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.”
[Illustration: A BUNCH OF VIO-LETS.]
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.