Southerly Busters. Gibson George Herbert

      The look that o'er his features hung

      Was anything but sweet;

      His swag and "billy"a lay among

      The grass beneath his feet.

      And white and withered was his hair,

      And white and wan his face;

      I'd rather not have ipet the pair

      In such a lonely place.

      I thought misfortune's heavy hand

      Had done what it could do;

      Despair seemed branded on the man,

      And on the dingo too.

      A hungry look that dingo wore —

      He must have wanted prog —

      I think I never saw before

      So lean and lank a dog.

      I said – "Old man, I fear that you

      Are down upon your luck;

      You very much resemble, too,

      A pig that has been stuck."

      His answer wasn't quite distinct —

      (I'm sure it wasn't true):

      He said I was (at least, I think,)

      "A" – something – "jackeroo!"

      He said he didn't want my chaff,

      And (with an angry stamp)

      Declared I made too free by half

      "A-rushing of his camp."

      I begged him to be calm, and not

      Apologise to me;

      He told me I might "go to pot"

      (Wherever that may be);

      And growled a muttered curse or two

      Expressive of his views

      Of men and things, and squatters too,

      New chums and jackeroos.

      But economical he was

      With his melodious voice;

      I think the reason was because

      His epithets were choice.

      I said – "Old man, I fain would know

      The cause of thy distress;

      What sorrows cloud thine aged brow

      I cannot even guess.

      "There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,

      And passion in thine eye,

      Expressing anything but grace,

      But why, old man, oh! why?

      "A sympathising friend you'll find

      In me, old man, d'ye see?

      So if you've aught upon your mind

      Just pour it into me."

      He gravely shook his grizzled head

      I rather touched him there —

      And something indistinct he said

      (I think he meant to swear).

      He made a gesture with his hand,

      He saw I meant him well;

      He said he was a shepherd, and

      "A takin' of a spell."

      He said he was an ill-used bird,

      And squatters they might be —

      (He used a very naughty word

      Commencing with a D.)

      I'd read of shepherds in the lore

      Of Thessaly and Greece,

      And had a china one at home

      Upon the mantelpiece.

      I'd read about their loves and hates,

      As hot as Yankee stoves,

      And how they broke each other's pates

      In fair Arcadian groves;

      But nothing in my ancient friend

      Was like Arcadian types:

      No fleecy flocks had he to tend,

      No crook or shepherds' pipes.

      No shepherdess was near at hand,

      And, if there were, I guessed

      She'd never suffer that old man

      To take her to his breast!

      No raven locks had he to fall,

      And didn't seem to me

      To be the sort of thing at all

      A shepherd ought to be.

      I thought of all the history.

      I'd studied when a boy —

      Of Paris and Ænone, and

      The siege of ancient Troy.

      I thought, could Helen contemplate

      This party on the log,

      She would the race of shepherds' hate

      Like Brahmins hate a dog.

      It seemed a very certain thing

      That, since the world began,

      No shepherd ever was like him,

      From Paris down to Pan.

      I said – "Old man, you've settled now

      Another dream of youth;

      I always understood, I vow,

      Mythology was truth

      "Until I saw thy bandy legs

      And sorrow-laden brow,

      But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,

      I cannot think so now.

      "For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,

      Then very sure am I

      The man who wrote mythology

      Was guilty of a lie.

      "But never mind, old man," I said,

      "To sorrow we are born,

      So tell us why thine aged head

      Is bended and forlorn?"

      With face as hard as Silas Wegg's

      He said, "Young man, here goes."

      He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,

      And told me all his woes.

      He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"

      A flock of maiden-ewes,

      And then he'd had a trip to town

      To gather up the news;

      But while in Bathurst's busy streets

      He got upon the spree,

      And publicans was awful cheats

      For soon "lamm'd down" was he.

      He said he'd "busted up his cheque"

      (What's that, I'd like to know?)

      And now his happiness was wrecked,

      To work he'd got to go.

      He'd known the time, not long ago,

      When half the year he'd spend

      In