JC left John O’Brien’s poem Tangamalangmaloo in response to yesterday’s poem.
That prompted today’s contribution to poetry month. It’s Banjo Paterson’s Bush Christening which comes from The Man From Snowy River & Other Verses, published by Angus & Robertson.
A Bush Christening
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross’d ‘cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin’ should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.’
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin’,
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
`What the divil and all is this christenin’?’
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
`’Tis outrageous,’ says he, `to brand youngsters like me,
I’ll be dashed if I’ll stop to be christened!’
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the `praste’ cried aloud in his haste,
`Come out and be christened, you divil!’
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
`I’ve a notion,’ says he, `that’ll move him.’
`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don’t hurt him or maim him,
‘Tis not long that he’ll stand, I’ve the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I’ll name him.
`Here he comes, and for shame! ye’ve forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?’
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis’!’
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled `MAGINNIS’S WHISKY’!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened `Maginnis’!
– Banjo Paterson –
I have been waiting t see if this would turn up. I can not remember if I learnt it at Oamaru South in Standard Four or at Oamaru Intermediate in Form One. P J Crombie was my Standard Four Teacher and Bill Hamilton in Form One.
I can rember P J Crombie reading to us on a Friday Afternoons
Oh how the memory flow.
The Banjo also wrote a New Zealand poem
The Maori’s Wool
The Maoris are a mighty race–the finest ever known;
Before the missionaries came they worshipped wood and stone;
They went to war and fought like fiends, and when the war was done
They pacified their conquered foes by eating every one.
But now-a-days about the pahs in idleness they lurk,
Prepared to smoke or drink or talk–or anything but work.
The richest tribe in all the North in sheep and horse and cow
Were those who led their simple lives at Rooti-iti-au.
‘Twas down to town at Wellington a noble Maori came,
A Rangatira of the best, Rerenga was his name–
(The word Rerenga means a “snag”–but until he was gone
This didn’t strike the folk he met–it struck them later on).
He stalked into the Bank they call the “Great Financial Hell”,
And told the Chief Financial Fiend the tribe had wool to sell.
The Bold Bank Manager looked grave–the price of wool was high.
He said, “We’ll lend you what you need–we’re not disposed to buy.
You ship the wool to England, Chief!–You’ll find it’s good advice,
And meanwhile you can draw from us the local market price.”
The Chief he thanked him courteously and said he wished to state
In all the Rooti-iti tribe his mana would be great,
But still the tribe were simple folk, and did not understand
This strange finance that gave them cash without the wool in hand.
So off he started home again, with trouble on his brow,
To lay the case before the tribe at Rooti-iti-au.
They held a great korero in the Rooti-iti clan,
With speeches lasting half a day from every leading man.
They called themselves poetic names–”lost children in a wood”;
They said the Great Bank Manager was Kapai–extra good!
And so they sent Rerenga down, full-powered and well-equipped,
To draw as much as he could get, and let the wool be shipped;
And wedged into a “Cargo Tank”, full up from stern to bow,
A mighty clip of wool went Home from Rooti-iti-au.
It was the Bold Bank Manager who drew a heavy cheque;
Rerenga cashed it thoughtfully, then clasped him round the neck;
A hug from him was not at all a thing you’d call a lark–
You see he lived on mutton-birds and dried remains of shark–
But still it showed his gratitude, and, as he pouched the pelf,
“I’ll haka for you, sir,” he said, “in honour of yourself!”
The haka is a striking dance–the sort they don’t allow
In any place more civilised than Rooti-iti-au.
He “haka’d” most effectively–then, with an airy grace
Rubbed noses with the Manager, and vanished into space.
But when the wool-return came back, ah me, what sighs and groans!
For every bale of Maori wool was loaded up with stones!
Yes–thumping great New Zealand rocks among the wool they found;
On every rock the Bank had lent just seven pence a pound.
And now the Bold Bank Manager, with trouble on his brow,
Is searching vainly for the chief from Rooti-iti-au.
Stuart – Mr Crombie never taught me but I remember him at South School. I don’t remember Mr Hamilton but I do remember yesterday’s poem, Mulga Bill’s Bicycle, being recited, with actions, at an Intermediate School concert.
JC – You have a good collection of bush poems. I came across the wool one in the same book as the Bush Christening but decided it wasn’t pc.
“JC – You have a good collection of bush poems.”
Yep. Even the ones that didn’t make it into the books of the 1950s/60s
“I came across the wool one in the same book as the Bush Christening but decided it wasn’t pc.”
Well, have a look at what poses as art these days!
JC