In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 7

by flashing lamps,
Old `Cobb
and Co.'s', in royal state,
Went dashing past the camps.
Oh, who would paint a goldfield,
And limn the picture right,
As we
have often seen it
In early morning's light;
The yellow mounds of
mullock
With spots of red and white,
The scattered quartz that
glistened
Like diamonds in light;
The azure line of ridges,
The
bush of darkest green,
The little homes of calico
That dotted all the
scene.
I hear the fall of timber
From distant flats and fells,
The pealing of
the anvils
As clear as little bells,
The rattle of the cradle,
The
clack of windlass-boles,
The flutter of the crimson flags
Above the
golden holes.
. . . . .
Ah, then our hearts were bolder,
And if Dame Fortune frowned
Our
swags we'd lightly shoulder
And tramp to other ground.
But golden
days are vanished,

And altered is the scene;
The diggings are
deserted,
The camping-grounds are green;
The flaunting flag of
progress
Is in the West unfurled,
The mighty bush with iron rails

Is tethered to the world.
`For'ard'

It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, For there's
near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, -- They are
trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path; But their linen's
rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath -- Stowed away like ewes and
wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft. But the shearers of the
shearers always seem to travel aft;
In the cushioned cabins, aft,
With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft --

There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft.
Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide,
And the spuds
were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside; But from
somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft, An' I'd give
my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft --
Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft,
Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft,
Juicy
grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft.
They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss, Just as if
they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us! Just because our hands
are horny an' our hearts are rough with graft -- But the gentlemen and
ladies always DINE together, aft --
With their ferns an' mirrors, aft,
With their flow'rs an' napkins, aft --

`I'll assist you to an orange' -- `Kindly pass the sugar', aft.
We are shabby, rough, 'n' dirty, an' our feelin's out of tune, An' it's hard
on fellers for'ard that was used to go saloon; There's a broken swell
among us -- he is barracked, he is chaffed, An' I wish at times, poor
devil, for his own sake he was aft;
For they'd understand him, aft,
(He will miss the bath-rooms aft),

Spite of all there's no denyin' that there's finer feelin's aft.
Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the sea -- `It is
hard to make a livin',' said the broken swell to me. `There is ups an'
downs,' I answered, an' a bitter laugh he laughed -- There were brighter

days an' better when he always travelled aft --
With his rug an' gladstone, aft,
With his cap an' spyglass, aft --
A
careless, rovin', gay young spark as always travelled aft.
There's a notice by the gangway, an' it seems to come amiss, For it says
that second-classers `ain't allowed abaft o' this'; An' there ought to be a
notice for the fellows from abaft -- But the smell an' dirt's a warnin' to
the first-salooners, aft;
With their tooth and nail-brush, aft,
With their cuffs 'n' collars, aft --

Their cigars an' books an' papers, an' their cap-peaks fore-'n'-aft.
I want to breathe the mornin' breeze that blows against the boat, For
there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat -- We are
for'ard when there's trouble! We are for'ard when there's graft! But the
men who never battle always seem to travel aft;
With their dressin'-cases, aft,
With their swell pyjamas, aft --
Yes!
the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft.
I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck,
That I'm ripe
for jumpin' over -- an' I wish there was a wreck! We are driven to New
Zealand to be shot out over there --
Scarce a shillin' in our pockets,
nor a decent rag to wear, With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get
into graft --
There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;
No anxiety abaft,
They have stuff to land with, aft --
Oh, there's
little left to land for if you cannot travel aft;
But it's grand at sea this mornin', an' Creation almost speaks, Sailin'
past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an' peaks, With the sunny
haze all round us an' the white-caps on the blue, An' the orphan rocks
an' breakers -- Oh, it's glorious sailin' through! To the south