SOAKER SMITH.

They tell no tale lugubrious Or horror finely spun, Of martyr’s groans and human bones A-bleaching in the sun; But those who cut beneath the bark May find the very pith Of pathos, in the yarn they spin, Concerning Soaker Smith. He never dogged on Bayley’s tracks, Nor battled through with Frost, In wild times, when the souls of men Were torn and tempest-tossed, Nor bore the brunt, nor claimed the rank Of fearless pioneer— He was, in point of fact, a joint Who played his life for beer. Smith sat upon the shanty floor With blazing eyes and brain, While, from the sand, the impish band Of fantods sprang again: They mocked him with a phantom pot, They laughed and lured and lied— “A pint! or I,” he howled, “must die Of thirst!”—and so he died. Then all the tribe of whiskered wits That nourishes up North, From rub-a-dubs and frowsy pubs Like one gay ghoul came forth; And Blastus painted on a slab A dead marine, reversed, And wrote, the knave, beside his grave, “Hic! jacet. Died of thirst.” And still, around the shanty bar, When wit and humour fly, They greet the tale that ne’er grows stale With wild hilarity; But those who probe it to the core May find the very pith Of pathos, in the yarn they spin Concerning Soaker Smith.

Did you ever drive on pay-wash in this land of boom and bust? Did you ever see gold glitter in the dull light of the glim, Where the face is specked and sprinkled with the best of sovereign-dust, And you calkerlate your income at a pick-blow to the jim? Hello, on top! Hello! Hook on, and let her go! Or we’ll never make our tucker in a five-ounce show! Oh, the days go by like drinkin’—for it’s entertainin’ graft, And you hear your mate discoursin’ to the crowd around the brace, As he tugs away the hide, and it goes skimmin’ up the shaft, While a smile ’ud trip a bullock jest illumernates his face— Hello, on top! Hello! Ease off, and have a blow! We’ve a crushin’ in the paddock, and there’s more below! Then you don’t dine any more on sodden flapjacks in the pan; And you don’t back under cover when you see a bit of skirt; For there’s something in the atmosphere that bulges out a man When he’s drivin’ on the gutter, and there’s pay-gold in the dirt— Hello, on top! Hello! Jest rosin up your bow! For we’ve got no time for sleepin’ when there’s corn to hoe! But I’ll bet old Bill is dreamin’, and he’s driftin’ on the tide, Where his wife and kids is waitin’ for a dozen lengthy years On their cocky-patch, and hopin’ till the last hope nearly died— And it’s safe to lay a dollar as his eyes is dim with tears— Hello, on top! Hello! This is boshter sile to grow, F’r I guess our plotch ’ll answer mor’n a ’tater to the row! But a man ain’t got no time to dream with plenty work in sight, When he’s got the cream of all the lead right through from pay to pay; For you can’t get rich on dreamin’, and you can’t shift dirt with skite, And the gold stream only dribbles in a keg-o’-treacle way— Hello, on top! Hello! Is’t frost up there or snow? I’d back you ’gainst a fun’ral any day for goin’ slow! Some day when we’ve her bones picked bare, and got her gutted clean, We’ll travel over East, and see what yaller dust can buy; And old Bill and me, I reckon, will be right and all serene, If we only keep our thirst at bay, and keep our powder dry— Hello, on top! Hello! Let down the rope, and throw The sling; you’d keep a man all night ’thout singin’ out “Yo, ho!”