Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BILL JINKS, by MARCUS ANDREW HISLOP CLARKE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BILL JINKS, by                    
First Line: Bill jinks was a miner on ballarat
Last Line: Sits the soul of william jinks.
Alternate Author Name(s): Chandler, A. T.
Subject(s): Fire; Heroism; Mines & Miners; Heroes; Heroines


BILL Jinks was a miner on Ballarat,
A most tremenjious bloke,
He lived in a cabin in Murderer's Flat
And did nothing but swear and smoke;
And when he'd got on his "whisty hot",
"My word," says Parson Parr,
"When Bill Jinks drinks, I always thinks,
The gate o' hell's ajar!"

There was a report that Bill was brought
From the Island of Cockatoo,
Where the cheerful wretch had got fifteen stretch,
With five still left to do.
'Twas Porky Clarke made that remark,
As a sort of amusin' rumour;
And Jinks let drive with a bowie-knife,
And spoiled his sense of humour!

Now, drinking one night at the old Napier
Where Bill would oft retire,
Then comes in a horror upon us there
Of someone crying, "Fire!"
We rushed the door, and Bill before
A blessed soul could speak,
Cries, "By the hoky, it's Kinder's store,
My mate on Gaffney's Creek!"

The flames ran roaring like the sea,
All yellow, blue and green—
"It's all along," says Bill to me,
"O' that blasted kerosene.

Serves Kinder right for being an ass,
An' storing the cussed stuff;
Say, let's go back for another glass,
I guess we've seen enough."

I thought the same, when the roar o' the flame
Was split by a woman's shriek
That cleft, all quivering clear and keen,
The rolling fire-reek.
The place was two-storey high, and wood,
And there at the garret winder
Old Maggie Dodd, the cripple, stood—
She as minded the kids for Kinder.

Out jumps our Bill—I feels a thrill
When I think o' the figger he made.
(Just then came thunderin' over the hill
The Ballarat Fire Brigade.)
"That woman," says he, "is a-puzzlin' Brown,"
But the crowd said never a word;
"Who'll come with me to help her down?"
But never a man of 'em stirred.

"You curs," he says, "if that bag o' bones
Was a woman plump and young,
A-callin' for help in her fresh young tones,
There'd be all of ye givin' tongue;
But because she's nought but a rum old sort,
A virgin of eighty-three,
You'll—well, you'll see her d_____d, in short,
Ere you'll burn for such as she!"

Now how he did it no one knows,
It has always been a puzzle,
But he seized the end of the engine-hose
And seated himself on the muzzle.
"Now pump like furies, my boys," he cries,
"And pump me up to glory!"
They pumped! and Bill on the steam-jet flies,
Borne straight to the upper storey.

He gripped a hold o' the window ledge
(Old Maggie was turning brown),
And waited hanging on by the edge
For the jet to take him down.

They pumped! And Bill on the sinking stream
With Meg in his arms descended,
When something got wrong with the engine beam
And the water suddenly ended!

An awful thud—a splash of blood—
A silence, then a roar,
As through the crowd the one that lived
The cheering firemen bore.
'Twas Meg survived—this smoke I guess
Just makes my eyelids smart;
But Bill was just an unpleasant mess,
Like a trod-upon raspberry tart!

Perhaps in heaven there ain't no bars,
Where friends can meet each other
(I haven't made out this world yet,
Lord, let alone the other);
But if there be, I'll there meet him—
For God is just, I thinks—
And liquorin' up with the Seraphim
Sits the soul of William Jinks.





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