Backblock Ballads and Later Verses. Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
an' take, Dyin' with no day behind 'em lived for fellow-mortals' sake. Now my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit and laugh At the "fools o' life," he called 'em, livin' on the other half. Dyin' lonely, missin' only that one joy that makes life sweet— Just the joy of useful labour, such as comes of growin' wheat. Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Let the foolish scheme an' cheat; But I'd rather, like my father, when my span o' life's complete,
Feel I'd lived by helpin' others; earned the right to call 'em brothers Who had gained while I was gamin' from God's earth His gift of wheat. When the settin' sun is gettin' low above the western hills, When the creepin' shadows deepen, and a peace the whole land fills, Then I often sort o' soften with a feelin' like content, An' I feel like thankin' Heaven for a day in labour spent. For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' smile, Realizin' he was wealthy in what makes a life worth while. Smilin', he has told me often, "After all the toil an' heat, Lad, he's paid in more than silver who has grown one field of wheat." Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When it comes my turn to meet Death the Reaper, an' the Keeper of the Judgment Book I greet, Then I'll face 'em sort o' calmer with the solace of the farmer That he's fed a million brothers with his Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.
The Lovers
One idle hour she sought to see
Whose image 'twas he cherished so,
(All fondly certain whose 'twould be)
And found a—girl she did not know.
A trusting maiden's modest face,
All innocence and purity.
"What nun is this that fills my place?
Alas, he loves me not!" sighed she.
"Nay, daughter, let no foolish fears
Your trust in his devotion mar,"
Her mother said. "Come, dry your tears ;
That is the girl he thinks you are."
All fondly curious with love—
(Half guessing what he would lay bare)
He rifled her heart's treasure-trove,
And found—a stranger's image there.
"This is the man she loves!" said he,
And, searching in the noble face,
Read high resolve and constancy.
"This saint," he cried, "usurps my place!"
"Nay," spake his friend. "Your anger cool ;
Gaze on that godlike face once more;
And then be satisfied, O fool;
That is the man she takes you for."
"Got-a-Fag"
He was tall and tough and stringy, with the shoulders of an axe-man,
Broad and loose, with greenhide muscles; and a hand shaped to the reins;
He was slow of speech and prudent, something of a Nature student,
With the eye of one who gazes far across the saltbush plains.
Smith, by name; but long forgotten was his legal patronymic
In a land where every bushman wears some unbaptismal tag;
And through frequent repetition of a well-worn requisition,
"Smith" had long retired in favour of the title, "Got-a-Fag."
Not until the war was raging for a month, or maybe longer,
Did the tidings reach the station, blest with quite unfrequent mails;
And, though still a steady grafter, he grew restless ever after,
And he pondered long of evenings, seated on the stockyard rails.
Primed with sudden resolution, he arose one summer morning,
Casually mentioned fighting, as he deftly rolled his swag;
Then, in accents almost hearty, bade his mate, "So long, old Party!
I am on some Square-head huntin'. See you later. Got a fag?"
Ten long, sunburned days in saddle, down through spinifex and saltbush,
Then a two-days' railroad journey landed him at last in town
Charged with an aggressive feeling, heightened by the forthright dealing
With a shrewd but chastened spieler who had sought to take him down.
"Smart and stern" describes the war-lord who presided at recruiting.
To him slouched an apparition, drawling, "Boss, I've got a nag;
Risin' four—good prad he's counted. Better shove me in the mounted;
Done a little bit o' shootin'—gun an' rifle. Got a fag?"
Two months later, drilled and kneaded to a shape approaching martial,
Yet with hints of that lithe looseness discipline can never kill,
With that keen eye grown yet shrewder, an example to the cruder,
Private Smith (and, later, Sergeant) stinted speech and studied drill.
"Smith" indeed but briefly served him, and his former appellation
In its aptness seized the fancy of the regimental wag,
When an apoplectic Colonel gasped, "Of all the dashed, infernal. … "
As this Private Smith saluted, with "Ribuck, Sir! Got a fag?"
What he thought, or how he marvelled at the unfamiliar customs
Of those ancient and historic lands that later met his eyes,
He was never heard to mention; though he voiced one bold contention,
That the absence of wire fences marked a lack of enterprise.
Soon his shrewd resource, his deftness, won him fame in many places.
Things he did with wire and whipcord moved his company to brag.
And when aught concerning horses called for knowledge in the forces
Came a hurried, anxious message, "Hang the vet! Send Got-a-Fag!"
Then, one morning, he was missing, and a soldier who had seen him
Riding for the foe's entrenchments bade his mates abandon hope.
Calm he seemed, but strangely daring; some weird weapons he was bearing
Built of twisted wire and iron, and a dozen yards of rope.
At the dawn a startled sentry, through the early morn-mists peering,
Saw a dozen shackled foemen down the sand dunes slowly drag.
Sore they seemed, and quite dejected, while behind them, cool, collected,
Swearing at a busy sheep-dog, rode their drover, Got-a-Fag.
To the Colonel's tent he drove them, brandishing a stock-whip featly,
Briskly calling "Heel 'em, Laddie!" While the warrior of rank