In the Days When the World Was Wide [20]
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', Nigger, 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 --
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', Nigger, 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 --