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In after years,

… she told him of the fun,
How she hunted him up with her dog and her gun.

But whether he was pleased or otherwise to hear it, after years of matrimonial experiences, the old song doesn’t say, for it ends there.

Flash Jack is more successful with “Saint Patrick’s Day”.

I come to the river, I jumped it quite clever!
Me wife tumbled in, and I lost her for ever,
St. Patrick’s own day in the mornin’!

This is greatly appreciated by Jimmy Nowlett, who is suspected, especially by his wife, of being more cheerful when on the roads than when at home.

. . . . .

“Sam Holt” was a great favourite with Jimmy Nowlett in after years.

Oh, do you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt?
Black Alice so dirty and dark–
Who’d a nose on her face–I forget how it goes–
And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.

Sam Holt must have been very hard up for tucker as well as beauty then, for

Do you remember the ‘possums and grubs
She baked for you down by the creek?

Sam Holt was, apparently, a hardened flash Jack.

You were not quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt.

Reference is made to his “manner of holding a flush”, and he is asked to remember several things which he, no doubt, would rather forget, including

… the hiding you got from the boys.

The song is decidedly personal.

But Sam Holt makes a pile and goes home, leaving many a better and worse man to pad the hoof Out Back. And–Jim Nowlett sang this with so much feeling as to make it appear a personal affair between him and the absent Holt–

And, don’t you remember the fiver, Sam Holt,
You borrowed so careless and free?
I reckon I’ll whistle a good many tunes

(with increasing feeling)

Ere you think of that fiver and me.

For the chances will be that Sam Holt’s old mate

Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden Road
To the end of the chapter of fate.

. . . . .

An echo from “The Old Bark Hut”, sung in the opposition camp across the gully:

You may leave the door ajar, but if you keep it shut,
There’s no need of suffocation in the Ould Barrk Hut.

. . . . .

The tucker’s in the gin-case, but you’d better keep it shut–
For the flies will canther round it in the Ould Bark Hut.

However:

What’s out of sight is out of mind, in the Ould Bark Hut.

. . . . .

We washed our greasy moleskins
On the banks of the Condamine.–

Somebody tackling the “Old Bullock Dray”; it must be over fifty verses now. I saw a bushman at a country dance start to sing that song; he’d get up to ten or fifteen verses, break down, and start afresh. At last he sat down on his heel to it, in the centre of the clear floor, resting his wrist on his knee, and keeping time with an index finger. It was very funny, but the thing was taken seriously all through.

Irreverent echo from the old Lambing Flat trouble, from camp across the gully:

Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
No more Chinamen will enter Noo South Wales!

and

Yankee Doodle came to town
On a little pony–
Stick a feather in his cap,
And call him Maccaroni!

All the camps seem to be singing to-night:

Ring the bell, watchman!
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Ring, for the good news
Is now on the wing!

Good lines, the introduction:

High on the belfry the old sexton stands,
Grasping the rope with his thin bony hands!…
Bon-fires are blazing throughout the land…
Glorious and blessed tidings! Ring! Ring the bell!

. . . . .

Granny Mathews fails to coax her niece into the kitchen, but persuades her to sing inside. She is the girl who learnt ‘sub rosa’ from the bad girl who sang “Madeline”. Such as have them on instinctively take their hats off. Diggers, etc., strolling past, halt at the first notes of the girl’s voice, and stand like statues in the moonlight: