The Project Gutenberg eBook of Around the Boree Log by John O’Brien

Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is turning gray,

Drifting in like painted butterflies from paddocks far away;

Dripping dainty wings in fancy—and the pictures, fading fast,

Stand again in rose and purple in the album of the past.

There’s the old slab dwelling dreaming by the wistful, watchful trees,

Where the coolabahs are listening to the stories of the breeze;

There’s a homely welcome beaming from its big, bright friendly eyes,

With The Sugarloaf behind it blackened in against the skies;

There’s the same dear happy circle round the boree’s cheery blaze

With a little Irish mother telling tales of other days.

She had one sweet, holy custom which I never can forget,

And a gentle benediction crowns her memory for it yet;

I can see that little mother still and hear her as she pleads,

“Now it’s getting on to bed-time; all you childer get your beads.”

There were no steel-bound conventions in that old slab dwelling free;

Only this—each night she lined us up to say the Rosary;

E’en the stranger there, who stayed the night upon his journey, knew

He must join the little circle, ay, and take his decade too.

I believe she darkly plotted, when a sinner hove in sight

Who was known to say no prayer at all, to make him stay the night.

Then we’d softly gather round her, and we’d speak in accents low,

And pray like Sainted Dominic so many years ago;

And the little Irish mother’s face was radiant, for she knew

That “where two or three are gathered” He is gathered with them too.

O’er the paters and the aves how her reverent head would bend!

How she’d kiss the cross devoutly when she counted to the end!

And the visitor would rise at once, and brush his knees—and then

He’d look very, very foolish as he took the boards again.

She had other prayers to keep him. They were long, long prayers in truth;

And we used to call them “Trimmin’s” in my disrespectful youth.

She would pray for kith and kin, and all the friends she’d ever known,

Yes, and everyone of us could boast a “trimmin’ ” all his own.

She would pray for all our little needs, and every shade of care

That might darken o’er The Sugarloaf, she’d meet it with a prayer.

She would pray for this one’s “sore complaint,” or that one’s “hurted hand,”

Or that someone else might make a deal and get “that bit of land”;

Or that Dad might sell the cattle well, and seasons good might rule,

So that little John, the weakly one, might go away to school.

There were trimmin’s, too, that came and went; but ne’er she closed without

Adding one for something special “none of you must speak about.”

Gentle was that little mother, and her wit would sparkle free,

But she’d murder him who looked around while at the Rosary:

And if perchance you lost your beads, disaster waited you,

For the only one she’d pardon was “himself”—because she knew

He was hopeless, and ’twas sinful what excuses he’d invent,

So she let him have his fingers, and he cracked them as he went,

And, bedad, he wasn’t certain if he’d counted five or ten,

Yet he’d face the crisis bravely, and would start around again;

But she tallied all the decades, and she’d block him on the spot,

With a “Glory, Daddah, Glory!” and he’d “Glory” like a shot.

She would portion out the decades to the company at large;

But when she reached the trimmin’s she would put herself in charge;

And it oft was cause for wonder how she never once forgot,

But could keep them in their order till she went right through the lot.

For that little Irish mother’s prayers embraced the country wide;

If a neighbour met with trouble, or was taken ill, or died,

We could count upon a trimmin’—till, in fact, it got that way

That the Rosary was but trimmin’s to the trimmin’s we would say.

Then “himself” would start keownrawning ^[3]—for the public good, we thought—

“Sure you’ll have us here till mornin’. Yerra, cut them trimmin’s short!”

But she’d take him very gently, till he softened by degrees—

“Well, then, let us get it over. Come now, all hands to their knees.”

So the little Irish mother kept her trimmin’s to the last,

Ever growing as the shadows o’er the old selection passed;

And she lit our drab existence with her simple faith and love,

And I know the angels lingered near to bear her prayers above,

For her children trod the path she trod, nor did they later spurn

To impress her wholesome maxims on their children in their turn.

Ay, and every “sore complaint” came right, and every “hurted hand”;

And we made a deal from time to time, and got “that bit of land”;

And Dad did sell the cattle well; and little John, her pride,

Was he who said the Mass in black the morning that she died;

So her gentle spirit triumphed—for ’twas this, without a doubt,

Was the very special trimmin’ that she kept so dark about.

* * * * *

But the years have crowded past us, and the fledglings all have flown,

And the nest beneath The Sugarloaf no longer is their own;

For a hand has written “finis” and the book is closed for good—

There’s a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood;

There the stranger has her “evenings,” and the formal supper’s spread,

But I wonder has she “trimmin’s” now, or is the Rosary said?

Ah, those little Irish mothers passing from us one by one!

Who will write the noble story of the good that they have done?

All their children may be scattered, and their fortunes windwards hurled,

But the Trimmin’s on the Rosary will bless them round the world.

’Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years;

With the dog-leg fence around it, and its hat about its ears,

And the cow-bell in the gum-tree, and the bucket on the stool,

There’s a motley host of memories round that old bush school—

With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name

Carved in agricultural letters—’twas my only bid for fame;

And the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set,

Lined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet),

And the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool

And a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.

There I see the boots in order—“ ’lastic-sides” we used to wear—

With a pair of “everlastin’s” cracked and dusty here and there;

And we marched with great “high action”—hands behind and eyes before—

While we murdered “Swanee River” as we tramped around the floor.

Still the scholars pass before me with their freckled features grave,

And a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave;

Tousled hair and vacant faces, and their garments every one

Shabby heirlooms in the family, handed down from sire to son.

Ay, and mine were patched in places, and half-masted, as a rule—

They were fashionable trousers at the old bush school.

There I trudged it from the Three-mile, like a patient, toiling brute,

With a stocking round my ankle, and my heart within my boot,

Morgan, Nell and Michael Joseph, Jim and Mary, Kate and Mart

Tramping down the sheep-track with me, little rebels at the heart;

Shivery grasses round about us nodding bonnets in the breeze,

Happy Jacks and Twelve Apostles ^[4] hurdle-racing up the trees,

Peewees calling from the gullies, living wonders in the pool—

Hard bare seats and drab gray humdrum at the old bush school.

Early rising in the half-light, when the morn came, bleak and chill;

For the little mother roused us ere the sun had topped the hill,

“Up, you children, late ’tis gettin’.” Shook the house beneath her knock,

And she wasn’t always truthful, and she tampered with the clock.

Keen she was about “the learnin’,” and she told us o’er and o’er

Of our luck to have “the schoolin’ ” right against our very door.

And the lectures—Oh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed!

“Don’t be mixin’ with the Regans and the Ryans and the rest”—

“Don’t be pickin’ up with Carey’s little talkative kanats”—^[5]

Well, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats.

But we found our level early—in disaster, as a rule—

For they knocked “the notions” sideways at the old bush school.

Down the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode

Was Maloney’s sorry piebald she had found beside the road;

Straight we scrambled up behind her, and as many as could fit

Clung like circus riders bare-back without bridle-rein or bit,

On that corrugated backbone in a merry row we sat—

We propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her hat—

And we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool,

“Making butter,” so we called it, to the old bush school.

What a girl was Mary Casey in the days of long ago!

She was queen among the scholars, or at least we thought her so;

She was first in every mischief and, when overwhelmed by fate,

She could make delightful drawings of the teacher on her slate.

There was rhythm in every movement, as she gaily passed along

With a rippling laugh that lilted like the music of a song;

So we called her “Laughing Mary,” and a fitful fancy blessed

E’en the bashful little daisies that her dainty feet caressed.

She had cheeks like native roses in the fullness of their bloom,

And she used to sing the sweetest as we marched around the room;

In her eyes there lurked the magic, maiden freshness of the morn,

In her hair the haunting colour I had seen upon the corn;

Round her danced the happy sunshine when she smiled upon the stool—

And I used to swap her dinners at the old bush school.

