desires  ; 
By  the  axe-marks  we  followed  their  courses, 

For  scarcely  the  ashes  remain. 
And  the  tracks  of  the  men  and  the  horses 

Are  hidden  by  dust-storm  and  rain. 

The  seasons  from  June  to  December 

Are  buried  and  born  as  of  old, 
But  the  peoples  have  ceased  to  remember 
*   Who  won  them  the  laurels  they  hold  ; 
Yet  sometimes  the  North  wind  comes  bringing 

Those  keener  of  hearing  and  sight 
The  music  of  lost  axes  ringing, 

The  beat  of  lost  hoofs  in  the  night. 

Our  pride  is  the  path  of  our  fathers. 

Our  hope's  in  the  sons  of  our  home, 
And  wherever  our  nation  foregathers 

Our  nation  is  foremost  to  roam  ; 
But  the  valleys  that  smile  to  our  tillage. 

The  hills  where  our  banners  unfold. 
Were  won  by  the  men  of  the  village 

And  bought  with  their  axes  of  old. 


190     "  THE  MEN  WHO  BLAZED  THE  TRACK  !" 

And  we  only  ride  with  the  flowitig  tide 
As  we  follow  the  blazed  line  back, 

So  we'll  drink  the  toast  of  the  vanguard  host, 
And  "  The  Men  Who  Blazed  the  Track!  " 


VITA  BREVIS 

Our  Life  is  but  a  moment : 

One  sheen  of  silk  and  pearls, 
One  dance  between  the  daylights 

With  a  certain  girl  of  girls  ; 
One  feast  of  burning  kisses, 

One  blast  of  Passion's  breath — 
And  Life  is  but  a  moment 

That  cheats  the  hand  of  Death  ! 

Our  Life  is  but  a  moment : 

One  sweep  of  silken  wings, 
One  thunder  on  the  greenswai'd. 

One  snatch  of  bridle  rings  ; 
One  struggle  for  the  pride  of  place. 

One  crash  of  splintered  rails — 
And  Life  is  but  a  moment 

Before  the  sunlight  fails  ! 

191 


192  VITA  BREVIS 

O,  Life  is  but  a  moment 

For  holding  soft  white  hands, 
Or  flying  four-foot  fences 

While  the  cheering  rocks  the  stands  ; 
So  take  Love's  gift  of  kisses  — 

Or  Sport's,  in  Love's  despite  — 
For  Life  is  but  a  moment, 

And  after  it  the  Night ! 


THE  TRUEST  FRIEND 

I  HAD  a  comrade  tried  and  true, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  we  fought  life  through  ; 

And  whoever  spoke  liglit  of  his  name  to  me 

Had  a  foe  to  face  and  a  sword  to  flee  ; 

I'd  have  staked  my  life  on  the  grip  of  his  hantl — 

But  swoi'ds  get  broken  and  troops  disband  ! 

I  had  a  lover  to  fondle  and  prize, 

With  the  kindest  heart  and  the  truest  eyes  : 

I  wore  her  scarf  on  the  tourney  ground  ; 

I  pledged  her  name  when  the  toasts  went  round  ; 

I'd  have  sworn  to  her  honour  before  them  all — 

But  snowdrifts  tarnish  and  bright  stars  fall ! 

I  have  a  mother,  God  bless  the  name  ! 

All  beauty  wedded  to  all  fair  fame  : 

I  have  lined  her  brow  with  the  wish  unheard  ; 

I  have  wounded  her  heart  with  the  careless  word  ; 

But  I  know  that  her  love  to  the  last  is  sure — 

For  hills  are  steadfast  and  seas  endure  ! 

M  193 


AULD  LANG  SYNE 

0,  it's  southward  fiom  Southampton  !  and   she  takes 

the  Channel  gay, 
But  many  a  heart  is  bleeding  as  she  stands  across  the 

bay; 
And  it  may  be  just  a  parting  where  we've  known  a 

hundred  more, 
Yet  many  a  heart  is  breaking  as  the  tender  swings 

ashore ; 
And  the  handkerchiefs  are  waving,  ship  to  steamer, 

line  to  line. 
And  a  wail's  upon  the  water  in  the  words  of  Avid 

LniKj  Syne. 

O,  it's  misty  in  the  Channel  and  it's  stormy  in  the 

Bay, 
And  the  lights  are  dropping  backward  as  she  leaves 

them  east  aw^ay  ; 

194 


AULD  LANG  SYNE  195 

And   she    steadies    in   blue   water   where   the  sunny 

islands  swoon, 
With  the  sailors  singing  forward,   and  the  guests  in 

the  saloon  ; 
And  they'll  sing  the  old  songs  over  from  the  Gib  Rock 

to  the  Line, 
But  they  cannot  drown  the  music  of  The  Dayfi  of  Auld 

Lang  Slyne  ! 

O,  she's  round  the  Austral  headlands  and  she's  rocking 

through  the  Rip, 
While  all  her  throbbing  engines  drum  the  triumph  of 

the  trip ; 
And  it's  gently  through  the  shipping,  and  it's  slowly 

to  the  Quay, 
And  the  band  has  started   playing  this,    the   dearest 

tune  to  me  ; 
And    they're   streaming    down   the  gangway   with  a 

farewell  to  the  brine. 
And  we  leave  her  as  we  joined  her,  to  the  strains  of 

Auld,  Lang  Syne. 

We  have  heard  the  ringing  chorus  shake  the  iron  on 

the  roofs. 
While    outside    the    bridles   jingle    to    the   stamp   of 
-  restless  hoofs  ; 


196  AULD  LANG  SYNE 

We    have    sped — how    many    comrades  1 — from    the 

homestead  and  the  hall, 
Watched  them  fading  in  the  Unknown  to  the  grandest 

march  of  all ; 
While  some  hearts  were  beating  proudly  to  the  lilt  of 

every  line, 
And    some    others   nearly   breaking   for   the  sake   of 

Aulil  Lang  Syne. 

We  have  sung  it  o'er  the  last  glass  when  the  morn 
was  breaking  gray, 

Hands  crossed  and  double  chorus  in  the  old  time- 
honoured  way  ; 

We  have  sung  it  in  our  exile  till  the  heartleap  and 
the  croon 

Brought  us  back  the  brown  hills'  whisper  and  the 
nodding  blue-bells'  tune  ; 

And  the  old,  old  loves  are  toasted  in  our  cups  of 
brimming  wine 

While  our  hearts  beat  out  the  music  to  the  words  of 
Anhl  Lany  Sijne. 

It  has  marked  us  many  partings,  it  has  cost  us  count- 
less tears. 

It  has  brought  us  hopes  unanswered  from  the  dimness 
of  the  years  ; 


AULD  LANG  SYNE  197 

It  is  shaded  with  Life's   sorrow,   it  is  crossed   with 

broken  bauds, 
And  the  bitterness  of  kisses  and  the  grief  of  parting 

hands — 
But  so  long  as  Earth  has  music,   and  so  long  as  red 

stars  shine, 
We  shall  gather  and  go  outward  to  the  tune  of  Auld 

Lang  Syne  ! 


IN  TOWN 

Where  the  smoke-clouds  scarcely  drift 

And  the  breezes  seem  to  sleep, 
Where  the  sunbeams  never  lift 

Half  the  gloom  of  alleys  deep, 
Comrades  !  must  we  languish  ever. 

Beat  our  hearts  against  the  bars 
While  the  vine-trees  kiss  the  river 

And  the  ranges  greet  the  stars  1 
There  are  stormy  tints  and  tender 

In  the  pictures  that  we  pass — 
But  it's  O,  for  day-dawn's  splendour 

And  the  dewdrops  in  the  grass  ! 

Though  the  old  life  fades  behind  us, 
Though  the  new  life  leaps  before. 

Old-time  spells  are  strong  to  bind  us 
Yearning  for  our  yokes  of  yore  ; 


IN  TOWN  199 

In  the  whirl  of  toil  and  duty, 

In  the  pride  of  pomp  and  power, 
We  can  find  no  grander  beauty 

Than  the  red  West's  bridal  dower  ; 
There  is  music  in  the  rattle 

Of  the  horse-hoofs  down  the  street — 
But  it's  O,  for  ringing  cattle 

And  the  thunder  of  their  feet  ! 

Wanton  Pleasure  laughs  beside  us 

Where  the  life-streams  ebb  and  flow, 
Folly's  cap  and  bells  deride  us, 

Nodding  close  to  Want  and  Woe  ; 
Lordly  pageants  round  us  glisten. 

At  our  feet  Life's  joys  are  cast. 
But  we  have  no  heart  to  listen 

With  the  Bush-wind  whispering  past ; 
Silver  nights  of  love  may  hold  us 

Till  we  half  forget  the  stars — 
But  it's  O,  for  foam-white  shoulders 

And  the  clink  of  snaffle-bars  ! 


BEYOND  COOLGARDIE 

They  are  fighting  beyond  Coolgardie,  dusty  and  worn 

and  brown, 
Leading  the  outward  legion  from  dawn  till   the  sun 

goes  down  : 
Under  their  blue  sky-banner,  standing  true  to  their 

guns, 
Singly  and  shoulder   to   shoulder,   brothers  and   sires 

and  sons. 

They  are  faint  in  the  burning  noonday,  and  weaiy 
when  day  is  dead  ; 

They  have  never  a  thought  of  resting  till  Hope  from 
their  hearts  has  fled  ; 

They  are  toiling — some  for  a  sweetheart,  and  some  for 
a  home  and  wife  ; 

And  many  are  striving  for  riches,  and  some  are  fight- 
ing for  life  ! 

200 


BEYOND  COOLGARDIE  201 

They  are  dying  beyond  Coolgardie  in  sight  of  their 

untouched  prize, 
With  no  one  to  break  Death's  tidings,  and  no  one  to 

close  their  eyes ; 
They  lie  in  the  scrub  and  the  sand-wreath,  with  never 

a  stone  to  mark 
The  grave  where  the  bush-crows  gather  and  the  dingo 

crosses  at  dark. 

I'hey  are  reading  the  news  by  the  slush-lamps  and  under 

the  chandeliers, 
And  the  icords  of  the  dazzling  message  are  blurred  with 

the  readers'  tears  ; 
They  are  praying,  aicuy  to  the  Eastward — mothers  and 

daughters  and  wives — 
Asking   no  golden  harvest,   but  only  their  loved  ones' 

lives  ! 


DESERTED 

This  is  the  homestead    -the  still  lagoon 

Kisses  the  foot  of  the  garden  fence, 
Shimmering  under  a  silver  moon 

In  a  midnight  silence,  cold  and  tense  ; 
Vines  run  wild  on  the  old  verandah 

Holding  their  arms  to  us  standing  by  ; 
Garden  paths  where  we  used  to  wander 

Carry  the  bush-grass  rank  and  high. 

Here  and  there  has  a  blossom  stayed 

Out  of  the  wreck  of  the  passing  years, 
But  these  will  wither,  for  flowers  must  fade 

Whose  only  water  is  sea- salt  tears. 
Thei'e  are  ghosts  in  the  garden  wildernesses 

And  gliding  wraiths  at  the  water-side, 
Murmur  of  voices  and  rustle  of  di'esses — 

Shadow-life  that  has  never  died. 

202 


DESERTED  203 

The  stockyard  is  empty  and  dim  and  drear  ; 

Here  and  there  is  a  gap  in  the  rails, 
But  I  can  see  as  we  stand  anear 

Moving  steeds  when  the  daylight  fails — 
I  see  as  I  stand  at  the  slip-rails  dreaming 

Merry  riders  that  mount  and  meet, 
Sun  on  the  saddles  gleaming,  gleaming, 

Red  dust  wrapjDing  the  horses'  feet. 

The  world  is  silent  under  the  stars, 

And  yet  there  comes  to  my  ear  alone 
The  tiny  clink  of  the  snaffle-bars 

As  the  eager  heads  are  upward  thrown  ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  muffled  hoof -beat  after 

Strikes  like  a  hammer  on  heart  and  brain. 
And  the  faint,  far  echo  of  drifting  laughter 

Wakens  the  strength  of  a  sleeping  pain. 

Come,  come  away  from  the  lonely  home 

Softly,  softly  as  mourners  tread  ; 
The  world  is  wide  ;  there  is  space  to  roam 

Without  awaking  the  sleeping  dead. 
Till  the  last  of  the  scattered  flowers  shall  wither 

The  last  of  the  stockyard-rails  decay, 
Till  the  old  walls  crumble  and  fall  together 

The  ghosts  will  move  in  the  moonlight  gray. 


THE  FILLING  OF  THE  SWAMPS 

Hurrah  foi'  the  storm-clouds  sweeping  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  driving  rain  ! 
The  dull  Earth  out  of  her  sleeping 

Is  wakened  to  life  again. 
There  are  mirrors  of  crystal  shining 

Whenever  the  cloud-wrack  breaks, 
And  grass-clad  banks  are  twining 

A  wreath  for  the  fairy  lakes — 
Lakes  that  are  links  in  an  endless  chain, 

For  the  water  is  out  in  the  swamps  again  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  red-gums  standing 

So  high  on  the  range  above  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  she-oaks  bending 

So  low  to  the  wave  they  love  ! 

204 


THE  FILLING  OF  THE  SWAMPS  205 

Hurrah  for  the  reed-stems  slender  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  shade  they  fling 
For  the  curve  of  the  cygnet's  splendour, 

The  sheen  of  the  black  duck's  wing  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  clouds  and  the  glorious  rain — 

The  water  is  out  in  the  swamps  again  ! 

Hurrah  for  the  laughing  water, 

The  songs  that  the  streamlets  sing  ! 
WhisH  !  the  teal  duck's  mate  has  sought  her 

With  a  stroke  of  his  mottled  wing  I 
Hurrah  for  the  deepening  shallows. 

The  ibises  eagle-eyed, 
The  dash  of  the  purple  swallows 

To  bury  their  breasts  in  the  tide  ! 
Woe  !  it  is  woe  to  the  Drought-King's  reign  ! 

The  water  is  out  iu  the  swamps  again  ! 


BLACK  SHEEP 

They  shepherd  theii*  Black  Sheep  down  to  the  ships, 

Society's  banned  and  cursed  ; 
And  the  boys  look  back  as  the  old  land  dips — 
Some  with  a  reckless  laugh  on  their  lips, 

And  some  with  a  prayer  reversed. 

Audit's  Goodbye,  England!  and  Goodbye,  Love/ 

And  maybe  'lis  just  as  ivell 
When  a  man /all  short  of  his  Heaven  above 

That  lie  drop  to  the  uttermost  Hell. 

And  the  anchor  lifts  and  the  sails  are  set : 

Now  God  to  your  help.  Black  Sheep  ! 
For  the  gay  world  laughs  "  They  will  soon  forget !" 
But  fired  in  the  embers  of  old  I'egret 

The  brand  of  the  world  bites  deep. 


BLACK  SHEEP  207 

They  turn  their  Black  Sheep  over  the  side 

To  land  on  a  stranger's  shores  ; 
To  drift  with  the  cities'  human  tide, 
Or  wander  away  where  the  rovers  ride 

And  the  flagless  legion  wars. 

And  Hope  for  some  is  a  broken  staff 

And  for  others  a  golden  stair, 
Who  live  for  the  echo  of  Love's  low  laugh 
Or  Somebody's  face  in  a  photograph. 

Or  a  coil  of  Somebody's  hair. 

And  some  that  have  carried  a  parting  gift 

May  kiss  it  and  fling  it  away 
Far  over  the  clouds  that  no  winds  lift 
To  follow  where  our  dead  hopes  drift 

And  rest  where  dead  hopes  may. 

They  bury  the  Black  Sheep  out  in  the  Bush, 

And  buiy  them  none  too  deep 
On  the  cattle  camps  and  the  last  gold  rush, 
And  the  grasses  grow  over  them  green  and  lush 

And  the  bush- winds  sing  them  to  sleep. 

Aiid  it's  Guudbye,  Slrrigyle  !   and  Goodbye,  Strife  ! 

And  maybe  't  is  just  as  well 
When  a  man  goes  down  in  the  Battle  of  Life 

That  he  shorten  his  road  to  Hell ! 


THE  COMING  HOME 

7'Ae  light  we  folloiv  through  a  mist  of  tears 
Is  lost  wheti  close  at  hand.      0  ye  who  roam  ! 
There  is  no  pity  in  the  passing  years, 
And  only  sadness  in  the  coming  home. 

When  winter  storms  have  broke  a  father's  strength 
And  Age  his  stamp  upon  the  shoulders  set, 
When  Hght  in  those  dear  eyes  has  failed  at  length 
That  meet  our  own  so  true  and  kindly  yet, 
There  is  but  sadness  in  the  coming  home. 

When  Care  has  followed  his  relentless  plough 

To  mark  the  furrows  that  will  last  for  aye 

Over  the  softness  of  a  mother's  brow. 

When  Time  has  withered  all  the  brown  locks  gray. 

There  is  but  sadness  in  the  coming  home. 

208 


THE  COMING  HOME  209 

When  trees  have  taller  grown  and  gardens  changed 

And  meadows  are  not  as  they  used  to  be, 

When  woods  seem  smaller  where  our  boy  feet  ranged, 

Slower  the  streams  that  ripple  to  the  sea. 

There  is  but  sadness  in  the  coming  home. 

When  childish  laughter  is  for  ever  stilled 
And  childish  tears  by  touch  of  Time  are  dried. 
When  vacant  chairs  that  never  can  be  filled 
Give  bitter  welcome  to  the  old  fireside, 
There  is  but  sadness  in  the  coming  home. 

0  exiled  Livs,  with  the  dead  days  entwined, 
0  exiled  Hearts,  aweary  while  ye  roam, 
Earth  has  no  keener  pain  than  this — to  find 
Your  cruwn  of  sorrow  in  the  coming  home. 


THE  WALLABY  TRACK 

O  a  weird,  wild  road  is  the  Wallaby  Track 

That  is  known  to  the  bushmen  only, 
Stretching  away  to  the  plains  out  back 

And  the  big  scrubs  lorn  and  lonely  ! 
Dawn  till  dark  they  are  passing  there, 

Over  the  hot  sand  thronging. 
Shouldering  burdens  of  Doubt  and  Despair, 

Passion  and  Love  and  Longing. 

