[Cover Illustration] =AROUND THE BOREE= =LOG= AND OTHER VERSES By âJOHN OâBRIENâ [Illustration] ANGUS AND ROBERTSON _First published in 1921 by_ ANGUS & ROBERTSON LTD 89 Castlereagh Street, Sydney 54 Bartholomew Close, London 107 Elizabeth Street, Melbourne _This impression 1964_ _Copyright_ Registered in Australia for transmission by post as a book PRINTED IN AUSTRALIA BY HALSTEAD PRESS, SYDNEY CONTENTS AROUND THE BOREE LOG Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind 1 and rain,.... CALLING TO ME Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its 4 dreaming.... THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, 6 dusty street,.... 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 TRIMMINâS ON THE ROSARY Ah, the memories that find me now my hair is 14 turning gray,.... THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN She saw The Helper standing near.... 21 THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL âTis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs 23 to other years;.... SIX BROWN BOXER HATS The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside 29 the fence,.... THE LIBEL âThe flowers have no scent, and the birds have no 31 song,â.... 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 41 from the mountain;.... PETER NELSONâS FIDDLE Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the 43 lonely track?.... THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL A simple thing of knotted pine.... 46 CURRAJONG Old Father Pat! Theyâll tell you still with 49 mingled love and pride.... THE HELPING HAND When that hour comes when I shall sit alone,.... 54 _VALE_, FATHER PAT Yes, thatâs the hardest hand at all upon my 57 frosted headâ.... JOSEPHINE The presbytery has gone to pot since this 64 house-keeper came;.... THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN I can see it in my dreaming oâer a gap of thirty 70 years,.... PITCHINâ AT THE CHURCH On the Sunday morning mustered,.... 78 SAID HANRAHAN âWeâll all be rooned,â said Hanrahan,.... 80 THE TIDY LITTLE BODY Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy 84 little body,.... THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH Faith, âtis good to see him cominâ when the bell 86 for Mass is flinginâ.... TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED Times I think Iâm not the manâ.... 92 NORAH OâNEILL That Norah OâNeill is a sthreel,.... 96 THE PRESBYTâRY DOG Now of all the old sinners in mischief 98 immersed,.... TANGMALANGALOO The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap 100 sublime,.... THE ALTAR-BOY Now McEvoy was altar-boy.... 103 AT CASEYâS AFTER MASS Thereâs a weather-beaten sign-post where the track 105 turns towards the west,.... ST. PATRICKâS DAY âTis the greatest splash of sunshine right through 112 all my retrospection.... 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 darlinâ, that Iâve 128 waited for so long.... OWNERLESS He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the 134 gloaming.... LAUGHING MARY With cheeks that paled the rosy morn.... 137 MORYAH âWisha, where is he goinâ to now.... 139 A STRANGER IN THE CHURCH âTwas Callagan who jerked the thumbâ.... 141 TELL ME, WHATâS A GIRL TO DO? Tell me, whatâs a girl to do.... 143 THE WIREEâS SONG The Wiree sang that Christmas Day,.... 145 WISHA, WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH JIM? âWisha, what is the matter with Jim, I dunno?.... 147 SAID THE WHITE-HAIRED PRIEST Said the white-haired priest, âSo the boy has 149 come,.... HONEYMOONING FROM THE COUNTRY To the rooms where I am dining in the glaring 152 cityâs day.... MAKING HOME No, you donât quite get the meaning when the fun 156 is at its height.... COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is 162 over?.... COME, SING AUSTRALIAN SONGS TO ME! Come, Little One, and sing to me.... 165 AROUND THE BOREE LOG Oh, stick me in the old caboose this night of wind and rain, And let the doves of fancy loose to bill and coo again. I want to feel the pulse of love that warmed the blood like wine; I want to see the smile above this kind old land of mine. So come you by your parted ways that wind the wide world through, And make a ring around the blaze the way we used to do; The âfountainâ on the sooted crane will sing the old, old song Of common joys in homely vein forgotten, ah, too long. _The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,_ _Yet spend another night with me around the boree log._[1] Now someone driving through the rain will happen in, I bet; So fill the fountain up again, and leave the table set. For this was ours with pride to sayâand all the world defyâ No stranger ever turned away, no neighbour passed us by. Bedad, heâll have to stay the night; the rain is going to pourâ So make the rattling windows tight, and close the kitchen door, And bring the old lopsided chair, the tattered cushion, tooâ Weâll make the stranger happy there, the way we used to do. _The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,_ _Yet spend another night with me around the boree log._ Heâll fill his pipe, and good and well, and all aglow within Weâll hear the news he has to tell, the yarns he