The Prime Of Life

OH, the strength of the toil of those twenty years, with father, and master, and men!
And the clearer brain of the business man, who has held his own for ten:
Oh, the glorious freedom from business fears, and the rest from domestic strife!
The past is dead, and the future assured, and I’m in the prime of life!

She bore me old, and they kept me old, and they worked me early and late;
I carried the loads of my selfish tribe, from seven to thirty eight:
I slaved with dad, in the dust and heat, that my brothers might enjoy—
But I rest to-day in the prime of life, and I’ll live and die a boy!

When the last crop failed, and the stock were gone, did the old man’s head go down?
No! he started business, on what was left, in the produce line in town.
They sent my brothers to boarding schools, when our way to the front we’d won—
They’d borrow, and borrow, but never had aught but contempt for the eldest son.

My brothers they went to the world away, and they left the home in strife.
They sowed wild oats in the pride of youth, and they pawned the prime of life.
They sowed too fast, and they sowed too far; and they came back one by one—
You couldn’t tell which is the eldest son and which is the youngest son.

Oh, I longed for a love that I could not claim, and a breath of the youth denied—
But I stuck to the store when the old man went, and the mater until she died:
With Job’s own sister and Satan’s aunt—good Lord! and the fiend’s own wife—
But I’m free of them now, it is no matter how, and I’m in the prime of life.

My brothers have turned respectable, and are steady as men can be:
The youngest and worst is a leading light—and he aims at reforming me!
But I lend and help, and I’ll fix them up, for I can’t but see with a sigh,
That the youngest, who left us a handsome boy, is an older man than I.

But it’s “Lord make us thankful” three times a day, before they eat their fill—
They can thank the Lord if they like, I say, but I reckon I pay the bill.
They feel independent, I’m glad to know, for if all I hear is true,
My brothers agree that I do no more than I have a right to do.

They’ll work in the store while I see the world, and I’ll let them share the till—
But I sail to-day, for a year away, to go wherever I will:
I sail with the woman who waited for me—old sweetheart; and brand new wife—
She is handsome and true, and she’s thirty-two—and I’m in the prime of life.

For Capetown, and London, and Norraway, for Germany, Holland, and France,
For Switzerland, Italy—anywhere—for Greece, and for Egypt a glance,
For India, China, and “strange Japan”, for the East with mystery rife—
I have made enough, and I have my love—and I’m in the prime of life!

The Vote Of Thanks Debate

The Other Night I got the blues and tried to smile in vain.
I couldn’t chuck a chuckle at the foolery of Twain;
When Ward and Billings failed to bring a twinkle to my eye,
I turned my eyes to Hansard of the fifteenth of July.
I laughed and roared until I thought that I was growing fat,
And all the boarders came to see what I was laughing at:
It rose the risibility of some, I grieve to state—
That foolish speech of Brentnall’s in the Vote of Thanks debate.

O Brentnall, of the olden school and cold sarcastic style!
You’ll take another WORKER now and stick it on your file;
“We’re very fond of poetry,”—we hope that this is quite
As entertaining as the lines you read the other night.
We know that you are honest, but ’twas foolish to confess
You read and file the WORKER; we expected something less.
We think an older member would have told the people, so—
“My attention was directed to a certain print” (—you know).

The other night in Parliament you quoted something true,
Where truth is very seldom heard except from one or two.
You know that when the people rise the other side must fall,
And you are on the other side, and that explains it all.
You hate the Cause by instinct, the instinct of your class,
And fear the reformation that shall surely come to pass;
Your nest is feathered by the “laws” which you of course defend,
Your daily bread is buttered on the upper crust, my friend.

“We aim at broader interests,” you say, and so we do;
We aim at “vested interests” (the gun is loaded too).
We hate the wrongs we write against. We’ve felt the curse of Greed.
There’s little nonsense in the school where Labour earns its creed.
But you know little of the Cause that you are running down.
You would deny there’s misery and hardship in the town;
Yet I could take you through the hells where Poverty holds sway,
And show you things you’d not forget until your dying day.

O Brentnall! Have you ever tramped the city streets within?
And felt the pavement wearing through the leather, sock, and skin;
And looked for work, and asked for work, and begged for work in vain,
Until you cared not though you ne’er might touch your tools again.
O Brentnall! Have you ever felt the summer sun and dirt?
And wore the stiffened socks for weeks, for weeks the single shirt?
And shunned your friends like small-pox—passing on the other side—
And crept away in shadows with your misery and pride?

