When the frosty moon was shinin' o'er the ranges like a lamp, An' a lot of bullick-drivers was a-campin' on the camp, When the fire was blazin' cheery an' the pipes was drawin' well, Then our songs we useter chorus an' our yarns we useter tell; An' we'd talk ov lands we come from, and ov chaps we useter know, For there always was behind us OTHER days o' long ago.

Ah, them early days was ended when the reelroad crossed the plain, But in dreams I often tramp beside the bullick-team again: Still we pauses at the shanty just to have a drop er cheer, Still I feels a kind ov pleasure when the campin'-ground is near; Still I smells the old tarpaulin me an' Jimmy useter throw O'er the timber-truck for shelter in the days ov long ago.

I have been a-driftin' back'ards with the changes ov the land, An' if I spoke ter bullicks now they wouldn't understand, But when Mary wakes me sudden in the night I'll often say: 'Come here, Spot, an' stan' up, Bally, blank an' blank an' come-eer-way.'

An' she says that, when I'm sleepin', oft my elerquince 'ill flow In the bullick-drivin' language ov the days o' long ago.

Well, the pub will soon be closin', so I'll give the thing a rest; But if you should drop on Nowlett in the far an' distant west -- An' if Jimmy uses doubleyou instead of ar an' vee, An' if he drops his aitches, then you're sure to know it's he.

An' yer won't forgit to arsk him if he still remembers Joe As knowed him up the country in the days o' long ago.

_Then it's yoke up the bullicks and tramp beside 'em slow, An' saddle up yer horses an' a-ridin' we will go, To the bullick-drivin', cattle-drovin', n.i.g.g.e.r, digger, roarin', rovin'

Days o' long ago._

Corny Bill

His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth, His hat pushed from his brow, His dress best fitted for the South -- I think I see him now; And when the city streets are still, And sleep upon me comes, I often dream that me an' Bill Are humpin' of our drums.

I mind the time when first I came A stranger to the land; And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lame When Bill took me in hand.

Old Bill was what a chap would call A friend in poverty, And he was very kind to all, And very good to me.

We'd camp beneath the lonely trees And sit beside the blaze, A-nursin' of our wearied knees, A-smokin' of our clays.

Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far, An' clouds were in the skies, We'd camp in some old shanty bar, And sit a-tellin' lies.

Though time had writ upon his brow And rubbed away his curls, He always was -- an' may be now -- A favourite with the girls; I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall -- I've see'd 'em laugh until They could not do their work at all, Because of Corny Bill.

He was the jolliest old pup As ever you did see, And often at some bush kick-up They'd make old Bill M.C.

He'd make them dance and sing all night, He'd make the music hum, But he'd be gone at mornin' light A-humpin' of his drum.

Though joys of which the poet rhymes Was not for Bill an' me, I think we had some good old times Out on the wallaby.

I took a wife and left off rum, An' camped beneath a roof; But Bill preferred to hump his drum A-paddin' of the hoof.

The lazy, idle loafers what In toney houses camp Would call old Bill a drunken sot, A loafer, or a tramp; But if the dead should ever dance -- As poets say they will -- I think I'd rather take my chance Along of Corny Bill.

His long life's-day is nearly o'er, Its shades begin to fall; He soon must mount his bluey for The last long tramp of all; I trust that when, in bush an' town, He's lived and learnt his fill, They'll let the golden slip-rails down For poor old Corny Bill.

Cherry-Tree Inn

The rafters are open to sun, moon, and star, Thistles and nettles grow high in the bar -- The chimneys are crumbling, the log fires are dead, And green mosses spring from the hearthstone instead.

The voices are silent, the bustle and din, For the railroad hath ruined the Cherry-tree Inn.

Save the glimmer of stars, or the moon's pallid streams, And the sounds of the 'possums that camp on the beams, The bar-room is dark and the stable is still, For the coach comes no more over Cherry-tree Hill.

No riders push on through the darkness to win The rest and the comfort of Cherry-tree Inn.

I drift from my theme, for my memory strays To the carrying, digging, and bushranging days -- Far back to the seasons that I love the best, When a stream of wild diggers rushed into the west, But the 'rushes' grew feeble, and sluggish, and thin, Till scarcely a swagman pa.s.sed Cherry-tree Inn.

Do you think, my old mate (if it's thinking you be), Of the days when you tramped to the goldfields with me?

Do you think of the day of our thirty-mile tramp, When never a fire could we light on the camp, And, weary and footsore and drenched to the skin, We tramped through the darkness to Cherry-tree Inn?

Then I had a sweetheart and you had a wife, And Johnny was more to his mother than life; But we solemnly swore, ere that evening was done, That we'd never return till our fortunes were won.

Next morning to harvests of folly and sin We tramped o'er the ranges from Cherry-tree Inn.

The years have gone over with many a change, And there comes an old swagman from over the range, And faint 'neath the weight of his rain-sodden load, He suddenly thinks of the inn by the road.

He tramps through the darkness the shelter to win, And reaches the ruins of Cherry-tree Inn.

Up the Country

I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.

Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast.

Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town, Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

'Sunny plains'! Great Scott! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!

Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies, Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep.

Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten ma.s.s Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of gra.s.s.

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy water-holes In the place of 'shining rivers' -- 'walled by cliffs and forest boles.'

Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies -- Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes!

Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees Nothing -- Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees!

Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere Where the G.o.d-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer.

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there!

Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake, And the sinister 'gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake.

Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June.

Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all.

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again: Homes of men! if home had ever such a G.o.d-forgotten place, Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face.

Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a h.e.l.l -- And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call -- And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all!

I am back from up the country, up the country where I went Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back.

I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.

I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.