Dad On The Test

I reckon (said Dad) that the country's pests
Is this here wireless an' these here Tests.
Up to the house and around the door,
Stretchin' their ears for to catch the score,
Leavin' the horses down in the crop.
Can you wonder that a farmer goes off pop?

I'm yellin' at Jim or I'm cursin' at Joe
All hours of the day; but it ain't no go -
Leavin' their work and hangin' around
When they think I'm down at the fallow ground;
Sneaking away when I start to rouse,
An' as soon as me back's turned, back to the house.

'Who got Wyatt? Is Sutcliffe out?'
Wot do they care if I rave an' shout?
Bribin' young Bill for to leave his job
To twiddle the switches an' twist the knob.
'Has he made his century? Who's in now?'…
And I bought that machine for the price of a cow!

There's a standin' crop, an' the rain's not far,
An' the price is rotten, but there you are:
As soon as these cricketin' games begin
The farm goes dilly on listenin' in;
Not only the boys an' the harvester crew,
But Mum an' the girls gits dotty too.
An' I reckon (says Dad) that a man's worst pests
Is this here wireless and these here Tests.

George Jones Reflects

It's up an' down, as me father said,
An' his as went before him
Good days could never turn his head
Nor the worst of seasons floor him.
(Said old george Jones). I've heard him say
Full many a time an' often,
'The man who knows no evil day
Ain't toughened so he can out-stay
Good times, in which men soften.'

See-saw. 'Tis the older law
That's ruled the world since Adam.
If men ain't sipped the bitter cup,
How can the good days cheer 'em up?
They never know they had 'em.
So, by-an'-large, I'm sorter glad
I've had a chance to share 'em
These long, lean years we've lately had.
Now good years come we've got the bad
With which we can compare 'em.

I've heard men say the land is done
Because the hard times fool 'em.
Poor simple loons, they ain't begun
To know the laws wot rule 'em.
'Men ain't learned yet to live on air,'
I've hard my ole dad chuckle.
'Stick to the land. All wealth lies where
Earth bids all men to seek it, e'er
When life gets near the knuckle.'

See-saw. 'Tis the olden law;
An' laws help them as learned 'em.
An' us ole stagers wot held fast
To earth, now clear days down at last,
Why, praise the Lord, we've earned 'em.
Hard earned (said old George Jones) most ways
High prized. New loads is lighter,
Us, who held fast can well spare praise,
Aye, even for then strengthenin' days
That makes these good days brighter.

The Reaper In The Bush

He was lyin' on his bunk,
In the hut behind the mill,
Ravin' like a man wild drunk,
Never silent, never still,
'Best go in an' say Good bye,'
Says old Blair. 'He's got to die.'

God! I never want to see
Any face so wrung with pain,
Nor to hear such blasphemy
Ever in my life again.
White he was, an' starey-eyed,
With his hand pressed to his side.

'Now he raves,' says Daddy Pike.
'He ain't wise to what he says
Never have I heard the like
All me wicked livin' days.'
'Raise him up a bit,' says Blair.
'Put that pillow under there.

'Raise him. . . . There now, easy, lad.
Turn a little - gently - so.
You'll not feel it near so bad. . . .
Painin'? Yes, I know, I know.
Yes, old man; it's Blair, your friend. . . .
(Boys, he's very near the end.')

Soon a saner, calmer look
Came in Murray's strainin' eyes.
Though his body heaved an' shook,
He held back his awful cries
Till another wave of pain
Gripped him, an' he shrieked again.

'Christ!' he called. 'O, Christ, the pain!
Boys, you know I ain't a funk.'
Still he took the Name in vain,
Writhin' there upon his bunk.
'Do you call him?' says old Blair.
Pointin' upward. 'He is there.'

'Blair!' he gasps. 'Do you believe?
Such as me! Is there a chance?'
'Easy, Murray. Don't you grieve.
You ain't worth a single glance
Save of pity from His eye.
Laddie, pray before you die.'

