Saltbush Bill, J. P.

Not on It Not on It The new chum's polo pony was the smartest pony yet— The owner backed it for the Cup for all that he could get. The books were laying fives to one, in tenners; and you bet He was on it. The bell was rung, the nags came out their quality to try, The band played “What Ho! Robbo!” as our hero cantered by, The people in the Leger Stand cried out, “Hi, Mister, Hi! Are you on it?” They watched him as the flag went down; his fate is quickly told— The pony gave a sudden spring, and off the rider rolled. The pony finished first all right, but then our hero bold Was not on it. The Protest I say 'e isn't Remorse! 'Ow do I know? Saw 'im on Riccarton course Two year ago! Think I'd forget any 'orse? Course 'e's The Crow! Bumper Maginnis and I, After a “go”, Walkin' our 'orses to dry, I says, “Hello! What's that old black goin' by?” Bumper says “Oh! That's an old cuddy of Flanagan's— Runs as The Crow!” Now they make out 'e's Remorse. Well, but I know . Soon as I came on the course I says “'Ello! 'Ere's the old Crow.” Once a man's seen any 'orse, 'Course 'e must know. Sure as there's wood in this table, I say 'e's The Crow. (Cross-examined by the Committee.) 'Ow do I know the moke After one sight? S'posin' you met a bloke Down town at night, Wouldn't you know 'im again when you met 'im? That's ' I'm all right! What was the brand on 'is 'ide? I couldn't say, Brands can be transmogrified. That ain't the way— It's the look of a 'orse and the way that 'e moves That I'd know any day. What was the boy on 'is back? Why, 'e went past All of a minute, and off down the track. —“The 'orse went as fast?” True, so 'e did!  But, my eyes, what a treat! 'Ow can I notice the 'ands and the seat Of each bumble-faced kid of a boy that I meet? Lor'!  What a question to ast! (Protest dismissed.) The Scapegoat We have all of us read how the Israelites fled From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put “in the soup” When the water rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was “had” That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo— Whence comes the expression “to buck against faro”. For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears In deserts with never a tramline to follow by, The Israelite horde went roaming abroad Like so many sundowners out on the wallaby. When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, Was dying, he murmured “A rorty old hoss you are: I give you command of the whole of the band”— And handed the Government over to Joshua. .    .    .    .    . But Moses told 'em before he died, “Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people, the worst and the least. Lay your sins on the goat!  Sure the plan ought to suit yer, Because all your sins are “his troubles” in future. Then lead him away to the wilderness black To die with the weight of your sins on his back: Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!” 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity, This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate. (Just here let us note— DID THEY CHOOSE THEIR BEST GOAT? It's food for conjecture; to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. In fact I should think he was one of their weediest; 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a “stag” makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.) Be that as it may, as each year passed away, A scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) And left there—to die as his fancy dictated. .    .    .    .    . The day it has come; with trumpet and drum, With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb, They led the old billy-goat off to his doom: On every hand a reverend band, Prophets and preachers and elders stand And the oldest rab bi , with a tear in his eye, Delivers a sermon to all standing by. (We haven't his name—whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the “poisonest” kind of a Pharisee.) The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability, That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, And, according to Samuel, would certainly d—n you well. Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst— “Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!” Then signs to his pal for to let the brute go. The animal, freed from all restraint Lowered his head, made a kind of a feint, And charged straight at that elderly saint. So fierce his attack, and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the—no, not the back—but just near it. The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, A light-hearted antelope “out on the ramp”, Then stopped, looked around, got the “lay of the ground”, And made a bee-line back again to the camp. The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast So gallantly making his way to the East, Says he:  “From the tents may I never more roam again If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. He's hurrying, too!  This never will do. Can't somebody stop him?  I'm all of a stew. After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins—it'll burst up the Synagogue!” He turned to an Acolyte making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. “Run, Abraham, run!  Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids frown on you, From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you— Run, Abraham, run!  I'll bet half-a-crown on you.” So Abraham ran; like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call “too much toe” for him. The crowd with great eagerness studied the race— “Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace— And don't the goat spiel?  