Hard the cobbled road of knowledge to the feet of him who plods

After fragile fragments fallen from the workshop of the gods;

Long the quest, and ever thieving pass the pedlars o’er the hill

With the treasures in their bundles, but to leave us questing still.

Mystic fires horizons redden, but each crimson flash in turn

Only lights the empty places in the bracken and the fern;

So in after years I’ve proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool,

Very much the way I found it at the old bush school.

We meet him first in frills immersed,

By everyone caressed and nursed,

A bonny baby—rather!

But, though they please his every whim,

Fill up his comforts to the brim,

And “ketchie ketchie” say to him,

He whimpers for his father;

Nor any plan of all the clan,

Nor fiction re the bogie-man

Can coax him from his father.

Then, done with frocks and curly locks,

Promoted into knickerbocks,

This wholesome, healthy laddie

Will entertain the other kid

With tales of what his Daddy did;

He lives a splendid dream amid

Heroic deeds of Daddy.

In grief or mirth he’s proved his worth;

The greatest man in all this earth

Is Knickerbocker’s Daddy.

Long pants at last, and stretching fast—

Said pants are what is termed “half-mast.”

And most attenuated—

Great notions now his head doth hold,

And schemes of mischief manifold.

He talks as though he had a cold

In slang adulterated.

He has the shy and shifty eye,

He burns tobacco on the sly,

In black butts immolated.

Now mark his ways these latter days;

He sounds no more his father’s praise

With fervent admiration;

In fact, his father’s got to be

An out-of-date necessity,

A clog upon his destiny

And youthful recreation.

As like as not, in anger hot,

He’ll speak of him as “my old pot”—

A homely appellation.

Another page, the dandy stage

That starts at eighteen years of age.

His talk is all of horses;

He now selects his socks and ties

To match the colour of his eyes;

He’s learnt the art of looking wise,

And on his Dad’s resources

He gaily goes in Yankee clothes,

And backs the ponies through his nose

At most suburban courses.

He swaggers when amongst the men,

And takes a “tonic” now and then

To make a good impression;

And by the hour he will relate

The deeds that made him truly great,

Just pausing to expectorate

By way of a digression.

And here, mayhap, to fill a gap

He’ll just allude to his “old chap”—

A valueless possession.

Next, older grown, the rolling-stone

Is out in business on his own.

We find him somewhat later

With this new burden to his song,

“Your old contraptions all are wrong.”

He’s going to move the world along,

His fortune’s own dictator.

And, all the while, he can but smile

About the antiquated style

That ruled the poor old Pater.

We meet him next somewhat perplexed,

By business problems badly vexed—

The other fellow’s caught him.

Then, while he’s chafing in the thrall,

Dad in some ways, he can recall,

Was not so hopeless after all

As in the past he thought him;

At any rate, he’s free to state

The old man’s head was “screwed on straight,”

And knocking round had taught him.

We come again to find him when

He’s stood within the lion’s den,

And trembled at disaster.

It was the Dad who pulled him through,

And now he will admit to you

The old man knows a thing or two;

Then, troubles coming faster,

He’s very glad to mount his prad

And go and have a word with Dad,

For Dad is now the Master.

But further on, life’s springtime gone,

The winter snow his brows upon,

Adown the current carried,

He’ll show you with a tender glance

A photo framed with elegance—

The old man in the “bell-bot” pants,

The suit in which he tarried

That day in town a joy to crown

(Most likely ’twas a “reach-me-down”),

The day the Dad was married.

His dreams dispersed, the bubble burst,

We find him where we found him first.

Right proud about his father;

And now again he writes in sooth

The head-line of his early youth,

But he observes—unwelcome truth,

At times he’s worried, rather—

His hopeful son has just begun

The same old devious course to run:

And now it’s he’s the father.

Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with mingled love and pride

Of stirring deeds that live and thrill the quiet country-side;

And when they praise his tours-de-force, be sure it won’t be long

Before they talk about his horse—the old gray Currajong.

For twenty years he drove him through the bush and round the town,

Until the old white stager knew the parish upside down;

He’d take his time, and calculate, and have his wilful way,

And stop at every Catholic gate to bid them all good day.

But well I mind the stories told when Father Pat was young—

At least, when he was not so old—his scattered flock among;

When health and strength were on his side, you’d see him swing along

With that clean, easy, sweeping stride that marked old Currajong.

Through all the years he ne’er was late the second Mass to say,

And twenty miles he’d “duplicate,” and pass us on the way.

Hard-held and beating clean tattoos, the old gray, stepping kind,

Like gravel from his twinkling shoes would fling the miles behind.

And often some too daring lad, a turn of speed to show,

Would straighten up his sleepy prad and give the priest a “go”;

But, faith, he found what others found, and held the lesson long,

That nothing in the country round could move with Currajong.

And, oh, the din! and, oh, the fuss! mere words were vain to tell

Of how they stopped the night with us; and don’t I mind it well?

The boree log ablaze “inside,” and gay with rug and mat;

The “front-room,” to the world denied, made snug for Father Pat.

We knew his distant hoof-beats; ay, and grief they could forebode;

So, when we heard a horse go by, clean-stepping down the road,

Round many a log-fire burning bright there passed the word along,

“There’s someone sick and sore the night; I’ll bet that’s Currajong.”

Whereat you’d hear the old men tell—perhaps a trifle add—

Of some sick-call remembered well, when “so-and-so took bad.”

“You couldn’t see your hand in front.” “ ’Twas rainin’ pitchforks, too.”

“The doctor jibbed, to put it blunt—but Father Pat went through.”

Ay, he went through in shine or shade; so, when the days were fair,

And at our simple sports we played, ’twas good to see him there;

And under troubled, angry skies, when all the world went wrong,

With aching hearts and misted eyes we watched for Currajong.

We watched, and never watched in vain, whatever might befall.

When summoned to the bed of pain, he answered to the call.

He came through rain or storm or heat; and in the darkest night

We heard his hoofs the music beat, we saw the welcome light.

And when again, with plumes ahead and horses stepping slow,

We followed on, behind our dead, the road all men must go,

A loitering line, with knots and gaps, the funeral passed along,

And half a mile of lurching traps was led by Currajong.

But, as the good priest older grew, and aches and troubles came,

His buggy and the white horse, too, were stricken much the same.

The springs went down the side he sat, and altar-boys and such

Kept sliding in on Father Pat, and woke him at the touch.

Then, pensioned off at last and done, a sorry thing it stood,

With sagging cobwebs round it spun, and nest-eggs in the hood.

Just once a year it lived again, and groaned and creaked along

To fetch the bishop from the train with limping Currajong.

Ah, newer methods, younger men! the times are moving fast,

And but in dreams we tread again the wheel-ruts of the past;

The eyes are filmed that watched of old, the kindly hearts are still,

And silent tombstones white and cold are glimmering on the hill.

While scorching up the road, belike, with singing gears alive

The curate on his motor-bike hits up his forty-five;

But tender, tingling memories swell, and love will linger long

In all the stirring yarns they tell about Old Currajong.

Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head—

That telegram that brought the news that Father Pat is dead—

I cannot grip its message yet; we were such cronies, that

The world is not a world to-night without poor Father Pat.

Nigh eighty years I’ve known him now. Since ever we were boys

Across the sea in Ireland, each other’s cares and joys

We’ve shared as with their leaden step they strode across the mat;

The kindest heart that ever beat is stilled in Father Pat.

They knew him round the country wide; from here to Carrathool

The teamster toiling by his dray, the youngsters home from school,

Would greet him with a curt “good day,” and shyly pull the hat

Down farther on the forehead in respect for Father Pat.

I see him in my mind to-night, a diamond in the rough,

A kindly soul that hid the gold, but showed the sterner stuff—

The wise old eye, the homely face, the scant hairs pasted flat

Across the wide wise baldness of the head of Father Pat;

The collar caught with honest tape when fleeting studs had gone;

The suit that said good-bye to cut the day he put it on;

The handsome stock the sisters built, the tassels on the hat,

The stout umbrella in the hand of manly Father Pat.

