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17 corrections, most recently by cvening - Show corrections

THE RAID OF THE ABORIGINES.

Great tidings of war have come down from the

west,  

For the waddy is raised, and the spear's in the

rest:  

And the tribes of the Seven have poured down the gap,

And they've vowed to have Bullock whatever may

hap.

Oh, 'twas glorious to see those free sons of  

the soil,  

Unfettered by garments, uninjured by toil,

Streaming down to the valley, as shining and

black

As Newcastle coals shooting out of a sack.

Each warrior was greased from the heel to the head; Each cobra was charcoaled, each limb threaked with

red,

And plain might you see, that each snake-eating

elf,

Was inclined to think NO TABLE-BEER of himself.

They had a forest of spears that would turn a  

man pale,

Like a chivoux-de-frize on the wall of a gaol;   And they bore in each girdle the swift boome-

rang,  

And a toothpick, the lungs of the white man

to bang.

The war song was sung--the corobree done:

And they cried, "with the white fellows let's have  

some fun."

"They have settled Old Moppy. A life for a life."   "So death to the Croppy, and WAR TO THE KNIFE."  

They march'd down the Lockyer in battle array, And they bad old Boralski the time of the day;  

Then they crossed the dark PIMAS just over the  

way,  

And they told him there'd soon be the devil to pay. They paused for a short time near Heliden Hill, With sav'ry Oppossum their bingies to fill--

And the sweet Flying Fox, and the delicate grub,

They gorged till each paunch was as round as a

tub.  

Then they roll'd in the ashes, like kittens at play, Or like over fed hogs on a hot summer day.

But stomack's love change--even civilized man Will vary his dishes as oft as he can.

So they vow'd and they swore, with a terrible shout,

That of mutton or beef they must have a tuck out.

Then up spoke great Campbell, a chief of

renown,

"At Wingate there budgery bullock sit down--

"Let us send three old women to drive them away,   "While I and two more will go bail up a dray.  

"For I know his beef well--it has fat an inch  

thick,

"And unless we've some mustard it might   make us sick.        

"And to trust the old women you need have no   fear,      

"Wingate soon cuts his stick at the sight of a spear.   "Meantime the main, body can roam up and       down,      

"'Twixt Tenthill and here, just to take off the down.      

"For tho' as you know, when a shepherd we kill   "The Jackeroo's all smoke their pipes, and sit   still;    

"Yet they'd turn out like madmen, and boldly give  

battle,      

"If they think we've been spearing their sheep  

or their cattle."

The advice was approv'd--he set off for the grub, But first planted his delicate wife in the scrub.

And he promised, if safe he returned from the  

the fight,  

With a whole bullock's-liver, TO BLOW OUT HER KITE.    

Now Campbell, the chief, to the Brisbane hath

sped,          

Let the pale Jackeroo's view his waddy with dread: Their grass he hath fired--their sheep he hath

ta'en--

Their drays he hath plundered--their oxen hath

slain.            

But think not the squatters can tamely look on, When all their fat kine to the devil are gone;

Much blood must be spilt, if with Wingate you

meet:    

For with death-dealing thunder his foes he will   greet.

On a mountain they met--but the three sable hags,  

Who had filled with fat beef, all their dillies and

bags,

Their tomahawks brandish'd, and threw a short

stick,

Which gave Master Wingate a damnable lick.  

He rubbed his red head--clapp'd the spurs to his  

horse,      

And fled like a racer on Newmarket course.

To Tenthill he hastened, resolved not to bear    

it,      

So laid his complaints before great Justice

Ferret,  

Who piously vowed, by the mother that bore him,      

He'd issued his warrant to bring them before    

him.

The warrant was written, and laid on the shelf;

"By the lord," said old Ferret, "I'll serve it my-  

self,    

"For I have the powers to bind and release,

"Let us see if they'll swear at a Justice of Peace. "But lest the rude savages dare to attack us,  

"We had better get five or six soldiers to back us: "For Milton or Homer--or some such low fellow,  

"Has said that discretion's the best part of valour. "You Blucher, ride over to Percy, and see

"If any one there is inclined for a spree;  

"But don't let them think I want their as- sistance,      

"The rebels won't dare to make any resistance.   "Let them come but to see their black foes on the chain,  

"To do grace to my triumph, and ride in my train."   But now my muse the strain must change--     My thoughts must take a loftier range,     For valiant deeds, and perils strange,    

'Tis now my lot to tell,   What cliffs were scaled--what creeks were crossed-- What skirmishes were won and lost--      

What flights o'er flood and fell:     The east was tinged with twilight hue:   The dunghill cook his clarion blew,

And swift the sportive echo flew,  

Down Lockyer's pleasant vale.       When every squire and gallant knight,   With bosoms burning for the fight,

Assembled in the dale.           Across the creek Lord Percy rode,     Proudly his raven charger trode,   And skilful horsemanship he shew'd,  

All as he sallied forth.       A knight, he was renowned in arms, And long inur'd to war's alarms,

The Hotspur of the North.     Behind him rode in sanguine mail,     The burley Lord of Irvandale,    

Whose rifle ne'er was known to fail,

A valiant youth was he.       Of generous heart and open hand,     Beloved by all throughout the land,

Of high and low degree.