'God! I'm frightened, Blair!' says he . . .
'Boys, you know I never whined. . . .
Where's the hope for one like me?
I ain't no hymn-singin' kind.'
There was pleadin' in his glance:
'Blair,' says he, 'is there a chance?'


Old Bob Blair reached for his hand.
'Chance there is, an' certainty.
Try to think an' understand.
Nothin's There to fear,' says he.
'Him, the Merciful, the Mild,
Think ye He would strike a child?

'Think ye that he put you here,
Gave you labour, gave you pain,
So your end should be fear
That you plead to Him in vain?
Nay, dear laddie, while you've breath,
Live in hope, an' smile on death.'

With a hard hand, woman-kind,
He pushed back the sweaty hair.
'Now then, laddie, ease your mind,
Pain will end for you out There. . . .'
An' the smile on Blair's rough face
Was a blessin' an' a grace.

'God!' says Ben, 'You are a friend:
Friend, old man, an' father too.
Hold my hand right to the end
They'll take notice There of you. . . .
Good-bye, Jim, an' Dusty Dick,
Simon, Pike. . . .I'm goin' - quick.'

With his eyes shut tight he lay,
His breath comin' in great sobs.
An' his poor lips seemed to pray,
As his hand held fast to Bob's. . . .
Now his sobs an' prayin' cease.
Says old Blair, 'God give him peace!

'Give him peace!' sighed old Bob Blair,
As he rose beside the dead.
But I caught his wistful stare,
An' the muttered words he said:
'God,' he prayed - 'if one there be -
Give such faith an' peace to me.'

A Bush Christmas

The sun burns hotly thro' the gums
As down the road old Rogan comes
The hatter from the lonely hut
Beside the track to Woollybutt.
He likes to spend his Christmas with us here.
He says a man gets sort of strange
Living alone without a change,
Gets sort of settled in his way;
And so he comes each Christmas day
To share a bite of tucker and a beer.

Dad and the boys have nought to do,
Except a stray odd job or two.
Along the fence or in the yard,
'It ain't a day for workin' hard.'
Says Dad. 'One day a year don't matter much.'
And then dishevelled, hot and red,
Mum, thro' the doorway puts her head
And says, 'This Christmas cooking, My!
The sun's near fit for cooking by.'
Upon her word she never did see such.

Your fault,' says Dad, 'you know it is.
Plum puddin'! on a day like this,
And roasted turkeys! Spare me days,
I can't get over women's ways.
In climates such as this the thing's all wrong.
A bit of cold corned beef an' bread
Would do us very well instead.'
Then Rogan said, 'You're right; it's hot.
It makes a feller drink a lot.'
And Dad gets up and says, 'Well, come along.'

The dinner's served - full bite and sup.
'Come on,' says Mum, 'Now all sit up.'
The meal takes on a festive air;
And even father eats his share
And passes up his plate to have some more.
He laughs and says it's Christmas time,
'That's cookin', Mum. The stuffin's prime.'
But Rogan pauses once to praise,
Then eats as tho' he'd starved for days.
And pitches turkey bones outside the door.

The sun burns hotly thro' the gums,
The chirping of the locusts comes
Across the paddocks, parched and grey.
'Whew!' wheezes Father. 'What a day!'
And sheds his vest. For coats no man had need.
Then Rogan shoves his plate aside
And sighs, as sated men have sighed,
At many boards in many climes
On many other Christmas times.
'By gum!' he says, 'That was a slap-up feed!'

Then, with his black pipe well alight,
Old Rogan brings the kids delight
By telling o'er again his yarns
Of Christmas tide 'mid English barns
When he was, long ago, a farmer's boy.
His old eyes glisten as he sees
Half glimpses of old memories,
Of whitened fields and winter snows,
And yuletide logs and mistletoes,
And all that half-forgotten, hallowed joy.

The children listen, mouths agape,
And see a land with no escape
Fro biting cold and snow and frost
A land to all earth's brightness lost,
A strange and freakish Christmas land to them.
But Rogan, with his dim old eyes
Grown far away and strangely wise
Talks on; and pauses but to ask
'Ain't there a dropp more in that cask?'
And father nods; but Mother says 'Ahem!'

