To an Old Mate
Knocking About
Glass on the Bar
Second Class Wait Here
Faces in the Street
Bush Girl
Taking His Chance
Scots of the Riverina
To Hannah
Prouder Man than You
The Low Lighthouse
The Shame of Going Back
To Jim

To An Old Mate

Old Mate! In the gusty old weather,
When our hopes and our troubles were new;
In the years we spent in wearing out leather,
I found you unselfish and true –
I have gathered these songs together
For the sake of our friendship and true…
And I send them along instead of the letters
I promised to write to you…

I remember, Old Man, I remember
The tracks that we followed are clear;
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year;
Long tramps through the clearings and the timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.
I remember, Old Man, I remember
The tracks that we followed are clear…

I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine –
1 remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
Your path through the future and mine;
I can still feel the spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine …

You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend, a friend who has dropped out of sight
I have gathered these songs together
For the sake of our friendship and you;
And I send them along instead of the letters
I promised to write to you …

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Knocking Around

Weary old wife, with the bucket and cow,
“How’s your son Jack - and where is he now?”
Haggard old eyes that turn to the west –
“Boys will be boys, and he’s gone with the rest!”
Grief without tears and grief without sound;
“Somewhere up-country he’s knocking around.”

Knocking around with a vagabond crew,
Does for himself what a mother would do;
Maybe in trouble and maybe hard-up,
Maybe in want of a bite or a sup;
Dead of the fever, or lost in the drought,
Lonely old mother! he’s knocking about.

Wiry old man at the tail of the plough,
“Heard of Jack lately - and where is he now?”
Pauses a moment his forehead to wipe,
Drops the rope reins while he feels for his pipe,
Scratches his grey head in sorrow or doubt:
“Somewhere or others he’s knocking about.”

Knocking about on the runs of the West,
Holding his own with the worst and the best,
Breaking in horses and risking his neck,
Droving or shearing and making a cheque;
Straight as a sapling – six-foot and sound,
Jack is all right when he’s knocking around.

Weary old wife, with the bucket and cow,
“How’s your son Jack - and where is he now?”

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The Glass on the Bar

Three bushmen one morning rode up to an inn,
And one of them called out for drinks with a grin;
They'd only returned from a trip to the North,
And, eager to greet them, the landlord came forth.
He absently poured out a glass of Three Star …
And set down that drink with the rest on the bar.

"There, that one’s for Harry," he said, "and it's queer,
T’is the very same glass that he drank from last year;
His name's on the glass, you can read it like print,
He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;
I remember his drink it was always Three Star" –
And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar…

He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
"You were always together where's Harry?" cried he.
Oh, sadly they looked at that glass as they said,
"You may put it away, for our old mate is dead…"
But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar,
Said, "We owe him a shout leave the glass on the bar…"

They thought of the far away grave on the plain,
They thought of the comrade who came not again,
And they lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
"We drink to the name of our mate who is dead."
And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star -
Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar…

And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;
And often the strangers will read as they pass
The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are -
That glass never stands with the rest on the bar…

And the sunlight streams in, and a light like a star
Seems to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar…

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Second Class Wait Here

On suburban railway stations – you may see them as you pass –
There are signboards on the windows saying, “Wait here second class”;
And to me the whirr and thunder and the cluck of running gear
Seem to be forever saying, saying “Second class wait here” –
“Wait here, second class,
Second class wait here…”

And the second class were waiting in the days of serf and prince,
And the second class are waiting – we’ve been waiting ever since…
There are signboards in the background, and the line is bare and drear,
Yet they wait beneath a signboard, sneering “Second class wait here…”

I have waited oft in winter, in the mornings dark and damp,
When the asphalt platform glistened underneath the lonely lamp…
And I waited there and suffered, and I waited for many a year,
And I slaved beneath a signboard, saying “Second class wait here…”

Ah! a man must feel revengeful for a boyhood such as mine -
God! I hate the very houses near the workshop by the line;
And the smell of railway stations and the roar of running gear,
And the scornful-sneering signboards, saying “Second class wait here…”

There’s a train with Death for a driver, which is ever going past,
And there are no class compartments and we all must go at last;
To the long white jasper platform with Eden in the rear;
And there won’t be any signboards saying - “Second class wait here…”

“Wait here, Second class
Second class, wait here …”

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Faces in the Street

They lie, the men who tell us for reasons of their own
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window sill is level with the faces in the street –
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet –
I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street -
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

Once I cried: "O God Almighty! if Thy might cloth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure."
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I saw a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street –
Coming near, coming near
To a drum’s dull distant beat
Then I saw the army that was matching down the street…

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The Bush Girl

So you rode from the range where your brothers select,
Through the ghostly, grey bush in the dawn
You rode slowly at first, lest her heart should suspect
That you were quite glad to be gone;
You had scarcely the courage to glance back at her
And the homestead receding from view,
And you breathed with relief as you rounded the spur,
For the world was a wide world to you….

