Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MY MATE BILL, by G. H. GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MY MATE BILL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: That's his saddle across the tie-beam, an' them's his spurs up there
Last Line: As'll make them toney seraphs sit back on their thrones an' stare!
Alternate Author Name(s): Ironbark; Gibson, George Herbert
Subject(s): Death; Heaven; Dead, The; Paradise


Jimmy the Hut-keeper speaks:

THAT'S his saddle across the tie-beam, an' them's his spurs up there
On the wall-plate over yonder: you kin see's they ain't a pair.
The daddy of all the stockmen as ever come musterin' here—
Killed in the flamin' mallee, yardin' a scrub-bred steer!

They say as he's gone to heaven, an' shook off his worldly cares,
But I can't sight Bill in a halo set up on three blinded hairs.
In heaven! What next, I wonder, for, strike me pink an' blue
If I savvy what in thunder they'll find for Bill to do!

He'd never make one o' them angels with faces as white as chalk,
All wool to the toes, like hoggets, an' wings like a eagle'awk:
He couldn't 'arp for apples—his voice 'ad tones as jarred,
An' he'd no more ear than a bald-faced bull, or calves in a brandin'-yard.

He could sit on a buckin' brumby like a nob in an easy chair
An' chop his name with a green-hide fall on the flank of a flyin' steer;
He could show the saints in glory the way that a fall should drop,
But, sit on a throne!—not William—unless they could make it prop.

If the heavenly hosts get boxed now, as mobs most always will,
Why, who'd cut 'em out like William, or draft on the camp like Bill?
An 'orseman 'd find it awkward, at first, with a push that flew;
But blame my cats if I knows what else they'll find for Bill to do!

He mightn't freeze to the seraphs, or chum with the cherubim,
But if ever them seraph-johnnies get pokin' it, like, at him—
Well, if there's hide in heaven, an' silk for to make a lash,
He'll yard the lot in the Jasper Lake in a blinded lightnin'-flash!

It's hard if there ain't no cattle, but perhaps they'll let him sleep,
An' wake him up at the Judgment for to draft them goats an' sheep:
It's playin' it low on William, but perhaps he'll buckle-to,
Just to show them high-toned seraphs what a mallee-man can do.

If they saddles a big-boned angel, with a turn o' speed, of course,
As can spiel like a four-year brumby an' prop like an old camp-horse—
If they puts Bill up with a snaffle, an' a four or five-inch spur,
An' eighteen foot o' green-hide for to chop the blinded fur,
He'll draft them blamed Angoras in a way, it's safe to swear,
As'll make them toney seraphs sit back on their thrones an' stare!





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