Читать книгу Southerly Busters - Gibson George Herbert - Страница 5

Oh! Mother, say, for I long to know,

Where doth the tree of Freedom grow,

And strike its roots in the heart of man

As deep and far as the famed banyan?

Is it 'mid those groups in the Southern Seas,

In the Coral Isles, or the far Fijis,

Where the restless billows seeth and toss

'Neath the gleaming light of the Southern Cross?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Then tell me, mother, can it be where

The cry of "Liberty" rends the air?

Where grow the maize and the maple tree,

In the fertile "bottoms" of Tennessee?

Or is it up where the north winds roar,

Away by the fair Canadian shore,

Where the Indians shriek with insane halloos —

As drunk as owls in their bark canoes?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Or is it back in the Western States,

Where Colt's revolver rules the fates,

And Judges lounge in a liquor shop

While Dean and Adams's pistols pop?

Where Justice is but a shrivelled ghost

As deaf and blind as a stockyard post,

And License sits upon Freedom's chair —

Oh, say, dear mother, can it be there?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Is it on the banks of the wild Paroo,

Where the emu stalks, and the kangaroo

Bounds o'er the sand-hills free and light,

And the dingo howls through the sultry night;

Where the native gathers the nardoo-seed

For his frugal meal; and the centipede —

While the worn-out traveller lies inert,

Invades the folds of his flannel shirt?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Is it where yon death-like stillness reigns

O'er the vast expanse of the salt-bush plains,

Where the shepherd leaveth his Leicester ewes

For the firm embrace of his noon-tide snooze,

And the most enchanting visions come

To his thirsty spirit of Queensland rum,

While the sun rays strike through his garments scant —

Is it there, dear mother, this wond'rous plant?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Or Southward, down where our brethren hold

Those keys of power, rich mines of gold —

That land of rumour and vague reports,

Alluvial diggings, and reefs of quartz —

Where brokers give you the straightest "tip,"

And let in in the way of "scrip;"

Where all men vapour, and vaunt, and boast,

And manhood suffrage rules the roast?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Is it where the blasts of the simoom fan,

The blazing valleys of Hindustan;

Where the Dervish howls, and their dupes are fleeced

By the swarth Parsee, and the Brahmin priest;

Where men believe in their toddy-bowls,

And the transmigration of human souls,

And the monkeys battle with countless fleas

On the twisted boughs of the tamarind trees?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Or is it more to the northward, more

Toward the ice-bound rivers of Labrador,

Where the glittering curtain of gleaming snow

Enshrouds the home of the Esquimaux;

Or further still to the north, away

Where the bones of the Artic heroes lay

Long, long on the icy surface bare,

To bleach and dry in the frosty air?

"Not there – not there, my child."

Then is it, mother, among the trees

That shade the paths in the Tuilleries,

Where the students walk with the pale grisettes,

And scent the air with their cigarettes?

Or doth it bloom in that atmosphere

Of mild tobacco and lager beer,

Where gutteral curses mingle too

With the croupiers patter of "faites votre jeu?"

"Not there – not there, my child."

"Boy, 'tis a plant that loves to blow

Where the fading rays of the sunset go;

Up where the sun-light never sets,

And angels tootle their flageolets;

Up through the fleecy clouds, and far

Beyond the track of the farthest star,

Where the silvery echoes catch no tone

Of a simmering sinner's stifling groan:

'Tis there – 'tis there, my child!"

Countless sheep and countless cattle

O'er his vast enclosures roam;

But you heard no children prattle

'Round that squatter's hearth and home.

Older grew that squatter, older,

Solitary and alone,

And they said his heart was colder

Than a granite pavin'-stone.

Other squatters livin handy,

Wot had daughters in their prime.

For that squatter "shouted" brandy

In the Township many a time;

And those gals kept introdoocin'

In their toilets every art

With the object of sedoocin'

That old sinner's stony heart.

Thus they often made exposures

Of their ankles, I'll be bound,

When they, in his vast enclosures,

Met that squatter ridin' round.

Their advances he rejected,

Scornin' both their hands and hearts,

'Till one day a cove selected

Forty acres in those parts.

And that stalwart free-selector

Had the handsomest of gals;

Conduct couldn't be correcter

Than his youngest daughter Sal's.

Prettily her head she tosses —

Loves a thing she don't regard;

Rides the most owdacious hosses

Wot was ever in a yard.

She was lithe and she was limber —

Farmers daughter every inch —

Not averse to sawin' timber

With her father at a pinch.

In remotest dells and dingles,

Where most gals would be afraid,

There she went a-splittin shingles,

Pretty tidy work she made.

And that free selector's daughter,

Driving of her father's cart,

Made the very wildest slaughter

In that wealthy squatter's heart.

He proposed, and wasn't blighted,

Took her to his residence,

With his bride he was delighted

For she saved him much expense.

Older grew that aged squatter,

White and grizzly grew his pate,

'Till his weak rheumatic trotters

Couldn't bear their owner's weight.

Then he grew more helpless, 'till he

Couldn't wash and couldn't shave,

And one evening cold and chilly

He was carried to his grave.

Then that free selector's daughter

Came right slap "out of her shell;"

Calm and grave as folks had thought her,

She becomes a howling swell.

To the neighb'ring township drove she

In her chariot and pair,

Splendid dreams and visions wove she

While she braided up her hair.

She peruses Sydney papers,

Sees a paragraph which tells

Her benighted soul the capers

Cut down there by nobs and swells;

Then she couldn't stop contented

In a region such as this,

While the atmosphere she scented

Of the great metropolis.

Her intention she imparted

To the neighbours round about;

Packed her duds, farewell'd, and started,

And for Sydney she set out.

Now her pantin' bosom hankers

Spicily her form to deck,

So she sought her husband's bankers

And she drew a heavy cheque.

She, of course, in dress a part spent,

Satins, sables, silk and grebe,

And she took some swell apartments

Situated near the Glebe.

With the very highest classes

In her heart she longed to jine —

Her opinion placed the masses

Lower in the scale than swine.

But she found it wasn't easy

Climbin' up ambition's slope;

Slippy was the road, and greasy,

To the summit of her hope.

If into a "set" she wriggled,

She'd capsize some social rule,

Then those parties mostly giggled,

Loadin' her with ridicule.

Many an awkward solecism —

Many a breach of etiquette,

(Though she knew her catechism)

Often made her eyelids wet.

Her plebeian early trainin'

Was a precious pull-back then,

Which prevented her from gainin'

Footin' with the "upper ten."

Strugglin' after social fame was

Simply killin' her out-right,

So she settled that the game was

Hardly worth the candle-light.

Things got worse and things got worser,

'Till she had a vision strange,

The forerunner and precurser

Of a most decided change.

In a dream she saw the station

Where her father now was boss,

And his usual occupation

Was to ride a spavined hoss.

Round inspectin' every shepherd

With his penetratin' sight,

And those underlings got peppered

If he found things wasn't right.

When she saw her grey-haired sire

"Knockin' round" among the sheep,

For her home a strong desire

Made her yell out in her sleep.