Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BALLAD OF QUEENSLAND, by G. H. GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BALLAD OF QUEENSLAND, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh! Don't you remember black alice, sam holt
Last Line: To the end of the chapter of fate.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ironbark
Subject(s): Envy; Luck; Memory; Nostalgia; Wealth; Riches; Fortunes


"Over-landing" Jim apostrophizeth his quondam mate, who hath made his pile,
and gone home:

OH! don't you remember black Alice, Sam Holt,
Black Alice so dusky and dark—
That Warrego gin with the straw through her nose,
And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark?
The villainous sheep-wash tobacco she smoked
In the gunyah down there by the lake;
The grubs that she gathered, the lizards she stewed,
And the damper you taught her to bake?

Oh! don't you remember the moon's silver sheen
On the Warrego sand-ridges white?
And don't you remember the scorpions and things
We found in our blankets at night?
The wild trailing creepers, the bush buds, Sam Holt,
That scattered their fragrance around;
And, don't you remember that chest-foundered colt
You sold me and swore he was sound?

They say you've ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt,
In England, a park, and a drag,
And perhaps you've forgot you were six months ago
In Queensland a-humping your swag.
Who'd think, now, to see you a-dinin' in state
With lords, and the devil knows who,
You were "flashin' your dover" six short months ago
In a lambin' camp on the Paroo?

Say, don't you remember that fiver, Sam Holt,
You borrowed so frank and so free,
When the publicans landed your fifty-pound cheque
In Tambo, your very last spree?
Luck changes some natures, and yours, Sammy Holt,
'Ain't a grand one as ever I see,
And I guess I may whistle a good many tunes
'Fore you'll think of that fiver, or me.

Oh! don't you remember the cattle you duffed,
And yer luck at the Sandy Creek rush,
The poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed,
And yer habit of holdin' a flush?
Perhaps you've forgotten the pasting you got
From the Micks down at Callaghan's store,
When Pat Flanagan found a fifth ace in his hand,
And you'd raised him his pile upon four!

You weren't quite the cleanly potato, Sam Holt,
And you hadn't the cleanest of fins;
But you lifted your pile at the Towers, Sam Holt,
And that covers most of your sins.
When's my turn a-comin'? Well, never, perhaps,
And it's likely enough yer old mate
'll be humping his drum on the Warrego banks
To the end of the chapter of Fate.





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