There  are  pearls  of  dew  on  the  Wallaby  Track 

For  the  maiden  Day's  adorning. 
And  blush  clouds  beating  the  night-shades  back 

In  the  van  of  the  golden  morning  ; 
There  are  glories  born  of  the  sinking  sun 

In  the  splendid  Eve's  lap  dying, 
A  glitter  of  stars  lit  one  by  one, 

And  a  rustle  of  night-wings  flying. 


THE  WALLABY  TRACK  211 

There  are  long  bright  days  on  the  "Wallaby  Track 

With  a  blue  vault  arching  over, 
And  long,  long  thoughts  that  are  drifting  back 

To  the  waiting  wife  and  lover  ; 
There  are  horse-bells  tinkling  down  the  wind 

With  a  thousand  rippling  changes, 
And  the  boom  of  the  team-bells  intertwined 

From  the  far-oif  mulga  ranges. 

There  are  stars  of  gold  on  the  Wallaby  Track, 

And  silver  the  moonbeams  glisten  ; 
The  great  Bush  sings  to  us,  out  and  back, 

And  we  lie  in  her  arms  and  listen  ; 
Our  dull  hearts  quicken  their  rhythmic  beat 

For  a  wild  swan's  southward  flying, 
And  gather  old  memories  sadly  sweet 

From  a  wind-swept  pine-bough's  sighing. 

There  are  lone  graves  left  on  the  Wallaby  Track, 
And  the  bush-grass  bends  above  them  ; 

They  had  no  white  hands  to  wave  them  back. 
Perhaps — no  hearts  to  love  them  ! 

But  none  the  less  will  their  sleep  be  sound 
For  the  Hope  and  the  Love  denied  them. 

Or  the  ceaseless  tramp  on  the  thirsty  ground 

.    Till  all  men  sleep  beside  them. 


BEYOND  THE  BARRIER 

Are  you  tired  of  the  South  Land,  comrade- 

Of  the  smoke  and  the  city's  din, 
And  the  roar  of  the  chiding  ocean 

When  the  sobbing  tide  comes  in  1 
Would  you  ride  to  the  Northward,  rather, 

To  the  skirmish  posts  of  Earth, 
Where  the  darkest  dust-storms  gather 

And  the  wildest  floods  have  birth  1 
Are  you  tired  of  the  long  days  idle — 

The  days  you  would  fling  behind 
For  the  clasp  of  the  tugging  bridle, 

The  kiss  of  the  racing  wind, 
Where  the  best  camp-horse  that  ever  drew 

A  hoof-slide  on  the  plain, 
Is  waiting  by  the  creek  for  you 

Beyond  the  Barrier  Chain  1 

212 


(BEYOND  THE   BARRIER  213 

Are  you  tired  of  the  revel,  comrade — 

The  life  of  folly  and  wine, 
With  its  one-half  lived  in  the  shadow 

And  one-half  lived  in  the  shine  1 
Are  you  tired  of  the  poison-glasses. 

The  lawless  love  and  the  kiss  1 
Out  East  where  the  brown  range  passes 

Do  you  hope  for  dearer  than  this — 
For  a  handkerchief  waved  in  greeting 

Far  off,  where  it  waved  farewell, 
For  the  joy  of  a  dreamed-of  meeting 

And  the  glow  of  an  old  love-spell, 
Where  the  sweetest  maid  that  ever  knew 

Love's  bliss  or  parting's  pain 
Is  waiting  open-armed  for  you 

Beyond  the  Barrier  Chain  I 

Let  us  steer  to  the  Northward,  comrades ! 

To  the  Bush  with  her  witching  spells  ; 
To  the  sun-bright  days  and  the  camp-fire  blaze 

And  the  chime  of  the  bullock  bells  ! 
Down  the  long,  long  leagues  behind  us 

The  rain  shall  cover  our  track. 
And  the  dust  of  the  North  shall  bhnd  us 

Or  ever  we  follow  it  back. 


214  BEYOND  THE  BARRIER 

Away  from  the  old  friends,  comrades  ! 

The  grasp  of  the  strong  brown  hand  ! 
The  love  and  the  life  and  the  laughter 

That  brighten  the  brave  North  Land  ! 
So  long  as  the  sunlight  fills  it, 

So  long  as  the  white  moons  shine, 
So  long  as  the  Master  wills  it, 

The  North  is  your  home  and  mine  ! 


RAINBOWS  AND  WITCHES 

I  REMKMBER,  evei"  SO  long  ago, 
At  the  other  side  of  the  world  away 
When  rain  would  cease  on  an  April  day, 
When  the  mountain  mists  would  roll  and  rise 
And  the  rainbow  ride  in  the  purple  skies  — 
How  they  would  say  to  us,   "  Run,  dear  heart. 
Out  where  you  see  the  bright  bow  start, 
And  there  you  will  gather  a  heap  of  gold 
As  much  as  ever  your  hands  can  hold  ; 
Out  of  the  wood  and  beyond  the  gate. 
Run  for  your  fortune  or  you'll  be  late  !" 
How  we  would  run  !     I  remember  still 
The  dangerous  dash  down  the  garden  hill ; 
And  many  a  stumble  and  many  a  slip, 
Our  eager  eyes  on  the  i-ainbow-dip  ; 


216  RAINBOWS  AND  WITCHES 

Limbs  aweary  but  never  a  rest, 
Beating  hearts  on  the  hopeless  quest — 
For  the  further  we  raced  the  further  passed 
The  rainbow  goal,  till  we  tired  at  last. 

0  golden  years',   ye  are  past  and  gone 

With  the  far-off  flash  of  a  distant  dream ; 

But  still  we  are  striving  and  struggling  on, 
Chasing  the  gold  and  the  rainbow  gleam  ! 

I  remember,  ever  so  long  ago, 

At  the  other  side  of  the  world  away 

As  we  in  our  tiny  white  cots  lay 

Half  in  slumber  and  half  awake, 

Watching  the  nesting  swallow  take 

(A  moving  shade  on  the  blind  so  white) 

His  last  trip  home  to  his  nest  at  night — 

How  they  would  say  at  our  bedside  :  "  Soon, 

Dear  little  heart,  the  great  red  moon 

Will  climb  the  sky  to  her  fleecy  seat. 

Stars  at  her  shoulder  and  stars  at  her  feet : 

And  if  you  should  wake  to-night,  dear  heart, 

When  the  night  and  morning  meet  and  part, 

And  open  your  window  ever  so  wide, 

You'll  see  where  the  brave  broom-witches  ride 


RAINBOWS  AND  WITCHES  217 

Low  to  the  fir-tops  and  high  to  the  moon 
With  their  peaky  hats  and  their  pointed  shoon 
And  first  of  them  all  your  lover  so  fair, 
The  moon-wind  tossing  her  red-gold  hair !" 

Our  childish  hopes  they  are  dead  lang  syne  ; 

But  I  wait  at  night  with  my  ivindow  wide, 
And  many  a  lonely  watch  is  mine 

To  see  my  love  when  the  witches  ride  ! 


HANDICAPPED  ! 

"  Maybe  Fate's  weight-cloths  are  breaking  his  heart." 

— RuDYARD  Kipling. 

Life's  race  for  all  is  even-lapped 

To  watching  eyes  it  seems  ; 
But  how  we  may  be  handicapped 

The  wide  world  never  dreams. 
Ah  !  well  for  those  whose  lot  is  cast 

Where  open  war  demands  ; 
But  brave  men  fighting  down  the  Past 

Are  fighting  with  chained  hands. 

The  girls  who  loved  us  long  ago, 

Whose  love  has  changed  to  scorn, 
Will  watching  think,   "How  weak  and  slow  !" 

But  never,   "  How  forlorn  !" 

218 


HANDICAPPED  !  219 


Yet  by  the  bitterness  of  Fate 
The  night  we  chose  to  part, 

It  was  their  soft  hands  laid  the  weight 
Above  our  throbbing  heart. 

The  memory  of  dark  deeds  done 

That  blot  a  family  page  ; 
The  father  leaving  to  his  son 

Sin's  ghastly  heritage  ; 
The  treason  of  a  friend  untrue, 

The  wild  dreams  better  dead. 
The  hopes  't  is  madness  to  renew — 

These  are  our  weights  of  lead. 

Life's  race  for  all  is  even-lapped 

To  watching  eyes  it  seems  ; 
But  how  we  may  be  handicapped 

The  wide  world  never  dreams. 
Remember,  when  you  cheer  the  best, 

It  was  no  equal  start, 
And  some  who  toil  behind  the  rest 

Have  leaden  weights  at  heart ! 


MEMORY  TOWN 

From  dawning  to  dusk  moves  the  crowd  in  her  street 
With  eyes  looking  upward,  quick  pulses  that  beat. 

And  slow  feet  that  loiter,  and  duixib  lips  that  call 
Where  sunshine  and  shadow  are  crossed  for  them  all. 

In  mystic  mosaic  her  pavements  are  set : 

A  stone  for  Sweet  Thoughts,  then  a  stone  for  Regret. 

The  walls  of  her  houses  are  handsome  and  high, 
Whose  balconies  break  the  blue  line  of  the  sky. 

On  one  side  the  sun  fires  the  columns  with  light. 
On  one  side  the  shadow  lies  blacker  than  night. 

On  one  side  Youth's  Joys  from  their  windows  look 

down 
To  watch  the  wayfarers  in  Memory  Town. 

220 


MEMORY  TOWN  221 

They  laugh  with  low  music  that  each  understands, 
And  wave  their  white  'kerchiefs  and  kiss  their  white 
hands. 

They  fling  their  gay  garlands,  white  roses  and  red ; 
But  Care  gallops  past  us  and  tramples  them  dead. 

On  the  other  side  stand  the  Gray  Griefs  of  the  years, 
The  hands  on  the  railings  are  wet  with  their  tears. 

With  sad  eyes  and  wistful  they  lean  and  look  down 
On  the  lone  hearts  that  loiter  in  Memory  Town. 

They   bind    no    white   garland,     and    weave    no    red 

wreath, 
But  strew  the  dark  cypress  that  whispers  of  Death. 

So  sunlight  and  shadow  are  crossed  in  the  crown 

That  the  old  years  have  wrought  us  in  Memory  Town. 


TO  A  BUNCH  OF  HEATHER 

Was  it  early  in  the  autumn,  was  it  sunny  summer 

weather  ? 
Were    the    white    mists    on    the    Carter    when    they 

plucked  you  on  the  moor  1 
Were  the  mountain  dews  upon  you  in  the  morning, 

Sprig  of  Heather, 
When  they  took  you  from  your  sisters  for  the  long 

lone  Southern  tour? 

Did  you  hide  from  those  who  sought  you  1     Did  you 

think  the  white  hand  cruel 
That   could    choose    you    from   a    thousand    as    the 

brightest  and  the  best, 
That  could  bind  you  as  a  token,  richer  far  than  any 

jewel, 
For  a  love- word  to  the  Southland  from  the  old  home 

in  the  west  1 


TO  A  BUNCH  OF  HEATHER  223 

Did  you  hear   the  Nor'  winds   singing  in  the  white 

sails — you  so  tightly 
Stringed   and   covei-ed,    pressed  and  withered,  little 

exile  from  the  blue  ? 
Did  you  hear  the  throbbing  engines,  and  the  sirens 

hooting  nightly  1 
Did  you  hear  the  crashing  water  and  the  bow-blade 

breaking  through  ? 

Did  you  feel  the  home-love  tremble  when  I  took  you 

in  my  fingers  1 
Did  you  wonder  any  longer  why   they  plucked  you 

from  the  moors  ? 
Did  you  know  you   brought  the  music  of  a  million 

wild-bee  singers  ? 
Did  you  guess  that  for  the  mountains  yearned  another 

heart  than  yours  1 

Did  you  know  that  you  were  laden  with  a  lost  year's 

joy  and  sorrow  1 
Did  you  know  that  you  were  royal  with  the  rainbow 

and  the  rain  1 
Lying — oh  !   so   worn  and    withered — in    my   brown 

hand,  did  you  boiTow 
For  a  moment  from  the  touching  all  I  felt  of  pride — 

and  pain  ? 


224  TO  A  BUNCH  OF  HEATHER 

You  are  fading,  little  love-word,  as  the  morning  stars 

are  paling  : 
Will  it  bring  you   back  the  purple  of   the  hill-side 

where  you  grew 
If   I  lay  you   in  the   window  1     Can   it  be  like  me 

you're  ailing 
For  a  sight  of  mountain  moorland,  little  exile  from 

the  blue  1 


THE  FRONT  RANK 

We  fight  on  far  tracks  unknown ; 
We  ride  the  way  of  the  rover, 

Each  with  a  Hne  of  his  own  ; 
Our  banner  the  bhie  sky  over, 

Our  bugle  the  bushwind's  tone. 

We  chai'ge  where  no  red  squares  kneel. 
We  ride  with  no  helmets  glitt'ring. 

We  carry  no  gleaming  steel ; 
But  our  reins  are  foam  to  the  bit-ring. 

Our  spurs  are  red  to  the  heel. 

We  war  by  the  watching  stars. 
No  women  look  to  our  wounded, 

No  white  hands  bandage  our  scars  : 
For  us  no  medals  ax'e  rounded — 

No  ribbons  or  clasps  or  bars. 

3  2?5 


226  THE   FRONT   RANK 

Swordless  and  swift  we  go  ; 
Oui'  brown  arms  bared  to  the  slaughter 

Our  hearts  with  the  quest  aglow  ; 
We  battle  and  ask  no  quarter, 

Our  faces  turned  to  the  foe. 

At  last  in  the  smoke  of  the  years 
Far  from  where  camp  and  tent  lie, 

From  clashing  of  shields  and  spears. 
We  slip  to  the  earth  so  gently 

That  scarcely  a  comrade  hears. 

We  slip  to  the  earth  and  lie 
Clay  cold  in  the  golden  grasses. 

White  faces  turned  to  the  sky  ; 
And  the  last  of  our  longings  passes, 

The  last  of  our  dreams  goes  by. 

But  the  drums  beat,  year  to  year, 
And  men  from  the  wings  close  round  us. 

And  men  ride  up  from  the  rear 
To  win — where  no  smile  has  crowned  us, 

Or  lose — where  it  costs  no  tear  ! 


THE  NEW  MOON 

"  NEW  Moon  to-night ! "  you  will  hear  them  say, 
Turning  their  eyes  to  the  glint  of  gold  ; 

But  this,  as  you  know,  is  their  quaint  little  way  — 
For  the  Moon  she  is  centuries  old  ! 

She  swings  like  a  boat  in  the  darkening  sky, 
A  boat  that  is  gilded  from  stem  to  stern, 

And  "  Turn  your  money  !"  the  old  wives  cry — 
But  every  moon  we  have  less  to  turn. 

Yet  saint  and  sinner  and  baron  and  boor. 

In  log-built  cabin  or  marble  hall, 
Happy  go-lucky  and  rich  and  poor — 

The  brave  little  Moon  has  a  smile  for  all. 

Her  cargo  has  listed  astern,  this  trip. 
And  her  bows  are  above  the  foam, 
But  she  ploughs  away  down  in  the  mists,  a  ship 
-  That  is  eager  enough  for  home. 

227 


228  THE  NEW  MOON 

Alone  in  the  drift  of  the  leagueless  heights 
Her  course  to  the  west  she  steers, 

Rail-high  with  the  lore  of  a  million  nights 
And  the  legends  of  all  the  years. 

"  New  Moon  to-night !"  so  the  people  say  ; 

But  the  winds  that  cross  her  and  croon 
They  have  sung  in  her  silvery  sails  all  day, 

And  they  know  her  the  old,  old  Moon. 

And  the  pine-trees  listen  and  toss  their  heads 

And  laugh  in  a  splendid  scorn, 
For  the  old  Moon  sailed  by  their  cradle-beds 

Before  the  speakers  were  born. 

"  ISew  Moon  to-night !  "     So  the  'people  say, 
Lifting  their  eyes  to  the  curve  of  gold  ; 

But  this,  as  you  know,  is  their  quaint  little  ivay- 
For  the  Moon  she  is  centuries  old ! 


THE  BUSH,  MY  LOVER 

The  camp-fire  gleams  resistance 

To  every  twinkling  star  ; 
The  horse-bells  in  the  distance 

Are  jangling  faint  and  far ; 
Through  gum-boughs  lorn  and  lonely 

The  passing  breezes  sigh  ; 
In  all  the  world  are  only 

My  star-crowned  Love  and  I. 

The  still  night  wraps  Macquarie  ; 

The  white  moon,  drifting  slow. 
Takes  back  her  silver  glory 

From  watching  waves  below  ; 
To  dalliance  I  give  over 

Though  half  the  world  may  chide, 
And  clasp  my  one  true  Lover 

Here  on  Macquarie  side. 


230  THE  BUSH,  MY  LOVER 

The  loves  of  earth  grow  olden 

Or  kneel  at  some  new  shrine  ; 
Her  locks  are  always  golden — 

This  brave  Bush-Love  of  mine  ; 
And  for  her  star-lit  beauty, 

And  for  her  dawns  dew-pearled, 
Her  name  in  love  and  duty 

I  guard  against  the  world. 

They  curse  her  desert  places  ! 

How  can  they  understand 
Who  know  not  what  her  face  is 

And  never  held  her  hand  1 — 
Who  may  have  heard  the  meeting 

Of  boughs  the  wind  has  stirred, 
Yet  missed  the  whispered  greeting 

Our  listening  hearts  have  heard. 

For  some  have  travelled  over 

The  long  miles  at  her  side, 
Yet  claimed  her  not  as  Lover 

Nor  thought  of  her  as  Bride  : 
And  some  have  followed  after 

Through  sun  and  mist  for  years, 
Nor  held  the  sunshine  laughter, 

Nor  guessed  the  raindrops  tears. 


THE  BUSH,  MY  LOVER  231 

If  we  some  white  arms'  folding, 

Some  warm,  red  mouth  should  miss — 
Her  hand  is  ours  for  holding, 

Her  lips  are  ours  to  kiss  ; 
And  closer  than  a  lover 

She  shares  our  lightest  breath. 
And  droops  her  great  wings  over 

To  shield  us  to  the  death. 

And  if  her  droughts  are  bitter, 

Her  dancing  mirage  vain — 
Are  all  things  gold  that  glitter  1 

What  pleasure  but  hath  pain? 
And  since  among  Love's  blisses 

Love's  penalties  must  live, 
Shall  we  not  take  her  kisses 

And,  taking  them,  forgive  1 

The  winds  of  Dawn  are  roving 

The  river-oaks  astir  .     . 
What  heart  were  lorn  of  loving 

That  had  no  Love  but  her  ? 
Till  last  red  stars  are  lighted 

And  last  winds  wander  West, 
Her  troth  and  mine  are  plighted — 

The  lover  I  love  best ! 


A   SPIN    OF   THE   COIN 

The   Spring  is  wai'm  and  waking,  and   the  wattle's 

bursting  bud  ; 
And  the  longing  of  the  rovpr  makes  a  fevei'  in  the 

blood  ; 
The  gi'ass  is  growing  swiftly  in   the  sheltered   river 

bends, 
And  the  Bush,  our  old  coy  lover,  waits  to  kiss  us  and 

make  friends  ; 
And  the  yearning  is  upon   us   to   be   somewhere   and 

away, 
If  it's  but  to  tilt  at  windmills,  as  a  careless   Quixote 

may. 

And   since  it  matters  little  if  we  ride  to  North  or 

South, 
To   the   reeling   desert    dust-showers   or  the  rocking 

harbour  mouth. 


A  SPIN  OF  THE  COIN  233 

Let's  toss  our  last  half-sovereign — and  the  spinning 

coin  shall  say  : 
If  it's  heads,  we  start  to-morrow  ;  if  it's  tails,  we  start 

to-day  ; 
And  heads  shall  be  for  Sydney  Heads,  fair  wind  and 

ocean  tide, 
And   tails   for    tailing    weaners  on   the  Diamantina 

side  ! 

For  Spring  is   close  and  coming  :  you  can  hear  her 

rustling  wings 
And    her    thousand -throated    murmur — never    music 

like  the  Spring's  ! 
Her  hand  is  in  the  rover's  and  her  hps  to   his   are 

pressed ; 
She  is  all   a-fire   and   eager,   and   she   will   not  let  us 

rest 
Till  our  hand's  upon  the  bridle   and  our  foot's  upon 

the  bar, 
And  our  face  is  to  the  freedom  of  the  storm-wind  and 

the  star ! 

Long   luck   to  every  rover — to   the   west  of   Sydney 

side, 
With  the  blue  Sea  for  a  lover  or  the  brov/n  Bush  for 
.    a  bride  ! 


234  A  SPIN  OF  THE  COIN 

If  they  mount  with   merry  laughter,  may  they  never 

taste  of  woe  ! 
If  they  take  the  track  in  sorrow,  may  they  gladden  as 

they  go  ! 
There's  a  free  lance  down  the  Lachlan  with   their 

roving  ranks  will  join 
At  the  bidding  of  the  Springtide  and  the  spinning  of 

a  coin  ! 


A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

The  song- thrush  loves  the  laurel, 
The  stone  chat  haunts  the  broom, 
But  the  seagull  must  have  room 
Where  the  white  drift  spins  ashore 

And  the  winds  and  waters  quarrel 
With  the  old  hate  evermore. 

You  clear  with  scythe  or  sabre 
A  pathway  for  your  feet, 
I  move  in  meadow  sweet 
By  the  side  of  silent  streams, 

And  you  are  lord  of  labour 
And  I  am  serf  of  dreams. 

You  fill  the  red  wine  flagon 
And  drink  and  ride  away 
To  the  toil  of  each  new  day. 
But  I  quaif  till  dawn  be  pale 

To  the  knight  or  dame  or  dragon 
Of  a  dream-spun  fairy  tale. 


236  A  DREAMER  OF  DREAMS 

You  win  your  chosen  maiden 
With  a  bracelet  for  her  wrist ; 
Lightly  courted,  lightly  kissed, 
She  is  yours  for  weal  or  woe, 

But  my  heart  goes  sorrow-laden 
For  a  dream-love  long  ago. 

Let  our  pathways  part  for  ever, 
I  am  all  content  with  mine — 
For  when  lips  are  tired  of  wine 
As  the  long-dead  dreamers  tell, 

There  are  poppies  by  the  river. 
There  is  hemlock  in  the  dell. 


THE  GRAVES  OUT  WEST 

If  the  lonely  graves  are  scattered  in  that  fenceless 

vast  God's  Acre, 
If  no  church  bells  chime  across  them,  and  no  mourners 

tread  between — 
Yet  the  souls  of  those  sound  sleepers  go  as  swiftly  to 

their  Maker, 
And  the  ground  is  just  as  sacred,  and  the  graves  ai'e 

just  as  green. 

If  we  chant  no  solemn  dirges  to  the  virtue   of  their 

living. 
If  we  sing  no  hymn  words  o'er  them-^in  the  glory  of 

the  stars 
They  can  hear  a  grander  music  than  was  ever  ours  for 

giving, 
God's  choristers  invisible — the  winds  in  the  belars. 

237 


238  THE  GRAVES  OUT   WEST 

If  we  set  them  up  no  marble,  it  is  none  the  less  we 

love  them : 
If  we  carved  a  million  columns  would  it  bring  them 

better  rest  1 
If  no  gentle  hands  have  fashioned  snow-white  wreaths 

to  lay  above  them, 
God   has   laid   His  own   wild  flowers   on   the  lonely 

graves  out  West. 


FAIRY  TALES 

I  CHANCED  on  an  old  l^rown  book  to-day 
All  stained  and  yellow  with  dust  and  age, 

But  the  beats  of  a  boy's  heart,  stilled  for  aye, 
Are  heard  at  the  turning  of  every  page. 

For  the  old  brown  book  was  the  day's  desire 
When  sweet  princesses  and  knights  in  mail 

And  guardian  dragons  with  tongues  of  fire 
Were  marshalled  to  fashion  a  fairy  tale. 

I  laughed  at  the  little  Tin  Soldier  then. 

And  cried  for  the  Maiden  with  Heart  Ice-cold ; 

But  now  they  are  different,  maids  and  men, 
And  the  lustre  is  gone  from  their  garb  of  gold. 

I  am  reading  to-day  as  a  man  may  read. 
By  no  spell  bidden  or  charm  beguiled  ; 

For  the  gem  is  a  pebble,  the  flower  a  weed, 
Till  it  wake  to  worth  in  the  heart  of  a  child. 

239 


240  FAIRY  TALES 

I  turn  the  pages  ;  the  old  loves  pass, 

But  I  dream  in  their  dear  delight  no  more  ; 

I  watched  them  once  through  a  rose  hued  glass, 
I  am  standing  now  at  an  oaken  door. 

I  put  them  aside  with  a  sigh,  a  frown, 

For  the  folk  seem  foolish,  the  wonders  tame. 

And  I  understand  as  I  lay  them  down 

That  the  stories  can  never  be  quite  the  same. 

But  I'd  give  the  worth  of  the  books  I've  read, 
The  books  of  the  world  with  their  wondrous  lore, 

Just  to  go  back  to  the  days  long  dead 
With  a  heart  for  a  fairy  tale  once  more  ! 


VILLANELLE 

Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing, 
When  none  but  I  had  heart  to  hear, 
A  wee  bi'own  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

But,  ah  !  the  wild  notes  would  not  ring- 
As  once  they  rang — so  loud  and  clear ! 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing. 

I  saw  the  rowan-clusters  cling, 

And  far  away  and  yet  so  near 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

Almost  I  found  a  long-lost  Spring, 
Almost  the  loves  I  held  so  dear, 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing 

For  joys  that  had  their  blossoming 

Beyond  the  grief  of  each  gray  year 
A  wee  brown  mavis  ti'ied  to  sing ; 


241 


242  VILLANELLE 

But  the  dew  wrapped  him,  glistening, 

And  every  dew-drop  told  a  tear 
Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing, 

While,  throbbing  heart  and  drooping  wing, 

And  chill  claws  grasping  at  his  bier, 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 

But  I  shall  know  when  hailstorms  sting, 
And  not  forget  when  leaves  are  sere, 

Last  night  in  Memory's  boughs  aswing 
A  wee  brown  mavis  tried  to  sing. 


BEN  HALL'S  STIRRUP-IRONS 

A  LITHE  young  squatter  passes  in  the  dust, 
His  buckles  gleaming  and  his  bars  aglance  ; 
But  laden  with  long  years  of  old  romance 
The  quaint  old  stirrups  covered  with  red  rust  ! 
The  troops  are  scattered  and  the  dark  days  dead 
When  robber  bands  made  wild  the  Lachlan  side  ; 
No  hunted  outlaws  to  the  mountains  ride, 
A  thousand  pounds  of  blood-fee  on  their  head  : 
And  only  these  quaint  stirrups  hand  us  down 
The  thrilling  story  no  one  halts  to  hear 
Of  long  ^vild  rides  below  the  trusted  stars. 
And  that  last  mournful  journey  to  the  town — 
The  lifeless  form  bound  to  the  saddle-gear, 
The  blood-drops  falling  on  the  stirrup-bars. 

243 


BALLADE  OF  WINDY  NIGHTS 

Have  you  learnt  the  sorrow  of  windy  nights 
When  lilacs  down  in  the  garden  moan, 

And  stars  are  flickering  faint,  wan  lights. 
And  voices  whisper  in  wood  and  stone  1 
When  steps  on  the  stairway  creak  and  groan, 

And  shadowy  ghosts  take  an  hour  of  ease 
In  dim-lit  galleries  all  their  own  1 

Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these  1 

Have  you  lain  awake  on  the  windy  nights 
Slighted  by  sleep  and  to  rest  unknown. 

When  keen  remorse  is  a  whip  that  smites 
With  every  gust  on  the  window  blown  1 
When  phantom  Love  from  a  broken  throne 

Steps  down  through  the  Night's  torn  tapestries. 
Sad  eyed  and  wistful,  and  ah  !  so  lone  1 

Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these  1 


BALLADE  OF  WINDY  NIGHTS  245 

Have  you  felt  a  touch  on  the  windy  nights — 
The  touch  of  a  hand  not  flesh  nor  bone, 

Bvit  a  mystical  something,  pale,  that  plights 

With  waning  stars  and  with  dead  stars  strown  1 
Or  heai'd  grey  lips  with  the  fire  all  flown 

Pleading  again  in  a  lull  o'  the  breeze — 

A  long  life's  wreck  in  a  short  hour  shown  1 

Do  you  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these  ? 

Ah,  the  lohirlwind  reaped  where  a  ivind  is  sown, 
And  the  phantom  Love  in  theniijht  one  sees  ! 

Ah,  the  touching  hand  and  the  pleading  tone  I 
Do  ijou  know  the  sorrow  of  nights  like  these  / 


THE  BUSHMAK'S  FRIEND 

Let  the  sailor  tell  of  the  roaring  gale 

Or  the  blue  waves'  rippling  laughter, 
Let  the  soldier  sing  of  the  sabre  swing 

Or  the  laurels  of  glory  after  ; 
There's  a  melody  in  the  changeful  sea, 

There's  a  charm  in  the  l)attle  thunder, 
But  sweeter  than  those,  the  bushman  knows, 

Is  the  bound  of  a  good  horse  under. 

You  can  hear  his  feet  on  the  sandhill  beat 

That  the  dew  of  the  morning  lies  on, 
As  he  strides  away  at  the  dawn  of  day 

Ere  the  sun  has  topped  the  horizon  ; 
You  can  hear  them  pass  through  the  rustling  grass 

With  a  beautiful  rhythmic  measure. 
As  he  pulls  at  the  rein  on  the  open  plain 

With  a  share  in  his  master's  pleasure. 


THE  BUSHMAN'S  FRIEND  247 

You  can  feel  him  fight  for  a  faster  flight 

With  an  eagerness  never  grown  idle, 
As  you  firmly  sit  with  a  hold  of  the  bit 

And  a  strong  hand  on  the  bridle  ; 
You  can  feel  him  creep,  then  plunge  with  a  leap 

Like  the  forward  drive  of  a  shallop 
When  she  carves  the  stream  with  a  gust  abeam, 

As  he  changes  step  in  the  gallop. 

You  can  tell  by  his  ears  that  the  hoofs  he  hears 

Of  the  brumbies  that  cross  from  the  I'iver  : 
How  the  foam-flakes  flit  as  he  mouths  the  bit  ! 

How  the  beautiful  nosti'ils  quiver  ! 
How  he  rears  and  bounds  at  the  nearer  sounds 

As  the  mob  goes  thundering  by  him  ! 
How  he'd  lay  to  his  speed  and  challenge  the  lead 

If  his  master  would  only  try  him  ! 

Let  this  one  stand  where  the  sails  are  fanned 

By  a  favouring  breeze  behind  him  ; 
Let  that  one  sip  at  the  cannon's  lip 

Such  joys  as  the  battle  can  find  him  ; 
This  moral  to  each  I'll  venture  to  teach, 

Though  loth  in  life's  journey  to  guide  him — 
A  man  may  have  ivorse  than  an  honest  horse 

And  the  health  and  the  heart  to  ride  him  ! 


THE  CITY  OF  GRAY  GRIEFS 

Somewhere,  liid  in  our  hearts,  a  City  stands 
Gray-mossed  with  all  the  sorrow  of  the  years. 

And  broken-arched  with  Love's  unclasping  hands 
And  mortared  stone  to  stone  with  bitter  tears. 

Here  at  each  corner  of  the  silent  streets, 
By  every  fountain  in  the  empty  squares. 

Each  one  of  us  his  stilled  Sorrow  meets 
Beneath  the  mouldering  arches,  unawares. 

From  dawn  till  day-death,  white  beneath  the  sun. 
Hand  in  cold  hand  go  past  our  sheeted  dead, 

Pale  with  regret  for  deeds  of  ours  undone. 
Weary  with  longing  for  our  words  unsaid. 

Here  the  dim  Sins  held  close  in  buried  days. 
With  the  loud  sandals  of  Remembrance  shod. 

Make  hollow  echo  on  the  grass-grown  ways, 
Calling  the  vengeance  of  an  unknown  God. 

•24S 


THE  CITY  OF   GRAY   GRIEFS  249 

Here  the  lost  chances  of  a  ruined  life 

From  shrivelled  lips  let  loose  a  mocking  tongue, 

Or  turn  and  stab  with  a  relentless  knife 

The  souls  that   scorned   them  when   the  world  was 
young. 

Here  the  hot  kisses  of  a  cruel  love, 

The  lustful  kisses,  burn  like  heated  brands ; 

Here  is  no  rest ;   no  Lethe  to  remove 
The  snowy  fetters  of  the  clinging  hands. 

Fades  the  red  sun  from  minaret  and  dome 
Mght  after  weeping  night  ;  and  still  beneath 

The  gray-grown  Griefs  in  long  procession  come. 
Death's  messengers  without  the  peace  of  Death. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT 

The  lamps  will  be  lit  over  seas  to-night, 

And  the  feast  of  the  year  be  spread, 
And  the  girls  will  gather  with  faces  bright 

And  the  wine  will  sparkle  red  ; 
And  hands  will  close  on  the  glass's  stem. 

And  over  the  Christmas  cheer 
The  boys  will  be  drinking   "  Long  life  to  them  !" 

On  the  happiest  day  of  the  year. 
And  spite  of  the  sorrow  that  hides  for  shame 

In  the  brown  locks  streaked  with  gray, 
Though  a  father  may  frown  at  a  whispered  name 

Yet  a  mother  will  have  her  way  ; 
For  a  son's  disgrace  is  a  sword  to  smite, 

But  Time  is  a  balm  to  heal, 
And  in  many  a  home  in  the  North  to-night 

They  will  drink  to  their  ne'er-do-weel. 


CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  251 

The  township  streets  will  be  full  to-night 

With  the  bushmen  from  far  and  near 
Who  have  ridden  to  share  in  the  wild  delight 

Of  the  merriest  day  in  the  year  ; 
And  men  will  come  from  the  dusty  street 

And  stand  at  the  crowded  bar, 
And  maybe  a  memory  soft  and  sweet 

Will  float  to  some  heart  from  far — 
A  flashing  of  lights  in  a  lordly  home, 

And  a  glitter  of  lifted  hands 
As  they  drink  to  the  health  of  the  boys  who  roam 

In  those  different  distant  lands. 
And  there  in  the  midst  of  a  noisy  host, 

In  a  sorrow  that  none  can  feel, 
Will  be  fashioned,  it  may  be,  a  silent  toast 

In  the  heart  of  some  ne'er  do-weel. 


THE  CRUELLEST  DREAM 

So  here  at  the  last  I  find 

I  am  holding  again  your  hand, 
And  why  you  are  cruel  no  more,  but  kind, 

I  scarcely  can  understand  ; 
But  I  know  that  the  earth  is  ablaze  with  roses, 

I  know  that  the  lilies  make  paths  for  our  feet, 
And  as  long  as  your  hand  on  my  own  hand  closes 

I  know  that  you  love  me,  sweet ! 

I  hear  as  of  old  your  voice 

That  is  speaking  my  name  so  low,  so  low, 
Till  all  things  living  rejoice 

And  all  things  gladden  that  grow  j 
And  I  know  that  the  skies  are  a  dazzling  blue 

And  the  face  of  the  earth  is  fair, 
And  I  know  that  the  birds  are  calling  you  true 

In  songs  that  are  everywheie. 


THE  CRUELLEST  DREAM  253 

I  am  kissing  you  ovei*  and  over, 

I  am  holding  you  close  to  my  heart, 
As  of  old  we  are  lover  and  lover 

And  live  in  a  world  apart     .     .     . 
I  hear  no  longer  your  sweet  voice  calling, 

But  oiily  the  wail  of  the  tvind  instead; 
I  have  lost  yow  face  in  the  shadows  falling — 

Darling  !  the  cruellest  dream  is  dead. 


BOWMONT  WATER 

O,  WE  think  we're  happy  roving  ! 

But  the  stars  that  crown  the  night, 
They  are  only  ours  for  loving 

When  the  moon  is  lost  to  sight ! 
And  my  hopes  are  fleeting  forward 

With  the  ships  that  sail  the  sea, 
And  my  eyes  are  to  the  Nor 'ward 

As  an  exile's  well  may  be, 
And  my  heart  a  shrine  has  sought  her 

Where  the  lights  and  shadows  play, 
At  the  foot  of  Bowmont  Water, 

Bowmont  Water — far  away. 

O,  it's  fair  in  summer  weather 
When  the  red  sun  dropping  low 

Sets  a  lustre  on  the  heather 
And  the  Cheviot  peaks  aglow  ; 

254 


BOWMONT  WATER  255 

When  the  hares  come  down  the  meadows 

In  the  gloaming  clear  and  still, 
And  the  flirting  lights  and  shadows 

Play  at  hidies  on  the  hill ; 
When  the  wild  duck's  mate  has  sought  her 

And  the  speckled  hill-trout  play 
At  the  foot  of  Bowmont  Water, 

Bo^vmont  Water — far  away. 

