saltbush bill-第11节
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And what they leave well； it ain't ‘de luxe'。
But a growlin' fault…findin' son of a gun
Who'd lent some money to stock our run
I said they'd eaten what grass we had
Says he； ‘Your management's very bad；
You had a right to have kept some ducks！'
〃To have kept some ducks！ And the place was white！
Wherever you went you had to tread
On grasshoppers guzzlin' day and night；
And when with a swoosh they rose in flight；
If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly
Like bullets into your open eye
And knock it out of the back of your head。
〃There isn't a turkey or goose or swan；
Or a duck that quacks； or a hen that clucks；
Can make a difference on a run
When a grasshopper plague has once begun；
‘If you'd finance us；' I says； ‘I'd buy
Ten thousand emus and have a try；
The job；' I says； ‘is too big for ducks！
〃‘You must fetch a duck when you come to stay；
A great big duck a Muscovy toff
Ready and fit；' I says； ‘for the fray；
And if the grasshoppers come our way
You turn your duck into the lucerne patch；
And I'd be ready to make a match
That the grasshoppers eats his feathers off！'
〃He came to visit us by and by；
And it just so happened one day in Spring
A kind of a cloud came over the sky
A wall of grasshoppers nine miles high；
And nine miles thick； and nine hundred wide；
Flyin' in regiments； side by side；
And eatin' up every living thing。
〃All day long； like a shower of rain；
You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall；
Tap； tap； tap； on the window pane；
And they'd rise and jump at the house again
Till their crippled carcases piled outside。
But what did it matter if thousands died
A million wouldn't be missed at all。
〃We were drinkin' grasshoppers so to speak
Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring；
And they fell so thick in the station creek
They choked the waterholes all the week。
There was scarcely room for a trout to rise；
And they'd only take artificial flies
They got so sick of the real thing。
〃An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags
When the hoppers rose for their morning flight
With a flapping noise like a million flags：
And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags
For they'd fall right into the fire； and fry
Till the cook sat down and began to cry
And never a duck or a fowl in sight！
〃We strolled across to the railroad track
Under a cover； beneath some trucks；
I sees a feather and hears a quack；
I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back
Every duck in the place was there；
No good to them was the open air。
‘Mister；' I says； ‘There's your blanky ducks！'〃
Tommy Corrigan
（Killed； Steeplechasing at Flemington。）
You talk of riders on the flat； of nerve and pluck and pace；
Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase。
It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong；
To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along；
But what about the last half…mile； with horses blown and beat
When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet？
When any slip means sudden death with wife and child to keep
It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap
But Corrigan would ride them out； by danger undismayed；
He never flinched at fence or wall； he never was afraid；
With easy seat and nerve of steel； light hand and smiling face；
He held the rushing horses back； and made the sluggards race。
He gave the shirkers extra heart； he steadied down the rash；
He rode great clumsy boring brutes； and chanced a fatal smash；
He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all
But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall。
But ah； you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand
Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand。
They were； indeed； a glorious pair the great upstanding horse；
The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course。
Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall；
〃You follow Tommy Corrigan〃 was passed to one and all。
And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command
To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand。
But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go；
We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow。
We'll drink to him in silence； boys he's followed down the track
Where many a good man went before； but never one came back。
And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign；
That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again。
The Maori's Wool
~Now； this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how
They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti…iti…au。~
。 。 。 。 。
The Maoris are a mighty race the finest ever known；
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone；
They went to war and fought like fiends； and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one。
But now…a…days about the pahs in idleness they lurk；
Prepared to smoke or drink or talk or anything but work。
The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow
Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti…iti…au。
'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came；
A Rangatira of the best； Rerenga was his name
（The word Rerenga means a 〃snag〃 but until he was gone
This didn't strike the folk he met it struck them later on）。
He stalked into the Bank they call the 〃Great Financial Hell〃；
And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell。
The Bold Bank Manager looked grave the price of wool was high。
He said； 〃We'll lend you what you need we're not disposed to buy。
You ship the wool to England； Chief！ You'll find it's good advice；
And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price。〃
The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state
In all the Rooti…iti tribe his mana would be great；
But still the tribe were simple folk； and did not understand
This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand。
So off he started home again； with trouble on his brow；
To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti…iti…au。
They held a great korero in the Rooti…iti clan；
With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man。
They called themselves poetic names 〃lost children in a wood〃；
They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai extra good！
And so they sent Rerenga down； full…powered and well…equipped；
To draw as much as he could get； and let the wool be shipped；
And wedged into a 〃Cargo Tank〃； full up from stern to bow；
A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti…iti…au。
It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque；
Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully； then clasped him round the neck；
A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark
You see he lived on mutton…birds and dried remains of shark
But still it showed his gratitude； and； as he pouched the pelf；
〃I'll haka for you； sir；〃 he said； 〃in honour of yourself！〃
The haka is a striking dance the sort they don't allow
In any place more civilised than Rooti…iti…au。
He 〃haka'd〃 most effectively then； with an airy grace
Rubbed noses with the Manager； and vanished into space。
But when the wool…return came back； ah me； what sighs and groans！
For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones！
Yes thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found；
On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound。
And now the Bold Bank Manager； with trouble on his brow；
Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti…iti…au。
The Angel's Kiss
An angel stood beside the bed
Where lay the living and the dead。
He gave the mother her who died
A kiss that Christ the Crucified
Had sent to greet the weary soul
When； worn and faint； it reached its goal。
He gave the infant kisses twain；
One on the breast； one on the brain。
〃Go forth into the world；〃 he said；
〃With blessings on your heart and head；
〃For God； who ruleth righteously；
Hath ordered that to such as be
〃From birth deprived of mother's love；
I bring His blessing from above；
〃But if the mother's life He spare
Then she is made God's messenger
〃To kiss and pray that heart and brain
May go through life without a stain。〃
The infant moved towards the light；
The angel spread his wings in flight。
But each man carries to his grave
The kisses that in hopes to save
The angel or his mother gave。
Sunrise on the Coast
Grey dawn on the sand…hills the night wind has drifted
All night from the rollers a scent of the sea；
With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted；
At the call of the morning they scatter and flee。
Like mariners calling the roll of their number
The sea…fowl put out to the infinite deep。
And far over…head sinking softly to slumber
Worn out by their watchi
