Part 2

. . . . .

The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' “Redclay Inn”. A fresh back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie.

Flash Jack--red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his nose:

Hoh!-- There was a wild kerlonial youth, John Dowlin was his name! He bountied on his parients, Who lived in Castlemaine!

and so on to--

He took a pistol from his breast And waved that lit--tle toy--

“Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash Jack's part--

“I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said The wild Kerlonial Boy.

Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his head--his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and through, from hair to toenails, as a child.

They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it behind his head on the end of the stool:

The ship was built in Glasgow; 'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”-- Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone between--

And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!

The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all do within hearing, when Abe sings.

“Now then, boys:

And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!

“Now, all together!

The Low Lands! The Low Lands! And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!”

Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment.

“Oh! save me, lads!” he cried, “I'm drifting with the current, And I'm drifting with the tide! And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low!

The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”--

The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the table.

And we sewed him in his hammock, And we slipped him o'er the side, And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low! The Low Lands! The Low Lands! And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!

Old Boozer Smith--a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in the corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug--old Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes a bellow from under the horse rug:

Wot though!--I wear!--a rag!--ged coat! I'll wear it like a man!

and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is concerned.

Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! Give us a song!”

In the days when we were hard up For want of wood and wire-- Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”--

We used to tie our boots up With lit--tle bits--er wire;