0,  it's  grand  when  Winter's  creeping 

And  the  rime  is  on  the  trees, 
And  the  giant  hills  are  sleeping 

With  the  gray  clouds  on  their  knees; 
When  the  autumn  days  are  ended 

And  the  glens  are  deep  with  snow, 
And  the  grips  are  dark  and  splendid 

Where  the  mountain  eagles  go : 
Then  the  strath  is  a  king's  daughter. 

In  her  purple  robes  and  gray, 
At  the  foot  of  Bowmont  Water, 

Bowmont  Water — far  away. 

We  have  wandered  down  the  valley 

In  the  days  of  buried  time, 
Seen  the  foxgloves  dip  and  dally. 

Heard  the  fairy  blue-bells  chime  ; 


256  BOWMONT  WATER 

Seen  the  briei'  I'oses  quiver 

When  the  West-wind  crossed  the  dell, 
Heard  the  music  of  the  river 

And  the  tale  it  had  to  tell, 
Where  the  melody  Love  taught  her 

Is  the  laverock's  only  lay, 
At  the  foot  of  Bowmont  Water, 

Bowmont  Water — far  away. 

I  have  tried  the  spots,  in  order, 

Where  the  brightest  sunbeams  fall, 
But  the  land  upon  the  Border 

Is  my  own  land  after  all. 
And  I  would  not  take  the  glory 

Of  the  whole  world's  golden  sheen 
For  the  white  mists  down  the  corrie 

And  the  naked  scaurs  between  ; 
And  my  heart  a  shrine  has  sought  her 

That  will  last  her  little  day — • 
At  the  foot  of  Bowmont  Water, 

Bowmont  Watei* — far  away. 


THE  ROSE  OUT  OF  REACH 

A  EKD  rose  grew  on  a  southward  wall, 
There  was  never  a  rose  on  the  tree  so  tall ; 
Though  roses  twined  at  my  lingei'ing  feet 
Roses  and  roses,  scented  sweet, 
And  roses  bent  to  my  love-lit  eyes, 
Roses  flaming  in  wanton  guise, 
And  roses  swung  at  my  shoulder  height. 
Damask  and  crimson  and  golden  and  white, 
With  a  curse  for  all  and  a  frown  for  each 
I  longed  for  the  rose  beyond  my  reach. 

The  gold  sun  shone  in  the  summer  days, 
The  wee  buds  opened  a  hundred  ways  ; 
Winds  of  the  morning,  whispering  sweet, 
Tossed  the  blown  roses  down  at  my  feet. 
Dainty  petals  for  lover's  tread. 
Ruby  and  ivory — brown  and  dead  ! 

Q  257 


258  THE  ROSE  OUT  OF   REACH 

But  morning  to  nooning,  noon  to  night, 
One  rose  only  glowed  in  my  sight — 
Silently,  all  too  rapt  for  speech, 
I  worshipped  the  rose  beyond  my  reach. 

I  stormed  her  tower  on  the  southward  wall 
To  drop  fatigued  from  the  bastions  tall ; 
Thorns  made  sport  of  me,  red  as  the  rose 
A  hundred  wounds  ran  blood  at  their  blows  ; 
The  soft  little  roses  red  and  white 
Changed  to  the  bitterest  foes  in  spite. 
Scourged  my  face  with  their  stinging  wands, 
Mocked  my  toil  and  my  bleeding  hands 
Till  I  learned  at  last  what  they  strove  to  teach 
The  great  red  rose  was  beyond  my  reach. 

And  so  I  watched  in  the  autumn  days  : 

"  Summer  is  dead,"  so  I  mused  agaze  ; 

"  The  cold  mists  creep  when  the  night  is  nigh, 

Day  after  day  the  roses  die. 

Storms  of  winter  will  gather  soon, 

Frosts  will  follow  the  coming  moon — 

Here  if  I  wait  where  the  blooms  are  cast 

My  love  will  drop  to  my  arms  at  last  !"     . 

But  wild  winds  laden  with  death  for  each 

Blew  the  red  petals  beyond  my  reach. 


«  SORRY  TO  GO  ! " 

I  WATCHED  by  the  homestead  where  moon-beam  and 
star 
Made  a  glory  of  night-time  and  danced  with   the 
dew, 
And  the  bush  wind  that  whispered  from  ranges  afar 
Set  a-tremble  the  kurrajong  leaves  as  it  blew  : 
And  down  by  the  river, 
With  white  waves  aflow, 
I  bade  a  farewell  to  the  homestead  for  ever, 

And  sighed  to  the  night- world,  "  I'm  sorry  to  go," 

"  Sorry  to  go" — 
And  echo  came  answering,  "  Sorry  to  go  !  " 

I  saddled  old  Dauntless  at  grey  of  the  dawn 

For  a  last  swinging  gallop  on  Moondarra  plain  ; 
He   circled   and   plunged   till   the  girth-straps  wei'e 
drawn. 
And  snatched  at  the  snaffle   and  reached  at  the 
rein  ; 

Ql  269 


260  "SORRY  TO  GO!" 

And  swiftly  behind  us 
We  left  the  red  glow 
Of  the  sunrise  that  spread  her  pink  mantle  to  wind 
us, 
And  magpies  awaking  sang,  "  Sorry  to  go," 

"  Sorry  to  go  " — 
The   bush-birds    came    mocking    me,     "  Sorry    to 
go!" 

I  called  to  my  lover,  a  chain  from  her  gate  ; 

She  came  to  the  vine-tree  to  bid  me  good-bye, 
With  white  arms  to  weave  me  a  necklet  of  state 
And  red  lips  to  smother  the  sound  of  a  sigh  ; 
Oh,  kisses  rained  warmly  ! 
Oh,  tears  that  must  flow  ! 
To-morrow  the  sorrow    Avhere  head  and  white  arm 
lie, 
To-night  the  low  whisper — "  I'm  sorry  to  go," 

"  Sorry  to  go  " — 
Heart  to  heart  answering,  "  Sorry  to  go  ! ' 

I  held  for  a  moment  an  old  comrade's  hand 

Burnt  brown  with  the  sun-fire  and  roughened  and 
scarred  ; 

I  saw  at  the  touching  the  whips  and  the  brand, 
The  camp  and  the  muster,  the  steers  in  the  yard  ; 


"SORRY  TO  GO!  "  261 

And  since  I  have  clasped  them 
In  weal  and  in  woe, 
To    the    toil  of  the   world   that   has   roughened  and 
rasped  them 
I  leave  the  brown  hands  ;  crying  "  Sorry  to  go," 

*'  So7-rij  to  go  " — 
"Good-bye!"   and    "God -speed!"    and     .     .     . 
"  Sorry  to  go  !  " 


THE  LAND  OF  DUMB  DESPAIR 

Beyond  where  farthest  drought-fires  burn, 

By  hand  of  Fate  it  once  befell, 
I  reached  the  realm  of  No-Return 

That  meets  the  March  of  Hell. 

A  silence  crueller  than  Death 

Laid  fetters  on  the  fateful  air ; 
She  holds  no  hope  :  she  fights  for  breath. 

The  Land  of  Dumb  Despair  ! 

Here  fill  their  glasses,  red  as  blood. 
The  victims  of  fell  Fortune's  frown  ; 

They  drink  their  wine  as  brave  men  should 
And  fling  the  goblets  down. 

They  crowd  the  boai'd,  red  wreaths  of  rose 
Across  their  foreheads  drooped  and  curled. 

But  in  their  eyes  the  gloom  that  knows 
The  grief  of  all  the  world. 

2b2 


THE  LAND  OF  DUMB  DESPAIR  263 

The  poison  lies  behind  their  wine 

So  close,  the  trembling  hands  that  take 

Might  well  be  doubted  to  divine 

Which  draught  such  thirst  would  slake. 

The  bows  beside  their  hands  are  strung  ; 

The  blue  steel  glitters,  bare  of  sheath  ; 
'Tis  wonder  tired  Life  drags  among 

So  many  ways  to  Death  ! 

They  may  not  whisper,  one  to  one, 

The  stories  of  their  fancied  fall  : 
The  words  that  ring  beneath  the  sun 

Would  faint  in  such  a  pall. 

In  silence,  man  by  man,  they  reach 

For  cup,  for  arrow,  or  for  sword. 
And  still  the  grey  World  fills  the  breach 

Each  leaves  beside  the  board. 


L'ENVOI 
TO  THE  OVERLANDERS 

Take  this  farewell  from  one  must  leave 

The  rowel  and  the  rein 
Before  the  blue  Canoblas  weave 

Their  snow-white  hoods  again  ; 
Before  the  winter  suns  have  kissed 

The  lips  of  Autumn  dead, 
Before  they  call  the  next  year's  list 

At  Nocoleche  shed ; 
Before  the  pines  on  Lightning  Ridge 

Have  bowed  to  six  new  moons, 
Before  the  floods  to  Tarrion  Bridge 

Back  up  the  dry  lagoons. 
In  vain  the  luring  West-wind  sighs  — 

For  Home's  across  the  sea, 
And  Northward  round  the  Leu  win  lies 

The  next  long  trip  for  me  ! 


TO  THE  OVERLANDERS  266 

In  leisure  and  in  labour 

We've /aced  the  world  afield, 
With  saddle /or  a  sahre 

And  brave  heart  for  a  shield  ; 
We've /ought  the  long  dry  weather. 

We've  heard  the  wiM  floods  wake, 
We've  battled  through  together 

For  the  old  game's  royal  sake. 

We  have  heard  the  tug-chains  ring  in  the  swamps 

When  the  thundering  whipstrokes  fall ; 
We  have  watched  the  stars  on  the  droving  camps 

Come  out  by  the  gum-trees  tall ; 
We  have  lingered  long  by  the  low  slip-rails 

Where  maybe  a  light  love  waits, 
When  shadows  creep  and  the  red  sun  sails 

Low  down  by  the  stockyard  gates  ; 
We  have  stirred  perhaps  by  the  lone  watch-fires 

The  ashes  of  old  regret, 
The  loves  unwon  and  the  lost  desires, 

And  the  hopes  that  are  hard  to  forget. 

The  tracks  we've  travelled  over 

Were  hungry  tracks  and  hard  ; 
Long  days  v)e've  flayed  the  rover, 

Dark  nights  we've  kept  our  guard  ; 


266  TO  THE  OVERLANDERS 

But  chained  in  silver  glories 

The  Bush  our  hearts  has  stirred. 

And  told  the  starlight  stories 
That  no  one  else  has  heard. 

The  gray-white   dawns   will  wake  you  and  the  gold 

noons  watch  you  pass 
Behind  the    roving    Queensland    mobs    knee-deep   in 

Nebine  grass  ; 
You  will  cross  the  old   tracks  Nor'wai^d,  you  will  run 

the  old  roads  West, 
And    I   shall  follow    with    my    heart   dream-droving 

with  the  rest, 
And  often  in  the  sleepless  nights  I'll  listen,    as  I 

lie, 
To  the  hobble-chains  clink-clinking,   and  the  horse- 
bells  rippling  by. 
I  shall  hear  the  brave  hoofs  beating,  I  shall  see  the 

moving  steers 
And   the  red  glow  of  the   camp-fii'es   as  they  flame 

across  the  years. 
And  my  heart  will  fill  with  longing  just  to  ride  for 

once  again 
In  the  forefront  of  the  battle  where  the  men  who 

fight  are  Men  ; 


TO  THE  OVERLANDERS  267 

And  when  beyond  the  Ocean  we  are  pledging  toasts 

in  wine, 
I  shall  give  "  The  Overlanders  !  "  in  that  far-off  land 

of  mine. 

The  Brave  West !     Here's  totvard  her  ! 

The  "■plant's"  gone  out  before: 
Their  heads  are  to  the  Border 

B^it  I'll  go  out  no  more  ; 
We've  fought  the  long  dry  tceather  ; 

We've  faced  the  blinding  tvet ; 
And  we  were  mates  together 

And  I  shall  not  forget  ! 


Websdale,  Shoosmith  and  Co.,  Printers,  Sydney 


Xovemhe.r.  1906. 


SELECTED  LIST    OF    BOOKS 

PUBLISHED   BY 

Angus  &  Robertson 

PUBLISHERS     TO    THE     UNIVERSITY 

89  CA8TLEREAGH  STREET,  SYDNEY 


FAIR  GIRLS  AND  GRAY  HORSES, 
WITH  OTHER  VERSES. 

By  Will  H.  Ogilvie.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  gilt 
top,  with  portrait  ("Snowy  River"  Series), 
5s.  {post  free  5s.  5d.). 

The  Argus:  "There  is  a  faculty  for  rhythmical  versification 
display  eel  on  every  page,  a  true  and  sympathetic  eye  for  Nature 
in  her  many  garbs,  a  certain  careless  gaiety  of  touch  in  the 
lighter  poeins,  and  many  ballads  which  strike  a  simple  and 
genuine  note  of  feeling.  ...  In  lines  full  of  freshness  and 
vigour  Mr.  Ogilvie  seizes  upon  the  picturesque  aspects  of  bush 
life.  Passing  by  the  monotony  and  the  dreary  details,  he  sings 
of  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  camp  and  the  cattle  trail  in  a 
strain  which  inclines  his  readers  to  doubt  the  assertion  that 
melancholy  ever  brooded  over  the  Australian  Bush." 

New  Zealand  Mail  :  ' '  There  is  all  the  buoyancy,  the  lustiness 
of  youth,  the  joie-de-vivre  of  the  man  who  rejoices  in  the  fresh 
air 'and  the  fine,  free,  up-country  life — all  this  there  is  in  Mr. 
Ogihde's  verse,  and  much  more  that  is  eminently  sane  and 
healthy,  a  characteristic  production  of  a  wholesome  mind. ' ' 

Queenslander :  "Within  the  covers  of  'Fair  Girls  and  Gray 
Horses'  lie  some  delicious  morsels  to  tempt  all  palates.  There 
is  for  the  asking,  the  stirring  swing  and  rhythm  of  his  galloping 
rhymes,  the  jingle  of  bit  and  bridle,  the  creak  of  well-worn 
saddles,  the  scent  of  gum  and  wattle,  the  swift,  keen  rush  of 
the  bush  wind  in  the  face  of  '  The  Man  Who  Steadies  the  Lead. ' 
.  .  .  .  Picture  after  picture  starts  out  of  his  pages  to 
gladden  the  hearts  of  the  men  out  back." 

Glasgow  Daily  Mail:  "A  volume  which  deserves  a  hearty 
welcome  is  this  collection  of  Australian  verse.  ...  It  has 
a  spirit  and  lyrical  charm  that  make  it  very  enjoyaljle, ' ' 

I 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  GOLFER. 

By  D.  G.  SouTAR,  Amateur  Cliampion  of  Austra- 
lasia. 1903;  Amateur  Cliampion  of  New  South 
Wales,  1903-4;  Open  Champion  of  Austra- 
la'-ia,  1905.  AVith  Tti  plates  and  13  diagrams. 
Demy  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  gilt  top,  10s.  6d.  {post 
free'lls.  3d.). 

The  Australasian  :  ' '  He  has  spared  no  trouble  or  expense 
in  making  the  book  first-class.  There  are  nearly  70  pictures  of 
golfers  in  every  stage  of  making  the  various  shots.  This  is  one 
])oiut  in  which  Soutar's  book  excels  other  books.  They  usually 
give  the  positions  at  the  commencement  and  the  finish  of  the 
shots,  and  also  at  the  top  of  the  swing,  but  Soutar  traces  the 
shot  all  the  way  round.  He  also  gives  little  details  apt  to  be 
overlooked,  but  which  are  very  valuable. ' ' 

Sydney  Morning  Herald  :  ' '  Mr.  Soutar 's  book  will  be  highly 
appreciated  as  affording  a  sort  of  finishing  touch  to  practical 
instruction,  and  a  valuable  guide  to  the  subtleties  of  the  game 
as  practised  in  Australia.  And,  for  those  players  who  live  away 
from  centres  of  population,  and  who  are  without  the  aid  of 
professionals  or  players  who  have  learnt  from  professionals,  '  The 
Australian  Golfer'  should  be  indispensable." 

Extract  from  Preface:  "My  principal  difficulty  in  compil- 
ing this  treatise  has  been  in  deciding  what  to  leave  out,  for 
there  is  an  ever-present  danger  of  embarrassing  the  beginner 
with  too  much  detail,  and  I  feel  strongly  that  whatever  success 
may  have  attended  my  efforts  at  coaching  in  person,  has  been 
largely  due  to  the  fact  that  I  have  always  tried  to  avoid  an 
insistence  upon  minor  details  at  first.  But,  in  dealing  with  the 
game  on  paper,  one  has  to  avoid  the  other  danger  of  leaving  out 
important  details — or,  rather,  details  which  become  important 
when  tho  pupil  has  reached  a  certain  stage  in  his  golfing  educa- 
tion. For  this  reason  I  have  given  considerable  care  to  the 
preparation  of  a  set  of  diagrams  showing  exactly  how  one 
ought  to  stand,  and  hold  the  club  for  each  separate  shot,  and 
these,  in  conjunction  with  the  photographs — which  were  taken 
especially  for  this  book — should  enable  the  student,  not  only  to 
lay  the  foundation  of  a  correct  style  and  swing,  Vjut  to  correct 
any  faults  he  may  have  already  developed  in  this  direction.  The 
value  of  the  diagrams,  as  compared  with  all  others  which  have 
come  under  my  notice,  lies  in  the  fact  that  they  give  the  angle 
at  which  the  club  is  held  in  each  instance,  as  well  as  the  position 
of  the  feet,  and  this  is  an  imjiortant  detail,  for  it  is  quite 
possible  to  neutralise  the  effect  of  correctness  in  the  latter 
respect  by  stooping  too  much  over  the  ball,  or  the  reverse. ' ' 

2 


AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF    AUSTRALIAN  VERSE. 

Edited  by  Bertram  Stevens.  Foolscap  8vo., 
limp  calf,  extra  gilt,  gilt  top,  with  silk 
marker,  3s.  6d. ;  cloth  gilt,  2s.  6d.  {postage 
3d.). 

This  volume  contains  the  best  verse  written  by  Australians, 
or  inspired  by  Australian  scenery  and  conditions  of  life.  The 
Editor  has  explored  every  available  source,  exercising  at  the 
same  time  great  discrimination. 


