Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WORKING BULLOCK'S REPRIEVE, by FRANCIS HODGSON NIXON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WORKING BULLOCK'S REPRIEVE, by                    
First Line: I'm a poor old working bullock
Last Line: To 'scape the driver's blow!
Subject(s): Animals; Cruelty; Disease; Escapes; Horses; Pain; Trucks & Trucking; Fugitives; Suffering; Misery


I'M a poor old working bullock,
And I scarce know what to do;
My driver he's so hard to please
And inconsiderate too:
My joints are stiff and aching,
All shrivelled is my hide,
And marked with many a blistering scar
Are my poor back and side.
Oh! oh!—many an oath and blow
On me descend, my pace to mend,
Whene'er I travel slow.

I started out of Melbourne
Along with seven more,
The cursèd yoke my throat did choke
And caused me many a sore;
My mates and I together
Were hitched up a dray
In sultry, dusty weather
To labour all the day.
Oh! oh!—we're the brutes that know
The gastric pains of sandy plains
On which the grass won't grow.

We dragged the blessèd loading
For many a weary mile
With nought but whacks across our backs
The day-long to beguile.
We pulled through swamp and mullock,
Through scrub and timber, too,
And at the close of each sad day
More dull and jaded grew.
Oh! oh!—man's a heartless foe,
Without the least regard for beast,
Especially if slow.

I've often thought when travelling
Along the dusty track,
How those who thrive by us they drive
Can wisdom so much lack;
For if they'd treat us fairly
And not be too severe
They'd get their profit out of us
For many an extra year.
Oh! oh!—I sometimes puzzled grow,
To make out why humanity
Such little judgment show.

Now as we struggled onward
In torture day by day,
We learnt the new alarm of Pleu-
ro Pneumonia.
We learnt it by the talking
Of teamsters that we met,
And visions blest of speedy rest
Our bovine minds beset.
Oh! oh!—what a precious go:
Best be shot and sent to pot,
Than be tormented so.

Our master he got furious,
And awful oaths he swore;
He d—'d and b—'d both pole and lead,
And whacked us all the more.
He called us "plurymoanies",
And many things that's worse,
"Hi, Smiler! you c-o-n-f-o-u-n-d-e-d plu-
rimoniatic" _____(curse).
Oh! oh!—bullock drivers know
How to swear, and how to tear,
And how to plant a blow.

He drove us on the harder,
The more we neared the Murray,
And we tried vainly to explain
The cause of all the hurry.
He drove us, never heeding
My hot and bleeding flank
Nor failing strength, until at length
We gained the river's bank.
Oh! oh!—let the Murray flow;
It proved at least to me, poor beast,
An end to all my woe.

For when we reached Echuca,
I blessed my welcome fate,
Our driver found himself aground,
He'd come a "day too late!"
"The Sydney legislators
Had passed a law," they said,
"To check of P.—Pneumonia
The sure and direful spread."
Oh! oh!—the traps they straight did show,
That cross the stream we mustn't dream
Attempting for to go.

The driver tried to argify,
Though argument was lost
Upon the stern "bluebottles" who
But pointed to a post
Whereon was stuck a notice
By one Jack Kelly signed
To say as how he'd not allow
A beast of any kind.
"Oh! oh!"—says our driver, "Blow
My limbs and eyes if e'er I tries
Again this road to go."

So all the time we halted
He left us in the mud
Where, buttock-deep, in line we keep
And chew the grateful cud.
The load must be delivered—
Oh, mercy! how he swore
To find he dare not land a hoof
Upon the other shore.
Oh! oh!—wasn't it awful though
To hear the cove the team that drove
Anathematize and blow.

It only now remains to tell
As how it came to pass
That since the stream had stopped the team
He turned us out to grass.
He left us at our leisure
To wander o'er the plain,
And thinks, poor hind, his beasts he'll find
When he comes down again.
Oh! oh!—I'll bet a feed or so
He'll have to seek for many a week
Before he finds me, though.

So all you working bullocks
Who hear my truthful lay,
I call on you to toast this "Pleu-
ro Pneumonia."
This welcome "epizooty"
That bears a balm at least,
If not to lazy, fattening herds,
To many a worn-out beast.
Oh! oh!—what's the odds? you know—
We care not how we end our lives—
By natural cause or butchers' knives—
So long as each poor brute contrives
To 'scape the driver's blow!





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