Part 15

He spoke. 'I meant at first,' said he, 'To give their spades a bump: Or lead the hearts, but then you see I thought against us there might be, Perhaps, a fourteenth trump!'

. . . . .

They buried him at dawn of day Beside a ruined stump: And there he sleeps the hours away And waits for Gabriel to play The last -- the fourteenth -- trump.

Tar and Feathers

Oh! the circus swooped down On the Narrabri town, For the Narrabri populace moneyed are; And the showman he smiled At the folk he beguiled To come all the distance from Gunnedah.

But a juvenile smart, Who objected to 'part', Went in 'on the nod', and to do it he Crawled in through a crack In the tent at the back, For the boy had no slight ingenuity.

And says he with a grin, 'That's the way to get in; But I reckon I'd better be quiet or They'll spiflicate me,' And he chuckled, for he Had the loan of the circus proprietor.

But the showman astute On that wily galoot Soon dropped, and you'll say that he leathered him -- Not he; with a grim Sort of humorous whim, He took him and tarred him and feathered him.

Says he, 'You can go Round the world with a show, And knock every Injun and Arab wry; With your name and your trade, On the posters displayed, The feathered what-is-it from Narrabri.'

Next day for his freak, By a Narrabri beak, He was jawed with a deal of verbosity; For his only appeal Was 'professional zeal' -- He wanted another monstrosity.

Said his worship, 'Begob! You are fined forty bob, And six shillin's costs to the clurk!' he says. And the Narrabri joy, Half bird and half boy, Has a 'down' on himself and on circuses.

It's Grand

It's grand to be a squatter And sit upon a post, And watch your little ewes and lambs A-giving up the ghost.

It's grand to be a 'cockie' With wife and kids to keep, And find an all-wise Providence Has mustered all your sheep.

It's grand to be a Western man, With shovel in your hand, To dig your little homestead out From underneath the sand.

It's grand to be a shearer, Along the Darling side, And pluck the wool from stinking sheep That some days since have died.

It's grand to be a rabbit And breed till all is blue, And then to die in heaps because There's nothing left to chew.

It's grand to be a Minister And travel like a swell, And tell the Central District folk To go to -- Inverell.

It's grand to be a Socialist And lead the bold array That marches to prosperity At seven bob a day.

It's grand to be an unemployed And lie in the Domain, And wake up every second day And go to sleep again.

It's grand to borrow English tin To pay for wharves and Rocks, And then to find it isn't in The little money-box.

It's grand to be a democrat And toady to the mob, For fear that if you told the truth They'd hunt you from your job.

It's grand to be a lot of things In this fair Southern land, But if the Lord would send us rain, That would, indeed, be grand!

Out of Sight

They held a polo meeting at a little country town, And all the local sportsmen came to win themselves renown. There came two strangers with a horse, and I am much afraid They both belonged to what is called 'the take-you-down brigade'.

They said their horse could jump like fun, and asked an amateur To ride him in the steeplechase, and told him they were sure, The last time round, he'd sail away with such a swallow's flight The rest would never see him go -- he'd finish out of sight.

So out he went; and, when folk saw the amateur was up, Some local genius called the race 'the dude-in-danger cup'. The horse was known as 'Who's Afraid', by Panic from 'The Fright'. But still his owners told the jock he'd finish out of sight.

And so he did; for 'Who's Afraid', without the least pretence, Disposed of him by rushing through the very second fence; And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right -- For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'.