Mr.  Will  H.  Ogilvie,  in  the  course  of  an  interesting  letter, 
says: — "Congratulations  are  due  to  your  Editor  for  his  selec- 
tion. ...  At  last  we  shall  get  away  from  the  'humorously 
absurd'  attitude;  at  last  we  shall  get  something  of  the  true 
spirit  of  Australian  poetry." 

Sydney  Morning  Herald  :  ' '  There  is  evidence  in  the  selec- 
tions and  in  the  introduction  that  he  has  made  a  diligent  and 
careful  study  of  the  whole  field  of  Australian  poetry.  We  have 
only  to  thank  both  editor  and  publishers  for  a  beautiful  little 
book  full  of  beautiful  things." 

The  Argus  :  "  It  represents  an  achievement  to  which  the  most 
patriotic  Australian  may  point  with  legitimate  pride." 

The  Age  :  ' '  He  deserves  to  be  sincerely  complimented  for  the 
admirable  fashion  in  which  he  has  brought  what  must  have  been 
an  arduous  task  to  fruition. ' ' 

Brisbane  Courier:  "One  of  the  most  charming  things  of  the 
kind  ever  given  to  Australia. ' ' 

The  Kegister  (Adelaide):  "This  precious  parcel  of  Austra- 
lian song. ' ' 

The  Australasian:  "A  delightful  pocket  companion." 

Town  and  Country  Journal:  "A  charming  little  volume  to 
read  and  to  handle." 

The  Leader:  "The  work  of  selection  has  been  well  done,  and 
the  editor  may  be  complimented  on  the  discretion  and  critical 
taste  he  has  displayed. ' ' 

Launceston  Examiner  :  '  *  The  book  is  one  that  should  be  in 
the  library  of  every  Australian. ' ' 

London:  Macmillan  and  Co.,  Ltd. 


AN  OUTBACK   MARRIAGE  :    a  story  of  Australian  Life. 

By  A.  B.  Paterson,  author  of  "The  Man  from 

Sno^\^    River,"    and    "Rio    Grande's  Last 

Race."    Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  {post 
free  4s.). 

"Rolf  Boldrewood,"  on  reading  this  story  in  serial  form, 
wrote: — "The  dialect  is  simply  delicious,  and  the  general  de- 
scriptions of  outback  life  most  original  and  effective." 

[Just  published. 

DOT  AND  THE  KANGAROO. 

By  Ethel  C.  Pedley.  With  6  plates  by  F.  P. 
Mahony.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth,  extra  gilt,  3s.  6d. 
{post  free  3s.  lid.). 

Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "  'Dot  and  the  Kangaroo'  is  with- 
out doubt  one  of  the  most  charming  books  that  could  be  put  into 
the  hands  of  a  child.  It  is  admirably  illustrated  by  Frank  P. 
Mahony,  who  seems  to  have  entered  thoroughly  into  the  spirit 
of  this  beautiful  journey  into  the  animal  world  of  Australia. 
The  story  is  altogether  Australian.  .  .  .  It  is  told  so  simply, 
and  yet  so  artistically,  that  even  the  '  grown-ups '  amongst  us 
must  enjoy  it. ' ' 

Daily  Telegraph  :  ' '  The  late  Miss  Ethel  Pedley  was  a 
musician  to  the  core.  But  towards  the  close  of  her  life  she 
made  one  step  aside  into  the  domain  of  a  sister  art,  which  re- 
sulted in  a  book  for  children,  entitled  'Dot  and  the  Kangaroo' — 
a  charming  story  of  the  '  Alice  in  Wonderland '  order.  .  .  . 
Dot,  the  small  heroine,  is  lost  in  the  bush,  where  she  is  fed  and 
ministered  to  by  a  helpful  kangaroo,  who  introduces  her  gradu- 
ally to  quite  a  little  circle  of  acquaintances.  We  hob-nob, 
through  Dot,  with  our  old  friends  the  opossum,  the  native  bear, 
the  platypus,  the  bower-bird,  not  to  speak  of  the  emu  sheep- 
hunters  and  the  cockatoo  judge.  There  is  a  most  exciting  fight 
between  a  valiant  kookooburra  and  a  treacherous  snake.  Alto- 
gether, Miss  Pedley 's  story  is  told  in  a  way  to  entrance  our 
small  readers,  who  generally  revel  in  tales  where  animals  are 
invested  with  human  attributes. ' ' 


THE  SECRET  KEY,  AND  OTHER  VERSES 

By  George  Essex  Evans.  CroT\Ti  8vo.,  cloth  gilt, 
gilt  top,  with  portrait  ("Snowy  River" 
Series),  5s.  {post  free  5s.  6d.) 

[Just  puhlished. 


THE  MAN  FROM  SNOWY  RIVER, 
AND  OTHER  VERSES. 

By  A.  B.  Paterson.  Thirty-fifth  thousand. 
With  photogravure  portrait  and  vignette 
title.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  gilt  top,  5s. 
(post  free  os.  5d.). 

The  Literary  Tear  Book:  "The  immediate  success  of  this 
book  of  bush  ballads  is  without  parallel  in  Colonial  literary 
annals,  nor  can  any  living  English  or  American  poet  boast  so 
wide  a  public,  always  excepting  Mr.  Eudyard  Kipling." 

Spectator:  "These  lines  have  the  true  lyrical  ciy  in  them. 
Eloquent  and  ardent  verses. ' ' 

ATHEy^EUM :  "Swinging,  rattling  ballads  of  ready  humour, 
ready  pathos,  and  crowding  adventure.  .  .  .  Stirring  and 
entertaining  ballads  about  great  rides,  in  which  the  lines  gallop 
like  the  very  hoofs  of  the  horses. ' ' 

The  Times:  "At  his  best  he  compares  not  unfavourably  with 
the  author  of  'Barrack-Eoom  Ballads.'  " 

Mr.  A.  Patchett  Martin,  in  Literature  (London):  "In 
my  opinion,  it  is  the  absolutely  un-English,  thoroughly  Aus- 
tralian style  and  character  of  these  new  bush  bards  which  has 
given  them  such  immediate  popularity,  such  wide  vogue,  among 
all  classes  of  the  rising  native  generation. ' ' 

Westmixster  Gazette:  "Australia  has  produced  in  Mr.  A. 
B.  Paterson  a  national  poet  whose  bush  ballads  are  as  distinc- 
tively characteristic  of  the  country  as  Burns 's  poetry  is  charac- 
teristic of  Scotland. ' ' 

The  Scotsman:  "A  book  like  this  ...  is  worth  a  dozen 
of  the  aspiring,  idealistic  sort,  since  it  has  a  deal  of  rough 
laughter  and  a  dash  of  real  tears  in  its  composition. ' ' 

Glasgow^  Herald  :  ' '  These  ballads  .  .  .  are  full  of  such 
go  that  the  mere  reading  of  them  makes  the  blood  tingle.  .  .  . 
But  there  are  other  things  in  Mr.  Paterson  's  book  besides  mere 
racing  and  chasing,  and  each  piece  bears  the  mark  of  special 
local  knowledge,  feeling,  and  colour.  The  poet  has  also  a  note 
of  pathos,  which  is  always  wholesome. ' ' 

Literar?  World:  "He  gallops  along  with  a  by  no  means 
doubtful  music,  shouting  his  vigorous  songs  as  he  rides  in  pur- 
suit of  wild  bush  horses,  constraining  us  to  listen  and  ai)plaud 
by  dint  of  his  manly  tones  and  capital  subjects.  .  ,  .  We 
turn  to  Mr.  Paterson 's  roaring  muse  with  instantaneous  grati- 
tude. ' ' 

London:  MacmUlan  and  Co.,  Limited. 


RIO  GRANDE'S  LAST  RACE,  AND  OTHER  VERSES. 

By  A.  B.  Paterson.      Fifth  thousand.      Crown 
8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  gilt  top,  5s.  {post  free  5s.  5d.). 

Spkctator  :  ' '  There  is  no  mistaking  the  vigour  of  Mr.  Pater- 
son 's  verse ;  there  is  no  difficulty  in  feeling  the  strong  human 
interest  which  moves  in  it. ' ' 

Daily  Mail:  "Every  way  worthy  of  the  man  who  ranks  with 
the  first  of  Australian  poets. ' ' 

Scotsman:  "At  once  naturalistic  and  imaginative,  and  racy 
without  being  slangy,  the  poems  have  always  a  strong  human 
interest  of  every-da_y  life  to  keep  them  going.  They  make  a 
book  which  should  give  an  equal  pleasure  to  simple  and  to 
fastidious  readers. ' ' 

Bookman:  "Now  and  again  a  deeper  theme,  like  an  echo 
from  the  older,  more  experienced  land,  leads  him  to  more  serious 
singing,  and  proves  that  real  poetry  is,  after  all,  universal.  It 
is  a  hearty  book. ' ' 

Daily  Chronicle  :  ' '  Mr.  Paterson  has  powerful  and  varied 
sympathies,  coupled  with  a  genuine  lyrical  impulse,  and  some 
skill,  which  makes  his  attempts  always  attractive  and  usually 
successful. ' ' 

Glasgow  Herald:  "These  are  all  entertaining,  their  rough 
and  ready  wit  and  virility  of  expression  making  them  highly 
acceptable,  while  the  dash  of  satire  gives  point  to  the  humour." 

British  Australasian:  "He  catches  the  bush  in  its  most 
joyous  moments,  and  writes  of  it  with  the  simple  charm  of  an 
unaffected  lover." 

The  Times:  "Will  be  welcome  to  that  too  select  class  at 
home  who  follow  the  Australian  endeavour  to  utter  a  fresh  and 
genuine  poetic  voice." 

Manchester  Courier:  "Mr.  Paterson  now  proves  beyond 
question  that  Australia  has  produced  at  least  one  singer  who 
can  voice  in  truest  poetry  the  aspirations  and  experiences 
peculiar  to  the  Commonwealth,  and  who  is  to  be  ranked  with  the 
foremost  living  poets  of  the  motherland. ' ' 

St.  James  's  Gazette  :  ' '  Fine,  swinging,  stirring  stuff,  that 
sings  as  it  goes  along.  The  subjects  are  capital,  and  some  of 
the  refrains  haunt  one.  There  is  always  room  for  a  Iwok  of 
unpretentious,  vigorous  verse  of  this  sort." 

The  Argus:  "These  ballads  make  bright  and  easy  reading; 
one  takes  up  the  book,  and,  delighted  at  the  rhythm,  turns  page 
after  page,  finding  entertainment  upon  each. ' ' 

London:  Macmillan  and  Co.,  Limited. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF 
BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

New  edition,  with  pliotogra\^ire  portrait.     Crown 
8vo.,  clotli  gilt,  gilt  top,  5s.  (post  free  5s.  5d.). 
See  also  CommoniveaJth  Series,  page  14. 

The  Times  :  ' '  This  collection  of  the  works  of  the  Queensland 
poet,  who  has  for  a  generation  deservedly  held  a  high  place  in 
Australian  literature,  well  deserves  study. ' ' 

Daily  News :  "In  turning  over  the  pages  of  this  volume, 
one  is  struck  by  his  breadth,  his  versatility,  his  compass,  as 
evidenced  in  theme,  sentiment,  and  style. ' ' 

The  Athen jeum  :  ' '  Brunton  Stephens,  .  .  .  well  known 
to  all  those  who  are  curious  in  Australian  literature,  as  being, 
on  the  whole,  the  best  of  Australian  poets." 

St.  James  '  Gazette  :  ' '  This  substantial  volume  of  verse  con- 
tains a  great  deal  that  is  very  fresh  and  pleasing,  whether  grave 
or  gay." 

Manchester  Guardian  :  ' '  He  shows  a  capacity  for  forceful 
and  rhetorical  verse,  which  makes  a  fit  vehicle  for  Imperial 
themes. ' ' 

Speaker:  "We  gladly  recognise  the  merit  of  much  that 
appears  in  '  The  Poetical  Works  of  Mr.  Brunton  Stephens. ' 
.  .  .  .  In  the  more  ambitious  pieces  (and  in  these  the  author 
is  most  successful)  he  models  himself  on  good  masters,  and  his 
strains  have  power  and  dignity." 

Publishers'  Circular:  "Having  greatly  enjoyed  many  of 
the  poems  in  the  handsome  edition  of  Mr.  Brunton  Stephens' 
works,  we  strongly  advise  such  readers  of  poetry  in  the  old 
country  as  are  unacquainted  -n-ith  his  contributions  to  English 
literature  to  procure  the  volume  as  soon  as  possible." 


A  BUSH  GIRL'S  SONGS. 

By   'Rena  Wallace.       With  portrait.       Crown 
8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  gilt  top,  5s.  {post  free  3s.  4d.). 

Daily  Telegraph:  "There  is  passion  as  well  as  melody  in 
'A  Bush  Girl's  Songs';  and  there  is  thought  also — real  thought, 
that  underlies  the  music  of  the  verse,  and  gives  the  writer  some- 
thing definite  to  comnnmieate  to  her  readers  on  the  great 
universal  subjects  that  arc  the  province  of  true  poetry,  as 
distinct  from  mere  verse.  One  cannot  help  remarking  with 
pleasure  the  prevailing  note  of  hopefulness,  a  sunshiny  charm, 
that  is  felt  throughout  all  this  fresh  young  writer's  work." 


HOW  HE  DIED,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

By  John  Farrell.  "With  Memoir,  Appreciations, 
and  photopravure  portrait.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  gilt  top,  5s.  {j^ost  free  5s.  4d.). 

Melbourne  Age:  "Farrell's  contributions  to  the  literatnre 
of  this  country  were  always  distinguished  by  a  fine,  stirring 
optimism,  a  genuine  sympathy,  and  an  idealistic  sentiment, 
which  in  the  book  under  notice  find  their  fullest  expression." 

New  Zealand  Mail:  "Of  the  part  of  Mr.  Farrell's  work  con- 
tained in  this  volume  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  more  than  that 
it  has  long  since  received  sincere  commendation,  not  only  from 
other  Australian  writers,  but  from  men  eminent  in  letters  in 
England  and  America. ' ' 

The  World  's  News  :  "  It  is  a  volume  which  no  Australian 
reader  can  afford  to  be  without.  John  Farrell  was  a  \-igorous 
writer,  one,  too,  in  whom  the  poetic  spirit  was  very  strong,  and 
he  had  the  gift  of  expressing  himself  in  terse  language.  Had 
he  written  nothing  else  than  'Australia  to  England,'  his  name 
would  live  for  all  time. ' ' 


PARSIFAL  :    A  Romantic  "  Mystery"  Drama. 

By  T.  HiLHOUSE  Taylor.  With  Preface  by  J. 
C.  Williamson.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d. 
{post  free  3s.  9d.). 

Extract  from  Preface  :  " .  .  .  .  1  thought  that  in 
capable  hands  a  play  could  be  written  worthy  of  the  grandeur 
of  the  subject  and  its  magnificent  scenic  surroundings. 
I  sought  out  my  old  friend,  the  Eev.  T.  H.  Taylor,  for  whose 
literary  ability  I  have  great  admiration,  and  endeavoured  to 
interest  him  in  this  subject.  He  took  the  matter  up  with 
enthusiastic  zeal  and  religious  fervour,  making  a  deep  study  of 
the  subject,  and  not  confining  himself  in  any  way  to  Wagner's 
opera  for  the  material;  the  result  being  a  play  which  seems  to 
me  to  be  tnily  poetic  and  intensely  dramatic. ' ' 

Daily  Telegraph:  "The  author  has  produced  a  drama  which 
not  only  contains  many  passages  of  poetic  beauty,  but  provides 
ample  scope  for  the  great  spectacular  scenes  that  are  necessary 
(o  the  effective  staging  of  this  form  of  drama." 

Town  and  Country  Journal  :  * '  Mr.  Taylor  has  performed 
his  diflScult  task  in  a  scholarly,  sympathetic,  and  conscientious 
manner. ' ' 

8 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  WIDE, 
AND  OTHER  VERSES. 

By  Henry  Lawson.  With  photogravure  por- 
trait and  vignette  title.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth 
gilt,  gilt  top,  5s.  {post  free  5s.  5d.). 

The  Academy:  "These  ballads  (for  such  they  mostly  are) 
abound  in  spirit  and  manhood,  in  the  colour  and  smell  of  Aus- 
tralian so.il.  They  deserve  the  popularity  -n-hich  they  have  won 
in  Australia,  and  which,  we  trust,  this  edition  will  now  give  them 
in  England. ' ' 

The  Speaker:  "There  are  poems  in  'In  the  Days  When  the 
"World  was  Wide'  which  are  of  a  higher  mood  that  any  yet 
heard  in  distinctively  Australian  poetrj-. " 

Literary  World:  "Not  a  few  of  the  pieces  have  made  us 
feel  discontented  with  our  sober  surroundings,  and  desirous  of 
seeing  new  birds,  now  landscapes,  new  stars;  for  at  times  the 
blood  tingles  because  of  Mr.  Lawson 's  galloping  rhymes." 
-  Newcastle  Weekly  Chronicle:  "Swinging,  rhythmic 
verse. ' ' 

Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "The  verses  have  natural  vigour, 
the  writer  has  a  rough,  true  faculty  of  characterisation,  and 
the  book  is  racy  of  the  soil  from  cover  to  cover.  .  .  .  The 
wTiter  of  these'  lines  looks  at  things  as  they  are.  He  pictures 
the  country  in  drought  and  rain,  the  life  of  the  bush,  the  types 
that  are  bred  there,  the  words  they  say,  and  the  thoughts  they 
think.  The  highest  praise  that  can  be  given  these  pictures  is 
to  recognise  their  fidelity. ' ' 

Ne-\v  Zealand  Mail:  "This  is  emphatically  a  book  to  buy, 
to  read,  and  to  re-read  with  ever-recurring  pleasure. ' ' 

Sydney  Bulletin:  "How  graphic  he  is,  how  natural,  how 
true,  how  strong. ' ' 


WINSLOW  PLAIN. 

By  Sarah  P.  McL.  Greene,  author  of  "Flood- 
Tide,"  "Vesty  of  the  Basins,"  &c.  Crown 
8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  with  portrait,  3s.  6d.  {post 
free  4s.). 

Daily  Telegraph:  "It  is  brimful  of  actuality  set  with  deli- 
cate embroidery  of  imagination  and  of  humour.  It  is  perNraded 
y>y  boys  prankish,  irresistible,  genuine." 

