Part 12

“But speak them fair, and speak them saft, Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails Or a rusty carriage bolt.”

So little son Jack ran blithely down, With the rusty nails in hand, Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched By their nest in the open sand.

And there he has gathered the new-laid egg, 'Twould feed three men or four, And the emus came for the half-inch nails Right up to the settler's door.

“A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife, As she took the egg, with a frown, “But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin A paddy-melon down.”

“Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack, Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, Then come nae back at a'.”

So little son Jack he raced and he ran, And he was bare o' the feet, And soon he captured a paddy-melon, Was gorged with the stolen wheat.

“Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, To the best that the hoose can do-- An omelette made of the emu egg And a paddy-melon stew.”

“'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man; “I have eaten the wide world's meat, And the food that is given with right good will Is the sweetest food to eat.

“But the night draws on to the Christmas Day And I must rise and go, For I have a mighty way to ride To the land of the Esquimaux.

“And it's there I must load my sledges up, With reindeers four-in-hand, That go to the North, South, East, and West, To every Christian land.”

“Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife, “Ye suit my husband well! For when he gets up on his journey horse He's a bit of a liar himsel'.”

Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man To his old horse grazing nigh, And away like a meteor flash they went Far off to the Northern sky.

. . . . .

When the children woke on the Christmas morn They chattered with might and main-- For a sword and gun had little son Jack, And a braw new doll had Jane, And a packet o' nails had the twa emus; But the dour good-wife got nane.

“In Re a Gentleman, One”

When an attorney is called before the Full Court to answer for any alleged misconduct it is not usual to publish his name until he is found guilty; until then the matter appears in the papers as “In re a Gentleman, One of the Attorneys of the Supreme Court”, or, more shortly, “In re a Gentleman, One”.

We see it each day in the paper, And know that there's mischief in store; That some unprofessional caper Has landed a shark on the shore. We know there'll be plenty of trouble Before they get through with the fun, Because he's been coming the double On clients, has “Gentleman, One”.

Alas! for the gallant attorney, Intent upon cutting a dash, Sets out on life's perilous journey With rather more cunning than cash. And fortune at first is inviting-- He struts his brief hour in the sun-- But, lo! on the wall is the writing Of Nemesis, “Gentleman, One”.

For soon he runs short of the dollars, He fears he must go to the wall; So Peter's trust-money he collars To pay off his creditor, Paul; Then robs right and left--for he goes it In earnest when once he's begun. Descensus Averni--he knows it; It's easy for “Gentleman, One”.

The crash comes as sure as the seasons; He loses his coin in a mine, Or booming in land, or for reasons Connected with women and wine. Or maybe the cards or the horses A share of the damage have done No matter; the end of the course is The same: “Re a Gentleman, One”.

He struggles awhile to keep going, To stave off detection and shame; But creditors, clamorous growing, Ere long put an end to the game. At length the poor soldier of Satan His course to a finish has run-- And just think of Windeyer waiting To deal with “A Gentleman, One”!

And some face it boldly, and brazen The shame and the utter disgrace; While others, more sensitive, hasten Their names and their deeds to efface. They snap the frail thread which the Furies And Fates have so cruelly spun. May the great Final Judge and His juries Have mercy on “Gentleman, One”!

The Melting of the Snow

There's a sunny Southern land, And it's there that I would be Where the big hills stand, In the South Countrie! When the wattles bloom again, Then it's time for us to go To the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

To the East or to the West, Or wherever you may be, You will find no place Like the South Countrie. For the skies are blue above, And the grass is green below, In the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

Now the team is in the plough, And the thrushes start to sing, And the pigeons on the bough Sit a-welcoming the Spring. So come my comrades all, Let us saddle up and go To the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

(1886)