It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring—I'll lay six to four! He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!” But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. ('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), “It's a hard race,” said he, “and I think it would be A good thing for someone to take up the running.” As soon said as done, they started to run— The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. And then it came out, as the rabble and rout Streamed over the desert with many a shout— The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, Had been in his hot youth a bold metallician, And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, “Any price Abraham!  Evens the field!” Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, And Abraham proved him an “even-time” man, But the goat, now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on, Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, And paling and wall he plasters them all, “I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat,” he says, Then pulls out his bills, “Use Solomon's Pills”: “Great Stoning of Christians!  To all devout Jews! you all Must each bring a stone—Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions!  And prices as usual! Roll up to the Hall!!  Wives, children, and all, For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!” Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat devouring the latest advertisement! One shriek from him burst—“You creature accurst!” And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him—and “scoffed up” the paste. With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread. “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 “butter”. 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 dickens 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 horsemen 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 bumping 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 grasshoppers 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 grass 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 grasshoppers 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 grasshopper 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 grasshoppers come our way You turn your duck into the lucerne patch, And I'd be ready to make a match That the grasshoppers 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 grasshoppers 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' grasshoppers—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. But ah, you should have heard the cheers that shook the members' stand Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand. They were, indeed, a glorious pair—the great upstanding horse, The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course. Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall, “You follow Tommy Corrigan” was passed to one and all. And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand. But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go, We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow. We'll drink to him in silence, boys—he's followed down the track Where many a good man went before, but never one came back. And let us hope in that far land where shades of brave men reign, That gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again. The Maori's Wool Now, this is just a simple tale to tell the reader how They civilised the Maori tribe at Rooti-iti-au. .    .    .    .    . The Maoris are a mighty race—the finest ever known; Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone; They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one. But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk, Prepared to smoke or drink or talk—or anything but work. The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au. 'Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came, A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name— (The word Rerenga means a “snag”—but until he was gone This didn't strike the folk he met—it struck them later on). He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”, And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell. The Bold Bank Manager looked grave—the price of wool was high. He said, “We'll lend you what you need—we're not disposed to buy. You ship the wool to England, Chief!—You'll find it's good advice, And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.” The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great, But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand. So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow, To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au. They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan, With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man. They called themselves poetic names—“lost children in a wood”; They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai—extra good! And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped, To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped; And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow, A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au. It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque; Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck; A hug from him was not at all a thing you'd call a lark— You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark— But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf, “I'll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!” The haka is a striking dance—the sort they don't allow In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. He “haka'd” most effectively—then, with an airy