"The goat--was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?"

In very short order they got plenty word of him, In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all."

A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "b.u.t.ter".

The billsticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, But his latest achievement most anger arouses, For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flower-bed, Discovered him, eating the Rabbi's geraniums.

Moral:

The moral is patent to all the beholders-- Don't shift your own sins on to other folk's shoulders; Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them; Take their lives if needs must--when it comes to the worst, But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst.

Remember, no matter how far you may roam, That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the d.i.c.kens Their talent stupendous for "getting back home".

Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it-- But, die in the wilderness? Don't you believe it!

An Evening in Dandaloo

It was while we held our races-- Hurdles, sprints and steeplechases-- Up in Dandaloo, That a crowd of Sydney stealers, Jockeys, pugilists and spielers Brought some horses, real heelers, Came and put us through.

Beat our nags and won our money, Made the game by no means funny, Made us rather blue; When the racing was concluded, Of our hard-earned coin denuded Dandaloonies sat and brooded There in Dandaloo.

Night came down on Johnson's shanty Where the grog was no means scanty, And a tumult grew Till some wild, excited person Galloped down the township cursing, "Sydney push have mobbed Macpherson, Roll up, Dandaloo!"

Great St. Denis! what commotion!

Like the rush of stormy ocean Fiery hors.e.m.e.n flew.

Dust and smoke and din and rattle, Down the street they spurred their cattle To the war-cry of the battle, "Wade in, Dandaloo!"

So the boys might have their fight out, Johnson blew the bar-room light out, Then, in haste, withdrew.

And in darkness and in doubting Raged the conflict and the shouting, "Give the Sydney push a clouting, Go it, Dandaloo!"

Jack Macpherson seized a bucket, Every head he saw he struck it-- Struck in earnest, too; And a man from Lower Wattle, Whom a shearer tried to throttle, Hit out freely with a bottle, There in Dandaloo.

Skin and hair were flying thickly, When a light was fetched, and quickly Brought a fact to view-- On the scene of the diversion Every single, solid person Come along to help Macpherson-- _All_ were Dandaloo!"

When the list of slain was tabled, Some were drunk and some disabled, Still we found it true.

In the darkness and the smother We'd been belting one another; Jack Macpherson bashed his brother There in Dandaloo.

So we drank, and all departed-- How the "mobbing" yarn was started No one ever knew-- And the stockmen tell the story Of that conflict fierce and gory, How we fought for love and glory Up in Dandaloo.

It's a proverb now, or near it-- At the races you can hear it, At the dog-fights, too!

Every shrieking, dancing drover As the canines topple over Yells applause to Grip or Rover, "Give him 'Dandaloo'!"

And the teamster slowly toiling Through the deep black country, soiling Wheels and axles, too, Lays the whip on Spot and Banker, Rouses Tarboy with a flanker-- "Redman! Ginger! Heave there! Yank her!

Wade in, Dandaloo!"

A Ballad of Ducks

The railway rattled and roared and swung With jolting carriage and b.u.mping trucks.

The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the corner told This terrible tale of the days of old, And the party that ought to have kept the ducks.

"Well, it ain't all joy bein' on the land With an overdraft that'd knock you flat; And the rabbits have pretty well took command; But the hardest thing for a man to stand Is the feller who says 'Well, I told you so!

You should ha' done this way, don't you know!'-- I could lay a bait for a man like that.

"The gra.s.shoppers struck us in ninety-one And what they leave--well, it ain't 'de luxe'.

But a growlin' fault-findin' son of a gun Who'd lent some money to stock our run-- I said they'd eaten what gra.s.s we had-- Says he, 'Your management's very bad, You had a right to have kept some ducks!'

"To have kept some ducks! And the place was white!

Wherever you went you had to tread On gra.s.shoppers guzzlin' day and night; And when with a swoosh they rose in flight, If you didn't look out for yourself they'd fly Like bullets into your open eye And knock it out of the back of your head.

"There isn't a turkey or goose or swan, Or a duck that quacks, or a hen that clucks, Can make a difference on a run When a gra.s.shopper plague has once begun; 'If you'd finance us,' I says, 'I'd buy Ten thousand emus and have a try; The job,' I says, 'is too big for ducks!

"'You must fetch a duck when you come to stay; A great big duck--a Muscovy toff-- Ready and fit,' I says, 'for the fray; And if the gra.s.shoppers come our way You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, And I'd be ready to make a match That the gra.s.shoppers eats his feathers off!'

"He came to visit us by and by, And it just so happened one day in Spring A kind of a cloud came over the sky-- A wall of gra.s.shoppers nine miles high, And nine miles thick, and nine hundred wide, Flyin' in regiments, side by side, And eatin' up every living thing.

"All day long, like a shower of rain, You'd hear 'em smackin' against the wall, Tap, tap, tap, on the window pane, And they'd rise and jump at the house again Till their crippled carcases piled outside.

But what did it matter if thousands died-- A million wouldn't be missed at all.

"We were drinkin' gra.s.shoppers--so to speak-- Till we skimmed their carcases off the spring; And they fell so thick in the station creek They choked the waterholes all the week.

There was scarcely room for a trout to rise, And they'd only take artificial flies-- They got so sick of the real thing.

"An Arctic snowstorm was beat to rags When the hoppers rose for their morning flight With a flapping noise like a million flags: And the kitchen chimney was stuffed with bags For they'd fall right into the fire, and fry Till the cook sat down and began to cry-- And never a duck or a fowl in sight!

"We strolled across to the railroad track-- Under a cover, beneath some trucks, I sees a feather and hears a quack; I stoops and I pulls the tarpaulin back-- Every duck in the place was there, No good to them was the open air.

'Mister,' I says, 'There's your blanky ducks!'"

Tommy Corrigan

(Killed, Steeplechasing at Flemington.)

You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace, Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase.

It's right enough while horses pull and take their fences strong, To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along; But what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat-- When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet?

When any slip means sudden death--with wife and child to keep-- It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap-- But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed, He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid; With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face, He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race.

He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash, He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash; He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all-- But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall.