THE COO-EE RECITER.
BY
AUSTRALIAN, BRITISH, AND
AMERICAN AUTHORS.
HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, DRAMATIC, DIALECT, RECITATIONS & READINGS.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, MELBOURNE & TORONTO.
CONTENTS.
THE COO-EE RECITER
I KILLED A MAN AT GRASPAN.
(The Tale of a Returned Australian Contingenter done into verse.)
I killed him fair in fight;
And the Empire's poets and the Empire's priests
Swear blind I acted right.
The Empire's poets and Empire's priests
Make out my deed was fine,
But they can't stop the eyes of the man I killed
From starin' into mine.
Maybe I killed a score;
But this one wasn't a chance-shot home,
From a thousand yards or more.
I fired at him when he'd got no show;
We were only a pace apart,
With the cordite scorchin' his old worn coat
As the bullet drilled his heart.
I killed him fightin' fair;
We came on each other face to face,
An' we went at it then and there.
Mine was the trigger that shifted first,
His was the life that sped.
An' a man I'd never a quarrel with
Was spread on the boulders dead.
I watched him squirmin' till
He raised his eyes, an' they met with mine;
An' there they're starin' still.
Cut of my brother Tom, he looked,
Hardly more'n a kid;
An', Christ! he was stiffenin' at my feet
Because of the thing I did.
I told the camp that night;
An' of all the lies that ever I told
That was the poorest skite.
I swore I was proud of my hand-to-hand,
An' the Boer I'd chanced to pot,
An' all the time I'd ha' gave my eyes
To never ha' fired that shot.
An hour ago about,
For there he lies with his starin' eyes,
An' his blood still tricklin' out.
I know it was either him or me,
I know that I killed him fair,
But, all the same, wherever I look,
The man that I killed is there.
My first and, God! my last;
Harder to dodge than my bullet is
The look that his dead eyes cast.
If the Empire asks for me later on
It'll ask for me in vain,
Before I reach to my bandolier
To fire on a man again.
KITTY O'TOOLE.
The lily ov shwate Tipperary;
Wid a voice like a thrish, and wid cheeks like a rose,
An' a figger as nate as a fairy!
Oi saw her wan noight—och! she look'd loike a quane
In the glory ov shwate wan an' twinty—
As she sat wid McGinty's big arm round her waisht,
Och! how I invied McGinty!
The boys an' the girls wor' invoited
By Micky O'Toole, ov the cabin beyant,
To see Kate an' McGinty unoited;
An' whin in the church they wor' made into wan,
An' the priesht gave thim blissin's in plinty,
An' Kitty look'd shwater than iver before—
Och! how I invied McGinty!
Och! me heart was all broke up wid pity
To see her so lonely, an' mournful, an' sad,
An' I wint an' got married to Kitty!
But now, whin I look where McGinty is laid,
Wid a shtone o'er his head cowld an' flinty—
As he lies there so peaceful, an' quoiet, an' shtill—
Och! how I invy McGinty.
THE BALLAD OF THE DROVER.
By Henry Lawson.
(By kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne.)
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
Comes riding home again.
And well his stock-horse bears him,
And light of heart is he,
And stoutly his old pack-horse
Is trotting by his knee.
He travelled regions vast;
And many months have vanished
Since home-folk saw him last.
He hums a song of someone
He hopes to marry soon;
And hobble-chains and camp-ware
Keep jingling to the tune.
Against the lower skies,
And yon blue line of ranges,
The homestead station lies.
And thitherward the drover
Jogs through the lazy noon,
While hobble-chains and camp-ware
Are jingling to a tune.
With storm-cloud inky black;
At times the lightning trickles
Around the drover's track,
But Harry pushes onward;
His horses' strength he tries
In hope to reach the river
Before the flood shall rise.
Goes rolling o'er the plain;
And down on thirsty pastures
In torrents fall the rain.
And every creek and gully
Sends forth its little flood,
Till the river runs a banker,
All stained with yellow mud.
The best dog on the plains;
And to his hardy horses,
And strokes their shaggy manes;
"We've breasted bigger rivers
When floods were at their height,
Nor shall this gutter stop us
From getting home to-night!"
The ghastly lightnings gleam,
As the drover turns his horses,
To swim the fatal stream.
But, oh! the flood runs stronger
Than e'er it ran before;
The saddle horse is failing,
And only half-way o'er!
