They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise; May Carney looked up in the bushranger's eyes: 'Oh! why did you come? -- it was mad of you, Jack; You know that the troopers are out on your track.'

A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head -- 'I wanted a dance, and I'll chance it,' he said.

Some twenty-odd bushmen had come to the 'ball', But Jack from his youth had been known to them all, And bushmen are soft where a woman is fair, So the love of May Carney protected him there; And all the short evening -- it seems like romance -- She danced with a bushranger taking his chance.

'Twas midnight -- the dancers stood suddenly still, For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill!

Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside Came riding as only a bushman can ride.

He sprang from his horse, to the shanty he sped -- 'The troopers are down in the gully!' he said.

Quite close to the homestead the troopers were seen.

'Clear out and ride hard for the ranges, Jack Dean!

Be quick!' said May Carney -- her hand on her heart -- 'We'll bluff them awhile, and 'twill give you a start.'

He lingered a moment -- to kiss her, of course -- Then ran to the trees where he'd hobbled his horse.

She ran to the gate, and the troopers were there -- The jingle of hobbles came faint on the air -- Then loudly she screamed: it was only to drown The treacherous clatter of slip-rails let down.

But troopers are sharp, and she saw at a glance That someone was taking a desperate chance.

They chased, and they shouted, 'Surrender, Jack Dean!'

They called him three times in the name of the Queen.

Then came from the darkness the clicking of locks; The crack of the rifles was heard in the rocks!

A shriek and a shout, and a rush of pale men -- And there lay the bushranger, chancing it then.

The sergeant dismounted and knelt on the sod -- 'Your bushranging's over -- make peace, Jack, with G.o.d!'

The bushranger laughed -- not a word he replied, But turned to the girl who knelt down by his side.

He gazed in her eyes as she lifted his head: 'Just kiss me -- my girl -- and -- I'll -- chance it,' he said.

When the 'Army' Prays for Watty

When the kindly hours of darkness, save for light of moon and star, Hide the picture on the signboard over Doughty's Horse Bazaar; When the last rose-tint is fading on the distant mulga scrub, Then the Army prays for Watty at the entrance of his pub.

Now, I often sit at Watty's when the night is very near, With a head that's full of jingles and the fumes of bottled beer, For I always have a fancy that, if I am over there When the Army prays for Watty, I'm included in the prayer.

Watty lounges in his arm-chair, in its old accustomed place, With a fatherly expression on his round and pa.s.sive face; And his arms are clasped before him in a calm, contented way, And he nods his head and dozes when he hears the Army pray.

And I wonder does he ponder on the distant years and dim, Or his chances over yonder, when the Army prays for him?

Has he not a fear connected with the warm place down below, Where, according to good Christians, all the publicans should go?

But his features give no token of a feeling in his breast, Save of peace that is unbroken and a conscience well at rest; And we guzzle as we guzzled long before the Army came, And the loafers wait for 'shouters' and -- they get there just the same.

It would take a lot of praying -- lots of thumping on the drum -- To prepare our sinful, straying, erring souls for Kingdom Come; But I love my fellow-sinners, and I hope, upon the whole, That the Army gets a hearing when it prays for Watty's soul.

The Wreck of the 'Derry Castle'

Day of ending for beginnings!

Ocean hath another innings, Ocean hath another score; And the surges sing his winnings, And the surges shout his winnings, And the surges shriek his winnings, All along the sullen sh.o.r.e.

Sing another dirge in wailing, For another vessel sailing With the shadow-ships at sea; Shadow-ships for ever sinking -- Shadow-ships whose pumps are clinking, And whose thirsty holds are drinking Pledges to Eternity.

Pray for souls of ghastly, sodden Corpses, floating round untrodden Cliffs, where nought but sea-drift strays; Souls of dead men, in whose faces Of humanity no trace is -- Not a mark to show their races -- Floating round for days and days.

Ocean's salty tongues are licking Round the faces of the drowned, And a cruel blade seems sticking Through my heart and turning round.

Heaven! shall HIS ghastly, sodden Corpse float round for days and days?

Shall it dash 'neath cliffs untrodden, Rocks where nought but sea-drift strays?

G.o.d in heaven! hide the floating, Falling, rising, face from me; G.o.d in heaven! stay the gloating, Mocking singing of the sea!

Ben Duggan

Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began, And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man; Jack Denver's wife bowed down her head -- her daughter's grief was wild, And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.

But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far, To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.

_By station home And shearing shed Ben Duggan cried, 'Jack Denver's dead!

Roll up at Talbragar!'_

He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve, And scarcely paused a moment's time the mournful news to leave; He rode by lonely huts and farms, and when the day was done He turned his panting horse's head and rode to Ross's Run.

No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.

_By diggers' camps Ben Duggan sped -- At each he cried, 'Jack Denver's dead!

Roll up at Talbragar!'_

That night he pa.s.sed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge, And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante's Bridge; And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise; The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes; He dashed the rebel drops away -- for blinding things they are -- But 'twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.

_At Blackman's Run Before the dawn, Ben Duggan cried, 'Poor Denver's gone!

Roll up at Talbragar!'_

At all the shanties round the place they'd heard his horse's tramp, He took the track to Wilson's Luck, and told the diggers' camp; But in the gorge by Deadman's Gap the mountain shades were black, And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track -- He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof's sudden jar, And big Ben Duggan ne'er again rode home to Talbragar.

_'The wretch is drunk, And Denver's dead -- A burning shame!' the people said Next day at Talbragar._

For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength, And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length; Round Denver's grave that Christmas day rough bushmen's eyes were dim -- The western bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him; But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star, Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar.