^B 
 
 
 
 ^^BI * 
 
 G. HERBERT 
 
 
 
 
 

IRONBARK 
 
 SPLINTERS 
 
IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 FROM THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH 
 
 BY 
 
 G. HERBERT GIBSON 
 
 (IRONBARK) 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "IRONBARK CHIPS AND STOCKWHIP CRACKS," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 T. WERNER LAURIE, LTD. 
 
 CLIFFORD'S INN 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THIS book does not profess to be anything but 
 the lightest of light reading the thistledown 
 and cobwebs, in fact, of Australian literature. 
 The Author does, however, claim that the local 
 colour of the bush verses is correct, his know- 
 ledge of bush life having been derived from 
 years of experience and hard work on sheep and 
 cattle stations, and farms in Australia. 
 
 In addition to some new matter the book 
 contains many of the Author's contributions to 
 the Sydney Bulletin (published with the consent 
 of the proprietors of that Journal), and a few 
 extracts from " Ironbark Chips," a former book 
 by the same Author, which was published by 
 Messrs George Robertson & Co., of Sydney, 
 New South Wales. 
 
 " IRONBARK." 
 
 344532 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE V 
 
 GOING ON THE LAND I 
 
 MY MATE BILL 9 
 
 SEND US GIRLS 12 
 
 WHEN CLUBS WERE TRUMPS 1 6 
 
 JONES'S SELECTION 21 
 
 THE BLINDIN', BLAZIN' WEST 24 
 
 THE RUSSIA OF TO-DAY 30 
 
 WANTED, A NOAH 38 
 
 TIMES IS CHANGED 42 
 
 THE IRON LAW 46 
 
 ON THE INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF SCANDAL . . 48 
 
 EURYDICE NIOBE JONES 52 
 
 THE TIGER'S RENUNCIATION 6 1 
 
 MORAL PHILOSOPHY FOR LITTLE FOLKS ... 70 
 
 A BALLAD OF QUEENSLAND 73 
 
 ECHO VERSES 77 
 
 WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE AUTHOR ... 78 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE . . 82 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 KING BILLY'S CONVERSION 94 
 
 THE LITERARY HERO OF THE SPICY NOVELETTE . 103 
 
 THE GIRL OF THE-DAY-BEFORE-YESTERDAY . . 108 
 
 HOW TO WRITE AN AUSTRALIAN NOVEL . . no 
 
 THE SUFFRAGETTE Il6 
 
 A BUSINESS PROPOSAL 1 19 
 
 NURSERY RHYMES FOR INFANT PASTORALISTS . . 121 
 WHEN FATHER SNORES IN CHURCH. . . .125 
 
 THE CINEMATOGRAPH FIEND 127 
 
 THE MODEL, MODERN CABINET MINISTER . .130 
 A POLITICAL BALLAD (A LA PATIENCE) . . .132 
 HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP "INSOLVENT" .... 135 
 
 IS WOMAN A FAILURE? 139 
 
 SOME PREVAILING DELUSIONS 142 
 
 OUR MOTHER 146 
 
 THE POLITICIAN . . . . , , . .ISO 
 
 SOME CYNICAL SUGGESTIONS BY A SELF-MADE 
 
 SINNER TO HIS SON '155 
 
 THE TIMES 158 
 
 JIM 1 60 
 
GOING ON THE LAND 
 
 THERE'S a cheerful little microbe, and it's very 
 
 much about, 
 And deep into your cuticle it drives its little 
 
 snout ; 
 It whispers and it wheedles, and delivers its 
 
 command 
 4 'Go forth into the wilderness, and get upon the 
 
 land." 
 You can hear the microbe whisper in the watches 
 
 of the night, 
 And it makes you discontented, though your 
 
 prospects may be bright, 
 Till you long to take some implements some 
 
 shovels and some hoes 
 And go out and " make the wilderness to blossom 
 
 as the rose." 
 
 Yes, to blossom as the rose in your folly you 
 
 suppose 
 You can irrigate the wilderness with thirty foot 
 
 of hose ! 
 
 i A 
 
2 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 But you're not the only johnny whom the 
 
 microbe holds in thrall ; 
 The townsman and the countryman, it gets into 
 
 them all ; 
 The dude who finds a boarding-house inimical to 
 
 ease 
 (Who's full of " closer settlement," as practised 
 
 by the fleas) ; 
 The shearer who's been "ringing" all the 
 
 western shearing sheds ; 
 The "dosser" who is seeking fresher fields 
 
 and cleaner beds ; 
 The digger who is bulging with the gold that he 
 
 has " panned," 
 They are jostling each other to get settled on 
 
 the land. 
 
 They'll "get settled" on the land, and it's hard 
 
 to understand 
 Why they overheat and bust themselves to get 
 
 upon the land. 
 
 They are marchin' through the desert an 
 
 enthusiastic band 
 
 Each has "bluey" 1 on his shoulder and a 
 
 "billy" 2 in his hand, 
 
 1 The roll of blue blankets much affected by Australian 
 bushmen when on tramp. An English countryman on tramp 
 carries his belongings in a bundle on a stick, an Australian 
 rolls his in a blanket which he carries on his shoulder or on 
 his back. The roll is called a "swag," and is often jocularly 
 referred to as "Matilda." 
 
 a _ a t i n can f or making tea in when on tramp. 
 
GOING ON THE LAND 3 
 
 And they tempt you with an accent that is affable 
 
 and bland, 
 To chuck yer job and pilgrimise to freedom on 
 
 the land. 
 So you crumple up yer bluey, and you fill yer 
 
 water bag, 
 And you saddle yer "goanna" 1 with yer quart 
 
 pot and yer swag ; 
 You've got yer money stitched up in yer moleskin 
 
 trousers' band, 
 And you start for the horizon, " on the wallaby " 2 
 
 for land. 
 
 Yes, you're goin' on the land, and you think it 
 
 will be grand, 
 Just a hundred miles from nowhere in a humpy 
 
 on the land. 
 
 So you wallaby and wander north and south, 
 
 and east and west, 
 While the sleepless little microbe keeps a-borin' 
 
 at your breast, 
 And a lot of beer and swankey you get called 
 
 upon to stand, 
 In exchange for information re localities and 
 
 land. 
 
 1 In the varied vocabulary of the Australian bushman a 
 saddle horse is often called a "goanna," an "alligator" and 
 countless other equally inappropriate names; "goanna" is 
 a corruption of "iguana," the gigantic tree lizard of Australia. 
 
 8 Going on tramp is called going on the " wallaby track." 
 
4 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 But at length you get a lithograph, and go and 
 
 pick a block ; 
 You begin to take an int'rest in the price of wool 
 
 and stock ; 
 You interview an " Agent," and you pay him, 
 
 as per scale, 
 But that's quite another story, and we'd better 
 
 draw the veil. 
 
 Yes, we'd better draw the veil, but a spicy little 
 
 tale 
 Has been told about the Agent and his little 
 
 sliding scale. 
 
 You have signed your declaration it's been 
 
 witnessed by the "beak": 
 You have lodged your application, all correct 
 
 " within the week." 1 
 The Local Board is sitting, and you've got to 
 
 face the band 
 If you mean to give yourself a chance of getting 
 
 on the land. 
 You feel like some stray animal just landed from 
 
 the Ark, 
 And hope that nothing will occur the Local 
 
 Board to nark; 
 You'd give your chance of heaven for a drop of 
 
 something "short," 
 When the bobby stands "attention," and cries, 
 
 "Order in the Court." 
 
 1 The week allowed by the Land Act for the simultaneous 
 lodgment of applications. 
 
GOING ON THE LAND 5 
 
 But you're goin' on the land, and the music you 
 
 can stand, 
 If it only plays the proper tune to put you on the 
 
 land. 
 
 The Chairman looks you over, when the bobby 
 
 calls your name ; 
 You look as if you felt inclined to bust yerself 
 
 with shame ; 
 The impression that you're making isn't quite 
 
 the one you wished, 
 And you've got a sort of feeling that you're likely 
 
 to be dished. 
 Perhaps they take exception to the colour of your 
 
 nose, 
 
 And fancy you've been drinking says the Chair- 
 man, " out he goes." 
 You find yourself disqualified, dissatisfied, 
 
 ignored, 
 And you curse the Crown Land Agent, and the 
 
 ballot, and the Board. 
 
 And you almost curse the land, for you feel 
 
 you've been trepanned, 
 And it isn't quite so easy to arrive upon the land. 
 
 But you're not the kind of person to be easily 
 
 pooh-poohed ! 
 You're a horny-handed hustler, an' you ain't a 
 
 city dude, 
 
6 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 So you "pack" your bloomin' turkey, 1 and you 
 
 take the northern train, 
 There's another sub-division, and you mean to 
 
 try again. 
 You've got the little microbe of the land-selectin' 
 
 craze, 
 You've got to know the Agent and his funny 
 
 little ways ; 
 You've faked your nasal organ, 'till the colour 
 
 doesn't show, 
 And you're game to face the Chairman, and to 
 
 have another go. 
 
 Oh I the hunger for the land ! you've annexed 
 
 the proper brand 
 Of the fever for selectin' that is stalkin' through 
 
 the land. 
 
 You getinto a ballot, 2 and you struggle out on top ; 
 You get a bit of desert, and you tempt it with 
 
 a crop ; 
 You fence it and you watch it like a pussy with 
 
 a mouse, 
 And you build yerself a humpy, and you fancy 
 
 it's a house. 
 
 1 "Turkey" bushman's slang for "swag," a bundle of 
 blankets and clothes. The term is sometimes also applied 
 to a pack-horse. 
 
 2 Priority among conflicting applicants for Crown Lands 
 in New South Wales is determined by ballot. 
 
GOING ON THE LAND 7 
 
 Yer bloomin' crop is poppin' up quite healthy- 
 
 like and sound, 
 Then the rabbit comes a-hoppin', and he eats 
 
 it to the ground, 
 And you find it ain't as easy as some people 
 
 might suppose 
 To make the blinded wilderness to " blossom 
 
 as the rose." 
 
 Oh ! you've got upon the ground, where the 
 
 rabbit ramps around, 
 And you find you've got a longin' for a toom- 
 
 stone and a mound. 
 
 But you get another crop in, and you want to 
 
 sink a tank, 
 So you saddle the "goanna," and you go and 
 
 see the Bank ; 
 And the Bank says: " Oh, yes, certainly, we'll 
 
 tow you into dock 
 For a mortgage of your desert, and your 
 
 implements, and stock." 
 Then you feel depressed and blighted, and you 
 
 think you could dispense 
 With the everlastin' cawin' of the crows upon 
 
 the fence ; 
 You wonder if yer Fate includes another nasty 
 
 jar, 
 When a cyclone comes a-roarin' an' you dunno 
 
 where you are. 
 
8 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Yes, you do you're on the land, with yer fence 
 
 half hid with sand, 
 And a mortgage on yer cattle, and yer 
 
 implements, and land. 
 
 Then you up and curse the land, and the 
 
 rabbits, and the sand, 
 And the everlastin' livin' on provisions that are 
 
 canned. 
 In the most impressive language that you've got 
 
 at your command, 
 You execrate the "Agents," and the Land Act, 
 
 and the land. 
 You roll your blessed bundle, and you reef your 
 
 trousers' band, 
 An* say you'll go and fraternise with Chinkies 
 
 on the Rand. 
 You stagger to the shanty, 1 and you sample 
 
 every brand 
 Of their soul-destroyin' liquors, and forget about 
 
 the land. 
 But you've been upon the land, and you've got 
 
 its Cain-like brand 
 The colour of mahogany your features have been 
 
 tanned 
 You've deep excoriations on your hard and 
 
 horny hand, 
 And your blessed heart's been busted in the 
 
 struggle with the land. 
 
 1 Bush-pub. 
 
MY MATE BILL 1 
 (JIMMY THE HUT-KEEPER, LOQUITUR) 
 
 THAT'S his saddle across the tie-beam an' them's 
 his spurs up there 
 
 On the wall-plate over yonder, you kin see's 
 they ain't a pair. 
 
 The * 'daddy" of all the stockmen as ever came 
 must'rin here 
 
 Killed in the flamin' mallee, yardin' a scrub- 
 bred steer! 
 
 They say as he's gone to Heaven, an' shook 
 
 off his worldly cares, 
 But I can't sight Bill in a halo sot up on three 
 
 blinded hairs ; 
 In Heaven ! what next, I wonder, for strike me 
 
 pink an' blue 
 If I savey what in thunder they'll find for Bill 
 
 to do. 
 
 1 Originally written by " Ironbark " for the Sydney Bulletin, 
 and included, with the author's consent, in Mr A. B. Paterson's 
 collection of Australian "Bush Songs." 
 
 9 
 
io IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 He'd never make one o' them angels with faces 
 
 as white as chalk, 
 All wool to the toes like hoggets, an' wings 
 
 like a eagle-'awk, 
 To sit on a throne an' trumpet, an' 'arp like a 
 
 bloomin' bard 
 He'd no more ear for anthems than calves in 
 
 a brandin' yard. 
 
 He could sit on a buckin' brumbie 1 like a nob 
 
 in an easy-cheer, 
 An' chop his name with a green-hide fall on 
 
 the flank of a flyin' steer : 
 He could show the saints in glory the way that 
 
 a fall should drop, 
 But sit on a throne? not William unless they 
 
 could make it prop ! 
 
 If the Heav'nly hosts got boxed now, as mobs 
 
 most always will, 
 Why who'd cut 'em out, an' yard 'em, or draft 
 
 on the camp like Bill? 
 But to straddle a blazin' sunbeam, an' muster 
 
 a push that flew, 
 Is graft that a man like William 'ud skearcely 
 
 care to do. 
 
 1 The wild scrub -bred horses in Australia are called 
 brumbies.' 
 
MY MATE BILL 11 
 
 He mightn't freeze to the seraphs, or chum with 
 
 the cherubim, 
 But if ever them seraph johnnies get "pokin' 
 
 it," like, at him, 
 Well, if there's hide in Heaven, an' silk for 
 
 to make a lash, 
 He'll yard the lot in the jasper lake in a blinded 
 
 lightnin' flash ! 
 
 It's hard if there ain't no cattle, but p'raps they'll 
 
 let him sleep, 
 An' wake him up at the judgment for to draft 
 
 them goats an' sheep. 
 It's playin' it low on William, but p'raps he'll 
 
 buckle-to, 
 Just to show them high-toned seraphs what a 
 
 mallee-man kin do. 
 
 If they saddles a big-boned angel with a turn 
 
 o' speed of course 
 As can spiel like a four-year brumbie, an' prop 
 
 like an old camp horse, 
 If they puts Bill up with a snaffle, an' a four 
 
 or five inch spur, 
 An' eighteen foot o' green-hide for to chop the 
 
 blinded fur, 
 He'll draft them blamed angoras in a way, it's 
 
 safe to swear, 
 As'll make them tony seraphs sit back on their 
 
 thrones an' stare ! 
 
SEND US GIRLS 
 
 The following cable message was recently sent from 
 Western Australia to London : " Send us as many girls 
 as possible our farmers want wives." 
 
 THERE'S loud complaint from the farming men 
 
 In the Land of the sable swan, 
 For there isn't a wife for one in ten, 
 
 They say, and they can't get on, 
 
 Unless some vessel, with crowded decks, 
 
 Her tops'ls soon shall furl, 
 And land a lot of the softer sex 
 
 A load of assorted girl. 
 
 So, send us over the salt sea foam 
 
 Some girls to sweep and scrub ; 
 Girls to see that we don't come home 
 
 Too late from the local pub ; 
 Girls to see that a bloke is fed 
 
 In a regular kind of way, 
 To soothe and pillow his weary head 
 
 At the end of the long, long day. 
 12 
 
SEND US GIRLS 13 
 
 A cry from the place where the breezes fan 
 The " jarrah " and " yate " l has come, 
 
 Conveyed by the capable cable man 
 To the Land of the crowded slum 
 
 To the Land where the London dude a tress 
 Of his waxed mustachio twirls 
 
 And the voice says, "pity our loneliness^ 
 And send us a lot of girls " 
 
 Girls for sweethearts, and girls for wives, 
 
 And girls to milk our cows ; 
 Girls to brighten our lonely lives, 
 
 Or weep for our broken vows ; 
 Girls to attend to the hand-fed calves ; 
 
 To honour and to obey 
 The blokes they take for their other halves, 
 
 And, who haven't too much to say. 
 
 Then send us women with lots of go, 
 
 As'll see to it every day 
 That the roosters don't forget to crow, 
 
 Or the hens forget to lay. 
 
 Handy girls with a cookery book, 
 
 And with no dislike profound 
 To givin' a hand with a reapin' hook 
 
 When the harvest time comes round. 
 
 1 Jarrah and yate two kinds of Western Australian 
 timber. 
 
14 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Girls to rise in a cheerful mood, 
 
 When they hear the " jackass " J laugh, 
 To light the fire, and cut some wood, 
 
 Or a couple o' bags o' chaff ; 
 Girls to chivvy the ruthless crow 
 
 From the eyes of the helpless lamb, 
 And pedal the sewin' machine, you know, 
 
 And girls to wheel the pram. 
 
 The cry rings out of a thousand throats 
 
 In piteous minor chords, 
 As a hustling cablegram it floats 
 
 To the Land of the House of Lords. 
 
 It says, don't send us yer woollen goods, 
 The sons of yer bankrupt Earls, 
 
 Yer calico stuff, or yer patent foods, 
 But send us a lot of girls. 
 
 Girls for mothers, and girls for mates, 
 
 And girls for maiden a'nts ; 
 Girls to scour the dinner plates, 
 
 And patch up our Sunday pants. 
 Keep the sons of yer bankrupt Earls, 
 
 Yer bacon, and cheese, and hams, 
 For, what we want is a thousand girls, 
 
 And a couple o' thousand prams. 
 
 1 The "Laughing Jackass" of Australia a bird of the 
 Kingfisher tribe with a note closely resembling human 
 laughter. 
 
SEND US GIRLS 15 
 
 Our cabled cry has alarmed the seals 
 
 Where the billow creams and foams, 
 And frightened the crabs and conger eels 
 
 Asleep in their wave-washed homes. 
 It's travelled north to the Land o' cakes, 
 
 Where the pibroch squeals and skirls, 
 And it's known all over the Highland Lakes 
 
 We are hungering here for girls. 
 
 Governess, nurse, and laundry-maid, 
 
 To iron our only shirt ; 
 Girls to give us the best * * first-aid " 
 
 Whenever we may be hurt ; 
 Girls to love us till Death shall pass, 
 
 And sever the marriage tie ; 
 Girls to give us the coup de grdce 
 
 Whenever we want to die. 
 
 Girls to iron, and girls to cook, 
 
 Who haven't got time to cry, 
 Who'll give us a sympathetic look 
 
 If we can't digest their pie. 
 So don't be sending us useless things, 
 
 As change for our gold and pearls, 
 But send us a ton of wedding rings, 
 
 And a hundred tons of girls. 
 
WHEN CLUBS WERE TRUMPS 
 
 THOUGH our cavern-dwelling parent 
 
 In the days that used to be, 
 Knew no uses for a brush and comb, or tub, 
 He possessed a lot of knowledge 
 
 That is hid from you and me, 
 And he knew the varied uses of a club. 
 
 Though he may have been a heathen, 
 
 And a trifle rude and rough, 
 When we patiently investigate, we find 
 That, though ignorant of science 
 
 And a lot of modern stuff, 
 Still he knew the way to deal with womenkind. 
 
 When the prehistoric person 
 
 Wooed the prehistoric maid, 
 He was rigorous, and rough, and often rude, 
 For he hadn't any manners, 
 
 And, I'm very much afraid, 
 
 That his methods might be stigmatised as 
 crude. 
 
