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.

March 26, 1866

May 2, 1892

English

Barcroft Boake

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Jack Corrigan

Its my shout this time, boys, so come along and breast the bar,
And kindly mention what youre going to take;
I dont feel extra thirsty, so Ill sample that three-star,
Now, lad! come, look alive, for goodness sake.
So spake he, as he raised the brimming glass towards the light;
So spake Long Jack, the boldest mountaineer
Who ever down from Nungar raced a brumby mob in flight,
Or laid a stockwhip on a stubborn steer.
From Jindabyne to Providence along the Eucumbene
The kindest-hearted fellow to be found;
And when he crossed the saddle not a horse was ever seen
That could make Jack quit his hold to seek the ground.
The women smiled with pleasure, the children laughed aloud,
The very dogs came barking at his feet,
While outside the Squatters Arms the men came...

Barcroft Boake

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...

Barcroft Boake

Jimmy Wood

There came a lonely Briton to the town,
A solitary Briton with a mission,
Hed vowed a vow to put all shouting down,
To relegate it to a low position.

Transcendently Britannic in his dress,
His manners were polite, and slightly formal;
And, this I mention with extreme distress,
His put away for liquid was abnormal.

He viewed this shouting mania with disgust,
As being generosity perverted,
When any of the boys went on the bust
He strove his best that they might be converted.

He wouldnt take a liquor with a man,
Not if he was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
And yet, he drank, construe it as you can,
Unsweetened gin, most moderately watered.

And when the atmosphere was in a whirl,
And language metaphorical ran riot,
...

Barcroft Boake

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 ...

Barcroft Boake

Josephus Riley

The rum was rich and rare,
There were wagers in the air,
The atmosphere was rosy, and the tongues were wagging free;
But one was in the revel
Whose occiput was level
Plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

The conversations flow
Was not devoid of blow,
And neither was it wanting in the plain, colloquial D.
With a most ingenuous smile
This here is not my style,
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

And I wouldnt be averse
To emptying my purse,
And laying some small wager with the present companee,
To cut the matter short
Foot racing is my forte,
Said plain Josephus Riley, from the North Countree.

I think its on the cards
That I can run three hundred yards
(The match to be decided where you g...

Barcroft Boake

Kelly's Conversion

Kelly the Ranger half opened an eye
To wink at the Army passing by,
While his hot breath, thick with the taint of beer,
Came forth from his lips in a drunken jeer.
Brown and bearded and long of limb
He lay, as the Army confronted him
And, clad in grey, one and all did pray
That his deadly sins might be washed away
But Kelly stubbornly answered Nay.'
Then the captain left him in mild despair,
But before the music took up its blare
A pale-faced lassie stepped out and spoke
A little sad girl in a sad grey cloak
Rise up, Kelly! your work's to do:
Kelly, the Saviour's a-calling you!'
He strove to look wise; rubbed at his eyes;
Looked down at the ground, looked up at the skies;
And something that p'r'aps was his conscience stirred:
He seemed perplexed as...

Barcroft Boake

Kitty McCrae - A Galloping Rhyme

The western sun, ere he sought his lair,
Skimmd the treetops, and glancing thence,
Rested awhile on the curling hair
Of Kitty McCrae, by the boundary fence;
Her eyes looked anxious, her cheeks were pale,
For father was two hours late with the mail.

Never before had he been so late,
And Kitty wondered and wished him back,
Leaning athwart the big swing gate
That opens out on the bridle-track,
A tortuous path that sidled down
From the single street of a mining town.

With her raven curls and her saucy smile,
Brown eyes that glow with a changeful light,
Tenderly trembling all the while
Like a brace of stars on the breast of night,
Where could you find in the light of day
A bonnier lassie than Kitty McCrae?

Born in the saddle, this girl ...

Barcroft Boake

On The Boundary

I love the ancient boundary-fence,
That mouldering chock-and-log.
When I go ride the boundary
I let the old horse jog
And take his pleasure in and out
Where the sandalwood grows dense,
And tender pines clasp hands across
The log that tops the fence.

Tis pleasant on the boundary-fence,
These sultry summer days;
A mile away, outside the scrub,
The plain is all ablaze,
The sheep are panting on the camps,
The heat is so intense;
But here the shade is cool and sweet
Along the boundary-fence.

I love to loaf along the fence,
So does my collie dog,
He often finds a spotted cat
Hid in a hollow log;
Hes very near as old as I
And ought to have more sense,
Ive hammered him so many times
Along the boundary-fence.

Barcroft Boake

On The Range

On Nungar the mists of the morning hung low,
The beetle-browed hills brooded silent and black,
Not yet warmed to life by the suns loving glow,
As through the tall tussocks rode young Charlie Mac.
What cared he for mists at the dawning of day,
What cared he that over the valley stern Jack,
The Monarch of frost, held his pitiless sway?
A bold mountaineer born and bred was young Mac.
A galloping son of a galloping sire
Stiffest fence, roughest ground, never took him aback;
With his fathers cool judgement, his dash, and his fire,
The pick of Manaro rode young Charlie Mac.
And the pick of the stable the mare he bestrode
Arab-grey, built to stay, lithe of limb, deep of chest,
She seemed to be happy to bear such a load
As she tossed the soft forelock that curled on he...

Barcroft Boake

Our Visitor

Theres a fellow on the station
(He dropped in on a call,
Just casual to stay a pleasant week),
Hes a bankers near relation,
Strongly built, and very tall,
Not altogether destitute of cheek;
Hes a descent judge of whisky,
And the hardest working youth
Who ever played a polo on a cob;
His anecdotes are risky,
And to tell the honest truth,
Hes waiting here until he gets a job.

