Читать книгу Southerly Busters - Gibson George Herbert - Страница 4

The shadows of the River Gums

Were stretching long and black,

As, far from Sydney's busy hum,

I trod the narrow track.

I watched the coming twilight spread,

And thought on many a plan;

I saw an object on ahead —

It seemed to be a man.

A venerable party sat

Upon a fallen log;

Upon him was a battered hat,

And near him was a dog.

The look that o'er his features hung

Was anything but sweet;

His swag and "billy"a lay among

The grass beneath his feet.

And white and withered was his hair,

And white and wan his face;

I'd rather not have ipet the pair

In such a lonely place.

I thought misfortune's heavy hand

Had done what it could do;

Despair seemed branded on the man,

And on the dingo too.

A hungry look that dingo wore —

He must have wanted prog —

I think I never saw before

So lean and lank a dog.

I said – "Old man, I fear that you

Are down upon your luck;

You very much resemble, too,

A pig that has been stuck."

His answer wasn't quite distinct —

(I'm sure it wasn't true):

He said I was (at least, I think,)

"A" – something – "jackeroo!"

He said he didn't want my chaff,

And (with an angry stamp)

Declared I made too free by half

"A-rushing of his camp."

I begged him to be calm, and not

Apologise to me;

He told me I might "go to pot"

(Wherever that may be);

And growled a muttered curse or two

Expressive of his views

Of men and things, and squatters too,

New chums and jackeroos.

But economical he was

With his melodious voice;

I think the reason was because

His epithets were choice.

I said – "Old man, I fain would know

The cause of thy distress;

What sorrows cloud thine aged brow

I cannot even guess.

"There's anguish on thy wrinkled face,

And passion in thine eye,

Expressing anything but grace,

But why, old man, oh! why?

"A sympathising friend you'll find

In me, old man, d'ye see?

So if you've aught upon your mind

Just pour it into me."

He gravely shook his grizzled head

I rather touched him there —

And something indistinct he said

(I think he meant to swear).

He made a gesture with his hand,

He saw I meant him well;

He said he was a shepherd, and

"A takin' of a spell."

He said he was an ill-used bird,

And squatters they might be —

(He used a very naughty word

Commencing with a D.)

I'd read of shepherds in the lore

Of Thessaly and Greece,

And had a china one at home

Upon the mantelpiece.

I'd read about their loves and hates,

As hot as Yankee stoves,

And how they broke each other's pates

In fair Arcadian groves;

But nothing in my ancient friend

Was like Arcadian types:

No fleecy flocks had he to tend,

No crook or shepherds' pipes.

No shepherdess was near at hand,

And, if there were, I guessed

She'd never suffer that old man

To take her to his breast!

No raven locks had he to fall,

And didn't seem to me

To be the sort of thing at all

A shepherd ought to be.

I thought of all the history.

I'd studied when a boy —

Of Paris and Ænone, and

The siege of ancient Troy.

I thought, could Helen contemplate

This party on the log,

She would the race of shepherds' hate

Like Brahmins hate a dog.

It seemed a very certain thing

That, since the world began,

No shepherd ever was like him,

From Paris down to Pan.

I said – "Old man, you've settled now

Another dream of youth;

I always understood, I vow,

Mythology was truth

"Until I saw thy bandy legs

And sorrow-laden brow,

But, sure as ever eggs is eggs,

I cannot think so now.

"For, an a shepherd thou should'st be,

Then very sure am I

The man who wrote mythology

Was guilty of a lie.

"But never mind, old man," I said,

"To sorrow we are born,

So tell us why thine aged head

Is bended and forlorn?"

With face as hard as Silas Wegg's

He said, "Young man, here goes."

He lit his pipe, and crossed his legs,

And told me all his woes.

He said he'd just been "lammin'-down"

A flock of maiden-ewes,

And then he'd had a trip to town

To gather up the news;

But while in Bathurst's busy streets

He got upon the spree,

And publicans was awful cheats

For soon "lamm'd down" was he.

He said he'd "busted up his cheque"

(What's that, I'd like to know?)

And now his happiness was wrecked,

To work he'd got to go.

He'd known the time, not long ago,

When half the year he'd spend

In idleness, and comfort too,

A-camping in a "bend."

No need to tread the weary track,

Or work his strength away;

He lay extended on his back

Each happy summer day.

