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On the Sunday morning mustered,
Yarning at our ease;
Buggies, traps and linkers clustered
Underneath the trees,
Horses tethered to the fences;
Thus we hold our conferences
Waiting till the priest commences-
Pitchin' at the Church.
Sheltering in the summer's shining
Where the shadows fall;
When the winter's sun is pining,
Lined along the wall;
Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,
"Yeas" and lambs and wool debating,
Squatting, smoking, idly waiting-
Pitchin' at the Church.
Young bloods gathered from the others
Tell their dreamings o'er;
Beaded-bonneted old mothers
Grouped around the door;
Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,
All that's neat and sweet and airy-
Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mars'-
Pitchin' at the Church.
Up comes someone briskly driving,
"Cutting matters fine :"
All his "fam'ly lot" arriving
Wander in a line
Off in some precise direction,
Till they find their proper section,
Greet it with an interjection-
Pitchin' at the Church.
"Mornun', Jack." "Good mornun', Martin."
"Keepin' pretty dry!"
"When d'you think you'll finish cartin'?"
"Prices ain't too high ?"
Round about the yarnin' strayin'-
Dances, sickness-frock' surveyin'-
Wheat is ""rowed," the "hens is layin'"-
Pitchin' at the Church.
"We'll all be rooned," said Haurahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.
"It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke;
"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."
"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran
"It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan
"Before the year is out.
"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
They're singin' out for rain.
"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.
"There won't be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place As
I came down to Mass."
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak-
"We'll all be rooned," said Haurahan,
"If rain don't come this week."
A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
"We want a inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "mantained" we wanted two
To put the danger past.
"If we don't get three inches, man,
Of four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
In God's good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window sill
Kept talkie to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Baok-o'-Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Haurahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."
And stop it did, in God's good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
Went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.
"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is outs"
She saw The Helper standing near
When grief and care oppressed;
"A Great, Big God," Who wiped the tear,
And soothed the aching breast.
So, in the stress of sorrows piled,
The gloom was lifted when
She pointed up and sweetly smiled
"A Great, Big God; be brave, my child,
The birds will sing again."
When dark misfortune, hovering o'er,
Brought woes on every hand;
And care was camping by the door,
And drought was on the land;
When lingering hope in rags was clad,
Her faith shone brightest then
"A Great, Big God; so cheer up, Dad,
Don't mope about and take it bad,
The birds will sing again."
And always some soft silver ray
Athwart the gloom would burst
To chase the heavy clouds away,
When things were at their worst.
Her "Great, Big God" would justify
The trembling trust of men;
For, when the cheerless night passed by,
The sun would wink his golden eye,
And birds would sing again.
Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body,
Just as trim and prim and handy as you'd ever wish to see
(She was well upon the weather-beaten side of thirty-three);
And she'd chuckle and she'd titter when the people used to twit her
On the most pronounced attentions of one Lanty Hallissey
(Now this Lanty was a bachelor of some antiquity).
Well, he'd said good-bye to fifty; he was solemn, he was thrifty,
And he'd come to Mass each Sunday decorated handsomely
(With an eye upon the Tidy Little Body, don't you see);
And you'd see him titivated in a much abbreviated
Kind o' sort o' style of swallow-tail that flogged him viciously
(Which it needed the judicious use of treacle at the knee);
And his hat was like a Quaker's; but some fifteen hundred acres
More than evened up the lee-way of the said deficiency
(Faith, he had a tidy cottage on the little property).
So, when Mass at length was over, round his linker would hover,
While the women teased the Tidy Little Body merrily
(And my hero was unconscious of their jesting, homely glee);
There he'd fool about, and buckle with a strap or with a buckle,
And tighten this, and loosen that, a-gammon he do be
(With the eye out for the Tidy Little Body, don't you see).
And the more they used to tease her, well, the more it seemed to please her;
And she wriggled and she giggled, and she tittered girlishly-
"Oh, it's all so very silly. Picture Mr. Hallissey!"
But, bedad, for all her stricture on the paintin'of the picture,
There were some of'em a-bouncin' in the swithers-true for me-
Wheel the Tidy Little Body married Lanty Hallissey.
Faith, 'tis good to see him comin' when the bell for Mass is flingin'
Gladsome golden notes appealin'on the Sabbathsoftened air,
Sweet compellin' invitations to the congregation Stringing
Up the road to old St.Michael's, on the blessed day of prayer.
You might seek the boundin' gait of him in any youth or maiden
With the rhythmic pulse of summer, and in vain would be the search;
Steppin' on with fine importance, like a general paradin'
In his Sunday regimentals, comes The Pillar of the Church.
There be mighty ones a-comin', most bedazzlin' in their dressin'-
Silken, swishin', sweepin' garments, gold and gems so fine to see;
There be homely ones in "fine clothes" with rib less assurance pressin',
And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin'raund the finery,
There be strength and fashion flauntin' this their hour above their neighbours;
Little faded beaded bonnets droppin' slowly to the rear;
Aged achin' shoulders stoopin' 'neath the trials and the labours,
Hobblin' on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.
But there's somethin' in the step of him, there's somethin' in his bearin',
Somethin' haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore,
Somethin' swellin' out responsive to the flattery of the starin',
Of the little groups discussin' parish gossip round the door.
What if through the workin' week-days, fame his humble labours scornin',
He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,
Whose opinions matter nothin'-here he is the Blessed Mornin'
In his Sunday regimentals,-and the Pillar of the Church.
Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who'd doubt him;
Faith, he'd put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear,
For it's never parish-priest carry on without him,
Since St. Michael's been a parish church-it's gain' on fifty year.
Don't we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin'.
Superintendin' things that matter not, and things that matter much?
Don't we see him with "the gentlemen," the officer commandin',
Every Christmas Day and Easter writin' down the names and such?
Ain't he present all occasions when there's grave deliberatin'
On important parish matters at the school or presbyt'ry ?
With the eyes of him a-blinkin' and the wisdom radiatin'-
He, the sole survivin' member of the first church "Komitee" ?
And maintainin' which distinction, don't it make stonew;allin' sweeter?-
And a heap of "argyfyin"' cannot shift him from his perch-
Don't he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter ?
Faith, he shows 'em there's a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.
Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation,
"With the whole of 'em agin him," as I've often heard him tell;
'Twas he "seen the danger comin'," he that "med the suggestation."
He that "druv 'em to their rat-holes," where he shook 'em good and well.
He's the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin',
Nor afraid to be upstandin' his opinions for to state.
Times the priest he's flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin';
That he did, Man-"ups and ats" him, "lets him have it putty straight."
Och, 'twould do you good to hear him, with an "audjunce" round him gawkin',
Tell of openin's here and "big days," puttin' modern feats to scorn;
And the banquets and the speeches, and the "Arrah, don't be talkie',
Sure the half of them thats livin' now don't know that they are born,"
And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin' and the strivin',
And the failure starin' at 'em, had he left 'em in the lurch;
Times and times he travelled with 'em, and "tremenjus" was the drivin'-
Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin' to the Pillar of the Church.
Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin'
There's the crabbed old bald head of him' con-spicuous to the view.
And at answerin' up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin'
With its thunders shames the bbin attempts of others in the pew;
See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney's baby screechin',
And the twistin' and the glarin', and then lis-tenin' like a hare
While His Reverence reads the notices-but plottin' through the preachin'
For to get a kick at Murphy's dog, that's ram-blin' everywhere.
Times and times he's "riz their dander"-every member up agin him-
And the jealous call him "Curate," while the flippant call him "Pope ;"
But he doesn't care a "thraneen," for "the venyum" isn't in him,
Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope,
Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter;
Him alone the grim marauder ne'er has chanced on in the search;
But we'd miss him were he taken, as we'd miss the holy water-
He's the feature of the Sunday, is the pillar of the Church.
Times I think I'm not the man-
Must be some mistake.
Me among the also ran?
Cute and wideawake!
Old and beat and crotchety-
Sixty-five, at least-
Knockin' round the presbytery,
Groomin' for the priest,
Choppin' wood, and ringin' bells,
Dodgin' work and takin' spells!
Me all right, one Ed'ard Wells
(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)-
Wheelin' barrows round the yard,
Gammon to be workin' hard,
A-groomin' for the priest!
Trainin'prads was Teddo's Pomp
Made a tidy bit.
Everybody knew the name,
Teddo Wells was "It."
Bought that bit of property
(Value since increased),
Gettin' on tremendously,
Married by the priest.
Papers full of Teddo Wells,
Trainin' horses for the swells;
Since redooced to ringin' bells
(Teddo Wells, deceased)
Shinin' boots and learnin' sense,
Nailin' palin's on the fence,
A-groomin' for the priest.
Lost that bit of property,
Ended up in smoke-
Too much "Jimmie Hennessy"-
Down, and stony-broke.
Used to think he knew the game
Till they had him fleeced.
"Mud" is this 'ere hero's name,
Workin' for the priest-
Unbeknown to sports and swells;
They've no time for Ed'ard Wells,
Up the spout and ringin' bells
As "Teddo Wells, deceased;"
Never noticed up the town,
Never asked to keep one down-
Groomin' for the priest.
Times I stops a cove to chat,
One as gamed and spieled;
Chips me in the curate's hat,
"Six to four the field."
"What-o! Teddo Wells," sez he,
"Him that horses leased,
Owned that bit of property,
Groomin' for the priest?"
"Guessin' eggs and seen the shells;
Brains," sez I, "and breedin' tells,
This old gent is Ed'ard Wells,
Late Teddo Wells, deceased.
Ringin' bells is Ed'ard's game,
Openin' doors and closin' same,
Called 'groomin'' for the priest."
Never see a horse nohow,
Just an old machine;
Always in a tearin' row
With this Josephine.
Got an eye that makes you feel
Well and truly p'liced,
Follerin' out upon your heels,
A-goin' to tell the priest.
"Can't smoke here now, Ed'ard Wells,
That old pipe offensive smells;
Go and smoke outside," she yells.
So Teddo Wells, deceased,
Him that once was in the boom,
Wood-heap has for smokin' room-
A-groomin' for the priest.
Times I says it's all a joke
Someone's puttin' up;
Me dead-beat and stony-broke,
Me that won a cup,
Owned that bit of property,
Them good horses leasedl
Kickin' round the presbytery
A-groomin' for the priest!
Choppin' wood and ringin' bells,
Curby-hocked and takin' spells!
Me it is, one Ed'ard Wells,
(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)
Smokin' hard and talkie' free
Of the man he used to be,
And groomin' for the priest.
That Norah O'Neill is a sthreel,
And I'm talking the way that I feel,
With her dowdy old hat, and her hair pasted flat,
And her skirt bobbing after her heel;
And there to the church she will steal,
And under the lamp she will kneel
When confessions are done, and there's never a one
To be heard but that Norah O'Neill.
It annoys the priest's man a great deal,
And it makes every one boogathiel
At him! scraping the floor, yes, and rattlin' the door
Just to hurry my lady O'Neill.
But there she will squat on her heel,
While over the forms he will steal;
He would put out the light, and close up for the night-
But he can't for that keershuch O'Neill.
I believe (and I talk as I feel)
When there at the Judgment we kneel,
And, each in his place, is the whole human race-
One half to be sent to the dell-
That, just as they're setting the seal,
A dust-cloud a glance will reveal
At the end of the day, Jerusalem way;
And you'll find 'twill be Norah O'Neill,
With her skirt bobbing after her heel,
And we'll have to go through the whole business anew;
Och, Norah O'Neill is a sthreel.
Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed,
From the ages of Gog and Magog,
At the top of the list, from the last to the first,
And by every good soul in the parish accursed,
his that scamp of a Presbyt'ry Dog.
He's a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin,
He's a demon that travels incog.,
With a classical name, and an ignorant grin,
And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin,
And the rest of him merely a dog.
He is like a young waster of fortune possessed,
As he rambles the town at a jog;
For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest,
While the comp'ny he keeps-well, it must be confessed
It's Unfit for a Presbyt'ry Dog.
He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,
With the eyes on him standing agog,
And the scut of a tail-well, bedad, it's a fright;
Faith, you'd give him a kick that would set him alight,
But you can't with the Presbyt'ry Dog.
His rotundity now to absurdity runs,
Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;
For the knowing old shaver the presbytery shuns
When it's time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns,
Whotre deceived in the Presbyt'ry Dog.
When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war.
He inspects the whole place at a jog,
And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore,
While he chases the sheep till we're after his gore,
Though he may be the Presbytery Dog.
'Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went ahead
With an ill-bred and loud monologue,
And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead,
And I'm with him in every last word that he said-
Ah, but wait-'twas the Presbyttry Dog.
The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,
And galvanised the old bush church at Confirmation time;
And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,
With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.
Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too
An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?
A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,
And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;
Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin's rim,
And trees sprout up a hundr - 1 feet before they shoot a limb;
There everything is big and Errand, and men are giants too-
But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.
The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;
He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.
But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;
He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn't sure of that.
The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,
And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.
"Come, tell me, boy," his lordship said in crushing tones severe,
"Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?
"How is it that around the world we celebrate that day
"And send a name upon a card to those who're far away?
"Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?"
A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.
He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,
He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.
And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,
"That's good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?"
The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew-
"It's the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo."
Now McEvoy was altar-boy
As long as I remember;
He was, bedad, a crabbed lad,
And sixty come December.
Faith, no one dared to "interfere"
In things the which concernin'
'Twas right and just to him to trust
Who had the bit o' learnin'
To serve the priest; and here at least
He never proved defaulter;
So, wet or dry, you could rely
To find him on the Altar.
The acolyte in surplice white
Some admiration rouses:
But McEvoy was altar-boy
In "Sund'y coat-'n-trouses."
And out he'd steer, the eye severe
The depths behind him plumbin',
In dread, I wot (he once was "cot"),
The priest might not be comic':
Then, stepping slow on heel and toe,
No more he'd fail or falter,
But set likewise with hands and eyes
He'd move about the altar.
A master-stroke of other folk
Might start the opposition,
And some, mebbe, in jealousy
Bedoubt their erudition;
But McEvoy was altar-boy
And, spite of all their chattin',
It "put the stuns" on lesser ones
To hear him run the Latin.
And faith, he knew the business through,
The rubrics and the psalter;
You never met his "aikals" yet
When servin' on the Altar.
The priest, indeed, might take the lead
By right of Holy Orders,
But McEvoy was altar-boy,
And just upon the borders.
So sermons dry he'd signify
With puckered brows behoovin',
An', if you please, at homilies
He'd nod the head approvin';
And all the while a cute old smile
Picked out the chief defaulter;
Faith, wet or dry, the crabbed eye
Would "vet" you from the Altar.