grace Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space. But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans! For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones! Yes—thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found; On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound. And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow, Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au. The Angel's Kiss An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. He gave the mother—her who died— A kiss that Christ the Crucified Had sent to greet the weary soul When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. He gave the infant kisses twain, One on the breast, one on the brain. “Go forth into the world,” he said, “With blessings on your heart and head, “For God, who ruleth righteously, Hath ordered that to such as be “From birth deprived of mother's love, I bring His blessing from above; “But if the mother's life He spare Then she is made God's messenger “To kiss and pray that heart and brain May go through life without a stain.” The infant moved towards the light, The angel spread his wings in flight. But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave. Sunrise on the Coast Grey dawn on the sand-hills—the night wind has drifted All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, At the call of the morning they scatter and flee. Like mariners calling the roll of their number The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. And far over-head—sinking softly to slumber— Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep. To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; And far from behind the enshrouded horizon Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.” And lo, there is light!  Evanescent and tender, It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour— Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day! The Reveille Trumpets of the Lancer Corps, Sound a loud reveille; Sound it over Sydney shore, Send the message far and wide Down the Richmond River side— Boot and saddle, mount and ride, Sound a loud reveille. Whither go ye, Lancers gay, With your bold reveille? O'er the ocean far away From your sunny southern home, Over leagues of trackless foam, In a foreign land to roam With your bold reveille. When we hear our brethren call, Sound a clear reveille. Then we answer, one and all, Answer that the world may see, “Of the English stock are we, At their side we still will be”— That's our bold reveille. [End of original text.] [Original Advertisement] Pocket Editions for the Trenches Price, 4/—each (postage, per volume:  within the Commonwealth, 1d.; to New Zealand, 2d.; Abroad, 5d.) Saltbush Bill, J.P.  By Major A. B. Paterson (“The Banjo”) The Moods of Ginger Mick.  By C. J. Dennis The Australian, and other Verses.  By Will H. Ogilvie Songs of a Sentimental Bloke.  By C. J. Dennis The Man from Snowy River.  By Major A. B. Paterson Rio Grande, and other Verses.  By Major A. B. Paterson Over 30,000 volumes of these Editions for the Trenches have been sold during the last five months. They are illustrated in colour by Norman Lindsay, Hal Gye and Lionel Lindsay, and are obtainable from all Booksellers, Bookstalls and Newsagents in Australia and New Zealand. [End Original Advertisement] About the author: Andrew Barton Paterson was born on 17 February 1864 at Narambla, New South Wales. He lived at Illalong station until he was ten, when he went to Sydney to attend school. He trained as a solicitor (a type of lawyer) but also contributed some verse to the Sydney “Bulletin” under the pseudonym of “The Banjo”, taken from the name of a horse. His first book, “The Man from Snowy River”, was published in 1895, and has sold more copies than any other book of Australian poetry. He later gave up law to become a journalist, and went to South Africa to report on the Boer War. When World War I broke out he sought work as a war correspondent, but failed to get it. He then went to work driving an ambulance in France, and later became a Remount Officer with the Australian forces then in Egypt. After returning to Australia in 1919 he continued as a writer, and died in Sydney on 5 February 1941. Paterson's most famous work is “Waltzing Matilda”, written in 1895, and now an unofficial anthem of Australia. “The Man from Snowy River” has since become the inspiration for a well-known movie of the same name, and even a series on a cable television network. “Clancy of the Overflow” is similarly well known. An incomplete Glossary of Australasian and obscure terms: Billabong: A waterhole that dries up during the dry season. Billy: A kettle used for camp cooking, especially to boil water for tea. Box: When referring to plants, it can be any of a number of trees and shrubs, especially those of genus Buxus or genus Eucalyptus. Cocky/cockatoo: A small-time farmer. Coolabah: (more often Coolibah) Eucalyptus microtheca. The leaves of the Eucalyptus hang sideways, with the narrow edge to the sun, as an adaptation to drought. Hence they are famous for not providing shade. Edward Rex: (Rex = King) Edward VII, 1841-1910, King of the United Kingdom (and therefore nominal head of state in Australia) from 1901 to 1910. Fi. fa.: fieri facias—a legal paper authorising the seizure of a debtor's goods. Flash: Ostentatious; fake; (obsolete) relating to shady characters. Gully-raker: A person who musters unbranded cattle (or horses). Humpy: (Aboriginal) A rough or temporary hut or shelter in the bush, especially one built from bark, branches, and the like. A gunyah, wurley, or mia-mia. Jumbuck: A sheep. Korero: (Maori) a discussion, meeting, etc. Leichhardt, Ludwig [1813-1848?]: Prussian-born Australian explorer, his last expedition (in 1848) never returned. Matilda: A swag. See “Waltz Matilda”. Mob: When referring to animals, a group or herd. Myall: An Aborigine living according to tradition; wild; any of several types of wattle trees (genus Acacia). Native