 16 
 
WHEN CLUBS WERE TRUMPS 17 
 
 By the hair he used to grab her, 
 
 As she scuttled through the scrub, 
 And he dragged her to his cavernous retreat, 
 Where he ardently caressed her 
 
 With a hard and knobby club, 
 And the sacrament of marriage was complete. 
 
 Then the voice that breathed o'er Eden 
 
 Was the wailing of the bride 
 Plus the diapason grunting of her hub 
 As he sought the softest places 
 
 In her cuticle, or hide, 
 
 Which would take the best impressions of his 
 club. 
 
 So, through all the later stages 
 
 Of the cave-man's married life, 
 Which could scarcely be monotonous or tame, 
 He evinced consummate knowledge 
 
 Of the way to treat a wife, 
 And he always knew the way to play the game. 
 
 In the risky game of marriage 
 
 Quite a lot of modern chumps 
 Lose the " doubles," and the " singles," and 
 
 the "rubs," 
 Just through thinking, in their folly, 
 
 That, in marriage, hearts are trumps, 
 While the cave-man always knew the trumps 
 were clubs. 
 
 B 
 
i8 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 And his wife was meek and lowly, 
 
 And she kept within the range 
 Of her proper sphere, as women ought to do, 
 And she never searched his pockets 
 
 To relieve him of his change, 
 For he hadn't any pockets to go through. 
 
 She could fricassee a dodo, 
 
 She could mend a green-hide shirt 
 We may take it she was never asked to 
 
 scrub 
 While through all her weary struggle 
 
 With the squalor and the dirt, 
 She was heartened and encouraged with a club. 
 
 She was spry, and she was active, 
 
 And assisted in the chase 
 When they had to "scratch the gravel" for 
 
 their grub ; 
 But, however fleet the quarry, 
 
 Or however hot the pace, 
 
 Why, she always kept one eye upon the 
 club. 
 
 If he lingered till the morning 
 
 At the prehistoric pub, 
 
 And she looked at all like layin' down the law, 
 Well, he didn't say, " my darling, 
 
 They detained me at the club," 
 But he let her have the club upon the jaw. 
 
WHEN CLUBS WERE TRUMPS 19 
 
 What a sweet, domestic picture 
 
 Of the simple married life 
 Free from modern complications, for, of course, 
 If the club was instrumental 
 
 In the winning of a wife, 
 It was quite as efficacious for divorce. 
 
 When the cave-frequenting person 
 
 Had a yearning to be free 
 From a loving wife's affectionate embrace, 
 Why, a wallop with a " waddy," 1 
 
 Was an "absolute decree," 
 And there wasn't any " nisi " in the case. 
 
 No expensive fees to counsel, 
 
 No anxiety of mind, 
 Like petitioners, in cases of the sort, 
 Feel when active co-respondents 
 
 Leaving unpaid costs behind 
 Skip beyond the jurisdiction of the court. 
 
 What a lot we must be missing 
 
 In decadent latter days 
 'Spite the scientific lore of which we rave 
 For we know far less of women, 
 
 And their management and ways 
 Than the prehistoric person, in the cave. 
 
 1 Australian aboriginal term for a stick or club. 
 
20 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 And the modern wife who waketh, 
 
 When the early rooster crows, 
 And who findeth that her head is free from 
 
 bumps, 
 Ought to thank her stars and garters 
 
 As the vulgar saying goes 
 That she lived not in the days when clubs were 
 trumps. 
 
JONES'S SELECTION 
 
 THE KIANDRA MAN'S YARN 
 
 You hear a lot of " new-chum " talk 
 
 Of "goin' on the land," 
 An' raisin' record crops of wheat 
 
 On rocks an' flamin' sand. 
 
 I 'ates exaggerated skite, 
 
 But if yer likes I can 
 Authenticate a case, in which 
 
 The land went on the man. 
 
 Bill Jones 'e 'ad a mountain block 
 
 Up Kosciusco way ; 
 He farmed it pretty nigh to death, 
 
 The neighbours used to say. 
 
 He scarified the surface with 
 His double-furrow ploughs, 
 
 An' eat its blinded heart right out 
 With sheep an' milkin' cows ; 
 
 21 
 
22 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 He filled its blamed intestines up 
 
 With agricult'ral pipes, 
 An* lime, and superphosphates fit 
 
 To give the land the gripes 
 
 Until at length the tortured soil, 
 Worn out with Jones's thrift, 
 
 Decided as the time was come 
 To up an' make a shift. 
 
 One day the mountain shook itself, 
 
 An' give a sort o' groan, 
 The neighbours was a lot more scared 
 
 Than they was game to own. 
 
 Their jaws was dropped upon their chests, 
 Their eyes was opened wide, 
 
 They saw the whole of Jones's farm 
 Upend itself, an' slide. 
 
 It slithered down the mountain spur, 
 
 Majestic-like an' slow, 
 An' landed in the river bed, 
 
 A thousand feet below. 
 
 Bill Jones was on the lower slopes 
 
 Of 'is long sufferin' farm, 
 A-testin' some new-fangled plough 
 
 Which acted like a charm. 
 
 He'd just been screwin' up a nut 
 When somethin' seemed to crack, 
 
 An' fifty acres, more or less, 
 Come down on Jones's back. 
 
JONES'S SELECTION 23 
 
 Twas sudden-like, a shake, a crack, 
 
 A slitherin' slide, an' Bill 
 Was buried fifty feet below 
 
 The soil he used to till. 
 
 One moment Bill was standin' up 
 
 A-ownin' all that land, 
 The next 'e's in eternity 
 
 A spanner in 'is 'and ! 
 
 They never dug up no remains 
 Nor scraps of William Jones 
 
 The superphosphates eat the lot, 
 Hide, buttons, boots, and bones. 
 
 For this here land wot Jones abused, 
 
 And harassed in the past 
 'Ad turned an' wiped 'im out, an' things 
 
 Got evened up at last. 
 
 From this untimely end o' Bill 
 
 It would perhaps appear 
 That goin' free-selectin' ain't 
 
 All skittles, no, nor beer. 
 
 So all you cocky city coves, 
 
 Wot's savin' up yer screws 
 To get upon the land, look out 
 
 The land don't get onyous. 
 
THE BLINDIN', BLAZIN' WEST 
 
 (By a trans-Darling swagman probably called " Bill.") 
 
 WHEN a bushman comes to Sydney for a flutter 
 
 with 'is cheque 
 Why 'e 'ates to hear a city cove a-talkin' through 
 
 'is neck 
 Of the country, an' the stations, and of "goin' 
 
 on the land," 
 'Cos 'e's talkin' on a subject as 'e doesn't 
 
 understand. 
 
 If the cove 'as bin to Narrabri, or Gunnedah, or 
 
 Hay, 
 Why, 'e thinks 'e knows the country in a com- 
 
 pre'ensive way ; 
 If 'e's bin to Bourke 'e fancies 'e's a sort o' Burke 
 
 or Wills, 
 Though 'is 'ome may be a ash-'ouse in the 'eart 
 
 ofSurry 'Ills. 1 
 
 1 Surry Hills, a suburb of Sydney. 
 24 
 
THE BLINDIN', BLAZIN' WEST 25 
 
 But 'e needn't get a gassin' or a throwin' out 'is 
 
 chest 
 Fur, if Bourke 'as been 'is limit, why 'e 'asn't 
 
 seen the west 
 Not the west, as bushmen know it it's a long 
 
 way further back, 
 An' it's tryin' " umpin' bluey ' J1 up the sand-'ills 
 
 on the track. 
 
 But you'll know the west is comin' when yer 
 
 tongue's as big as two, 
 An' yer water-bag is empty, an' you've struck 
 
 the "Dry Paroo." 2 
 It's a land of perspiration, an' muskeeter-bites, an' 
 
 sin, 
 An' it's Hell with flies an' centerpedes, an' 
 
 sojer-ants throwed in. 
 
 If yer wants to go a-livin' wot they calls the 
 
 "simple life" 
 Get a "bluey" an' a billy, an j some bacca, and 
 
 a knife, 
 Get some dilly-bags for rations, and, perhaps, a 
 
 second shirt, 
 An' just strike fur them there " Meadows " wot's 
 
 been christened after Sturt. 
 
 1 "Umpin' bluey" carrying a "swag." 
 
 2 Paroo, an alleged ''river" in the west of New South 
 Wales and Queensland. 
 
26 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 They're to westward o' the Darling, an* to west 
 
 of the Paroo, 
 And you won't put up no records in the sand you 
 
 hustle through, 
 An' you can't expect the trip to be a picnic or a 
 
 treat, 
 But the livin' there is " simple," 'cos there isn't 
 
 much to eat. 
 
 When you've tramped from dawn till evenin' in 
 
 the blindin', blazin' sun, 
 When yer blistered feet is scaldin', an' 
 
 " Matilda " x weighs a ton, 
 When yer lower jaw gets droppin' in dejection 
 
 on yer chest 
 You'll be just about beginnin' to appreciate the 
 
 West. 
 
 You'll be 'appy with a blanket slung on coat- 
 straps fur a tent, 
 
 While the water from the " clay-pans " coats yer 
 stomach with cement, 2 
 
 For the general style of livin' would exasperate 
 a hog 
 
 An' the tucker'd give dyspepsy to a Dresden 
 china dog. 
 
 i "Matilda" "swag." 
 a Fact. 
 
THE BLINDIN', BLAZIN' WEST 27 
 
 All the Stations you will meet with, will be few 
 
 and far between, 
 An' you won't get apopletic with their generous 
 
 queseen, 
 For the squatters an' selectors on them lonely 
 
 western tracks 
 Is as plain and unpretentious in their 'abits as 
 
 the blacks. 
 
 There's a cook on Mumble Bumble oughter be 
 
 in gaol, they say, 
 
 For 'is numerous offences in the culinary way, 
 An' most anything the beggar ever curried, 
 
 'ashed, or fried 
 Would create a revolution in an ostrich's inside. 
 
 All the crows an' the goannas gets most dread- 
 ful stummick-aches 
 
 Takin' chances on the fragments of the dampers 
 that 'e bakes, 
 
 An' no self-respectin' emus ever ventures on 'is 
 "cake," 
 
 For they gets appendicitis if they eats it by 
 mistake. 
 
 But that Cook will get 'is gruel when they 
 muster in the spring, 
 
 For the stock-men 'as 'is measure, an' a green- 
 hide whip can sting, 
 
28 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 An' it's rather more than likely that they'll cut 
 'im into strips, 
 
 Fur they've twisted copper wire in the lashes of their 
 whips. 
 
 They're good 'carted sort o' fellers is the stock- 
 men in the scrub, 
 
 But they gets a bit dyspeptic an' short tempered 
 with the grub ; 
 
 Chasin' cattle through the "mulga" for a livin' 
 makes 'em hard, 
 
 For it ain't all golf an' tennis runnin' 
 " scrubbers " * to the yard. 
 
 It's a place to keep away from is the " mulga," 
 
 for the ants 
 Runs a sort o' private circus in th' inside o' yer 
 
 pants, 
 An' the sand-flies keeps yer scratching fur they've 
 
 teeth like carpet-tacks, 
 An' there's nothin' seems contented but the 
 
 camels an' the blacks. 
 
 " There's a law of compensation," says the 
 
 scientific bloke 
 If 'e 'umps 'is bluey westward 'e'll be sorry that 
 
 *e spoke 
 
 Fur the only compensation 'e'll be privileged to see 
 Will be flies instead of sugar in 'is korfee and 
 
 'is tea. 
 
 1 " Scrubbers " scrub-bred cattle. 
 
THE BLINDIN', BLAZIN' WEST 29 
 
 They may say the West is 'ealthy, an' the 
 
 Doctors says they find 
 That it's good fur some diseases, of a pulmonary 
 
 kind, 
 But you might as well be dyin' of a weakness of 
 
 the chest, 
 As be murdered by the tucker on the Stations in 
 
 the West. 
 
 Say, you brings a pore consumptive to the 
 
 country back o' Bourke, 
 An' you gets 'im convalescent 'till 'e's nearly fit 
 
 to work, 
 An' a station-cook, with murder in 'is 'eart an' 
 
 in 'is breast, 
 Ups an' socks 'im with a damper wot no emu 
 
 could digest ! 
 
 Wot's the good of all the trouble you've been 
 
 takin' with 'is lung 
 When 'e's landed in the stummick by a cook as 
 
 should be 'ung? 
 As for curin' 'is consumption, what in thunder is 
 
 the use, 
 If the beggar dies a victim to 'is outraged gastly- 
 
 joose ? l 
 
 1 Bill probably means gastric juice, but we can't be 
 sure as a man from across the Darling might mean 
 anything. AUTHOR. 
 
THE RUSSIA OF TO-DAY 
 
 THERE are many kinds of Russias, there's the 
 
 Russia of the Stage, 
 Of the cables, and the fables of the " shilling 
 
 shocker's " page, 
 And we've often idly wondered in a desultory 
 
 way 
 Which on earth of all the Russias is the Russia 
 
 of to-day. 
 
 There's the Russia that we read of in our little 
 books at school, 
 
 Where the serfs were always groaning under- 
 neath an iron rule ; 
 
 Where the wolves were always howling through 
 the watches of the night, 
 
 And the snow was always falling, and the world 
 was always white. 
 
 'Twas a land of grim romances of a terrifying 
 kind, 
 
 Which possessed a fascination for the un- 
 developed mind, 
 
 30 
 
THE RUSSIA OF TO-DAY 31 
 
 And we liked the thrills of terror which came 
 
 creeping down our back, 
 As we read of sledging tourists with the wolves 
 
 upon their track. 
 
 How we shuddered at the horror of the reckless 
 
 race with death ! 
 Saw the monsters' eye-balls glitter, felt their hot 
 
 and foetid breath ! 
 And with mad excitement followed all the details 
 
 of the run, 
 As the driver cut the traces of the horses one 
 
 by one. 
 
 Then we sighed with satisfaction when the tale 
 
 was nearly done, 
 And the post-house lights were gleaming, and 
 
 the cruel race was won, 
 But we doubt with much misgiving, now our 
 
 hair is turning grey, 
 If the Russia of our childhood is the Russia of 
 
 to-day. 
 
 Take the Russia of the drama oh ! we know 
 
 the wise en scene, 
 And the march of weary captives o'er the white 
 
 and windy plain ; 
 While the snowflakes blurr the landscape, and 
 
 starvation thins their ranks, 
 And a band of scowling Cossacks hovers ever on 
 
 their flanks. 
 
32 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Still this venerable drama wends and wobbles 
 
 on its way, 
 And the mildew of the ages gets encrusted on 
 
 the play, 
 And the int'rest wanes, and wanders, and 
 
 meanders round about 
 A proscribed and captive maiden, and a Cossack, 
 
 and a knout. 
 
 She's the idol of a highly revolutionary lot, 
 And she's broody as a bantam when she's 
 
 hatching out a plot, 
 While her father's chief ambition, as a Nihilistic 
 
 star, 
 Is to lodge some high explosives in the brisket 
 
 of the Czar. 
 
 But her amiable parent is a captive in the mines, 
 " Doing time" in expiation of political designs ; 
 He's a picturesque old party, and he's something 
 
 of a crank, 
 But we always weep sincerely when we hear his 
 
 fetters clank. 
 
 Yes, we know this sort of drama, and, though 
 rather overdone, 
 
 It appeals to lots of people, and it always has 
 a run, 
 
 But, although we love it dearly still we're doubt- 
 ful in a way 
 
 If the Russia of the drama is the Russia of 
 to-day. 
 
THE RUSSIA OF TO-DAY 33 
 
 There's the Russia of the novels it's a spacious 
 
 field indeed, 
 That the writer of the " shocker" has to cover 
 
 with his screed, 
 And he screws our expectations to the very 
 
 highest pitch, 
 While he thrills us with the story of Ivan 
 
 Ivanovitch. 
 
 He can scarcely overdo it, so he needn't be 
 
 afraid, 
 He may splash the " local colour " on the picture 
 
 with a spade, 
 He may spread it with a shovel, or a besom, or 
 
 a hoe, 
 If his paint is thick and lurid why his book is 
 
 bound to go. 
 
 He creates a charming countess, and a prince 
 
 or two, or more, 
 And some vodka - swilling "moojiks," and 
 
 policemen by the score, 
 For a moojik reeks of vodka as a sailor reeks 
 
 of tar, 
 And policemen swarm like rabbits, 'neath the 
 
 aegis of the Czar. 
 
 When he starts to build a countess, why he 
 
 doesn't scamp the job 
 She's a dainty sort of daisy, you can bet your 
 
 bottom bob 
 
34 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 She's as lovely as a houri, she's as wicked as a 
 
 witch, 
 And she casts her roving optics on Ivan 
 
 Ivanovitch. 
 
 She has barrow-loads of lovers, and they mob 
 
 her in the street, 
 And the Counts, who call to see her, mostly 
 
 perish at her feet, 
 And Dianne, the French domestic who attends 
 
 to her boudoir, 
 Gets ennuyee sweeping fragments of her lovers 
 
 from the floor. 
 
 He constructs a few conspirators who make 
 
 things pretty hot, 
 And he keeps his cast a-movin' while he worries 
 
 out his plot, 
 And he sets 'em all intriguing 'till, with infinite 
 
 finesse, 
 He contrives to get the hero in a devil of a mess. 
 
 Then he brings along more women, for he 
 
 knows his way about 
 Say, a maid or two of honour, and a maid or two 
 
 without 
 And some Captains, and a Colonel, bronzed and 
 
 bearded with a star 
 And he makes 'em snug and social round the 
 
 steaming " samovar." 
 
THE RUSSIA OF TO-DAY 35 
 
 Yes, he does all this, and does it most par- 
 ticularly well, 
 
 And the publishers can tell us how the " shilling 
 shockers " sell, 
 
 And we buy 'em, and we like 'em, but we 
 shouldn't care to say 
 
 That the Russia of the novel is the Russia of 
 to-day. 
 
 But the Russia of the cables? that's another 
 
 pair of shoes, 
 We get lots of vague impressions from the 
 
 "specials " in the " noos," 
 And the principal impression they have given 
 
 us so far, 
 Is that life is too explosive in the country of the 
 
 Czar. 
 
 Very hazy are the notions we have gradually 
 
 gleaned 
 From perusing the concoctions of the cable- 
 
 grammic fiend, 
 And among 'em are convictions that in Russia 
 
 you will find 
 There is too much " little-Father " of the step- 
 
 paternal kind ; 
 
 That a noble goes to breakfast in an armour- 
 plated suit, 
 
 That there's dynamite for dinner mostly stuffed 
 inside the fruit 
 
36 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 That when tired out with dodging the stilettos 
 
 and the lead, 
 There are bombs instead of pillows in his cosy 
 
 little bed. 
 
 That it's hard to run a paper in the country of 
 
 the Czar, 
 With a bobby standing sentry as you hammer 
 
 out a "par," 
 While located in your office, just to see what 
 
 you're about, 
 Stands a grim and grimy Cossack with a sabre 
 
 and a knout. 
 
 But perhaps the leaded details in the dailies 
 that we see 
 
 Ain't as perfectly convincing as they're really 
 meant to be, 
 
 And the smallest odds in roubles we'd be dis- 
 inclined to lay 
 
 That the Russia of the cables is the Russia of 
 to-day. 
 
 Still, we've come to the conclusion that we're 
 
 better where we are, 
 We don't want to go selectin' in the country of 
 
 the Czar, 
 That's the sum of our convictions in a gen'ral 
 
 sort of way, 
 And that life is too exciting in the Russia of 
 
 to-day. 
 