The  Age:  "The  studies  of  New  England  life  and  character 
presented  to  us  in  'Winslow  Plain'  are  fresh,  vigorous,  and 
original. ' ' 

9 


WHEN  I  WAS  KING,  AND  OTHER  VERSES. 

By  Henry  Lawson.   Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d. 
(post  free  4s.). 

Also  in  two  imrts,  entitled  "When  I  Was  King,"  and  "The 
Elder  Son."     See  page  14. 

Spectator  (London)  :  "A  good  deal  of  humour,  a  great  deal 
of  spirit,  and  a  robust  philosophy  are  the  main  characteristics 
of  these  Australian  poets.  Because  they  write  of  a  world  they 
know,  and  of  feelings  they  have  themselves  shared  in,  they  are 
far  nearer  the  heart  of  poetry  than  the  most  accomplished  de- 
votees of  a  literary  tradition. ' ' 

Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "He  is  known  wherever  the 
English  language  is  spoken;  he  is  the  very  god  of  the  idolatry 
of  Australian  buslimen ;  ...  he  has  written  more  and  is 
better  known  than  any  other  Australian  of  his  age.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  musical  lilt  about  his  verses  which  makes  these  dwell 
in  the  memory,  and  there  is  in  them  also  a  revelation  of  truth 
and  strength.  .  .  .  'When  I  was  King'  contains  work  of 
which  many  a  craftsman  in  words  might  well  be  proud  .  .  . 
lines  that  Walt  Whitman — ^a  master  of  rhythm  when  he  liked, 
and  a  worshipper  of  it  always — would  have  been  proud  to  claim 
as  his  own. ' ' 

Brisbane  Daily  Mail:  "The  present  volume  is  new  and  yet 
old — there  is  the  same  vigorous  speech,  ringing  phrase,  swinging 
rhythm,  and  big  human  heart  pulsing  through  these  poems  as 
in  his  other  works.  There  is,  too,  a  freshness,  a  dramatic 
power,  and  an  intensity  of  expression  which  shows  Mr.  Lawson 
at  his  best. ' ' 

Daily  Telegraph:  "Not  only  is  this  fine,  rousing  invocation 
and  good  poetry;  not  only  does  it  display  Mr.  Lawson  on  the 
slogan-note  he  raises  so  clearly  and  holds  so  well;  it  renders  no 
more  than  due  credit  to  the  indomitable  people  of  rural  Aus- 
tralia, whose  lot  .  .  .  exhales  the  hope  and  trust  in  country 
without  which  there  is  no  real  patriotism. ' ' 

Brisbane  Observer:  "Henry  Lawson  is  among  the  few  quot- 
able Australian  writers  of  verse.  There  is  about  his  work  a 
[)icturcsqueness  and  a  flavour  so  typically  Australian  as  to  make 
it  easily  understood  and  specially  acceptable." 


VESTY  OF  THE  BASINS. 

By  Sarah  P.  McL.  Greene,  author  of  "Winslow 
Plain,"  "Flood-Tide,"  &c.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  {post  free  4s.). 


10 


VERSES,  POPULAR  AND  HUMOROUS. 

By    Henry   Lawson.       Crown    8vo.,    cloth   gilt, 

3s.  6d.  (post  free  4s.). 
For  cheaper  edition  see  Commomvealth  Series,  page  Id. 

Francis  Thompson,  in  The  Daily  Chronicle:  "He  is  a 
writer  of  strong  and  ringing  ballad  verse,  who  gets  his  blows 
straight  in,  and  at  his  best  makes  them  all  tell.  He  can  vignette 
the  life  he  knows  in  a  few  touches,  and  in  this  book  shows  an 
increased  power  of  selection." 

New  York  Evening  Journal:  "Such  pride  as  a  man  feels 
when  he  has  true  greatness  as  his  guest,  this  newspaper  feels 
in  introducing  to  a  million  readers  a  man  of  ability  hitherto 
unknown  to  them.     Henry  Lawson  is  his  name. ' ' 

Academy  :  ' '  Mr.  Lawson 's  work  should  be  well  known  to  our 
readers,  for  we  have  urged  them  often  enough  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  it.  He  has  the  gift  of  movement,  and  he  rarely  offers 
a  loose  rhyme.  Technically,  short  of  anxious  lapidary  work, 
these  verses  are  excellent.  He  varies  sentiment  and  humour  very 
agreeably. ' ' 

The  Book  Lover:  "Any  book  of  Lawson 's  should  be  bought 
and  treasured  by  all  who  care  for  the  real  beginnings  of  Aus- 
tralian literature.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  the  one  Australian 
literary  product,  in  any  distinctive  sense. ' ' 

The  Bulletin:  "He  is  so  very  human  that  one's  humanity 
cannot  but  welcome  him.  ...  To  the  perpetuation  of  his 
value  and  fame,  many  pieces  in  *  Verses :  Popular  and  Humorous ' 
will  contribute. 


JOE  WILSON  AND  HIS  MATES. 

By    Henry    Lawson.       Crown    8vo.,    cloth   gilt, 

3s.  6d.  (post  free  4s.). 
For  cheaper  edition  see  Commonwealth  Series,  page  14. 

The  Athex^um  (London):  "This  is  a  long  way  the  best 
work  Mr.  Lawson  has  yet  given  us.  These  stories  are  so  good 
that  (from  the  literary  point  of  view,  of  course)  one  hopes 
they  are  not  autobiographical.  As  autobiography  they  would 
be  good;  as  pure  fiction  they  are  more  of  an  attainment." 

The  Academy  :  "  It  is  this  rare  convincing  tone  of  this 
Australian  writer  that  gives  him  a  great  value.  The  most 
casual  'newspapery'  and  apparently  artless  art  of  this  Aus- 
tralian writer  carries  with  it  a  truer,  finer,  more  delicate  com- 
mentary on  life  than  all  the  idealistic  works  of  any  of  our 
genteel  school  of  writers." 

11 


WHILE  THE  BILLY  BOILS. 

By  Henry  Lawson.  With  eight  illustrations  and 
vignette  title,  by  F.  P.  Mahony.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  {post  free  4s.). 

For  cheaper  edition  see  Commonwealth  Series,  page  Id. 

The  Academy:  "A  book  of  houest,  direct,  .sympa/thetic, 
humorous  Avriting  about  Australia  from  within  is  worth  a  librarj' 
of  travellers'  tales.  .  .  .  The  result  is  a  real  book — a  book 
in  a  hundred.  His  language  is  terse,  supple,  and  richly 
idiomatic.     He  can  tell  a  yarn  with  the  best." 

The  Scotsman:  "There  is  no  lack  of  dramatic  imagination 
in  the  construction  of  the  tales;  and  the  best  of  them  contrive 
to  construct  a  strong  sensational  situation  in  a  couple  of  pages. 
But  the  chief  charm  and  value  of  the  book  is  its  fidelity  to  the 
rough  character  of  the  scenes  from  which  it  is  drawn. ' ' 

Literature:  "A  book  which  Mrs.  Campbell  Praed  assured 
me  made  her  feel  that  all  she  had  written  of  bush  life  was  pale 
and  ineffective. ' ' 

The  Spectator:  "It  is  strange  that  one  we  would  venture 
to  call  the  greatest  Australian  writer  should  be  practically  un- 
known in  England.  Mr.  Lawson  is  a  less  experienced  writer 
than  Mr.  Kipling,  and  more  unequal,  but  there  are  two  or  three 
sketches  in  this  volume  which  for  vigour  and  truth  can  hold 
their  own  with  even  so  great  a  rival.  Both  men  have  somehow 
gained  that  power  of  concentration  which  by  a  few  strong  strokes 
can  set  place  and  people  before  you  with  amazing  force." 

The  Times:  "A  collection  of  short  and  vigorous  studies  and 
stories  of  Australian  life  and  character.  A  little  in  Bret  Harte  's 
manner,  crossed,  perhaps,  with  that  of  Guy  de  Maupassant. ' ' 

British  Weekly:  "Many  of  Mr.  Lawson 's  tales  photograph 
life  at  the  diggings  or  in  the  bush  with  an  incisive  and  remorse- 
less reality  that  grips  the  imagination.  He  silhouettes  a  swag- 
man  in  a  couple  of  pages,  and  the  man  is  there,  alive." 


FLOOD  TIDE. 

By  Sarah  P.  McL.  Greene,  author  of  ''Vesty  of 
the  Basins,"  "Winslow  Plain,"  &e.  Cloth 
gilt,  3s.  6d.  {'post  free  is.). 

The  Times  (Minneapolis):  "For  gentle  humour  that  steals 
away  all  the  cares  and  worries  of  living,  I  can  commend  this 
book. ' ' 

12 


ON  THE  TRACK  AND  OVER  THE  SLIPRAILS. 

By    Henry    Lawson.       Crown    8vo.,    cloth    gilt, 

3s.  6d.  {post  free  is.). 
For  cheaper  edition  see  CommonweaWi  Scries,  page  14. 

Daily  Chronicle:  "Will  well  sustain  the  reputation  its 
author  has  already  won  as  the  best  writer  of  Australian  short 
stories  and  sketches  the  literary  world  knows." 

Pall  Mall  Gazette:  "The  volume  now  received  will  do 
much  to  enhance  the  author's  reputation.  There  is  all  the 
quiet  irresistible  humour  of  Dickens  in  the  description  of  'The 
Darling  River,'  and  the  creator  of  'Truthful  James'  never  did 
anything  better  in  the  way  of  character  sketches  than  Steelmau 
and  Mitchell. ' ' 

Glasgow  Herald  :   ' '  ^Ir.  Lawson  must  now  be  regarded  as 

facile  princeps  in  the  production  of  the  short  tale.       Some  of 

these   brief   and   even   slight   sketches   are   veritable   gems   that 

would  be  spoiled  by  an  added  word,  and  without  a  word  that 

-can  be  looked  i;pon  as  superfluous." 

Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "It  is  not  too  much  to  say  for 
these  sketches  that  they  show  an  acquaintance  with  bush  life 
and  an  insight  into  the  class  of  people  which  is  to  be  met  with 
in  this  life  that  are  hardly  equalled  in  Australia.  ...  In  a 
few  words  he  can  paint  for  you  the  landscape  of  his  pictures 
or  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  bushman  's  soul. ' ' 

Melbourne  Punch:  "Often  the  little  stories  are  wedges  cut 
clean  out  of  life,  and  presented  with  artistic  truth  and  vivid 
colour. ' ' 


THE  WORKS  OF  HENRY  LAWSON 

Three  volumes  of  verse  and  three  of  prose  sketches, 
all  uniformly  bound  in  green  cloth,  with  gilt 
titles,  enclosed  in  a  handsome  cloth-covered 
case  of  same  colour,  with  hinged  lid.  25s.  per 
set. 

Contents. 

Verse  :  In  the  Days  when  the  World  was  Wide. 
When  I  was  King,  and  other  Veraes. 
Vei"ses,  Popular  and  Humorous. 

Prose  :  W^hile  the  Billy  Boils. 

On  the  Track  and  Over  the  Sliprails. 
Joe  Wilson  and  His  Mates, 

13 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  SERIES. 

Crown  8vo.,  picture  cover,  Is.  each  (postage  3d.). 

The  Old  Bush  Songs.  Edited  hy  A.  B.  Paterson 

When  I  was  King  :  New  Verses.  By  Henry  Lawson 

The  Elder  Son:  New  Verses.  By  Henry  Lawson 

Joe  Wilson  :  Stories.  By  Henry  Lawson 

Joe  Wilson's  Mates:  Stories.  By  Henry  Lawson 

On  the  Track  :  Stories.  By  Henry  Lawson 

Over  the  Sliprails  :  Stories.  By  Henry  Lawson 

Popular  Verses.  By  Henry  Lawson 

Humorous  Verses.  By  Henry  Lawson 

While  the  Billy  Boils:  Stories. — First  Series. 

By  Henry  Lawson 

While  the  Billy  Boils  :  Stories. — Second  Series 

By  Henry  Lawson 
My  Chinee  Cook,  and  other  Humorous  Verses. 

By  Brunt  on  Stephens 

History  of  Australasia:  From  the  Earliest  Times 
TO  THE  Inauguration  of  the  Commonwealth. 

By  A.  W.  Jose 
History  of  Australian  Bushranging. 

By  CJwrles  White 

Part  I.— The  Early  Days. 
Part  II.— 1850  to  1862. 
Part  III.— 1863  to  1869. 
Part  IV.— 1869  to  1878. 

*^*  Far  press  notices  of  these  boolxis  see  the  cloth-hound  editions 
on  pages  7,  10,  11,  12,  13,  15,  16,  and  23  oj  this  catalogue, 

14 


THE  OLD  BUSH  SONGS. 

Collected  and  edited  by  A.  B.  Paterson,  author 
of  "The  Man  from  Snowy  River,"  "Rio 
Grande's  Last  Race,"  &c.  Fifth  thousand. 
CrowTi  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  2s.  6d.  {post  free 
2s.  9d.). 
For  cheaper  edition  see  Commonwealth  Series,  page  14. 

Daily  Telegraph:  "Eude  and  rugged  these  old  bush  songs 
are,  but  they  carry  in  their  vigorous  lines  the  very  impress  of 
their  origin  and  of  their  genuineness.  .  .  .  Mr.  Paterson 
has  done  his  work  like  an  artist. ' ' 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BUSH  FIRE  : 

Australian  Fairy  Tales. 

By  J.  M.  Whitpeld.  Second  thousand.  With  32 
illustrations  by  G.  W.  Lambert.  Cro^^^l  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  2s.  6d.  {post  free  3s.). 

Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "It  is  frankly  written  for  the 
young  folks,  and  the  youngster  will  find  a  delight  in  Miss  Whit- 
f eld's  marvellous  company." 

Daily  Telegraph  :  "  It  is  pleasant  to  see  author  and  artist 
working  together  in  such  complete  harmony.  "We  have  had  so- 
called  'Australian'  fairy  tales  before,  but  the  sprites  and  gnomes 
and  mermaids  have  been  merely  stray  visitors  from  English 
shores,  old  acquaintances  of  an  old-world  childhood,  dressed  to 
suit  alien  surroundings.  Miss  Whitf eld's  fairies  are  native  to 
the  soil. ' ' 


THE  MAKING  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 

AND  OTHER  PAPERS. 

By  Henry  Gullett,  President  of  the  Shakespeare 
Society  of  New  South  AVales.  Demy  8vo., 
2s.  6d.  {post  free  2s.  8d.). 


COMMERCIAL  EDUCATION  IN  EUROPE. 

By  E.  R.  Holme,  B.A.,  Lecturer  in  English. 
Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  2s.  6d.  {post  free 
2s.  9d.). 

15 


THE  ANNOTATED  CONSTITUTION  OF  THE 
AUSTRALIAN  COMMONWEALTH. 

By  Sir  John  Quick  and  R.  R.  Garran,  C.M.G. 
Royal  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  21s. 

The  Times:  "The  Annotated  Constitution  of  the  Australian 
Commonwealth  is  a  monument  of  inrliistry.  .  .  .  Dr.  Quick 
and  Mr.  Garran  have  collected  with  patience  and  enthusiasm 
every  sort  of  information,  legal  and  historical,  which  can  throw 
light  on  the  new  measure.  The  book  has  evidently  been  a  labour 
of  love. ' ' 

The  Scotsman:  "Students  of  constitutional  law  owe  a 
welcome,  and  that  in  a  scarcely  less  degree  than  lavryers  do  who 
are  likely  to  have  to  interpret  the  laws  of  the  Australian  Consti- 
tution, to   this  learned   and   exhaustive   commentary 

The  book  is  an  admirable  working  text-book  of  the  Constitu- 
tion. ' ' 

Daily  Chronicle:  "Here  is  the  new  Constitution  set  out  and 
explained,  word  by  word — how  each  phrase  was  formulated,  where 
they  all  came  from,  why  they  were  put  in,  the  probable  diffi- 
culties of  interpreting  or  administering  each  clause,  with  such 
help  as  can  be  given  by  considering  similar  difficulties  in  other 
Constitutions;  eveiy  point,  in  fine,  in  which  lawyers'  skill  or 
the  zeal  of  enthusiasts  can  discern  the  elements  of  interest." 

Glasgow  Herald:  "Will  at  once  take  rank  as  a  standai'd 
authority,  to  be  consulted,  not  only  by  students  of  constitutional 
history  and  political  science,  but  also  by  all  those  who,  in  the 
active  fields  of  law,  politics,  or  commerce,  have  a  practical  in- 
terest in  the  working  of  the  new  federal  institutions  of  Aus- 
tralia. ' ' 

HISTORY  OF  AUSTRALIAN  BUSHRANGING. 

By  Charles  White.     In  two  vols.     Crown  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  each  {postage  6d.  each). 
See  also  Commonwealth  Series,  page  14. 
Year  Book  of  Australia  :  ' '  The  bushrangers  have  long  since 
left  the  stage   of  Australian  history,  but  their  evil   deeds  live 
after  them,  and   are  likely  to   do  so   for  many  years  to   come. 
Having  collected  all  the  published  details  relating  to  the  career 
of  the  Tasmanian  as  well  as  the  Australian  gangs,  Mr.  White 
has  reduced  them  to  a  very  readable  narrative,  which  may  fairly 
be  termed  a  history.     In  this  shape  it  forms  a  valuable  contri- 
bution to   the   general   history   of   the   country,   especially   as   a 
picture  of  social  life  in  the  past." 

Queenslander  :  ' '  Mr.  White  has  supplied  material  enough 
for  twenty  such  novels  as  '  Robbery  Under  Arms. '  ' ' 

16 


THE  LAW  OF  LANDLORD  AND  TENANT  IN 
NEW  SOUTH  WALES. 

By  J.  H.  Hammond,  B.A.,  LL.B.,  and  C.  G.  W. 

Davidson,    B.A.,    LL.B.,    Barristers-at-Law. 

Demy     8vo.,     cloth     gilt,     25s.     (i^ost     free 

25s.  lOd.). 
Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "  ...  a  valuable  contribu- 
tion to  legal  literature.  .  .  .  The  authors  have  incorporated 
the  various  Statutes  in  force  in  the  State,  annotating  them  with 
care,  precision,  and  judgment.  The  notes  and  references  have 
relation,  not  only  to  decisions  in  this  and  the  other  States  of 
the  Commonwealth,  but  also  to  English  decisions  under  Statutes 
held  to  be  in  force  in  New  South  Wales.  .  .  .  The  value  of 
the  work,  which  bears  evidence  of  close  and  careful  research,  is 
enhanced  by  the  fact  that  hitherto  there  has  been  no  text-book 
which  completely  embraced  the  subject." 

