The darkey played the darkey's game -
We tipped him with a shilling!
Page: 106
We tipped him with a shining bob -
No Tommy Dodd, believe us.
We didn't ``tumble'' to his job -
Ah, why did Pete
deceive us!
I, being, as I've said, a bard,
Resolved at once to foster
This mite whose length was just a yard -
This
portable impostor!
``This babe'' - I spoke in Wordsworth's tone -
(See Wordsworth's ``Lucy'', neighbour)
``I'll make a
darling of my own;
And he'll repay my labour.
``He'll grow as gentle as a fawn -
As quiet as the blossoms
That
beautify a land of lawn -
He'll eat no more opossums.
Page: 107
``The child I to myself will take
In a
paternal manner;
And ah! he will not
swallow snake
In future, or `goanna'.
``Will you
reside with me, my dear?''
I asked in accents
mellow -
The nigger grinned from ear to ear,
And said, ``All right, old fellow!''
And so my Pete was taken home -
My pretty piccaninny!
And, not to speak of soap or comb,
His cleansing cost a guinea.
``But hang expenses!'' I exclaimed,
``I'll give him education:
A `nig' is better when he's tamed,
Perhaps, than a Caucasian.
Page: 108
``Ethnologists are in the wrong
About our sable brothers;
And I intend to stop the song
Of Pickering and others.''
Alas, I didn't do it though!
Old Pickering's conclusions
Were to the point, as issues show,
And mine were mere delusions.
My inky pet was clothed and fed
For months
exceeding forty;
But to the end, it must be said,
His ways were very naughty.
When told about the Land of Morn
Above this world of Mammon,
He'd shout, with an
emphatic scorn,
``Ah, gammon, gammon, gammon!''
Page: 109
He never lingered, like the bard,
To sniff at rose expanding.
``Me like,'' he said, ``em cattle-yard -
Fine smell - de smell of branding!''
The soul of man, I tried to show,
Went up beyond our vision.
``You ebber see dat fellow go?''
He asked in sheer derision.
In short, it soon occurred to me
This kid of six or seven,
Who wouldn't learn his A B C,
Was hardly ripe for heaven.
He never lost his
appetite -
He bigger grew, and bigger;
And proved, with every inch of height,
A nigger is a nigger.
Page: 110
And, looking from this moment back,
I have a strong persuasion
That, after all, a finished black
Is not the ``clean'' - Caucasian.
Dear Peter from my
threshold went,
One morning in the body:
He ``dropped'' me, to
oblige a gent -
A gent with spear and waddy!
He shelved me for a boomerang -
We never had a quarrel;
And, if a moral here doth hang,
Why let it hang - the moral!
My
mournful tale its course has run -
My Pete, when last I spied him,
Was eating 'possum underdone:
He had his gin beside him.
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NARRARA CREEK
(Written in the Shadow of 1872)
FROM the rainy hill-heads, where, in starts and in spasms,
Leaps wild the white
torrent from chasms to chasms -
From the home of bold echoes, whose voices of wonder
Fly out of blind caverns struck black by high
thunder -
Through gorges
august, in whose
nether recesses
Is heard the far psalm of
unseen wildernesses -
Like a
dominant spirit, a strong-handed sharer
Of spoil with the
tempest, comes down the Narrara.
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Yea, where the great sword of the
hurricane cleaveth
The forested fells that the dark never leaveth -
By fierce-featured crags, in whose evil abysses
The clammy snake coils, and the flat adder hisses -
Past
lordly rock temples, where Silence is riven
By the anthems
supreme of the four winds of heaven -
It speeds, with the cry of the
streams of the fountains
It chained to its sides, and dragged down from the mountains!
But when it goes forth from the slopes with a sally -
Being strengthened with
tribute from many a
valley -
It broadens and brightens, and
thereupon marches
Above the
stream sapphires and under green arches,
With the
rhythm of
majesty -
careless of cumber -
Its might in
repose and its
fierceness in
slumber -
Till it beams on the plains, where the wind is a bearer
Of words from the sea to the
stately Narrara!
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Narrara! grand son of the
haughty hill
torrent,
Too late in my day have I looked at thy current -
Too late in my life to
discern and inherit
The soul of thy beauty, the joy of thy spirit!
With the years of the youth and the hairs of the hoary,
I sit like a shadow outside of thy glory;
Nor look with the morning-like feelings, O river,
That illumined the boy in the days gone for ever!
Ah! sad are the sounds of old ballads which borrow
One-half of their grief from the listener's sorrow;
And sad are the eyes of the
pilgrim who traces
The ruins of Time in revisited places;
But sadder than all is the sense of his losses
That cometh to one when a sudden age crosses
And cripples his
manhood. So,
stricken by fate, I
Felt older at thirty than some do at eighty.
Page: 114
Because I believe in the beautiful story,
The poem of Greece in the days of her glory -
That the high-seated Lord of the woods and the waters
Has peopled His world with His deified daughters -
That flowerful forests and waterways
streaming
Are
gracious with goddesses glowing and gleaming -
I pray that thy singing
divinity, fairer
Than wonderful women, may listen, Narrara!
O spirit of sea-going currents! - thou, being
The child of immortals, all-knowing, all-seeing -
Thou hast at thy heart the dark truth that I borrow
For the song that I sing thee, no fanciful sorrow;
In the sight of thine eyes is the history written
Of Love
smitten down as the strong leaf is
smitten;
And before thee there goeth a
phantom beseeching
For faculties forfeited - hopes beyond reaching.
Page: 115
*
*
*
*
*
Thou knowest, O sister of deities blazing
With splendour ineffable, beauty amazing,
What life the gods gave me - what largess I tasted -
The youth thrown away, and the faculties wasted.
I might, as thou seest, have stood in high places,
Instead of in pits where the brand of
disgrace is,
A byword for scoffers - a butt and a caution,
With the grave of poor Burns and Maginn for my portion.
But the heart of the Father Supreme is offended,
And my life in the light of His favour is ended;
And, whipped by inflexible devils, I shiver,
With a hollow ``Too late'' in my
hearing for ever;
But thou - being sinless, exalted, supernal,
The daughter of diademed gods, the
eternal -
Shalt shine in thy waters when time and existence
Have dwindled, like stars, in
unspeakable distance.
Page: 116
But the face of thy river - the
torrented power
That smites at the rock while it fosters the flower -
Shall gleam in my dreams with the summer-look splendid,
And the beauty of woodlands and waterfalls blended;
And often I'll think of far-forested noises,
And the
emphasis deep of grand sea-going voices,
And turn to Narrara the eyes of a lover,
When the
sorrowful days of my singing are over.
Page: 117
IN MEMORY OF JOHN FAIRFAX
WRITTEN AFTER READING A TOUCHING POEM BY MRS BROWNING
BECAUSE this man fulfilled his days,
Like one who walks with
steadfast gaze
Averted from
forbidden ways
With lures of fair, false flowerage deep,
Behold the Lord whose
throne is dim
With fires of
flaming seraphim -
The Christ that suffered sent for him:
``He giveth His
beloved sleep.''
Page: 118
Think not that souls whose deeds
augustPut sin to shame and make men just
Become at last the
helpless dust
That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep!
The higher life within us cries,
Like some fine spirit from the skies,
``The Father's
blessing on us lies -
`He giveth His
beloved sleep.'''
Not human sleep - the fitful rest