has to spin; Yarnsâyes, and super-yarns, forsooth, to set the eyes agog, And freeze the blood of trusting youth around the boree log. Then stir it up and make it burn; the pokerâs next to you; Come, let us poke it all in turn, the way we used to do. Thereâs many a memory bright and fair will tingle at a nameâ But leave unstirred the embers there we cannot fan to flame. _For years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog;_ _Still, spend this fleeting night with me around the boree log._ [1] Boree (sometimes accented on the last syllable) is the aboriginal name for the Weeping Myallâthe best firewood in Australia except Gidgee. CALLING TO ME Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreaming Comes the song of a bush boy glad-hearted and free; Oh, the gullies are green where the sunlight is streaming, And the voice of that youngster is calling to me. It is calling to me with a haunting insistence, And my feet wander off on a hoof-beaten track, Till I hear the old magpies away in the distance With a song of the morning thatâs calling me back. It is calling me back, for the dewâs on the clover, And the colours are mellow on mountain and tree; Oh, the gold has gone gray in the heart of the rover, And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me. It is calling to me, though the breezes are telling Gay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam; For the tapers are lit in the humble old dwelling, And the love that it sheltered is calling me home. It is calling me homeâbut the white road lies gleaming, And afar from it all must I tarry and dree; Just an echo far off, in the hush of my dreaming, Is the voice of a youngster thatâs calling to me. THE LITTLE IRISH MOTHER Have you seen the tidy cottage in the straggling, dusty street, Where the roses swing their censers by the door? Have you heard the happy prattle and the tramp of tiny feet As the sturdy youngsters romp around the floor? Did you wonder why the wiree[2] comes to sing his sweetest song? Did the subtle charm of home upon you fall? Did you puzzle why it haunted you the while you passed along?â Thereâs a Little Irish Mother there; thatâs all. When you watched the children toiling at their lessons in the school, Did you pick a winsome girleen from the rest, With her wealth of curl a-cluster as she smiled upon the stool, In a simple Monday-morning neatness dressed? Did you mark the manly bearing of a healthy-hearted boy As he stood erect his well-conned task to tell? Did you revel in the freshness with a pulse of wholesome joy?â There a Little Irish Mother there as well. Thereâs a Little Irish Mother that a lonely vigil keeps In the settlerâs hut where seldom stranger comes, Watching by the home-made cradle where one more Australian sleeps While the breezes whisper weird things to the gums, Where the settlers battle gamely, beaten down to rise again, And the brave bush wives the toil and silence share, Where the nation is a-building in the hearts of splendid menâ Thereâs a Little Irish Mother always there. Thereâs a Little Irish Motherâand her head is bowed and gray, And sheâs lonesome when the evening shadows fall; Near the fire she âdo be thinkinâ,â all the âchilderâ are away, And their silent pictures watch her from the wall. For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women now, In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams; But she runs her fingers, dozing, oâer a tousled baby browâ It is âlittle Conâ or âBridgieâ in her dreams. Thereâs a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last Where the tangled grass is creeping all around; And the shades of unsung heroes troop about her from the past While the moonlight scatters diamonds on the mound. And a good Australianâs toiling in the world of busy men Where the strife and sordid grinding cramp and kill; But his eyes are sometimes misted, and his heart grows brave againâ Sheâs the Little Irish Mother to him still. When at last the books are balanced in the settling-up to be, And our idols on the rubbish-heap are hurled, Then the Judge shall call to honourânot the âstars,â it seems to me, Who have posed behind the footlights of the world; But the king shall doff his purple, and the queen lay by her crown, And the great ones of the earth shall stand aside While a Little Irish Mother in her tattered, faded gown Shall receive the crown too long to her denied. [2] Also known as the Chocolate Wiree (pronounced âwiryâ): a very fine songster, called by ornithologists âRufous-breasted Whistler.â ONE BY ONE With trust in God and her good man She settled neath the spur; The old slab dwelling, spick and span, Was world enough for her; The lamp-light kissed her raven hair As, when her work was done, She lined us up beside her chair And taught us one by one. And weaving memories, haunting sweet, With threads of weal and woe, The years went by on velvet feetâ We did not hear them go. The world was calling everywhere Beneath the golden sun; When silver streaked her raven hair, We left her one by one. Then, turning back on cogs of pain, The spool that ran so fast Unwound before her eyes again The pictures of the past. The shadows played around her chair, Where fancyâs web was spun; When time had bleached her raven hair, She called us one by one. Oh, say not that we loved her less! But write them to our shame, The silence and the loneliness; And then the summons cameâ We found the dark clouds banking there To hide the setting sun. Ah, white threads in her childrenâs hair!