Saltbush Bill, J. P.

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 wouldn'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 couldn'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.