A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.

The loungers eyed the Wreck askance, —A seedy bloke was he, Who bore upon his countenance A boozer’s historee— He wore a small pea-dodger hat Upon his massive brow, And everywhere His sandy hair Spread round the rim like tow. “Oh! Charles Adolphus,” Hebe chipped (The belle of Bung’s saloon) “Old chap! you’re got me fairly hipped— I’m dying for a spoon!” “Stand off! Stand off!” the boozer yelled, And dashed his pewter down: “Her eyes of grey, Though dimmed to-day, Glow warm from Sydney town!” “Cheer up!” the barmaid cried, “Cheer up! You’ll be a long time dead.” “Ah! we have drained the bitter cup, My girl and I,” he said; “For she is ’neath the morning sun, And I am where it sets— On Sydney quay She waits for me, My bunch of vio-lets!” “Girl! we were raised together, where The Namoi winds along— Corn tassels were not like her hair! Or magpies like her song!” —And so he waxed poetic, while The barmaid bent her ear (As women do To listen to The eloquence of beer.) “Oh! shut your head, and do a get!” The irate loungers cried: “Last month I saw your Violet Upon the Sydney side. She wore a pretty rakish hat; A Chow on either fin; And loaded thus, She wanted us To fill her up with gin.”

He heard the insult where he stood: A gleam lit up his eye: “A lie!” he howled; “that calls for blood! A damned and heartless lie! But for my mother’s son, and her Who lives across the sea, If God is white Himself, to-night He’ll lend a hand with me!” As willy-willies rush and tear Their way through mulga scrubs— As old-time pirates used to dare, Aboard their wooden tubs— As men still fight for those they love, While weaklings dodge and spar— With flying blows And steel-shod toes He cleared that private bar! * * * But one stood there with drooping head, And sandy hair like tow— “I reckon, Miss,” the Object said, “I’ll try a pewter now.” And when he sank upon the floor Where Bacchus spreads his nets, A flower spray Fell where he lay— ’Twas Hebe’s vio-lets.