â We gathered one by one. How quaintly sere, how small and strange The old home and the spur; But stranger thisâthe only change Was wrought in us and her. The lamp-light kissed her faded chair, Where, ere the sands had run, The sheen still on her raven hair, Sheâd nursed us one by one. Oh, vain the word that each could tell With full heart brimming oâer, That we, who ever loved her well, Might still have loved her more! Then back into the world of careâ To bless till life is doneâ A memory crowned with milk-white hair We carried one by one. TEN LITTLE STEPS AND STAIRS There were ten little Steps and Stairs. Round through the old bush home all day Romping about in the old bush way. They were ten little wild March hares, Storming the kitchen in hungry lines, With their naked feet, doing mud designs, âAll over the place like punkin vines.â There were ten little Steps and Stairs. There were ten little Steps and Stairs. In their home-made frocks and their Sunday suits, Up through the church with their squeaky boots, While the folk went astray in their prayers, They hustled along, all dressed and neatâ Oh, they bustled a bit as they filled the seat; From the first to the last, the lot complete. There were ten little Steps and Stairs. There were ten little Steps and Stairs. But the years have shuffled them all about, Have worn them thin, and straightened them out With the tramp of a hundred cares; Ay, and each grim scar has a tale to tell Of a knock and a blow and a hand that fell, And a break in the line, and a gap. Ah, wellâ There _were_ ten little Steps and Stairs. THE TRIMMINâS ON THE ROSARY 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 fancyâand the pictures, fading fast, Stand again in rose and purple in the album of the past. Thereâs the old slab dwelling dreaming by the wistful, watchful trees, Where the coolabahs are listening to the stories of the breeze; Thereâs a homely welcome beaming from its big, bright friendly eyes, With The Sugarloaf behind it blackened in against the skies; Thereâs the same dear happy circle round the boreeâs 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, âNow itâs getting on to bed-time; all you childer get your beads.â There were no steel-bound conventions in that old slab dwelling free; Only thisâeach night she lined us up to say the Rosary; Eâen 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 weâd softly gather round her, and weâd speak in accents low, And pray like Sainted Dominic so many years ago; And the little Irish motherâs face was radiant, for she knew That âwhere two or three are gatheredâ He is gathered with them too. Oâer the paters and the aves how her reverent head would bend! How sheâd kiss the cross devoutly when she counted to the end! And the visitor would rise at once, and brush his kneesâand then Heâd 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 âTrimminâsâ in my disrespectful youth. She would pray for kith and kin, and all the friends sheâd ever known, Yes, and everyone of us could boast a âtrimminââ all his own. She would pray for all our little needs, and every shade of care That might darken oâer The Sugarloaf, sheâd meet it with a prayer. She would pray for this oneâs âsore complaint,â or that oneâs âhurted hand,â Or that someone else might make a deal and get âthat bit of landâ; 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 trimminâs, too, that came and went; but neâer she closed without Adding one for something special ânone of you must speak about.â Gentle was that little mother, and her wit would sparkle free, But sheâd murder him who looked around while at the Rosary: And if perchance you lost your beads, disaster waited you, For the only one sheâd pardon was âhimselfââbecause she knew He was hopeless, and âtwas sinful what excuses heâd invent, So she let him have his fingers, and he cracked them as he went, And, bedad, he wasnât certain if heâd counted five or ten, Yet heâd face the crisis bravely, and would start around again; But she tallied all the decades, and sheâd block him on the spot, With a âGlory, Daddah, Glory!â and heâd âGloryâ like a shot. She would portion out the decades to the company at large; But when she reached the trimminâs 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 motherâs prayers embraced the country wide; If a neighbour met with trouble, or was taken ill, or died, We could count upon a trimminââtill, in fact, it got that way That the Rosary was but trimminâs to the trimminâs we would say. Then âhimselfâ would start keownrawning[3]âfor the public good, we thoughtâ âSure youâll have us here till morninâ. Yerra, cut them trimminâs short!â But sheâd take him very gently, till he softened by degreesâ âWell, then, let us get it over. Come now, all hands to their knees.