Nor’West Corner

BEER IS ENOUGH.

Beer is enough. Let us be satisfied, Nor fret our hearts with longing after gin, And bob saloons, and vanities beside, That lead one to the shelving edge of sin ... For wights who sit a-row along the pave, With crackling skins, and drooping lives to save, Beer is enough.

Beer is enough. Let Love roost on his perch, And coo and coo his breath away at will ... The bride in orange blooms—the ivied church— The two-roomed kipsy sheltered by the hill ... Sweep them aside, and fetch the frothing bowl To warm the cockles of one’s inmost-soul. Beer is enough.

Beer is enough. Though dreamers sigh and sigh Of melting love, did love e’er quench a thirst? Did ever Cupid, ’neath a brazen sky, Hand out a pint to taper off a burst? Can Daphne’s lips allay the wild desire To wade in hops, when coppers are afire? Beer is enough.

Beer is enough. The brightest and the best Of all the gifts the gods have handed down! A Nautch girl she! who graces all the West, Dressed in her picture hat, and amber gown ... There is no canker in her love—no lees To weight one’s ghost through dim eternities. Beer is enough.

[Decoration: Mining equipment]

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.

The loungers eyed the Wreck askance, —A seedy bloke was he, Who bore upon his countenance A boozer’s historee— He wore a small pea-dodger hat Upon his massive brow, And everywhere His sandy hair Spread round the rim like tow.

“Oh! Charles Adolphus,” Hebe chipped (The belle of Bung’s saloon) “Old chap! you’re got me fairly hipped— I’m dying for a spoon!” “Stand off! Stand off!” the boozer yelled, And dashed his pewter down: “Her eyes of grey, Though dimmed to-day, Glow warm from Sydney town!”

“Cheer up!” the barmaid cried, “Cheer up! You’ll be a long time dead.” “Ah! we have drained the bitter cup, My girl and I,” he said; “For she is ’neath the morning sun, And I am where it sets— On Sydney quay She waits for me, My bunch of vio-lets!”

“Girl! we were raised together, where The Namoi winds along— Corn tassels were not like her hair! Or magpies like her song!” —And so he waxed poetic, while The barmaid bent her ear (As women do To listen to The eloquence of beer.)

“Oh! shut your head, and do a get!” The irate loungers cried: “Last month I saw your Violet Upon the Sydney side. She wore a pretty rakish hat; A Chow on either fin; And loaded thus, She wanted us To fill her up with gin.”

He heard the insult where he stood: A gleam lit up his eye: “A lie!” he howled; “that calls for blood! A damned and heartless lie! But for my mother’s son, and her Who lives across the sea, If God is white Himself, to-night He’ll lend a hand with me!”

As willy-willies rush and tear Their way through mulga scrubs— As old-time pirates used to dare, Aboard their wooden tubs— As men still fight for those they love, While weaklings dodge and spar— With flying blows And steel-shod toes He cleared that private bar!

* * * * *

But one stood there with drooping head, And sandy hair like tow— “I reckon, Miss,” the Object said, “I’ll try a pewter now.” And when he sank upon the floor Where Bacchus spreads his nets, A flower spray Fell where he lay— ’Twas Hebe’s vio-lets.

BEHIND M‘WHALAN’S BAR.

No theme for poet’s ecstasies, No Phyllis fond and fair, With sprouting wings and soulful eyes, And sunglints in her hair; No wood-nymph, clad in gossamer, A-treading daisied meads, No saintly nun, from sun to sun A-telling of her beads:

She’s not the girl who wept upon Our shirt-front on the quay! She is no Frenchified Mignonne! No Scotch lass frae the Dee! No leaf culled from Romance’s page, No scintillating star, Is charming Luce—who jerks the juice Behind M‘Whalan’s bar.

And yet the lads for miles and miles From mulga camp and mine Come in to bid for Lucy’s smiles And worship at her shrine: They dream of nectar from her lips, But drain the whisky jar, And leave their hearts’ own counterparts Upon M‘Whalan’s bar.

She is no dreamy, droopy frond, No white rose of regret; But, oh! we leap in Lethe’s pond From Virtue’s minaret When deftly, with a flashing toe! She tips our panama, And in a whirl of clothes and girl Vaults back across the bar.

She holds us with a silken thread, This hypnotising flirt: A wink that whispers, “Hope ahead!” The frou-frou of her skirt; But, Lord, it fairly breaks us up, Our eyes grow large as moons, When with despatch she strikes a match Upon her pantaloons.

Then all the world may bow to-night To Beauty’s peerless queen, And all the world may fight its fight For “God and Gwendoline”; But we will lilt our serenade To bright eyes flashing far, And drink to Luce who jerks the juice Behind M‘Whalan’s bar!