Another solemn member rose encouraged by the cheers,
And talked of serving medals to our gallant volunteers,
And extra uniforms, that they might hand the old ones on
“As heirlooms in the family” when they are dead and gone.
But since the state of future times is very much in doubt,
They’d better wear their uniforms, they’d better wear them out;
They may some day be sorry for the front that they have shown,
And, e’er the nap is worn away, they mightn’t like it known.

The children of a future time shall read, with awe profound,
How goslings did the goose-step while a gander led ’em round.
O Brentnall! Speak your periods into a phonograph,
That generations yet to rise may lay them down and laugh.
I wouldn’t trust the future much; Posterity might own
That sense of the ridiculous that you have never shown;
And not the smiles of Mammon, nor the pride of place and pelf,
Can soothe the thought that one has made a jackass of one’s self.

We’re low, but we would teach you if you’re willing to be taught,
That in the wilderness of print are tartars still uncaught;
And if you hunt in such a way—believe we do not jest—
Your chance to catch one is as good, and better than the best.
Be very sure about the mark before you cast the stone,
And, well, perhaps ’twould be as well to leave the muse alone.
You’ll call it egotism? Yes: but still I think that I
Might hit a little harder if I only liked to try.

Possum A Lay Of New Chumland

SO YER trav’lin’ for yer pleasure while yer writin’ for the press?
An’ yer huntin’ arter “copy”?—well, I’ve heer’d o’ that. I guess
You are gorn ter write a story that is gorn ter be yer best,
’Bout the “blunders an’ advenchers ov a new chum in the west?”
An’ you would be very thankful an’ acknowledge any hint?
Well, I karn’t say as I hankers fur ter see my name in print;
But I know a little story an’ I’ll tell it out ov hand
If yer’ll put it down in writin’ that the swells kin understand—
(It’s a story ov a new chum, and—a story ov the land.)


He had lately kum from Ingland—you cud tell it by ’s cap—
Fur “kerlonial exper’ence” (an’ he got it, too, poor chap).
’Twas in town he met the squatter, an’ he asked, as if in fun,
“If the boss ’ud want a flunkey or a coachy on the run?”
Well, it riz the boss’s dander, an’ he jumps clean orf ’is ’oss—
“Now, me fresh, sweet-scented beauty, watyer giv’nus?” sez the boss;
“I hev met yer kidney often, an’ yer mighty fresh an’ free,
But yer needn’t think yer gorn ter come a-lardin’ over me!”


But the new chum sed that ’onest he was lookin’ for a job,
An’ in spite of his appearance he had blued ’is bottom bob.
An’ as beggars karn’t be choosers same as people wot are rich,
Said he’d go as stoo’rd or gard’ner, but he warn’t partickler which.
Well, the joker seemed in earnest, so the boss began ter cool,
An’ he only blanked the new chum for a thund’rin’ jumpt-up fool.
Then he sed, “Well, there’s the fencin’, if yer’ll tramp it up from Perth,
The boys ’ll find yer su’thin p’r’aps, an’ giv’ yer wat yer worth.”


Ov course the squatter never thort ter see ’im any more,
But he wa’n’t the kind ov new chum that the squatter tuk ’im for;
No, he wa’n’t the kind er cockeroach that on’y kums ter shirk,
That wants ter git the sugar, but is fri’tened ov the work;
For he sold ’is watch ’n’ jool’ry, ’n’ lardi-dardy suits,
Stuck a swag upon his shoulder, ’n’ ’is feet in blucher boots;
An’ I dunno how he did it, he was anythin’ but strong,
But he ’umped his bluey ninety mile an’ kum to Bunglelong.

He earnt ’is pound and tucker borin’ holes an’ runnin’ wire,
An’ he’d work from dawn to sunset, an’ he never seemed to tire;
But he must have suffered orful from the tucker an’ the heat,
An’ the everlastin’ trampin’ made ’im tender in the feet,
An’ he must hev thort ov England w’en the everlastin’ flies
Ware a-worrit, worrit, worrit, an’ a-knawin’ at ’is eyes;
An’ he used to swear like thunder w’en the yaller sergeant ants
Took a mornin’ stroll, promiscus, on the inside ov ’is pants.