The flood's grey breast is blank,
And a cattle-dog and pack-horse
Are struggling up the bank.
But on the bank to northward,
Or on the southern shore,
The stock-horse and his rider
Will struggle out no more.
Sits panting on the bank,
And then swims through the current
To where his master sank.
And round and round in circles,
He fights with failing strength,
Till borne down by the waters,
The old dog sinks at length.
And slopes of sodden loam,
The pack-horse struggles onward,
To take dumb tidings home.
And mud-stained, wet, and weary,
Through ranges dark goes he;
The hobble-chains and tinware
Are sounding eerily.
The stream is clear again,
And now a verdant carpet
Is stretched across the plain.
But someone's eyes are saddened,
And someone's heart still bleeds,
In sorrow for the drover
Who sleeps among the reeds.
By Edward Dyson.
(From "Rhymes from the Mines," by kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne.)
Shrieking words that drum hard on the centres, and the braceman goes suddenly daft;
"Set the whistle a-blowing like blazes! Billy, run, give old Mackie a call—
Run, you fool! Number Two's gone to pieces, and Fred Baker is caught in the fall!
Say, hello! there below—any hope, boys, any chances of saving his life?"
"Heave away!" says the knocker. "They've started. God be praised, he's no youngsters or wife!"
And the night, that was still as a sleeper in soft, charmed sleep, is astir
With the fluttering of wings in the wattles, and the vague, frightened murmur of birds;
With far cooeys that carry the warning, running feet, inarticulate words.
From the black belt of bush come the miners, and they gather by Mack on the brace,
Out of breath, barely clad, and half-wakened, with a question in every face.
"Is it Fred? He was reckless was Baker; now he's seen his last shift underground."
"And his mate? Where is Sandy M'Fadyn?" "Sandy's snoring at home on his bunk."
"Not at work! Name of God! a foreboding?" "A foreboding be hanged! He is drunk!"
"Take it steady there, lads!" the boss orders. He is white to the roots of his hair.
"We may get him alive before daybreak if he's close to the face and has air."
Long and Coots in the rise heard her thunder, and they fled without word or delay
Down the drive, and they rushed for the ladders, and they went up the shaft with a run,
For they knew the weak spot in the workings, and they guessed there was graft to be done.
Number Two was pitch dark, and they scrambled to the plat and they made for the face,
But the roof had come down fifty yards in, and the reef was all over the place.
When a life and death job is in doing there's room only for workers below.
Bare-armed, and bare-chested, and brawny, with a grim, meaning set of the jaw,
The relay hurries in to the rescue, caring not for the danger a straw;
'Tis not toil, but a battle, they're called to, and like Trojans the miners respond,
For a dead man lies crushed 'neath the timbers, or a live man is choking beyond.
On the verge of the Land of the Shadow, waging war breast to bosom with Death,
How they struggle, these giants! and slowly, as the trucks rattle into the gloom,
Inch by inch they advance to the conquest of a prison—or is it a tomb?
And the workings re-echo a volley as the timbers are driven in place;
Then a whisper is borne to the toilers: "Boys, his mother is there on the brace!"
Riordan's shift rushes in to relieve them, and the toil-stricken men stagger back.
"Stow the stuff, mates, wherever there's stowage! Run the man on the brace till he drops!
There's no time to think on this billet! Bark the heels of the trucker who stops!
Keep the props well in front, and be careful. He's in there, and alive, never fret."
But the grey dawn is softening the ridges, and the word has not come to us yet.
As the cage rushes up to the surface and drops back into darkness again.
By the capstan a woman is crouching. In her eyes neither hope nor despair;
But a yearning that glowers like frenzy bids those who'd speak pity forbear.
Like a figure in stone she is seated till the labour of rescue be done.
For the father was killed in the Phœnix, and the son—Lord of pity! the son?
"They have got him—thank Heaven! they've got him, and oh, blessed be God, he's alive!"
"Man on! heave away!" "Step aside, lads; let his mother be first when he lands."
She was silent and strong in her anguish; now she babbles and weeps where she stands,
And the stern men, grown gentle, support her at the mouth of the shaft, till at last
With a rush the cage springs to the landing, and her son's arms encircle her fast.
Now she cries a great blessing upon it for the one precious life it has spared.
SALTBUSH BILL.
By A. B. Paterson.
(By permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne.)
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood.
