THE AXE-MAN

High on the hills, where the tall trees grow, There lives an axeman that I know.

From his little hut by a ferny creek, Day after day, week after week, He goes each morn with his shining axe, Trudging along by the forest tracks; And he chops and he chops till the daylight goes-- High on the hills, where the blue-gum grows.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) There's a log to move and a branch to lop.

Now to the felling! His sharp axe bites Into a tree on the forest heights, And scarce for a breath does the axeman stop-- (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Bell-birds watch him; and in the fern Wallabies listen awhile, and turn Back through the bracken, and off they hop.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Patient and tireless, blow on blow The axeman swings as the minutes go; While the echoes ring from the mountain-top.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

Round about him the rabbits play, Skipping and scampering all the day, And the sweet young gra.s.s by the logs they crop.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

Crimson parrots above him climb, Chattering, chattering all the time, As down from the branches the twigs they drop.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! Chop!) Steadily, surely, on he goes, Shaking the tree with his mighty blows: There's never a pause and there's never a stop.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

Out from the bush beyond is heard The swaggering song of the butcher-bird Seeking a joint for his butcher's shop.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Deeper and deeper the cut creeps in, While the parrots shriek with a deafening din, And the chips fly out with a flip and a flop.

(Chip! Chop! Chip! Chop!) Yellow robins come flocking round, Watching the chips as they fall to ground, Darting to catch the grubs that drop.

(Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!)

The blows come quicker. The axe-biade hums, Stand well back, there, before she comes!

Hark! How the splinters crack and pop-- (Chip! . . Chop! . . Chip! . . Chop!) Listen! Listen! She's creaking now!

Look, high up, at that trembling bough!

Another second, and down she'll smash, Shaking the earth with a mighty crash; Look at her! Look at her! (Chip! Chop!

Chip! . . . . . . . .Chip!) Wee--E--E--E--E--E--- FLOP!

THE DROVERS

Out across the spinifex, out across the sand, Out across the saltbush to Never Never land That's the way the drovers go, jogging down the track-- That's the way the drovers go. But how do they come back?

Back across the saltbush from Never Never land.

Back across the spinifex, back across the sand.

THE LONG ROAD HOME

When I go back from Billy's place I always have to roam The mazy road, the crazy road that leads the long way home.

Ma always says, "Why don't you come through Mr Donkin's land?

The footbridge track will bring you back." Ma doesn't understand.

I cannot go that way, you know, because of Donkin's dog; So I set forth and travel north, and cross the fallen log.

Last week, when I was coming by, that log had lizards in it; And you can't say I stop to play if I just search a minute.

I look around upon the ground and, if there are no lizards, I go right on and reach the turn in front of Mrs Blizzard's.

I do not seek to cross the creek, because it's deep and floody, And Ma would be annoyed with me if I came home all muddy.

Perhaps I throw a stone or so at Mrs Blizzard's tank, Because it's great when I aim straight to hear the stone go "Plank!"

Then west I wend from Blizzard's Bend, and not a moment wait, Except, perhaps, at Mr Knapp's, to swing upon his gate.

So up the hill I go, until I reach the little paddock That Mr Jones at present owns and rents to Mr Craddock.

For boys my size the sudden rise is quite a heavy pull, And yet I fear a short-cut here because of Craddock's bull; So I just tease the bull till he's as mad as he can get, And then I face the corner place that's been so long to let.

It's very well for Ma to tell about my dawdling habits.

What would you do, suppose you knew the place was thick with rabbits?

I do not stay for half a day, as Ma declares I do.

No, not for more than half-an-hour--perhaps an hour--or two.

Then down the drop I run, slip-slop, where all the road is slithy.

And have to go quite close, you know, to Mr Horner's smithy.

A moment I might tarry by the fence to watch them hammer, And, I must say, learn more that way than doing sums and grammar.

And, if I do sometimes climb through, I do not mean to linger.

Though I did stay awhile the day Bill Homer burst his finger.

I just stand there to see the pair bang some hot iron thing And watch Bill Horner swing the sledge and hit the anvil--Bing!

(For Mr Horner and his son are great big brawny fellows: Both splendid chaps!) And then, perhaps, they let me blow the bellows.

A while I stop beside the shop, and talk to Mr Horner; Then off I run, and race like fun around by Duggan's Corner.

It's getting late, and I don't wait beside the creek a minute, Except to stop, maybe, and drop a few old pebbles in it.

A few yards more, and here's the store that's kept by Mr Whittle-- And you can't say I waste the day if I 'ust wait . . . a little.

One day, you know, a year ago, a man gave me a penny, And Mr Whittle sold me sweets (but not so very many).

You never know your luck, and so I look to see what's new In Mr Whittle's window. There's a peppermint or two, Some b.u.t.tons and tobacco (Mr Whittle calls it "baccy"), And fish in tins, and tape, and pins. . . . And then a voice calls, "Jacky!"

"I'm coming, Ma. I've been so far-around by Duggan's Corner.

I had to stay awhile to say 'Good day' to Mr Horner.

I feel so f.a.gged; I've tramped and dragged through mud and over logs, Ma-- I could not go short-cuts, you know, because of bulls and dogs, Ma.

The creek, Ma? Why, it's very high! You don't call that a gutter?

Bill Horner chews tobacco, Ma . . . . I'd like some bread and b.u.t.ter."

THE BAND

Hey, there! Listen awhile! Listen awhile, and come.

Down in the street there are marching feet, and I hear the beat of a drum.

Bim! Boom!! Out of the room! Pick up your hat and fly!

Isn't it grand? The band! The band! The band is marching by!

Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay.

Tah, rah! We don't go home-- Oom, pah! We won't go home-- Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home when the band begins to play.

Oh, see them swinging along, swinging along the street!

Left, right! b.u.t.tons so bright, jackets and caps so neat.

Ho, the Fire Brigade, or a dress parade of the Soldier-men is grand; But everyone, for regular fun, wants a Big-Bra.s.s-Band.

The slide-trombone is a joy alone, and the drummer! He's a treat!

So, Rackety-rumph! We don't go home-- Boom, b.u.mph! We won't go home-- Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home while the band is in the street.