Saltbush Bill J.P., and Other Verses | Page 5

ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay?To take the roan and strawberry calves -- the same we'd take to-day.
The duns and blacks and "Goulburn roans" (that's brindles), coarse and hard, He branded them with Laban's brand, in Old Man Laban's yard; So, when he'd done the station work for close on seven year, Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban's overseer.
It's often so with overseers -- I've seen the same thing done By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run.?But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate.
He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter's hand in troth; And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both;?You see, they weren't particular about a wife or so --?No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago.
But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again.?It's strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, There comes a day when every man would like to make for home.
So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band,?To battle down the homeward track along the Overland --?It's droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. I've travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats.
But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes)?When battling through the Philistines -- selectors, I suppose -- He thought he'd have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob.
He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way;?He couldn't hurry lambing ewes -- no more you could to-day -- And down the road, from run to run, his hand 'gainst every hand, He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland.
The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, There isn't any room at all for any kind of doubt.?It's just a plain straightforward tale -- a tale that lets you know The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago.
It's strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; You'd think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin' on ahead.
The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; The little kids that skipped about, the camels' dead-slow tramp -- I wish I'd done a week or two in Old Man Jacob's camp!
~But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I'll know How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago.~
The Reverend Mullineux
I'd reckon his weight at eight-stun-eight,?And his height at five-foot-two,?With a face as plain as an eight-day clock?And a walk as brisk as a bantam-cock --?Game as a bantam, too,?Hard and wiry and full of steam,?That's the boss of the English Team,?Reverend Mullineux.
Makes no row when the game gets rough --?None of your "Strike me blue!"?"You's wants smacking across the snout!"?Plays like a gentleman out-and-out --?Same as he ought to do.?"Kindly remove from off my face!"?That's the way that he states his case --?Reverend Mullineux.
Kick! He can kick like an army mule --?Run like a kangaroo!?Hard to get by as a lawyer-plant,?Tackles his man like a bull-dog ant --?Fetches him over too!?DIDN'T the public cheer and shout?Watchin' him chuckin' big blokes about --?Reverend Mullineux.
Scrimmage was packed on his prostrate form,?Somehow the ball got through --?Who was it tackled our big half-back,?Flinging him down like an empty sack,?Right on our goal-line too??Who but the man that we thought was dead,?Down with a score of 'em on his head,?Reverend Mullineux.
The Wisdom of 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,