I see the ordered sitting-room he’ll never enter more,

The ivory bead-crowned crucifix, the font behind the door,

The parish books, the registers and, handy where he sat,

The well-thumbed breviary that warmed the heart of Father Pat.

A man of method all the time—the pigeon-holes a-line,

A dozen keys upon a chain, his pockets filled with twine.

His actions told the time of day, and rivalled e’en in that

The sober clock that ticked away the life of Father Pat.

He used to run the curate on the lines he ran himself;

A list of parish duties stood upon the mantel-shelf,

As binding as the decalogue, so all-embracing that

The bishop had to keep the step, when guest of Father Pat.

He’d argue till the cows came home, and never know a doubt;

But when he “showed the p’liteness,” it was then, my boy, look out!

He’d lay the shoneen ^[7] by the heels, and shake him like a rat;

He wasn’t worth a straw, bedad, when trimmed by Father Pat.

His sermons were tremendous things, and thunder-bolts would drop;

The trouble with poor Father Pat was when and how to stop.

Theology? don’t mention it! he’d talk the bishop flat;

One half was Father Gury, and the rest was Father Pat.

I’d quoted him so often to the young lads round about

To show that we old fellows still were far from petered out,

Could take a hand at ceremonies, could sing a Mass and that;

So when we had a big day here I called on Father Pat.

He came—but didn’t conquer, faith, though every nerve was strained;

He’d waved his hand to rubrics on the day he was ordained;

He went along his old, old way in broken notes and flat—

To tell the truth, I felt ashamed for once of Father Pat.

These young lads build their castles up, and fancy’s beacons glow.

Ah well, poor Father Pat and I went through that years ago;

And some of those ideals are dead, and some we’ve jested at,

And some are where the failures wait for me and Father Pat.

Though brighter far the morning seems than does the setting sun,

Still, they but carry on the work by such as us begun.

We blazed the tracks they tread to-day—at least they’ll grant us that—

The men who sailed in sixty-five along with Father Pat.

We left the friendly stars astern, the Irish lights agleam,

We dared the seas in sailing-ships before the days of steam,

We faced a weird wild waste of world that brave men trembled at:

No shipside welcome met the men who came with Father Pat.

We turned our horses’ heads out west, beyond the farthest track,

With nothing but an alien star to light the journey back.

The echoes mocked us as we went, and silence startled sat

When out beyond the rim of things we marched with Father Pat.

We said our Mass in canvas tents, and neath the gnarléd trees;

Of red-gum slabs and sheets of bark we built our sanctuaries;

Our axes rang on timbered slopes above the mining flat,

And church and school and convent mark the path of Father Pat.

We made our bow to wild and waste, and hardships worse than those;

We leave a gracious golden land that blossoms like the rose.

Far defter hands may now adorn the work we laboured at,

But granite base and buttressed wall were built by Father Pat.

Well may his arms drop idly down at eighty years of age;

His story goes behind him with no stain upon its page.

I’ll bet he played the innings through and carried out his bat,

And none dare hint “retiring hurt” in front of Father Pat.

And with him goes the little band that sailed in sixty-five;

A dreamer by his lamp to-night is all that’s left alive.

Poor Father James, and Father Ned, and jovial Father Mat

Are waiting out beyond the dark to welcome Father Pat.

I’ll not attend the obsequies: I feel I could not face

The office that I know so well, and see his vacant place:

We saw a generation pass while side by side we sat:

Another starts its march to-day—without us, Father Pat.

They’ll wonder why I am not there—I, last of all the band—

To take farewell of him that’s gone; but he will understand.

We’ll have a little requiem my own loved altar at,

And just ourselves—alive and dead—shall chant it, Father Pat.

The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came;

She’s up-to-date and stylish, but the place is not the same

Since Death’s hard summons robbed me of the sterling old machine,

That wore out in my service here—my faithful Josephine.

Poor Josephine, she knew me well—and, faith, she ought to know;

For since the bishop sent me here, some thirty years ago,

My one and only manager, my right-hand man she’d been;

I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.

She pottered round the place herself for thirty years and more—

This new one has a thuckeen now to sweep and mind the door

And entertain with parish chat each gossiping voteen ^[8]

She’d have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbéd Josephine.

They tell me this one’s up-to-date—too up-to-date for me;

I tremble at her polished floors, and modern cookery,

The old man finds the old ways best—old springs were twice as green—

I’ve heard His Lordship praise the stews of clever Josephine.

My study was my sanctum once—a castle all my own—

But this one with her natty ways can’t leave the place alone.

Her fingers ache to tidy up; and, when she’s extra clean,

I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.

She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair;

Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there—

I know where every paper is, each book and magazine.

That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.

This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer,

And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore.

She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been—

Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.

And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to note

My native country’s colour coming gently through my coat;

I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green;

She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.

She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too,

Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view.

I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seen

A tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.

I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring.

We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing;

Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean,

Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.

My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I wore

Had creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store.

I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene;

I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.

She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat,

His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat;

I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen;

She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!

It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all:

Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical,

In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene,

And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.

She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through,

And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew;

The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine—

And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.

She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried;

She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died;

She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen;

God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!

The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear;

They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear.

They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been;

But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.

Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her track

Along the beaten road of life that knows no turning back.

I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene,

And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.

She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines,

And haply in their breeze-swept song a requiem divines:

The people raised a little stone to keep her memory green,

And handed to the winds and rain the name of Josephine.

How quickly have the days gone by! she’s dead—now, let me see—

She’s dead twelve months: to-morrow is her anniversary:

Now who’s the Saint to-morrow? Ah, a semi—“Hedwig, Queen.”

I’ll use the black—and may God rest the soul of Josephine!

I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years,

And the rattle of its boxes still is music in my ears:

With a bow to family vanity it rises from the past

As the pride of the selection where my humble youth was cast.

It was fashioned in a nightmare by some wandering genius,

And it wasn’t quite a waggon, and it wasn’t quite a ’bus;

’Twas an old four-wheeled gazabo that was something in between,

And the wheels were painted yellow, and the rest was painted green

(It would waken lively interest in the antiquarian)

And ’twas known to all the country as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more,

And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for;

It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn,

And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern.

But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan,

For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own.

She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too),

And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new.

There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke;

One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke:

Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake,

While the Dad went searching rubbish-heaps for old boots for the brake:

So we rubbed and scrubbed and hammered up, and beat the rattertan

Till it stood in all its glory as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

When at last, with velvet sandals shod, the Holy Morning crept

Through the mists above The Sugarloaf, that silent vigil kept

O’er a little old slab dwelling which the years have brushed away,

You would hear the Little Mother stirring round before the day,

Rousing sleepy heads from blankets, washing faces, doing hair,

Scolding, coaxing, bustling, breathless in her hurry everywhere.

Half the night before she laboured, and we’d hear her come and go

With the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row.

There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend;

She would see to every single thing before her work would end,

To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!—

There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad.

And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make,

When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake.

Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone;

Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?”

While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood,

Shouting “Mother,” as he wrastled with a fractious collar-stud.

But she kept the tumult under till she had us spick and span,

Packed like pickles in a bottle in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

We had ten good miles to drive to Mass—and Mass was sharp at eight;

But we’d never hear the end of it if something kept us late;

So we started ere the morning hung its bunting in the sky,

And the kookaburras chortled as we rumbled slowly by.

For the frost was on the barley, and the rime was on the trees,

And our little faces smarted with the whip-lash of the breeze,

Still we watched the branches redden to the first kiss of the sun

And we counted all the cart-wheels that the busy spiders spun,

Then the magpies sang to greet us, and our little hearts began

To forget that we were shivering in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

So the old contraption lumbered, safely towed, as Dad knew how,

By a pair of hefty elephants promoted from the plough,

And it rattled like a saw-mill, and it thundered like a dray;

Faith, you’d hear the circus coming a half-a-dozen miles away!

