Part 7

Bottle-O!

I ain't the kind of bloke as takes to any steady job; I drives me bottle cart around the town; A bloke what keeps 'is eyes about can always make a bob-- I couldn't bear to graft for every brown. There's lots of handy things about in everybody's yard, There's cocks and hens a-runnin' to an' fro, And little dogs what comes and barks--we take 'em off their guard And we puts 'em with the Empty Bottle-O!

Chorus--

So it's any “Empty bottles! Any empty bottle-O!” You can hear us round for a half a mile or so. And you'll see the women rushing To take in the Monday's washing When they 'ear us crying, “Empty Bottle-O!”

I'm drivin' down by Wexford-street and up a winder goes, A girl sticks out 'er 'ead and looks at me, An all-right tart with ginger 'air, and freckles on 'er nose; I stops the cart and walks across to see. “There ain't no bottles 'ere,” says she, “since father took the pledge;” “No bottles 'ere,” says I, “I'd like to know What right you 'ave to stick your 'ead outside the winder ledge, If you 'aven't got no Empty Bottle-O!”

I sometimes gives the 'orse a spell, and then the push and me We takes a little trip to Chowder Bay. Oh! ain't it nice the 'ole day long a-gazin' at the sea And a-hidin' of the tanglefoot away. But when the booze gits 'old of us, and fellows starts to “scrap”, There's some what likes blue-metal for to throw: But as for me, I always says for layin' out a “trap” There's nothin' like an Empty Bottle-O!

The Story of Mongrel Grey

This is the story the stockman told, On the cattle camp, when the stars were bright; The moon rose up like a globe of gold And flooded the plain with her mellow light. We watched the cattle till dawn of day And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.

. . . . .

He was a knock-about station hack, Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; Ridden all day with a sore on his back, Left all night with nothing to eat. That was a matter of every-day Common occurrence to Mongrel Grey.

We might have sold him, but someone heard He was bred out back on a flooded run, Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird,-- Midnight or midday were all as one. In the flooded ground he could find his way, Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey.

'Tis a special gift that some horses learn; When the floods are out they will splash along In girth-deep water, and twist and turn From hidden channel and billabong. Never mistaking the road to go, For a man may guess--but the horses know.

I was camping out with my youngest son-- Bit of a nipper just learnt to speak-- In an empty hut on the lower run, Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. The youngster toddled about all day, And with our horses was Mongrel Grey.

All of a sudden the flood came down Fresh from the hills with the mountain rain, Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, Over the flats and across the plain. Rising and rising--at fall of night Nothing but water appeared in sight!

'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, Even in daylight; for all around Channels and billabongs twist about, Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. And to move was a hopeless thing to try In the dark with the water just racing by.

I had to try it. I heard a roar, And the wind swept down with the blinding rain; And the water rose till it reached the floor Of our highest room, and 'twas very plain The way the water was sweeping down We must shift for the highlands at once, or drown.

Off to the stable I splashed, and found The horses shaking with cold and fright; I led them down to the lower ground, But never a yard would they swim that night! They reared and snorted and turned away, And none would face it but Mongrel Grey.

I bound the child on the horse's back, And we started off with a prayer to heaven, Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black, For I knew that the instinct God has given To guide His creatures by night and day Would lead the footsteps of Mongrel Grey.

He struck deep water at once and swam-- I swam beside him and held his mane-- Till we touched the bank of the broken dam In shallow water--then off again, Swimming in darkness across the flood, Rank with the smell of the drifting mud.

He turned and twisted across and back, Choosing the places to wade or swim, Picking the safest and shortest track, The pitchy darkness was clear to him. Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? The Lord that led him alone could tell!

He dodged the timber whene'er he could, But the timber brought us to grief at last; I was partly stunned by a log of wood, That struck my head as it drifted past; And I lost my grip of the brave old grey, And in half a second he swept away.

I reached a tree, where I had to stay, And did a perish for two days hard; And lived on water--but Mongrel Grey, He walked right into the homestead yard At dawn next morning, and grazed around, With the child on top of him safe and sound.

We keep him now for the wife to ride, Nothing too good for him now, of course; Never a whip on his fat old hide, For she owes the child to that old grey horse. And not Old Tyson himself could pay The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.

Gilhooley's Estate

(A ballad concerning the amalgamation of the legal professions.)

Oh, Mr. Gilhooley he turned up his toes, As most of us do, soon or late; And Jones was a lawyer, as everyone knows, So they took him Gilhooley's Estate.

Gilhooley in life had been living so free 'Twas thought his possessions were great, So Jones, with a smile, says, “There's many a fee For me in Gilhooley's Estate.”

They made out a list of his property fine, It totalled a thousand-and-eight; But the debts were nine hundred and ninety and nine-- The debts of Gilhooley's Estate.