Saltbush Bill J.P., and Other Verses | Page 6

Hafiz
My son, if you go to the races to battle with Ikey and Mo, Remember,
it's seldom the pigeon can pick out the eye of the crow; Remember,
they live by the business; remember, my son, and go slow.
If ever an owner should tell you, "Back mine" -- don't you be such a
flat. He knows his own cunning, no doubt -- does he know what the
others are at? Find out what he's frightened of most, and invest a few
dollars on that.
Walk not in the track of the trainer, nor hang round the rails at his stall.
His wisdom belongs to his patron -- shall he give it to one and to all?
When the stable is served he may tell you -- and his words are like
jewels let fall.
Run wide of the tipster who whispers that Borak is sure to be first, He
tells the next mug that he corners a tale with the placings reversed; And,
remember, of judges of racing, the jockey's the absolute worst.
When they lay three to one on the field, and the runners are

twenty-and-two, Take a pull on yourself; take a pull -- it's a mighty big
field to get through.
Is the club handicapper a fool? If a fool is about,
p'raps it's you!
Beware of the critic who tells you the handicap's absolute rot, For this
is chucked in, and that's hopeless, and somebody ought to be shot. How
is it he can't make a fortune himself when he knows such a lot?
From tipsters, and jockeys, and trials, and gallops, the glory has gone,
For this is the wisdom of Hafiz that sages have pondered upon, "The
very best tip in the world is to see the commission go on!"
Saltbush Bill, J.P.
Beyond the land where Leichhardt went,
Beyond Sturt's Western
track,
The rolling tide of change has sent
Some strange J.P.s out
back.
And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey,
And worn with want of sleep,

Received the news in camp one day
Behind the travelling sheep
That Edward Rex, confiding in
His known integrity,
By hand and
seal on parchment skin
Had made him a J.P.
He read the news with eager face
But found no word of pay.
"I'd
like to see my sister's place
And kids on Christmas day.
"I'd like to see green grass again,
And watch clear water run,
Away
from this unholy plain,
And flies, and dust, and sun."
At last one little clause he found
That might some hope inspire,
"A
magistrate may charge a pound
For inquest on a fire."
A big blacks' camp was built close by,
And Saltbush Bill, says he,

"I think that camp might well supply
A job for a J.P."

That night, by strange coincidence,
A most disastrous fire

Destroyed the country residence
Of Jacky Jack, Esquire.
'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt;
The party most concerned

Appeared to think it wouldn't hurt
If forty such were burned.
Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill,
Who watched the leaping
flame.
"The home is small," said he, "but still
The principle's the
same.
"Midst palaces though you should roam,
Or follow pleasure's tracks,

You'll find," he said, "no place like home,
At least like Jacky
Jack's.
"Tell every man in camp `Come quick,'
Tell every black Maria
I
give tobacco half a stick --
Hold inquest long-a fire."
Each juryman received a name
Well suited to a Court.
"Long Jack"
and "Stumpy Bill" became
"John Long" and "William Short".
While such as "Tarpot", "Bullock Dray",
And "Tommy
Wait-a-While",
Became, for ever and a day,
"Scott", "Dickens", and
"Carlyle".
And twelve good sable men and true
Were soon engaged upon
The
conflagration that o'erthrew
The home of John A. John.
Their verdict, "Burnt by act of Fate",
They scarcely had returned

When, just behind the magistrate,
Another humpy burned!
The jury sat again and drew
Another stick of plug.
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