All along the road the neighbours used to take the time from us,

For they never made a start until they heard our omnibus;

Then a shrill soprano shouted, “Put the horses in the van,

“Them’s The Sugarloaf O’Briens in the Old Mass Shandrydan.”

We were first to Carey’s Crossing, first to reach Moloney’s Mill,

But the opposition caught us as we laboured up the hill;

Then the air became electric as they tried to pass us by,

For “Himself” for family reasons (which I needn’t specify)

Kept the road in deadly earnest, and would never seem to hear

The abuse of the procession that was gathering in the rear.

Oh, they whistled and they shouted till their feelings overflowed,

But the old man in the Dreadnought was the master of the road.

It was suicide to bump it, and the horses wouldn’t shy,

So he trundled on before them with a bad look in his eye.

Then, as suddenly the whistling and the bantering shouting ceased

And a solemn hush denoted the arrival of the priest,

Would a fine “good Catholic” thunder “Yerra, shame upon you, man!

Pull one side there, Pat O’Brien, with your Old Mass Shandrydan.”

Pull! Bedad, he’d pull the town down when His Reverence hove in sight,

Pulled his hat off with the left hand, and pipe out with the right;

Pulled his family in the gutter, pulled the horses off their feet,

And a shower of small O’Briens went skedaddling from the seat.

Then they rattled loudly past us, and a wild stampede began,

For they all had family reasons to outpace the other man.

There were buggies, traps, and turnouts there of every shape and rig;

There were Murphys in a spring-cart, and the Caseys in a gig;

There were Barnes’ ponies pounding twixt a gallop and a trot,

While the Careys with their pacing-mare went sailing past the lot.

Faith, we had it in for Carey, and our disrespect increased

At the cheek of “them there Careys who would try to beat the priest.”

No, we wouldn’t stoop to things like that; we’d act the gentleman

Half a mile behind the others in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It’s a long way back I’m gazing, and the stage has changed since then;

Just an echo finds me sometimes, bringing back the scene again.

Oh, the heart beats slower measure than it used to beat, alas,

When a Little Irish Mother dressed us all in time for Mass.

I have lounged in fast expresses, I have travelled first saloon,

I have heard the haunting music that the winds and waters croon,

I have seen the road careering from a whirring motor-car,

Where the Careys couldn’t pass us, or our sense of fitness jar;

But the world is somehow smaller, somehow less enchanting than

When I saw it o’er the tail-board of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

In accents most forlorn,

Outside the church, ere Mass began,

One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,

Coat-collars to the ears,

And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,

As it had done for years.

“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke;

“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,

For never since the banks went broke

Has seasons been so bad.”

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,

With which astute remark

He squatted down upon his heel

And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran

“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan

“Before the year is out.

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work

To save one bag of grain;

From here way out to Back-o’-Bourke

They’re singin’ out for rain.

“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,

“And all the tanks are dry.”

The congregation scratched its head,

And gazed around the sky.

“There won’t be grass, in any case,

Enough to feed an ass;

There’s not a blade on Casey’s place

As I came down to Mass.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,

And cleared his throat to speak—

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“If rain don’t come this week.”

A heavy silence seemed to steal

On all at this remark;

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed a piece of bark.

“We want a inch of rain, we do,”

O’Neil observed at last;

But Croke “maintained” we wanted two

To put the danger past.

“If we don’t get three inches, man,

Or four to break this drought,

We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“Before the year is out.”

In God’s good time down came the rain;

And all the afternoon

On iron roof and window-pane

It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,

And lightsome, gladsome elves

On dripping spout and window-sill

Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,

A-singing at its work,

Till every heart took up the song

Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,

And dams filled overtop;

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And stop it did, in God’s good time;

And spring came in to fold

A mantle o’er the hills sublime

Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,

With harvest-hopes immense,

And laughing eyes beheld the wheat

Nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,

As happy lad and lass

Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place

Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel

Discoursed the men of mark,

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed his piece of bark.

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,

There will, without a doubt;

We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“Before the year is out.”

Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’

Gladsome golden notes appealin’ on the Sabbath-softened air,

Sweet compellin’ invitations to the congregation stringin’

Up the road to old St. Michael’s, on the blessed day of prayer.

You might seek the boundin’ gait of him in any youth or maiden

With the rhythmic pulse of summer, and in vain would be the search;

Steppin’ on with fine importance, like a general paradin’

In his Sunday regimentals, comes the Pillar of the Church.

There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’—

Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see;

There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’,

And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery,

There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours;

Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear;

Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours,

Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.

But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’,

Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore,

Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’,

Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door.

What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’,

He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,

Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’

In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him;

Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear,

For it’s never parish-priest there’s been could carry on without him,

Since St. Michael’s been a parish church—it’s goin’ on fifty year.

Don’t we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin’,

Superintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much?

Don’t we see him with “the gentlemen,” the officer commandin’,

Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?

Ain’t he present all occasions when there’s grave deliberatin’

On important parish matters at the school or presbyt’ry?

With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’—

He, the sole survivin’ member of the first church “Komitee”?

And maintainin’ which distinction, don’t it make stonewallin’ sweeter?—

And a heap of “argyfyin’ ” cannot shift him from his perch—

Don’t he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter?

Faith, he shows ’em there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.

Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation,

“With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell;

’Twas he “seen the danger comin’,” he that “med the suggestation.”

He that “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well.

He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’,

Nor afraid to be upstandin’ his opinions for to state.

Times the priest he’s flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin’;

That he did, Man—“ups and ats” him, “lets him have it purty straight.”

Och, ’twould do you good to hear him, with an “audjunce” round him gawkin’,

Tell of openin’s here and “big days,” puttin’ modern feats to scorn;

And the banquets and the speeches, and the “Arrah, don’t be talkin’,

Sure the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born.”

And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin’ and the strivin’,

And the failure starin’ at ’em, had he left ’em in the lurch;

Times and times he travelled with ’em, and “tremenjus” was the drivin’—

Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin’ to the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’

There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view.

And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’

With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew;

See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’,

And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hare

While His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’

For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.

Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him—

And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”;

But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for “the venyum” isn’t in him,

Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope,

Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter;

Him alone the grim marauder ne’er has chanced on in the search;

But we’d miss him were he taken, as we’d miss the holy water—

He’s the feature of the Sunday, is the Pillar of the Church.

Times I think I’m not the man—

Must be some mistake.

Me among the also ran?

Cute and wideawake!

Old and beat and crotchety—

Sixty-five, at least—

Knockin’ round the presbytery,

Groomin’ for the priest,

Choppin’ wood, and ringin’ bells,

Dodgin’ work and takin’ spells!

Me all right, one Ed’ard Wells

(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)—

Wheelin’ barrows round the yard,

Gammon to be workin’ hard,

A-groomin’ for the priest!

Trainin’ prads was Teddo’s game;

Made a tidy bit.

Everybody knew the name,

Teddo Wells was “It.”

Bought that bit of property

(Value since increased),

Gettin’ on tremendously,

Married by the priest.

Papers full of Teddo Wells,

Trainin’ horses for the swells;

Since redooced to ringin’ bells

(Teddo Wells, deceased)

Shinin’ boots and learnin’ sense,

Nailin’ palin’s on the fence,

A-groomin’ for the priest.

Lost that bit of property,

Ended up in smoke—

Too much “Jimmie Hennessy”—

Down, and stony-broke.

Used to think he knew the game

Till they had him fleeced.

“Mud” is this ’ere hero’s name,

Workin’ for the priest—

Unbeknown to sports and swells;

They’ve no time for Ed’ard Wells.

Up the spout and ringin’ bells

As “Teddo Wells, deceased”;

Never noticed up the town,

Never asked to keep one down—

Groomin’ for the priest.

Times I stops a cove to chat,

One as gamed and spieled;

Chips me in the curate’s hat,

“Six to four the field.”

