Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BUSH SECRET, by BERNARD MCELHILL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BUSH SECRET, by                    
First Line: The sun had set, and weary walked
Last Line: A secret of the bush.
Subject(s): Deception; Gold Mines & Miners


THE sun had set, and weary walked
The diggers from the mine;
Well, a mine is not the name, although
'Twas in the digging line.
'Twas land where roving swagmen thought
To fossick out some stuff;
The gold, 'twas said, was near the top;
Well, that was news enough.

The scrub was full of kangaroo,
But ne'er a gun they had;
Fresh water in a creek they found;
Well, d_____n—this wasn't bad!
It's true, the work was tough to start,
Such prospects oft are "sells"—
But what is danger—hardships—life?
The gold's the thing that tells.

That day they dug in many a spot,
And tried old claims again;
Each other's drooping look told each
That further work was vain:
'Twas but a trial trip they made
To prove an ancient doubt;
Old diggers swore Goon Goon was rich,
And they would find it out.

Though bent to work with willing hands,
They found 'twas meet to lag;
Provisions they had none, except
What each brought in his swag.
Their vow of honesty was this—
"If welcome gold we reach,
The one and all be finders, we'll
Give equal share to each."

The party numbered nine or ten,
And down to smoke they sat;
With weight of work, and want of gold,
The men were looking flat.
'Twas here in Paddy Walsh's eye
They first saw vicious fire;
And always when it rose it met
His working partner, Dwyre.

The diggers at each other gazed
In speechless mood the while;
In some suspicious thoughts arose,
And some were prone to smile.
Still glowed the fire in Walsh's eye,
As passion made him warm;
His brows, resembling thunder-clouds,
Bespoke a clamorous storm.

"By Heaven!" said he, and up he rose,
"Your secret, Dwyre, I scorn;
Your villainy I'll tell my mates:
A robber you were born.
You little dreamt I saw your pick
That great big nugget strike!
How cautiously you wrapped it up!—
Oh, don't deny it, Mike!

"I'd hide within the parchèd ground
My pick with passion's force,
And 'gainst it rend my heart in twain,
But follow not your course;
I'd let the deadly serpent bite,
And fill a just man's grave,
But wouldn't wrong an honest mate
To help a swindling knave!"

"No more," roared Dwyre, "you traitor dog;
Your tongue has made your grave;
A Scotch, an Englishman were true,
But you're an Irish knave.
You know my state, and that my care's
A wife and children seven;
Strong, free, like you, I ne'er should hide
That nugget—no, by Heaven.

"From starving mouths you pluck the bite,
Put tears in woeful eye;
You swore you'd halve and wouldn't split—"
"You lie, Mike Dwyre, you lie!
This gold you meant to plant and keep,
Your working mates to harm;
You spoke not of—" Bang! went a shot,
And down went Walsh's arm!

Dim closed the twilight on the scene;
The diggers forward pressed:
Loud, deep, and long the tongue of Walsh
Swore vengeance 'bove the rest.
Alas, that men, their wrath to please,
Should rise 'gainst heavenly laws,
When men were born to act as men
And aid each other's cause!

'Twas late that night ere some reposed,
Their looks were grave and white,
And those who in their blankets lay,
Lay sleepless all the night.
The morning saw them up and off
To reach some distant rush;
But what became of Dwyre is yet
A secret of the Bush.





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