Daily  Telegraph:  "It  must  be  said  that  the  joint  authors 
have  done  thsir  work  in  an  able  and  thorough  way,  the  560 
pages  which  the  book  contains  being  replete  with  matters  of 
moment  to  those  desirous  of  ascertaining  the  state  of  the  law 
on  rather  a  complicated  subject.  .  .  .  The  whole  of  the 
local  law  of  landlord  and  tenant  is  presented  in  a  concise  form 
to  the  i^rof  ession  and  the  general  public. ' ' 


THE  LAND  AND  INCOME  TAX  LAW  OF 
NEW  SOUTH  WALES. 

By  M.  M.  D'Arcy  Irvine,  B.A.,  Solicitor  of  the 
Supreme  Court.  Demy  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  42s. 
{post  free  43s.). 

The  Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "We  have  here  a  complete 
review  of  the  direct  taxation  scheme  of  the  State  for  the  last 
ten  years;  an  authoritative  review  which  gives  the  law  itself 
and  its  interpretation.  .  .  .  Mr.  D  'Arcy  Irvine  iloes  not 
inflict  upon  us  the  long  descriptions  of  the  road  to  a  decision 
which  some  judges  find  it  necessary  or  expedient  to  make.  He 
gives  us  the  decision,  the  one  important  matter,  and  little 
else." 

Daily  Telegraph  :  ' '  The  author  has  done  his  work  in  a  most 
thorough  way,  and  has  produced  what  should  be  a  valuable  con- 
tribution to  local  legal  literature.  Moreover,  the  subject  is 
dealt  with  in  such  a  perspicuous  style,  that  a  layman,  by  perusal 
of  it,  should  have  no  difiSculty  in  ascertaining  exactly  where  he 
stands  mth  regard  to  the  Acts  bearing  upon  this  form  of  taxa- 
tion." 

17 


THE  JUSTICES'  MANUAL  AND  POLICE  GUIDE  : 

A  synopsis  of  offences  punishable  by  indictment  and  on 
sumniarv  conviction,  definitions  of  crimes,  meanings  of 
legal  phrases,  hint .  on  evidence,  procedure,  police  duties, 
&c 

Compiled  by  Daniel  Stephen,  Senior-Sergeant  of 
Police.  Second  edition,  revised  in  accordance 
with  State  and  Federal  Enactments  to  the  end 
of  1905,  and  enlarged  by  the  inclusion  of  a 
concise  summary  of  Commercial  Law.  Crown 
8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  6s.  (post  free  6s.  6d.). 

Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "Justices  of  the  peace  ami  others 
concerned  in  the  administration  of  the  law  will  find  the  value 
of  this  admirably-arranged  work.  .  .  .  "We  had  nothing  l3ut 
praise  for  the  first  edition,  and  the  second  edition  is  better  than 
the  first. ' ' 

Town  and  Country  Journal:  "The  author  has  put  together 
a  vast  amount  of  useful  and  generally  practical  information 
likely  to  be  interesting,  as  well  as  valuable,  to  justices  of  the 
peace,  policemen,  and  all  others  concerned  in  the  administration 
of  the  law." 

Sydney  Mah.:  "A  well  got  up  handbook  that  should  prove 
of  decided  value  to  a  large  section  of  the  community.  .  .  . 
Primarily  intended  for  justices  of  the  peace  and  policemen,  it 
is  so  handily  arranged,  so  concise,  and  so  comprehensive,  that 
it  should  appeal  to  everyone  who  wants  to  know  just  how  he 
stands  in  regard  to  the  law  of  the  land." 

Sydney  Wool  and  Stock  Journaj.:  "The  book  practically 
makes  every  man  his  own  lawyer,  and  enables  him  to  see  at  a 
glance  what  the  law  is  upon  any  given  point,  and  will  save 
more  than  its  cost  at  the  first  consultation." 

Sydney  Stock  and  Station  Journal:  "To  speak  of  a  work 
of  this  kind  as  being  interesting  would  doubtless  cause  surprise; 
but  it  is  most  certainly  a  very  interesting  work.  We  strongly 
recommend  it. ' ' 


COOKERY  BOOK  OF  GOOD  AND  TRIED 
RECEIPTS 

Compiled  for  the  'Vi?omen's  Mlcsionary  Association 

Ninth  edition,  enlarged,  completing  the  75th 
thousand.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth,  Is.  {post  free 
Is.  3d.). 

18 


IRRIGATION   WITH   SURFACE   AND   SUBTER 
RANEAN  WATERS,  AND  LAND  DRAINAGE. 

By  W.  Gibbons  Cox,  C.E.  With  81  illiLstrations 
and  a  coloured  map  of  Australia.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  Gs.  (post  free  6s.  6d.). 

The  Australasian:  "The  work  under  notice,  which  has 
special  reference  to  the  utilisation  of  artesian  and  sub-artesian 
water,  is  the  most  valuable  contribution  to  the  literature  on 
the  subjects  dealt  with  that  has  yet  appeared  in  Australia." 

Sydney  Morning  Herald  :  ' '  The  chief  value  of  the  book  will 
be,  perhaps,  for  the  individual  irrigationist.  The  author  goes 
into  detail  on  most  phases  of  small  schemes.  .  .  .  He  takes 
various  crops  and  fruit  trees  separately,  and  gives  a  lot  of 
sound  information  on  the  question.  The  sinking  of  wells,  the 
erection  of  reservoirs,  ditches,  checks,  and  grading  are  all  con- 
sidered. " 

Sydney  Daily  Telegraph:  "A  valuable  addition  to  Austra- 
lian agricultural  literature.  .  .  .  The  major  portion  of  the 
'book  is  concerned  with  irrigation,  both  by  surface  and  subter- 
ranean waters,  and  each  subject  is  carefully  elaborated  with  the 
aid  of  numerous  illustrations.  .  .  .  The  book  will,  no  doubt, 
materially  assist  the  inland  farmer  in  settling  many  vexed  prob- 
lems. ' ' 

Sydney  Mail  :  ' '  Mr.  Cox  discusses  extensively  the  artesian 
water  supply  of  Australia,  and  he  avoids  as  much  as  possible 
technicalities  in  his  descriptive  matter.  This  makes  the  reading 
of  his  work  both  interesting  and  pleasurable,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  educational  value  of  it.  ...  I  can  thoroughly  recom- 
mend Mr.  Cox's  book." 

Melbourne  Age:  "He  has  gone  thoroughly  into  his  subject 
from  the  strictly  utilitarian  viewpoint,  and  his  carefully  gleaned 
facts  and  figures,  as  well  as  his  manifold  instructions  as  to  the 
correct  way  to  irrigate  and  drain,  should  be  of  substantial 
assistance  to  the  farmer.  .  .  .  Altogether  the  volume  covers 
the  subject  in  a  markedly  adequate  fashion." 

Sydney  Wool  and  Stock  Journal  :  ' '  Altogether  it  is  by  far 
the  most  comprehensive  work  on  this  important  subject  that  has 
yet  come  under  our  notice,  and  should  be  in  the  hands  of  all 
pastoralists  who  desire  during  seasons  of  plenty  to  prepare  for 
the  times  of  adversity,  which,  unfortunately,  are  bound  to  recur 
sooner  or  later. ' ' 

Farmer  and  Settler:  "Avoiding  technicalities,  he  sets  out, 
in  a  manner  which  the  ordinary  reader  can  easily  follow,  the 
sources  from  which  water  may  be  drawn,  how  to  properly  apply 
it  to  the  different  classes  of  soil,  with  due  regard  to  climate  and 
the  amount  of  land  to  be  irrigated,  and  the  proper  construction 
of  necessary  appliances." 

19 


THE  PLANTS  OF  NEW  SOUTH  WALES: 

An  Analytical  Key  to  the  Flowering  Plants  (except  Grasses 
and  Rushes)  and  Ferns  of  the  State,  set  out  in  an  original 
method,  with  an  up-to-date  list  of  native  and  introduced 
flora. 

By  W.  A.  Dixon,  F.I.C,  F.C.S.  With  Glossary 
and  49  diagrams.  Foolscap  8vo.,  cloth  gilt, 
6s.  {post  free  6s.  5d.). 

DxMLY  Telegraph  (Sydney):  "The  author  has  succeeded  in 
bringing  his  subject  within  the  comprehension  of  the  ordinary 
observer.  In  a  concise  introductory  note,  Mr.  Dixon  points 
out  the  difficulty  of  identifying  plants  by  the  use  of  scientific 
treatises,  and  substitutes  a  system  based  on  the  use  of  more 
easily  observed  characters. ' ' 

Sydney  Moening  Herald:  "The  book  is  interesting  as  well 
as  ingenious.  It  is  a  valuable  contribution  to  the  botanic  litera- 
ture of  Australia. ' ' 

Town  and  Country  Journal:  "The  immense  amount  of 
careful  research  necessary  to  produce  such  a  work  can  hardly 
be  over-estimated,  and  Mr.  Dixon  has  arranged  it  in  such  a  form 
as  to  be  easily  accessible  to  all  seeking  information  on  the  sub- 
ject to  which  it  is  devoted.  A  complete  index  also  assists  in 
rendering  reference  easy." 


SIMPLE  TESTS  FOR  MINERALS. 

By  Joseph  Campbell,  M.A.,  F.G.S.,  M.I.M.E. 
Fourth  edition,  revised  and  enlarged  (com- 
pleting the  ninth  thousand).  With  illustra- 
tions. Cloth,  round  corners,  3s.  6d  {post 
free  3s.  Del.). 

Ballarat  Star:  "This  is  an  excellent  little  work,  and  should 
be  in  the  hands  of  every  scientific  and  practical  miner. ' ' 

Bendigo  Evening  Mail  :  ' '  Should  be  in  every  prospector 's 
kit.  It  enables  any  intelligent  man  to  ascertain  for  himself 
whether  any  mineral  he  may  discover  has  a  commercial  value." 

BuNDABERG  Star:  "A  handy  and  useful  book  for  miners  and 
all  interested  in  the  mining  industry. ' ' 

Newcastle  Morning  Herald  :  ' '  The  book  is  a  thoroughly 
practical  one. ' ' 

Wyalong  Star  :  ' '  Now  it  will  be  possible  for  miners  and 
prospectors  to  test  any  mineral  which  has  a  commercial  value." 

20 


THE  GEOLOGY  OF  SYDNEY  AND  THE 
BLUE  MOUNTAINS  : 

A  popular  introduction  to  the  study  of  Australian  Geology 

By  Rev.  J.  Milne  Currax,  late  Lecturer  in 
Chemistry  and  Geology,  Teehnioal  College, 
Sydney.  Prescribed  by  the  Department  of 
Public  Instruction,  N.S.W.,  for  First  and 
Second  Class  Teachers'  Examinations.  Sec- 
ond edition.  With  a  Glossary  of  Scientific 
Terms,  a  Reference  List  of  commonly-occur- 
ring Fossils,  2  coloured  maps,  and  83  illus- 
trations. CroAvn  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  6s.  {post 
free  6s.  6d.). 

Xatltie:  "This  is,  strictly  speakiug,  au  elementary  manual 
of  geology.  The  general  plan  of  the  work  is  good;  the  book 
IS  well  printed  and  illustrated  with  maps,  photographic  pictures 
of  rock  structure  and  scenery,  and  figures  of  fossils  and  roek 
sections. ' ' 

Saturday  Eevieav:  "His  style  is  animated  and  inspiring,  or 
clear  and  precise,  as  occasion  demands.  The  people  of  Sydn'?y 
are  to  be  congratulated  on  the  existence  of  such  a  guide  to  their 
beautiful  country."  :v| 

Sydxey  Morning  Herald  :  ' '  Though  the  book  deserves  to  be 
made  a  University  text,  it  will  have  another  distinction,  perhaps 
more  agreeable  to  the  author — that  of  being  a  means  by  which 
the  intelligence  of  many  a  reader  will  be  directed  to  that  science 
of  the  earth,  the  materials  and  the  monuments  of  which  are 
beneath  our  feet  continually." 

Daily  Telegraph:  "Mr.  Curran  more  than  justifies  his  claim 
to  an  indejjendent  method  of  presenting  his  gathered  stores  of 
knowledge.  The  style,  simple,  clear,  and  enticing,  leaves  nothing 
to  be  desired;  and  even  a  child's  eye,  caught  in  some  trick  of 
familiar,  if  involuntary,  association  by  pictures,  must  pause  in 
the  responsive  desire  to  know  all  about  it. ' ' 

Town  and  Country  Journal:  "There  has  always  been  a 
painful  sense  of  distance  in  the  study  of  geology  as  taught  in 
our  schools.  ...  To  get  a  real  grip  of  the  science,  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  that  the  student  should  see  something  for 
himself,  and  the  author  endeavours  to  bring  the  science  home 
to  Australian  students  by  basing  this  popular  introduction  to 
the  study  of  it  on  the  material  literally  at  his  doors. ' ' 

The  Argus  :  "Asa  handbook  for  schools  in  which  it  is 
desired  to  interest  the  advanced  classes  in  the  study  of  nature, 
the  volume  has  great  value." 

21 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  EMPIRE  : 

A  Handbook  to  the  History  of  Greater  Britain. 

By  Arthur  W.  Jose,  author  of  "  A  Short  History 
of  Australasia."  Prescribed  by  the  Depart- 
ment of  Public  Instruction,  N.S.W.,  for  First 
and  Second  Class  Teachers'  Certificate  Exami- 
nations. Second  edition.  With  14  maps. 
'Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  4s.  6d.  {post  free 
'5s.). 

Morning  Post:  "This  book  is  published  in  Sydney,  but  it 
deserves  to  be  circulated  throughout  the  United  Kingdom.  The 
picture  of  the  fashion  in  which  British  enterprise  made  its 
way  from  settlement  to  settlement  has  never  been  drawn  more 
vividly  than  in  these  pages.  Mr.  Jose's  style  is  crisp  and 
pleasant,  now  and  then  even  rising  to  eloquence  on  his  grand 
theme.  His  book  deserves  wide  popularity,  and  it  has  the  rare 
merit  of  being  so  written  as  to  be  attractive  alike  to  the  young 
student  and  to  the  mature  man  of  letters." 

Literature:  "He  has  studied  thoroughly,  and  writes  vigor- 
ously. .  .  .  Admirably  done.  .  .  .  We  conmiend  it  to 
Britons  the  world  over." 

Saturday  Eeview:  "He  writes  Imperially;  he  also  often 
writes  sympathetically.  .  .  .  We  cannot  close  Mr.  Jose's 
creditable  account  of  our  misdoings  without  a  glow  of  national 
pride. ' ' 

Yorkshire  Post:  "A  brighter  short  history  we  do  not  know, 
and  this  book  deserves,  for  the  matter  and  the  manner  of  it, 
to  be  as  well  known  as  Mr.  McCarthy's  'History  of  Our  Own 
Times.'  " 

The  Scotsman  :  ' '  This  admirable  work  is  a  solid  octavo  of 
more  than  400  pages.  It  is  a  thoughtful,  well-written,  and 
well-arranged  history.  There  are  14  excellent  maps  to  illus- 
trate the  text." 

The  Spectator:  "He  certainly  possesses  the  faculty  of  pre- 
senting a  clear  summary,  and  always  appears  to  hold  the  scales 
fairly.  .  .  .  We  can  heartily  commend  both  the  subject  and 
style  of  this  able  and  most  admirably  arranged  history  of  the 
British  Empire. ' ' 

Glasgow  Herald:  "An  excellent  specimen  of  the  vigorous 
work  produced  by  the  School  of  History  at  Oxford." 

London:  John  Murray. 
22 


HISTORY  OP  AUSTRALASIA 

From  the  Earliest  Tlnias  to  the  Inauguration  of  the 
Commonisealth 

By  Arthur  W.  Jose,  author  of  "The  Growth  of 
the  Empire."  The  chapter  on  Federation 
revised  by  R.  R.  Garran,  C.M.G.  Prescribed 
by  the  Department  of  Public  Instruction, 
N.S.W.,  for  Second  and  Third  Class  Teachers' 
Certificate  Examinations.  Second  edition, 
revised  and  enlarged,  completing  the  twelfth 
thousand.  AVith  6  maps  and  64  portraits  and 
illustrations.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth,  Is.  6d. ; 
paper  cover,  Is.  {postage  4d.). 

Daily  Telegraph  :  ' '  There  was  ample  room  for  a  cleverly 
condensed,  clear,  and  yet  thoroughly  live  account  of  these 
colonies  such  as  Mr.  Jose  now  presents  us  with. ' ' 

Sydney  Morning  Herald  :  ' '  Possibly  we  have  not  yet  reached 
the  distance  in  point  of  time  from  the  events  here  recorded  to 
permit  the  writing  of  a  real  history  of  Australasia ;  but  Mr. 
Jose  has  done  good  work  in  the  accumulation  and  orderly 
arrangement  of  details,  and  the  intelligent  reader  will  derive 
much  profit  from  this  little  book." 

The  Book  Lover  :  ' '  The  ignorance  of  the  average  Australian 
youth  alx)ut  the  brief  history  of  his  native  land  is  often  deplor- 
able. .  .  .  'A  Short  History  of  Australasia,'  by  Arthur  W. 
Jose,  just  provides  the  thing  wanted.  Mr.  .Jose's  previous  his- 
torical work  was  most  favourably  received  in  England,  and  this 
story  of  our  land  is  capitally  done.  It  is  not  too  long,  and  it 
is  brightly  written.  Its  value  is  considerably  enhanced  by  the 
useful  maps  and  interesting  illustrations." 

Victorian  Education  Gazette:  "The  language  is  graphic 
and  simple,  and  there  is  much  evidence  of  careful  work  and 
acquaintance  with  original  documents,  which  give  the  reader 
confidence  in  the  accuracy  of  the  details.  The  low  jjrice  of 
the  book  leaves  young  Australia  no  excuse  for  remaining  in 
ignorance  of  the  history  of  their  native  land. ' ' 

ToAVN  and  Country  Journal:  "The  language  is  graphic  and 
simple,  and  he  has  maintained  the  unity  and  continuity  of 
the  story  of  events,  despite  the  necessity  of  following  the  sub- 
ject along  the  seven  branches  corresponding  with  the  seven 
separate  colonies. ' ' 


23 


CALENDAR  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  SYDNEY. 

