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    The Coo-ee Reciter
    The Coo-ee Reciter
    The Coo-ee Reciter
    Ebook166 pages1 hour

    The Coo-ee Reciter

    By Various Various

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    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    The Coo-ee Reciter

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      Book preview

      The Coo-ee Reciter - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Coo-ee Reciter, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: The Coo-ee Reciter

      Author: Various

      Release Date: November 18, 2011 [EBook #38053]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COO-EE RECITER ***

      Produced by Nick Wall, Matthew Wheaton and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

      file was produced from images generously made available

      by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

      THE COO-EE RECITER.

      BY

      AUSTRALIAN, BRITISH, AND

      AMERICAN AUTHORS.

      HUMOROUS, PATHETIC, DRAMATIC, DIALECT, RECITATIONS & READINGS.

      WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, MELBOURNE & TORONTO.

      CONTENTS.

      THE COO-EE RECITER

      I KILLED A MAN AT GRASPAN.

      (The Tale of a Returned Australian Contingenter done into verse.)

      I killed a man at Graspan,

      I killed him fair in fight;

      And the Empire's poets and the Empire's priests

      Swear blind I acted right.

      The Empire's poets and Empire's priests

      Make out my deed was fine,

      But they can't stop the eyes of the man I killed

      From starin' into mine.

      I killed a man at Graspan,

      Maybe I killed a score;

      But this one wasn't a chance-shot home,

      From a thousand yards or more.

      I fired at him when he'd got no show;

      We were only a pace apart,

      With the cordite scorchin' his old worn coat

      As the bullet drilled his heart.

      I killed a man at Graspan,

      I killed him fightin' fair;

      We came on each other face to face,

      An' we went at it then and there.

      Mine was the trigger that shifted first,

      His was the life that sped.

      An' a man I'd never a quarrel with

      Was spread on the boulders dead.

      I killed a man at Graspan;

      I watched him squirmin' till

      He raised his eyes, an' they met with mine;

      An' there they're starin' still.

      Cut of my brother Tom, he looked,

      Hardly more'n a kid;

      An', Christ! he was stiffenin' at my feet

      Because of the thing I did.

      I killed a man at Graspan;

      I told the camp that night;

      An' of all the lies that ever I told

      That was the poorest skite.

      I swore I was proud of my hand-to-hand,

      An' the Boer I'd chanced to pot,

      An' all the time I'd ha' gave my eyes

      To never ha' fired that shot.

      I killed a man at Graspan;

      An hour ago about,

      For there he lies with his starin' eyes,

      An' his blood still tricklin' out.

      I know it was either him or me,

      I know that I killed him fair,

      But, all the same, wherever I look,

      The man that I killed is there.

      I killed a man at Graspan;

      My first and, God! my last;

      Harder to dodge than my bullet is

      The look that his dead eyes cast.

      If the Empire asks for me later on

      It'll ask for me in vain,

      Before I reach to my bandolier

      To fire on a man again.

      M. Grover.

      KITTY O'TOOLE.

      Och! a charmin' young cratur' was Kitty O'Toole,

      The lily ov shwate Tipperary;

      Wid a voice like a thrish, and wid cheeks like a rose,

      An' a figger as nate as a fairy!

      Oi saw her wan noight—och! she look'd loike a quane

      In the glory ov shwate wan an' twinty—

      As she sat wid McGinty's big arm round her waisht,

      Och! how I invied McGinty!

      Six months afther that, in the shwate summer days,

      The boys an' the girls wor' invoited

      By Micky O'Toole, ov the cabin beyant,

      To see Kate an' McGinty unoited;

      An' whin in the church they wor' made into wan,

      An' the priesht gave thim blissin's in plinty,

      An' Kitty look'd shwater than iver before—

      Och! how I invied McGinty!

      But the years have gone by, an' McGinty is dead!

      Och! me heart was all broke up wid pity

      To see her so lonely, an' mournful, an' sad,

      An' I wint an' got married to Kitty!

      But now, whin I look where McGinty is laid,

      Wid a shtone o'er his head cowld an' flinty—

      As he lies there so peaceful, an' quoiet, an' shtill—

      Och! how I invy McGinty.

      W. L. Lumley.

      THE BALLAD OF THE DROVER.

      By Henry Lawson.

      (By kind permission of Messrs. Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne.)

      Across the stony ridges,

      Across the rolling plain,

      Young Harry Dale, the drover,

      Comes riding home again.

      And well his stock-horse bears him,

      And light of heart is he,

      And stoutly his old pack-horse

      Is trotting by his knee.

      Up Queensland way with cattle

      He travelled regions vast;

      And many months have vanished

      Since home-folk saw him last.

      He hums a song of someone

      He hopes to marry soon;

      And hobble-chains and camp-ware

      Keep jingling to the tune.

      Beyond the hazy dado

      Against the lower skies,

      And yon blue line of ranges,

      The homestead station lies.

      And thitherward the drover

      Jogs through the lazy noon,

      While hobble-chains and camp-ware

      Are jingling to a tune.

      An hour has filled the heavens

      With storm-cloud inky black;

      At times the lightning trickles

      Around the drover's track,

      But Harry pushes onward;

      His horses' strength he tries

      In hope to reach the river

      Before the flood shall rise.

      The thunder from above him

      Goes rolling o'er the plain;

      And down on thirsty pastures

      In torrents fall the rain.

      And every creek and gully

      Sends forth its little flood,

      Till the river runs a banker,

      All stained with yellow mud.

      Now Harry speaks to Rover,

      The best dog on the plains;

      And to his hardy horses,

      And strokes their shaggy manes;

      "We've breasted bigger rivers

      When floods were at their height,

      Nor shall this gutter stop us

      From getting home to-night!"

      The thunder growls a warning,

      The ghastly lightnings gleam,

      As the drover turns his horses,

      To swim the fatal stream.

      But, oh! the flood runs stronger

      Than e'er it ran before;

      The saddle horse is failing,

      And only half-way o'er!

      When flashes next the lightning,

      The flood's grey breast is blank,

      And a cattle-dog and pack-horse

      Are struggling up the bank.

      But on the bank to northward,

      Or on the southern shore,

      The stock-horse and his rider

      Will struggle out no more.

      The faithful

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