Classic Poem

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;
I sought no " dead girl's memory " —
(We all had dead girls, long ago);
No vanished mate I tried to bring —
Where living mates are much the same —
And all that day I strove to sing
The clever thing that never came.

The song I've dreamed about of late,
Of work held low and dreams held high!
The Song of Passion, Love and Hate,
(But with no poison in the pie),
A song of strength and martyrdom,
And not of saint nor engineer;
A song of other Christs to come —
To finish with a god-like sneer.

But Ninety-one and Ninety-two
Were very faint and far away;
The honest things we used to do
Seemed childish things the other day.
And so I hunted through the night
For something simple, plain and true —
Some verses like I used to write
In Ninety-one and Ninety-two.

I sought a common public bar
Up somewhere on the Northern Shore,
To drown the thoughts of days afar
And simple songs that come no more;
And there he sat with whiskers white
And faded dog and faded swag —
He must have travelled all that night
To fill a phantom tucker-bag.

The beer he drank seemed spectral, too —
I scarcely thought that it was beer;
His eyes were very bright and blue,
His face was very fresh and clear.
(The dog went underneath a seat
To wait for what the day might bring;
They seemed to come back all complete
To teach the song I cannot sing.)

His voice was startling — clear and sharp
In beer-stained air 'twixt dingy walls;
(Yet something had it of the harp
That sounds no more through Tara's Halls.)
He said, " I met yer West o' Bourke —
'Twas Ninety-one when I met you;
You useter rousabout — an' work
At poetry at night-time, too.

" When we cut out and made for town —
Or blued our cheques and went on tramp —
We'd hear yer walkin' up and down
An' croakin' songs outside the camp.
I nigh remembered all yer stuff
It useter make the chaps rejoice;
Yer poetry was right enough —
But Jumpin' Sawpits! Wot a voice!

" I useter know yer father too,
In Mudgee Hills — Ah, many a year;
He'd trouble ten times worse nor you —
I never saw him tackle beer.
You're only fifty-three an' all —
I never seen a case so bad —
He'd take his wedges an' his maul,
An' go an' fight it down, my lad!

" You used to work then — well yer might;
An' you could build an' fence and plough,
You hated loafin', beer an' skite —
Now tell me what yer doin' now?
I've seen them go, dead an' alive,
In town an' country an' Out-Back;
An' look at me! I'm eighty-five —
Git up from there and take the Track. "

That morning's barmaid on " the Shore " —
She served the old man like a prince —
I'd never seen her there before,
And I have never seen her since.
She brought some water for his dog,
A thing that barmaids seldom do —
It all reminded me of Bourke
And Ninety-one and Ninety-two.

I dreamed in peace — or boozy fog,
Till wakened by a hand unseen —
The old man, and his swag and dog,
Had gone as though they'd never been,
But at my elbow on the bar,
There stood a fresh-drawn mug of beer;
I really thought the Western Star
Glowed in its amber, deep and clear.

The Lone Hand asked me for a song,
To publish when the year is old;
And so I hunted all day long
For something framed in green and gold —
Perhaps an echo, or a note,
Will find me when the year is new,
Of something like the things I wrote
In Ninety-one and Ninety-two.