THE RUSSIA OF TO-DAY 37 
 
 As for freezin' on the Dnieper, why we wouldn't 
 
 take it on, 
 And we'd rather " closer-settle " on the Murray 
 
 than the Don ; 
 And, if pressed for an opinion, why, we'd rather 
 
 swig by far 
 From a bushman's battered " billy" than a 
 
 Russian samovar. 
 
 We would swap the finest sturgeon caught at 
 
 Nijni-Novgorod, 
 For the unassuming schnapper, or the modest 
 
 Murray cod, 
 And we wouldn't, on our honour, give a splinter 
 
 of "belar," 1 
 Or an acre of Australia for the Empire of the 
 
 Czar. 
 
 1 " Belar "a species of Australian scrub. 
 
WANTED, A NOAH 
 
 AT the dawning of the ages, when old Time was 
 
 in his youth, 
 Says tradition and tradition often hovers near 
 
 the truth 
 When the sturdy tree of knowledge was a tiny 
 
 little bud 
 Came a terrifying rumour of an overwhelming 
 
 flood. 
 
 There were scoffers in those ages their descend- 
 ants plague us yet 
 
 In the Municipal Caverns ot that ancient world, 
 they met ; 
 
 There they swarmed like flies in autumn, and 
 they buzzed like angry gnats, 
 
 And they yelled the old equivalents for such 
 remarks as "rats." 
 
 There were sceptics in those ages there'll be 
 
 sceptics when we're dead 
 Men who never see a brick-bat, till it hits 'em on 
 
 the head, 
 
 38 
 
WANTED, A NOAH 39 
 
 And, when Noah rose to order, they were very 
 
 impolite, 
 For they called his solemn warnings " bosh," 
 
 and prehistoric "skite." 
 
 Then he called his sons together, and they 
 
 grafted night and day, 
 And they felled the local timber in a lavish kind 
 
 of way, 
 And, before his offspring's energy had time to 
 
 cool or slump, 
 He had built a naval night-mare which would 
 
 give a tar the "hump." 
 
 'Course old Noah wasn't Nasmith, and his tools 
 
 were rough and rude, 
 And his views on ventilation have been cavilled 
 
 at as crude, 
 But his Ark had " beam " and " freeboard " and 
 
 was solid as a rock, 
 And the rain which fell in furlongs took her 
 
 nicely out of dock. 
 
 She'd an aromatic cargo skunks and elephants 
 
 and hares, 
 And goannas, snakes and 'possums, cats and 
 
 dogs, and "native bears," 
 But the lee- way that she gathered would have 
 
 broke a sailor's heart, 
 And the sea he had to sail on wasn't marked on 
 
 any chart. 
 
40 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 And the perfume rose to Heaven, as the vessel 
 
 pitched and rolled, 
 Of the miscellaneous vermin under hatches in 
 
 the hold- 
 How the deuce he ever caught 'em, how he 
 
 stowed 'em in the Ark 
 Is a mystery which Noah kept particularly dark. 
 
 He'd no quadrant in his cabin, he'd no compass, 
 
 and they say 
 That the latitude and longitude were mostly 
 
 washed away, 
 But he sailed her like a Viking and he never 
 
 lost a cat, 
 And he beached her like a seaman, on the mud 
 
 of Ararat. 
 
 But the years rolled on in thousands, and the 
 
 Aeons came and went, 
 And the tree of knowledge flourished 'till beneath 
 
 its fruit it bent, 
 And, though Time's grown old since Noah and 
 
 his hooker took the mud, 
 Once again we hear the murmur of a devastating 
 
 flood. 
 
 'Tis no mighty flood of waters now which 
 
 threatens with its roar, 
 But a wave of yellow heathen which may break 
 
 upon our shore, 
 
WANTED, A NOAH 41 
 
 And it isn't Arks but battleships which now 
 
 Australia lacks, 
 And there isn't any Noah, with his handy little 
 
 axe. 
 
 If this wave of yellow heathen rolls unchecked 
 
 upon the coast, 
 It will sweep away those liberties of which we 
 
 proudly boast ; 
 All our lares and penates it will quickly 
 
 overwhelm, 
 Yes, in sooth, we need a warship, with a Noah 
 
 at the helm. 
 
 But the scoffer and the sceptic stand for ever in 
 
 the way, 
 And they flout us as they flouted at old Noah in 
 
 his day, 
 And they blink like wakened owlets, for they're 
 
 blinder than the bats, 
 And they shriek their senseless shibboleth their 
 
 parrot cry of " rats." 
 
 Oh ! ye guardians of our sea-board, wake and 
 labour while 'tis day, 
 
 Fell the trees, and lay the keelsons of your war- 
 ships while you may, 
 
 Build your arks of safety quickly, get them 
 launched, and armed, and manned, 
 
 'Ere this foul, relentless billow breaks in 
 thunder on the strand. 
 
TIMES IS CHANGED 
 
 (A GROWL FROM THE OLD HAND) 
 
 WHEN first I went upon the track 
 
 In eighteen sixty four 
 A-shearin' sheep with Sawbie's shears 
 
 At three an' six a score, 
 
 We add a 'ard and bitter time, 
 
 An' shearers' 'uts was 'ell, 
 But now in some there's bedrooms like 
 
 The Metropole 'otel. 
 
 At night we played at " poker " on 
 
 The stations in the west, 
 While slush-lamps lit the festive scene, 
 
 An' stank like all possessed. 
 
 But now it's kerosene in lamps 
 
 A-'angin' from the ridge 
 In tony 'uts, so 'elp me cats, 
 
 It's " Solo-whist," an' " Bridge ! " 
 42 
 
TIMES IS CHANGED 43 
 
 A shearer now's a lordly toff 
 
 Who's 'alf 'is time on strike, 
 While t'other 'alf 'e's chasin' graft 
 
 Upon a motor-bike. 
 
 Next thing 'e'll 'ump along the tracks, 
 
 Instead of 'is ole swag, 
 Pyjamas and a tooth-brush in 
 
 A blinded Gladstone bag ! 
 
 They don't use Sawbie's shears no more 
 
 At three and six a pair 
 They've fakes like barber's clerks employs 
 
 In town, to cut yer 'air. 
 
 While we was grimed from top to toe 
 With blood, an' yolk, an' tar, 
 
 They're spic an' span as blokes wot serves 
 Be'ind a City bar. 
 
 The times is changed a lot, you bet, 
 
 Since first I took the track ; 
 The places now is all " inside " 
 
 Wot used to be "out back." 
 
 You daresn't leave the stock-routes now 
 
 On runs, on no pretence ; 
 An' every 'alf a mile or so, 
 
 You strikes a blarsted fence. 
 
44 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 With paddocked sheep, if tucker bags 
 Runs low, when on the tramp, 
 
 You 'av'n't Buckley's show to strike 
 A (lurid) lambin* camp. 
 
 The shepherds is all dead an' gone 
 
 (Disgusted and rebuffed), 
 Unless in some Museum they 
 
 Might 'ave a odd one stuffed. 
 
 " Prince-Alberts "* ain't the fashion now, 
 
 The shearers all wears socks, 
 An* runs accounts for underwear 
 
 An' banks their " beans " an' " rocks." 
 
 They never busts nor blews their cheques, 
 
 At shanties on the track 
 But then the grog ain't wot it was 
 
 When first I went out back. 
 
 The western stockmen ain't the coves 
 
 That once they used to be, 
 They carries little 'unting crops 
 
 That wouldn't 'urt a flea. 
 
 They ain't the kind of men at all 
 
 That made the echos crack 
 With eighteen foot o' green-hide, when 
 
 I first went on the track. 
 
 1 Pieces of old blanket wrapped round the feet were often 
 used by back-block swagmen in the author's time as a 
 substitute for socks, and were playfully called "Prince- 
 Alberts", though why, this deponent is unable to say. 
 
TIMES IS CHANGED 45 
 
 They're growin' wheat on Cooper's Creek, 
 
 They say I 'av'n't looked 
 But all the same I'm certain sure 
 
 The flamin' country's cooked. 
 
 For, though there's flashness everywhere, 
 
 An' blokes is better dressed, 
 The Banks owns 'alf the bloomin' runs, 
 
 The rabbits owns the rest. 
 
 The stations gives no " pints o' dust," 1 
 
 Nor sugar, beef, nor tea, 
 An' Murrumbidgee-whalin' ain't 
 
 The game it used to be. 
 
 The "jumbuck's" 2 gone, or goin' fast 
 
 The cockies 3 'as the pull 
 An' wheat an' milkin' cows 'as took 
 
 The place o' beef an' wool ; 
 
 An' me, an' all the likes o' me, 
 
 Will shortly get the sack, 
 For nothin's like it used to be, 
 
 When first I took the track. 
 
 1 The pannikins of flour formerly given as a ration to 
 swagmen on tramp were called by them "pints o' dust." 
 
 2 " Jumbuck" bush slang for sheep. 
 
 3 Small farmers in Australia are called by bushmen 
 "cockatoos," or briefly "cockies." 
 
THE IRON LAW 
 
 Now this is the hardest law of life, 
 
 Tis writ with an iron pen, 
 And graven deep with a chilled-steel point 
 
 In the hearts of tortured men. 
 
 Though fruit forbid is the fruit that's best, 
 
 In the average person's view, 
 And the joys we chase with the keenest zest 
 
 Are the ones we oughtn't to. 
 
 The fruits and the deeds which seem most sweet 
 
 In the eyes of me and you 
 Are ever the fruits we may not eat, 
 
 And the deeds we may not do. 
 
 'Tis the law of Life, or the law of Death, 
 
 We never know which or why, 
 But, as sure as we live and draw our breath, 
 
 If we break the law we die ! 
 
THE IRON LAW 47 
 
 The things we covet and wish we had 
 
 The bubbles we fain would win 
 Are some of 'em marked " unwholesome !" 
 "bad!" 
 
 While others are labelled "sin" : 
 
 And the things men mostly want (we think), 
 They are mostly doomed to miss 
 
 The things they never may eat or drink 
 The woman they must not kiss. 
 
 'Tis the law of Life, or the law of Death, 
 Though we never know which nor why, 
 
 But, it's up to us, as the preacher saith, 
 To keep the law or die ! 
 
 'Twas so since ever the world began, 
 
 And it will be when we're prone 
 In death, and the last despairing man 
 
 Has uttered his final moan. 
 
ON THE INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF 
 SCANDAL 
 
 " The evil that men do lives after them." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 WE observe, as we carry our bundle 
 Of care through this valley of tears, 
 
 That a scandal, once started, will trundle 
 Unchecked through long aeons of years. 
 
 Though the good that we do ain't recorded, 
 
 Or ever remembered, we find 
 That our sins are quite sure to be hoarded 
 
 Like gold, in the thoughts of mankind, 
 
 That to sufter injustice we're fated, 
 
 And never to have a fair deal, 
 As a race, since the world was created, 
 
 A glance at the past will reveal. 
 
 Look at Adam bucolic and hearty 
 When first he was put on the land 
 
 Not unlike the suburbanite party 
 Who taketh a lantern in hand, 
 
INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF SCANDAL 49 
 
 And walketh at night-fall and killeth 
 The slug on the cabbage and rose 
 
 Yet they say his relations with Lilith l 
 (A minx to the tips of her toes) 
 
 Were quite shocking and highly improper, 
 That's while he was having his fling, 
 
 Though he doubtless pretended to drop her 
 When Eve took him under her wing. 
 
 Though they say he talked bullocks and horses 
 
 Whenever he went out to tea, 
 If there'd been any courts for divorces, 
 
 Well, Eve might have got her " decree " ; 
 
 But her reason for rather preferring, 
 
 To file no ''petition," she owned, 
 Was, she'd nothing to wear at the hearing, 
 
 And so his offence was condoned. 
 
 Condoned, yes, perhaps, but be certain 
 
 The skeleton grinned not in vain, 
 That kind friends came and lifted the curtain 
 
 That hid it, again and again. 
 
 That each man told \nsfidus achates, 
 
 Each hag told her favourite minx, 
 As they strolled by the banks of Euphrates, 
 
 With whispers, and giggles, and winks. 
 
 Kendall calls Lilith, " the luminous leman of Adam." 
 
 D 
 
50 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 The youths told the maids, and waxed merry 
 
 We all like a yarn that defames 
 And the folks on the Tigris were very 
 
 Like those on the Trent and the Thames ; 
 
 And the scandal, though ancient and hoary, 
 
 Is fresh in the minds of us all, 
 As when first they repeated the story 
 
 In whispers, just after the " fall." 
 
 Take the story of Paris, the shepherd, 
 
 And Helen of Sparta and Troy, 
 Well, they've both been bespattered and peppered 
 
 With scandal enough to destroy 
 
 The very last remnant and rag of 
 
 A character whiter than snow 
 (Not that either had any to brag of, 
 
 Or boast of, as characters go). 
 
 But the point is, of course, that, though ages 
 Have passed since they lived their brief lives, 
 
 And annexed their fair share of the wages 
 Of sin, still the scandal survives. 
 
 If they did any good, it's forgotten ; 
 
 We only remember one thing, 
 That's the trick most decidedly rotten 
 
 They played Menelaus the King. 
 
INDESTRUCTIBILITY OF SCANDAL 51 
 
 It's the way of the world, oh ! my brothers, 
 
 It's sad, but it's awfully true, 
 'Tis your friends, as a rule, and no others, 
 
 Who keep your shortcomings in view. 
 
 They will patiently rake in the ashes 
 
 Of scandals rewarded at last, 
 If a spark, with a few feeble flashes, 
 
 Illumines some shame of the past. 
 
 They will fan every smouldering ember, 
 Which seems to have life in it yet, 
 
 And the things people mostly remember. 
 Are those we would rather forget. 
 
EURYDICE NIOBE JONES 
 
 SOME poets have ventured to sing 
 The poetical side of the stage 
 
 An exceedingly excellent thing 
 In this awfully practical age. 
 
 And writers of popular prose 
 
 In vast inexhaustible hordes 
 Have written, as every one knows, 
 
 The subject as bare as the boards. 
 
 The quasi-poetical scribe 
 
 Don't care for a play from the front : 
 No Sanctum is safe from the tribe 
 
 On a popular paragraph hunt. 
 
 They tout each theatrical type 
 In private, at home in his den, 
 
 With his wife and his slippers and pipe- 
 These fiends of the popular pen. 
 
 " Behind?" yes, they like to be there, 
 
 To follow the actors about, 
 To hear the stage-manager swear, 
 
 To hear the stage-carpenters shout ! 
 52 
 
EURYDICE NIOBE JONES 53 
 
 They suffer rebuffs and mishaps, 
 
 Get mixed up with pulleys and " guys," 
 
 They peer into bottomless traps, 
 
 And goggle and gape at the " flies." 
 
 Say's the scribe, " There's a glamour, you know, 
 Round the heroes of buskin and sock " 
 
 If he meets with an affable " pro." 
 He hangs like a hound to his hock ; 
 
 Sticks close like a sleuth to the chase, 
 
 Intent upon filling a tome, 
 And waits while he washes his face, 
 
 And puts on his coat to go home. 
 
 They can't let the actor alone, 
 They want to look into his life, 
 
 To know if he's any way prone 
 To liquor or wallops his wife. 
 
 They enter his kitchen, forsooth, 
 Examine each pan and each pot, 
 
 And give us, well, sometimes the truth, 
 And often, indeed, what is not. 
 
 They sing of that mouldy old clown, 
 The life and the soul of the troupe, 
 
 Who brought the house bodily down 
 With the little one dying of croup. 
 
54 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 They tell us in verse and in prose 
 Of the ballet girl's home in a slum ; 
 
 Of the virtuous Columbine's woes 
 With a hubby addicted to rum. 
 
 Of the girl who'd no time to be bad, 
 Who danced herself silly, she did, 
 
 Supporting an indigent dad, 
 An imbecile aunt, and a kid. 
 
 Of the virtuous fairy or fay, 
 With principles morally strong 
 
 (From a Puritan home where they pray, 
 And think that play-acting is wrong), 
 
 Who shrank from exposing each charm 
 In the glittering glare of the lights, 
 
 And shuddered with modest alarm 
 When first she got into her tights. 
 
 Of the priestess of opera-bouffe 
 Who bearded the baronet base ; 
 
 To all his advances said " pouf ! " 
 And flung back his pearls in his face. 
 
 An angel in tinsel and tin, 
 
 Alike without fear and reproach, 
 
 Rejecting the wages of sin, 
 The bracelet, the bangle, the brooch. 
 
EURYDICE NIOBE JONES 55 
 
 For ever the bards of this type 
 
 Will twang these lugubrious chords ; 
 
 We are weary of lighting our pipe 
 With apocryphal tales of the boards. 
 
 We'll lisp to our own little lilt 
 
 A strictly reliable lay 
 Of a girl who was certainly built 
 
 In a totally different way. 
 
 Eurydice Niobe Jones 
 
 Was a pantomime kicker, a star, 
 And Fame with a trumpeter's tones 
 
 Had brayed forth her triumphs afar. 
 
 She was fair as an angel is fair, 
 
 She was graceful, and "crummie," and sweet, 
 From the coils of her " property " hair 
 
 To the soles of her number two feet. 
 
 She was supple as serpents or eels, 
 Her song was the song of the thrush, 
 
 And the way that she kicked up her heels 
 Would make Mephistopheles blush. 
 
 Of virtue she hadn't a shred, 
 
 A double-entendre was her forte, 
 And she dressed, the Lord Chamberlain said, 
 
 In a way that no ballet girl ort. 
 
56 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 She was awfully wicked, this girl 
 
 Eurydice Jones of that ilk 
 From her forehead of powder of pearl 
 
 To the tips of her tights, which were silk. 
 
 And this was her infamous creed 
 (To shudder one really begins) 
 
 That it wasn't worth while to be d- 
 For a pitiful handful of sins ; 
 
 That it's better to go the whole hog, 
 If you start being badly behaved, 
 
 And to bust up the whole decalogue 
 Than, well, just to escape being saved ! 
 
 Yet she " drew " like a plaster of pitch, 
 She "took" like the very best lymph, 
 
 And the poor, and the "oofy," and rich 
 Bowed down to the high-kicking nymph, 
 
 She'd countless encores and recalls, 
 And cart-loads of bouquets each night, 
 
 And the bald-headed beaux in the stalls 
 Leered horrible senile delight. 
 
 Like the rattle of stirrup and bit, 
 The crashing of sabre and hoof, 
 
 Came the storm of applause from the pit, 
 The roar of the gods from the roof ! 
 
EURYDICE NIOBE JONES 57 
 
 The " johnnies" ceased sucking the tips 
 Of the canes they'd imported from France, 
 
 And grew dizzy and pale to the lips 
 With the whirl of her hurricane dance ! 
 
 She was quite of a different stamp 
 
 To the poet's ideal, you see, 
 And she didn't support an old gamp 
 
 Of a bed-ridden mother not she. 
 
 She didn't sing hymns 'twixt the acts, 
 But she'd blow off the froth from a pot, 
 
 And she'd pad her silk stockings with tracts 
 If sawdust was not to be got. 
 
 She didn't become the mainstay 
 Of a home that had gone to the bad, 
 
 Nor keep from rehearsal away 
 To coddle a " dotty " old dad. 
 
 She did none of the virtuous things 
 That a virtuous maiden should do 
 
 Her fingers were covered with rings 
 She never bought out of her screw 
 
 And the chorus girls cooed in the "wings" 
 
 In soft, pianissimo tones, 
 And whispered most scandalous things 
 
 Of Eurydice Niobe Jones. 
 
58 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 As an Amazon, armoured in tin, 
 She was goodly and fair to the eyes, 
 
 But she'd " snavel " the " wages of sin " 
 She'd take 'em, and strike for a rise! 
 