The sun slants redly thro' the gums
As quietly the evening comes,
And Rogan gets his old grey mare,
That matches well his own grey hair,
And rides away into the setting sun.
'Ah, well,' says Dad. 'I got to say
I never spent a lazier day.
We ought to get that top fence wired.'
'My!' sighs poor Mum. 'But I am tired!
An' all that washing up still to be done.'

We were cartin' lathes and palin's from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard,
With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue;
And our bullocks weren't precisely what you'd call conditioned nicely,
And meself and Messmate Mitchell had our doubts of gettin' through.

It had rained a tidy skyful in the week before we started,
But our tucker-bag depended on the sellin' of our load;
So we punched 'em on by inches, liftin' 'em across the pinches,
Till we struck the final section of the worst part of the road.

We were just congratulatin' one another on the goin',
When we blundered in a pot-hole right within the sight of goal,
Where the bush-track joins the metal. Mitchell, as he saw her settle,
Justified his reputation at the peril of his soul.

We were in a glue-pot, certain —- red and stiff and most tenacious;
Over naves and over axles —- waggon sittin' on the road.
''Struth,' says I, 'they'll never lift her. Take a shot from Hell to shift her.
Nothin' left us but unyoke 'em and sling off the blessed load.'

Now, beside our scene of trouble stood a little one-roomed humpy,
Home of an enfeebled party by the name of Dad McGee.
Daddy was, I pause to mention, livin' on an old-age pension
Since he gave up bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.

Startled by our exclamations, Daddy hobbled from the shanty,
Gazin' where the stranded waggon looked like some half-foundered ship.
When the state o' things he spotted, 'Looks,' he says, 'like you was potted,'
And he toddles up to Mitchell. 'Here,' says he, 'gimme that whip.'

Well! I've heard of transformations; heard of fellers sort of changin'
In the face of sudden danger or some great emergency;
Heard the like in song and story and in bush traditions hoary,
But I nearly dropped me bundle as I looked at Dad McGee.

While we gazed he seemed to toughen; as his fingers gripped the handle
His old form grew straight and supple, and a light leapt in his eye;
And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin',
But with firm, determined bearin', as he flung the whip on high.

Now he swung the leaders over, while the whip-lash snarled and volleyed;
And they answered like one bullock, strainin' to each crack and clout;
But he kept his cursin' under till old Brindle made a blunder;
Then I thought all Hell had hit me, and the master opened out.

And the language! Oh, the language! Seemed to me I must be dreamin';
While the wondrous words and phrases only genius could produce
Roared and rumbled, fast and faster, in the throat of that Old Master —-
Oaths and curses tipped with lightning, cracklin' flames of fierce abuse.

Then we knew the man before us was a Master of our callin';
One of those great lords of language gone for ever from Out-back;
Heroes of an ancient order; men who punched across the border;
Vanished giants of the sixties; puncher-princes of the track.

Now we heard the timbers strainin', heard the waggon's loud complainin',
And the master cried triumphant, as he swung 'em into line,
As they put their shoulders to it, lifted her, and pulled her through it:
'That's the way we useter do it in the days o' sixty-nine!'

Near the foot of Mount St. Leonard lives an old, enfeebled party
Who retired from bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.
If you seek him folk will mention, merely, that he draws the pension;
But to us he looms a Master -- Prince of Punchers, Dad McGee!

Now, Ma-til-der! Ain't cher dressed yet? I declare, the girl ain't up!
Last as ushul. Move yerself, you sleepy'-ead!
Are you goin' to lie there lazin',
W'ile I -- Nell, put down that basin;
Go an' see if Bill has got the poddies fed;
Tell 'im not to move that clucky -- ho, yer up, me lady, eh?
That's wot comes from gallivantin' lat ut night.
Why, the sun is nearly -- see now,
Don't chu dare talk back at me now!
Set the table, Nell! Where's Nell? Put out that light!

