Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LONG JIM, by R. HOLT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LONG JIM, by                    
First Line: We'd made a lively start away when 'mulga' had cut-out
Last Line: "it's time, I think,"" said mayne, ""for us to clear."
Alternate Author Name(s): 6 X 8
Subject(s): Bars & Bartenders; Death; Escapes; Fights; Pubs; Taverns; Saloons; Dead, The; Fugitives


WE'D made a lively start away when "Mulga" had cut-out—
Big Mulga on the banks of Sandy Blight—
To catch the mountain shearing where there wasn't any drought,
And skeeters wouldn't murder you at night.
Our swags were getting heavier and we were getting dry—
As dry as any parching western plain—
When 'way on the horizon we a humpy could espy—
"A pub, I bet!" exclaimed my mate, Bill Mayne.

When we got near enough to where the signboard could be read—
The signboard of The Traveller's Retreat—
The shanty seemed surrounded by the stillness of the dead,
For not a living soul the eye could meet.
The wood-and-water joey, with a blackened pair of eyes—
As black as any nigger's hide could be—
We found down on the wood-heap where he couldn't speak or rise.
"Oh, let him rip!" said Mayne—"He's on the spree."

But soon we dropped our bundles and began to 'vestigate—
Investigate and see the matter out—
When we found, unto our horror, close against a smashed-up gate
Two swags torn up and scattered all about!
Below the wrecked veranda-floor we found the owners, too,
The owners of the swags in such a plight—
With shirts ripped-up, and speechless, and their bodies bruised and blue.
"It's evident," said Mayne, "there's been a fight."

To prime with rum our courage then, we stepped into the bar—
The bar-room of the broken-up Retreat—
The sight that met our eyes there gave our nerves a nasty jar
And made us feel unsteady on our feet!
The bar was smashed to pieces, and every bottle there,
Decanters, jugs and glasses, all were broke!
Beneath a heap of wreckage we perceived some human hair.
"This is," said Mayne, "the shanty-keeper bloke."

We fled into the parlour, where a silence reigned like death—
The parlour where the cheque-men put on airs—
Just in time to find the "missus" perishing from lack of breath
Beneath a ruined sofa and some chairs.
A splintered-up piano lay encumbering the scene,
A broken picture lay upon its face,
The keg of parlour brandy was a kicked-in dead-marine.
"Not a drop o' drink," said Mayne, "left in the place."

The bedrooms and the kitchen, too, were one unpleasant wreck—
A wreck accomplished singularly neat—
The windows all were broken, and you couldn't find a speck
In that shanty there of furniture complete!
We stared about and wondered, when out through the kitchen door
Came an apparition pallid and aghast;
'Twas the ginger-headed slavey, a-crawling on the floor,
"Thank God!" said Mayne, "a living soul at last!"

We begged the ill-used female to inform us straight away
Who this cruel and pernicious deed had done;
She smiled, and slowly stammered, "Oh, Long Jim was here today,
An' knocked the place about a bit for fun.
Long Jim's a decent cove," said she, "when 'e is on the square,
An' can shear more sheep than anyone round 'ere—
The fools, they contradicted 'im, a thing 'e can't a-bear."
"It's time, I think," said Mayne, "for us to clear."





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