Saltbush Bill, J. P Part 2

"Midst palaces though you should roam, Or follow pleasure's tracks, You'll find," he said, "no place like home, At least like Jacky Jack's.

"Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,'

Tell every black Maria I give tobacco half a stick-- Hold inquest long-a fire."

Each juryman received a name Well suited to a Court.

"Long Jack" and "Stumpy Bill" became "John Long" and "William Short".

While such as "Tarpot", "Bullock Dray", And "Tommy Wait-a-While", Became, for ever and a day, "Scott", "d.i.c.kens", and "Carlyle".

And twelve good sable men and true Were soon engaged upon The conflagration that o'erthrew The home of John A. John.

Their verdict, "Burnt by act of Fate", They scarcely had returned When, just behind the magistrate, Another humpy burned!

The jury sat again and drew Another stick of plug.

Said Saltbush Bill, "It's up to you Put some one long-a Jug."

"I'll camp the sheep," he said, "and sift The evidence about."

For quite a week he couldn't shift, The way the fires broke out.

The jury thought the whole concern As good as any play.

They used to "take him oath" and earn Three sticks of plug a day.

At last the tribe lay down to sleep Homeless, beneath a tree; And onward with his travelling sheep Went Saltbush Bill, J.P.

The sheep delivered, safe and sound, His horse to town he turned, And drew some five-and-twenty pound For fees that he had earned.

And where Monaro's ranges hide Their little farms away-- His sister's children by his side-- He spent his Christmas Day.

The next J.P. that went out back Was shocked, or pained, or both, At hearing every pagan black Repeat the juror's oath.

No matter though he turned and fled They followed faster still; "You make it inkwich, boss," they said, "All same like Saltbush Bill."

They even said they'd let him see The fires originate.

When he refused they said that he Was "No good magistrate."

And out beyond Sturt's Western track, And Leichhardt's farthest tree, They wait till fate shall send them back Their Saltbush Bill, J.P.

The Riders in the Stand

There's some that ride the Robbo style, and b.u.mp at every stride; While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride.

There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath.

But all the finest hors.e.m.e.n out--the men to Beat the Band-- You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand.

They'll say "He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight."

They'll show how G.o.dby came too soon, and Barden came too late.

They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; They'll tell how one was "livened up" and something else was "dead"-- In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand.

The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right.

You ride a slashing race, and lose--by one and all you're banned!

Ride like a bag of flour, and win--they'll cheer you in the Stand.

Waltzing Matilda

(Carrying a Swag.)

Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong, Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling, Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag-- Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee; And he sang as he put him away in his tucker-bag, "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!"

Down came the Squatter a-riding his thorough-bred; Down came Policemen--one, two, and three.

"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?

You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the water-hole, Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong, "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

An Answer to Various Bards

Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in, Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin, With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp, How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp; And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom, But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb".

So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range, And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change.

Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson--well, of course, we almost cried At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died, And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's Mate" was slain; Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again.

Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire, And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire; So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own.

And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat, When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street; But the shearer chaps who start it--why, he rounds on them in blame, And he calls 'em "agitators" who are living on the game.

But I "over-write" the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt That I always see a hero in the "man from furthest out".

I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom, And a bushman never struck me as a subject for "the tomb".

If it ain't all "golden sunshine" where the "wattle branches wave", Well, it ain't all damp and dismal, and it ain't all "lonely grave".

And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills.