|
source: AUSTRALIAN MELODIST NO 21 Marcus Clarke SITE SOURCE: Section 4. GOLD, EMIGRATION AND FREE SELECTION BILL JINKSBill Jinks was a miner on Ballarat,A most tremendous bloke, He lived in a cabin in Murderer's Flat, And did nothing but. swear and smoke; And when he'd got on his "whisky hot," " My word," says Parson Barr, " When Bill Jinks drinks, he thinks The gate of hell's ajar! There was a report that Bill was brought From the Island of Cockatoo, Where the cheerful wretch had got fifteen stretch, With five still left to do. 'Twas Porky Clarke made that remark, As a sort of amusin' rumour; But Jinks let drive with his bowie-knife, And spoiled his sense of humour! Now, drinking one night at the old Napier, Where Bill would oft retire, Then comes in a horror upon us there Of someone crying " Fire!" We rushed to the door, and Bill, before A blessed soul could speak, Cries, " By the hoky, it's Kinder's store, My mate on Gaffney's Creek!" The flames ran roaring like the sea. All yellow, blue, and green— "It's all along," says Bill to me, " 0' that blasted kerosene. Serves Kinder right for being an ass, An' storing the cussed stuff; Say, let's go back for another glass, I guess we've seen enough." I thought the same, when the roar o' the flame Was split by a woman's shriek, That cleft, all quivering clear and keen, The rolling fire reek. The place was two story high, and wood, And there, at the garret winder, Old Maggie Dodd, the cripple, stood— She as minded the kids for Kinder. Out jumps our Bill— I feel a thrill When I think o' the figger he made (Just then came thunderin' over the hill The Ballarat Fire Brigade). " That woman," says he, "is a-frizzlin' brown," But the crowd said never a word; " Who'll come with me to help her down?" But never a man of 'em stirred. " You curs!" he says; "if that bag o' bones Was a woman plump and young, A-callin' for help in her fresh young tones, There'd be all of ye givin' tongue; But because she's naught but a rum old sort, A virgin of eighty-three, You'll—well, you'll see her d——d, in short, Ere you'll burn for such as she!" Now, how he did it no one knows, It has always been a puzzle; But he seized the end of the engine hose And seated himself on the muzzle. "Now pump like furies, my boys," he cries, " And pump me up to glory!" They pumped! and Bill on the steam-jet flies, Borne straight to the upper story. He gripped a hold o' the window ledge (Old Maggie was turning brown), And waited, hanging on by the edge, For the water to take him down. They pumped! and Bill, on the sinking stream, With Meg in arms descended, When something got wrong with the engine beam, And the water suddenly ended! An awful thud – a splash of blood – A silence then a roar,, As through the crowd the one that livd The cheering fireman bore. 'Twas Meg survived – this smoke, I guess, just makes my eyeballs smart – But Bill was just an unpleasant mess, Like a trod-upon raspberry tart! Perhaps in heaven there ain't no bars, Where friends can meet each other (I haven't made in this world yet, Lord, let alone the other); But if there be, I'll there meet him, For God is just, I thinks – And liquorin' up with the seraphim Sits the soul of William Jinks.
|