Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STOLEN SHEEP, by TOM FREEMAN



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE STOLEN SHEEP, by                    
First Line: Say, mate, it's a tidy long stretch since we parted near old lambin' flat
Last Line: And—well that was the end of old tommy; so here's to his ashes I say!
Subject(s): Accidents; Butchers; Murder; Poverty


SAY, mate, it's a tidy long stretch since we parted near old Lambin' Flat;
Twenty years? Yes, I reckon it is, and a sprinklin' of old 'uns on that.
Let's see—after you with the light—I've a fancy 'twas sometime about
A day or so after the time old Tommy the butcher pegged out.

What! don't you remember old Tommy? Why all on the diggin's knew him—
Had a butchery down the main Creek, pretty nigh to the Company's whim;
A small, wizened runt of a man like a shrivelled-up scrap of green-hide—
I thought you would call him to mind—did they ever find out how he died?

No? never got trace of his carcass from that day to this. Umph—that's
queer,
But I fancy there's one man about who could soon make the mystery clear.
Foul play?—h'm—well no, not exactly, that is if it's murder you mean;
But as cheesey a case for a coroner as ever Ned Tucker has seen.

P'raps now you wouldn't believe that I helped to put Tommy away,
Oh, you needn't be starin' like that though you feel a bit shocked I dare say.
But listen: it's safe now, I reckon, to let the cat out of the bag,
And I knew you of yore pretty well as a fellow not given to mag.

Well, you see 'twas on old Possum Flat we were workin', Jim Clinton and I—
Both lime-burners right from the start, so, of course, it was root, hog—or
die;
But after a-bottomin' duffers for five or six weeks at a spell
We were not only down at the mouth but were down at the heel, mate, as well.

Not a scrap in the tucker-bag left; and not even the price of a feed,
With our credit all stopped at the stores and no friend to be found in our need,
And the hunger a-gnawin' our in'ards and givin' us rats all the day,
Though we pulled in our belts a bit tighter a-thinkin' to ease it that way.

So at last we got puzzlin' our wits 'bout makin' a rise in the dark;
And of all other men we considered old Tommy our easiest mark.
We didn't half relish the notion, and there was, you may safely depend,
A fight betwixt hunger and conscience, but conscience gave up in the end.

So we laid both our noddles together and faked up a dodge pretty slick
To wait on the butcher that evenin' with an order for mutton—on tick—
That's to put a good face on it, matey. Howsomever, one part of our plan
Was to borrow a small-wheeled toboggan from a cove that they called Curly Dan.

You recollect Dan, I suppose?—a short, stiff-built style of a chap,
Who used to hawk cow-heel and tripe in a queer little box of a trap.
Well, the dead of the night found us there with the barrow all ready at hand,
And our hearts goin' thumpity-thump, that shaky we scarcely could stand.

We hadn't much trouble in forcin' and enterin' into his den—
As you know, they weren't over-perticuler about their door-fastenin' then—
So in I goes, clawin' and gropin', whilst Clinton kept watch in the street,
And it seemed that each carcass and quarter was wrapped in a calico sheet.

I didn't stand pickin' and choosin' to get at the best in the stall,
But made a wild grab for the nearest and lugged it away, hook and all,
And staggerin', half-starved as I was, with the slippery load on my back,
I slung it down flop in the cart and we trundled away down the track.

It was not till we reached the old tent that we ventured to peep at our
prize—
Well, I've seen some queer things in my travels, but never a worse met my eyes.
Ugh! it makes me feel all of a creep when I think of the horrible sight.
"Jumpin' Joss!" says I, "what have we here?" when a puff o' wind blows out the
light.

And there I stands shakin' and quakin', whilst Jim was knocked all of a heap,
For the thing that we saw in the barrow was not in the form of a sheep.
No; but there in a greasy old night-shirt that covered him down to his toes,
With a rope round his thin, stringy neck, and all blue at the gills and the
nose,
And his eyes like the eyes of a grasshopper, a-startin' right out of his head,
Lay the scraggy old scrubber himself, lad, Wee Tommy, the butcher, stark dead.

There was nothin' else for it, of course, but to plant his old carcass and
slide,
But as neither of us had the stummick to handle his cold, clammy hide
We backed the cart up to a shaft, and just tilted him in neck-and-crop
And never cried crack till we'd shovelled a cartload of mullock on top.

Then we run the truck into the scrub, packed our blueys and went on a tour,
And paid all our debts wid the storekeeps at the rate of about five mile an
hour;
But the devil knows how we'd have fared if we hadn't met you on the way
And—well that was the end of old Tommy; so here's to his ashes I say!





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