 She'd drive with a dook on a drag, 
 Encourage the wickedest earls, 
 
 Make eyes at a Bishop, and brag, 
 
 If you please, of her bangles and pearls ! 
 
 She wasn't religious a bit, 
 
 Or shrinkingly modest, not she, 
 
 And she'd leer at a cove in the pit 
 In a way that was shocking to see. 
 
 She hadn't a mind, we'll engage, 
 That from vice and iniquity shrank, 
 
 Nor a husband employed on the stage 
 As a carpenter, even, who drank. 
 
 She hadn't a sweet little elf 
 Of a baby commencing to coo, 
 
 And she did all the drinking herself, 
 And did it efficiently too. 
 
 She never lay tossing at night 
 Intent on benevolent schemes 
 
 To stop the old man getting tight, 
 Or yearned no, not even in dreams 
 
EURYDICE NIOBE JONES 59 
 
 To save that stage-carpenter's soul 
 And cure him of D.T.'s and " Jims," 
 
 And wean him away from the bowl 
 To a diet of gruel and hymns. 
 
 Alas ! we're afraid she's a case 
 Of the kind they denominate hard, 
 
 And in spite of her beautiful face, 
 
 Will be shunned by the popular bard. 
 
 She's no sort of a claim, we're aware, 
 
 To be ever put into a book, 
 But she's got most magnificent hair, 
 
 An ////penitent Magdalene look ; 
 
 And the Press with the public agrees, 
 This Corinthian column of vice 
 
 Is as naughty, of course, as you please, 
 But is most inexpressibly nice. 
 
 Mind, we wouldn't attempt to aver, 
 And we don't for a moment insist 
 
 That the model the poets prefer 
 Is a creature that doesn't exist. 
 
 We merely remark, and that's all, 
 That the girl you can back for a bit 
 
 To stagger the dude in his stall, 
 The mercantile man in the pit ; 
 
60 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 As exceedingly likely to swell 
 
 The manager's pockets with "oof," 
 
 To fetch down the whoop and the yell, 
 The voice of the gods from the roof, 
 
 Is the girl with the serpentine twist, 
 The thrush's mellifluous tones, 
 
 The " kicker " they cannot resist 
 Eurydice Niobe Jones. 
 
THE TIGER'S RENUNCIATION 
 
 AN ESOTERIC, ECCENTRIC, BUDDHISTICAL 
 BALLAD 
 
 ABDALAH HADJI BABA RAM, 
 
 Last sighted in Montana, 
 Deposes this gigantic cram, 
 
 And dates the lie " Nirvana." 
 
 He tells us he's been lifted zooks ! 
 
 By some celestial derrick, 
 To lofty heights among the spooks 
 
 Of Buddhists esoteric. 
 
 He claims, it seems, an Eastern name 
 
 This liar grim and hoary 
 For once a fakir he became 
 
 (Long 'ere he went to glory). 
 
 " I recollect," he says well, there 
 His lies gush forth in fountains 
 
 " What time I roamed, a grisly bear, 
 Among the Rocky Mountains. 
 61 
 
62 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 " An unregenerated bear 
 With no redeeming virtue ; 
 
 My aim in life to rip and tear, 
 And terrify, and hurt you. 
 
 " I used to gambol, gorge, and hug 
 
 Particularly rosy 
 Was life my cave was dry and snug, 
 
 And most 
 
 " I daily gorged myself among 
 
 Romantic mountain gorges ; 
 The rugged precipices rung 
 
 With wild, blood-thirsty orgies. 
 
 " I'd chaw up anything old mules, 
 And lumber men, and preachers, 
 
 Stage passengers, and Sunday schools, 
 And tramps, and State school teachers, 
 
 " I was a most abandoned bear, 
 
 Implacable in quarrels ; 
 All claws, and appetite, and hair 
 
 No principles or morals. 
 
 " A bear that walked in evil ways, 
 
 For my regeneration 
 I've suffered many a weary phase 
 
 Of psychic transmigration. 
 
THE TIGER'S RENUNCIATION 63 
 
 " I died what matter how, my tale 
 
 Must halt not in narration 
 I sank still lower in the scale 
 
 Of animal creation. 
 
 " And I became (naught could excuse 
 The course I'd been pursuing) 
 
 A Thomas cat a London mews 
 Re-echoed to my mewing. 
 
 "And such a cat ! all thickened tail, 
 And arching spinal column : 
 
 With agonizing yowl, and wail 
 I broke the silence solemn. 
 
 " A cat with spiky hair and rough, 
 And glaring optics tawny, 
 
 With aspect fierce, and sinews tough, 
 And flexible, and brawny. 
 
 " No pretty purring pet, ah ! me, 
 
 For laps of ancient ladies, 
 Or maiden aunts apparently 
 
 A cat straight up from Hades. 
 
 " No 'pensive Selima,' you see, 
 No Persian puss imported ; 
 
 I was a cat apart with me 
 No other cats consorted. 
 
64 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 " In savage wrath I stalked the tiles, 
 
 And woke up ancient codgers, 
 And thieved, and practised artful wiles, 
 
 And dodged the boots of lodgers. 
 
 " My soul was steeped in guilt, and, when 
 
 A brickbat bashed my brains out, 
 It took unnumbered cycles, then, 
 
 Of woe to wash the stains out. 
 
 " Enough ! what boots it to recall 
 
 The steps of my progression ? 
 I marched through all the animal 
 
 Creation in procession. 
 
 " Through endless cycles past and gone 
 
 I met with fresh surprises ; 
 My sinful soul kept plodding on 
 
 In manifold disguises. 
 
 " I've been a virtuous giraffe, 
 
 A conscientious camel, 
 A prodigal, a fatted calf 
 
 'Most every kind of mammal. 
 
 " I've flown with wings, been armed with stings, 
 
 Unlikely to entice one ; 
 I've been a lot of nasty things, 
 
 And, now and then, a nice one. 
 
THE TIGER'S RENUNCIATION 65 
 
 " I've been a moral elephant 
 
 (This last by special favour), 
 I've been a monk, I've been a skunk 
 
 Of evil smell and savour. 
 
 " I've been a hundred guinea ram 
 (At shows I've taken prizes), 
 
 A fly in amber, ants in jam, 
 And fleas assorted sizes. 
 
 " Methinks 'twas when I was a flea, 
 
 Again upon probation, 
 I first felt faintly, flutteringly, 
 
 A higher aspiration. 
 
 " Forbore to bite a clergyman 
 
 Engaged in meek devotion, 
 And in that holy hour began 
 
 Repentance and promotion. 
 
 " Henceforth, ascending rung by rung- 
 
 I pause not to detail here 
 Each step I stood again among 
 
 The higher-class mammalia. 
 
 " Until at length, in tropic clime, 
 
 A meek, converted tiger 
 (Alas ! there is no other rhyme) 
 
 I roamed beside the Niger. 
 
 B 
 
66 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 1 'Though instinct prompted me to kill, 
 
 I stifled it and hid it ; 
 I lived on rice, it made me ill, 
 
 But all the same I did it. 
 
 " In meditative mood I walked, 
 With pious thoughts enraptured ; 
 
 Some hunters came along, and stalked 
 Me down, and I was captured. 
 
 " Resistance would be wrong, they bound 
 And took me, tied with new rope, 
 
 A starring tour among the crowned 
 And uncrowned heads of Europe. 
 
 " My influence, as time wore on, 
 
 Was felt in the arena 
 Was not without effect upon 
 
 A fierce, old, black hyena 
 
 11 And every day, as all must own, 
 
 It penetrated deeper 
 In every heart save one alone, 
 
 A black-browed, sullen keeper. 
 
 " He scorned, indeed, the glorious host 
 
 Of souls in beasts embodied, 
 And I with poles was often most 
 
 Impertinently prodded. 
 
THE TIGER'S RENUNCIATION 67 
 
 " At feeding time his conduct, it's 
 Quite clear, could not be meaner ; 
 
 He always gave the gory bits 
 Away to the hyena ; 
 
 " The refuse of the slaughter sheds 
 
 With prejudices narrow, 
 He flung to me no bullocks' heads, 
 
 No shanks with lots of marrow ! 
 
 " One day he turned to reach his pole, 
 
 Alas ! in all our stages 
 Temptations come ; in sin my soul 
 
 Sped back a dozen ages. 
 
 11 Forgotten were Nirvana's host, 
 
 And all that Buddha teaches ; 
 I firmly grabbed the south-west coast 
 
 Of that rude keeper's breeches. 
 
 " I gripped the pants, ay, fold on fold, 
 
 Prepared for mastication, 
 And let 'em go ! ah ! friends, behold 
 
 My great ' renunciation ' / 
 
 " Accepted was the sacrifice, 
 My soul had burst her trammels 
 
 To masquerade no more in mice, 
 Or Thomas cats, or camels. 
 
68 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 " And ere one more decade was done, 
 
 Still walking circumspectly, 
 I stood beneath the glittering sun 
 
 A MAN, and walked erectly. 
 
 " A man no more with claws accurst 
 Could wash, and shave, and grow nails ; 
 
 A meanish kind of cuss at first, 
 But human to the toe-nails. 
 
 " In varied forms I rose and soared 
 Through long unnumbered ages 
 
 I've been a valet to a lord, 
 And sued him for my wages. 
 
 " It matters not each varied type 
 
 From memory to fish up, 
 I've been a merchant once (sold tripe), 
 
 A bailiff, and a bishop. 
 
 " And cycles came, and cycles went, 
 And still I kept advancing : 
 
 In thought the days and nights I spent, 
 Avoided drink and dancing ; 
 
 " Shunned all festivities and fetes, 
 
 All levity I hated, 
 I took no stock in syndicates, 
 
 And gravely meditated. 
 
THE TIGER'S RENUNCIATION 69 
 
 " I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, 
 
 Or read such books as ' Nana,' 
 I never chuckled at a joke 
 
 'Twas thus I gained Nirvana. 
 
 " And now I sit, a favoured ghost, 
 
 Among illustrious mummies, 
 Or essences, a glorious host 
 
 Of imbecile old dummies. 
 
 " We play no harps, no lutes, no cast- 
 
 Inets, no grand piana 
 Safe, frozen, fossilised at last 1 
 
 Nirvana ! oh ! Nirvana ! " 
 
MORAL PHILOSOPHY FOR LITTLE 
 FOLKS 
 
 LITTLE grains of rhubarb, 
 
 Spatula'd with skill, 
 Make the mighty bolus 
 
 And the little pill. 
 
 Little pence and half-pence, 
 
 Hoarded up by stealth, 
 Make the mighty total 
 
 Of the miser's wealth. 
 
 Little trips to Randwick, 
 
 Taking six to three, 
 Make the out-at-elbows 
 
 Seedy swells we see. 
 
 Little sprees on oysters, 
 
 Bottled stout and ale, 
 Lead but to the cloisters 
 
 Of the gloomy gaol. 
 70 
 
MORAL PHILOSOPHY 71 
 
 Little tracts and tractlets, 
 
 Scattered here and there, 
 Lead the sinner's footsteps 
 
 To the house of prayer. 
 
 Little bits of paper, 
 
 Headed I.O.U., 
 Ever draw the Christian 
 
 Closer to the Jew. 
 
 Little chords and octaves, 
 
 Little flats and sharps, 
 Make the tunes the angels 
 
 Play on golden harps. 
 
 Little bouts with broom-sticks, 
 
 Carving forks and knives, 
 Make the stirring drama 
 
 Of our married lives. 
 
 Little flakes of soap-suds, 
 Glenfield starch, and blue, 
 
 Make the saint's white shirt-fronts 
 And the sinner's too. 
 
 Little tiny insects, 
 
 Smaller than a flea, 
 Make the coral islands 
 
 In the southern sea. 
 
72 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Little social falsehoods, 
 Such as " Not at home," 
 
 Lead to realms of darkness 
 Where the wicked roam. 
 
 Likewise little cuss words 
 
 Such as " blast," and "blow," 
 
 Quite as much as wuss words 
 Fill the place below. 
 
A BALLAD OF QUEENSLAND 1 
 
 " OVER-LANDING " 2 JIM APOSTROPHISETH HIS 
 QUONDAM MATE, WHO HATH MADE HIS PILE, 
 AND GONE HOME. 
 
 OH ! don't you remember black Alice, Sam 
 
 Holt, 
 
 Black Alice so dusky and dark 
 That Warrego "gin" with the straw through 
 
 her nose, 
 
 And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark? 
 The villainous sheep-wash tobacco she smoked 
 
 In the gunyah down there by the lake ; 
 The grubs that she gathered, the lizards she 
 
 stewed, 
 And the "damper" you taught her to bake? 
 
 1 Originally written for the Sydney Bulletin, and included, 
 with the author's consent, in Mr A. B. Paterson's collection 
 of Australian " Bush songs." 
 
 2 Cattle drovers are called "over -landers" in bush 
 parlance. 
 
 73 
 
74 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Oh ! don't you remember the moon's silver sheen 
 
 On the Warrego sand ridges white ! 
 And don't you remember the scorpions and 
 
 things 
 
 We found in our blankets at night? 
 The wild trailing creepers, the bush buds, Sam 
 
 Holt, 
 
 That scattered their fragrance around ; 
 And, don't you remember that chest-foundered 
 
 colt 
 You sold me and swore he was sound ? 
 
 They say you've ten thousand per annum, 
 
 Sam Holt, 
 
 In England, a park, and a drag, 
 And p'raps you've forgot you were six months 
 
 ago 
 
 In Queensland a-humping your swag. 
 Who'd think, now, to see you a-dinin' in state 
 
 With lords, and the devil knows who, 
 You were "flashin' your dover" 1 six short 
 
 months ago 
 In a lambin' camp on the Paroo? 
 
 Say, don't you remember that fiver, Sam Holt, 
 You borrowed so frank and so free, 
 
 When the publicans landed your fifty-pound 
 
 cheque 
 In Tambo, your very last spree? 
 
 1 Taking pot luck with a sheath knife. 
 
A BALLAD OF QUEENSLAND 75 
 
 Luck changes some natures, and yours, Sammy 
 
 Holt, 
 
 'Ain't a grand one as ever I see, 
 And I guess I may whistle a good many 
 
 tunes 
 'Fore you'll think of that fiver, or me. 
 
 Oh I don't you remember the cattle you 
 
 "duffed," 
 
 And yer luck at the Sandy Creek " rush," 
 The "poker" you played, and the "bluffs" 
 
 that you bluffed, 
 
 And yer habit of holdin' a " flush " ? 
 Perhaps you've forgotten the pasting you got 
 From the "Micks" down at Callaghan's 
 
 store, 
 When Pat Flanagan found a fifth ace in his 
 
 hand, 
 And you'd raised him his pile upon four ! 
 
 You wer'n't quite the cleanly potato, Sam 
 
 Holt, 
 
 And you hadn't the cleanest of fins ; 
 But you lifted your pile at the Towers, 1 Sam 
 
 Holt, 
 And that covers most of your sins. 
 
 1 Charters Towers. 
 
76 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 When's my turn a comin'? Well, never, 
 
 perhaps, 
 
 And it's likely enough yer old mate 
 'LI be " humping his drum" 1 on the Warrego 
 
 banks 
 To the end of the chapter of Fate. 
 
 1 Carrying his swag. 
 
ECHO VERSES 
 
 SOME years ago I chanced upon a magazine 
 article containing a dissertation upon a now 
 almost obsolete kind of versification, much 
 affected by Ben Jonson and some of the earlier 
 poets, in which the first two or three lines 
 of each verse ask a question, and the echo of 
 the concluding words gives an answer more 
 or less appropriate. An amusing example was 
 given in the article above mentioned, which was 
 equally rough on the great violinist of the past 
 and his audience, thus : 
 
 " What are they who pay six guineas 
 To hear a string of Paganini's? " 
 
 (Echo) "Pack o 1 ninnies I " 
 
 I read this and a few other examples, and was 
 straightway stricken with a desire to emulate 
 this eccentric and somewhat difficult species of 
 versification, and now with every apology for 
 the crudeness of the effort, I lay my attempt 
 before the reader. 
 
 77 
 
78 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 The following echo verses are not on any 
 account whatever to be understood as reflecting 
 on the present or on any past Government in 
 Australia. They are merely to be taken as 
 shadowing forth a state of things possible in 
 the remote future when the franchise has been 
 extended a little further so as to include paupers, 
 convicted criminals, and incurable lunatics. 
 
 WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE 
 AUTHOR 
 
 AUTHOR, musing: 
 
 OUR land hath peace, prosperity and " rhino," 
 And Legislators true, and staunch and 
 
 tried 
 
 What trait have they, that is not pure divine, 
 oh? 
 
 (Echo interposing) " I know!" 
 What is it, if thus closely thou hast pried ? 
 
 "Prukt" 
 
 If thus into their hearts thou hast been prying, 
 Thy version of the matter prithee paint; 
 
 Tell us, I pray, on what are they relying? 
 
 "Lying!" 
 I thought their honour was without a taint 
 
WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE AUTHOR 79 
 
 Have they forgotten all their former glories? 
 Their virtue what hath chanced its growth to 
 
 stunt? 
 
 Oh ! wherefore should they change their ancient 
 mores ? 
 
 "More ease!" 
 
 What weapon makes the sword of Justice 
 blunt? 
 
 "Blunt!" 1 
 
 Thou wouldst not speak thus, wert thou now 
 
 before 'em : 
 
 Why do I heed, why listen to thy tale ? 
 Canst purchase, then, the honour of the 
 Forum? 
 
 "For mm I" 
 
 And what would blind Dame Justice with her 
 scale? 
 
 "Ale I* 
 
 Beware ! the fame of Senators thou'rt crushing ! 
 
 Too flippantly thou givest each retort. 
 What are they doing while for their shame I'm 
 blushing? 
 
 "Lushing!" 
 And drinking? pray continue thy report 
 
 "Port!" 
 
 1 Coin. 
 
8o IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Curse on these seeds of death, and those who 
 
 sow them ; 
 
 But there's another thing I'd fain be told 
 What of the masses, the canaille below them ? 
 
 "B-low than!" 
 
 Thou flippant one ! how is the mob consoled ? 
 
 "Sold!" 
 
 Now, by stout Alexander's mighty sword, or 
 
 Say, rather, by his Holiness the Pope ! 
 By what means keep they matters in this order? 
 
 "Sawder!" 
 
 With what do they sustain the people's hope ? 
 
 "Soap!" 
 
 Have they indeed no passing thought, no care or 
 
 Concern of what for safety should be done ? 
 What brought about this modern Reign of 
 Terror? 
 
 "Error!" 
 
 Is there no hope for thee, my land, mine own ? 
 
 "None!" 
 
 Base love of liquor, ease, and lucre, this it 
 
 Must be which coileth round her, link on link ; 
 Dark is her hope, e'en as the grave we visit ! 
 
 "hit?" 
 Of what black illustration can I think? 
 
 "/**/" 
 
WHAT AN ECHO TOLD THE AUTHOR 81 
 
 Alas my country ! shall I not undeceive her? 
 
 Shall I not strike one patriotic blow? 
 I'd help her had I but the means, the lever 
 
 "Leave her!" 
 
 May we not hope? speak, Echo, thou must 
 know 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Then shall be heard when, round us slowly 
 
 creeping, 
 
 Shall come this adverse blast to fill our sails 
 Instead of mirth, while hope aside 'tis sweeping 
 
 " Weeping!" 
 
 Instead of songs in praise of New South 
 Wales. 
 
 " Wails!" 
 