“What-o! Teddo Wells,” sez he,

“Him that horses leased,

Owned that bit of property,

Groomin’ for the priest?”

“Guessin’ eggs and seen the shells;

Brains,” sez I, “and breedin’ tells,

This old gent is Ed’ard Wells,

Late Teddo Wells, deceased.

Ringin’ bells is Ed’ard’s game,

Openin’ doors and closin’ same,

Called ‘groomin’ ’ for the priest.”

Never see a horse nohow,

Just an old machine;

Always in a tearin’ row

With this Josephine.

Got an eye that makes you feel

Well and truly p’liced,

Follerin’ out upon your heels,

A-goin’ to tell the priest.

“Can’t smoke here now, Ed’ard Wells,

That old pipe offensive smells;

Go and smoke outside,” she yells.

So Teddo Wells, deceased,

Him that once was in the boom,

Wood-heap has for smokin’ room—

A-groomin’ for the priest.

Times I says it’s all a joke

Someone’s puttin’ up;

Me dead-beat and stony-broke,

Me that won a cup,

Owned that bit of property,

Them good horses leased!

Kickin’ round the presbytery

A-groomin’ for the priest!

Choppin’ wood and ringin’ bells,

Curby-hocked and takin’ spells!

Me it is, one Ed’ard Wells,

(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)

Smokin’ hard and talkin’ free

Of the man he used to be,

And groomin’ for the priest.

There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west,

Through the tall, white, slender timber, in the land I love the best.

Short its message is—“To Casey’s”—for it points the road to Casey’s;

And my homing heart goes bushwards on an idle roving quest,

Down the old, old road contented, o’er the gum-leaves crisp and scented,

Where a deft hand splashed the purple on the big hill’s sombre crest.

Ah, it’s long, long years and dreary, many, many steps and weary,

Back to where the lingering dew of morn bedecked the barley-grass,

When I watched the wild careering of the neighbours through the clearing

Down that sweet bush track to Casey’s, o’er the paddock down to Casey’s;

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

For, as soon as Mass was over, round the church they swarmed like bees,

Filled their pipes and duly lit them, brushed the dust from off their knees;

Then they’d “ready-up” for Casey’s—self-invited down to Casey’s—

Harness horses for the women with a bushman’s careless ease.

With a neat spring to the saddle, soon would start the wild skedaddle,

Passing gigs and traps and buggies packed as tight as they could squeeze;

Hearts as buoyant as a feather in the mellow autumn weather,

While the noisy minahs cheered to see the glad procession pass—

All the Regans and the Ryans, and the whole mob of O’Briens

Bringing up the rear to Casey’s—in the Shandrydan to Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Past the kitchen door they rattled and they took the horses out;

While the women went inside at once, the menfolk hung about

Round the stable down at Casey’s, waiting dinner down at Casey’s;

And they talked about the Government, and blamed it for the drought,

Sitting where the sunlight lingers, picking splinters from their fingers,

Settling all the problems of the world beyond a chance of doubt.

From inside there came the bustle of the cheerful wholesome hustle,

As dear old Mrs. Casey tried all records to surpass;

Oh, there’s many a memory blesses her sweet silver-braided tresses;

They were “lovely” down at Casey’s—always joking down at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

So they called us in to dinner, five-and-twenty guests—and more—

At the longest kitchen-table ever stood upon a floor.

There was plenty down at Casey’s—ay, an open house was Casey’s,

Where the neighbour and his missus never, never passed the door;

Where they counted kindly giving half the joy and pride of living

And the seasons came full-handed, and the angels blessed the store;

While the happy Laughing Mary flitted round us like a fairy.

And the big, shy boys stopped business, and looked up to watch her pass—

Ah, but when she caught them staring at the ribbons she was wearing!

Well, they spilled their tea at Casey’s—on the good clean cloth at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Then the reckless feats of daring, and the bushman’s fierce delight

When the brumby squealed and rooted, and the saddle-girths were tight!

They could ride ’em down at Casey’s—stick like plasters down at Casey’s—

When they noticed Mary looking, they would go with all their might;

Ho! they belted, and they clouted, and they yelled, and whooped, and shouted,

“Riding flash” to “ketch” the ladies, spurring, flogging, left and right!

And the lad with manners airy risked his neck for Laughing Mary

When he summoned all his courage up a rival to surpass;

Oh, the fun went fast and faster, as he landed in disaster

In the puddle-hole at Casey’s—with his brand new suit at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hoary, hale, bewhiskered veterans, perched like mopokes in a row,

Out of danger on the top-rail, gave advice to those below;

They were wonders down at Casey’s, were the old men at the Caseys’—

They’re the boys could ride the “bad ’uns” in the days of long ago!

Faith, and old man Casey told ’em of a way he had to hold ’em.

Man, “the deuce an outlaw thrun him,” when he “got a proper show”;

Ay, and each man “upped and showed ’em” how he “handled ’em, an’ rode ’em”—

Pshaw! there never was a native these old riders could outclass.

Once again they were “among ’em,” and they “roped ’em” and they “slung ’em”

On the stockyard fence at Casey’s—smoking, “pitchin’,” down at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Hard and cold is youth to fancies which around the old men cling;

So they left them perched upon the rail to swap their vapouring,

Took a seat inside at Casey’s, on the good chairs at the Caseys’;

While the Caseys’ new piano made the old house rock and ring.

There their mild eyes stared and glistened, as they sat around and listened

To the tuneful little ditties Laughing Mary used to sing;

There they rubbed their chins and reckoned that to no one was she second—

“Cripes, she’d sing the blooming head off any singer in her class!”

And the banter and the laughter when the chorus hit the rafter!

It was “great” to be at Casey’s—healthy, wholesome fun at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

There was something in the old life which I cannot quite forget;

There are happy golden memories that hover round me yet—

Something special down at Casey’s, in that wonderland of Casey’s,

Where the crowfoot and the clover spread a downy coverlet,

Where the trees seemed always greener, where the life of man was cleaner,

And the joys that grew around us shed no leaves of brown regret.

Oh, the merry, merry party! oh, the simple folk and hearty,

Who can fling their cares behind them, and forget them while they pass

Simple lives and simple pleasure never stinted in the measure.

There was something down at Casey’s, something clean and good at Casey’s—

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

Passed and gone that old bush homestead where the hours too swiftly flew;

Silent now the merry voices of the happy friends I knew;

We have drifted far from Casey’s. All deserted now is Casey’s—

Just a lone brick chimney standing, and a garden-tree or two.

Still the minahs love to linger where the sign-post points the finger

Down the bush track winding westward where the tall white timber grew.

But the big hill seems to wonder why the ties are snapped asunder,

Why the neighbours never gather, never loiter as they pass;

Yet a tear-stained thought beseeming comes along and sets me dreaming

That I’m back again at Casey’s, with the old, old friends at Casey’s;

Spending Sunday down at Casey’s after Mass.

’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through all my retrospection

On the days when fairies brought me golden dreams without alloy,

When I gazed across the gum-trees round about the old selection

To the big things far beyond them, with the yearning of a boy.

Drab the little world we lived in; like the sheep, in slow procession

Down the track along the mountain, went the hours upon their way,

Bringing hopes and idle longings that could only find expression

In the riot of our bounding hearts upon St. Patrick’s Day.

There were sports in Casey’s paddock, and the neighbours would assemble

On the flat below the homestead, where the timber fringed the creek;

With Australian skies above them, and Australian trees a-tremble

And the colours of the autumn set in hat and hair and cheek.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s; mighty bouts anticipated

Made the Sunday church-door topic for a month ahead at least;

On the cheerless Sundays after, with misguided hope deflated,

We explained away our failures as we waited for the priest.

