A Departing Dirge
Girls in town and boys out back,
I've rolled up my little pack,
And on june's chill wintry gales
Sail from pleasant New South Wales.
Ere I go - a doggerel song
To bid the whole caboose 'So-long!'
Saddle-gear and horses sold -
Fetched but scanty stock of gold -
Scanty!! yet the whole lot
Publicans and Flossies got.
Since I in this country landed
Ne'er before was I so 'stranded'.
Now I'm leaving Sydney's shore
Harder up than e'er before;
A keen appetite I feel
To taste a bit o' British veal;
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Some Other Somebody
Somebody's horse has finished his feed,
Somebody's saddle is on;
But never a nigger the tracks can read,
Or know where Somebody's gone.
Over the rails and up the creek,
As soon as the sun goes down:
How is it every night this week
That Somebody's off to town?
Grass is dewy, and overhead
Evening stars are bright;
And startled wallabies hear the tread
Of galloping hoofs at night.
Through the scrub and over the plain
Somebody's galloping fast;
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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An Enthusiastic Sportsman Enthuses
So now the Brands
Seek other lands;
Alack! long ere they reach 'em
A fickle crowd
Will cheer as loud
For godly Governor Beauchamp.
'Twill be Hampden's lot
To be soon forgot,
Now an Earl is his successor;
But the new-chum Earl
Will bring no girl
Like Dorothy Brand - God bless her!
Then let it be known
That all of us own
Since her dad to Australia brought her.
That there has not been,
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Butchered To Make A Dutchman's Holiday
In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d__d crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!
It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!
No matter what 'end' they decide -
Quick-lime or 'b'iling ile,' sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!
But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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While Yet we may
Ancient, wrinkled dames and jealous -
They whom joyless Age downcasts -
And the sere, gray-bearded fellows
Who would fain re-live their pasts -
These, the ancients, grimly tell us:
'Vows are vain, and no love lasts.'
Fleeting years fulfil Fate's sentence,
Eyes must dim, and hair turn gray,
Age bring wrinkles, p'rhaps repentance;
Youth shall quickly hie away,
And that time when youth has went hence,
We - and love - have had our day.
Let the world, and fuming, fretting,
Busy worldlings pass us by,
Bent on piles of lucre getting -
They shall lose it when they die;
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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When the Light is as Darkness
The morning-tide is fair and bright,
With golden sun up-springing;
The cedars glowed in the new-born light,
And the bell-bird's note was ringing;
While diamonds dropped by dusky Night,
Were yet to the gidyas clinging.
The morning waned - the sun rose high
O'erhead, until 'twas seeming
But a dazzling disc, and the fiery sky
Like an opal sea was gleaming;
And languorous flowers - of morn gone by,
And coming eve - fell dreaming.
And now the moon above does creep
To laugh at red Sol sinking;
While wakening from their sunlit sleep,
A few wan stars are blinking,
And thirsty, drooping flowers deep
Of evening dews are drinking.
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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At the River-Crossing
Oh! the quiet river-crossing
Where we twain were wont to ride,
Where the wanton winds were to sing
Willow branches o'er the tide.
There the golden noon would find us
Dallying through the summer day,
All the waery world behind us -
All it's tumult far away.
Oh! thoe rides across the crossing
Where the shallow stream runs wide,
When the sunset's beams were glossing
Strips of sand on either side.
We would cross the sparkling river
On the brown horse and the bay;
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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A-Shelling Peas
Now, all the world is green and bright
Outside the latticed pane;
The fields are decked with gold and white,
And Spring has come again.
But though the world be fair without,
With flow'rs and waving trees,
'Tis pleasanter to be about
Where Nell's a-shelling peas.
Her eyes are blue as cloudless skies,
And dimples deck her cheeks;
Whilst soft lights loiter in her eyes
Whene'er she smiles or speaks.
So all the sunlit morning-tide
I dally at mine ease,
To loaf at slender Nelly's side
When Nell's a-shelling peas.
This bard, who sits a-watching Nell,
With fingers white and slim,
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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The Day that is Dead
Ah, Jack! Time finds us feeble men,
And all too swift our years have flown.
The days are different now to then -
In that time when we rode ten stone.
The minstrel when his mem'ry goes
To old times, tunes a doleful lay -
Comparing modern nags with those
Which Lee once bred down Bathurst way.
The type to-day's a woeful weed,
Which lacks the stoutness, strength and bone
Of horses they were wont to breed
In those days - when we rode ten stone.
But all of us remorseless Fate
O'ertakes, and as the years roll on
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Brigalow Mick
A dandy old horsernan is Brigalow Mick-
Which his name, sir, is Michael O'Dowd -
Whatever he's riding, when timber is thick,
He is always in front of the crowd.
A few tangled locks that are fast turning white
Crown a physog. the colour of brick,
But as keen as a kestrel's-as bold and as bright -
Is the blue eye of Brigalow Mick.
He is Martin's head-stockman, on Black-Cattle Creek -
All the boys there are rare ones to ride -
But Mick is the 'daddy'; and far you may seek
Ere you find such an artist in hide.
He'll turn out a halter, or stockwhip can make,
As you've seldom cast eyes on before;
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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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