THE following ballad suggested itself to the 
 Author while in the remote interior, and suffer- 
 ing from a severe attack of indigestion, he 
 having rashly partaken of some damper made 
 by a remorseless and inexperienced new-chum. 
 Those who do not know what ponderous fare 
 this particular species of bush-luxury is, when 
 ill -made, may possibly think the subjoined 
 incidents a little over-drawn. 
 
 If a somewhat gloomy atmosphere be found 
 pervading the narrative, it is to be attributed to 
 the fact that all the horrors of dyspepsia shadowed 
 the Author's soul at the time it was written, and, 
 if further extenuation be required, it may be stated 
 that he had previously been going through a 
 course of gloomy and marrow-freezing litera- 
 ture, commencing with Edgar Poe's Raven and 
 winding up with the crowning atrocity (or 
 tf/^atrossity) which saddened the declining years 
 of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 
 
 FYTTE THE FIRST 
 
 THE squatter kings of New South Wales 
 
 The squatter kings who reign 
 O'er rocky hill, and scrubby ridge, 
 
 O'er swamp, and salt-bush plain 
 Fenced in their runs and coves applied 
 
 For shepherding in vain. 
 82 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 83 
 
 The squatters said that closed should be 
 
 To tramps each station-store ; 
 That parties on the " cadging suit'* 
 
 Should ne'er have succour more ; 
 And when Bill the shepherd heard the same 
 
 He bowed his neck and swore. 
 
 Now, though that ancient shepherd felt 
 
 So mad he couldn't speak, 
 No sighs escape his breast, no tears 
 
 From out his eyelids leak, 
 But he swore upon the human race 
 
 A black revenge to wreak. 
 
 He brooded long, and a fiendish light 
 
 Lit up the face of Bill ; 
 He saw the way to work on men 
 
 A dark and grievous ill, 
 And place them far beyond the aid 
 
 Of senna, salts, or pill. 
 
 He hied him to his lonely hut 
 By a deep, dark lakelet's shore ; 
 
 He passed beneath its lowly roof 
 He shut and locked the door ; 
 
 And he emptied out his flour bag 
 Upon the hard clay floor. 
 
84 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Awhile he eyed the mighty mound 
 
 With dark, malignant zeal, 
 And then, a shovel having found, 
 
 " Their fates," said he, " I'll seal ; " 
 And he made a " damper" broad and round 
 
 As a Roman chariot-wheel. 
 
 He soddened it with water drawn 
 
 From out that black lagoon, 
 And he smiled to think that those who ate 
 
 A piece of it would soon 
 Be where they'd neither see the light 
 
 Of sun, nor stars, nor moon. 
 
 For, when that damper came to be 
 
 Dug from its glowing bed, 
 Its fell specific gravity 
 
 Was far o'er gold or lead, 
 And a look of satisfaction o'er 
 
 That shepherd's features spread. 
 
 FYTTE THE SECOND 
 
 The shepherd sat by the gloomy shore 
 Of the black and dark lagoon ; 
 
 His face was lit, and his elf-locks hoar 
 By the rays of the rising moon. 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 85 
 
 His hand was clenched, and his visage wore 
 
 A deadly frown and black, 
 And his eye-balls glare, for a stranger fair 
 
 Is wending down the track. 
 
 The shepherd hath bidden the stranger halt 
 
 With courtesy and zeal, 
 And hath welcomed him to his low roof-tree, 
 
 And a share of his evening meal. 
 
 As the fare he pressed on his hungry guest, 
 And thought of its deadly weight, 
 
 With savage glee he smiled for he 
 Imagined his after fate. 
 
 The stranger hath eaten his fill, I ween, 
 
 Of that fell and gruesome cake, 
 And hath hied him away in the moonlight's 
 sheen 
 
 For a stroll by the deep, dark lake ; 
 
 For he thought he'd lave each stalwart limb 
 
 In the wavelet's curling crest, 
 And take a dive and a pleasant swim 
 
 'Ere he laid him down to rest. 
 
 The coat that covered his ample chest 
 
 On the lakelet's marge he threw ; 
 His hat, his boots, and his flannel vest, 
 
 And his moleskin trousers too. 
 
86 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 He hummed a tune, and he paused awhile 
 
 To hear the night-owl sing : 
 His ears were cocked, and his palms were 
 locked, 
 
 Prepared for the final spring. 
 
 An unsuspecting look he cast 
 
 At the objects on the shore 
 A splash ! a thud ! and beneath the flood 
 
 He sank to rise no more ! 
 
 The shepherd saw from his lonely hut 
 
 The dread catastrophe ; 
 A notch on a withered stick he cut 
 
 " That's number one," said he, 
 
 " But, if I live 'till to-morrow's sun 
 
 Shall gild the blue-gum tree, 
 With more, I'll stake my soul, that cake 
 
 Of mine will disagree." 
 
 Then down he sat by his lonely hut 
 
 That stood by the lonely track, 
 To the lakelet nigh, and a horse came by 
 
 With a horse-man on his back. 
 
 And lean and lank was the traveller's frame 
 
 That sat on that horse's crup : 
 'Twas long I ween since the wight had seen 
 
 The ghost of a bite or sup. 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 87 
 
 " Oh ! give me food ! " to the shepherd old 
 
 With plaintive cry he cried ; 
 A mildewed crust or a pint o' dust 1 
 
 Or a mutton cutlet fried. 
 
 " In sooth in evil case am I, 
 
 Fatigue and hunger too 
 Have played the deuce with my gastric juice, 
 
 It's * got no work to do.' 
 
 " I've come o'er ridges of burning sand 
 
 That gasp for the cooling rain, 
 Where the orb of day with his blinding ray 
 
 Glares down on the salt-bush plain. 
 
 " O'er steaming valley, lagoon, and marsh 
 Where the sun strikes down 'till, phew ! 
 
 The very eels in the water feels 
 A foretaste of a stew. 
 
 " I hungered long till my wasting form 
 
 Was a hideous sight to view ; 
 But fit on a settler's fence to sit 
 
 To scare the cockatoo. 
 
 " My hair grew rank, and my eyeballs sank 
 'Till wasted, withered, and thin 
 
 The ends and points of my jarring joints 
 Stuck out through my parched up skin. 
 
 1 Flour. 
 
88 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 " Shrank limb and thew, 'till at length I grew 
 
 As thin as a gum-tree rail ; 
 At the horrid sight of my hideous plight 
 
 Each settler's face turned pale : 
 
 " And as I travelled the mulga scrubs, 
 
 And forced a passage through 
 I scared the soul of the native black 
 
 A-gathering his 'nardoo.' 
 
 " On snake or lizard I'd fain have fed, 
 
 But piteous was my plight, 
 And the whole of the brute creation fled 
 
 In horror at the sight. 
 
 " Scrub turkeys, emus, I appal ; 
 
 Their eggs I longed to poach, 
 But they collared their eggs^ their nests and all, 
 
 And fled at my approach ! 
 
 "And the 'possums * streaked' it up the trees, 
 And frightened the young gallars, 
 
 And all the hairs on the native-bears 
 Stood stiff as iron bars ! " 
 
 The shepherd came from his low roof-tree, 
 And gazed at the shrunken wight ; 
 
 He gave him welcome courteously, 
 And jested at his plight. 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 89 
 
 He led the traveller 'neath his roof, 
 
 And gazed in his wan, worn face, 
 Where want was writ, and he bid him sit 
 
 On an empty " three-star" case. 
 
 And a smile of evil import played 
 
 On the face of ancient Bill 
 As some of the damper down he laid, 
 
 And bid him take his fill. 
 
 With mute thanksgiving in his breast 
 
 The food the stranger tore ; 
 Piece after piece he closely pressed 
 
 Down on the piece before. 
 
 And then his heart fresh buoyed with hope 
 
 Essayed to mount his steed, 
 But the horse shut flat as an opera-hat 
 
 With the weight of his master's feed ; 
 
 And horse and man sank through the sod 
 
 Some sixty feet or less I 
 No crust, I swear, of the Earth could bear 
 
 The weight of the gruesome mess ! 
 
 Then the shepherd grinned with a grizzly grin 
 
 As he notched his stick again ; 
 The night passed by, and the sun rose high, 
 
 And glared on the salt-bush plain. 
 
90 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Two " gins " set forth in a bark canoe 
 
 To traverse the gloomy lake, 
 And he bid them take enough for two, 
 
 For lunch, of the deadly cake. 
 
 Enough for two ! 'twas enough, I ween, 
 
 To settle the hash of four, 
 
 For the barque o'er-flowed with the crushing 
 load 
 
 They sank to rise no more. 
 
 And ever his fiendish lust for blood 
 
 His thirst for vengeance grows ; 
 In sport he threw a crumb or two 
 
 To the hawks and carrion crows ; 
 
 And as they helpless, fluttering lay, 
 
 His eldrich laughter rings ; 
 One crumb to bear through the lambent air 
 
 Was past the power of wings. 
 
 Beside his door he sat 'till noon 
 
 When a bullock-team came by ; 
 The echoes 'round with the whips resound, 
 
 And the drivers' cheery cry. 
 
 Upon the dray a piece he threw 
 
 No bigger than your hand, 
 Of the cursed thing, 'twas enough to bring 
 
 The bullocks to a stand. 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 91 
 
 And, though they bend their sinewy necks 
 
 'Till red with their crimson gore, 
 And fiercely strain yoke, pole, and chain 
 
 With savage, muttering roar, 
 
 The wheels sank down to the axle-tree 
 Through the hard baked clay they tore, 
 
 And a single jot from out that spot 
 They shifted never more. 
 
 Then the shepherd called to the drivers, " Ho ! 
 
 My frugal meal partake," 
 And, though they ate but a crumb or two 
 
 Of the fell, unholy cake, 
 
 Down, down they sank on the scorching track, 
 
 Immovable and prone, 
 And steel blue ants crawled up their pants , 
 
 And ate them to the bone ! 
 
 For days by his lonely hut sat Bill, 
 
 The hut to the lakelet nigh, 
 And he wrought his dark revengeful will 
 
 On each traveller that came by. 
 
 And he eats nor drinks meat, bread, nor gruel, 
 Nor washes, nor combs, nor shaves, 
 
 But he yelled, and he danced a wild pas seul 
 O'er each of his victims' graves. 
 
92 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Three weeks passed by, but his end was nigh 
 
 His day was near its close, 
 For rumour whispered his horrid deeds, 
 
 And in arms the settlers rose. 
 
 They came, hinds, shepherds, and shearers too, 
 
 And squatters of high degree ; 
 His hands they tied, and his case they tried 
 
 'Neath the shade of a wilga tree. 
 
 They sentence passed, and they gripped him 
 fast, 
 
 Though to tear their flesh he tried ; 
 His teeth he ground, but his limbs they bound 
 
 With thongs of a wild bull's hide. 
 
 They laid him down on a " bull-dog's " nest, 
 
 For the bull-dog ants to sting ; 
 On his withered chest they pile the rest 
 
 Of the damned, cursed thing. 
 
 They gather round and they stir the ground 
 
 'Till the insects swarm again, 
 And the echoes wake by the gloomy lake 
 
 With his cry of rage and pain. 
 
 O'er his writhing form the insects swarm 
 
 O'er arm, o'er foot, and leg ; 
 The damper pressed on his heaving chest, 
 
 And he couldn't move a peg. 
 
THE SHEPHERD'S VENGEANCE 93 
 
 'Till eve he lay in the scorching heat, 
 
 And the rays of the blinding sun, 
 Then the black -ants came and they soon 
 complete 
 
 What the bull-dogs have begun. 
 
 'Tis o'er at last, and his spirit passed 
 
 With a yell of fiendish hate, 
 And down by the shore of that black lagoon, 
 
 Where his victims met their fate 
 
 Where the "bunyip" glides, and the inky tides 
 
 Lip, lap on the gloomy shore, 
 And the loathsome snake of the swamp abides, 
 
 He wanders ever more. 
 
 And when the shadows of darkness fall 
 
 (As hinds and stock-men tell) 
 The plains around with his howls resound, 
 
 And his fierce, blood-curdling yell. 
 
 The kangaroos come forth at night 
 
 To feed o'er his lonely grave ; 
 Above his bones with dismal tones 
 
 The dingos shriek and rave : 
 
 And when drovers camp with a wild-mob there 
 
 They shiver with affright, 
 And quake with dread if they hear his tread 
 
 In the gloom of the ebon night. 
 
KING BILLY'S CONVERSION 
 
 KING BILLY was a myall black 
 
 Of very early type, 
 He never used a handkerchief 
 
 His royal nose to wipe ; 
 And he wore no sort of clothes at all 
 
 Except a short clay pipe. 
 
 He had no sceptre and no crown, 
 
 Or anything of worth, 
 But he'd paint and grease himself and stalk 
 
 The land that gave him birth, 
 As proud as if he owned the lot 
 
 From Moreton Bay to Perth. 
 
 His palace was a gunyah, built 
 
 Of boughs and bark of trees ; 
 It smelt of fish and 'possum-skins, 
 
 And dogs, and swarmed with fleas ; 
 And so did Billy and his gin 
 
 Her Highness, if you please. 
 94 
 
KING BILLY'S CONVERSION 95 
 
 He never, like some husbands, wore 
 
 His hat and boots to bed ; 
 But he'd lots of quaint domestic ways 
 
 And playful tricks instead, 
 And he used to bang his " lubra " l with 
 
 A " yam-stick" on the head. 
 
 He loved to hurl his boomerang 
 
 His simple joys were few 
 He mercilessly massacred 
 
 The "old man" kangaroo, 
 And knocked from off the highest trees 
 
 The screeching cockatoo. 
 
 He snuffed the desert breezes like 
 
 The poet's " Arab steed " - 
 Though rankest fumes of " Barrett's twist" 
 
 He much preferred indeed 
 On snakes, and almost anything, 
 
 His Majesty would feed. 
 
 He loved, a very long way off, 
 
 The battle's noisy din, 
 When " nullah nullah " blows were struck 
 
 About some erring gin ; 
 But 'possums, grubs, and carpet-snakes 
 
 He simply revelled in. 
 
 1 Australian aboriginal women are called "gins" and 
 " lubras," 
 
96 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 He loved the forest free the scent 
 
 Of wattle and of gum 
 But, better far than all, he loved 
 
 His senses to benumb, 
 And fill his royal person to 
 
 The teeth with Queensland rum. 
 
 He used to shock the mission folks ; 
 
 The missionary's spouse 
 The monarch's sense of modesty 
 
 Attempted to arouse, 
 But she didn't meet with much success 
 
 As every one allows. 
 
 The Reverend Blobs, he merely yearned 
 
 King Billy's soul to save ; 
 His wife's supreme ambition was 
 
 To teach him to behave 
 With decency wear pantaloons, 
 
 And wash, and comb, and shave. 
 
 She thus resolved, although, of course, 
 She knew she had her work 
 
 Cut out, to make him " titivate," 
 And dress, and come to kirk 
 
 An edifice the King was wont 
 Persistently to shirk. 
 
KING BILLY'S CONVERSION 97 
 
 *Twas thus that at the mission-house 
 
 Arose a friendly strife, 
 Each seeking to induce the king 
 
 To change his mode of life, 
 A Christian feud sprang up betwixt 
 
 The parson and his wife. 
 
 They oft discussed the means of grace 
 
 For this most graceless dog ; 
 And, touching these same ways and means, 
 
 They often came to log- 
 Gerheads, for Blobs had faith in prayer, 
 
 His wife had faith in " prog." 
 
 So, woman-like, she first attacked 
 The monarch's weakest part 
 
 (She felt convinced he'd neither soul, 
 Nor conscience, mind, nor heart), 
 
 And she invoked the goddess of 
 The culinary art. 
 
 She tempted him with promises 
 Of " budgeree tuck-out " 
 
 That's " pigeon-talk " for pigeon pie, 
 Roast goose, and bottled stout, 
 
 And caviare, and all that gives 
 An alderman the gout. 
 
98 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 She tempted him with choice preserves 
 Of apple, peach, and plum ; 
 
 And Stilton cheese and tinned sardines- 
 She even promised rum ; 
 
 If he to church next Sabbath-day 
 (Full-dressed, of course) would come. 
 
 Then Billy murmured "budgeree," 
 And "yohi," meaning "yes"; 
 
 He promised Christianity 
 In future to profess, 
 
 And, for his stomach's sake, adopt 
 The vanity of dress. 
 
 Then Mrs B. was filled with glee, 
 Her breast with triumph throbs, 
 
 She sent the king a stove-pipe hat 
 The kind that's worn by nobs 
 
 Coat, vest, and pants that once adorned 
 The sainted form of Blobs. 
 
 It's true that Blobs's pantaloons 
 Were thinned with fervent prayer 
 
 He'd sat them into holes behind, 
 And almost everywhere 
 
 But she patched, and darned, and thought they'd 
 
 fit 
 The monarch to a hair. 
 
KING BILLY'S CONVERSION 99 
 
 When Billy saw the parson's slops, 
 
 He didn't like the same, 
 For he knew he'd have an awful job 
 
 To fit them on his frame, 
 But he thought of " budgeree tuck-out " 
 
 And rum and courage came. 
 
 He thrust his arms right through the legs 
 
 Of Blobs's pants at first, 
 Then tried to button them behind 
 
 His neck until they burst ; 
 Then, over all, he tried to put 
 
 The coat, and failed, and curst. 
 
 He couldn't make things meet before, 
 
 Nor fasten right behind ; 
 His savage limbs were ne'er before 
 
 So cabined, cribbed, confined, 
 And so, the monarch's wrath was roused, 
 
 With fury he was blind. 
 
 He wrenched his sinewy arms from out 
 
 The missionary's bags ; 
 Unwound the coat-tails from his legs, 
 
 And tore the lot to rags, 
 And hurled them in the river-bed 
 
 Among the rocks and snags. 
 
ioo IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 'Twas Sunday morn the clang of bells 
 
 Upon the air arose 
 The pious Blobs walked forth to preach 
 
 (His mind in calm repose), 
 Nor dreamt that in the scrub the king 
 
 Was wrestling with his clothes. 
 
 The settlers churchward wend their way, 
 In prayer to bend their knees ; 
 
 The music of the mission bell 
 Was borne upon the breeze, 
 
 And smote upon the monarch's ear 
 Amid the mulga trees. 
 
 He heard and, jamming on his head 
 
 The missionary's tile, 
 Stalked calmly to the mission-house, 
 
 And, with a tranquil smile 
 Of smuggest self-complacency, 
 
 Meandered down the aisle. 
 
 The missionary's daughter was 
 About to play the symph- 
 
 Ony ; you'd really think they'd tried 
 To vaccinate the nymph, 
 
 And used some efficacious kind 
 Of dynamite for lymph. 
 
KING BILLY'S CONVERSION 101 
 
 She got a glimpse of Billy from 
 
 The corner of her eye ; 
 She bounded from the music-stool 
 
 Three feet or so on high, 
 And fainted in some person's arms 
 
 Who happened to be nigh. 
 
 The panic-stricken worshippers 
 
 Took several kinds of fits ; 
 Some draw their robes of righteousness 
 
 Around themselves and "gits," 
 And some, in stolid wonderment, 
 
 Within their sittings sits. 
 
 Then, with a rush, through exit doors, 
 They all commenced to cram ; 
 
 Saints jostled sinners in the aisle 
 The non-elect said " dam " ; 
 
 And Billy stood there all the while 
 As solid as a clam. 
 
 Describe, indeed, that wild stampede, 
 I can't, 'twould fill a tome, 
 
 For no one ever seemed to know 
 How he or she got home 
 
 Except the king, and supperless, 
 The bush he had to roam. 
 