â So the little Irish mother kept her trimminâs to the last, Ever growing as the shadows oâer 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 âsore complaintâ came right, and every âhurted handâ; And we made a deal from time to time, and got âthat bit of landâ; 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 triumphedâfor âtwas this, without a doubt, Was the very special trimminâ 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 â_finis_â and the book is closed for goodâ Thereâs a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood; There the stranger has her âevenings,â and the formal supperâs spread, But I wonder has she âtrimminâsâ 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 Trimminâs on the Rosary will bless them round the world. [3] Grumbling, âgrousing.â THE BIRDS WILL SING AGAIN She saw The Helper standing near When grief and care oppressed; âA Great, Big God,â Who wiped the tear, And soothed the aching breast. So, in the stress of sorrows piled, The gloom was lifted when She pointed up and sweetly smiled âA Great, Big God; be brave, my child, The birds will sing again.â When dark misfortune, hovering oâer, Brought woes on every hand; And care was camping by the door, And drought was on the land; When lingering hope in rags was clad, Her faith shone brightest thenâ âA Great, Big God; so cheer up, Dad. Donât mope about and take it bad, The birds will sing again.â And always some soft silver ray Athwart the gloom would burst To chase the heavy clouds away, When things were at their worst. Her âGreat, Big Godâ would justify The trembling trust of men; For, when the cheerless night passed by, The sun would wink his golden eye, And birds would sing again. THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL âTis 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, Thereâs a motley host of memories round that old bush schoolâ With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name Carved in agricultural lettersââtwas 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 orderâââlastic-sidesâ we used to wearâ With a pair of âeverlastinâsâ cracked and dusty here and there; And we marched with great âhigh actionââhands behind and eyes beforeâ While we murdered âSwanee Riverâ 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 ruleâ 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 poolâ 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, âUp, you children, late âtis gettinâ.â Shook the house beneath her knock, And she wasnât always truthful, and she tampered with the clock. Keen she was about âthe learninâ,â and she told us oâer and oâer Of our luck to have âthe schoolinââ right against our very door. And the lecturesâOh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed! âDonât be mixinâ with the Regans and the Ryans and the restââ âDonât be pickinâ up with Careyâs little talkative kanatsââ[5] Well, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats. But we found our level earlyâin disaster, as a ruleâ For they knocked âthe notionsâ sideways at the old bush school. Down the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode Was Maloneyâs 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 satâ We propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her hatâ And we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool, âMaking butter,â 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 âLaughing Mary,â and a fitful fancy blessed Eâen 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 stoolâ 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 oâer 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 Iâve proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool, Very much the way I found it at the old bush school. [4] These names are often applied to the same bird; but Happy Jacks (_alias_ Gray-crowned Babblers) are brown with white markings; Twelve Apostles (_alias_ Apostle-Birds) are gray with brown wings. Peewees, in the next line, are of course Magpie Larks. [5] The essential kanat (possibly a corruption of gnat) is undersized, mischievous, useless and perky. SIX BROWN BOXER HATS The hawker with his tilted cart pulled up beside the fence, And opened out his wondrous mart with startling eloquence; All sorts of toys for girls and boys upon the grass he spread, And dolls, dirt-cheap, that went to sleep when stood upon their head; But our male hearts were beating high for balls and cricket-bats When mother, with the business eye, bought six brown boxer hats. Six out-of-date extinguishers that fitted us too soonâ Six ugly, upturned canistersâbut through the afternoon Our rage and scorn were overborne to see swift fingers flit With pad and trim, around the rim, to make the stove-pipes fit. So Monday morning came, and six âungrateful young kanatsâ Went off to school like lunatics in six brown boxer hats. Then friends at every meeting showed an interest all too rare Or chilled our faltered greetings with the silence of a stare; And comrades who, we thought, were true indulged in vulgar jeers, While willing fists of humorists slambanged them round our ears; But worst of all the social smart from taunting plutocratsâ âYez pinched them from the hawkerâs cart, them six brown boxer hats.