Grey eyes that grow sadder than sunset or rain,
Fond heart that is ever more true…
Firm faith that grows firmer for watching in vain,
She'll wait by the slip rails for you.

Ah! the world is a new and a wide one to you
But the world to your sweetheart is shut;
For a change never comes to the lonely bush homes
of the stockyard, the scrub, and the hut;
And the only relief from the dullness she feels
When the ridges grow softened and dim;
And away in the dusk to the slip rails she steals
To dream of past hours "with him"…

Do you think, where, in place of bare fences, dry creeks,
Clear streams and green hedges are seen
Where the girls have the lily and the rose in their cheeks,
And the grass in the summer is green
Do you think, now and then, now or then in the whirl
Of the town life, while London is new,
Of the hut in the bush and the freckled faced girl
Who waits by the slip rails for you?

Grey eyes that are sadder than sunset or rain,
Bruised heart that is ever more true,
Fond faith that is firmer for trusting in vain,
She waits by the slip rails for you…

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Taking His Chance

They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise;
May Carney looked up in the bushranger's eyes:
"O why did you come? - it was mad of you, Jack;
You know that the troopers are out on your track."
A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head;
“I wanted a dance, and I'll chance it," he said.

At midnight the dancers stood suddenly still,
For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill;
Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside
Came riding as only a bushman can ride.
He sprang from his horse, to the shanty he sped -
"The troopers are down in the gully!" he said.

Quite close to the homestead the troopers were seen;
"Clear out and ride hard for the ranges, Jack Dean!
Be quick!" said May Carney her hand on her heart
We'll bluff them awhile and we’ll give you a start."
He lingered a moment to kiss her, of course
Then he ran to the trees where he'd hobbled his horse.

They chased, and they shouted, "Surrender, Jack Dean!"
They called him three times in the name of the Queen.
Then came from the darkness, the clicking of locks;
The crack of the rifles was heard in the rocks.
A shriek and a shout and a rush of pale men -
And there lay the bushranger, chancing it then…

The sergeant dismounted and knelt on the sod -
"Your bushranging's over make peace, Jack, with God."
The bushranger laughed not a word he replied,
But turned to the girl who knelt down by his side.
He gazed in her eyes as she lifted his head:
"Just kiss me, my girl, and I'll chance it," he said.

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Scots of the Riverina

The boy cleared out to the city from his home at Christmas time –
They were Scots of the Riverina - and to run from home was a crime -
And the old man burned his letters, the first and last he burned …
And he scratched his name from the Bible
When the old girl’s back was turned.

A year went past, and another, and the fruit went down the line;
They heard the boy had enlisted, but the old man made no sign.
His name must never be mentioned on the farm by Gundagai –
They were Scots of the Riverina - with ever the kirk hard by…

The boy came home on his "final", and the township's bonfire burned -
His mother's arms were about him, but the old man's back was turned.
The daughters begged for pardon, till the old man raised his hand -
A Scot of the Riverina - he was hard to understand….

The boy was killed in Flanders, where the bravest heroes die,
There were tears at the Grahame homestead, there was grief in Gundagai;
But the old man ploughed at daybreak and he ploughed and he ploughed the dirt -
There were furrows of pain in the orchard while his household went to the church.

The hurricane lamp in the rafters, dimly and dimly burned,
And the old man died at the table when the old girls’ back was turned.
Face down on his bare arms folded he sank with his wild grey hair
Outspread o'er the open Bible was a name re written there...