102 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 For weeks, within the mission-house, 
 There was domestic strife ; 
 
 The missionary wept and prayed 
 The missionary's wife 
 
 Has had enough of royalty 
 To last her all her life. ' 
 
 Of civilising talents she 
 
 May be a little vain, 
 She may try them on a Cossack, or 
 
 A brigand chief from Spain, 
 But she'll never try to civilise 
 
 A myall black again, 
 
THE LITERARY HERO OF THE 
 SPICY NOVELETTE 
 
 I CANNOT write in " flowing style" or wield a 
 
 " mobile pen " 
 To use the cant of books that rant of literary 
 
 men 
 I cannot "dash off" poetry, and often have 
 
 regrets 
 That I'm not like the writers they describe in 
 
 novelettes. 
 They always have ideas of the most attractive 
 
 brand, 
 And flinty-hearted editors just take 'em by the 
 
 hand, 
 And load 'em up with whisky and Egyptian 
 
 cigarettes, 
 While they write their way to glory that's the 
 
 way in novelettes. 
 Oh ! the shilling novelette ! I must own I've got 
 
 a "set" 
 On the preternatural pressman of the shilling 
 
 novelette. 
 
 103 
 
io 4 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 The literary hero's pen runs like an auto- 
 car, 
 
 In quickest time he " jerks " a rhyme or " fakes " 
 a comic par ; 
 
 Collectors prize his signature he laughs a 
 scornful laugh 
 
 As with his auto - mobile pen he pens his 
 autograph. 
 
 It doesn't matter what he writes, or how he slings 
 it out, 
 
 Or whether it's in prose or verse, or what it's all 
 about ; 
 
 It always knocks the public, and with shekels 
 fills the net 
 
 Of the Admirable Crichton of the silly novel- 
 ette. 
 
 Oh ! the silly novelette ! Just the greatest fraud 
 I've met, 
 
 Is that quill - propelling person in the silly 
 novelette. 
 
 He writes an ode at six years old that takes the 
 
 town by storm ; 
 At twelve attains the highest planes of literary 
 
 form, 
 And editors of magazines crawl half across the 
 
 town 
 To beg a page of priceless " screed," and plank 
 
 their guineas down. 
 
THE LITERARY HERO 105 
 
 He climbs Fame's ladder at a bound or two, the 
 
 novels say, 
 (Of course, for he's a " bounder" too but that 
 
 is by the way). 
 But how the public eulogise, and how the critics 
 
 pet, 
 
 The literary bounder of the spicy novelette ! 
 Oh I the spicy novelette ! I've a very heavy debt 
 Which I mean to settle some day with the spicy 
 
 novelette. 
 
 He never drinks, but often " quaffs" ambrosial 
 
 kinds of brews, 
 Which stimulate his mighty brain and brace his 
 
 " giant thews " ; 
 He " sinks upon" an Eastern lounge, and 
 
 elevates his shoes, 
 And " dashes off" a leader for the local " Evenin? 
 
 Mm." 
 He has some giddy orgies, but he never knocks 
 
 about 
 With ordinary journalists who swallow pints of 
 
 stout ; 
 You always find him moving in the very highest 
 
 sets, 
 
 The joyous, jim-jam journalist of lying novelettes. 
 The misleading novelette I Its perusal doth 
 
 beget 
 In my bosom grave suspicions of the specious 
 
 novelette. 
 
106 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 He's got a " marble brow," of course, upon a 
 
 life-long lease ; 
 He's mostly half a London dude and half a god 
 
 of Greece 
 To read about his " thews of steel," all gathered 
 
 in a lump, 
 It gives an unsuccessful scribe the biggest kind 
 
 of hump, 
 He always grabs the girl that's got most beauty, 
 
 brains, and " rocks " ; 
 
 He takes her to the theatres in very low-cut frocks ; 
 He has a truly gaudy time among the girls, you 
 
 bet, 
 The petted, pampered pressman of the giddy 
 
 novelette. 
 Oh ! the giddy novelette with our virtue doth 
 
 coquette 
 It's really hardly proper to peruse the novelette. 
 
 He's always got a wondrous work a book ! 
 
 upon the stocks ; 
 He reads each thrilling passage to the girl that's 
 
 got the "rocks." 
 She prophesies his deathless fame and flops upon 
 
 his heart 
 Though brainy, she's quite usually a giddy kind 
 
 of " tart" 
 And when his "book" at last comes out oh, 
 
 then well I should smile I 
 The way they advertise his stuff it makes me 
 
 green with bile. 
 
THE LITERARY HERO 107 
 
 They drag it from the linotype and sell it dripping 
 
 wet 
 A million copies ! Rights reserved ! Oh, d n 
 
 the novelette ! 
 Oh ! the ghastly novelette! Jumping wild, I own, 
 
 I get 
 With the weird, abnormal genius of the awful 
 
 novelette. 
 
THE GIRL OF THE -DAY- BEFORE - 
 YESTERDAY 
 
 SOME bard's been shedding a scalding tear 
 
 O'er the dead, cold ashes of "yester-year " 
 
 A sort of figure of speech, you know, 
 
 For the frozen corpse of the long-ago 
 
 He tunes his wail in a doleful key, 
 
 And he tries to prejudice you and me 
 
 In a mean and a pessimistic way 
 
 'Gainst all that's bright in the world to-day. 
 
 He claims in a general way, you see, 
 That nothing's as good as it used to be, 
 That all his poetical soul holds dear 
 Went out with the days of " yester-year," 
 That naught will now with those days compare, 
 When men were gallant, and maidens fair 
 But, what's the matter, we humbly pray, 
 With the girl of the-day-befo re-yesterday ? 
 
 Say, isn't she fixed with a " shell-like ear," 
 As small as those others of " yester-year," 
 And ain't she fitted with eyes as bright, 
 And isn't her cuticle just as white? 
 108 
 
GIRLOFDAY-BEFORE-YESTERDAY 109 
 
 And hasn't she gotten a " chiselled nose," 
 And cheeks as red as the " damask rose " ? 
 Or, if she hasn't, why rouge ain't dear 
 It's as cheap as it was in " yester-year." 
 
 Her dainty waist is as small, you know, 
 As those of the maids of long ago, 
 And still some lover, on some pretence, 
 Discovers its true circumference 
 Of course it's the same old pantomime 
 The cave-man played in the dawn of time 
 And the vows he vows are the same to-day, 
 And he keeps 'em much in the cave-man's way. 
 
 The girl of the-day-befo re-yesterday, 
 Can wheedle a man in the old, old way ; 
 Her lips are sweet, and they cling to you 
 In the same old way that they used to do, 
 And the bard is blind, and his eyes are blear, 
 If he thinks that the maids of " yester-year " 
 Can give any (adjective) points away 
 To the girl of the-day-before-yesterday. 
 
 But what of the wives of " yester-year "? 
 We can well believe they were sweet and dear, 
 And that, when their hubbies a-sleeping lay, 
 They searched their clothes in the old, old way. 
 But odds in shillings we'd like to lay, 
 That the wife of the-day-before-yesterday 
 Can sweep your pockets as clean and clear 
 As her ancestresses of " yester-year. " 
 
HOW TO WRITE AN AUSTRALIAN 
 NOVEL 
 
 You must have a squatter's daughter, 
 
 And a hero who has caught her 
 In the clutches of his passion like a vice ; 
 
 You must have a fat old squatter, 
 
 And must make him make things hotter 
 For the hero than the hero thinks is nice. 
 
 And the maiden must be lovely, 
 And the hero pick-and-shovelly 
 
 Just at present but a cultured kind of bloke, 
 With a college education 
 Who has hoofed it to the station, 
 
 And is sinkin' tanks and post-holes for a joke. 
 
 You must bring the two together 
 
 With remarks about the weather, 
 Let her watch him while he shovels out the dirt ; 
 
 'Till she thinks the post-hole digger 
 
 A romantic kind of figger 
 Bar the patches in his moleskins and his shirt, 
 no 
 
HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL in 
 
 You may call the maiden Dora, 
 
 And must work the native flora 
 And the fauna in your tale for all they're worth ; 
 
 And a suitable location 
 
 For her fat old father's station 
 May be anywhere 'twixt Narrabri and Perth. 
 
 You must intersperse the wattle, 
 And the tree they call the " bottle " 
 
 You must weave 'em in the fabric of your tale 
 Better have the " tall yapunyah," 
 And some salt-bush, and a " gunyah," 
 
 And a cove called "Dick" to drive the local 
 mail. 
 
 As the story waxes duller 
 
 Introduce some "local colour," 
 Which is usually understood to be 
 
 Almost anything Australian, 
 
 From a blear-eyed Bachanalian 
 In a "shanty," to a parrot on a tree. 
 
 Have some shearers playin' "ante" 
 
 That is "poker" in a shanty, 
 And some pictures if they bust you with 
 expense ; 
 
 Have a drawin' of the station, 
 
 And another illustration 
 Of a carcase, with a crow upon a fence. 
 
ii2 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 For to be a bit digressive 
 There is nothing so expressive 
 
 Of the sadness of our solitudes immense, 
 Or so tenderly appealing 
 To our sympathy and feeling 
 
 As a carcase, and a crow upon a fence. 
 
 There's a stage in novel making 
 
 ('Spite of all the care you're taking), 
 When you get your story tangled in a knot, 
 
 And you lack the inspiration 
 
 To create a situation 
 For the clear elucidation of your plot. 
 
 Then your characters get cranky, 
 
 And to stop their hanky-panky 
 Takes the patience of a literary Job ; 
 
 And to analyse their notions, 
 
 And their feelin's and emotions 
 You must pick their souls to pieces with a probe. 
 
 Very aggravating features 
 
 Have these brain-created creatures, 
 
 And it's hard to make 'em do the things they 
 
 ought ; 
 
 And to keep 'em in their places, 
 And to make 'em show their paces 
 
 Takes a barrow-load of patience and of thought. 
 
HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL 113 
 
 Every novelist discovers 
 
 That the management of lovers 
 Is as hard as breaking milkers to the bail ; 
 
 And it's worse than " tailin' weaners," 1 
 
 And controllin' their demeanours, 
 To conduct a pair of lovers through a tale. 
 
 Though the maid may like the hero, 
 
 She may sink his hopes to zero 
 By pretending his devotedness to flout, 
 
 For the maiden, though quite nicey, 
 
 May be rather Wenham-icy, 
 And it's up to you to go and thaw her out. 
 
 To attain this consummation, 
 
 In a bath of perspiration, 
 And profanity, the wretched writer gropes ; 
 
 Still there's ways and means to do it, 
 
 If the writer only knew it, 
 And were up to all the literary ropes. 
 
 When you've made each lover spooney 
 
 On the other, and as looney, 
 As a self-respectin' lover ought to be, 
 
 Why, as author, your vocation 
 
 Is to force a declaration 
 Of their feelin's for each other do you see? 
 
 1 Looking after young stock in unfenced country. 
 
 H 
 
n 4 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 You can do this at your leisure, 
 
 At your sovereign will and pleasure, 
 
 And by any sort of methods you may know, 
 Make him ill, and let her nurse him, 
 Make her fat old father curse him 
 
 Till the maiden ups and gives away the show. 
 
 Better still, and much more thrilling, 
 
 Set the gallant hero killing, 
 In her presence, twenty foot of carpet snake. 
 
 Let the " light of battle " glitter 
 
 While he's jabbing at the critter 
 In a most convincing manner with a stake. 
 
 While the hero's eyes are gleaming 
 With the " battle-light," and beaming, 
 
 While his raiment with the slaughtered serpent 
 
 reeks, 
 
 In hysterics growing bolder, 
 She should flop upon his shoulder 
 
 In an ecstasy of gratitude and squeaks. 
 
 After that it's easy sailing 
 
 For your goose-quill not entailing 
 
 Any struggle of an energetic sort ; 
 
 While the maiden's mood is melting, 
 And while Cupid's shafts are pelting, 
 
 You can drag your post-hole digger into port. 
 
HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL 115 
 
 When his luck is just beginning, 
 
 And while Fortune's wheel is spinning, 
 
 You can give it half a dozen extra twirls ; 
 Though despised, and underrated, 
 You can prove the bloke's related 
 
 To a lot of blooming Marquises and Earls. 
 
 In the last concluding pages 
 
 Of the novel's later stages 
 Get the squatter in the clutches of the Bank ; 
 
 Have him rescued in the sequel 
 
 By the man who's now his equal 
 That's the bloke who sunk his post-holes, and 
 his tank. 
 
 Rope the man and maid together 
 And come in out of the weather, 
 Take a rest, and light your pipe, and ring the 
 
 bell; 
 
 Give your readers love and passion, 
 And, as morals ain't the fashion, 
 Why, the less you preach, the more your book 
 will sell. 
 
THE SUFFRAGETTE 
 
 WE'RE a highly favoured nation, 
 
 And we've got our share of pubs, 
 And no man-destroying mammals 
 
 Roam our forests or our scrubs. 
 We've got wallabies and wombats, 
 
 We've the platypus, the flea, 
 And an anthropoid arrangement 
 
 Which they call a " C.M.G." 
 
 Yes, we've wallabies et. cet, 
 And some others we forget, 
 
 But we hav'n't got the creature 
 Which they call the " suffragette. 
 
 She's as wily as a weasel, 
 
 She's as vicious as a stoat, 
 And she's madder than a monkey 
 
 'Cos she hasn't got a vote ; 
 She's as limber as a leopard, 
 
 She's as vain as a coquette, 
 And she loves a lively shindy, 
 
 Does the saucy suffragette, 
 116 
 
THE SUFFRAGETTE 117 
 
 Though she isn't in our set, 
 
 We would like one for a pet, 
 But we fear our lawful missus 
 
 Might say things one would regret. 
 
 She's a discontented creature, 
 
 And she's always in a fret, 
 'Cos her " rights " are not acknowledged 
 
 In the Government Gazette ; 
 For, that neither Bill nor Thomas 
 
 Can give points to Sue or Bet 
 Is the absolute conviction 
 
 Of the London suffragette. 
 
 And she smokes her cigarette, 
 
 Snaps her eyes of blue or jet, 
 While she brandishes her brolly 
 Like a Horse Marine cadet. 
 
 Then the frantic suffragette 
 
 Quite ignoring etiquette 
 Charges magistrates and bobbies 
 
 With a brolly dripping wet, 
 And a politician lately 
 
 Had to hump himself and get 
 Down a dark and winding stairway 
 
 To escape the suffragette. 
 
 You may very safely bet 
 
 There's a vacancy to let 
 In the cracked and crazy cranium 
 
 Of the silly suffragette. 
 
ii8 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 She is not among our fauna 
 
 And of gratitude a debt 
 For this blessing we are owing 
 
 But she's very often met 
 In the wilds of Western London, 
 
 Where the bobby spreads his net, 
 With much patience and discretion, 
 
 To ensnare the suffragette. 
 
 Oh, the awful suffragette ! 
 
 Let's be thankful that as yet 
 We've not seen that strange creation 
 
 Which they call the suffragette. 
 
A BUSINESS PROPOSAL 
 (TO EVA) 
 
 THE Wall Street man is hard to beat, 
 He's up to every trick and wile, 
 
 And oft he corners wool or wheat, 
 And sometimes makes a goodly pile. 
 
 I covet not his golden hoard, 
 
 His loud attire, his jargon strange 
 
 I'd rather sit upon the Board 
 Of Daniel Cupid's Stock Exchange. 
 
 If on that Board I ever get 
 
 I'll really struggle good and hard 
 
 To scoop and gather in my net 
 
 All " preference shares " in your regard, 
 
 To every trick I will resort, 
 
 And practise all the \yall Street wiles 
 To sell your other lovers " short" 
 
 And make a " corner" in your smiles. 
 119 
 
120 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Of Cupid's stock I hold, my dear, 
 
 Enough though " bears" may growl and 
 
 grump 
 To trade on " margins " for a year, 
 
 And never fear that love might " slump." 
 
 Oh ! could we but "combine," sweet maid, 
 And u pool our stock," and form a "trust," 
 
 Ah ! then we need not feel afraid 
 Though Cupid's Bank itself should bust. 
 
 In fact should Cupid bankrupt be, 
 
 And have to pawn shafts, wings, and bow, 
 
 It would be up to you and me 
 To take the little god in tow. 
 
 With wealth like ours, in such event, 
 
 It would become our duty plain, 
 To lend him some at three per cent. 
 
 And put him on his legs again. 
 
NURSERY RHYMES FOR INFANT 
 PASTORALISTS 
 
 THE present writer has often deplored the scarcity 
 of really suitable books for Australian children 
 both prose and verse and, with regard to the 
 latter, especially, he has observed that the talented 
 authors of " Old Mother Hubbard," and "Sing 
 a Song of Sixpence," etc., have in modern times 
 had but few and exceedingly feeble successors. 
 He has, therefore, sought in a humble way to 
 supply what may be truthfully described as a 
 long-felt want, and, taking the classic nursery 
 rhymes of our childhood as a model or basis, 
 he has endeavoured to adapt them to the require- 
 ments of the present age and a pastoral country : 
 also, while striving to preserve the purity of 
 thought, and high moral tone which characterise 
 such classical masterpieces as " Baa, Baa, Black 
 Sheep," an effort has been made to beguile the 
 infant mind with realistic situations, and local 
 colour, in artful combination with elementary in- 
 formation about finance and station management. 
 The attention of parents and guardians in 
 pastoral districts is respectfully invited to the 
 121 
 
122 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 following examples of the results of this 
 experiment : 
 
 Sing a song of saltbush, 
 Sandy-blight an' drought, 
 
 Forty thousand weaners 
 Slowly pegging out. 
 
 Start 'em on the stock-route, 
 
 Brand 'em with a "T"; 
 Isn't that a pretty sight 
 
 To show a mortgagee ? 
 
 Squatter king in sheep-yard 
 
 Counting out his stock ; 
 Missus down in Sydney 
 
 Doin' of " the block." 
 
 All the station blacks say, 
 "Boss, it's plurry hot 1" 
 'Long comes the mortgagee, 
 An' cops the bloomin' lot ! 
 ******* 
 
 See, saw, process of law, 
 
 The station must have a new master ; 
 This one makes but a penny a day 
 
 'Cos wool won't grow any faster. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Hicketty, spicketty (same old wheeze), 
 Sheep grew wool for mortgagees. 
 Mortgagees came every day : 
 They grew rich, while I grew grey \ 
 
NURSERY RHYMES 123 
 
 Baa, baa, black sheep, 
 Have you any wool ? 
 Yes, sir, oh yes, sir ! three bales full. 
 One for the master, who grows so lean 
 
 and lank ; 
 
 None for the mistress, 
 But two for the Bank ! 
 
 Dickery, dickery, dock ; 
 The ticks are in the stock ! 
 If not got out I'm up the spout, 
 As sure as a Dutchman's clock ! 
 
 Little Jack Horner 
 
 Made a snug " corner " 
 In wool when the weather was dry : 
 
 He bought wool of all sorts, 
 
 And, when squeezing the " shorts,'' 
 Said, " What a smart boy am I ! " 
 
 Little Bo-Peep she lost her sheep 
 
 Perplexing situation ! 
 
 But her plans she foxed, for they might be 
 < ' boxed" 1 
 
 With those of a neighb'ring station. 
 
 1 When sheep belonging to different owners become mixed 
 together they are said to be " boxed," and the process of 
 separating them is called "drafting." 
 
124 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 With dauntless nerves, on stock Reserves 
 
 She sought her blinded bleaters, 
 But her poor little eyes got bunged with flies, 
 
 And little black scrub-muskeeters. 
 
 Little Bo-Peep commenced to weep, 
 
 And worry about her losses ; 
 She feared disgrace, and she dared not face 
 
 The peppery station bosses. 
 
 Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep, 
 
 And dreamt she'd got them yarded 
 
 In a snug little nook, so she dropped her crook, 
 For her progress it retarded. 
 
 Then little Bo-Peep she sought her sheep 
 
 On the neighbours' Improvement Leases : 
 She found 'em (how hard !) in another chap's 
 
 yard, 
 With his tar-brand on their fleeces ! 
 
 * * ***** 
 
 Just one more 
 
 Simple Simon met a dry man 
 
 On a saltbush plain ; 
 Said Simple Simon to the dry man, 
 
 " D'jer think it's goin' ter rain ? " 
 
 Said the dry man to Simple Simon, 
 u Though the sky is o'ercast, 
 
 P'r'aps it will, an' p'r'aps it won't, 
 An' that's my bloomin' forecast ! " 
 
WHEN FATHER SNORES IN CHURCH 
 (BY GRAMPUS, JUNIOR) 
 
 WHEN father snores in church all other sounds 
 Are stifled by the loud crescendo tones : 
 
 The quiet dead, beneath their verdant mounds 
 Outside, awake in fear, with rattling bones, 
 
 When father snores in church. 
 
 When father snores in church it's like, O my ! 
 
 A tropic cyclone out upon the loose ; 
 Hysteric females squirm, and sob, and cry, 
 
 'Cos with their nerves it plays the very (d)juce, 
 When father snores in church. 
 
 When father snores in church the flippant smile, 
 The priest turns pale, the verger frowns 
 
 reproof ; 
 
 The nasal thunder rumbles through the aisle, 
 And rattles up the rafters in the roof, 
 
 When father snores in church. 
 125 
 
126 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 When father snores in church you'd think there 
 
 was 
 
 A lion in the vestry roarin' hard ; 
 The organist gets mad as cats because 
 His diapason can't be heard a yard, 
 
 When father snores in church. 
 
 When father snores in church it's like a band 
 That's all bassoon and drum a horrid vamp 
 
 Of tortured tones then mother takes a hand 
 And bangs him in the brisket with her gamp, 
 When father snores in church. 
 
THE CINEMATOGRAPH FIEND 
 
 A Japanese photographer was taking a cinematograph 
 picture of the reception of the late Prince Ito, Japanese 
 Resident General in Korea at Harbin, on the 26th October 
 1909, wher the assassination took place, and the operator 
 actually cinematographed the murder. 
 
 The photographer has sold the film upon which the 
 assassination is pictured for ,1,500. Daily Paper. 
 
 THERE'S a cove as wants suppressin' 
 Boilin' down's too good by 'alf 
 
 'E's the bloke wot's always messin' 
 With a Cinematograph. 
 
 'E's most awful pertinacious, 
 An' 'e ain't no sort o' use 
 
 (Wish I knew a efficacious 
 Way of cookin' of 'is goose). 
 
 'E's for everlastin' tryin' 
 Someone else to get before, 
 
 Nothin's sacred from 'is pryin' 
 From a weddin' to a war. 
 127 
 
128 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Where the bullets hiss an' hurtle, 
 An' where gapin' wounds are seen 
 
 'E goes snappin' like a turtle 
 For the films of 'is machine. 
 
 Groups of sunstruck, shipwrecked sailors, 
 
 Bleary eyed upon a raft, 
 Kings an' cads, and dukes an' tailors 
 
 All get cinematographed. 
 
 When two pugs of note an' status 
 Peels an' serves the " stoush " around 
 
 With 'is films an' apparatus 
 'E gets early on the ground. 
 
 Snaps their classic mugs an' noses 
 
 For the public to adore, 
 An* their attitudes an' poses, 
 
 And ' e photergraphs the gore ! 
 
 Every scene that's grave or giddy, 
 
 Well, 'is records 'its it off, 
 From the christenin' of a kiddy 
 
 To the plantin' of a toff: 
 
 From a lot of women sportin' 
 
 In the breakers for a lark, 
 To a fancy-bloke a-courtin' 
 
 Of 'is donah in the park : 
 
THE CINEMATOGRAPH FIEND 129 
 
 From a 'igh church confirmation, 
 
 With a Bishop on the job, 
 To the crool assassination 
 
 Of an Asiatic nob. 
 
 For, you can't be stabbed or dyin' 
 
 From a wallop with a stick 
 But the bloke 'e comes a-tryin' 
 
 For to snap your final kick. 
 
 When the Judgment Day is dawnin', 
 
 When the final word is said, 
 When the churchyards take to yawnin', 
 
 An' to lettin' loose the dead, 
 
 When the last loud trump is tootin' 
 Well, there ain't no call to laugh 
 
 'E'll be there as sure as shootin' 
 With 'is cinematograph. 
 
THE MODEL, MODERN CABINET 
 MINISTER 
 
 (WRITTEN FOR THE SYDNEY BULLETIN WITH 
 APOLOGIES TO THE LATE W. S. GILBERT) 
 
 I AM a man of multiform accomplishments and 
 mystery, 
 
 You'll scarcely find my prototype in new or 
 ancient history. 
 
 Although my enemies have tried all manner of 
 preventatives, 
 
 I've got to be a leader in the 'Ouse of Represent- 
 atives. 
 
 On me a vote of censure has effects no more 
 
 emphatical, 
 Than water on the backs of ducks or other birds 
 
 aquatical, 
 In fact in all diplomacy 'mong friends or parties 
 
 sinister 
 I am most unmistakeably a model, modern 
 
 Minister. 
 
 130 
 
MODERN CABINET MINISTER 131 
 
 I hav'n't any scruples which a cove could call 
 young-ladyish, 
 
 My grammar's bad, my principles are shadowy 
 and shadyish, 
 
 But I can crush an obstacle that's nearly insur- 
 mountable, 
 
 And keep in office in a way that's almost 
 unaccountable. 
 
 My manner is ambiguous, inscrutable, Jesuitical, 
 My equal you will scarcely find among the 
 
 push political, 
 And in a matter where a smile may mask a 
 
 purpose sinister 
 I am the modern model of a meretricious 
 
 Minister. 
 
 My views change colour quicker than an African 
 
 chameleon ; 
 
 In verbiage I'm able to pile Ossa on to Pelion. 
 When I can make a speech without misplacing 
 
 every aspirate, 
 And making slips in grammar calculated to 
 
 exasperate 
 
 The shade of Lindley Murray, or that mighty 
 
 Lexicographer, 
 Sam Johnson, or that bigoted old buffer, his 
 
 biographer, 
 Why, men will think, in spite of foes who hostile 
 
 are and sinister, 
 That I'm a matchless masterpiece, and model, ' 
 
 modern Minister. 
 
A POLITICAL BALLAD 
 (A LA PATIENCE) 
 
 (ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR SYDNEY BULLETIN) 
 
 IF you're anxious for to shine 
 In the Legislative line 
 
 As a model M.L.A. 1 
 You must get up sundry facts 
 With respect to certain Acts 
 
 In a desultory kind of way : 
 You need not have been to college, 
 Or possess a lot of knowledge, 
 
 Or be cultured or refined 
 You can represent the nation 
 Without any education, 
 
 Or a particle of what's called mind. 
 
 And every one will say, 
 
 When you ope' your mouth to bray, 
 If he knows so little and can say so much 
 
 On a matter that's obscure to me, 
 Why, what a preternaturally wise old ass 
 
 This M.L.A. must be I 
 
 1 Member of Legislative Assembly. 
 132 
 
A POLITICAL BALLAD 133 
 
 You must say you've got a " mission, " 
 You must join the Opposition, 
 
 And oppose the Premier's sway ; 
 You must combat every measure 
 For expending public treasure 
 
 In a most determined way : 
 You must sit up late o' nights 
 Just to vindicate the rights 
 
 Of the persecuted working-man ; 
 With a clique you must be banded 
 To protect the 'orny-'anded, 
 
 And the 'ard-worked artisan ; 
 
 And every one will say 
 
 Of this model M.L.A. 
 If he's so energetic for a lot of working men 
 
 Who are nobody to you or me, 
 Why, what a disinterested grand old bloke 
 
 This M.L.A. must be ! 
 
 Don't imagine for a second 
 That much eloquence is reckoned 
 
 Very prevalent amongst M.P.'s ; 
 If you catch the Speaker's optic 
 You may jabber Dutch, or Coptic, 
 
 Or any kind of rot you please. 
 A speech to be effective 
 Ought to bristle with invective, 
 
 And it's just as well perhaps to state 
 That you really needn't worry 
 To invest in Lindley Murray 
 
 For he's pretty nearly out of date ; 
 
134 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 And every one will say 
 
 As they read your speech next day, 
 With the grammar all corrected and the slang 
 cut out, 
 
 And not a single great big " D," 
 Why, what a deliciously refined old bird 
 
 This M.L.A. must be ! 
 
HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP "INSOLVENT" 
 (THE MODERN PHANTOM SHIP) l 
 
 OH ! we love to read the legends 
 
 Of the ancient sailor bloke 
 With his pigtail and his cutlas, 
 
 And his heart of solid oak : 
 
 We delight in tales of " boarders " 
 Not the sort who vainly gnash 
 
 Worn-out molars in their efforts 
 To disintegrate their hash 
 
 But those buccaneering tars who 
 Brought the Spaniard to his knees, 
 
 When yard-arms were lashed together, 
 And when Drake was on the seas 
 
 For, to sack a Spanish city 
 
 Was quite etiquette, you know, 
 
 For a fashionable pirate 
 
 Of three hundred years ago. 
 
 1 Concerning the Dreadnought which it was recently 
 rumoured Australia was about to present to Great Britain. 
 
136 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 But this buccaneering person, 
 Though his pluck was hard to beat, 
 
 Was as full of superstition 
 As an egg is full of meat. 
 
 And the sweat of terror gathered 
 
 On his corrugated brow 
 If he saw the Flying Dutchman 
 
 Looming large upon his bow. 
 
 Now, though Vanderdecken's vessel 
 Once a harbinger of woe 
 
 Has retreated to the limbo 
 Where most superstitions go, 
 
 And the Dutchman, in his haven 
 'Mid the shadows of the past, 
 
 Doesn't wreck the nervous system 
 Of the man before the mast, 
 
 Still (and pYaps it's just as well to 
 Give the modern tar the tip) 
 
 There's another phantom vessel 
 Gettin' ready on the "slip" 
 
 One more horror to be added 
 
 To the terrors of the seas, 
 Quite transcending all the bogies 
 
 Which are born of toasted cheese 
 
HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP "INSOLVENT" 137 
 
 And the Dutchman won't be in it 
 
 As a spook of high degree 
 When Australia's Phantom Dreadnought 
 
 Gets her keel upon the sea. 
 
 She's a dandy craft, for certain, 
 
 Built of promises and hopes ; 
 She'll have strings of lies for cordage, 
 
 And for cables, and for ropes. 
 
 She will be, it's been asserted, 
 Quite the queerest ship that floats, 
 
 For, while all her flags and ensigns 
 Will be promissory notes, 
 
 If they jerk her signal-halyards 
 
 As she wallows in the seas, 
 I.O.U's, instead of bunting, 
 
 Will be flapping in the breeze ! 
 
 Then well just by way of ballast 
 
 We have recently been told, 
 She'll have quite a heavy mortgage 
 
 Under hatches in her hold. 
 
 And, as drunkenly, she wobbles 
 On each billow's crested ridge, 
 
 Moss and Cohen will be strutting 
 " In possession " on her bridge. 
 
138 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 She'll be christened the " Insolvent" 
 
 For, it's positively true, 
 She'll be built of money borrowed 
 
 From the European Jew. 
 
 And the ocean-going public, 
 Will be bound to get a shock 
 
 When this grim and grisly phantom 
 Has been floated out of dock. 
 
 If the tars of Drake and Hawkins 
 Had encountered such a ship 
 
 They'd have got the hump, the horrors, 
 And the palsy, and the pip. 
 
 And all other spooks and bogies 
 Can go home and go to sleep 
 
 When the battle-ship Insolvent 
 Takes to ploughin' up the deep. 
 
IS WOMAN A FAILURE? 
 
 At a conference of the Australian Natives' Association 
 
 recently a Mr Q , referring to feminine members of the 
 
 Association, stated that he considered women were a 
 failure, and an incubus on the Association. 
 
 MR Q , you've been a-hurtin' 
 
 Of our feelin's by assertin' 
 That a woman (would we had one on our lap !) 
 
 Is a failure and an incu- 
 
 Bus, excuse us if we think you 
 Wus than any Heathen Chinaman or Jap. 
 
 Such a bald assertion vexes : 
 
 Such a libel on " the sex " is 
 Quite sufficient to upset us from our perch, 
 
 For, we've always worshipped women 
 
 Walkin', dancin', shoppin', swimmin', 
 Laughin', weepin', smilin', snorin', and in 
 church. 
 
 When a chump like Q thus poses 
 
 As a critic (Holy Moses !) 
 Of the sex for which such deep regard we feel, 
 
 By the lips of Blanch or Rosa 
 
 We grow doubtful if he knows a 
 Pretty woman from a walrus or a seal. 
 139 
 
140 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Give us truth, for, lo ! we crave it, 
 Let him state per affidavit, 
 
 Duly witnessed by a qualified J.P., 
 Or by solemn affirmation, 
 Without mental reservation, 
 
 Has he ever taken one upon his knee? 
 
 Let him say, without evasion, 
 
 If he ever on occasion 
 (We are really only seeking for the truth) 
 
 Has thus held a willing damsel, 
 
 Or some coy and pouting ma'mselle, 
 And has found her such an "incubus," forsooth! 
 
 Let him say, for there's no knowing, 
 
 If he's taken girls out rowing 
 When the moon has shone resplendent in the 
 sky, 
 
 If in " hansom," or in boat, or 
 
 In a taxicab, or motor 
 He has taken 'em to Manly on the sly. 
 
 Has he ever fairly chased 'em ? 
 
 Has he caught 'em, and embraced 'em ? 
 Has he sampled any nectar from their lips? 
 
 Has he seen 'em in the breakers ? 
 
 Even Pharisees and Quakers 
 Love to watch the graceful curving of their hips. 
 
IS WOMAN A FAILURE? 141 
 
 When we see injustice meted 
 
 Out to woman we grow heated, 
 And we query Q 's most questionable taste. 
 
 She's no failure, Oh ! my brother, 
 
 As a wife, or as a mother, 
 Or a girl with someone's arm around her waist. 
 
 All Q 's views are topsy-turvy, 
 
 If her form, so nice and curvy, 
 To his bosom he were privileged to press, 
 
 He'd admit, without negation, 
 
 That a girl, in her vocation 
 As a sweetheart, is a positive success. 
 
 Go to, Q , we do beseech you 
 
 Get some pretty girl to teach you 
 How to kiss her as a damsel should be kissed ; 
 
 Study woman more completely, 
 
 In the abstract and concretely, 
 For you've really no idea what you've missed. 
 
SOME PREVAILING DELUSIONS 
 
 THERE are people, and their number is immense, 
 Who half-consciously persist in some pretence, 
 
 Some preposterous delusion, 
 
 To the practical exclusion, 
 Of the cold and searching light of common-sense. 
 
 Bar these strange hallucinations, known as 
 "rats," 
 
 They are often level-headed, yes, and that's 
 Just what makes their cases sadder, 
 For, in certain ways they're madder 
 
 Than the maddest manufacturer of hats. 
 
 There's a wretched little bounder of a clerk 
 Throws a shadow like a paling from a park- 
 He's been practising ju-jitsu, 
 But suppose the beggar hits you 
 On the smeller, why, it wouldn't leave a mark. 
 
 He has read the books of great athletic cranks, 
 'Till he fancies he will shortly join their ranks, 
 And he takes a pride in showing, 
 How the muscles have been growing 
 On his arms, and on his weedy little shanks. 
 142 
 
SOME PREVAILING DELUSIONS 143 
 
 But the muscle which he fancies is so hard 
 Is as plastic as a bladder full of lard ; 
 
 Still no force on earth could loose him 
 From delusion, or induce him 
 His belief that he's a Sandow to discard. 
 
 There's a cove who thinks he ought to make a 
 pot 
 
 As a tenor, which he certainly is not ; 
 
 Of his "glottis " he discourses, 
 And he concentrates his forces 
 
 To develop what he really hasn't got. 
 
 Oh ! the scientific voice-producing pest ! 
 How persistently he robs us of our rest ; 
 
 He's convinced his scale chromatic 
 
 Will be highly operatic 
 When he learns the way to get it off his chest. 
 
 How we hate him, though his relatives applaud 
 When he sings " My pretty Jane" or is it 
 Maud? 
 
 As a man he may be blameless 
 As an artist he's a shameless 
 And a perfectly unmitigated fraud. 
 
 There's another fraud one meets him when one 
 
 goes 
 Where the restless tide of ocean ebbs and flows 
 
 He's the youth the girls admire 
 
 For his nautical attire 
 And the bogus navy buttons on his clothes. 
 
i 4 4 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 And he ogles all the women as they pass, 
 And he looks at all the shipping through a 
 glass ; 
 
 Talks of schooner, yawl, and cutter 
 With affected drawl and stutter 
 'Till a landsman even knows that he's an ass. 
 
 Of the " focsle " slang he uses quite a heap, 
 And he calls it " caulking" when he goes to 
 sleep ; 
 
 Talks of berthing, and of docking 
 'Till you'd fancy he's been rocking 
 From his childhood in the cradle of the deep. 
 
 But his skin by ocean breeze was never tanned, 
 And he never held a quadrant in his hand, 
 
 And the bounder (spite his boundings) 
 Never ventures out of soundings 
 He'd be sea-sick half a mile away from land. 
 
 What's the reason ? Oh ! we've sought it near 
 
 and far 
 Why such people ain't contented as they are? 
 
 Why must Thompson, who's a tailor, 
 
 Go pretending he's a sailor. 
 Or a Sandow, or an operatic star? 
 
 But this passion for pretence is not confined 
 To the dark deceitful bosoms of mankind ; 
 It enthralls that sex, unchidden 
 Which, for reasons that are hidden, 
 Sews the buttons of its garments on behind. 
 
SOME PREVAILING DELUSIONS 145 
 
 For the Gibson-girl is swarming everywhere, 
 And she's generally angular and spare, 
 
 With a hard and bony shoulder, 
 
 And she's infinitely older 
 Than she usually chooses to declare. 
 
 And she'd really try the patience of a saint 
 If you said she's not a Gibson-girl she'd faint 
 
 You may argue, you may reason, 
 
 Either in or out of season, 
 But you never could convince her that she ain't. 
 
 Then the offices of Theatres are packed 
 With the women who imagine they can act, 
 
 And the managers get scotty, 
 
 And eventually " dotty," 
 And retire to asylums for the cracked. 
 
 There, we really hope we've given no offence, 
 But we badly want the light of common-sense 
 Just to shed a passing glimmer 
 O'er the pathway of the swimmer 
 In this ocean of unlimited pretence. 
 
OUR MOTHER 
 
 WE were little limbs of Satin brother Jim, and 
 
 Bill, and me, 
 
 In much miscellaneous mischief we were mates ; 
 We constructed "flying-horses," put the salt in 
 
 peoples' tea, 
 And we swung upon forbidden garden gates. 
 
 We got mud upon our faces, and our clothes 
 
 we'd often stain 
 
 By an unexpected header in a ditch, 
 Then our mother wrote her sentiments, and wrote 
 
 'em very plain, 
 On our tender little haunches with a switch. 
 
 Oh ! that hazel-wand of mother's, like the sword 
 
 of Damocles, 
 
 Hung suspended o'er our haunches like a trap; 
 But a single hair upheld it, and we trembled at 
 
 the knees, 
 
 For we knew that hairs are liable to snap. 
 146 
 
OUR MOTHER 147 
 
 And we always knew the moment for the burst- 
 ing of the storm, 
 
 For the muscles of her fingers used to twitch, 
 And we knew that when the cyclone wrapped a 
 
 writhing little form, 
 There'd be mother in the centre, with a switch. 
 
