Upon The Road To Rockabout

Upon the road to Rockabout
I came upon some sheep -
A large and woolly flock about
As wide as it was deep.

I was about to turn about
To ask the man to tell
Some things I wished to learn about
Both sheep and wool as well,

When I beheld a rouseabout
Who lay upon his back
Beside a little house about
A furlong from the track.

I had a lot to talk about,
And said to him "Good day."
But he got up to walk about,
And so I went away -

Country Roads ~ White Horse Road

By White Horse Tavern, White Horse Road
In olden days wound down;
And many a waggon bore its load
And many a bullock felt the goad
From town to country town.
Thro' Ringwood on, by hill and vale,
Their patient way they went.
Until they came to Lilydale,
The olden town of Lilydale.
And teamsters paused at Lilydale,
A place of calm content.

But days of bitumen and tar
Have changed the ancient mode;
And now the speeding motor car,
Where traffic-cops and bowsers are,
Go down the White Horse Road,
Upon a smooth, broad way they sail,
Till, sudden, up and down,
The bumps begin at Lilydale,
The rocky road to Lilydale,
The holey road to Lilydale,
A very peaceful town.

Beyond the town, the bumps are past,
And vexed springs settle down;
But many an angry look is cast
And many a curse speeds backwards fast
Toward that backward town.
On to the foothills leads the trail
By smooth and pleasant ways,
But, oh, that stretch thro' Lilydale!
The sleepy town of Lilydale,
Where folk still think, in Lilydale,
In terms of bullock drays.

On The Road To Jericho

On the road to Jericho
Mark the stricken one,
Moaning in his agony,
Prone beneath the sun.
Prone beneath the blazing sun,
Naked and alone,
Bleeding from a score of wounds,
Stricken to the bone.
Now his tossing arms lie still;
Now his moans grow faint.
Is there none to succor him
Publican or saint?
Publican or Pharisee
Are none passing by
On the road to Jericho
Is he left to die?

On the road to Jericho
Hurry, hurry, priest!
'Twere a sin wert thou away
From the saintly feast.
Haste thee, Levite, tarry not.
At the Temple waits
Holy work for thee to do;
Haste thee to the gates.
God will guard the stricken one.
Leave it all to Him.
(Now the blood dries on his wouds.
Now his eyes grow dim.)
Yet - ah tell it! Save the shame -
Save the name of Man!
On the road to Jericho
One Samaritan!

On the road to Jericho -
'Voices call 'Make way!
See, the Bishop's carriage comes;
He's in haste to-day.
He's in haste to tend a Prince.
Let the good man through,
He is lordly; he is rich . . .
Not like me or you.
He'll 'consider' your appeal.
He's no time to waste!'
O, despised Samaritan,
Haste thee hither, haste!
Priest and Levite pass along,
Bishops go their ways,
On the road to Jericho
As in olden days.

Country Roads ~ The New Chum Road

A new chum went, to ease his care,
A-many years ago,
To loiter round Toolangi where
The stately blue gums grow.
No bushcraft had he for his quest,
No friend to be his guide,
But sought the grade that served him best,
From Yarra's plain to mountain crest,
And crossed the Great Divide.

And round and round the hills he wound
No lilting tramp song sang he
First East, then North, then West-ward bound.
An easy grade at last he found
That led him to Toolangi.
And tho' they vowed his trail a freak,
The men that followed after
No straighter, easier path might seek,
Yet named the brook the New Chum Creek,
With rough, good-humored laughter.

They followed on his trail for years
With many a stout bush load:
Till came at last wise engineers
To build a goodly road.
With plan and scale and instrument
They sought the mountain side
To find the way the new chum went,
The best, as clearly evident,
To cross the Great Divide,

So round and round that hilly around
The pleasant track goes weaving.
Who seek its hillsides, blossom bound,
By many a gum and fern-tree crowned
Will find small cause for grieving.
The New Chum Road 'tis called today;
And they who travel round it,
And drive along that verdant way,
Will find it in their hearts to say:
'Good luck to him that found it.'

The Long Road Home

When I go back from Billy's place I always have to roam
The mazy road, the crazy road that leads the long way home.
Ma always says, "Why don't you come through Mr Donkin's land?
The footbridge track will bring you back." Ma doesn't understand.
I cannot go that way, you know, because of Donkin's dog;
So I set forth and travel north,, and cross the fallen log.

Last week, when I was coming by, that log had lizards in it;
And you can't say I stop to play if I just search a minute.
I look around upon the ground and, if there are no lizards,
I go right on and reach the turn in front of Mrs Blizzard's.
I do not seek to cross the creek, because it's deep and floody,
And Ma would be annoyed with me if I came home all muddy.

Perhaps I throw a stone or so at Mrs Blizzard's tank,
Because it's great when I aim straight to hear the stone go "Plank
Then west I wend from Blizzard's Bend, and not a moment wait,
Except, perhaps, at Mr Knapp's, to swing upon his gate.
So up the hill I go, until I reach the little paddock
That Mr Jones at present owns and rents to Mr Craddock.

For boys my size the sudden rise is quite a heavy pull,
And yet I fear a short-cut here because of Craddock's bull;
So I just tease the bull till he's as mad as he can get,
And then I face the corner place that's been so long to let.
It's very well for Ma to tell about my dawdling habits.
What would you do, suppose you knew the place was thick with rabbits?

I do not stay for half a day, as Ma declares I do,.
No, not for more than half-an-hour - perhaps an hour - or two.
Then down the drop I run, slip-slop, where all the road is slithy.
And have to go quite close, you know, to Mr Horner's smithy.
A moment I might tarry by the fence to watch them hammer,
And, I must say, learn more that way than doing sums and grammar.

And, if I do sometimes climb through, I do not mean to linger'.
Though I did stay awhile the day Bill Homer burst his finger.
I just stand there to see the pair bang some hot iron thing
And watch Bill Horner swing the sledge and hit the anvil - Bing!
(For Mr Horner and his son are great big brawny fellows:
Both splendid chaps!) And then, perhaps, they let me blow the bellows.

A while I stop beside the shop, and talk to Mr Horner;
Then off I run, and race like fun around by Duggan's Corner.
It's getting late, and I don't wait beside the creek a minute,
Except to stop, maybe, and drop a few old pebbles in it.
A few yards more, and here's the store that's kept by Mr Whittle-
And you can't say I waste the day if I 'ust wait ... a little.

One day, you know, a year ago, a man gave me a penny,
And Mr Whittle sold me sweets (but not so very many).
You never know your luck, and so I look to see what's new
In Mr Whittle's window. There's a peppermint or two,
Some buttons and tobacco (Mr Whittle calls it "baccy"),
And fish in tins, and tape, and pins.... And then a voice calls, "Jacky!"

"I'm coming, Ma. I've been so far-around by Duggan's Corner.
I had to stay awhile to say 'Good day' to Mr Horner.
I feel so fagged; I've tramped and dragged through mud and over logs, Ma -
I could not go short-cuts, you know, because of bulls and dogs, Ma.
The creek, Ma? Why, it's very high ! You don't call that a gutter?
Bill Horner chews tobacco, Ma .... I'd like some bread and butter."