â (Dress how we will, we feel it still, when friends will stop to chat, To see a broad good-humoured smile is trained upon the hat.) We could not fight with wonted might, for bitter black distress Was in our souls, and on our polls the hateful ugliness. We faced a fine barrage of sticks; and six âbroke-upâ kanats Went home to meet the storm in six brown battered boxer hats. THE LIBEL âThe flowers have no scent, and the birds have no song,â We read in the lesson before us, While carols enchanted came floating along, And lifted our hearts in the chorus. âThe landscape is sombre, and dreary, and gray, No colour its mantle adorningâ; Oâer carpets spread far in a golden array We tramped it to school in the morning. âThe flowers have no scent,â but the wattle we brought From hill-sides and glens where we found it Was filling the room with its glory, we thought, And wafting its sweetness around it. And fragrant the greeting the eucalypts threw From branches of amber and sorrel; While hard by the door a pittosporum grewâ We called it âThe Japanese Laurel.â The birds have no song,â so they told us at school; But sweet in our souls was the ringing Of notes soft and clear from the edge of the pool, Where dainty gay thrushes were singing. The magpie, the spink,[6] and the pretty blue wren, The butcher-bird up in his eyrie, The trills! Oh, I wish I could hear you again, My dear little Chocolate Wiree! To the ears of a stranger our birds may lack song, Our flowers have no scent for the alien; But we, who have rambled the gullies along Bedecked in soft colours Australian, We laugh them to scorn as we read the old phraseâ Weâve laughed, since, at many anotherâ And bless in our hearts in a chorus of praise The face of our happy young mother. [6] No apology is needed for using this name to replace White-shouldered Caterpillar. WHEN THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN When the circus came to town With its coaches and four, and its steeds galore, And a band and a painted clown, Out to the road with a shout weâd fly To gape at the elephants trudging by, And our hearts beat fast and our hopes ran high, As we followed it up and down; For nought in the air, the sea, or sky Could fill a spot in our youthful eye, When the circus came to town. So after the show we went, And we got in the way of the men when they Were rigging the circus tent, And we knew that we stood on holy ground, As we followed an empty van aroundâ And got for ourselves a belting sound, Which a charm to the business lent. But we wagged it from school behind the pound, Till some Jack Pudding our shelter found And word to headquarters sent. When the circus came to town, We swallowed hot tea with tears of glee, And rushed in a tumult down; We took quite the full of our shillingâs worth, And roared at the dummyâs ponderous girth, Or yelled in a salvo of noisy mirth At the tricks of the painted clown. Oh, wondrous thoughts in our minds had birth, And we felt that the band was the best on earth, When the circus came to town. We fondly recalled the scene, Horses that pranced, and eyes entranced, And the smell of the kerosene; The mule, and the monkey, and tall giraffe, The âjuggerlinâ-manâ with his magic staff, The girl who went round with her photograph (And oh, but we thought her a queen!) We started a show on our own behalf, âPerformedâ on the back of a poddy calf, And sighed for the might-have-been. Now the circus comes to town, And it rattles along, and a bare-foot throng Is pacing it up and down; And the elephants trudge as they trudged of yore, With the shabby shebangs, and the steeds galore; But the glee of the youngsters who shout and roar At the tricks of the painted clown Is balm to my soul, and I call _encore_ To the frowsy old jokes Iâve heard before, When the circus came to town. HIS FATHER We meet him first in frills immersed, By everyone caressed and nursed, A bonny babyârather! But, though they please his every whim, Fill up his comforts to the brim, And âketchie ketchieâ 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 heâs proved his worth; The greatest man in all this earth Is Knickerbockerâs Daddy. Long pants at last, and stretching fastâ Said pants are what is termed âhalf-mast.â And most attenuatedâ 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 fatherâs praise With fervent admiration; In fact, his fatherâs got to be An out-of-date necessity, A clog upon his destiny And youthful recreation. As like as not, in anger hot, Heâll speak of him as âmy old potââ 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; Heâs learnt the art of looking wise, And on his Dadâs 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 âtonicâ 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 Heâll just allude to his âold chapââ 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, âYour old contraptions all are wrong.