But ah! the Bard the truth must tell:             'Twas said he lov'd a pun too well,

Andfor a lass would go to h---: Or even face the bush.     His crest was Galls, a Bullock's Head:       But I could not the Motto read,

Because it was "J. Rush."  

Full oft he'd felt the amourous smart, And Cupid's swift and fiery dart,  

Had pricked his plump and tender heart,

Through half a yard of fat.   But though in sport, his comrades all,

His name would "Tracey Tupman" call,  

He never cared for that.       In short he was allowed to be,

The flower of the northern chivalrie.    

                   

Then on a sorry jaded hack,

With feet extended--bridle slack,

Long Blucher came--but he turned back, Before the fight began.            

His heart was base--the Craven Knight,

And home he fled in shameful fright,     The battle's brunt to shun.        

Goaded by fear within an hour,  

He housed him in his lady's bower,

From danger far remote.

Nor thought himself secure from death,              

Till he had thrust his head beneath  

Her flannel petticoat.    

Oh, why should such a haven be        

Reserved for coward loon like he?      

                 

Then, there was half a dozen more,

Perchance there might he half a score,-- The first was pretty Billy Ure,

His mammy's pride and joy, Then eager thirsting for the fray, Came Ludovic le Balifre,

The Captain's darling boy. Next Bardolph Pittson came in view, With frosty air, his nose was blue But Bonny-fat his partner true,

Was nowhere to be found.

Sir Arthur Dodson did not sleep!   But, ah; no glory con he reap,   For he must sanctuary keep,

To 'scape the Sheriff's pound.   Much hope had they of stout Balfour, But he'd been too well licked before, And so resolved to go no more,

Nor risque his precious life. And Hebrew Geordie might have come, But he was told to stop at home,

By S-----'s enchanting wife. And hungry Dennis' dirty-face,

Was always first in such a chase:  

But now he must resign his place,

For he at home lies ill. He caught a cold and surfeit both,

In Sydney, where (though very loth)

He changed his linen, ('tis the truth,)

And ate for once his fill!!!       Full many a name I have forgot,

Of those who come, and who did not:   But Isaac from the Downs had got,

A blister on his heel,

And thought the same a good excuse, His share of danger to refuse,

And home again to steal. But now ye multitudes draw near, And deeds of daring list to hear!   For proudly bringing up the rear,

The mighty Ferret comes. Shouting "on, on--your laurels reap,  

"Fight for your cattle and your sheep,  

"Your alters and your homes." They traversed many a wild morass,   And many a steep and gloomy pass:  

Through lots of long and blady grass,

And many a gulley crossed. When to the army's great dismay, Ere noon upon the second day,

Bold Percy was unhorsed. The Knight himself look'd rather blue, His sable mare is leal and true,

Poor thing!--was brought to bed.   So he knew not what to do,    

Sate down, and scratched his head. At length he from the ground arose, And turn'd his back upon his foes;   And this as you may well suppose,

Nigh broke his heart with grief. He hied him to a Hostelrie,

And emptied porter bottles three,

Which gave him great relief. Then straight he laid him down to sleep, His active brain in balmy sleep.

The Jackeroo's still onward rode, But wisely kept the beaten road,

And proudly to the Sheppard shew'd,

Their military might. At length, oh joy!--at close of day They saw a fire a mile away,

Upon a hill--"Halt, halt," said they,

"We'll ride no more to night.   "But sleep beneath the trees 'till morn,   And battle give at early dawn."

Now Somnus reigns within the camp, And stretch'd upon the heather damp The warrior's lie--their only lamp,

The stars that twinkling shone. While through the darkness faintly glows, The fire of Pittson's brandy nose,

Which heralds forth bis deep repose,

With nasal trumpet tone. The watchman only is awake,

And he does sweet refreshment take,  

Gnawing a mutton bone.

Sleep on! sleep on! thou gallant band!       Thou pride and glory of the land.

Sleep on! sleep on! your sinews brace:   You'll want them in the coming chace.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

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