Southerly Busters

Oh! how could I be such a flat?

I brought thee each gift of my mother,
Each gift of my generous aunt;
The pistol belonged to my brother —
I'd like to restore it, but can't:

For, uncle, thy fingers are sticky,
And, if the sad truth be confessed,
Thy heart is as false as the "dicky,"
Which covers my sorrowful breast.

I've managed the needful to borrow,
My watch and my ring to redeem;
I hope that the sight of my sorrow
May cause thee a horrible dream.

'Twere joy should I hear that the pistol
Had burst in thy villainous hand —
While smoking the "bird's eye" of Bristol,
My breast would dilate and expand.

I leave thee, for vain is resistance,
And little thou heedest my slang,
But I'd barter ten years of existence
For power to cause thee a pang.

O! had I the wand of a wizard,
A Nemesis cruel I'd bribe
To torture that Israelite's gizzard,
And caution the rest of his tribe.

O! ye who are fond of excitement,
Ye students of Med'cine and Law,
Be warned by this awful indictment,
And never give Moses your paw!

From Moses who spoiled the Egyptian,
To Moses who buys your old clo',
They're all of the self-same description —
They take, but they never let go.

Ye sons of the Man on the Barrel
(That's Bacchus) – ye "Monks of the Screw!"
Don't mortgage your wearing apparel,
Or have any truck with a Jew;

But take to cold water and virtue,
And never, whatever befalls,
Let any false logic convert you
To visit the "Three Golden Balls."

THE ANCIENT SHEPHERD

The shadows of the River Gums
Were stretching long and black,
As, far from Sydney's busy hum,
I trod the narrow track.

I watched the coming twilight spread,
And thought on many a plan;
I saw an object on ahead —
It seemed to be a man.

A venerable party sat
Upon a fallen log;
Upon him was a battered hat,
And near him was a dog.

The look that o'er his features hung
Was anything but sweet;
His swag and "billy"a lay among
The grass beneath his feet.

And white and withered was his hair,
And white and wan his face;
I'd rather not have ipet the pair
In such a lonely place.

I thought misfortune's heavy hand
Had done what it could do;
Despair seemed branded on the man,
And on the dingo too.

A hungry look that dingo wore —
He must have wanted prog —
I think I never saw before
So lean and lank a dog.

I said – "Old man, I fear that you
Are down upon your luck;
You very much resemble, too,
A pig that has been stuck."

His answer wasn't quite distinct —
(I'm sure it wasn't true):
He said I was (at least, I think,)
"A" – something – "jackeroo!"

He said he didn't want my chaff,