When sun-set comes and day-light flags,

And dusky looms the scrub,

He'd bundle up his ration-bags

And toddle for his grub,

And to some station-store he'd go

And get the traveller's dower —

"A pint o' dust" – that was his low

Expression meaning flour;

But now he couldn't cadge about,

For squatters wasn't game

To give their tea and sugar out

To every tramp that came.

The country's strength, he thought, was gone,

Or going very fast,

And feeding tramps now ranked among

The glories of the past.

He'd seen the "Yanko" in its pride,

When every night a host

Of hungry tramps at supper tried

For who could eat the most.

A squatter then had feelin's strong

And tender in his breast,

And if a trav'ller came along

He'd ask him in to rest.

"But squatters now!" – he stamped the soil,

And muttered in his beard,

He wished they'd got a whopping boil

For every sheep they sheared!

His language got so very bad —

It couldn't well be worse,

For every second word he had

Now seemed to be a curse.

And shaking was his withered hand

With passion, not with age —

I never thought so old a man

Could get in such a rage.

His eyes seemed starting from his head,

They glared in such a way;

And half the wicked words he said

I shouldn't like to say;

But from his language I inferred

There wasn't one in three,

Of squatters worth that little word

Commencing with a "D."

Alas! for my poetic lore,

I fear it was astray,

It never said that shepherds swore,

Or talked in such a way.

The knotted cordage of his brow

Was tightened in a frown —

He seemed the sort of party, now,

To burn a wool-shed down.

He told me, further, and his voice

Grew very plaintive here,

That now he'd got to make the choice

And work, or give up beer!

From heavy toil he'd always found

'Twas healthiest to keep,

And mostly stuck to cadgin' round,

And lookin' after sheep.

But shepherdin' was nearly "cooked" —

I think he meant to say

That shepherds' prospects didn't look

In quite a hopeful way.

A new career he must begin,

(And fresh it roused his ire)

For squatters they was fencin' in

With that infernal wire;

And sheep was paddocked everywhere —

'Twas like them squatters' cheek! —

And shepherds now, for all they'd care,

Might go to Cooper's Creek.

He said he couldn't use an axe,

And wouldn't if he could;

He'd see 'em blistered on their backs

'Fore he'd go choppin' wood;

That nappin' stones, or shovellin',

Warn't good enough for he,

And work it was a cussed thing

As didn't ought to be.

He'd known the Lachlan, man and boy,

For close on forty year,

But now they'd pisoned every joy,

He thought it time to clear.

They gave him sorrow's bitter cup,

And filled his heart with woe,

And now at last his back was up,

He felt he ought to go.

He'd heard of regions far away

Across the barren plains,

Where shepherds might be blythe and gay

And bust the squatters' chains.

To reach that land he meant to try,

He didn't care a cuss,

If 'twasn't any better, why,

It couldn't be much wuss.

Amongst the blacks, though old and grey,

Existence he'd begin,

And give his ancient hand away

In marriage to a "gin."

He really was so old and grim,

The thought was in my mind,

That any gin to marry him

Would have to be stone blind.

'Twould make an undertaker smile:

What tickled me was this,

The thought of such an ancient file

Indulging in a kiss!

And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,

That equal justice whirls,

He ought to think of Nick instead

Of thinking of the girls.

Then drooped his grim and aged head,

And closed that glaring eye,

And not another word he said

.Except a grunt or sigh.

More lean he looks and still more lank

Such changes o'er him pass,

And down his ancient body sank

In slumber on the grass.

I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,

And not the sort of coon

To lead a blushing bride about,

Or spend a honeymoon;

Or if, indeed, there were a bride

For such a withered stick,

With such a tough and wrinkled hide,

That bride should be old Nick.

As streaks of faintish light began

To mark the coming day,

I left that grim and aged man

And slowly stole away.

And when the winter nights are rough,

And shrieking is the wind,

Or when I've eaten too much duff

And dreams afflict my mind,

I see that lean and withered hand,

And, 'mid the gloom of night,

I see the face of that old man,

And horrid is the sight:

While on my head in agony

Up rises every hair,

I see again his glaring eye —

In fancy hear him swear.

At breakfast time, when I come down

To take that pleasant meal,

With pallid face, and haggard frown,

Into my place I steal;

And when they say I'm far from bright,

The truth I dare not tell:

I say I've passed a sleepless night,

And don't feel very well.