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The Fact Of The Matter
By Edward Dyson
I'm wonderin' why those fellers who go buildin' chipper ditties,
'Bout the rosy times out drovin', an' the dust an' death of cities,
Don't sling the bloomin' office, strike some drover for a billet,
And soak up all the glory that comes handy while they fill it.
P'r'aps it's fun to travel cattle or to picnic with merinos,
But the drover don't catch on, sir, not much high-class rapture he knows.
As for sleepin' on the plains there in the shadder of the spear-grass,
That's liked best by the Juggins with a spring-bed an' a pier-glass.
An' the camp-fire, an' the freedom, and the blanky constellations,
The 'possum-rug an' billy, an' the togs an' stale ole rations,
It's strange they're only raved about by coves that dress up pretty,
An' sport a wife, an' live on slap-up tucker in the city.
I've tickled beef in my time clear from Clarke to Riverina,
An' shifted sheep all round the shop, but blow me if I've seen a
Single blanky hand who didn't buck at pleasures of this kidney,
And wouldn't trade his blisses for a flutter down in Sydney.
Night-watches are delightful when the stars are really splendid
To the chap who's fresh upon the job, but, you bet, his rapture's ended
When the rain comes down in sluice-heads, or the cuttin' hailstones pelter,
An' the sheep drift off before the wind, an' the horses strike for shelter.
Don't take me for a howler, but I find it come annoyin'
To hear these fellers rave about the pleasures we're enjoyin',
When p'r'aps we've nothin' better than some fluky water handy,
An' they're right on all the lickers, rum, an' plenty beer an' brandy.
The town is dusty, may be, but it isn't worth the curses
'Side the dust a feller swallers an' the blinded thirst he nurses
When he's on the hard macadam, where the jumbucks cannot browse, an'
The wind is in his whiskers, an' he follers twenty thousan'.
This drovin' on the plain, too, it's all O.K. when the weather
Isn't hot enough to curl the soles right off your upper leather,
Or so cold that when the mornin' wind comes hissin' through the grasses
You can feel it cut your eyelids like a whip-lash as it passes.
Then there's bull-ants in the blankets, an' a lame horse, an' muskeeters,
An' a D.T. boss like Halligan, or one like Humpy Peters,
Who is mean about the tucker, an' can curse from start to sundown,
An' can fight like fifty devils, an' whose growler's never run down.
Yes, I wonder why the fellers what go building chipper ditties
'Bout the rosy times out drovin' an' the dust an' death of cities,
Don't sling the bloomin' office, strike ole Peters for a billet,
An' soak up all the glory that comes handy while they fill it.
Extra Info:
The Bulletin, 30 July 1892.
The "Bush Controversy"
In 1892, Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson, his friend and co-contributor to The Bulletin, decided to have a little fun, and to stir up a controversy in their poems. Henry Lawson set out to criticise the optimistic picture The Banjo painted of the Bush, and The Banjo in turn railed against the doom and gloom of Lawson's outlook.
Other poets became willing participants in this poetic altercation, and their poems are represented here.
9 July 1892 Henry Lawson Borderland
(Later re-titled "Up the country")
23 July 1892 Banjo Paterson In Defence of the Bush
30 July 1892 Edward Dyson The Fact of the Matter
6 August 1892 Henry Lawson In Answer to "Banjo", and otherwise
(Later: The City Bushman)
20 August 1892 H.H.C.C. The Overflow of Clancy
27 August 1892 Francis Kenna Banjo of the Overflow
1 October 1892 Banjo Paterson In Answer to Various Bards
(Later: An Answer to Various Bards)
8 October 1892 Henry Lawson The Poets of the Tomb
20 October 1894 Banjo Paterson A Voice from the Town
Paterson described the "Bulletin battle" in these words:
Henry Lawson was a man of remarkable insight in some things and of extraordinary simplicity in others. We were both looking for the same reef, if you get what I mean; but I had done my prospecting on horseback with my meals cooked for me, while Lawson has done his prospecting on foot and had had to cook for himself. Nobody realized this better than Lawson; and one day he suggested that we should write against each other, he putting the bush from his point of view, and I putting it from mine.
"We ought to do pretty well out of it," he said, "we ought to be able to get in three or four sets of verses before they stop us."
This suited me all right, for we were working on space, and the pay was very small . . . so we slam-banged away at each other for weeks and weeks; not until they stopped us, but until we ran out of material . . .
"Banjo Paterson Tells His Own Story",
Sydney Morning Herald, 4 Feb-4 Mar 1939
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