Classic Poem

Let all those about to marry listen to their Uncle Harry,
Whether they are under twenty, or have jibbed at sixty-nine;
When your sweetheart, or the missus, gives you gab instead of kisses
Don't talk back — it's worse than useless; and, for God's sake never whine.
Don't get ropable, or moony — and, above all, don't get spoony;
Do not whistle " Annie Rooney " sitting calmly on your chair
(For it's likely to be risky); don't go out for beer or whisky;
Think about the Row at Ryan's, and of other rows out there.

Ryan's Pub is on the Hay line — which you'd scarcely call a gay line,
Whether in the blazing sunlight, or the sad, majestic rain —
Just outside a prohibition area — a good position for a pub of its condition —
I mean Yanko Irrigation Area, that haunts the State.
Folk are there of most conditions, men who once held high positions: —
Comps, and poets and musicians, and they like to " irrigate " ,
And on Saturdays they gather in the township on the plain.

Some are toiling for the nations on the Murrumbidgee stations:
Smilers from the Out-Back Nineties, and the bravest and the best.
Some who would not brook restrictions left the city's contradictions —
With their " previous convictions " — and are tramping ever west.
Some have farms, as usual far out from the line, as our farms are out
From Australia's nightmare railways, or else hidden in the scrub.
There are storekeepers to edit that old spirit-breaking credit;
But the week-end's always brightened by the row at Ryan's Pub.

Even Bummer Smith might start it, indirectly and beer-hearted,
(And a word of his might end it — wars have raged for Bummer Smith.)
Or a drinking mate remember he had words — say last December —
With another whom he now is, and he then was, drinking with;
Or the row be still more silly and connected with King Billy
And the habits and the customs of his dark and ancient line;
Or be started in like manner by the snake, or the " gohanner " ,
Or some higher Freak that worries this old land of yours and mine.

And two others, " more than brothers " , notwithstanding different mothers —
Different fathers too; but they were nearly full up, I suspect:
(Dave McKee, and jack O'Brien) — wrangled till they woke up Ryan
As to whether it was Ah Kee (hic-hic) Tect, or Archie -Tect;
And when Ryan told them plainly, then started once againly,
Over whether it was Hawk- Chester or ' Orchy (Damn the rhyme!),
Poor old Bummer Smith protested, half in tears, though not requested,
That it wash what Ryan shezitwash, I-tell-yer — every time.

But the biggest row at Ryan's was outside the realms of science,
And the English tongue and grammar, though " Australian " had a show.
'Twas between two ancient cases who had been in many places
And were mostly mates together since the golden long ago;
They had perished on the Never, when they both were young and clever
Bushmen. They had pulled together on the station, track and claim;
They were true, and loyal-hearted, but they nearly fought and parted
That bright moonlit night at Ryan's — and the Bunyip was to blame.

So when sweetheart, wife, or woman gets her tongue on you uncommon,
Or a mate is short, or silent, or blasphemes without the grin;
Or the good old Boss attacks you without reason and then sacks you
For the twentieth time in six months, just sit tight, and take it in.
Don't be foolish, like your father (Dad was — well — cantankerous, rather;
But he suffered for it after, and, maybe, went off his grub).
Have philosophy, or patience, for the feuds of men and nations
Are but tempests in a teacup, are but cyclones in the tub,
Like the rows in our old Township, and the Row at Ryan's Pub;
And they always end in Beer.