Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STOCKMAN'S CHEQUE, by ERNEST WILLIAM HORNUNG


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE STOCKMAN'S CHEQUE, by                    
First Line: There's a hut in riverina where a solitary hand
Last Line: As before.
Subject(s): Drinks & Drinking; Poverty; Wine


THERE'S a hut in Riverina where a solitary hand
May weaken on himself and all that's his;
There's a pub in Riverina where they keep a smashing brand
Of every sort of liquor short o' fizz.
And I've been an' blued another fifty-pounder at the pub—
You're very sorry for me, I'll be bound!
But when a man is fit up free with hut, an' horse, an' grub,
What the blazes does he want with fifty pound?

Why the devil should he hoard his fifty quid?
Who would be a bit the better if he did?
Though they slithered in a week,
When I couldn't see or speak,
Do you think I'm here to squeak?
Lord forbid.

The boss was in the homestead: when he give me good advice
I took my oath, but took his cheque as well.
And to me the moonlit shanty looked a pocket paradise,
Though the boss had just been calling it a hell.
Then the shanty-keeper's daughter, she's an educated lass,
And she bangs the new pianner all for me;
And the shanty-keeper's wife she sticks me up as bold as brass,
An' the shanty-keeper's wife is good to see.

Two petticoats between 'em whisk you far!
But the shanty-keeper smoked behind the bar.
Oh, his words were grave and few,
And he never looked at you,
But he just uncorked a new
Gallon jar.

We fed and then we started in the bar at nine o'clock;
At twelve we made a move into the cool;
The shanty-keeper he was just as steady as a rock,
And me as paralytic as a fool.
I remember the veranda like a sinkin' vessel's deck,
And a brace of moons suspended in the sky ...
And nothing more till waking and inquiring for my cheque,
And the oath of all them three I'd drunk it dry!

So that was all I got for fifty notes!
The three of 'em stood lying in their throats:
There was one that must have seen
I'd have beat him blue an' green
If I hadn't gone an' been
Off my oats.

Thank the Lord I'm back at last—though back wrecked and whisky-logged!
Yet the gates have not come open that I shut,
And I've seen no broken fences, and I've found no weak sheep bogged,
An' my little cat is purring in the hut.
There's tea, too, for the billy-can, there's water in the tanks,
The ration-bags hang heavy all around;
An' my good old bunk an' blanket beat the bare veranda planks
Of the shanty where I blued my fifty pound!

Here I stick until I'm worth fifty more,
When I'll take another cheque from the store;
And with Riverina men
All the betting is that then
I shall knock it down again
As before.





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