Demy  8vo.,  linen,  2s.  6d. ;  paper  cover,  Is.  (postage 
8d.)  [Piiblished  annually,  in  May. 

MANUAL  OF  PUBLIC  EXAMINATIONS  HELD  BY 

THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  SYDNEY. 

Demy  8vo.,  paper  cover,  Is.  (post  free  Is.  3d.). 

[PuhUnhed  annually,  in  Augu^st,  and  dated  the  year 
following  tliat  in  which  it  is  issued. 

TABLES  FOR  QUALITATIVE  CHEMICAL  ANALYSIS. 

Arranged  for  the  use  of  students  by  A.  Li\ter- 
siDGE,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.,  Professor  of 
Chemistry  in  the  University  of  Sydney. 
Second  edition,  Royal  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  4s.  6d. 
(post  free  4s.  9d.). 

Chemical  News  :  ' '  Altogether  the  book  is  a  useful,  thoroughly 
workable  text-book,  and  one  that  is  likely  to  find  considerable 
favour  with  teachers  of  chemistry.  There  is  a  complete  index, 
and  the  price  is  very  reasonable. ' ' 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  INFINITESIMAL 

CALCULUS. 

By  H.  S.  Carslaw,  M.A.,  D.Sc,  F.R.S.E.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Mathematics  in  the  University  of 
Sydney.  Demy  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  5s.  (post  free 
5s.  3d.). 

The  Times  :  ' '  Concise  lucidity  is  the  key-note  of  the  book. 
.  .  .  .  Professor  Carslaw  may  be  congratulated  upon  hav- 
ing produced  an  admirable  book,  which  should  be  useful  to 
young  engineers  and  science  students,  both  during  and  after 
their  college  courses." 

ABRIDGED  MATHEMATICAL  TABLES. 

By  S.  H.  Barraclough,  B.E.,  M.M.E.,  Assoc.  M. 
Inst.  C.E.  Demy  8vo.,  cloth,  Is.  (post  free 
Is.  Id.).  Logarithms,  &c.,  published  separ- 
ately, price  6d.  (post  free  7d.). 

24 


BRUSHWORK  FROM  NATURE, 

With  Design. 

By  J.  E.  Branch,  Superintendent  of  Drawing, 
Department  of  Public  Instruction.  Pre- 
scribed b}'  the  Department  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion, N.S.W.,  for  Teachers'  Examinations. 
^\^ith  19  coloured  and  5  other  plates.  Demy 
4to.,  decorated  cloth,  7s.  6d.  (post  free 
8s.  3d.). 


CIVICS  AND  MORALS. 

By  Percival  R.  Cole,  ]\I.A.,  Frazer  Scholar  in 
IModern  History,  University  ^Medallist  in 
Logic  and  Mental  Philosophy,  late  Lecturer 
in  the  Training  College,  Fort-street,  Sydney. 
Second  edition,  revised  and  enlarged.  Cro-uoi 
8vo.,  cloth,  2s.  (post  free  2s.  3d.).  Also  in 
two  parts : — Part  I. — Classes  I.  and  II. ;  Part 
II. — Classes  III.,  IV.,  and  V. ;  cloth.  Is.  each 
{post  free  Is.  2d.  each). 

N.S.W.  Educational  Gazette:  "In  our  issue  of  March,  1905, 
■we  announced  with  approval  the  appearance  of  the  first  edition 
of  this  useful  and  practical  -work,  and  anticipated  a  wide  appre- 
ciation on  the  part  of  our  teachers.  The  issue  of  a  new  edition 
within  seven  months  of  the  original  publication  amply  verifies 
this  prediction.  .  .  .  "We  note  the  addition  of  supplementary 
lessons  on  Simple  Proverbs,  Vote  by  Ballot,  the  State  Govern^ 
ment  of  New  South  Wales,  and  the  Federal  Government  of 
Australia.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  book  which  so  closely 
interprets  the  spirit  of  the  New  Syllabus  will  find  a  place  in 
every  Public  School  in  this  State." 


THE  AUSTRALIAN   LETTERING  BOOK. 

Containing  the  Alphabets  most  useful  in  Mapping, 
Exercise  Headings,  &c.,  with  practical  appli- 
cations, Easy  Scrolls,  Flourishes,  Borders, 
Corners,  Rulings,  &c.  New  edition,  re\'ised 
and  enlarged,  cloth  limp,  6d.  {post  free  7d.). 


•25 


COMMERCIAL  ARITHMETIC. 

By  G.  E.  Bench,  B.A.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  2s.  6d. 
{post  free  2s.  lOd.). 


SOLUTIONS  OF  TEACHERS'  ALGEBRA  PAPERS, 

Set  at  First  and  Second  Class  Teachers'  Examina- 
tions from  1894  to  1901  (inclusive),  by  W. 
L.  Atkins,  B.A.     Crown  8vo.,  cloth,  2s.  6d. 


SOLUTIONS  OF  TEACHERS'  ARITHMETIC  PAPERS, 

Set  at  First,  Second,  and  Third  Class  Teachers' 
Examinations  from  1894  to  1901  (inclnsive), 
by  J.  M.  Taylor,  M.A.,  LL.B.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth,  2s.  6d. 

ELEMENTARY  GEOMETRY  :    THEORETICAL  AND 

PRACTICAL 

By  C.  Godfrey,  M.A.,  and  A.  W.  Siddons,  M.A. 
Prescribed  by  the  Department  of  Public  In- 
struction, N.S.W.,  for  First,  Second,  and 
Third  Class  Teachers'  Examinations.  Com- 
plete edition  (Books  I.-IV.),  crown  8vo.,  cloth 
gilt,  3s.  6d.  {jjost  free  4s.).  Vol.  I.  (Books  I. 
and  II.),  2s.  Vol.  II.  (Books  III.  and  IV.), 
2s.  {postage  3d.).  Answers  in  separate  vol- 
ume, price  4d.  {post  free  5d.).  Key,  6s. 
{jDOst  free  6s.  3d.). 


THE  METRIC  SYSTEM  OF  WEIGHTS  AND 

MEASURES,  AND  DECIMAL  COINAGE 

By  J.  ]\I.  Taylor,  M.A.,  LL.B.  With  Introduc- 
tory Notes  on  the  Nature  of  Decimals,  and  con- 
tracted methods  for  the  Multiplication  and 
Division  of  Decimals.  Crown  8vo.,  6d.  {post 
free  7d.).     Answers,  6d, 

26 


GEOGRAPHY  OF  NEW  SOUTH  WALES 

By  J.  M.  Taylor,  M.A.,  LL.B.     Prescribed  by  the 

Department  of  Public  Instruction,  N.S.W., 
for  Third  Class  and  Pupil  Teachers'  Certifi- 
cate Examinations.  New  edition,  revised. 
With  37  illustrations  and  6  folding  maps. 
Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  (post  free 
3s.  lOd.). 
Sydney  Morning  Herald:  "Something  more  than  a  school 
book ;  it  is  an  approach  to  an  ideal  geography. ' ' 

Eevieav  of  Reviews:  "It  makes  a  very  attractive  handbook. 
Its  geography  is  up-to-date;  it  is  not  overburdened  with  details, 
and  it  is  richly  illustrated  with  geological  diagrams  and  photo- 
graphs of  scenery  reproduced  with  happy  skill. ' ' 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  OBJECT  LESSON  BOOK 

Part  I. — For  Infant  and  Junior  Classes.  Second 
edition,  with  43  illustration.^.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d. ;  paper  cover,  2s.  6d.  {post- 
age id. ) . 

N.S.W.  Educational  Gazette:  "Mr.  Wiley  has  wisely 
adopted  the  plan  of  utilising  the  services  of  specialists.  The 
eeries  is  remarkably  complete,  and  includes  almost  everything 
with  which  the  little  learners  ought  to  be  made  familiar. 
Throughout  the  whole  series  the  lessons  have  been  selected  with 
judgment  and  with  a  due  appreciation  of  the  capacity  of  the 
pupils  for  whose  use  they  are  intended." 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  OBJECT  LESSON  BOOK 

Part  II. — For  advanced  classes.  Second  edition, 
with  113  illustrations.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth 
gilt,  3s.  6d. ;  paper  cover,  2s.  6d.  {postage 
dd.). 

Victorian  Education  Gazette:  "Mr.  Wiley  and  his  col- 
leagues have  provided  a  storehouse  of  useful  information  on 
a  great  number  of  topics  that  can  be  taken  up  in  any  Australian 
school. ' ' 

N.S.W.  Educational  Gazette:  "The  Australian  Object 
Lesson  Book  is  evidently  the  result  of  infinite  patience  and  deep 
research  on  the  part  of  its  compiler,  who  is  also  to  be  commended 
for  the  admirable  arrangement  of  his  matter. ' ' 

27 


ENGLISH  GRAMMAR,  COMPOSITION,  AND 

PRECIS  WRITING 

By  James  Conway,  Headmaster  at  Cleveland- 
street  Superior  Public  School,  Sydney.  Pre- 
scribed by  the  Department  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion, N.S.W.,  for  First  and  Second  Class 
Teachers'  Certificate  Examinations,  1907. 
New  edition,  revised  and  enlarged.  Crown 
8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  {post  free  3s.  lOd.). 


A  SMALLER  ENGLISH  GRAMMAR,  COMPOSITION, 

AND  PRECIS  WRITING 

By  James  Conway.  Prescribed  by  the  Depart- 
ment of  Public  Instruction,  N.S.W.,  for  Third 
Class  Teachers'  Examinations,  1907.  New 
edition,  revised  and  enlarged.  Crown  8vo., 
cloth,  Is.  6d.   (post  free  Is.  9d.). 

N.S.W.  Educational  Gazette:  "The  abridgmeut  is  very 
well  done.  One  recognises  the  hand  of  a  man  who  has  had 
long  experience  of  the  difficulties  of  this  subject." 

CAUSERIES  FAMILIERES  ;  op  FRIENDLY  CHATS 

By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Boyd.  Second  edition,  revised  and 
enlarged,  containing  granunatical  summaries, 
exercises,  a  full  treatise  on  pronunciation, 
French-English  and  English-French  Vocabu- 
lary, and  other  matter  for  the  use  of  the 
teacher  or  of  a  student  without  a  master. 
Crown  8vo.,  cloth  gilt,  3s.  6d.  {post  free 
3s.  lOd. ) .  Abridged  edition  for  pupils.  Pre- 
scribed for  Applicant  Pupil  Teachers'  Exami- 
nation, 1907.  Crown  8vo.,  cloth.  Is.  6d. 
{post  free  Is.  8d.). 

The  London  Spectator:  "A  most  excellent  and  practical 
little  volume,  evidently  the  work  of  a  trained  teacher.  It  com- 
bines admirably  and  in  an  entertaining  form  the  advantages  of 
the  conversational  with  those  of  the  grammatical  method  of 
learning  a  language." 

28 


GUIDE  TO  THE  MUSICAL  EXAMINATIONS. 

Held  by  the  N.S.W.  Department  of  Public  In- 
struction for  Teachers  and  Pupil  Teacners  in 
all  grades.     By  G.  T.  Cotterill,  Headmaster 
at  Paddington  Superior  Public  School.     Part 
I.— The  Papers  set  in  1898,  1899,  and  1900, 
and  answers  thereto.     Crown  8vo.,  cloth,  2s. 
(post  free  2s.  2d.).      Part  II. — The  Papers 
set  in  1901,  and  answers  thereto.       Crowai 
8vo.,  sewn,  Is.  {post  free  Is.  Id.). 
N.S.W.   Educational  Gazette:    "We  would   earnestly  urge 
upon  teachers  and  pupil  teachers  intending  to  sit  for  examina- 
tion the  wisdom  of  mastering  the  principles  so  clearly  enunciated 
in  these  valuable  text -books. ' ' 


A  NEW  BOOK  OF  SONGS  FOR  SCHOOLS  AND 

SINGING  CLASSES 

By  PIuGO  Alpen,  Superintendent  of  Music,  De- 
partment of  Public  Instruction,  New  South 
Wales.  8vo.,  paper  cover,  Is.  {post  free 
Is.  2d.). 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  PROGRESSIVE  SONGSTER 

By  S.  ]\IcBuRNEY,  Mus.  Doc,  Fellow  T.S.F.  Col- 
lege. Containing  graded  Songs,  Eounds  and 
Exercises  in  Staff  Notation,  Tonic  Sol-fa  and 
Numerals,  with  JMusical  Theory.  Price  6d. 
each  part;  combined.  Is.  {postage  Id.  each 
part). 

No.  1. — For  Junior  Classes. 

No.  2. — For  Senior  Classes. 


AUSTRALIAN  SONGS  FOR  AUSTRALIAN  CHILDREN 

By  Mrs.  Maybanke  Anderson.  All  the  songs 
are  set  to  music,  while  to  some  of  them  appro- 
priate calisthenic  exercises  are  given.  Demy 
4to.,  picture  cover,  Is.  {post  free  Is.  Id.). 

29 


GEOGRAPHY  OF  AUSTRALIA  AND 
NEW  ZEALAND. 

Revised  edition,  with  8  maps  and  19  illustrations. 
64  pages.     6d.  (post  free  7d.). 


GEOGRAPHY  OF  EUROPE,  ASIA,  AFRICA, 
AND  AMERICA. 

Revised  edition,  with  18  relief  and  other  maps, 
and  17  illustrations  of  transcontinental  views, 
distribution  of  animals,  &c.  88  pages.  6d. 
(post  free  7d.). 

GEOGRAPHY  OF  NEW  SOUTH  WALES. 

With  5  folding  maps.     48  pages.     6d.   (post  free 

7d.). 

PRACTICAL  GEOMETRY. 

For  Classes  II.  and  III.     Y/ith  Diagrams.     2d. 
For  Classes  IV.  and  V.     With  Diagrams.     4d. 


PRACTICAL  AND  THEORETICAL  GEOMETRY. 

Books  I.  and  II.     Price  6d.  each. 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  CATHOLIC  SCHOOL  SERIES. 

History  of  Australia  and  New  Zealand  for  Catho- 
lic Schools,  117  pages.     4d. 

Pupil's    Companion   to   the   Australian   Catholic 
First  Reader,  .32  pages.     Id. 

Pupil's    Companion   to   the   Australian    Catholic 
Second  Reader,  64  pages.     2d. 

Pupil's    Companion   to   the   Australian    Catholic 
Third  Reader,  112  pages.     3d. 

Pupil's    Companion   to   the   Australian    Catholic 
Fourth  Reader,  160  pages.  4d. 

30 


AUSTRALIAN  SCHOOL  SERIES. 

Grammar  and  Derivation  Book,  64  pages.     2d. 

Test  Exercises  in  Grammar  for  Third  Class,  First 
Year,  64  pages.    2d.    Second  Year,  64  pages.    2d. 

Table  Book  and  Mental  Arithmetic,  48  pages.     Id. 

Chief  Events  and  Dates  in  English  History.    Part 

I.  From  55  B.C.  to  1485  a.d.,  50  pages.     2d. 

Chief  Events  and  Dates  in  English  History.    Part 

II.  From  Henry  VII.  (1485)  to  Victoria  (1900), 
64  pages.     2d. 

History  op  Australia,  80  pages.     4d.     Illustrated. 

Geography.  Part  I.  Australasia  and  Polynesia,  64 
pages.     2d. 

Geography.  Part  II.  Europe,  Asia,  America,  and 
Africa,  66  pages.     2d. 

Euclid.  Book  I.  With  Definitions,  Postulates, 
Axioms,  &c.,  64  pages.     2d. 

Euclid.  Book  II.  With  Definitions  and  Exercises  on 
Books  I.  and  II.,  32  pages.     2d. 

Euclid.  Book  III.  With  University  "Junior" 
Papers,  1891-1897,  60  pages.     2d. 

Arithmetic  and  Practical  Geometry — Exercises 
for  Class  II.,  50  pages.     3d. 

Arithmetic — Exercises  for  Class  III.,  50  pages.    3d. 

Algebra.     Part  I.,  64  pages.     4d.     Answere,  4d. 

Algebra.  Part  II.  To  Quadratic  Equations.  Con- 
tains over  1,200  Exercises,  including  the  Univer- 
sity Junior,  the  Public  Service,  the  Sydney 
Chamber  of  Commerce,  and  the  Bankere'  Institute 
Examination  Papers  to  1900,  &c.,  112  pages.  4d. 
Answei-s,  4d. 

31 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  COPY  BOOK. 

Approved  by  the  Departments  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion in  New  South  Wales,  Queensland,  and 
Tasmania,  by  the  Public  Service  Board  of 
New  South  Wales,  and  by  the  Chief  Inspector 
of  Catholic  Schools.  In  10  carefully-graded 
numbers,  and  a  book  of  Plain  and  Ornamental 
Lettering,  Mapping,  &c.  (No.  11).  Price  2d. 
each.  Numerals  are  given  in  each  number. 
A.C.B.  Blotter  (fits  all  sizes),  Id. 

THE  AUSTRALIAN  PUPIL  TEACHERS' 
COPY  BOOK. 

A  selection  of  pages  from  the  Australian  Copy 
Book,  arranged  for  use  of  Pupil  Teachers. 
48  pages.     Price  6d. 

CHAMBERS'  GOVERNMENT  HAND  COPY  BOOK 

Approved  by  the  Department  of  Public  IiLstruc- 
tion.  In  12  carefully-graded  numbers  and 
a  book  for  Pupil  Teachers  (No.  1-3).     2d.  each. 

The  letters  are  coBtinuonsly  joined  to  each  other,  so  that  the 
pupil  need  not  lift  the  pen  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  each  word.  The  spaces  between  the  letters  are  wide,  each 
letter  thus  standing  out  boldly  and  distinctly  by  itself.  The 
slope  is  gentle,  but  sufficient  to  prevent  the  pupil  from  acquiring 
a  back  hand.  The  curves  are  well  rounded,  checking  the  ten- 
dency to  too  great  angularity. 

ANGUS  AND  ROBERTSON'S  PENCIL 
COPY  BOOK. 

Approved  by  the  N.S.W.  Department  of  Public 
Instruction.  In  nine  numl^ers.  Id.  each. 
No.  1,  initiatory  lines,  curves,  letters,  figures; 
2  and  3,  short  letters,  easy  combinations, 
figures;  4,  long  letters,  short  words,  figures; 
5,  long  letters,  words,  figures;  6,  7,  and  8, 
capitals,  words,  figures;  9,  short  sentences, 
figures. 


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