saltbush bill-第3节
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Said Saltbush Bill； 〃It's up to you
Put some one long…a Jug。〃
〃I'll camp the sheep；〃 he said； 〃and sift
The evidence about。〃
For quite a week he couldn't shift；
The way the fires broke out。
The jury thought the whole concern
As good as any play。
They used to 〃take him oath〃 and earn
Three sticks of plug a day。
At last the tribe lay down to sleep
Homeless； beneath a tree；
And onward with his travelling sheep
Went Saltbush Bill； J。P。
The sheep delivered； safe and sound；
His horse to town he turned；
And drew some five…and…twenty pound
For fees that he had earned。
And where Monaro's ranges hide
Their little farms away
His sister's children by his side
He spent his Christmas Day。
The next J。P。 that went out back
Was shocked； or pained； or both；
At hearing every pagan black
Repeat the juror's oath。
No matter though he turned and fled
They followed faster still；
〃You make it inkwich； boss；〃 they said；
〃All same like Saltbush Bill。〃
They even said they'd let him see
The fires originate。
When he refused they said that he
Was 〃No good magistrate。〃
And out beyond Sturt's Western track；
And Leichhardt's farthest tree；
They wait till fate shall send them back
Their Saltbush Bill； J。P。
The Riders in the Stand
There's some that ride the Robbo style； and bump at every stride；
While others sit a long way back； to get a longer ride。
There's some that ride like sailors do； with legs and arms； and teeth；
And some ride on the horse's neck； and some ride underneath。
But all the finest horsemen out the men to Beat the Band
You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand。
They'll say 〃He had the race in hand； and lost it in the straight。〃
They'll show how Godby came too soon； and Barden came too late。
They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve； and Regan lost his head；
They'll tell how one was 〃livened up〃 and something else was 〃dead〃
In fact； the race was never run on sea； or sky； or land；
But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand。
The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight；
You'll find the winner can't go wrong； the loser can't go right。
You ride a slashing race； and lose by one and all you're banned！
Ride like a bag of flour； and win they'll cheer you in the Stand。
Waltzing Matilda
（Carrying a Swag。）
Oh！ there once was a swagman camped in the Billabong；
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree；
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling；
〃Who'll come a…waltzing Matilda with me。〃
Who'll come a…waltzing Matilda； my darling；
Who'll come a…waltzing Matilda with me？
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water…bag
Who'll come a…waltzing Matilda with me？
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water…hole；
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee；
And he sang as he put him away in his tucker…bag；
〃You'll come a…waltzing Matilda with me！〃
Down came the Squatter a…riding his thorough…bred；
Down came Policemen one； two； and three。
〃Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker…bag？
You'll come a…waltzing Matilda with me。〃
But the swagman； he up and he jumped in the water…hole；
Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree；
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong；
〃Who'll come a…waltzing Matilda with me？〃
An Answer to Various Bards
Well； I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in；
Mister Lawson； Mister Dyson； and the others of their kin；
With their dreadful； dismal stories of the Overlander's camp；
How his fire is always smoky； and his boots are always damp；
And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom；
But you know they're fond of writing about 〃corpses〃 and 〃the tomb〃。
So； before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range；
And take something for their livers； and be cheerful for a change。
Now； for instance； Mr。 Lawson well； of course； we almost cried
At the sorrowful description how his 〃little 'Arvie〃 died；
And we lachrymosed in silence when 〃His Father's Mate〃 was slain；
Then he went and killed the father； and we had to weep again。
Ben Duggan and Jack Denver； too； he caused them to expire；
And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn； of Nevertire；
So； no doubt； the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan
Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own。
And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution's heat；
When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street；
But the shearer chaps who start it why； he rounds on them in blame；
And he calls 'em 〃agitators〃 who are living on the game。
But I 〃over…write〃 the bushmen！ Well； I own without a doubt
That I always see a hero in the 〃man from furthest out〃。
I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom；
And a bushman never struck me as a subject for 〃the tomb〃。
If it ain't all 〃golden sunshine〃 where the 〃wattle branches wave〃；
Well； it ain't all damp and dismal； and it ain't all 〃lonely grave〃。
And； of course； there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough；
But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff；
Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider…down；
Yet the man who's born a bushman； he gets mighty sick of town；
For he's jotting down the figures； and he's adding up the bills
While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills。
Then he hears a wool…team passing with a rumble and a lurch；
And； although the work is pressing； yet it brings him off his perch。
For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar
And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar；
And it takes him back in fancy； half in laughter； half in tears；
To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years；
When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day；
And the shear…blades were a…clicking to the cry of 〃Wool away！〃
Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set
And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret。
But the wool…team slowly passes； and his eyes go sadly back
To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack；
And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall；
And he thinks there's something healthy in the bush…life after all。
But we'll go no more a…droving in the wind or in the sun；
For our fathers' hearts have failed us and the droving days are done。
There's a nasty dash of danger where the long…horned bullock wheels；
And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg'lar meals。
For to hang around the townships suits us better； you'll agree；
And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we。
Let us herd into the cities； let us crush and crowd and push
Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush；
And we'll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer；
And we'll slip across to England it's a nicer place than here；
For there's not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store；
And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more。
But that ends it； Mr。 Lawson； and it's time to say good…bye；
We must agree to differ in all friendship； you and I；
So we'll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may；
And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day；
And go droving down the river 'neath the sunshine and the stars；
And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars。
T。Y。S。O。N。
Across the Queensland border line
The mobs of cattle go；
They travel down in sun and shine
On dusty stage； and slow。
The drovers； riding slowly on
To let the cattle spread；
Will say： 〃Here's one old landmark gone；
For old man Tyson's dead。〃
What tales there'll be in every camp
By men that Tyson knew；
The swagmen； meeting on the tramp；
Will yarn the long day through；
And tell of how he passed as 〃Brown〃；
And fooled the local men：
〃But not for me I struck the town；
And passed the message further down；
That's T。Y。S。O。N。！〃
There stands a little country town
Beyond the border line；
Where dusty roads go up and down；
And banks with pubs combine。
A stranger came to cash a cheque
Few were the words he said
A handkerchief about his neck；
An old hat on his head。
A long grey stranger； eagle…eyed
〃Know me？ Of course you do？〃
〃It's not my work；〃 the boss replied；
〃To know such tramps as you。〃
〃Well； look here； Mister； don't be flash；〃
Replied the stranger then；
〃I never care to make a splash；
I'm simple but I've got the cash；
I'm T。Y。S。O。N。〃
But in that last great drafting…yard；
Where Peter keeps the gate；
And souls of sinners find it barred；
And go to meet their fate；
There's one who ought to enter in；
For good deeds done on ear