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains,
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains.
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand,
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight;
Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is a tale of a Jackeroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the Big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or the half of the mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackeroo with a station-hand in tow,
They forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackeroo.
So he turned and he cursed the Jackeroo, he cursed him alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackeroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style.
But the drover fought for his daily bread, with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill—
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand,
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest,
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and he gave his opponent best.
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland.
And the tale went home to the public schools of the pluck of the English swell,
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain.
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again.
With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that ever he did was the day that he lost the fight.
DROUGHT AND DOCTRINE.
By J. Brunton Stephens.
(By kind permission of the publishers, Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Sydney and Melbourne.)
But it ain't as if you'd merely kep' our little 'un alive;
Man, you saved the mother's reason when you saved that baby's life,
An' it's thanks to you I ha'n't a ravin' idiot for a wife.
That I'd like to fee ye extry—why, I'll take the bloomin' change.
If yer bill had said a hundred ... I'm a poor man, doc., and yet
I'd 'a' slaved till I had squared it; ay, an' still been in yer debt.
To be handled by a man as don't pretend to be a saint;
So I minds "the cultivation," smokes my pipe an' makes no stir,
An' religion an' such p'ints I lays entirely on to her.
They've been sprinkled by the parson, they've no show for evermore;
An' though they're spared the pitchfork, the brimstun, an' the smoke,
They ain't allowed to mix up there with other little folk.
An' not a parson to be had within a hunder mile—
(For though there is a chapel down at Bluegrass Creek, you know,
The clargy's there on dooty only thrice a year or so)—
It would 'a' cut you to the heart to hear the mother wail
About her "unregenerate babe," an' how, if it should go,
'Twould have no chance with them as had their
When in came brother Bill one day with news from Bluegrass Creek.
"I seen," says he, "a notice on the chapel railin' tied;
They'll have service there this evenin'—can the youngster stand the ride?
There's a dyin' man as wants him more'n twenty mile away;
So"—He hadn't time to finish ere the child was out of bed,
With a shawl about its body an' a hood upon its head.
Perhaps I thought it foolish, but I never said a word;
For though I have a vote in what the kids eat, drink, or wear,
Their sperritual requirements are entirely her affair.
With Aunt Sal and Bill for sureties to renounce the Evil One;
An' a bottle in Sal's basket that was labelled "Fine Old Tom"
Held the water that regeneration was to follow from.
An' not a sup o' water to be had for miles around;
So, to make salvation sartin for the babby's little soul,
We had filled a dead marine, sir, at the fam'ly waterhole.
Which every forty rods or so Sal raised it to her head,
An' took a snifter, "just enough to wet her lips," she said;
Whereby it came to pass that when we reached the chapel door,
There was only what would serve the job, an' deuce a dribble more.
A vessel with so evident a carritur for gin;
So we left it in the porch, an', havin' done our level best,
Went an' owned to bein' "mis'rable offenders" with the rest.
That a lamb was waitin' there to be admitted to the fold,
Rememberin' the needful, I gets up an' quietly slips
To the porch to see—a swagsman—with our bottle at his lips!
Knocked me down, sir, with a feather or tied me with a hair.
Doc., I couldn't speak nor move; an' though I caught the beggar's eye,
With a wink he turned the bottle bottom up an' drank it dry.
That the label on't was merely a deloosion an' a snare;
An' the crash cut short the people in the middle of "A-men,"
An' all the congregation heard him holler "Sold again!"
Ev'n the monkey in the vestry not a blessed drop contained;
An' the parson in a hurry cantered off upon his mare,
Leavin' baby unregenerate, an' missus in despair.
I feared more for her reason than for that wee spark o' life....
But you know the rest—how Providence contrived that very night
That a doctor should come cadgin' at our shanty for a light....
It's weeks and weeks since parson came an' put him through the mill;
An' his mother's mighty vain upon the subjick of his weight,
An' reg'lar cock-a-hoop about his sperritual state.
Lord, had Billy died!—but, doctor, don't you think it summut strange
That them as keeps the gate would have refused to let him in
Because a fool mistook a drop of Adam's ale for gin?
THE MARTYR.
By Victor J. Daley.
(From "At Dawn and Dusk" poems, by kind permission of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne.)
By sword, and fire, and flood,
Have perished the world's sad martyrs
Whose names are writ in blood.