He uster make ’is damper six or seven inches thick—
It was doughey on the inside an’ the shell was like a brick,
An’ while the damper made ’im dream ov days ov long ago,
The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ nibble out the dough.
He biled ’is taters soggy, an’ ’is junk was biled to rags
(The little boodie rats ’ud kum an’ chew ’s tucker bags),
But he took ’is troubles cheerful, an’ he fixed ’em like a pome,
An’ writ ’em in his darey to amuse the folks at home.

At first he flashed a coller an’ was keerful with ’is hat,
An’ he’d black ’is boots ov Sundays, but he soon grew out of that;
An’ he lernt ter bake ’is damper, an’ he leant to bile ’is junk
An’ sleep without a-getting up all night ter shake ’is bunk.
He soon got out ov takin’ “shorter cuts” across the flats,
An’ he learnt to fling ole bottles to the sorror of the rats,
An’ learnt to sling kerlonial and like the bushman’s way,
An’ it did us good to see ’im smoke ’is “nigger” in a clay.

He would sing an’ play ’is fiddle when we gathered round the blaze,
Till ole Frenchy got excited while he’d play the Mascylays;
An’ Bill ’ud take ’is hat off while he’d spout the Light Brigade,
An’ Scotchy got oneasy when the “Bony ’Ills” was played.
So we got ter like the new chum for we’d met with many wuss,
An’ we made it easy for ’im an’ he seemed to take to us:
The toilin’ an’ the trampin’ was a-cookin’ ’im we found,
So we made ’im cook an’ stoo’rd just ter keep the chap around.

Well, the months went bakin’ broilin’ on until Christmas nex’,
When we tramped it down to Perth to spend our ’ollyday (and cheques);
But Possum sed he’d save ’is tin an’ stay and mind the camp,
So we left ’im in possession an’ we started on our tramp;
(We useter call ’im Possum, but for short we called ’im Poss,
For ’is eyes was black an’ twinklin’ and a little chap he was),
We never would have left ’im if we’d know’d (but that’s the ru,
Comin’ back we found ’im dyin’ in ’is gunyah in the scrub.

We fixed ’im up an’ nursed ’im; but we seen without a doubt
That consumption was the matter, an’ the chap was peggin’ out;
But the lion heart inside ’im was as strong an’ stout as six,
An’ while he’d smile an’ thank us he would joke about ’is fix;
An’ he said ’twas very jolly to be dry-nursed in a tent,
An’ he reckoned that the Christmas was the best he’d ever spent;
He would talk of ’ome and Inglan’ when ’is head began ter swim,
But he never blamed the country that had been so ’ard on him.

He would say, “I like the country; if a feller’s blind er halt,
Or if he’s got konsumption, why it ain’t the country’s fault.
The tea that’s boil’d in billies is far sweeter stuff, I know,
Than the cursed drink w’at blasted all my chances long ago.
I would hev cum out sooner if it was my destiny,
An’ I daresay that the country would have made a man ov me.
But w’at’s the good ov energy, an’ wat’s the good er ‘push’
W’en a feller’s sick an’ dyin’ in a gunyah in the bush.”

But he tole me all about it as I sat beside ’is bunk—
How he’d spent ’is tin in Melbourne an’ was allers gettin’ drunk;
How he thort he’d take it easy while he had a little gold,
And, before he turned the new leaf, how he scribbled on the old;
An’ among a lot ov nonsense w’en ’is mind began to drift,
He told me that the new leaf was a heavy leaf to lift.
But w’ats the good er writin’ this, it’s nothin’ very new,
The land will see enough ov it an’ suffer for it, too.
An’ he said w’en he was dying, (when his lung was spit away)
An’ we all was standin’ round ’im in the gunyah where he lay,
An’ he said, “I’ve watched the sunset—when the wind began to ‘woosh’,
Like a layer ov coals a-glowin’—on the dark bed ov the bush;
An’ I felt my fingers slippin’—slippin’—slowly—from the ropes,
Wen the West was cold—like ashes—like the ashes of my hopes;
An’—I—— Sit beside me—Peter—let me ’old—a—bushman’s hand,
For I’m—gorn to—’ump—my bluey—through the gates ov—Newchumland.”