So when morning Mass was over, it was trot and break and canter

Helter-skelter down to Casey’s, banging, pounding all the way,

And the greetings flung in Irish, and the flood of Celtic banter,

And the hectic flush of racial pride upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Everywhere was emerald flashing from the buggies, traps, and jinkers,

There was green in every garment, and a splash in every hat,

In the bows upon the cart-whips, in the ribbons on the winkers,

In the wealth of woven carpet neath the gums on Casey’s Flat.

There the new dress faced the critics, and the little beaded bonnet

And the feather flowing freely like a sapling in a gale;

And “himself” inside his long black coat that bore a bulge upon it

Where for twelve forgotten months its weight had hung upon the nail;

And the “splather” of a necktie only once a year paraded,

And the scarf that came from Ireland, “ere a one of you were born,”

And the treasured bunch of shamrock—old and withered now, and faded,

Blessed by every tear that stained it since the cruel parting morn.

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Men of solid reputation,

Ringing bells and giving orders, kept the programme moving by;

And they made you sickly conscious of your humble situation

When they glared upon your meanness with a cold official eye.

Every “maneen” with a broken voice and backers there beside him,

And his socks outside his breeches, was a hero in his way;

Every nag around the country with a raw bush lad astride him

Was a racehorse with an Irish name upon St. Patrick’s Day.

Oh, the cheering that betokened those I knew so well competing,

With their long legs throwing slip-knots, and the look of men in pain—

Put me back into the reach-me-downs, and let me hear the greeting,

Set me loose in Casey’s paddock, where I’d be a boy again!

Yes, ’twas good to be a pilgrim in a world that held such wonders,

Though eternal bad behaviour put me neath parental ban,

Though the staring, and the wandering, and a score of general blunders

Got me gaoled behind the taffrail of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

“Yerra, Johnnie, stop that gawkin.” Is it—with the pulses pumping,

And the little heart high-stepping to the music of the drum—

Is it “stop it,” with a something in the young blood madly thumping

With a foreword of the purpose of the pregnant years to come?

Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Mighty impulse was behind them,

’Twas the sacred spark enkindled that was burning to the bone;

Never yet were men more loyal to the holy ties that bind them,

And the love they gave their country made me conscious of my own.

Never yet were men more loyal. Be they met in thousands teeming,

Be they gathered down at Casey’s with their kindred and their kind;

They are marching on for Ireland, with the beauteous vision gleaming

Of the altar-fires of Freedom in the land they left behind.

Not a torch was ever lighted at a tomb where Freedom slumbered,

But it smouldered—grimly smouldered—till the stone was rolled away;

When it flashed across the half-light, rallying rocket glares unnumbered,

Like the spangled blades of morning that bespeak the march of day.

Not a voice was ever lifted, but an echo never dying

Flung the slogan once repeated when the hand was on the gun;

Though the prophet tongue was ashes, came the conquering banners flying

With a dazzling watchword flashing, blazing signals in the sun.

Yes, the world has ever seen it in its journey down the ages,

Seen it writ in living scarlet in the blood that has been shed;

And a hand re-writes the head-line deep across the lurid pages,

When the stricken, fearless living meet the deathless, martyred dead.

Thrills a leaping thought within me, when I see a land around me

That has never seen the foeman’s steel, nor heard the foeman’s shot,

At whose shrine I lit the tapers, when her witching sweetness bound me

With an iron vow of service of a pulsing pride begot;

To that big free land I’ve given all the love that courses through me;

That her hands have rocked my cradle stirs my heart in every beat.

An Australian, ay, Australian—oh, the word is music to me,

And the craven who’d deny her would I spurn beneath my feet.

Thrills the thought that, did the traitor stretch a tainted hand to foil her,

Did I see her flag of silver stars a tattered thing and torn,

Did I see her trampled, breathless, neath the shod heel of the spoiler,

And her bleeding wounds a byword, and her name a thing of scorn,

There would flash the living bayonets in the strong hands of my brothers,

And the blood that coursed for nationhood, through all the years of pain,

In the veins of patriot fathers and of Little Irish Mothers

Would be hot as hissing lava streams to thrill the world again.

Their new house stood just off the road,

A fine big brick two-storey,

All gabled, tiled, and porticoed,

To flaunt its owners’ glory.

We never had, to tell the truth,

At Carey’s door alighted,

We had good reasons too, forsooth—

We hadn’t been invited.

But down to Mass we passed the gate,

And passed it, too, returning,

And hid away in mien sedate

The grievance in us burning.

But in the Old Mass Shandrydan—

Well, envy little varies—

We heard “herself” and her good man

Discourse about the Careys:

“Wisha, that big house of Carey’s with its power of fal-de-daries.”

“Faith, he’s in the bank to build it, so I hear the people say.”

“It will break him now to clear it; and it’s grieved I am to hear it;

Wisha, I wouldn’t be in Carey’s boots to-day!”

They came here in the early days,

And settled down as neighbours;

With tilted carts and bullock-drays

They shared our griefs and labours.

We tramped it to the old bush school,

In fine or rainy weather;

And there upon the dunce’s stool

We took our knocks together.

But now they stood for “class” among

Our little congregation;

And, as they passed us by, they flung

Mere scraps of toleration.

And sometimes down to Mass they’d bring

Fine strangers holidaying,

Who laughed and gushed at everything

Within their orbit straying.

By soft white hands and modish gowns

They sought the world to measure,

And seemed to think our reach-me-downs

Were staged to give them pleasure.

And, faith, it set the tongues a-wag

And entertained the flippants

To see the fifteen-guinea bag

That held the little “thrippence,”

While in the church they plied the fan

And practised like vagaries;

So in the Old Mass Shandrydan

We gave it to the Careys:

“Wisha, did you see the Careys? They’re the high-falutin fairies.”

“Tell me, who were them play-actors there that had so much to say?”

“Och, the antics and the wrigglin’, and the goin’s-on and gigglin’—

Wisha, did you see the Careys there to-day!”

They sometimes drove a spanking pair,

Which brought them speed and honour;

They sometimes drove a pacing-mare

With straps and pads upon her;

They covered us with clouds of dust,

As thick as we could wear it;

And we could plod, as needs we must,

And keep the faith and bear it.

When skies were blue and days were bright,

And leaf and bud were sprouting,

They came to Mass in splendour dight,

To make a Sunday’s outing;

But when the morn was blank with storm

And winter blasts complaining,

The Careys kept devotion warm

Beside their fire remaining.

So, while the chilling torrents ran

And soaked our best figaries,

Within the Old Mass Shandrydan

We pummelled at the Careys:

“Wisha, where were all the Careys? Sure the rain might melt the fairies!”

“Faith, and if it was the races then, they wouldn’t stop away.”

“That’d be another story; there they’d be in all their glory—

Wisha, what could keep them all from Mass to-day!”

And when we held the big bazaar—

A fine and lively meeting—

And people came from near and far,

In buoyant zeal competing,

’Twas rush and gush and fulsomeness

And Careys superintending;

They raced about in evening dress,

And deftly dodged the spending.

We might have been in Amsterdam,

Or somewhere out in Flanders;

We sold some tickets for “the ham,”

And stalked about like ganders.

So when we gathered up the clan,

And sought our distant eyries,

Within the Old Mass Shandrydan

We blazed it at the Careys:

“Wisha, did you see the Careys, like some wild things from the prairies?”

“Faith, I never met ‘the bate’ of that for many ’n many a day.”

“Sure it’s pounds we would have taken with them tickets for the bacon,

If them thuckeens ^[10] of the Careys were not always in the way.”

And when the little choir we had

In tender hope was springing,

And nervous lass and awkward lad

Were mobilized for singing,

We all went down our own to hear,

As holy triumph crowned them,

But Careys sailed in shrill and clear,

And silenced all around them;

Our Nellie’s range they quite outran,

And even Laughing Mary’s;

So in the Old Mass Shandrydan

We pitched into the Careys:

“Wisha, did you hear the Careys? Don’t they think they’re fine canaries?”

“Yerra, wouldn’t you think they’d hold the tongues, and let the people pray!”

