George Gibson - Southerly Busters

Thou wee can'st remember the morning
Succeeding thy Sabbath, thou Jew!
When cursing the year I was born in,
I felt the first turn of the screw.

And, hope from my bosom departing,
Like dew from the rays of the sun,
My wits the sad news were imparting
How I'd been deluded and done.

And, borne on the telegraph wire,
A message came swiftly to me;
It said that my grey-headed sire
Was pining his offspring to see.

How face my infuriate father —
My property mortgaged and gone?
For darkly his anger will gather;
I've hardly a rag to put on.

Thine int'rest I cannot repay thee,
And gone are my coat and my hat;
Thou hast all my duds – I could slay thee!
Oh! how could I be such a flat?

I brought thee each gift of my mother,
Each gift of my generous aunt;
The pistol belonged to my brother —
I'd like to restore it, but can't:

For, uncle, thy fingers are sticky,
And, if the sad truth be confessed,
Thy heart is as false as the "dicky,"
Which covers my sorrowful breast.

I've managed the needful to borrow,
My watch and my ring to redeem;
I hope that the sight of my sorrow
May cause thee a horrible dream.

'Twere joy should I hear that the pistol
Had burst in thy villainous hand —
While smoking the "bird's eye" of Bristol,
My breast would dilate and expand.

I leave thee, for vain is resistance,
And little thou heedest my slang,
But I'd barter ten years of existence
For power to cause thee a pang.

O! had I the wand of a wizard,
A Nemesis cruel I'd bribe
To torture that Israelite's gizzard,
And caution the rest of his tribe.

O! ye who are fond of excitement,
Ye students of Med'cine and Law,
Be warned by this awful indictment,
And never give Moses your paw!

From Moses who spoiled the Egyptian,
To Moses who buys your old clo',
They're all of the self-same description —
They take, but they never let go.

Ye sons of the Man on the Barrel
(That's Bacchus) – ye "Monks of the Screw!"
Don't mortgage your wearing apparel,
Or have any truck with a Jew;

But take to cold water and virtue,
And never, whatever befalls,
Let any false logic convert you
To visit the "Three Golden Balls."

The shadows of the River Gums
Were stretching long and black,
As, far from Sydney's busy hum,
I trod the narrow track.

I watched the coming twilight spread,
And thought on many a plan;
I saw an object on ahead —
It seemed to be a man.

A venerable party sat
Upon a fallen log;
Upon him was a battered hat,
And near him was a dog.

The look that o'er his features hung
Was anything but sweet;
His swag and "billy"a lay among
The grass beneath his feet.

And white and withered was his hair,
And white and wan his face;
I'd rather not have ipet the pair
In such a lonely place.

I thought misfortune's heavy hand
Had done what it could do;
Despair seemed branded on the man,
And on the dingo too.

A hungry look that dingo wore —
He must have wanted prog —
I think I never saw before
So lean and lank a dog.

I said – "Old man, I fear that you
Are down upon your luck;
You very much resemble, too,
A pig that has been stuck."

His answer wasn't quite distinct —
(I'm sure it wasn't true):
He said I was (at least, I think,)
"A" – something – "jackeroo!"

He said he didn't want my chaff,
And (with an angry stamp)
Declared I made too free by half
"A-rushing of his camp."

I begged him to be calm, and not
Apologise to me;
He told me I might "go to pot"
(Wherever that may be);

And growled a muttered curse or two
Expressive of his views
Of men and things, and squatters too,
New chums and jackeroos.

But economical he was
With his melodious voice;
I think the reason was because
His epithets were choice.

I said – "Old man, I fain would know
The cause of thy distress;
What sorrows cloud thine aged brow
I cannot even guess.

"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,
And passion in thine eye,
Expressing anything but grace,
But why, old man, oh! why?

"A sympathising friend you'll find
In me, old man, d'ye see?
So if you've aught upon your mind
Just pour it into me."

He gravely shook his grizzled head
I rather touched him there —
And something indistinct he said
(I think he meant to swear).

He made a gesture with his hand,
He saw I meant him well;
He said he was a shepherd, and
"A takin' of a spell."

He said he was an ill-used bird,
And squatters they might be —
(He used a very naughty word
Commencing with a D.)

I'd read of shepherds in the lore
Of Thessaly and Greece,
And had a china one at home
Upon the mantelpiece.

I'd read about their loves and hates,
As hot as Yankee stoves,
And how they broke each other's pates
In fair Arcadian groves;

But nothing in my ancient friend
Was like Arcadian types:
No fleecy flocks had he to tend,
No crook or shepherds' pipes.

No shepherdess was near at hand,
And, if there were, I guessed
She'd never suffer that old man
To take her to his breast!

No raven locks had he to fall,
And didn't seem to me
To be the sort of thing at all
A shepherd ought to be.

I thought of all the history.
I'd studied when a boy —
Of Paris and Ænone, and
The siege of ancient Troy.

I thought, could Helen contemplate
This party on the log,
She would the race of shepherds' hate
Like Brahmins hate a dog.

It seemed a very certain thing
That, since the world began,
No shepherd ever was like him,
From Paris down to Pan.

I said – "Old man, you've settled now
Another dream of youth;
I always understood, I vow,
Mythology was truth

"Until I saw thy bandy legs
And sorrow-laden brow,
But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,
I cannot think so now.

"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,
Then very sure am I
The man who wrote mythology
Was guilty of a lie.

"But never mind, old man," I said,
"To sorrow we are born,
So tell us why thine aged head
Is bended and forlorn?"

With face as hard as Silas Wegg's
He said, "Young man, here goes."
He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,
And told me all his woes.

He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"
A flock of maiden-ewes,
And then he'd had a trip to town
To gather up the news;