Mean, dismal, gasping for breath;
One friend alone was beside her:
The name of him was—Death.
For money to buy them food,
She had slaved in the dismal hovel
And wasted her womanhood.
Came each with a load of cares;
And autumn to her brought only
A harvest of grey hairs.
Beyond the smoky town,
The winds of God were blowing
Evermore up and down;
Of joy from the bush beyond;
The gum its blue-green banner,
The fern its dark-green frond;
By sweet caressing names,
And young gum shoots sprang upward
Like woodland altar-flames;
The magpie's fluting song
Roused musical, mocking echoes
In the woods of Dandenong;
With
Through dim and shadowy gullies,
Across broad, treeless plains;
A breath of life from the sea,
And over the blue horizon
The ships sailed silently;
The sun rose, golden bright,
And in crimson, and gold, and purple
Sank in the sea at night;
Her hours of toil between;
For life to her was only
A heartless dead machine.
Where lay her children three;
Nor work nor prayer could save them,
Nor tears of agony.
Pressing a farewell kiss,
She cried aloud in her anguish—
"Can God make amends for this?"
Bereft her of power to pray,
And Man was careless and cruel,
And God was far away.
His ways are in the deep;
And, after a life of sorrow,
He gave her His gift of sleep.
And freedom to the slave;
Her tired and worn-out body
Sleeps well in its pauper grave.
To that Bright Land and Fair,
Where Sorrow enters never,
Nor any cloud of care.
Agleam with asphodel,
And the soul of the woman speaking,
Said, "Here I fain would dwell!"
"O Soul, most pure and dear,
O Soul, most tried and truest,
Thy dwelling is not here!
Long kept, long waiting—come!
Where bloom on the hills of Heaven
The roses of Martyrdom!"
THE CARRYING OF THE BABY.
By Ethel Turner.
Larrie had been carrying it for a long way, and said it was quite time Dot took her turn.
Dot was arguing the point.
She reminded him of all athletic sports he had taken part in, and of all the prizes he had won; she asked him what was the use of being six-foot-two and an impossible number of inches round the chest if he could not carry a baby.
Larrie gave her an unexpected glance and moved the baby to his other arm; he was heated and unhappy, there seemed absolutely no end to the red, red road they were traversing, and Dot, as well as refusing to help to carry the burden, laughed aggravatingly at him when he said it was heavy.
"He is exactly twenty-one pounds," she said, "I weighed him on the kitchen scales yesterday. I should think a man of your size ought to be able to carry twenty-one pounds without grumbling so."
"But he's on springs, Dot," he said; "just look at him, he's never still for a minute; you carry him to the beginning of Lee's orchard, and then I'll take him again."
Dot shook her head.
"I'm very sorry, Larrie," she said, "but I really can't. You know I didn't want to bring the child, and when you insisted, I said to myself, you should carry him every inch of the way, just for your obstinacy."
"But you're his mother," objected Larrie.
He was getting seriously angry, his arms ached unutterably, his clothes were sticking to his back, and twice the baby had poked a little fat thumb in his eye and made it water.
"But you're its father," Dot said sweetly.
"It's easier for a woman to carry a child than a man"—poor Larrie was mopping his hot brow with his disengaged hand—"everyone says so; don't be a little sneak, Dot; my arm's getting awfully cramped; here, for pity's sake take him."
Dot shook her head again.
"Would you have me break my vow, St. Lawrence?" she said.
She looked provokingly cool and unruffled as she walked along by his side; her gown was white, with transparent puffy sleeves, her hat was white and very large, she had little white canvas shoes, long white Suède gloves, and she carried a white parasol.
"I'm hanged," said Larrie, and he stopped short in the middle of the road; "look here, my good woman, are you going to take your baby, or are you not?"
Dot revolved her sunshade round her little sweet face.
"No, my good man," she said; "I don't propose to carry your baby one step."
"Then I shall drop it," said Larrie. He held it up in a threatening position by the back of its crumpled coat, but Dot had gone sailing on.
"Find a soft place," she called, looking back over her shoulder once and seeing him still standing in the road.
"Little minx," he said under his breath.
Then his mouth squared itself; ordinarily it was a pleasant mouth, much given to laughter and merry words; but when it took that obstinate look, one could see capabilities for all manner of things.
