In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses Part 12

A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the s.h.i.+ning tires might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves.

He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite; He shouts at 'Bally', and flicks at 'Scot', And raises dust from the back of 'Spot', And spits to the dusty right.

He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settler's door, And ask for a drink, and remark 'It's warm, Or say 'There's signs of a thunder-storm'; But he seldom utters more.

But the rains are heavy on roads like these; And, fronting his lonely home, For weeks together the settler sees The teams bogged down to the axletrees, Or ploughing the sodden loam.

And then when the roads are at their worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips reversed While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear.

And thus with little of joy or rest Are the long, long journeys done; And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- Is distance fought in the mighty West, And the lonely battles won.

Cameron's Heart

The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson 'at hame'; He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant -- The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt.

The meenister called him 'unG.o.dly -- a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord', And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, 'a rebel at hame and abroad'.

He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same); That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name.

He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect of his kirk; He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work.

And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent, Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.

He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof to the dart -- That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart; He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last, And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past: A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl, A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.

It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine.

The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full, Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull.

He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart, I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.

One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay, When Alister cried, 'Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.'

He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and hung still.

I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: 'Climb up for your life by the footholes.

I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!'

And those were the last words he uttered.

He groaned, for I heard him quite plain -- There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain.

The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath, But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death.

And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate, And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.

I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim, When Death at the windla.s.s that morning took cruel advantage of him?

He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate -- His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate; He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart, And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.

The Shame of Going Back

When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt, And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault -- When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack, There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back; Crawling home with empty pockets, Going back hard-up; Oh! it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.

When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone, And you have a mighty longing for the town where you are known; When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black, There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back.

When we've fought the battle bravely and are beaten to the wall, 'Tis the sneers of men, not conscience, that make cowards of us all; And the while you are returning, oh! your brain is on the rack, And your heart is in the shadow of the shame of going back.

When a beaten man's discovered with a bullet in his brain, They POST-MORTEM him, and try him, and they say he was insane; But it very often happens that he'd lately got the sack, And his onward move was owing to the shame of going back.

Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense, and your upper lip is curled, I can see that you have never worked your pa.s.sage through the world; But when fortune rounds upon you and the rain is on the track, You will learn the bitter meaning of the shame of going back; Going home with empty pockets, Going home hard-up; Oh, you'll taste the bitter poison in humiliation's cup.

Since Then

I met Jack Ellis in town to-day -- Jack Ellis -- my old mate, Jack -- Ten years ago, from the Castlereagh, We carried our swags together away To the Never-Again, Out Back.

But times have altered since those old days, And the times have changed the men.

Ah, well! there's little to blame or praise -- Jack Ellis and I have tramped long ways On different tracks since then.

His hat was battered, his coat was green, The toes of his boots were through, But the pride was his! It was I felt mean -- I wished that my collar was not so clean, Nor the clothes I wore so new.

He saw me first, and he knew 'twas I -- The holiday swell he met.

Why have we no faith in each other? Ah, why? -- He made as though he would pa.s.s me by, For he thought that I might forget.

He ought to have known me better than that, By the tracks we tramped far out -- The sweltering scrub and the blazing flat, When the heat came down through each old felt hat In the h.e.l.l-born western drought.

The cheques we made and the shanty sprees, The camps in the great blind scrub, The long wet tramps when the plains were seas, And the oracles worked in days like these For rum and tobacco and grub.

Could I forget how we struck 'the same Old tale' in the nearer West, When the first great test of our friends.h.i.+p came -- But -- well, there's little to praise or blame If our mates.h.i.+p stood the test.

'Heads!' he laughed (but his face was stern) -- 'Tails!' and a friendly oath; We loved her fair, we had much to learn -- And each was stabbed to the heart in turn By the girl who -- loved us both.

Or the last day lost on the lignum plain, When I staggered, half-blind, half-dead, With a burning throat and a tortured brain; And the tank when we came to the track again Was seventeen miles ahead.

Then life seemed finished -- then death began As down in the dust I sank, But he stuck to his mate as a bushman can, Till I heard him saying, 'Bear up, old man!'

In the shade by the mulga tank.