English

A MORNING GHOST STORY

The Lone Hand asked me for a song
To publish when the year is old,
And so I puzzled all night long
For something set in green and gold —
Or blue and gold — yet smart and bright,
The very best that I can do;
But not the stuff I used to write
In Ninety-one and Ninety-two.

I sought no sad house by the sea,
No lone grave in the afterglow;

Anti-Soldier, Anti-All,
Politicians every one;
There are things they can't recall,
For they never saw them done.
There are thoughts that come about,
When the Digger's dad reflec's —
'Tis the troopship goin' out,
And the mist on Granny's spec's.

Things the smug cold-footer missed,
Just because he wouldn't see —
'Tis the Casualty List
In the old home after tea.
Dad is walkin' to and fro
In the moonlight by the shed;
Mum is sobbing soft and low,
Granny's hand is on her head.

I. T HEN

I spent a year in Junee,
I spent a year in Bourke;
And one I spent revising
The year I spent in work.
They seemed so close together
They nearly broke my heart;
And yet those fateful two years
Were twenty years apart.

O down the Lachlan River
Where father used to camp,
The old grey horse is missing,
And I'm too old to tramp.

No Union flag was flying,
Because it never flew;
The cause was dead or dying
Round Bourke in 'Ninety-Two.
Through bogs of sodden black soil

'Tis the wail of the male of the Anglo-Saxon race —
" Shet yer head! " —
Who is hurled round the world and then hurtled into space —
" Shet yer head! " —
To his cackling, harping woman,
Who with vigour superhuman
(Or endurance granted few men)
Clacks and mags at him for ever.
(Shet yer head!)

Shut your head! Shut your head!
Shut your head! Shut yer head.
Shut your head, shut your head;
Shet yer head!
Shut your — shut your head!
Shut yer head. Shut your head!

Light on the towns and cities, and peace for evermore!
The Big Five met in the world's light as many had met before,
And the future of man is settled and there shall be no more war.

The lamb shall lie down with the lion, and trust with treachery;
The brave man go with the coward, and the chained mind shackle the free,
And the truthful sit with the liar ever by land and sea.

And there shall be no more passion, and no more love nor hate;
No more contempt for the paltry, no more respect for the great;

Take us back to Mellerdrarmer, more than twenty years ago,
When our faith was yet untainted and the “gods” still ran the show;
When She wasn't Bought and Paid For (you can bet yer blarsted life!)
And the only lies we knew of were the Lies he Told his Wife.

(Or the lies he told his friend's wife just to set that lady right,
As to who her husband was with—as to where he stayed last night;
To corroborate a cobber in the sinful Days of Drink,
When our wives—unpoliticted—had too damn much time to think.)

She is washing up dishes at home now
And cooking the dinner — all but.
She has no inclination to roam now
That her " world " and " the pictures " are shut.
No more may she stare at that other
False world, for her dummies are still;
Unmarried, she's helping her mother,
Or, married, she's mending for Bill.

No longer she wastes half her days now
In smothering darkness and heat,

Now " Scotty " was a black Scot, cursed England with his clan
Because his gret-gran'-fayther was hanged a " Charlie's man " ,
But Scotty left in Flanders, wi' blackest curse and frown,
A hairy leg for England and the King his Crown.
O'er hills by richt his ain
He stumps wi' micht and main
And monny a curse for England and the King his Crown.

Now Paddy was a red Celt and known in any land
(His heart he always carries in the heel of his right hand).
He went to gaol for Ireland before the moon went down,

A DIRGE

O I never felt so wretched, and things never looked so blue
Since the days I gulped the physic that my Granny used to brew;
For a friend in whom I trusted, entering my room last night,
Stole a bottleful of Heenzo from the desk whereon I write.

I am certain sure he did it (though he never would let on),
For all last week he had a cold and to-day his cough is gone;
Now I'm sick and sore and sorry, and I'm sad for friendship's sake

By the rock that's like a pillow
 And the homes of business fleas
Came the bottle merchant Billo
 With his old horse, Socrates.
Down the steep hill to the ferry
 Billo picked his zigzag way;
And I thought his face seemed very
 Thoughtful—for a Saturday.

On the kerb his cartwheel grated
 And the bottles grated too,
While he slewed his load and waited
 When my presence hove in view.
And methought I heard him mutter
 Friendly words of blasphemy,
And he spat into the gutter—
 And I spat in sympathy.