Now then, 'urry, goodness, 'urry! Mary, tell the men to come.
Oh there, drat the girl! MA-TIL-DER! where's the jam?
You fergot it? Well, uv all ther ...
Mary! 'Ear me tell you call ther ...
Lord! there's Baldy TANGLED IN THE BARB'-WIRE -- SAM!
Now, then, take 'er steady, clumsy, or she'll cut herself -- LEAVE OFF!
Do you want the cow to -- There! I never did!
Well, you mighter took 'er steady.
Sit up, Dad, yer late already.
Did ju put the tea in, Mary? Where's the lid?

Oh, do 'urry! Where's them buckets? Nell, 'as Bill brought in the cows?
Where's that boy? Ain't finished eatin' yet, uv course;
Eat all day if 'e wus let to.
Mary, where'd yer father get to?
Gone! Wot! Call 'im back! DAD! Wot about that 'orse?
No, indeed, it ain't my business; you kin see the man yerself.
No, I won't! I'm sure I've quite enough to do.
If 'e calls ter-day about it,
'E kin either go without it,
Or lest walk acrost the paddick out to you.

Are the cows in, B-i-ll? Oh, there they are. Well, nearly time they -- Nell,
Feed the calves, an' pack the -- Yes, indeed ju will!
Get the sepy-rater ready.
Woa, there, Baldy -- steady, steady.
Bail up. Stop-er! Hi, Matilder! MARY! BILL!
Well, uv all th' . . . Now you've done it.
Wait till Dad comes 'ome to-night;
When 'e sees the mess you've -- Don't stand starin' there!
Go an' get the cart an' neddy;
An' the cream cans - are they ready?
Where's the ... There! Fergot the fowls, I do declare!

Chuck! -- Chook! -- CHOOK! Why, there's that white un lost another chick to-day!
Nell, 'ow many did I count? -- Oh, stop that row!
Wot's 'e doin'? Oh, you daisy!
Do you mean to tell me, lazy,
Thet you 'aven't fed the pigs until jus' now?
Oh, do 'urry! There's the men ull soon be knockin' off fer lunch.
An' we 'aven't got the ... Reach that bacon down.
Get the billies, Nell, an' - Mary,
Go an' fetch the ... Wot? 'Ow dare 'e!
Bill, yer NOT to wear yer best 'at inter town!

'Ave you washed the things, Matilder? Oh, do 'urry, girl, yer late!
Seems to me you trouble more -- TAKE CARE! -- You dunce!
Now you've broke it! Well I never!
Ain't chu mighty smart an' clever;
Try'n to carry arf a dozen things at once.
No back answers now! You hussy! Don't chu dare talk back at me
Or I'll ... Nelly, did ju give them eggs to Bill?
Wot? CHU NEVER? Well I ... Mary,
Bring them dishes frum the dairy;
No, not them, the ... Lord, the sun's be'ind the hill!

'Ave you cleaned the sepy-rater, Nell? Well, get along to bed.
No; you can't go 'crost to Thompson's place to-night;
You wus there las' Chusday - See, miss,
Don't chu toss your head at me, miss!
I won't 'ave it. Mary, 'urry with that light!
Now then, get yer Dad the paper. Set down, Dad -- ju must be tired.
'Ere, Matilder, put that almanick away!
Where's them stockin's I wus darnin'?
Bill an' Mary, stop yer yarnin'!
Now then, Dad. Heigh-ho! Me fust sit down ter-day

I wus pickin' gipsy vi'lits fer to try an' square Doreen.
We 'ad words . . . about pianners - fer she wants one awful keen
'Igh words, about 'igh-toned idears - an', like a love-sick fool, 'Ere I'm pickin' gipsy vl'llts when the kid come 'ome frum school.
'E started school a month ago, an' ain't got very far;
But, judgin' be the scraps 'e 'as, 'e's takin' after Par.


