Jims Whip

Yes, there it hangs upon the wall
And never gives a sound,
The hand that trimmed its greenhide fall
Is hidden underground,
There, in that patch of sally shade,
Beneath that grassy mound.

I never take it from the wall,
That whip belonged to him,
The man I singled from them all,
He was my husband, Jim;
I see him now, so straight and tall,
So long and lithe of limb.

That whip was with him night and day
When he was on the track;
Ive often heard him laugh. and say
That when they heard its crack,
After the breaking of the drought,
The cattle all came back.

And all the time that Jim was here
A-working on the run
Id hear that whip ring sharp and clear
Just about set of sun
To let me know that he was near
And that his work was done.

I was away that afternoon,
Penning the calves, when, bang!
I heard his whip, Twas rather soon,
A thousand echoes rang
And died away among the hills,
As toward the hut I sprang.

I made the tea and waited, but,
Seized by a sudden whim,
I went and sat outside the hut
Watching the light grow dim,
I waited there till after dark,
But not a sign of Jim.

The evening air was damp with dew;
Just as the clock struck ten
His horse came riderless, I knew
What was the matter then.
Why should the Lord have singled out
My Jim from other men?

I took the horse and found him where
He lay beneath the sky
With blood all clotted on his hair;
I felt too dazed to cry,
I held him to me as I prayed
To God that I might die.

But sometimes now I seem to hear,
Just when the air grows chill,
A single whip-crack, sharp and clear,
Re-echo from the hill.
Thats Jim, to let me know hes near
And thinking of me still.

Barcroft Boake

Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake was an Australian poet, born in Sydney, New South Wales. He worked as a surveyor and drover in the Australian outback, which influenced his poetry. Boake was known for his bush ballads that depicted the harsh and rugged life in the Australian wilderness. Tragically, his life ended prematurely when he took his own life at the age of 26. Despite his short career, Boake left a lasting impact on Australian literature.

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English

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Jacks Last Muster

Diamantina River, Western Queensland


The first flush of grey light, the herald of daylight,
Is dimly outlining the musterers camp,
Where over the sleeping, the stealthily creeping
Breath of the morning lies chilly and damp,

As, blankets forsaking, twixt sleeping and waking,
The black-boys turn out to the managers call;
Whose order, of course, is, Be after the horses,
And take all sorts of care you unhobble them all.

Then, each with a bridle (provokingly idle)
They saunter away his commands to fulfil,
Where, cheerily chiming, the musical rhyming
From equine bell-ringers comes over the hill.

But now the dull dawning gives place to the morning,
The sun, springing up in a glorious flood
Of golden-shot fire, mounts higher and hi...

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The Old Man And Jim

Old man never had much to say -
    'Ceptin' to Jim, -
And Jim was the wildest boy he had -
    And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life, - and first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The old man backin' him, fer three months;
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, -
    "Well, good-by, Jim:
    Take keer o' yourse'f!"

'Peared-like, he was more satisfied
    Jes' lookin' at Jim
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? -
    'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!
And over and over I mind the day
The old man come and stood round in the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim -
And down at the deepo a-heerin' him say,
    "Well, ...

James Whitcomb Riley

Jim

Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim?
Bless you, there was the likely lad;
Supple and straight and long of limb,
Clean as a whistle, and just as glad.
Always laughing, wasn't he, dad?
Joy, pure joy to the heart of him,
And, oh, but the soothering ways he had,
                                Jim, our Jim!

But I see him best as a tiny tot,
A bonny babe, though it's me that speaks;
Laughing there in his little cot,
With his sunny hair and his apple cheeks.
And my! but the blue, blue eyes he'd got,
And just where his wee mouth dimpled dim
Such a fairy mark like a beauty spot -
                                That was Jim.

Oh, the war, the war! How my eyes were wet!
But he says: "Don't be sorrowing, mother dear;
You never knew me to fail you y...

Robert William Service

Twixt The Wings Of The Yard

Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it,
Thousands of voices all blent into one:
See hell for leather now trooping together, now
Down the long slope of the range at a run,
Dust in the wake of em: see the wild break of em,
Spear-horned and curly, red, spotted and starred:
See the lads bringing em, blocking em, ringing em.
Fetching em up to the wings of the yard.

Mark that red leader now: what a fine bleeder now,
Twelve hundred at least if he weighs half a pound,
None go ahead of him. Mark the proud tread of him,
See how he bellows and paws at the ground.
Watch the mad rush of em, raging and crush of em.
See when they struck how the corner post jarred.
What a mad chasing and wheeling and racing and
Turbulent talk twixt the wings of the yard...

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My Mate

I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,
And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.
(Look out there, lad! That sniper - 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;
'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.)
Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,
To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;
And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,
Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot - but it's blood.

And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.
'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;
And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,
And even there we 'ad no disagree.
For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,
I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid;
I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elpe...

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Tambaroora Jim

He never drew a sword to fight a dozen foes alone,
Nor gave a life to save a life no better than his own.
He lived because he had been born, the hero of my song,
And fought the battle with his fist wheneer he fought a wrong.
Yet there are many men who would do anything for him,
A simple chap as went by name of Tambaroora Jim.

He used to keep a shanty in the Come-and-find-it Scrub,
And there were few but knew the name of Tambarooras pub.
He wasnt great in lambing down, as many landlords are,
And never was a man less fit to stand behind a bar,
Off-hand, as most bush natives are, and freckled, tall, and slim,
A careless native of the land was Tambaroora Jim.

When people said that loafers took the profit from his pub,
Hed ask them how they thought a chap co...

Henry Lawson

Jims Whip

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Jims Whip