Saltbush Bill, J. P.

Beyond the land where Leichhardt went,

Beyond Sturt's Western track,

The rolling tide of change has sent

Some strange J. P. s out back.

And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey,

And worn with want of sleep,

Received the news in camp one day

Behind the travelling sheep

That Edward Rex, confiding in

His known integrity,

By hand and seal on parchment skin

Had made him a J. P.

He read the news with eager face

But found no word of pay.

“I'd like to see my sister's place

And kids on Christmas day.

“I'd like to see green grass again,

And watch clear water run,

Away from this unholy plain,

And flies, and dust, and sun.”

At last one little clause he found

That might some hope inspire,

“A magistrate may charge a pound

For inquest on a fire.”

A big blacks’ camp was built close by,

And Saltbush Bill, says he,

“I think that camp might well supply

A job for a J. P.”

That night, by strange coincidence,

A most disastrous fire

Destroyed the country residence

Of Jacky Jack, Esquire.

‘ Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt;

The party most concerned

Appeared to think it would n't hurt

If forty such were burned.

Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill,

Who watched the leaping flame.

“The home is small,” said he, “but still

The principle's the same.

“Midst palaces though you should roam,

Or follow pleasure's tracks,

You'll find,” he said, “no place like home,

At least like Jacky Jack's.

“Tell every man in camp‘ Come quick,’

Tell every black Maria

I give tobacco half a stick —

Hold inquest long-a fire.”

Each juryman received a name

Well suited to a Court.

“Long Jack” and “Stumpy Bill” became

“John Long” and “William Short”.

While such as “Tarpot”, “Bullock Dray”,

And “Tommy Wait-a-While”,

Became, for ever and a day,

“Scott”, “Dickens”, and “Carlyle”.

And twelve good sable men and true

Were soon engaged upon

The conflagration that o'erthrew

The home of John A. John.

Their verdict, “Burnt by act of Fate”,

They scarcely had returned

When, just behind the magistrate,

Another humpy burned!

The jury sat again and drew

Another stick of plug.

Said Saltbush Bill, “It's up to you

Put some one long-a Jug.”

“I'll camp the sheep,” he said, “and sift

The evidence about.”

For quite a week he could n't shift,

The way the fires broke out.

The jury thought the whole concern

As good as any play.

They used to “take him oath” and earn

Three sticks of plug a day.

At last the tribe lay down to sleep

Homeless, beneath a tree;

And onward with his travelling sheep

Went Saltbush Bill, J. P.

The sheep delivered, safe and sound,

His horse to town he turned,

And drew some five-and-twenty pound

For fees that he had earned.

And where Monaro's ranges hide

Their little farms away —

His sister's children by his side —

He spent his Christmas Day.

The next J. P. that went out back

Was shocked, or pained, or both,

At hearing every pagan black

Repeat the juror's oath.

No matter though he turned and fled

They followed faster still;

“You make it inkwich, boss,” they said,

“All same like Saltbush Bill.”

They even said they'd let him see

The fires originate.

When he refused they said that he

Was “No good magistrate.”

And out beyond Sturt's Western track,

And Leichhardt's farthest tree,

They wait till fate shall send them back

Their Saltbush Bill, J. P.