In the Days When the World Was Wide [16]
the sod -- `Your bushranging's over -- make peace, Jack, with God!' 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 passive 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 shore.
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?
God in heaven! hide the floating, Falling, rising, face from me; God 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 passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge, And roused the bullock-drivers camped
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 passive 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 shore.
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?
God in heaven! hide the floating, Falling, rising, face from me; God 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 passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge, And roused the bullock-drivers camped