Saltbush Bill, J. P.

Part 1

SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES

By A. B. Paterson

Author of “The Man from Snowy River, and Other Verses”, “Rio Grande, and Other Verses”, and “An Outback Marriage”.

Publisher's Note: Major A. B. Paterson has been on active service in Egypt for the past eighteen months. The publishers feel it incumbent on them to say that only a few of the pieces in this volume have been seen by him in proof; and that he is not responsible for the selection, the arrangement or the title of “Saltbush Bill, J.P., and Other Verses”.

Table of Contents

Song of the Pen Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft,

Song of the Wheat We have sung the song of the droving days,

Brumby's Run It lies beyond the Western Pines

Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee;

The Reverend Mullineux I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight,

The Wisdom of Hafiz My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo,

Saltbush Bill, J.P. Beyond the land where Leichhardt went,

The Riders in the Stand There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride;

Waltzing Matilda Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong,

An Answer to Various Bards Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,

T.Y.S.O.N. Across the Queensland border line

As Long as your Eyes are Blue Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey

Bottle-O! I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job;

The Story of Mongrel Grey This is the story the stockman told,

Gilhooley's Estate Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes,

The Road to Hogan's Gap Now look, you see, it's this way like,

A Singer of the Bush There is waving of grass in the breeze

“Shouting” for a Camel It was over at Coolgardie that a mining speculator,

The Lost Drink I had spent the night in the watch-house--

Mulligan's Mare Oh, Mulligan's bar was the deuce of a place

The Matrimonial Stakes I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall,

The Mountain Squatter Here in my mountain home,

Pioneers They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;

Part 2

Santa Claus in the Bush It chanced out back at the Christmas time,

“In Re a Gentleman, One” We see it each day in the paper,

The Melting of the Snow There's a sunny Southern land,

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup Bring me a quart of colonial beer

The Gundaroo Bullock Oh, there's some that breeds the Devon that's as solid as a stone,

Lay of the Motor-Car We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd

The Corner Man I dreamed a dream at the midnight deep,

When Dacey Rode the Mule 'Twas to a small, up-country town,

The Mylora Elopement By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,

The Pannikin Poet There's nothing here sublime,

Not on It The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet--

The Protest I say 'e ISN'T Remorse!

The Scapegoat We have all of us read how the Israelites fled

An Evening in Dandaloo It was while we held our races--

A Ballad of Ducks The railway rattled and roared and swung

Tommy Corrigan You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace,

The Maori's Wool Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how

The Angel's Kiss An angel stood beside the bed

Sunrise on the Coast Grey dawn on the sand-hills--the night wind has drifted

The Reveille Trumpets of the Lancer Corps,

SALTBUSH BILL, J.P., AND OTHER VERSES

Song of the Pen

_Not for the love of women toil we, we of the craft, Not for the people's praise; Only because our goddess made us her own and laughed, Claiming us all our days,

Claiming our best endeavour--body and heart and brain Given with no reserve-- Niggard is she towards us, granting us little gain; Still, we are proud to serve.

Not unto us is given choice of the tasks we try, Gathering grain or chaff; One of her favoured servants toils at an epic high, One, that a child may laugh.

Yet if we serve her truly in our appointed place, Freely she doth accord Unto her faithful servants always this saving grace, Work is its own reward!_

Song of the Wheat

We have sung the song of the droving days, Of the march of the travelling sheep; By silent stages and lonely ways Thin, white battalions creep. But the man who now by the land would thrive Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. Is there ever a man in the world alive To sing the song of the Wheat!

Part 3

It's west by south of the Great Divide The grim grey plains run out, Where the old flock-masters lived and died In a ceaseless fight with drought. Weary with waiting and hope deferred They were ready to own defeat, Till at last they heard the master-word-- And the master-word was Wheat.

Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine-- 'Twas axe and fire for all; They scarce could tarry to blaze the line Or wait for the trees to fall, Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, And the dust of the horses' feet Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide The wonderful march of Wheat.

Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, The soil is turned on the plain; Better than silver and better than gold Is the surface-mine of the grain; Better than cattle and better than sheep In the fight with drought and heat; For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.

When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, Deep down in his bed of clay The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait For the resurrection day: Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, Will over the steaming paddocks spread The first green flush of the Wheat.

Green and amber and gold it grows When the sun sinks late in the West; And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows Where the quail and the skylark nest. Mountain or river or shining star, There's never a sight can beat-- Away to the sky-line stretching far-- A sea of the ripening Wheat.

When the burning harvest sun sinks low, And the shadows stretch on the plain, The roaring strippers come and go Like ships on a sea of grain; Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear Their tale of the load complete. Of the world's great work he has done his share Who has gathered a crop of wheat.

Princes and Potentates and Czars, They travel in regal state, But old King Wheat has a thousand cars For his trip to the water-gate; And his thousand steamships breast the tide And plough thro' the wind and sleet To the lands where the teeming millions bide That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”

Brumby's Run

Brumby is the Aboriginal word for a wild horse. At a recent trial a N.S.W. Supreme Court Judge, hearing of Brumby horses, asked: “Who is Brumby, and where is his Run?”

It lies beyond the Western Pines Towards the sinking sun, And not a survey mark defines The bounds of “Brumby's Run”.

On odds and ends of mountain land, On tracks of range and rock Where no one else can make a stand, Old Brumby rears his stock.

A wild, unhandled lot they are Of every shape and breed. They venture out 'neath moon and star Along the flats to feed;

But when the dawn makes pink the sky And steals along the plain, The Brumby horses turn and fly Towards the hills again.

The traveller by the mountain-track May hear their hoof-beats pass, And catch a glimpse of brown and black Dim shadows on the grass.

The eager stockhorse pricks his ears And lifts his head on high In wild excitement when he hears The Brumby mob go by.

Old Brumby asks no price or fee O'er all his wide domains: The man who yards his stock is free To keep them for his pains.

So, off to scour the mountain-side With eager eyes aglow, To strongholds where the wild mobs hide The gully-rakers go.

A rush of horses through the trees, A red shirt making play; A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, They vanish far away!

. . . . .

Ah, me! before our day is done We long with bitter pain To ride once more on Brumby's Run And yard his mob again.

Saltbush Bill on the Patriarchs

Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it's up to me To give you some instruction like--a kind of Christmas tale-- So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”?

Continue reading Saltbush Bill, J. P. free in the Wunder reader →