 There was father in the background with a 
 
 slipper or a strap, 
 
 But it took a lot to drag him from his den, 
 And we wer'n't afraid of father, and we didn't 
 
 care a rap 
 
 For the lickings that he gave us now and 
 then. 
 
 For the dad was slow and heavy, and no artist's 
 
 hand had he, 
 
 And our panic never rose to such a pitch, 
 As when mother played sonatas in a complicated 
 
 key, 
 Full of sharps and accidentals, with a switch. 
 
 We were always out at elbows, and she stitched 
 
 from morn till night, 
 
 And our pants were often drydocked for repairs ; 
 And we never had a notion, as we saw her hair 
 
 grow white, 
 That 'twas we who gave her all her silver hairs. 
 
148 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Oh ! the mother of our childhood, she will never 
 
 come again ; 
 
 How we used to watch her busy fingers stitch ; 
 When our lives were just like sandwiches of 
 
 happiness and pain, 
 
 It was she supplied the mustard with a 
 switch. 
 
 She was kind and she was loving when we 
 
 happened to be good, 
 Which was now and then say, once or twice 
 
 a year 
 We were hardened little cusses, and we never 
 
 understood 
 If we sometimes saw her brush away a tear. 
 
 She was one among a thousand, and though 
 
 quite unknown to Fame, 
 In her temple she's deserving of a niche, 
 As the model of a brisk and a domesticated 
 
 dame, 
 And a conscientious artist with a switch. 
 
 But her hand grew weak and feeble, and before 
 
 we knew her worth, 
 
 She was wafted up to meet a better fate ; 
 And they told us in a whisper that she'd left her 
 
 home on earth 
 For a brighter and a happier estate. 
 
OUR MOTHER 149 
 
 Now we've left those days behind us what a 
 
 time ago it seems ; 
 And we're portly, and we're prosperous, and 
 
 rich, 
 And, though mother's gone to Heaven, still she 
 
 visits us in dreams, 
 And her spirit hovers o'er us with a switch. 
 
 If there's any little seraphs in that happier estate 
 
 Who appear to be seraphic, but who ain't, 
 If they ever get a-swingin' on the white and 
 
 pearly gate, 
 
 Why, then mother will attend to their 
 complaint. 
 
 And I know that mother's fingers will uncon- 
 sciously contract, 
 
 In the spasm of that well remembered twitch; 
 They'll be sad and sorry seraphs if detected in 
 
 the act, 
 And if mother gets behind 'em with a switch. 
 
THE POLITICIAN 
 
 I WOULD write a disquisition 
 
 On the wily politician 
 (Of his presence may we never be bereft), 
 
 Will you kindly tune the lyre, 
 
 And make room around the fire, 
 And just give the muse a chance to swing her 
 left. 
 
 'Tis a subject most entrancing, 
 And, while Pegasus is prancing, 
 
 We would like to give a little hint or two, 
 How to tell in all sincereness, 
 With discriminating clearness, 
 
 The pretending politician from the true. 
 
 A successful politician, 
 
 Wants an even disposition, 
 For he has to take the ha'pence plus the kicks : 
 
 Yes, but no one but a noodle 
 
 Thinks that that's the whole caboodle 
 Of the politician's little bag of tricks. 
 150 
 
THE POLITICIAN 151 
 
 If a man would don the ermine 
 It behoves him to determine 
 
 If he's gifted with the makin's of a judge : 
 So the would-be politician 
 Ought to find out if his mission 
 
 Is the veritable article, or fudge. 
 
 If you want to raise the curtain, 
 And discover if for certain 
 
 You were born beneath the politician's star, 
 You must take your soul to pieces, 
 You must iron out the creases, 
 
 And discover what the indications are. 
 
 You must analyse 'em closely, 
 And, we may remark jocosely, 
 
 That you'd better see what principles you've 
 
 got, 
 
 And eliminate 'em quickly, 
 For most principles are prickly, 
 
 And in politics they're principally rot. 
 
 Say, you're plotting some new measure 
 For the public's good, and pleasure, 
 
 And, of course quite incidentally, your own. 
 It's a nuisance, while thus brooding, 
 To have principles intruding, 
 
 With a conscientious snuffle or a groan. 
 
152 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 And it's very handicapping, 
 When the Opposition's napping, 
 
 And you see a chance to carry something through, 
 If a principle comes stalking, 
 Right across your path and balking 
 
 All the good you really fancied you might do. 
 
 If you've got the gift'of jerking 
 Pleasing platitudes, and smirking 
 
 With a salad-oil-and-treacle sort of smile, 
 Why, you don't need a magician 
 To assure you that your mission 
 
 Is to scintillate in Parliament awhile. 
 
 If you've got divine afflatus, 
 
 You will soon acquire status, 
 When the out-works of the fortress have been 
 stormed ; 
 
 You may have to wade through mire 
 
 You may even be a liar, 
 And a Legislator too I've been informed. 
 
 Let's suppose that Mother Nature 
 
 Meant you for the legislature, 
 Still you'll find that there are many things to 
 learn, 
 
 You must be a bit persuasive, 
 
 And elusive, and evasive, 
 And be quite a lot of different things in turn. 
 
THE POLITICIAN 153 
 
 To be insincere and specious, 
 
 And to be a bit facetious 
 When you're cornered, is an excellent device ; 
 
 You must have the serpent's flyness, 
 
 But the innocence and shyness 
 Of the dove you mus'n't have at any price. 
 
 There are lots of ways of showing, 
 And a hundred ways of knowing 
 
 If you're fit to join the Legislative's band, 
 In the service of the nation, 
 But the surest indication 
 
 Is an itching in the hollow of your hand ; 
 
 And, if any doubt should linger 
 Re the pointing of Fate's finger, 
 
 And your mission, oh ! be comforted and 
 calm ; 
 
 It's the best sign in creation 
 
 That you're called to serve the nation, 
 
 If you feel a titillation in your palm. 
 
 There, we've had our little flutter, 
 And we hope that what we utter 
 
 Won't be causing any seasoned M.L.A., 
 Any conscientious twinges, 
 For we've only touched the fringes 
 
 Of the subject in a desultory way. 
 
154 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Let us sheath the inky dagger, 
 
 Yes, and tie our muse, and gag her, 
 And put Pegasus to " bye-bye," in his stall, 
 
 With " short-hobbles," and a "side- 
 line," 
 
 And a well and truly tied line, 
 Fixed securely to a staple in the wall. 
 
SOME CYNICAL SUGGESTIONS BY A 
 SELF-MADE SINNER TO HIS SON 
 
 GLOOM and ennui are the bitterest foes of 
 
 Mankind, and against them he constantly 
 
 strives ; 
 
 Fain would I teach you how best to dispose of 
 The days and the minutes which make up 
 our lives. 
 
 It isn't good form to be too pessimistic 
 (Form should be perfect though morals be lax), 
 
 Slay each dull moment by methods artistic, 
 Never kill time with a club or an axe. 
 
 Heed not the voice of the dullard who proses 
 Preaching the doctrine that pleasure's a crime 
 
 If you must break the commandments of Moses 
 See that you only break one at a time. 
 
 Strut while you may on the stage of existence, 
 Carefully posing and playing your part, 
 
 Be an apostle of dogged persistence 
 Rather than slave to the canons of art. 
 
156 IRONBARK SPLINTERS 
 
 Art is as long as a lane with no turning ; 
 
 Life, which is short as a ballet girl's skirt, 
 Chiefly consists of unsatisfied yearning, 
 
 Yearning which harrows the soul to its hurt. 
 
 Life is a garden which Death's hand encloses, 
 
 In it fair blossoms in clusters are hung, 
 Stretch forth both hands then and gather its 
 
 roses 
 
 While they are blushing, and while you are 
 young. 
 
 Youth can expand like a sun-flower and flourish 
 Strong in the strength of its forces divine ; 
 
 Age craves for viands which strengthen and 
 
 nourish, 
 Youth can exist upon kisses and wine. 
 
 Empty the cup while the rich wine is creaming, 
 Time will despoil you of all but the lees, 
 
 Age is a season of fatuous dreaming, 
 
 Fate locks her treasures, but youth holds the 
 keys. 
 
 When on Eve's daughters you lavish caresses 
 Never let one of them make you her thrall 
 
 Binding you fast to her side with her tresses 
 Safety's in numbers, make love to them all. 
 
 Hearts are but toys to be broken in pieces, 
 Girls were invented to flirt and to sew, 
 
 Never depend on one woman's caprices, 
 Always have two or three strings to your bow. 
 
SOME CYNICAL SUGGESTIONS 157 
 
 Sip every pleasure, but keep your head level, 
 Let not one passion your senses enmesh, 
 
 Have an entente cordial with the Devil, 
 Keep on good terms with the world and the 
 flesh. 
 
THE TIMES 
 
 IT'S a highly extravagant age : 
 We've arrived, it appears, at a stage 
 
 When we most of us itch 
 
 To keep pace with the rich 
 While receiving a " minimum wage." 
 
 It's an age of vain pomp and display, 
 And of idols with feet made of clay, 
 
 While, without any gammon, 
 
 The worship of Mammon 
 Prevails more and more every day. 
 
 There's a turbulent wave of unrest 
 It bears us like corks on its crest 
 And the idle and wealthy, 
 Whose tastes ain't too healthy, 
 Are setting the pace for the rest. 
 
 It's a time of deceit and pretence, 
 And the efforts we make are immense 
 
 Just to give people grounds 
 
 For believing we've pounds 
 While our pockets hold nothing but pence. 
 
 158 
 
THE TIMES 159 
 
 It's an era of bogus and sham ; 
 One may frequently meet, in a tram, 
 
 With a sweet ingenue 
 
 Of about forty- two 
 She's a sheep masquerading as lamb. 
 
 It's a gay and a frivolous time ; 
 And ignoring the truly sublime 
 
 Society stifles 
 
 Its conscience with trifles 
 Alike without reason or rhyme. 
 
 Then, our wives and our daughters will swear 
 That they haven't got clothes fit to wear. 
 Yet these poor little martyrs 
 Wear gems (?) on their garters 
 So some well-informed persons declare. 
 
 At our theatres, yes, and " the halls " 
 To the nude we are certainly thralls ; 
 
 'Tis an era of lust 
 
 Too much shoulder and bust 
 Are on view in the " circle" and " stalls." 
 
 Once in Rome many centuries back 
 A great civilization went crack 
 
 'Cos the bond-thralls of fashion, 
 
 And folly, and passion 
 Couldn't keep the State coach on the track. 
 
 And to-day it's quite easy to see 
 That a similar slump there will be, 
 
 For our system must smash 
 
 With a similar crash 
 Which will bury us all in cttbris* 
 
JIM 
 
 JIM'S goin' to ride for the " Guineas," 
 
 That's so, an' he'll win if he can 
 Jim with the hands of a woman, 
 
 Jim with the heart of a man. 
 Big, rakin' chestnut he's ridin' 
 
 Mare with a mouth like a file 
 Jim ain't a Samson for muscle, 
 
 He ain't, but a dandy fur style. 
 Fine stamp o' mare, but a puller 
 
 Regular borer an' strainer 
 Pulled a lad outer the saddle 
 
 She did I'm 'er trainer. 
 
 Jim's goin' to ride for the " Guineas " 
 
 Trained to an ounce, an' all that 
 Game as a pebble, but wasted 
 
 Hasn't the strength of a cat. 
 The chestnut's a rakin', hard-bitten 
 
 She-devil, that wont keep the track, 
 An' Jim, with the strength of a kitten, 
 
 Well, just like a fly on her back. 
 Wish I'd a feather-weight jockey 
 
 As strong as a nine or ten stoner, 
 D n him ! I'm broke if she loses 
 
 Yes, broke I'm 'er owner. 
 
 1 60 
 
JIM 161 
 
 Jim's goin' to ride for the " Guineas 1 ' 
 
 To-day 'ow it blows from the west ! 
 'Im that they've trained to a shadder 
 
 'Im with a cold on 'is chest. 
 'Ow can 'e 'elp bein' sickly, 
 
 Wastin' a stone in a week? 
 As for them owners an' trainers, 
 
 They oughter be fined by the beak. 
 Wish 'ed quit racin' an' trainin', 
 
 Wish they'd a chosen some other, 
 Wish the big chestnut was stiffened, 
 
 The brute ! I'm Jim's mother. 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON 
 "IRONBARK SPLINTERS" 
 
 This book has been favourably reviewed both 
 by English and Australian Papers. Among 
 the notices which have already appeared are 
 the following : 
 
 EXTRACT FROM RED PAGE OF THE SYDNEY 
 BULLETIN, I5TH FEBRUARY, 1906 
 
 "A cheaper edition of c Ironbark Chips and Stock- 
 whip Cracks,' by G. H. Gibson a ' people's edition ' at 
 is. that is the most attractive shillingsworth on to-day's 
 market. Gibson was an earlier Australian humorist with 
 a talent for racy verse and prose that has not often been 
 matched lately. His Bulletin rhymes of 'Retrench- 
 ment," My Mate Bill,' and 'A Ballad of Queensland ' 
 are cherished afar to this day ; and the publishers 
 were wrong to exclude the two former from the present 
 edition. The paper and printing are generous; and 
 all bush readers at least will want the book one 
 of the most original and characteristic of Australian 
 literary performances." 
 
 163 
 
1 64 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 SYDNEY MORNING HERALD 
 
 " Mr G. Herbert Gibson has brought out in a new 
 edition his clever and amusing book of Australian verses 
 and sketches, published originally some few years ago 
 with the title of ' Ironbark Chips and Stockwhip Cracks.' 
 It is plentifully illustrated by Mr Spence and Mr Vincent, 
 and altogether in this new form should be welcome to 
 all that are not sworn foes to laughter." 
 
 SYDNEY DAILY TELEGRAPH 
 
 " We have received a short batch of sketches in prose 
 and verse by G. Herbert Gibson, otherwise * Ironbark,' 
 of Sydney Bulletin fame. 
 
 " ' Ironbark Chips ' in its present form will, we should 
 imagine, be popular. The rhymes are spirited and go 
 with the sort of swing that seldom fails to catch the 
 public ear." 
 
 SYDNEY BULLETIN (RED PAGE) 
 
 " Here in ' Ironbark Splinters ' you have the real, old, 
 genuine fully matured bush poems laid down a full 
 decade ago and still called for at every bush pub in 
 the Commonwealth. 
 
 "'Ironbark' brews a liquor that is ever palatable to 
 bush palates. 
 
 " ' My Mate Bill ' is deservedly popular wherever the 
 Australian language is spoken, and the picture of Bill 
 drafting ' them goats and sheep ' is as good as anything 
 ever penned by 'Banjo' or 'Lawson.' 'Wanted, a 
 Noah' lightly preaches a needed sermon, but most of 
 the verses are true to the Author's modest label, the 
 'thistledown and cobwebs of Australian literature.' 
 
 " There is enough sunlit thistledown drifting through 
 these rambling pages to ensure a warm welcome from 
 outback to this genuine voice from the bush.'" 
 
PRESS OPINIONS 165 
 
 LONE HAND 
 
 "Some old friends turn up again in 'Ironbark 
 Splinters from the Australian Bush.' The new verses 
 show ' Ironbark ' as bright and slick with his rhymes 
 as ever. Not many of his successors can beat the easy 
 narrative style and the humour of some of these pieces 
 for recitation. 'Jones's Selection/ ' Going on the Land,' 
 and * The Blindin', Blazin' West,' are as good as anything 
 of their kind, and the whole contents will amuse any 
 reader in town or outback." 
 
 SCOTSMAN 
 
 "Light, humorous, rollicking, easy in rhythm and 
 true to the more amusing aspects of life and character 
 as seen in the Australian Bush. Mr Gibson's new book 
 of verses will please any one who likes catchy work in 
 rhymes and metre. In older countries verse of this 
 kind is often too much refined. 
 
 " Mr Gibson's lines are never either vulgar on the one 
 hand or elegant on the other ; yet they have a freshness 
 and vigour of feeling such as are too seldom met with 
 in the comic poetry of Europe." 
 
 STANDARD OF EMPIRE 
 
 " * Ironbark Splinters,' G. Herbert Gibson, a delightful 
 collection of verse devoted principally to the realities 
 and fascination of the Australian bush. To those who 
 know Australia the inner Australia this book will 
 appeal even more than to the casual reader who seeks 
 only pastime. The volume breathes the breath of the 
 great bush, and to one who has been through it all 
 brings to mind memories of the camp fire and all the 
 interesting life of ' Out back.' Pathos and humour are 
 here mingled, and withal there is the genuine atmosphere 
 of life in the great open spaces of Australia." 
 
166 PRESS OPINIONS 
 
 THE BRITISH AUSTRALASIAN 
 
 " The verses are racy, and the lines go with an 
 arresting jingle. ' How to Write a Novel ' is a capital 
 ditty, and ' Eurydice Niobe Jones ' is a joyful antidote 
 to a banquet of Family Herald literature." 
 
 THE TIMES 
 
 "Mr Gibson runs off light and topical rhymes, with 
 a love for the joggety metres into which Colonial poets 
 run so easily." 
 
 MORNING POST 
 
 "When we learn that many of the pieces in Mr 
 Gibson's book have already appeared in the Sydney 
 Bulletin^ we know that his local colouring will wash, 
 that his language is frequent and free, that his best 
 strokes of humour resemble the third or fourth ball in 
 an over by Dr Hordern. He might perhaps be defined 
 as a Gilbert of the ' Back Blocks,' such is the versatility 
 of his versification, and so inexhaustible is his sense 
 of the incongruous." 
 
 DAILY CHRONICLE 
 
 " Mr Gibson is essentially a ' bush bard ' of the topical 
 sort, and a live vigorous mind he brings into play. In 
 his ' Nursery Rhymes for Infant Pastoralists ' what a 
 world of irony is expressed in the following brief 
 parody : 
 
 f Baa, baa, black sheep 
 
 Have you any wool ? 
 Yes, Sir, Oh yes, Sir, three bales full. 
 One for the master, who grows so lean and lank ; 
 
 None for the mistress, 
 But TWO for the Bank ! ' 
 
PRESS OPINIONS 167 
 
 "One is grateful for the 'cute' little glimpses Mr 
 Gibson gives us of Australian conditions." 
 
 INSTITUTE JOURNAL 
 
 "The author has a decided faculty for gripping his 
 reader. His command of verse and keen appreciation 
 of humour compel attention. Few readers with a turn 
 for wit or satire will cast aside Mr Gibson's verses, for 
 they are decidedly clever." 
 
 SYDNEY MAIL 
 
 " The many good things of which ' Ironbark Splinters ' 
 is made up will be appreciated by most Australian 
 readers." 
 
 THE ADELAIDE REGISTER 
 
 "The author has remarkable facility in stringing 
 rhymes." 
 
 SYDNEY STOCK' AND STATION JOURNAL 
 
 "The writer of this book knows his bush about as 
 well as any man I ever came across. ' Ironbark ' never 
 descends to halting poetry. It is all good jingle, and 
 is as full of laughter and tears as the best literature 
 in the world," 
 
 SYDNEY DAILY TELEGRAPH 
 
 " This is really popular verse of the kind that is sure 
 to be welcomed in the shearing sheds and round the 
 camp fires. It is easy to see that the Author writes of 
 matters of which he has personal knowledge." 
 
Printed at 
 
 The Edinburgh Press 
 9 and 1 1 Young Street 
 
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