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The Overflow Of Clancy
By H. H. C. C.
(On reading the Banjo's "Clancy of the Overflow."
I've read "The Banjo's" letter, and I'm glad he's found a better
Billet than he had upon the station where I met him years ago;
He was "slushy" then for Scotty, but the "bushland" sent him "dotty,"
So he "rose up, William Riley," and departed down below.
He "rolled up" very gladly, for he had bush-fever badly
When he left "the smoke" to wander "where the wattle-blossoms wave,"
But a course of "stag and brownie" seems to make the bush-struck towny
Kinder weaken on the wattle and the bushman's lonely grave.
Safe in town, he spins romances of the bush until one fancies
That it's all top-boots and chorus, kegs of rum and "whips" of grass,
And the sheep off camp go stringing when the "boss-in-charge" is singing,
Whilst we "blow the cool tobacco-smoke and watch the white wreaths pass."
Yet, I guess "The B." feels fitter in a b'iled shirt and "hard-hitter"
Than he would "way down the Cooper" in a flannel smock and "moles,"
For the city cove has leisure to indulge in stocks of pleasure,
But the drover's only pastime's cooking "What's this! on the coals."
And the pub. hath friends to meet him, and between the acts they treat him
Whie he's swapping "fairy twisters" with the "girls behind their bars,"
And he sees a vista splendid when the ballet is extended,
And at night he's in his glory with the comic-op'ra stars.
* * * * *
I am sitting, very weary, on a log before a dreary
Little fire that's feebly hissing 'neath a heavy fall of rain,
And the wind is cold and nipping, and I curse the ceaseless dripping
As I slosh around for wood to start the embers up again.
And, in place of beauty's greeting, I can hear the dismal bleating
Of a ewe that's sneaking out amongh the marshes for her lamb;
And for all the poet's skitin' that a new-chum takes delight in,
The drover's share of pleasure isn't worth a tinker's d--n.
Does he sneer at bricks and mortar when he's squatting in the water
After riding fourteen hours beneath a sullen, weeping sky?
Does he look aloft and thank it, as he spreads his sodden blanket?
for the drover has no time to spare, he has no time to dry.
If "The Banjo's" game to fill it, he is welcome to my billet;
He can "take a turn at droving", wages three-and-six a day,
And his throat'll get more gritty than mine will in the city
Where with Mister Lawson's squashes I can wash the dust away.
Extra Info:
The Bulletin, 20 August 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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