Billy Vickers

No song is this of leaf and bird,

And gracious waters flowing;

I'm sick at heart, for I have heard

Big Billy Vickers “blowing”.

He'd never take a leading place

In chambers legislative:

This booby with the vacant face —

This hoddy-doddy native!

Indeed, I'm forced to say aside,

To you, O reader, solely,

He only wants the horns and hide

To be a bullock wholly.

But, like all noodles, he is vain;

And when his tongue is wagging,

I feel inclined to copy Cain,

And “drop” him for his bragging.

He, being Bush-bred, stands, of course,

Six feet his dirty socks in;

His lingo is confined to horse

And plough, and pig and oxen.

Two years ago he'd less to say

Within his little circuit;

But now he has, besides a dray,

A team of twelve to work it.

No wonder is it that he feels

Inclined to clack and rattle

About his bullocks and his wheels —

He owns a dozen cattle.

In short, to be exact and blunt,

In his own estimation

He's “out and out” the head and front

Top-sawyer of creation!

For, mark me, he can “sit a buck”

For hours and hours together;

And never horse has had the luck

To pitch him from the leather.

If ever he should have a “spill”

Upon the grass or gravel,

Be sure of this, the saddle will

With Billy Vickers travel.

At punching oxen you may guess

There's nothing out can “camp” him:

He has, in fact, the slouch and dress

Which bullock-driver stamp him.

I do not mean to give offence,

But I have vainly striven

To ferret out the difference

‘ Twixt driver and the driven.

Of course, the statements herein made

In every other stanza

Are Billy's own; and I'm afraid

They're stark extravaganza.

I feel constrained to treat as trash

His noisy fiddle-faddle

About his doings with the lash,

His feats upon the saddle.

But grant he “knows his way about”,

Or grant that he is silly,

There cannot be the slightest doubt

Of Billy's faith in Billy.

Of all the doings of the day

His ignorance is utter;

But he can quote the price of hay,

The current rate of butter.

His notions of our leading men

Are mixed and misty very:

He knows a cochin-china hen —

He never speaks of Berry.

As you'll assume, he has n't heard

Of Madame Patti's singing;

But I will stake my solemn word

He knows what maize is bringing.

Surrounded by majestic peaks,

By lordly mountain ranges,

Where highest voice of thunder speaks

His aspect never changes.

The grand Pacific there beyond

His dirty hut is glowing:

He only sees a big salt pond,

O'er which his grain is going.

The sea that covers half the sphere,

With all its stately speeches,

Is held by Bill to be a mere

Broad highway for his peaches.

Through Nature's splendid temples he

Plods, under mountains hoary;

But he has not the eyes to see

Their grandeur and their glory.

A bullock in a biped's boot,

I iterate, is Billy!

He crushes with a careless foot

The touching water-lily.

I've said enough — I'll let him go!

If he could read these verses,

He'd pepper me for hours, I know,

With his peculiar curses.

But this is sure, he'll never change

His manners loud and flashy,

Nor learn with neatness to arrange

His clothing, cheap and trashy.

Like other louts, he'll jog along,

And swig at shanty liquors,

And chew and spit. Here ends the song

Of Mr. Billy Vickers.