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To Hannah

Spirit girl to whom 'twas given
To revisit scenes of pain,
From the hell I thought was Heaven
You have lifted me again;
Through the world that I inherit,
Where I loved her before she died -
I am walking
I am walking with the spirit
Of Hannah by my side …

Through my old possessions only
For a very little while,
And they say that I am lonely,
And they pity, but I smile:
For the brighter side has won me
By the calmness that it brings;
And the peace that is upon me
Does not come of earthly things…

Spirit girl, the good is in me,
But the flesh, you know, is weak,
And with no pure soul to win me
I might miss the path I seek;
Lead me by the love you bore me
When you trod the earth with me;
Till the light is clear before me,
And my spirit too is free…
I’ll be walking
I’ll be walking with the spirit
Of Hannah by my side …

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A Prouder Man Than You

If you fancy that your people came of better stock than mine,
If you hint of higher breeding by a word or by a sign,
If you’re proud because of fortune or the clever things you do
I’ll play no second fiddle: I’m a prouder man than you!

If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and new,
You have only got to hint it - I'm a prouder man than you!

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view –
Be blind to me for ever - I'm a prouder man than you!

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,
While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'er you do…
"Birds o' feather fly together" - I'm a prouder bird than you.

Keep your patronage for others! Gold and station cannot hide
Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer pride!
Offer this as to an equal let me see that you are true,
And my wall of pride is shattered – I ’m not so proud as you!

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The Low Lighthouse

I think if you've lived the average life,
And been fair to everyone,
'Twill matter little what you have done
Or what you have left undone
When you sail by the South West Cape of Life
Where the baffling West Winds blow,
By the reefs of Doubt that run far out
To a Lighthouse sadly low,

The low Lighthouse,
The low Lighthouse,
To a Lighthouse sadly low.

But 'twill matter a lot the brave, wise words,
The words that you left unsaid
The kind, forgiving, repentant words
That you can't say when you're dead;
How many hearts, and one, they'd help
You'll surely never know,
Till your pride has died when the waves break wide
Out there by the Lighthouse low,

By the low Lighthouse,
The low Lighthouse,
By the Lighthouse sadly low

There were "straight wire" scrawls from the good old mate
And the mate that I never met;
Perhaps in an outback hell they wait,
For a line from the "inside" yet;
And I lie and think in Hospital here
With aching limbs and brow
How she begged for a sign, if only a line -
And I wish I could write it now …

Near the low Lighthouse,
The low Lighthouse,
Down here near the Lighthouse low.

I think if you've lived the average life,
And been fair to everyone,
'Twill matter little what you have done
Or what you have left undone
When you sail by the South West Cape of Life
Where the baffling West Winds blow,
By the reefs of Doubt that run far out
To a Lighthouse sadly low,

The low Lighthouse,
The low Lighthouse,
When I've rounded the Lighthouse low

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The Shame of Going Back

When you've come to make a fortune and you haven't made your salt -
And the reason of your failure isn't anybody's fault
When you haven't got a billet, and the times are very slack,
There is nothing that can spur you like the shame of going back;
Crawling home with empty pockets..
Going back hard up;
Oh, it's then you learn the meaning of humiliation's cup.

When the place and you are strangers and you struggle all alone,
And you have a mighty longing for the town that you have known;
When your clothes are very shabby and the future's very black,
There is nothing that can hurt you like the shame of going back…

Ah! my friend, you call it nonsense and your upper lip is curled,
I can see that you have never worked your passage through the world;
But when fortune rounds upon you and the rain is on the track,
You will learn the bitter meaning of the shame of going back;
Going home with empty pockets…
Going home hard-up;
Oh, it’s then you taste the poison in humiliation’s cup…

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To Jim

I gaze upon my son once more,
With eyes and heart that tire,
As solemnly he stands before
The screen drawn round the fire;
With hands behind clasped hand in hand,
Now loosely and now fast –
Just as his fathers used to stand
For generations past.

A fair and slight and childish form,
With big brown thoughtful eyes -
God help him! for a life of storm
And stress before him lies:
A wanderer and a gipsy wild,
I've learnt the world and know,
For I was such another child
Ah, many years ago!

These lines I write with bitter tears
And failing heart and hand,
But you will read in after years,
And you will understand;
You'll hear the slander of the crowd,
They'll whisper tales of shame;
But days will come when you'll be proud
To bear your father's name.

I gaze upon my son once more,
With eyes and heart that tire,
As solemnly he stands before
The screen drawn round the fire;
Dream on, my son, that all is true
And things not what they seem -
'Twill be a bitter day for you
When wakened from your dream…

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