bear: A koala. Overland: (Historical) A route by land, especially for driving stock, and especially a route from New South Wales to South Australia; to drive stock by land, especially on this route. Overlander: One who travels or drives stock overland. Paddy-melon/paddymelon/pademelon: One of several species of wallabies, of the genus Thylogalefound. Pah/Pa: A Maori village. Pannikin: A small pan; also (colloquial), self-important. Push: Any group of people sharing something in common; a gang. Rangatira: (Maori) a lord, chief, boss, etc. Ringer: When speaking of shearing sheep, the fastest shearer in the group. Saltbush: Any of a number species of the family Chenopodiaceae, especially of genus Atriplex and of genus Rhagodia, the latter of which is limited to Australia and New Zealand. Used as a grazing crop, saltbush can grow in arid, saline, or alkaline conditions; the region where saltbush grows. Selector: A free selector, a farmer who selected and settled land by lease or license from the government. Shout: To buy a round of drinks. Squatter: A person who first settled on land without government permission, and later continued by lease or license, generally to raise stock; a wealthy rural landowner. Station: A farm or ranch, especially one devoted to cattle or sheep. Sturt, Charles [1795-1869]: Indian-born Australian explorer, explored eastern Australia, his explorations led to the discovery of the river system in southeastern Australia. Sundowner: (Historical) A swagman who arrives at a place too late for work, but looking for food and/or shelter. Swag: A bundle or roll of bedding and other personal items. Swagman: A man who travels from place to place looking for work, e.g. carrying a swag. Tucker: Food. Wallaby: One of a number of marsupial species of the genus Wallabia, etc., related to the kangaroo, but smaller; (colloquial) “on the wallaby (track)”, on the move, on the road. Waltz Matilda: To wander with a swag. “Waltz”, to travel in circles. Warrigal: Originally the dingo, or native dog of Australia; by association, anything wild; brumbies (wild horses). Water-bag/waterbag: A bag for carrying water, usually canvas. Wattle: Any of a number of shrubs or trees of the genus Acacia, having off-white or yellow flowers. So named because the branches were used to weave wattle, a type of construction made of interwoven branches and the like. Wombat: Any of several species of burrowing marsupials, family Vombatidae, which vaguely resemble small bears; (colloquial) an ignorant person. Yarran: A small tree, Acacia homalophylla, also the bastard myall, A. glaucescens. Notes on the text: “An Answer to Various Bards” appeared 10 Oct. 1892 as one of a series of poems in the Sydney 'Bulletin', debating what life in the bush was like, or, the city versus the bush (according to the interpretation), primarily between A. B. Paterson and Henry Lawson [1867-1922], who may have staged the debate as a way of selling more poems. Other writers joined the debate, including Edward Dyson [1865-1931], who, despite Paterson's remark in this poem, also favoured the bush in at least one poem. Another noted participant was Will Ogilvie [1869-1963] who was in Australia during the 1890's (born in Scotland, returned in 1901, and was in Iowa, U.S.A, from 1905 to 1907). Other verses from the debate maybe found in “The Man from Snowy River” by Paterson and “In the Days When the World was Wide” by Henry Lawson. The second stanza was mistakenly broken into two equal parts in the original edition. “'Shouting' for a Camel”: A number of camels were brought to Australia, with their Afghan handlers, in order to have suitable beasts of burden in the desert regions. There are still wild camels there today. (A similar scheme was tried in America during the 1800's, but no camels remain.) “The Gundaroo Bullock”: [ Said Morgan, “Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] changed to: [ Said Morgan, “'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear. ] “Lay of the Motor-Car”: To put this poem in perspective, it must be remembered that this book was published in 1917, and the poem written earlier. It may be helpful to compare Paterson's short story, “Three Elephant Power”, in the book of the same name that was published in the same year. The plot centres around a speed demon who would drive at unspeakable speeds, even up to 45 MPH! (About 72 Km/H.) “The Mylora Elopement”: [ No thought has be but for his prize. ] changed to: [ No thought has he but for his prize. ] “The Protest”: [ W ll, but I KNOW. ] changed to: [ Well, but I KNOW. ] “The Maori's Wool”: [ In any place more civilised that Rooti-iti-au. ] changed to: [ In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au. ] “The Lost Drink”, “The Matrimonial Stakes”, “Not on It”, “The Scapegoat”, “The Angel's Kiss”, and “The Reveille” were all dropped from “Saltbush Bill” when it was included in Paterson's “Collected Verse” (first issued in 1921). No poems were added, though “The Song of the Pen” moved from the front of the book to the back, and several titles were slightly changed. No effort has been made to compare the texts. There was no Table of Contents in the original trench-edition; one was added. Omitted from the original are the index (to Paterson's first 3 books) and the “frontispiece and vignette by Lionel Lindsay”, the first of which was set above the lines: “But when the dawn makes pink the sky And steals across the plain, The Brumby horses turn and fly Towards the hills again.” which is a (mis)quote of the fourth stanza of “Brumby's Run” (should be “steals along the plain”). *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALTBUSH BILL, J. P. *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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