“Faith, my head is all a-reelin’ from them Careys and their squealin’—

Wisha, did you hear them shoutin’ there to-day!”

The angels, in their peaceful skies

Through starry paddocks straying,

Must sometimes smile with kindly eyes

To see the tricks we’re playing.

Now rosy-cheeked and smart and fair

Was Carey’s youngest daughter;

And lo, our Morgan did his hair

With mutton-fat and water;

But days and days the lovers spent

On thorns (and roses) treading,

Till down to Carey’s house we went,

Invited to the wedding.

For life’s a fine comedian,

Whose programme shifts and varies,

And in the Old Mass Shandrydan

We smoodged a bit to Careys:

“Wisha, now we’ll see the Careys in their weddin’ fal-de-daries!”

“Faith, I mind the time the Careys slep’ beneath their bullock-dray.”

“Sure, I wouldn’t hurt their feelin’s, though I never liked their dealin’s;

“An’ if just to please poor Morgan, I’ll be nice to them to-day.”

They have brought the news, my darlin’, that I’ve waited for so long.

Faith, ’twas little news they brought me; every story, every song

That I’ve heard since you enlisted seemed to bear the one refrain,

Till the whole world used to tell me that you’d never come again.

They’ve been cruel times, alannah, since you left us for the fight,

Potterin’ dazed-like all the daytime, thinkin’, thinkin’ through the night;

Yerra, what’s the use complainin’, when the world is all amiss,

When the hopin’ and the strivin’ ever come to dust like this.

’Twas the green months when you left me; now the brown, brown months have come,

Stand the ripe crops in the paddocks, but the harvesters are dumb.

There’ll be flowers again in plenty, and a carpet o’er the plain—

Oh, it’s hard you won’t be comin’ when the green months come again!

Still, I’m thankful, oh, I’m thankful for one golden memory,

That the last time spent together was to say The Rosary.

Don’t you mind it, boy? we said it in my own room there beyond,

Where I have the little altar where your early prayers you conned,

By the statue that I cherish of the Holy Mother fair,

With the blue cloak round her shoulders, and her white hands crossed in prayer.

They were singin’ in the parlour, them that came to say good-bye;

And they sang their gay songs to me—och, I knew the reason why!

They are always land in trouble in this big warm-hearted land;

Ah, but their way wasn’t my way, and they mightn’t understand.

So I lit the little candles, and I beckoned you away,

And you came—God bless you for it, boy—the partin’ prayer to say.

Ay, the partin’ Rosary, darlin’—I can see you kneelin’ there,

With your big broad shoulders bendin’, and your hands joined on the chair,

And your man’s voice like an organ rollin’ out its soul apart—

Och, to-night, boy, in my dreamin’ it is dronin’ in my heart.

Yes, we said it with the music strummin’ ragtime songs throughout,

Just our two selves there together, answerin’ t’other turn about.

’Tis a quare, quare world, alannah, when the storm can work its stress

On the strong limb, while the withered leaf is left in loneliness.

“Lay your treasure up in Heaven,” for there’s nothing here below;

Och, we Irish mothers learned it in the old land long ago!

Short life’s springtime with its blossom; and it comes not back again,

Only haggard trees in winter stretchin’ naked limbs in pain.

Oh, I’m thankin’ God, my bouhal,^[11] though the achin’s in my breast,

’Twas He took you from me, darlin’, and He knoweth what is best:

And His Holy Mother Mary, with her Baby on her knee,

Sure she lost Him in His manhood, for He died at thirty-three.

There’s a numbin’ in my heart, boy; like a cold, cold hand it grips—

Oh, I’m thankful that we parted with the Rosary on your lips.

It has ever been my refuge; it has been my hope and stay,

Been my hymn of sweet thanksgivin’ for what good there came my way.

It has been my only comfort when the heart was sick and sore,

When the bad days past the countin’ flung their troubles round my door.

I was taught it by my mother; ay, and when we crossed the sea

For to seek the gold we never found—the old man there and me

(Sure he stood six feet and higher then, and coal-black was his hair—

Och, you’d never know ’twas him at all, that bent old man in there)—

We have said it in the slab hut, strong and clear in flood and drought,

Just our two selves there together “answerin’ up” and “givin’ out.”

We have said it by the cradle, we have said it by the cot;

When the babes the angels brought us made us happy in our lot,

When the house was full of childer, and the pride of livin’ glowed,

Och, we said it till the neighbours heard us, passin’ on the road.

But ye’ve gone and left me lonely; one by one, my doves, ye flew;

One by one the circle’s dwindled, till the Rosary’s said by two—

Said by two old husky voices, old and weak and wearin’ out,

Just our two old selves together, answerin’ t’other turn about.

Sure it won’t be long, alannah, till the troubled sea is calm,

And the beads drop from my fingers, and they bind them on my arm.

You would tease me with the “trimmin’s” in the dear days that are dead,

There’s another trimmin’ now, boy, every time the Rosary’s said.

But there won’t be many Rosaries, for the singin’s in my ears

And the Holy Mother’s beckonin’—I can see her through my tears.

These old feet have done their journey, better leave them restin’, then;

They will bring me to the hill-side ere the green months come again.

Sure I’ll tread the House of Glory, where the soul is free from harm,

And you’ll know ’tis me, alannah, by the Rosary on my arm.

No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun is at its height

With the neighbours at the breakfast, and the world is warm and bright;

And it doesn’t come upon you when you’re driving to the train;

What with wrastling with the luggage, you’ve no time to feel the pain,

But it grips you like a footpad, making home,

And you feel the sun will never drive the dark away again,

Making home.

Yes, you go in with the rest to see your married girl away;

There’s a mopy feeling round you, and you’ve nothing much to say;

So you crack a joke to mend things, but you make them worse instead.

Yet the loving words in hundreds are a-running through your head,

Welling from a heart that’s melting, making home,

Interrupted by the stabbing of that wretched thing you said,

Making home.

When the women start a-crying, just to show how glad they feel,

And you rouse upon “herself” a bit to keep the tears to heel,

It’s a lot of silly business, and the whole thing gets you beat;

So before you realize it, you are climbing to the seat

Of your buggy, with the missus, making home,

And the old horse clouts the metal with his heavy awkward feet,

Making home.

You get glimpses through the timber of the lights a-sliding by,

You can see the red reflection palpitating in the sky;

You can hear the easy puffing as she swings into her stride,

And you feel a sort of pigmy in a world that’s cold and wide,

With the wise old stars above you, making home,

While you’ve got a notion someone is a-sobbing by your side,

Making home.

Then the past shows up before you every ghost you thought had fled,

Everything you did unkindly, every peevish word you said;

And the poor old woman, battling with the tears that blind and ache,

She’s been showering love around her all for someone else’s sake,

And it starts your mind a-wondering, making home,

Whether what you’ve been attending was a wedding or a wake,

Making home.

So you pull up at the stable, take the harness off the horse,

Hit your shins against a bucket—well, it does no good, of course.

There’s a gloom around the kitchen where the banquet still is spread,

And the cat upon the rocking-chair is sleeping like the dead,

While the ghosts come leering at you, and you’re home,

And “herself” she lights the candle, and she goes straight off to bed,

When you’re home.

But you don’t feel much like sleeping with the throbbing in your brain,

And your heart is on a journey vagabonding with a train;

So you peel the choking collar off, and get out in the cool,

Where you light your pipe and smoke upon the old verandah stool,

Thinking matters slowly over when you’re home,

Winding back the skein that somehow’s got entangled on the spool,

When you’re home.

Here’s the little home you started when your hopes were all aglow;

Them’s the currajongs you planted five-and-thirty year ago;

This here sixty-acre paddock was the first you called your own;

That there clearing was a forest, with the timber overgrown.

So you start a-recollecting, when you’re home.

Five-and-thirty years have flitted, and you don’t know where they’ve flown,

When you’re home.

