His brow was broad and roomy, but its lines were somewhat harsh, And a sensual mouth was hidden by a drooping, fair moustache; (His hairy chest was open to what poets call the "wined", And I would have bet a thousand that his pants were gone behind).
He agreed: "Yer can"t remember all the chaps yer chance to meet,"
And he said his name was Sweeney -- people lived in Suss.e.x-street.
He was campin" in a stable, but he swore that he was right, "Only for the blanky horses walkin" over him all night."
He"d apparently been fighting, for his face was black-and-blue, And he looked as though the horses had been treading on him, too; But an honest, genial twinkle in the eye that wasn"t hurt Seemed to hint of something better, spite of drink and rags and dirt.
It appeared that he mistook me for a long-lost mate of his -- One of whom I was the image, both in figure and in phiz -- (He"d have had a letter from him if the chap were living still, For they"d carried swags together from the Gulf to Broken Hill.)
Sweeney yarned awhile and hinted that his folks were doing well, And he told me that his father kept the Southern Cross Hotel; And I wondered if his absence was regarded as a loss When he left the elder Sweeney -- landlord of the Southern Cross.
He was born in Parramatta, and he said, with humour grim, That he"d like to see the city ere the liquor finished him, But he couldn"t raise the money. He was d.a.m.ned if he could think What the Government was doing. Here he offered me a drink.
I declined -- "TWAS self-denial -- and I lectured him on booze, Using all the hackneyed arguments that preachers mostly use; Things I"d heard in temperance lectures (I was young and rather green), And I ended by referring to the man he might have been.
Then a wise expression struggled with the bruises on his face, Though his argument had scarcely any bearing on the case: "What"s the good o" keepin" sober? Fellers rise and fellers fall; What I might have been and wasn"t doesn"t trouble me at all."
But he couldn"t stay to argue, for his beer was nearly gone.
He was glad, he said, to meet me, and he"d see me later on; He guessed he"d have to go and get his bottle filled again, And he gave a lurch and vanished in the darkness and the rain.
And of afternoons in cities, when the rain is on the land, Visions come to me of Sweeney with his bottle in his hand, With the stormy night behind him, and the pub verandah-post -- And I wonder why he haunts me more than any other ghost.
Still I see the shearers drinking at the township in the scrub, And the army praying nightly at the door of every pub, And the girls who flirt and giggle with the bushmen from the west -- But the memory of Sweeney overshadows all the rest.
Well, perhaps, it isn"t funny; there were links between us two -- He had memories of cities, he had been a jackeroo; And, perhaps, his face forewarned me of a face that I might see From a bitter cup reflected in the wretched days to be.
I suppose he"s tramping somewhere where the bushmen carry swags, Cadging round the wretched stations with his empty tucker-bags; And I fancy that of evenings, when the track is growing dim, What he "might have been and wasn"t" comes along and troubles him.
Middleton"s Rouseabout
Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy, Middleton"s Rouseabout.
Type of a coming nation, In the land of cattle and sheep, Worked on Middleton"s station, "Pound a week and his keep."
On Middleton"s wide dominions Plied the stockwhip and shears; Hadn"t any opinions, Hadn"t any "idears".
Swiftly the years went over, Liquor and drought prevailed; Middleton went as a drover, After his station had failed.
Type of a careless nation, Men who are soon played out, Middleton was: -- and his station Was bought by the Rouseabout.
Flourishing beard and sandy, Tall and robust and stout; This is the picture of Andy, Middleton"s Rouseabout.
Now on his own dominions Works with his overseers; Hasn"t any opinions, Hasn"t any "idears".
The Ballad of the Drover
Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again.
And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old pack-horse Is trotting by his knee.
Up Queensland way with cattle He travelled regions vast; And many months have vanished Since home-folk saw him last.
He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune.
Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The homestead station lies.
And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune.
An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover"s track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses" strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise.
The thunder from above him Goes rolling o"er the plain; And down on thirsty pastures In torrents falls the rain.
And every creek and gully Sends forth its little flood, Till the river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud.
Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their s.h.a.ggy manes; "We"ve breasted bigger rivers When floods were at their height Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home to-night!"
The thunder growls a warning, The ghastly lightnings gleam, As the drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream.
But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e"er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o"er!
When flashes next the lightning, The flood"s grey breast is blank, And a cattle dog and pack-horse Are struggling up the bank.
But in the lonely homestead The girl will wait in vain -- He"ll never pa.s.s the stations In charge of stock again.
The faithful dog a moment Sits panting on the bank, And then swims through the current To where his master sank.
And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, borne down by the waters, The old dog sinks at length.
Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The pack-horse struggles onward, To take dumb tidings home.
And mud-stained, wet, and weary, Through ranges dark goes he; While hobble-chains and tinware Are sounding eerily.
The floods are in the ocean, The stream is clear again, And now a verdant carpet Is stretched across the plain.
But someone"s eyes are saddened, And someone"s heart still bleeds In sorrow for the drover Who sleeps among the reeds.
Taking His Chance