Hes waiting, as I mention,
And wheneer he says his prayers,
Which he doesnt do as frequently as some,
And I fear that his intention
Isnt quite so good as theirs
For he prays to God the work may never come.
He marches with the banner
Of the noble unemployed,
He mixes with the fashionable mob,
But while hes got a tanner
He scorns to be decoyed

Barcroft Boake

Skeeta - An Old Servants Tale

Our Skeeta was married, our Skeeta! the tomboy and pet of the place,
No more as a maiden wed greet her, no more would her pert little face
Light up the chill gloom of the parlour; no more would her deft little hands
Serve drinks to the travel-stained caller on his way to more southerly lands;
No more would she chaff the rough drovers and send them away with a smile,
No more would she madden her lovers, demurely, with womanish guile
The prince from the great Never-Never, with light touch of lips and of hand
Had come, and enslaved her for ever a potentate bearded and tanned
From the land where the white mirage dances its dance of death over the plains,
With the glow of the sun in his glances, the lust of the West in his veins;

His talk of long drought-stricken stretches when the ton...

Barcroft Boake

The Babes In The Bush

Dozens of damp little curls;
One little short upper lip;
Two rows of teeth like diminutive pearls;
Eyes clear and grey as the creek where it swirls
Over the ledges that's Tip!
With a skip!
A perfectly hopeless young nip!

Smudge on the tip of his nose;
Mischievous glance of a Puck;
Heart just as big as the rents in his clothes;
Lungs like a locust and cheeks like a rose;
Total it! there you have Tuck!
And bad luck
To the man who would question his pluck!

School is all over at last,
School with its pothooks and strokes:
Homeward they toddle, but who could go fast?
So many wonderful things to be passed
Froggie, for instance, who croaks
'Neath the oaks
By the creek where the watercress soaks.

Sandpipers dance on the bars;...

Barcroft Boake

The Box-Tree's Love

Long time beside the squatter's gate
A great grey Box-Tree, early, late,
Or shine or rain, in silence there
Had stood and watched the seasons fare:
Had seen the wind upon the plain
Caress the amber ears of grain;
The river burst its banks and come
Far past its belt of mighty gum:
Had seen the scarlet months of drought
Scourging the land with fiery knout;
And seasons ill and seasons good
Had alternated as they would.
The years were born, had grown and gone,
While suns had set and suns had shone;
Fierce flames had swept; chill waters drenched;
That sturdy yeoman never blenched.

The Tree had watched the station grow,
The buildings rising row on row;
And from that point of vantage green,
Peering athwart its leafy screen,
The wondering sol...

Barcroft Boake

The Demon Snow-Shoes

(A Legend of Kiandra)


The snow lies deep on hill and dale,
In rocky gulch and grassy vale,
The tiny, trickling, tumbling falls
Are frozen twixt their rocky walls
That grey and brown look silent down
Upon Kiandras shrouded town.

The Eucumbene itself lies dead,
Fast frozen in its narrow bed,
And distant sounds ring out quite near,
The crystal air is froze so clear,
While to and fro the people go
In silent swiftness oer the snow.

And, like a mighty gallows-frame,
The derrick in the New Chum claim
Hangs over where, despite the cold,
Strong miners seek the hidden gold,
And stiff and blue, half-frozen through,
The fickle dame of Fortune woo.

Far out, along a snow capped range,
There rose a sound which echoe...

Barcroft Boake

The Diggers Song

Scrape the bottom of the hole: gather up the stuff,
Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind,
Just another shovelful and thatll be enough,
Now well take it to the bank and see what we can find,
Give the dish a twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Gently let it circulate, theres music in the swish,
And the tinkle of the gravel,
As the pebbles quickly travel
Around in merry circles on the bottom of the dish.

Ah, if man could only wash his life, if he only could,
Panning off the evil deeds, keeping but the good,
What a mighty lot of diggers dishes would be sold,
Though I fear the heap of tailings would be greater than the gold,
Give the dish a twirl around,
Let the water swirl around,
Mans the sport of circumstance however he may wis...

Barcroft Boake

To A Hatpeg

Theres a nice little hatpeg that hangs on the wall
That long from its owner has parted,
And though he is wandering far beyond call
Like him it is always true hearted.

Many seasons have passed since his limp Cabbage Tree
Has dangled upon the old rack
But that one single peg, always vacant must be,
For its owner will surely come back.

And though in far countries, he sadly doth roam
While hunger had forced him to beg
Till fortune grows kindly, and sends him back home,
Theres an Angel who watches that peg.

One afternoon, after a long weary tramp,
And hard grafting, to which hes no stranger,
He found, that a letter, had come to the camp,
To warn him, his peg was in danger;

The words that he used, are best shown by a dash
As he swore ...

Barcroft Boake

Where the Dead Men Lie

Out on the wastes of the Never Never
Thats where the dead men lie!
There where the heat-waves dance forever
Thats where the dead men lie!
Thats where the Earths loved sons are keeping
Endless tryst: not the west wind sweeping
Feverish pinions can wake their sleeping
Out where the dead men lie!

Where brown Summer and Death have mated
Thats where the dead men lie!
Loving with fiery lust unsated
Thats where the dead men lie!
Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely
Under the saltbush sparkling brightly;
Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly
Thats where the dead men lie!

Deep in the yellow, flowing river
Thats where the dead men lie!
Under the banks where the shadows quiver
Thats where the dead men he!
Where the platyp...

Barcroft Boake

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...

Barcroft Boake

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