I tips there's somethin' wrong, the way 'e sneaks around the 'ouse.
An' then I seen 'is eye. Oh, strike! 'E 'ad a bonzer mouse!
A reel black-eye, that, in me day, I would 'a' worn wiv pride.
But I'm a father now, an' sez, ''Ere, son, you git inside
An' show yer mother that there eye. 'Ow did it come about?'
Sez 'e, 'A big bloke gimme that. I knocked the beggar out!'

I looks fer 'arf a second at the fambily disgrace,
Then I picks another vi'lit so 'e couldn't see me face.
I wus grinnin' most unfatherlike, an' feelin' good inside.
'You show yer Mar that eye uv yours. I'm 'shamed uv you!' I lied.
I watch 'im creep inside the 'ouse, an' 'ear 'is mother's yell.
An' then I straightens up me face an' goes inside as well.


'Twus raw beef-steak an' vinegar, an' tears, before she's done.
An' the sort uv look she gimme sez, 'Yeh see 'ow 'e's begun!'
I don't disturb the rites excep' to give some kind advice.
In younger days I've caught black-eyes, an' give 'em once or twice.
'That big boy should be punished,' sez Doreen, ''oo 'it our Bill.'
I pats the 'ero's bandages, an' answers 'er, ''E will.'


That ev'nin', down be'ind the shed, near where the scrub grows dense,
I gives young Bill a lesson in the art uv self-defence.
I teaches 'im an uppercut that Ginger Mick tort me
In ole days, down in Spadger's Lane. I gits down on me knee
To show 'im 'ow to time 'is 'it. 'E sneaks beneath me guard
Quite sudden, while I'm yappin', an' 'e cracks me one reel 'ard.


Did it please me? Wot do you think? Strike! That kid 'as got the knack!
An' it pleased me all to pieces 'ow the ole game all came back:
Left-swings an' jolts an' short-arm jabs - the 'ole dash box uv tricks,
Sich as we used down in the Lane when we wus short uv bricks.
I'm showin' 'im a fancy 'it, a reel ole ding-dong clout,
When the murderin' young savage tries to knock me front teeth out!


Uv course, 'e 'urt 'is little 'and, an' fetches out a yell
That brings Doreen down double quick. An' then - it wus merry 'ell.
She grabs the kid up in 'er arms, an' gives me sich a look
As I ain't seen since years ago, when I done - somethin' crook.
'You'll 'ave 'im like you wus!' she cries. 'I'd sooner see 'im dead!
You want to make'im . . . ' 'Don't,' I sez. 'We'll take the rest as said.'


It 'urt to see 'er shieldin' 'im as tho' I wus a plague.
An' ain't 'e mine as much as 'ers ? Yet, I seen, sort o' vague,
The woman's way she looked at it, the picters that she 'ad
Uv young Bill goin' to the pack, an' follerin' 'is dad.
I tries me 'ardest to ixplain, an' made some fool ixcuse;
But I'm marri'd to a woman, an' - Aw, wot's the flamin' use ?


I tells 'er if we'd 'ave young Bill keep up 'is end at school
'E will 'ave to use 'is flippers; but I sez it like a fool.
I sez it like I wus ashamed to 'ave 'im learn to fight,
When all the time, down in me 'cart, I knoo that I wus right.
She just gives me another look, an' goes in wiv the kid.
An' me? I picks them vi'lits up, not knowin' wot I did.


I 'as them fool things in me 'and when I lobs in the 'ouse,
An' makes bets wiv meself about the chances that she'll rouse.
But 'er, she comes the calm an' cold. Think's I, ''Ere's where I fall
Fer a forty-quid pianner, if I want to square it all,
Goo'-bye to forty lovely quid - time-paymint, fifty-three -
Then all at once she smiles an' sez, 'Did you pick those fer me?'


'Did you pick those fer me,' she sez. 'Oh, Bill!' 'an then, 'Oh, Bill!'
I 'ints I 'ad idears to leave 'em to 'er in me will.
She grabs them dilly vi'lits, an' she 'olds 'em to 'er nose.
'Oh, Bill!' she smiles, 'You alwus knoo 'ow fond I wus uv those!
Oh, Bill! You dear!' She 'ugs me then, jist in the same ole way.
'Struth! I'm marri'd to a woman, an' . . . I'll learn young Bill some day!

