Classic Poem

It is superficial smartness wins the mob that rules the hour,
And their vulgar, brutal laughter lifts the Nobody to power.
So the “smart” or “clever” verses in the most unjust attack
Bring the mean and wavering “friends” of your opponent to your back.
Leave my enemy and me to fight it out—to make amends—
I have no time for the plaudits of his once admiring friends.

Do you mind the tent and camp-fire in the moonlight by Cape Howe?
Do you ever pause and ponder, “Were we happier then than now?”
Yes, of course we were. 'Twas only one new shore and one new sea
Marked to meet us and to pass us as these times were marked to be.
We had both had bitter boyhoods with no tender light or touch;
And you told me half your story—I had lived the rest, Tom Mutch.

'Twas the same old sunset splendid and the same old set of sun:
I with my ambitions ended, you with yours but just begun.
Did you dream that you were drifting to the House of cunning tricks?
Did I dream, with my undying hatred for all politics,
Of the home by red-tape ruined and the hopes dragged in the dust?
I was maddened by injustice till my anger grew unjust.

For I thought from past experience that, in spite of track and tent,
You would soon seek Tone and Comfort by the ways that others went.
You would soon avoid Obstruction and let Trouble pass you by
On the smoother tracks I hated by the coward's red-tape lie,
And be bitter and vindictive if a fool-friend told you so—
Holding place and party higher than old mateship long ago.
But you didn't, and were neither to be bluffed nor to be bought.
You're a bigger man than I am! You are bigger than we thought!

I was older and suspicious as an elder man might be,
For a free pass on the railway spoils your native scenery,
And a salary that covers everything that you require
Robs your zeal for the Downtrodden of a lot of ancient fire.
And the Devil whispers, “Why not do as all the others do?”
And the parliamentary picnic finishes corrupting you.

In a fit of bitter brooding I had rounded on a mate,
But no friend of mine nor kindred dared to hint you were not straight.
In our different ways we struggled upwards from the underside;
In our different ways we boasted—call it pardonable pride;
But before you found your station and before you found your feet
Others used you for your straightness and what they thought your conceit,
And they sneered and winked and snickered with the ignorance of such.
You're a bigger man than they are—and they know it now, Tom Mutch.

And I jibbed about your “talking” and your advertising too,
But of course you had to do it for a chance to think and do .
But if an appeal in trouble, and no matter where or when,
Calls a dip into your pocket or a short note from your pen—
O you do no advertising and you leave out talking then .

You might whistle “Annie Rooney” when the wife is on the tramp
Round the house—or colleagues chaff you in the cabinet or camp;
But at your supporters' meetings when your fellow-mugs come out
For an hour to hear you spouting—well, they've got to hear you spout.
For to rile the section yelling “Whatyerdone?” and “Take a walk,”
And to soothe excited backers—you have damned well got to talk.

Once you had a sense of humour as the Tom of long ago—
(How a man can be a Member and have humour I don't know):
But if politics has failed to kill your sense of humour yet—
It's a sort of late repayment of a boomeranging debt.
From the memories of my boyhood that have never been in print,
And the depths of my old wisdom I'll give you a useful hint.
When you walk into a schoolroom, mighty man above the law,
And you see the childish faces with their big eyes filled with awe,
When you've said your “Sit down, children” (feeling somewhat like a fool)
To Australia's future voters standing there by desk and stool—
While you look as if each penny of your screw is doubly earned,
Wink severely at the children when the master's back is turned.
And when votes are sadly needed on some distant day, I think
They will plump for Mutch like blazes for the memory of that wink!

So to me in pain and trouble came the same old friends once more—
You and Lang and Simon Hickey—there are bonds between us four.
Lang with common sense—and kindness kept within the boundary fence;
You with kindness that too often got outside your common sense;
I, who for my State and Country would do anything but vote;
And for any kind of trouble, Simon with his ten-bob note.
Faith and Doubt, success and failure, but above it all is Pluck!
You and Lang and Simon Hickey, and my modest self—Good Luck!
Life is like when we were rowing home between the channel stakes:
Politics are but the joggle when the wind blows on the lakes.
But the lantern on the boatshed by the shore that we come from
Leads to rest and the forgetting—never mind the joggle, Tom!