Classic Poem

One New Year's eve, in ninety-one or two — I'm not sure when —
(Ah, me! How many New Year's eves have come and gone since then!)
I lived — or died — at Milson's Point, in Campbell Street, I think:
And I was dying there alone that evening for a drink.
The landlady was out to buy our New Year's leg of swine,
The others on their own affairs; and I was in on mine.

I sat alone till half-past eight — alone with thirst and sin —
When one who'd blown across the strait — Fred Broomfield — thundered in.
Vice-editing the Bulletin , Fred thought my verse " not bad " ;
He " chanced " my first and so became my literary dad —
A wayward dad who sometimes led his joyous child astray,
To our most mutual delight and subsequent dismay.

Remember Fred in those old days — the days we used to love?
With pointed beard and fierce moustache, yet harmless as a dove,
Save when his walking-stick came down or whirled to point a rhyme
And missed the barmaid's head — or ours — by hairbreadths every time.
He wore beneath his fixed left wing amid those festive scenes,
In scorn of sober knotted string, the latest magazines.
He'd " thank whatever gods there be " and tell the jovial crowd
Out of the night that covered him his head was still unbowed.

But Fred was flush that New Year's eve and things were more than well;
We hurried out of Campbell Street, and round to Dind's hotel,
Where, after two long beers apiece, we found the world " orright " .
And told the boss our bleeding heads were pretty fair that night.
We went to think " Where next? " and get a breath of air outside,
When down the street from Blue's Point Road we saw two Bushmen ride.

I could have sworn by " larstin-sides " and trousers, shirts and hats,
That they were from the Hawkesbury and farmed the river flats.
They got down by the water-trough and asked, " Would you chaps here
Just mind our horses for us while we go and have a beer?
If yer don't mind " — I am not sure (and detail is a gem)
If they said " hold " their horses, or " jist lend an eye " to them.

So they went in and had their drinks, for they had ridden far;
And they came out and sent us in — they'd left two on the bar.
Then we came out and sent them in; and each two held debates
Till each one got " fed up " with each, and started swapping mates.
My native from the Hawkesbury was all I could desire;
He said his name was McIntosh — the other's McIntyre.

So we shook hands; and then he said he'd " give it to me straight " —
He told me that I didn't know what he'd done for his mate,
He said, " Yer don't know what it is to have a mate — like me —
Without no spark o' gratitood, nor commin decency. "
We needn't mind the horses now; they'd be orright, he said.
His horse we saw was fast asleep, the other horse was " dead " .

We sought, and found, and lost back gates, we stumbled over stools,
We wept and swore because our mates were such damn silly fools.
We'd stuck to them through thick and thin and fought for them — damned hard:
We'd helped them with their missuses — and this was our reward!
But that was past. We would not go and drink with them, we swore —
And next we all were in the bar and mixing mates some more.

We argued over and explained — apologized for — sunk
The little things of mountainous importance to a drunk;
But only to refloat, refit, beg-pardon for, explain,
Forget and laugh at them and sink or " drop it all " again.
Our enemies were not so bad: our friends began the row —
The wives that nagged us into pubs were Noble Women now.

Then somehow Fred and I were both outside, and there was he
Mounted on one horse while he held the other one for me.
He sat his horse in studied style, and held, you may be sure,
His everlasting stick, and damned imported literature.
I'd not been on a horse since first I left my native scene,
And to this day I don't believe that Fred had ever been.

So I hopped on. We both resolved to gallop fast and far
(The natives from the Hawkesbury had new mates in the bar);
And as we turned for Neutral Bay, where roads ran through the scrub,
Two other New Year chaps rode up and halted at the pub.
They hung their horses by the trough, they cleared their throats of phlegm,
And asked a casual cove outside to " give an eye to them " .

But we jogged slowly up the track, our horses side by side;
And Fred declared that, though " unbowed " , his head enjoyed the ride.
Then suddenly I had a thought — " Those last two chaps, " I said,
" Might ask the two from Hawkesbury to mind their horses, Fred! "
And, even as I spoke, upon what poets call the " wind "
There came a sound above the beer of horses close behind.

" Freelances to the front! " cried Fred. " The night has called for deeds!
The Hawkesbury is out for war on other captured steeds!
Ride for the Bulletin! " he cried; and where the night grew thick
He shot ahead with all his legs and wings and whirling stick.
I caught him up and on we raced, in spite of ruts and holes,
And thanked the gods that were for our unconquerable souls.

We heard the hoof-beats and the yells. The path with shade was blind.
" Ride, Harry, ride! " the Broomfield cried, " the clans are hard behind! "
His charger slithered on the sward and fell with feet outspread;
But he was up as soon as down, and on the top was Fred.
He waved his stick as 'twere the sword of mighty Saladin,
And still he held the printed tripe (imported for our sin).

The natives caught us somewhere near the head of Neutral Bay,
Beside a little ancient pub that knew the whalers' day.
At first their words were harsh and wild — unpleasant, on the whole —
" They didn't come to Sydney for to git their horses stole " ;
But when we asked them in to drink before we had the fight,
They stared and said, " Well I'll be damned " ; and then they said, " Aweright. "

When we got back to Dind's hotel, by light of star and moon —
(I used to write by moon and star, but wish to change the tune;
The poets wear out countless stars on pleasant " lands afar " ;
But I'm content to work with one, and let it rhyme with bar.
To tell the truth, I would not swear that we had any light
Except the inner lamp of beer on that old New Year's night.) —

When we got back to Dind's hotel, with or without a star,
The Adam of all rows was making history in the bar,
Was giving new tradition birth and legend heretofore
Unknown, except to whalers, in the story of the Shore;
And by the scuffling, bumping sound, and by a voice we knew,
'Twas very plain the publican was in the trouble too.

We heard remarks like " Shanghai pub " , " horse thieves " and " lambin' down " ,
And " push an' crooks when decent coves like us come into town, "
And " chuckers-out and talents with the publicans behind! "
To which the publican replied, " Stow that, young fellers — mind!
Yer horses ain't behind the bar nor on the blanky shelves,
Git out, yer jumped-up fools, and find yer carrion yerselves! "

Outside, Ah Soon, the Chinese cook, stood gazing at the Point
As calmly as a cop surveys a dark and silent joint.
He dropped his dream as we got down — he'd known us for a week —
And spoke as one who'd suddenly been galvanized to speak;
" Me take two horse! Say puttem yard — me fix him up all li;
You fo' go home — some other pub! Too much, by kli', insi'! "

But we did not. At Dind's hotel — for those were days of sin —
Six horsemen drank the Old Year out and drank the New Year in.
We made new friends, we hugged old mates, laughed, wept or raised a cheer —
For hills appear like Everest when measured up by beer.
Our wives were " right " , our mates were " white " , 'twas we began the row;
But all in this old foolish world was " fixed up orright now " .

Four horses by the water-trough touched noses now and then —
They'd long since ceased to wonder at the windy ways of men —
But whether Fred went home with me, or I went home with him,
I can't recall. Those dear dead days are too far off and dim.
Our wives would always " save a drop " and never make a fuss;
For they were just to our old mates and lenient with us.

As I lie stricken here for sins that were not sinned in vain;
I thank whatever gods may be for freedom from the pain;
And if there's truth in doctor's talk — and all the signs are plain —
Then neither Fred nor I shall walk, much less ride out again,
But you, who write when we are gone, go tell the passing crowd
That to the last each bleeding head was very much unbowed!