I've knowed ole Flood this last five year or more;
I knoo 'im when 'is Syd went to the war.
A proud ole man 'e was. But I've watched 'im,
An' seen 'is look when people spoke uv Jim:
As sour a look as most coves want to see.
It made me glad that this 'ere Jim weren't me.

I sized up Flood the first day that we met
Stubborn as blazes when 'is mind is set,
Ole-fashioned in 'is looks an' in 'is ways,
Believin' it is honesty that pays;
An' still dead set, in spite uv bumps 'e's got,
To keep on honest if it pays or not.

Poor ole Dad Flood, 'e is too old to fight
By close on thirty year; but if I'm right
About 'is doin's an' about 'is grit,
'E's done a fair bit over 'is fair bit.
They are too old to fight, but, all the same,
'Is kind's quite young enough to play the game.

I've 'eard it called, this war - an' it's the truth
I've 'eard it called the sacrifice uv youth.
An' all this land 'as reckernized it too,
An' gives the boys the praises that is doo.
I've 'eard the cheers for ev'ry fightin' lad;
But, up to now, I ain't 'eard none for Dad.

Ole Flood, an' all 'is kind throughout the land,
They aint' been 'eralded with no brass band,
Or been much thought about; but, take my tip,
The war 'as found them with a stiffened lip.
'Umpin' a load they thought they'd dropped for good,
Crackin' reel 'ardy, an' - jist sawin' wood.

Dad Flood, 'is back is bent, 'is strength is gone;
'E'd done 'is bit before this war come on.
At sixty-five 'e thought 'is work was done;
'E gave the farmin' over to 'is son,
An' jist sat back in peace, with 'is ole wife,
To spend content the ev'nin' of 'is life.

Then comes the war. An' when Syd 'esitates
Between the ole folk an' 'is fightin' mates,
The ole man goes outside an' grabs a hoe.
Sez 'e, 'Yeh want to, an' yeh ought to go.
Wot's stoppin' yeh?' 'E straightens 'is ole frame.
'Ain't I farmed long enough to know the game?'

There weren't no more to say. An' Syd went - West:
Into the sunset with ole Aussie's best.
But no one ever 'eard no groans from Dad.
Though all 'is pride an' 'ope was in that lad
'E showed no sign excep' to grow more grim.
'Is son was gone - an' it was up to 'im.

One day last month when I was down at Flood's
I see 'im strugglin' with a bag uv spuds.
'Look 'ere,' I sez, 'you let me spell yeh, Dad.
You 'umpin' loads like that's a bit too bad.'
'E gives a grunt that's more than 'alf a groan.
'Wot's up?' 'e snaps. 'Got no work uv yer own?'

That's 'im. But I've been tippin' that the pace
Would tell; an' when 'is wife comes to our place,
An' sez that Dad 'is ill an' took to bed,
Flat out with work - though that ain't wot she said
I ain't surprised; an' tells 'er when I'm thro'
I'll come across an' see wot I can do.

I went across, an' - I come back again.
Strike me! it's no use reas'nin' with some men.
Stubbon ole cows! I'm sick uv them ole fools.
The way 'e yells, 'Keep yer 'ands off my tools!'
Yeh'd think I was a thief. 'Is missus said
I'd better slope, or 'e'd be out uv bed.

'E 'eard us talkin' through the open door,
'Oo's that?' he croaks, although 'e tries to roar.
An' when 'is wife explains it's only me
To 'elp a bit: 'I want no charity!'
'E barks. 'I'll do me work meself, yeh 'ear?'
An' then 'e gits so snarky that I clear.

But 'e'll do me. I like the ole boy's nerve.
We don't do nothin' that 'e don't deserve;
But me an' Peter Begg an' ole man Poole,
We fairly 'as our work cut out to fool
The sly ole fox, when we sneaks down each day
An' works a while to keep things under way.

