FullReads

Toe and heel and flat of foot begin to stamp the clay floor, and horny hands to slap patched knees in accompaniment.

“Oh! save me, lads!” he cried,
“I’m drifting with the current,
And I’m drifting with the tide!
And I’m sinking in the Low Lands, Low!

The Low Lands! The Low Lands!”–

The old bark kitchen is a-going now. Heels drumming on gin-cases under stools; hands, knuckles, pipe-bowls, and pannikins keeping time on the table.

And we sewed him in his hammock,
And we slipped him o’er the side,
And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!
The Low Lands! The Low Lands!
And we sunk him in the Low Lands, Low!

Old Boozer Smith–a dirty gin-sodden bundle of rags on the floor in the corner with its head on a candle box, and covered by a horse rug–old Boozer Smith is supposed to have been dead to the universe for hours past, but the chorus must have disturbed his torpor; for, with a suddenness and unexpectedness that makes the next man jump, there comes a bellow from under the horse rug:

Wot though!–I wear!–a rag!–ged coat!
I’ll wear it like a man!

and ceases as suddenly as it commenced. He struggles to bring his ruined head and bloated face above the surface, glares round; then, no one questioning his manhood, he sinks back and dies to creation; and subsequent proceedings are only interrupted by a snore, as far as he is concerned.

Little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver, is inspired. “Go on, Jimmy! Give us a song!”

In the days when we were hard up
For want of wood and wire–
Jimmy always blunders; it should have been “food and fire”–

We used to tie our boots up
With lit–tle bits–er wire;

and–

I’m sitting in my lit–tle room,
It measures six by six;
The work-house wall is opposite,
I’ve counted all the bricks!

“Give us a chorus, Jimmy!”

Jimmy does, giving his head a short, jerky nod for nearly every word, and describing a circle round his crown–as if he were stirring a pint of hot tea–with his forefinger, at the end of every line:

Hall!–Round!–Me–Hat!
I wore a weepin’ willer!

Jimmy is a Cockney.

“Now then, boys!”

Hall–round–me hat!

How many old diggers remember it?

And:

A butcher, and a baker, and a quiet-looking quaker,
All a-courting pretty Jessie at the Railway Bar.

I used to wonder as a child what the “railway bar” meant.

And:

I would, I would, I would in vain
That I were single once again!
But ah, alas, that will not be
Till apples grow on the willow tree.

A drunken gambler’s young wife used to sing that song–to herself.

A stir at the kitchen door, and a cry of “Pinter,” and old Poynton, Ballarat digger, appears and is shoved in; he has several drinks aboard, and they proceed to “git Pinter on the singin’ lay,” and at last talk him round. He has a good voice, but no “theory”, and blunders worse than Jimmy Nowlett with the words. He starts with a howl–

Hoh!
Way down in Covent Gar-ar-r-dings
A-strolling I did go,
To see the sweetest flow-ow-wers
That e’er in gardings grow.

He saw the rose and lily–the red and white and blue–and he saw the sweetest flow-ow-ers that e’er in gardings grew; for he saw two lovely maidens (Pinter calls ’em “virgings”) underneath (he must have meant on top of) “a garding chair”, sings Pinter.

And one was lovely Jessie,
With the jet black eyes and hair,

roars Pinter,

And the other was a vir-ir-ging,
I solemn-lye declare!

“Maiden, Pinter!” interjects Mr. Nowlett.

“Well, it’s all the same,” retorts Pinter. “A maiden IS a virging, Jimmy. If you’re singing, Jimmy, and not me, I’ll leave off!” Chorus of “Order! Shut up, Jimmy!”

I quicklye step-ped up to her,
And unto her did sa-a-y:
Do you belong to any young man,
Hoh, tell me that, I pra-a-y?