Here you’ve been along to-night to see the married girl away,

And you rocked her in her cradle—well, it seems but yesterday;

And “herself” you thought she looked so old, and bent and worn with care—

Five-and-thirty slaving winters pile the snows on heart and hair—

And you find that you’re an old man, making Home;

And the mile-posts on the road have got behind you unaware,

Making Home.

There were joys your heart was craving, but you never gathered them;

Fragrant buds that yearned to blossom, but you hacked them from the stem;

Hearts of children, erring sometimes—ah, but golden through and through,

Beating back to where you led them, big with love of home and you!

Now you see them in the distance, making Home,

Like the three red lights you watched to-night receding from your view,

Making home.

So you sit with eyes wide open, seeing where you’ve been the fool,

Wise with wisdom born of sorrow, smoking, thinking in the cool,

Reckoning him God’s new apostle who is busy being kind,

Hearing angel voices chant it in the music of the wind—

Chastened, lonely, and so weary; making Home,

Praying God to pardon what you’ve been because your eyes were blind,

Making Home.

Come, Little One, and sing to me

A song our big wide land to bless,

Around whose gentle parent-knee

We’ve twined the flowers of kindliness.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,

Your voice like soft bush breezes blown;

Her sunshine steeps the heart of you,

Your tresses are the wattle’s own.

What, no Australian song, my child,

No lay of love, no hymn of praise?

And yet no mother ever smiled

With our dear country’s winsome ways:

You sing the songs of all the earth,

Of bower and bloom and bird and bee;

And has the land that gave you birth

No haunting, native melody?

Your poets’ eager pens awake

The world-old themes of love and youth.

The pulse of life, the joy, the ache,

The pregnant line of earnest truth;

They dress you these in native guise,

And interweave with loving hand

The freshness of your rain-washed skies,

The colours of your sunlit land.

What, no Australian song, my dear?

And yet I’ve heard the cottage ring

With notes the world would pause to hear,

When at their work your sisters sing.

They sing the songs of all the earth,

Of tender sky, and dimpling sea,

But all their strains have not the worth

Of one Australian song, for me.

I’ve heard the harp the breezes play

Among the wilding wilga-trees;

I’ve swept my world of care away

When bush birds lift their melodies;

I’ve seen the paddocks all ablaze

When spring in golden glory comes,

The purple hills of summer days,

The autumn ochres through the gums;

I’ve seen the bright folk riding in

O’er blooms that deck the clovered plain,

And neath the trees, when moonbeams spin

Their silver-dappled counterpane.

What, no Australian song, my pet?

No patriot note on native horn,

To bind the hearts in kindness met,

And link the leal Australian-born?

Yet every exile, wandering lone

Our happy careless homes among,

May live the best his heart has known

Whene’er his country’s songs are sung.

You sing the songs of all the earth,

Of alien flower and alien tree:

But no one, in my grief or mirth,

Will sing Australian songs to me.

You sing of every land but mine,

Where life is lilting neath the sun.

Still all its spirit seems ashine

In you, my little laughing one.

Your eyes are clear Australian blue,

Your face is towards the future set:

The bounding, gladsome heart of you

Is hers—and only hers, my pet.

Ah, Little One, what dreams would rise

If, nestled here upon my knee,

You’d flash those soft Australian eyes,

And sing your country’s songs to me!

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AROUND THE BOREE LOG
	Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind and rain, . . . .	1

CALLING TO ME
	Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreaming . . . .	4

THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER
	Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street, . . . .	6

ONE BY ONE
	With trust in God and her good man . . . .	10

TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS
	There were ten little Steps and Stairs, . . . .	12

THE TRIMMIN’S ON THE ROSARY
	Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is turning gray, . . . .	14

THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN
	She saw The Helper standing near . . . .	21

THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL
	’Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years; . . . .	23

SIX BROWN BOXER HATS
	The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside the fence, . . . .	29

THE LIBEL
	“The flowers have no scent, and the birds have no song,” . . . .	31

WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN
	When the circus came to town . . . .	33

HIS FATHER
	We meet him first in frills immersed, . . . .	36

THE KOOKABURRAS
	Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple from the mountain; . . . .	41

PETER NELSON’S FIDDLE
	Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the lonely track? . . . .	43

THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL
	A simple thing of knotted pine . . . .	46

CURRAJONG
	Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with mingled love and pride . . . .	49

THE HELPING HAND
	When that hour comes when I shall sit alone, . . . .	54

VALE, FATHER PAT
	Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head— . . . .	57

JOSEPHINE
	The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came; . . . .	64

THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN
	I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years, . . . .	70

PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH
	On the Sunday morning mustered, . . . .	78

SAID HANRAHAN
	“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, . . . .	80

THE TIDY LITTLE BODY
	Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body, . . . .	84

THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH
	Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’ . . . .	86

TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED
	Times I think I’m not the man— . . . .	92

NORAH O’NEILL
	That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel, . . . .	96

THE PRESBYT’RY DOG
	Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed, . . . .	98

TANGMALANGALOO
	The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime, . . . .	100

THE ALTAR-BOY
	Now McEvoy was altar-boy . . . .	103

AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS
	There’s a weather-beaten sign-post where the track turns towards the west, . . . .	105

ST. PATRICK’S DAY
	’Tis the greatest splash of sunshine right through all my retrospection . . . .	112

THE CAREYS
	Their new house stood just off the road, . . . .	119

WHEN OLD MAN CAREY DIED
	A night of wind and driving rain, . . . .	125

THE PARTING ROSARY
	They have brought the news, my darlin’, that I’ve waited for so long . . . .	128

OWNERLESS
	He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming . . . .	134

LAUGHING MARY
	With cheeks that paled the rosy morn . . . .	137

MORYAH
	“Wisha, where is he goin’ to now . . . .	139

A STRANGER IN THE CHURCH
	’Twas Callagan who jerked the thumb— . . . .	141

TELL ME, WHAT’S A GIRL TO DO?
	Tell me, what’s a girl to do . . . .	143

THE WIREE’S SONG
	The Wiree sang that Christmas Day, . . . .	145

WISHA, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH JIM?
	“Wisha, what is the matter with Jim, I dunno? . . . .	147

SAID THE WHITE-HAIRED PRIEST
	Said the white-haired priest, “So the boy has come, . . . .	149

HONEYMOONING FROM THE COUNTRY
	To the rooms where I am dining in the glaring city’s day . . . .	152

MAKING HOME
	No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun is at its height . . . .	156

COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN
	May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over? . . . .	162

COME, SING AUSTRALIAN SONGS TO ME!
	Come, Little One, and sing to me . . . .	165

CONTENTS

AROUND THE BOREE LOG

CALLING TO ME

THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER

ONE BY ONE

TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS

THE TRIMMIN’S ON THE ROSARY

THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN

THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL

SIX BROWN BOXER HATS

THE LIBEL

WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN

HIS FATHER

THE KOOKABURRAS

PETER NELSON’S FIDDLE

THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL

CURRAJONG

THE HELPING HAND

VALE, FATHER PAT

JOSEPHINE

THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN

PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH

SAID HANRAHAN

THE TIDY LITTLE BODY

THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH

TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED

NORAH O’NEILL

THE PRESBYT’RY DOG

TANGMALANGALOO

THE ALTAR-BOY

AT CASEY’S AFTER MASS

ST. PATRICK’S DAY

THE CAREYS

WHEN OLD MAN CAREY DIED

THE PARTING ROSARY

OWNERLESS

LAUGHING MARY

MORYAH

A STRANGER IN THE CHURCH

TELL ME, WHAT’S A GIRL TO DO?

THE WIREE’S SONG

WISHA, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH JIM?

SAID THE WHITE-HAIRED PRIEST

HONEYMOONING FROM THE COUNTRY

MAKING HOME

COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN

COME, SING AUSTRALIAN SONGS TO ME!