On the Track. Henry Lawson

the grown-up daughter, who used to sing for us, and read “Robinson Crusoe” of nights, “out loud”, and give us more lollies than any of the rest—and with whom we were passionately in love, notwithstanding the fact that she was engaged to a “grown-up man”—(we reckoned he'd be dead and out of the way by the time we were old enough to marry her). She was washing. She had carried the stool and tub over against the stick fence which separated her house from the bad house; and, to our astonishment and dismay, the bad girl had brought HER tub over against her side of the fence. They stood and worked with their shoulders to the fence between them, and heads bent down close to it. The bad girl would sing a few words, and the good girl after her, over and over again. They sang very low, we thought. Presently the good grown-up girl turned her head and caught sight of us. She jumped, and her face went flaming red; she laid hold of the stool and carried it, tub and all, away from that fence in a hurry. And the bad grown-up girl took her tub back to her house. The good grown-up girl made us promise never to tell what we saw—that she'd been talking to a bad girl—else she would never, never marry us.

      She told me, in after years, when she'd grown up to be a grandmother, that the bad girl was surreptitiously teaching her to sing “Madeline” that day.

      I remember a dreadful story of a digger who went and shot himself one night after hearing that bad girl sing. We thought then what a frightfully bad woman she must be. The incident terrified us; and thereafter we kept carefully and fearfully out of reach of her voice, lest we should go and do what the digger did.

      . … .

      I have a dreamy recollection of a circus on Gulgong in the roaring days, more than twenty years ago, and a woman (to my child-fancy a being from another world) standing in the middle of the ring, singing:

      Out in the cold world—out in the street—

       Asking a penny from each one I meet;

       Cheerless I wander about all the day,

       Wearing my young life in sorrow away!

      That last line haunted me for many years. I remember being frightened by women sobbing (and one or two great grown-up diggers also) that night in that circus.

      “Father, Dear Father, Come Home with Me Now”, was a sacred song then, not a peg for vulgar parodies and more vulgar “business” for fourth-rate clowns and corner-men. Then there was “The Prairie Flower”. “Out on the Prairie, in an Early Day”—I can hear the digger's wife yet: she was the prettiest girl on the field. They married on the sly and crept into camp after dark; but the diggers got wind of it and rolled up with gold-dishes, shovels, &c., &c., and gave them a real good tinkettling in the old-fashioned style, and a nugget or two to start housekeeping on. She had a very sweet voice.

      Fair as a lily, joyous and free,

       Light of the prairie home was she.

      She's a “granny” now, no doubt—or dead.

      And I remember a poor, brutally ill-used little wife, wearing a black eye mostly, and singing “Love Amongst the Roses” at her work. And they sang the “Blue Tail Fly”, and all the first and best coon songs—in the days when old John Brown sank a duffer on the hill.

      . … .

      The great bark kitchen of Granny Mathews' “Redclay Inn”. A fresh back-log thrown behind the fire, which lights the room fitfully. Company settled down to pipes, subdued yarning, and reverie.

      Flash Jack—red sash, cabbage-tree hat on back of head with nothing in it, glossy black curls bunched up in front of brim. Flash Jack volunteers, without invitation, preparation, or warning, and through his nose:

      Hoh!—

       There was a wild kerlonial youth,

       John Dowlin was his name!

       He bountied on his parients,

       Who lived in Castlemaine!

      and so on to—

      He took a pistol from his breast

       And waved that lit—tle toy—

      “Little toy” with an enthusiastic flourish and great unction on Flash Jack's part—

      “I'll fight, but I won't surrender!” said

       The wild Kerlonial Boy.

      Even this fails to rouse the company's enthusiasm. “Give us a song, Abe! Give us the 'Lowlands'!” Abe Mathews, bearded and grizzled, is lying on the broad of his back on a bench, with his hands clasped under his head—his favourite position for smoking, reverie, yarning, or singing. He had a strong, deep voice, which used to thrill me through and through, from hair to toenails, as a child.

      They bother Abe till he takes his pipe out of his mouth and puts it behind his head on the end of the stool:

      The ship was built in Glasgow;

       'Twas the “Golden Vanitee”—

      Lines have dropped out of my memory during the thirty years gone

      between—

       And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!

      The public-house people and more diggers drop into the kitchen, as all do within hearing, when Abe sings.

      “Now then, boys:

      And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!

      “Now, all together!

      The Low Lands! The Low Lands!

       And she ploughed in the Low Lands, Low!”

      Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment.

      “Oh! save me, lads!” he cried,

       “I'm drifting with the current,

       And I'm drifting with the tide!

       And I'm sinking in the Low Lands, Low!

       The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”—

      The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the table.

      And we sewed him in his hammock,

       And we slipped him o'er the side,

       And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!

       The Low Lands! The Low Lands!

       And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!

      Old Boozer Smith—a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in the corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug—old Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes a bellow from under the horse rug:

      Wot though!—I wear!—a rag!—ged coat!

       I'll wear it like a man!

      and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is concerned.

      Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! Give us a song!”

      In the days when we were hard up

       For want of wood and wire—

      Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”—

       We used to tie our boots up

       With lit—tle bits—er wire;

      and—

      I'm sitting in my lit—tle room,

       It measures six by six;

       The work-house wall is opposite,