Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BRANDED, by JACKARANDALO [PSEUD.]


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BRANDED, by                    
First Line: A swooning hot midsummer day
Last Line: Who has the strength to wait
Alternate Author Name(s): Jackarandalo
Subject(s): Crimes & Criminals;patience;revenge


A SWOONING hot midsummer day,
We sweltered in our sweat
From dawn until the glaring sun
Reluctantly had set.

He glared upon us as he sank
As though against his will;
He went to bed, as though he'd like
To stay and scorch us still.

All day we worked and cursed the smoke
The sullen brand-fires made;
The gum-trees' withered, shrivelled leaves
Gave precious little shade.

What with the dust, the heat, the smoke,
We all were pretty cross,
But no one grumbled, for we had
A devil of a boss.

Bill Jackson was the boss's name,
A lawless cove was Bill;
His jockey, Yellow Bob, was there,
His breaker, Richmond Will.

Old bow-legged Jim, the boundary boy,
The driver, Jocy Crewe,
And I, a man of no account,
The new-chum jackeroo;

And Johnny Hardwicke (quite a kid)
A crazy Vernon boy—
These were the chaps that Bill, the boss,
Had then in his employ.

Since early dawn we all had worked
Like niggers in the yard,
With heat a hundred Fahrenheit;
The graft was pretty hard.

I grieve to say our work was not
According to the law,
But well we knew that for that lot
Bill did not care a straw.

I'm sure if we essayed it now
It would be called a crime,
But it was common in what some
Still call the good old time.

Young cattle that were not our own
We branded by the score—
It was a thing that most of us
Had often done before.

But little Jack, the Vernon boy
(A trifle "off his dot")
When told to brand the stolen calves
Says bluntly, "No, I'll not!"

Says he, "I will not be a thief—
God says, 'Thou shalt not steal.' "
Says Bill, "You booby, do your work,
Or, by the Lord, you'll feel!"

(I guess we were a bit surprised
To hear the youngster speak,
And though we did not like his jaw
We all admired his cheek.)

Says Bill, "Get on and do your work
Or I will tan your skin!"
Says Hardwicke, "I will brand no more,
For it would be a sin."

"You won't!" says Bill. "I'll not!" says Jack,
Ere we could stay Bill's hand
He pinned Jack's face against the fence
And on it pressed the brand!

And all the words that I may write
Would never serve to tell
The awful pain that Jack expressed
By that one piercing yell.

Bill, laughing like a demon, held
The brand upon his cheek—
The blood gushed out and turned to steam,
Lord! how poor Jack did shriek!

We pulled Bill off while Hardwicke roared
With choking, gurgling hiss,
"You murdering dog! you fiend of hell!
I'll have your blood for this!"

Bill laughed, a rasping kind of laugh,
But turned a trifle red—
"Go home and get your mug tied up,
You blooming flat," he said;

"And if you wish to save your skin
You'll do as you are bid,
Or you may cut your coffin-wood,
My fine, religious kid."

Jack, vanishing, on Bill bestowed
A parting look of hate;
We finished work in silence then
And got home pretty late.

Jack was not home, and though we searched
The bush for miles around
For many days, the deuce a sign
Of Jack we ever found—

We found no trace of little Jack
On swamp or flat or hill,
And some there were who scrupled not
To blame his death on Bill.

But Bill said often, "I feel sure
I'll meet that kid some day,
And know him, too, because he'll wear
My cattle-brand 3J.

"From what I know of branding calves—
The pain they have to stand,
I don't think of his own free will,
That boy will fake the brand."

Well, years went quickly fleeting by
(Time somehow won't stand still)
And changes come to all mankind,
So changes came to Bill.

He owned a station further back,
He took to him a wife,
And, like the nigger in the song,
He "led a different life"—

Was not that reckless, careless chap,
He was not half so wild
(It seems to tame a fellow down
To own a wife and child).

He dandified himself a bit,
He very seldom swore—
In fact, was quite a different man
From what he was before.

And all the hands who worked with us
On that remembered day
Were dead, or lost, or disappeared,
Or somehow passed away,

Save Yellow Bill, the jockey boy,
(Bill sometimes trained a horse)
And I, who then was jackeroo,
Promoted now to boss.

Well, Bill and I were nearing home
One autumn eve from town,
Quite pleased we'd hit the market well
With stock we'd taken down;

Bill had been talking of the past—
"The only thing I did,"
Says he, "of which I feel ashamed
Was branding that poor kid.

"It's strange we never found a trace
Of him for all we tried—
I often lie awake at night
And wonder if he died;

"I'd like to know what came of him—
I'd give a hundred quid
To know I had not spoilt his life,
Poor, lonely, friendless kid."

Well, talking thus we rode along,
And, when not far from home,
Met Yellow Bob on Bill's best horse
Full speed and white with foam.

Bad news was Bob's—a tribe of blacks,
By some armed white man led,
Had stuck the station homestead up
And shot the super. dead.

Through sable foes old Bob, the jock.,
Somehow contrived to bolt,
And with a spear-wound in his back,
Escaped on Bill's best colt.

Bill gasped, through parched and bloodless lips:
"Oh, God preserve my wife!"
Then off, at breakneck pace, he went,
As if for very life.

I need not tell of deep suspense
That gnawed us as we rode—
Our horses only seemed to crawl
Though tip-top pace they showed.

Arrived at home—the place was dark—
We passed the shattered door,
And stumbled o'er a silent heap:
Bill's wife upon the floor.

Alive, thank God! She soon revived,
But wild and haggard-eyed—
"My child, my child, they've killed my child,"
In piteous tones she cried.

'Twas Hardwicke—who we all supposed
Was numbered with the dead—
That, thirsting for revenge on Bill,
The murderous niggers led!

We sought him, armed, in killing mood,
But sought him all in vain,
For what had happened years before
Now happened once again.

Bill would have skinned him, so he swore,
But he had disappeared;
We found him not, he hid as well
As if from earth he cleared.

We found (which almost sent Bill wild,
Good Lord, what oaths he swore!)
His child marked with the brand he used
On Hardwicke long before.

Her infant cheek, with blistered marks,
Was horrible to view;
The dainty skin all seared and burnt,
The blood-stains showing through.

'Twas thus that Hardwicke fed at last
His wild, unholy hate—
Revenge comes round to every man
Who has the strength to wait.





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