In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses Part 16

It's no use talking to me now -- I'm going back,' he said, 'I'm going back to find him, and I will -- alive or dead!'

He packed his horse with water and provisions for a week, And then, at sunset, crossed the plain, away from Dingo Creek.

We watched him tramp beside the horse till we, as it grew late, Could not tell which was Bonypart and which was Marshall's mate.

The dam went dry at Dingo Creek, and we were driven back, And none dared face the Ninety Mile when Crowbar took the track.

They saw him at Dead Camel and along the Dry Hole Creeks -- There came a day when none had heard of Marshall's mate for weeks; They'd seen him at No Sunday, he called at Starving Steers -- There came a time when none had heard of Marshall's mate for years.

They found old Bonypart at last, picked clean by hungry crows, But no one knew how Crowbar died -- the soul of Marshall knows!

And now, way out on Dingo Creek, when winter days are late, The bushmen talk of Crowbar's ghost 'what's looking for his mate'; For let the fools indulge their mirth, and let the wise men doubt -- The soul of Crowbar and his mate have travelled further out.

Beyond the furthest two-rail fence, Colanne and Nevertire -- Beyond the furthest rabbit-proof, barbed wire and common wire -- Beyond the furthest 'Gov'ment' tank, and past the furthest bore -- The Never-Never, No Man's Land, No More, and Nevermore -- Beyond the Land o' Break-o'-Day, and Sunset and the Dawn, The soul of Marshall and the soul of Marshall's mate have gone Unto that Loving, Laughing Land where life is fresh and clean -- Where the rivers flow all summer, and the gra.s.s is always green.

The Poets of the Tomb

The world has had enough of bards who wish that they were dead, 'Tis time the people pa.s.sed a law to knock 'em on the head, For 'twould be lovely if their friends could grant the rest they crave -- Those bards of 'tears' and 'vanished hopes', those poets of the grave.

They say that life's an awful thing, and full of care and gloom, They talk of peace and restfulness connected with the tomb.

They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he must; But, all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust.

There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ, That some are made of common mud, and some are made of GRIT; Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume And wish that they were slumbering in the silence of the tomb.

'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do!

And if he does his very best he mostly worries through, And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes round, An honest man alive is worth a million underground.

And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom, The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb.

And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene, I notice that they mostly wish their resting-place kept green.

Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there; And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before, I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.

Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight; I'll take my chances with the world, I'd rather live and fight.

Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown, I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down.

Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom; We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.

Australian Bards and Bush Reviewers

While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse, While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's part -- You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.

If you sing of waving gra.s.ses when the plains are dry as bricks, And discover s.h.i.+ning rivers where there's only mud and sticks; If you picture 'mighty forests' where the mulga spoils the view -- You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.

If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth, And its sons are just the n.o.blest and most glorious chaps on earth; If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns, You are gracefully referred to as the 'young Australian Burns'.

But if you should find that bushmen -- spite of all the poets say -- Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they -- You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak, Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.

The Ghost

Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side -- Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he, So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company.

Said the Shade: 'At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled, 'Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.'

And he said: 'If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings, Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things; Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe.

At the power of truth and friends.h.i.+p let your lip in scorn be curled -- 'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.

'Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule; Never send an 'i' undotted to the teacher of a school; Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back, And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack; At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled, 'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.

'Ne'er a.s.sail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung, Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung; Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown, Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down.

At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled, 'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.

'Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry, Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high; Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard; And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard.

At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled, 'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.

'Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune, Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn.

Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold; Call it l.u.s.t, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but gold.

At the bliss of purer pa.s.sions let your lip in scorn be curled -- 'Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.'

Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew; But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through; Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole, Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul, Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled, And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.

But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side -- 'Heed him not! there's truth and friends.h.i.+p in this wondrous world,' she cried, And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown, Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down.

At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled!

'Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.'

The End.

[From the July, 1909 section of Advertis.e.m.e.nts.]