Part 5

“I'd like to see green grass again, And watch clear water run, Away from this unholy plain, And flies, and dust, and sun.”

At last one little clause he found That might some hope inspire, “A magistrate may charge a pound For inquest on a fire.”

A big blacks' camp was built close by, And Saltbush Bill, says he, “I think that camp might well supply A job for a J.P.”

That night, by strange coincidence, A most disastrous fire Destroyed the country residence Of Jacky Jack, Esquire.

'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt; The party most concerned Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt If forty such were burned.

Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill, Who watched the leaping flame. “The home is small,” said he, “but still The principle's the same.

“Midst palaces though you should roam, Or follow pleasure's tracks, You'll find,” he said, “no place like home, At least like Jacky Jack's.

“Tell every man in camp 'Come quick,' Tell every black Maria I give tobacco half a stick-- Hold inquest long-a fire.”

Each juryman received a name Well suited to a Court. “Long Jack” and “Stumpy Bill” became “John Long” and “William Short”.

While such as “Tarpot”, “Bullock Dray”, And “Tommy Wait-a-While”, Became, for ever and a day, “Scott”, “Dickens”, and “Carlyle”.

And twelve good sable men and true Were soon engaged upon The conflagration that o'erthrew The home of John A. John.

Their verdict, “Burnt by act of Fate”, They scarcely had returned When, just behind the magistrate, Another humpy burned!

The jury sat again and drew Another stick of plug. Said Saltbush Bill, “It's up to you Put some one long-a Jug.”

“I'll camp the sheep,” he said, “and sift The evidence about.” For quite a week he couldn't shift, The way the fires broke out.

The jury thought the whole concern As good as any play. They used to “take him oath” and earn Three sticks of plug a day.

At last the tribe lay down to sleep Homeless, beneath a tree; And onward with his travelling sheep Went Saltbush Bill, J.P.

The sheep delivered, safe and sound, His horse to town he turned, And drew some five-and-twenty pound For fees that he had earned.

And where Monaro's ranges hide Their little farms away-- His sister's children by his side-- He spent his Christmas Day.

The next J.P. that went out back Was shocked, or pained, or both, At hearing every pagan black Repeat the juror's oath.

No matter though he turned and fled They followed faster still; “You make it inkwich, boss,” they said, “All same like Saltbush Bill.”

They even said they'd let him see The fires originate. When he refused they said that he Was “No good magistrate.”

And out beyond Sturt's Western track, And Leichhardt's farthest tree, They wait till fate shall send them back Their Saltbush Bill, J.P.

The Riders in the Stand

There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth; And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath.

But all the finest horsemen out--the men to Beat the Band-- You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand. They'll say “He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight.” They'll show how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late.

They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head; They'll tell how one was “livened up” and something else was “dead”-- In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land, But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand.

The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight; You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right. You ride a slashing race, and lose--by one and all you're banned! Ride like a bag of flour, and win--they'll cheer you in the Stand.

Waltzing Matilda