He looked carefully around. By the roadside there was a patch of soft, green grass, and a wattle bush, yellow-crowned, beautiful. He laid the child down in the shade of it, he looked to see there were no ants or other insects near; he put on the bootee that was hanging by a string from the little rosy foot, and he stuck the india-rubber comforter in its mouth. Then he walked quietly away and caught up to Dot.
"Well?" she said, but she looked a little startled at his empty arms; she drooped the sunshade over the shoulder nearest to him, and gave a hasty, surreptitious glance backward. Larrie strode along.
"You look fearfully ugly when you screw up your mouth like that," she said, looking up at his set side face.
"You're an unnatural mother, Dot, that's what you are," he returned hotly. "By Jove, if I was a woman, I'd be ashamed to act as you do. You get worse every day you live. I've kept excusing you to myself, and saying you would get wiser as you grew older, and instead, you seem more childish every day."
She looked childish. She was very, very small in stature, very slightly and delicately built. Her hair was in soft gold-brown curls, as short as a boy's; her eyes were soft, and wide, and tender, and beautiful as a child's. When she was happy they were the colour of that blue, deep violet we call the Czar, and when she grew thoughtful, or sorrowful, they were like the heart of a great,
That was one of his courtship sayings, more than a year ago, when she was barely seventeen. She was eighteen now, and he was telling her she was an unnatural mother.
"Why, the child wouldn't have had its bib on, only I saw to it," he said, in a voice that increased in excitement as he dwelt on the enormity.
"Dear me," said Dot, "that was very careless of Peggie; I must really speak to her about it."
"I shall shake you some day, Dot," Larrie said, "shake you till your teeth rattle. Sometimes I can hardly keep my hands off you."
His brow was gloomy, his boyish face troubled, vexed.
And Dot laughed. Leaned against the fence skirting the road that seemed to run to eternity, and laughed outrageously.
Larrie stopped too. His face was very white and square-looking, his dark eyes held fire. He put his hands on the white, exaggerated shoulders of her muslin dress and turned her round.
"Go back to the bottom of the hill this instant, and pick up the child and carry it up here," he said.
"Go and insert your foolish old head in a receptacle for pommes-de-terre," was Dot's flippant retort.
Larrie's hands pressed harder, his chin grew squarer.
"I'm in earnest, Dot, deadly earnest. I order you to fetch the child, and I intend you to obey me," he gave her a little shake to enforce the command. "I am your master, and I intend you to know it from this day."
Dot experienced a vague feeling of surprise at the fire in the eyes that were nearly always clear, and smiling, and loving, then she twisted herself away.
"Pooh," she said, "you're only a stupid over-grown, passionate boy, Larrie. You my master! You're nothing in the world but my husband."
"Are you going?" he said in a tone he had never used before to her. "Say Yes or No, Dot, instantly."
"No," said Dot, stormily.
Then they both gave a sob of terror, their faces blanched, and they began to run madly down the hill.
Oh the long, long way they had come, the endless stretch of red, red road that wound back to the gold-tipped wattles, the velvet grass, and their baby!
Larrie was a fleet, wonderful runner. In the little cottage where they lived, manifold silver cups and mugs bore witness to it, and he was running for life now, but Dot nearly outstripped him.
She flew over the ground, hardly touching it, her arms were outstretched, her lips moving. They fell down together on their knees by their baby, just as three furious, hard-driven bullocks thundered by, filling the air with dust and bellowing.
The baby was blinking happily up at a great fat golden beetle that was making a lazy way up the wattle. It had lost its "comforter" and was sucking its thumb thoughtfully. It had kicked off its white knitted boots, and was curling its pink toes up in the sunshine with great enjoyment.
"Baby!" Larrie said. The big fellow was trembling in every limb.
"Baby!" said Dot. She gathered it up in her little shaking arms, she put her poor white face down upon it, and broke into such pitiful tears and sobs that it wept too. Larrie took them both into his arms, and sat down on a fallen tree. He soothed them, he called them a thousand tender, beautiful names; he took off Dot's hat and stroked her little curls, he kissed his baby again and again; he kissed his wife. When they were all quite calm and the bullocks ten miles away, they started again.
"I'll carry him," said Larrie.
"Ah no, let me," Dot said.
"Darling, you're too tired—see, you can hold his hand across my shoulder."
"No, no, give him to me—my arms ache without him."
"But the hill—my big baby!"
"Oh, I must have him—Larrie, let me—see, he is so light—why, he is nothing to carry."