The Man from Snowy River Part 12

Down along the Mooki River, on the overlanders' camp, Where the serpents are in millions, all of the most deadly stamp, Wanders, daily, William Johnson, down among those poisonous hordes, Shooting every stray goanna, calls them 'black and yaller frauds'.

And King Billy, of the Mooki, cadging for the cast-off coat, Somehow seems to dodge the subject of the snake-bite antidote.

Ambition and Art

Ambition

I am the maid of the l.u.s.trous eyes Of great fruition, Whom the sons of men that are over-wise Have called Ambition.

And the world's success is the only goal I have within me; The meanest man with the smallest soul May woo and win me.

For the l.u.s.t of power and the pride of place To all I proffer.

Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race For what I offer?

The choice is thine, and the world is wide -- Thy path is lonely.

I may not lead and I may not guide -- I urge thee only.

I am just a whip and a spur that smites To fierce endeavour.

In the restless days and the sleepless nights I urge thee ever.

Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, In fright upleaping At a rival's step as it pa.s.ses by Whilst thou art sleeping.

Honour and truth shall be overthrown In fierce desire; Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone To mount thee higher.

When the curtain falls on the sordid strife That seemed so splendid, Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life That thou hast ended.

Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small In fitful flashes; There has been reward -- but the end of all Is dust and ashes.

For the night has come and it brings to naught Thy projects cherished, And thine epitaph shall in bra.s.s be wrought -- 'He lived and perished.'

Art

I wait for thee at the outer gate, My love, mine only; Wherefore tarriest thou so late While I am lonely.

Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, In thee implanted Is the love of Art and the greatest gift That G.o.d has granted.

And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs Shall seem but small things -- Poet or painter, a singer of songs, Thine art is all things.

For the wine of life is a woman's love To keep beside thee; But the love of Art is a thing above -- A star to guide thee.

As the years go by with thy love of Art All undiminished, Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart -- Thy work is finished.

So the painter fashions a picture strong That fadeth never, And the singer singeth a wond'rous song That lives for ever.

The Daylight is Dying

The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leaf.a.ge and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pa.s.s to its bondage -- The kingdom of sleep.

And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night.

When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, 'Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told.

Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright?

Beyond all denials The stars in their glories The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories.

The waving of gra.s.ses, The song of the river That sings as it pa.s.ses For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words.

Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune.

But, as one half-hearing An old-time refrain, With memory clearing, Recalls it again, These tales, roughly wrought of The bush and its ways, May call back a thought of The wandering days, And, blending with each In the mem'ries that throng, There haply shall reach You some echo of song.

In Defence of the Bush

So you're back from up the country, Mister Townsman, where you went, And you're cursing all the business in a bitter discontent; Well, we grieve to disappoint you, and it makes us sad to hear That it wasn't cool and shady -- and there wasn't plenty beer, And the loony bullock snorted when you first came into view; Well, you know it's not so often that he sees a swell like you; And the roads were hot and dusty, and the plains were burnt and brown, And no doubt you're better suited drinking lemon-squash in town.

Yet, perchance, if you should journey down the very track you went In a month or two at furthest you would wonder what it meant, Where the sunbaked earth was gasping like a creature in its pain You would find the gra.s.ses waving like a field of summer grain, And the miles of thirsty gutters blocked with sand and choked with mud, You would find them mighty rivers with a turbid, sweeping flood; For the rain and drought and sunshine make no changes in the street, In the sullen line of buildings and the ceaseless tramp of feet; But the bush hath moods and changes, as the seasons rise and fall, And the men who know the bush-land -- they are loyal through it all.

But you found the bush was dismal and a land of no delight, Did you chance to hear a chorus in the shearers' huts at night?

Did they 'rise up, William Riley' by the camp-fire's cheery blaze?

Did they rise him as we rose him in the good old droving days?

And the women of the homesteads and the men you chanced to meet -- Were their faces sour and saddened like the 'faces in the street', And the 'shy selector children' -- were they better now or worse Than the little city urchins who would greet you with a curse?

Is not such a life much better than the squalid street and square Where the fallen women flaunt it in the fierce electric glare, Where the sempstress plies her sewing till her eyes are sore and red In a filthy, dirty attic toiling on for daily bread?

Did you hear no sweeter voices in the music of the bush Than the roar of trams and 'buses, and the war-whoop of 'the push'?

Did the magpies rouse your slumbers with their carol sweet and strange?

Did you hear the silver chiming of the bell-birds on the range?

But, perchance, the wild birds' music by your senses was despised, For you say you'll stay in townships till the bush is civilised.

Would you make it a tea-garden and on Sundays have a band Where the 'blokes' might take their 'donahs', with a 'public' close at hand?

You had better stick to Sydney and make merry with the 'push', For the bush will never suit you, and you'll never suit the bush.