â Heâs going to move the world along, His fortuneâs 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 vexedâ The other fellowâs caught him. Then, while heâs 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, heâs free to state The old manâs head was âscrewed on straight,â And knocking round had taught him. We come again to find him when Heâs stood within the lionâs 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, Heâs very glad to mount his prad And go and have a word with Dad, For Dad is now the Master. But further on, lifeâs springtime gone, The winter snow his brows upon, Adown the current carried, Heâll show you with a tender glance A photo framed with eleganceâ The old man in the âbell-botâ pants, The suit in which he tarried That day in town a joy to crown (Most likely âtwas a âreach-me-downâ), 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 observesâunwelcome truth, At times heâs worried, ratherâ His hopeful son has just begun The same old devious course to run: And now itâs heâs the father. THE KOOKABURRAS Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple from the mountain; And the day thatâs passing outwards down the stairways of the sky, With its kindly deeds and sordid on its folded page recorded, Waves a friendly hand across the range to bid the world âgood-bye.â Comes a buoyant peal of laughter from the tall, white, slender timber, Rugged mirth that floods the bushland with the joy of brotherhood, With the rustic notes sonorous of a happy laughing chorus, When the kookaburras bless the world because the world is good. Oh, âtis good and clean and wholesome when we take the sheep-track homewards, And the kindly kitchen chimney flaps its homely bannerets; All our twigs of effort, shooting golden promise for the fruiting, Bring a night in peace enfolded that a useful day begets. Hopeful dreams, their visions weaving, steel our hearts against to-morrow, And we dare the challenge, strengthened by to-dayâs assaults withstood; Beam the pregnant days before us; and another laughing chorus Wraps the world in rippling revelry, because the world is good. Loving eyes to watch our coming, loving arms to twine around usâ Tender tendrils, soft and silken, firmer far than iron stayâ All our little world upholding, gentle hearts and home enfolding, And a cheery, friendly neighbour dropping in upon his way: Mellow joy the soul refreshes with the scented breath of heaven, With the whispered songs of other spheres, hereafter understood: Angels keep their sure watch oâer us: and another laughing chorus Flings a vesper blessing round the world, because the world is good. PETER NELSONâS FIDDLE Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the lonely track? Do you ever hear its simple melodies Tossing round deserted beaches, with the flotsam and the wrack, When the moonlight sprinkles silver on the trees? Do you hearken now, I wonder, when the birds have gone to rest, And the blotted book of day once more is shut? When the saffron stains have faded, and the swans have vanished west, Does your heart remember Peter Nelsonâs hut? Lonely, stooped old Peter Nelson, with his âmost peculiarâ ways, With the clean-cut face, and hair as white as snow! Something lingering round the old man seemed to tell of better days, Seemed to hint of love and laughter long ago. Kindly silence wrapped the bushland; every warring note was still; Soft heart-tremors stirred, and smiling eyes grew dim. Weaving fancies went the fiddle; dreams prophetic made us thrillâ From the grave the visions stretched their hands to him. There was rapture in the stillness; there were voices in the night; Trooped the angels with a beat of velvet wings; And the stars stood still and listened, and the moonâs face, strangely white, Kissed the sleeping world to dreams of better things. Joy was lit in every corner, love was smiling at our side, Golden glamour oâer the dawning days was cast; Gaily, gaily sang the fiddle, while we marched with swinging stride Through the flowers that hid the failures of the past. Do you ever dream you hear it? Does it bring the vision back, With the curlew, and the moonlight on the trees? Do the wavelets ripple shoreward with the flotsam as the wrack, When a fiddle plays the simple melodies? Lonely, bent old Peter Nelson with the quaint, uncommon ways, âSpruced and tidiedâ when the book of day was shut, With the dim light in the window, and the friends of better days Summoned round him by the fiddle in the hut. THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL A simple thing of knotted pine And corrugated tin; But still, to those who read, a sign, A fortress on the farthest line Against the march of sin. Though rich manâs gold was lacking quite, We built it strong and sure, With willing hands and (Faithâs delight) The savings spared, the widowâs mite, The shillings of the poor. Nor could it fail to meet the eye And reverent thoughts instil, As there above the township high, And pointing always to the sky, It stood upon the hill. And through our lives in wondrous ways Its holy purpose led From limpid lisping cradle-days To where the silent moonlight lays White hands upon the dead. For when the Holy Morning strung Its beads upon the grass, Youâd see us drivingâold and youngâ The tall white graceful trees among, On every road to Mass. It brought the brave young mother there, Surrounded by her brood, To wrap their tiny hearts in prayer, And teach them how to cast their care Upon the Holy Rood. It watched the little bush girl grow, And kept her life from harm, Till, spotless as the virgin snow In wreath and veil, it saw her go Upon her husbandâs arm. It blessed strong, trembling shoulders bent: Helped many a soul in thrall To climb again the steep ascent, And reft the grim entanglement That brought about the fall. It soothed the gray old motherâs pain, A-swaying while she told Her rosary oâer and oâer again, For griefs that rent her heart in twainâ So new, and ah, so old! (Thereâs âthat poor boy who went astray,â And lined her gentle brow; Thereâs âthem thatâs wandârinâ fur away,â And âthem thatâs in their grave to-dayâ And âbeckâninââ to her now.) Refuge it gave the weary heart, Beyond the sordid din And conflict of the crowded mart, One sweet, sequestered nook apart, Where all might enter in. Though high and grand cathedrals shine, To my mind grander still Is that wee church of knotted pine, That rampart on the outer line That stood upon the hill. CURRAJONG Old Father Pat! Theyâll 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 wonât be long Before they talk about his horseâthe 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; Heâd 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 youngâ At least, when he was not so oldâhis scattered flock among; When health and strength were on his side, youâd see him swing along With that clean, easy, sweeping stride that marked old Currajong. Through all the years he neâer was late the second Mass to say, And twenty miles heâd âduplicate,â 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 âgoâ; 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 donât I mind it well? The boree log ablaze âinside,â and gay with rug and mat; The âfront-room,â 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, âThereâs someone sick and sore the night; Iâll bet thatâs Currajong.â Whereat youâd hear the old men tellâperhaps a trifle addâ Of some sick-call remembered well, when âso-and-so took bad.â âYou couldnât see your hand in front.â ââTwas raininâ pitchforks, too.â âThe doctor jibbed, to put it bluntâbut Father Pat went through.â Ay, he went through in shine or shade; so, when the days were fair, And at our simple sports we played, âtwas 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. THE HELPING HAND When that hour comes when I shall sit alone, And ponder on the things that were, but are no more, The while the weird night-breezeâs dirge-like monotone Is sobbing fitful anthems round the door; When homing billows moan and croon unchecked, And no light glimmers on the oceanâs broad expanse; When all my anxious hopes are safe in port, or wrecked On sharp uncharted rocks of circumstance; When I have lived my life, and Time at last Displays the mottled fate the sisters three have spun, When the nightâs mystic, sombre, starless cloak is cast Around the naked shoulders of the sun; I shall be tired, I know, and long to rest, And oâer the past sleepâs veil of sweet oblivion draw, To feel myself drawn softly, dream-like on the breast Of lifeâs ebb-tide that laps the Eternal Shore. When that hour comes, and I am drifting slow To azure distance stretching on, and on, and on; When earthâs coast-lights are dim and blurred and burning low, And other stars rise other worlds upon; I shall not fear to meet my Masterâs gaze, Nor, like an idling child, His Searching Presence shun, Eâen though no herald trumpet-voice pronounce my praise, And earth-won hero garlands wear I none. Eâen though the best the world shall know of me, When mouldering clay is laid with kindred clay again, Is but a stone on which the stars shine carelessly Smooth-polished by the fingers of the rain: I shall not fear to stand before His Face And answer for the schemes I reared on shifting sand, Whereon the waves are trailing albs of pointed lace, If on my way Iâve lent the helping hand To fellow-pilgrims toiling at my side, Who, worn and weary, faint and fall beside the road, If here betimes the blinding, scalding tear Iâve dried, Or soothed a heart, or eased a galling load, For He shall say âYour name in dust is hid, No thought or word has earned you immortality; Immortal only are the kindly things you didâ Amen I say, you did them unto me.â VALE, FATHER PAT Yes, thatâs the hardest hand at all upon my frosted headâ That telegram that brought the news that Father Pat is deadâ 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 Iâve known him now. Since ever we were boys Across the sea in Ireland, each otherâs cares and joys Weâve 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 âgood day,â 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 stuffâ 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 heâll 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 timeâthe pigeon-holes a-line, A dozen keys upon a chain, his pockets filled with twine. His actions told the time of day, and rivalled eâen 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. Heâd argue till the cows came home, and never know a doubt; But when he âshowed the pâliteness,â it was then, my boy, look out! Heâd lay the shoneen[7] by the
{'title': "Around the Boree Log, and Other Verses by John O'Brien", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}