An Episode in the Life of the Poet while in the
Mounted, Police Force in Australia
Gordon, mounted, loq.
Ho ! you chap of grit and sinew,
Smoking in your pit,
Why thus labour discontinue ?
Why your forehead knit ?
Are you weary of the searching
For the Root of ill,
That you, like an idle urchin,
Play at sitting still ?
I confess it hardish lines is
Not to earn a mopus :
Galling ne'er to get a Finis
Coronare Opus.
Catch this flask of old Jamaica
In your iron paw,
While I fill a pipe and take a
Seat to have a jaw.
Let me hitch my horse's bridle
To this stunted tree :
Now, instead of one chap idle,
We can reckon three.
They have a jaw. Presently the Patrol rises to depart, and, loq.
Well ! there 's much truth underlying
That old growl I've heard.
I shan't please you by replying,
Yet Ill have a word.
Growl away, but live and labour
Till your race be run,
Helping every feeble neighbour,
Seeking help from none.
Life is mainly froth and bubble,
Two things stand hke stone ;
KINDNESS IN A NEIGHBOUR'S TROUBLE.
COURAGE IN YOUR OWN.
Though we chafe at duty's rigour,
All is for the best.
You will work with greater vigour,
Having had a rest.
Fortune's lap has prizes in it
Yet for you in store.
Who knows ? In another minute
You may strike the ore.
Now Im off with my old kicker,
On my daily task.
Stay ! Since you have paunched the
liquor,
Hand me back that flask.