We digs a bit, an' ploughs a bit, an' chops
The wood, an' does the needful to 'is crops.
We does it soft, an' when 'e 'ears a row
'Is missus tells 'im it's the dog or cow.
'E sez that it's queer noises for a pup.
An' - there'll be ructions when ole Flood gits up.

It ain't all overwork that's laid 'im out.
Ole Pride in 'im is fightin' 'ard with Doubt.
To-day 'is wife sez, 'Somethin's strange in 'im,
For in 'is sleep sometimes 'e calls for Jim.
It's six long years,' she sez, an' stops to shake
'Er 'ead. 'But 'e don't mention 'im awake.'

Dad Flood. I thought 'im jist a stiff-necked fool
Before the war; but, as I sez to Poole,
This war 'as tested more than fightin' men.
But, say, 'e is an' 'oly terror when
Friends try to 'elp 'im earn a bite an' sup.
Oh, there'll be 'Ell to pay when 'e gits up!

My son! . . . Them words, jist like a blessed song,
Is singin' in me 'eart the 'ole day long;
Over an' over; while I'm scared I'll wake
Out of a dream, to find it all a fake.

My son! Two little words, that, yesterdee,
Wus jist two simple, senseless words to me;
An'now—no man, not since the world begun,
Made any better pray'r than that…. My son!

My son an' bloomin' 'eir . . . Ours! . . . 'Ers an' mine!
The finest kid in—Aw, the sun don't shine
Ther' ain't no joy fer me beneath the blue
Unless I'm gazin' lovin' at them two.

A little while ago it was jist 'me'
A lonely, longin' streak o' misery.
An' then 'twas ''er an' me'—Doreen, my wife!
An' now it's ''im an' us' an'—sich is life.

But 'struth! 'E is king-pin! The 'ead serang!
I mustn't tramp about, or talk no slang;
I mustn't pinch 'is nose, or make a face,
I mustn't—Strike! 'E seems to own the place!

Cunning? Yeh'd think, to look into 'is eyes,
'E knoo the game clean thro'; 'e seems that wise.
Wiv 'er 'an nurse 'e is the leadin' man,
An' poor ole dad's amongst the 'also ran.'

'Goog, goo,' 'e sez, and curls 'is cunnin' toes.
Yeh'd be su'prised the 'eaps o' things 'e knows.
I'll swear 'e tumbles I'm 'is father, too;
The way 'e squints at me, an' sez 'Goog, goo.'

Why! 'smornin' 'ere 'is lordship gits a grip
Fair on me finger—give it quite a nip!
An' when I tugs, 'e won't let go 'is hold!
'Angs on like that! An' 'im not three weeks old!

'Goog, goo,' 'e sez. I'll swear yeh never did
In all yer natcheril, see sich a kid.
The cunnin' ways 'e's got; the knowin' stare
Ther' ain't a youngster like 'im anywhere!

An', when 'e gits a little pain inside,
'Is dead straight griffin ain't to be denied.
I'm sent to talk sweet nuffin's to the fowls;
While nurse turns 'and-springs ev'ry time 'e 'owls.

But say, I tell yeh straight . . . I been thro'ell!
The things I thort I wouldn't dare to tell
Lest, in the tellin' I might feel again
One little part of all that fear an' pain.

It come so sudden that I lorst me block.
First, it was, 'Ell-fer-leather to the doc.,
'Oo took it all so calm 'e made me curse
An' then I sprints like mad to get the nurse.

By gum; that woman! But she beat me flat!
A man's jist putty in a game like that.
She owned me 'appy 'ome almost before
She fairly got 'er nose inside me door.

Sweatin' I was! but cold wiv fear inside
An' then, to think a man could be denied
'Is wife an' 'ome an' told to fade away
By jist one fat ole nurse 'oo's in 'is pay!

I wus too weak wiv funk to start an' rouse.
'Struth! Ain't a man the boss in 'is own 'ouse?
'You go an' chase yerself!' she tips me straight.
There's nothin' now fer you to do but—wait.'

Wait? . . . Gawd! . . . I never knoo wot waitin' meant.
In all me life till that day I was sent
To loaf around, while there inside—Aw, strike!
I couldn't tell yeh wot that hour was like!

Three times I comes to listen at the door;
Three times I drags meself away once more;
Arf dead wiv fear; 'arf dead wiv tremblin' joy . . .
An' then she beckons me, an' sez—'A boy!'

'A boy!' she sez. 'An' bofe is doin' well!'
I drops into a chair, an' jist sez—''Ell!'
It was a pray'r. I feels bofe crook an' glad….
An' that's the strength of bein' made a dad.

I thinks of church, when in that room I goes,
'Oldin' me breaf an' walkin' on me toes.
Fer 'arf a mo' I feared me nerve 'ud fail
To see 'er Iying there so still an' pale.

She looks so frail, at first, I dursn't stir.
An' then, I leans acrost an' kisses 'er;
An' all the room gits sorter blurred an' dim . . .
She smiles, an' moves 'er 'ead. 'Dear lad! Kiss 'im.'

Near smothered in a ton of snowy clothes,
First thing, I sees a bunch o' stubby toes,
Bald 'ead, termater face, an' two big eyes.
'Look, Kid,' she smiles at me. 'Ain't 'e a size?'

'E didn't seem no sorter size to me;
But yet, I speak no lie when I agree;
''E is,' I sez, an' smiles back at Doreen,
'The biggest nipper fer 'is age I've seen.'

She turns away; 'er eyes is brimmin' wet.
'Our little son!' she sez. 'Our precious pet!'
An' then, I seen a great big dropp roll down
An' fall—kersplosh!—fair on 'is nibs's crown.

An' still she smiles. 'A lucky sign,' she said.
'Somewhere, in some ole book, one time I read,
'The child will sure be blest all thro' the years
Who's christened wiv 'is mother's 'appy tears.''

'Kiss 'im,' she sez. I was afraid to take
Too big a mouthful of 'im, fear 'e'd break.
An' when 'e gits a fair look at me phiz
'E puckers up 'is nose, an' then—Geewhizz!

'Ow did 'e 'owl! In 'arf a second more
Nurse 'ad me 'ustled clean outside the door.
Scarce knowin' 'ow, I gits out in the yard,
An' leans agen the fence an' thinks reel 'ard.

A long, long time I looks at my two lands.
'They're all I got,' I thinks, 'they're all that stands
Twixt this 'ard world an' them I calls me own.
An' fer their sakes I'll work 'em to the bone.'

Them vows an' things sounds like a lot o' guff.
Maybe, it's foolish thinkin' all this stuff
Maybe, it's childish-like to scheme an' plan;
But—I dunno—it's that way wiv a man.

I only know that kid belongs to me!
We ain't decided yet wot 'e's to be.
Doreen, she sez 'e's got a poit's eyes;
But I ain't got much use fer them soft guys.

I think we ort to make 'im something great
A bookie, or a champeen 'eavy-weight:
Some callin' that'll give 'im room to spread.
A fool could see 'e's got a clever 'ead.

I know 'e's good an' honest; for 'is eyes
Is jist like 'ers; so big an' lovin'-wise;
They carries peace an' trust where e'er they goes
An', say, the nurse she sez 'e's got my nose!

Dead ring fer me ole conk, she sez it is.
More like a blob of putty on 'is phiz,
I think. But 'e's a fair 'ard case, all right.
I'll swear I thort 'e wunk at me last night!

My wife an' fam'ly! Don't it sound all right!
That's wot I whispers to meself at night.
Some day, I s'pose, I'll learn to say it loud
An' careless; kiddin' that I don't feel proud.

My son! . . . If there's a Gawd 'Oos leanin' near
To watch our dilly little lives down 'ere,
'E smiles, I guess, if 'E's a lovin' one
Smiles, friendly-like, to 'ear them words—My son.