Not Understood and Other Poems/“Rogers of Eaglehawk”
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“ROGERS OF EAGLEHAWK.”
THANK you! I’ll drink no more with you;
I’m a stranger here; it’s my turn to ‘shout’
Then I’ll be off—I’ve some work to do—
But who is this Rogers they rave about?
What has he done to create such fuss?
How has he caused such endless talk?
To use a slang phrase—‘Why is this thus?’
Who is this Rogers, of Eaglehawk?”
I’m a stranger here; it’s my turn to ‘shout’
Then I’ll be off—I’ve some work to do—
But who is this Rogers they rave about?
What has he done to create such fuss?
How has he caused such endless talk?
To use a slang phrase—‘Why is this thus?’
Who is this Rogers, of Eaglehawk?”
“Tell him, Harry, for you were there
Close to the mine, and you ought to know—
Listen mate, if you’ve time to spare,—
You haven’t been long upon Bendiga?”
“It’s just a fortnight to-day, and yet,
Although but a Sydney ‘Cornstalk,’
I’m very anxious to hear, you bet,
The story of Rogers, of Eaglehawk.”
Close to the mine, and you ought to know—
Listen mate, if you’ve time to spare,—
You haven’t been long upon Bendiga?”
“It’s just a fortnight to-day, and yet,
Although but a Sydney ‘Cornstalk,’
I’m very anxious to hear, you bet,
The story of Rogers, of Eaglehawk.”
“Harken! stranger, to the story,
Short it is, and to the point,
Some folks say we know no glory,
For the times are out of joint;
I’m not larn’d in old romancing,
I’m not vars’d in times gone by,
Days when errant knights went prancing,
Fighting for a lady’s sigh,
Or her glove may-be, but stranger.
Never ’neath the silver sun,
By the bravest knightly ranger,
Was a nobler action done
Than the deed I’m going to dwell on;
August, on the thirtieth day,—
That the very time it fell on,—
Rogers rescued Sampson Bray.
How it happen’d! Mate, you wonder?
When I think on it, I know,
We have heroes still, by thunder!
They were working down below;
They had charged four holes,—All ready
Safe are all the fuses placed;
Up they’re haul’d so firm and steady,
Yet there’s little time to waste;
Twenty-five feet up,—when slipping
From his hold, poor Sampson Bray,
Fell where deep the dark was dipping,
Down the shaft, and there he lay.
Quick as lightning, Rogers thundered—
‘Let me down! Oh, down again!’
Though the engine-driver wonder’d,
Still he turned the engine then;
Down went Rogers, quickly leaping
From the bucket, on he flew
To the spot where death was creeping
Through the fuses; then he drew
Three of them away. Thank Heaven!
Ah! but there’s a fourth—too late—
He cannot find it, and is driven
Now to rest on God and fate:
Down beside his mate he crouches
Down beside his mate to die;
Soft as down are stony couches,
When upon them brave men lie:
Loud reports—the hole exploded—
Showers of stone and debris fell,
And the drive with smoke was loaded,
Loaded like a pit of hell.
‘Are they dead?’ ‘No! boys, they’re living,
Haul them quickly to the plat!
Let us thanks to Heaven be giving—’
That’s my tale, mate; on this Flat
I have lived a working digger
Well nigh three and thirty year,
But I’ve never known a bigger
Hero, than our hero here.”
Short it is, and to the point,
Some folks say we know no glory,
For the times are out of joint;
I’m not larn’d in old romancing,
I’m not vars’d in times gone by,
Days when errant knights went prancing,
Fighting for a lady’s sigh,
Or her glove may-be, but stranger.
Never ’neath the silver sun,
By the bravest knightly ranger,
Was a nobler action done
Than the deed I’m going to dwell on;
August, on the thirtieth day,—
That the very time it fell on,—
Rogers rescued Sampson Bray.
How it happen’d! Mate, you wonder?
When I think on it, I know,
We have heroes still, by thunder!
They were working down below;
They had charged four holes,—All ready
Safe are all the fuses placed;
Up they’re haul’d so firm and steady,
Yet there’s little time to waste;
Twenty-five feet up,—when slipping
From his hold, poor Sampson Bray,
Fell where deep the dark was dipping,
Down the shaft, and there he lay.
Quick as lightning, Rogers thundered—
‘Let me down! Oh, down again!’
Though the engine-driver wonder’d,
Still he turned the engine then;
Down went Rogers, quickly leaping
From the bucket, on he flew
To the spot where death was creeping
Through the fuses; then he drew
Three of them away. Thank Heaven!
Ah! but there’s a fourth—too late—
He cannot find it, and is driven
Now to rest on God and fate:
Down beside his mate he crouches
Down beside his mate to die;
Soft as down are stony couches,
When upon them brave men lie:
Loud reports—the hole exploded—
Showers of stone and debris fell,
And the drive with smoke was loaded,
Loaded like a pit of hell.
‘Are they dead?’ ‘No! boys, they’re living,
Haul them quickly to the plat!
Let us thanks to Heaven be giving—’
That’s my tale, mate; on this Flat
I have lived a working digger
Well nigh three and thirty year,
But I’ve never known a bigger
Hero, than our hero here.”
“Mates, I’m not much given to gushing,
But when I listen’d to that there tale,
At times I felt my cheeks a flushing,
And then I fancied they turned quite pale;
Tears in my eyes at times were starting—
But hang it, lads, I’ve a way to walk,
Fill up the glasses, as we’re parting,
We’ll drink to Rogers of Eaglehawk.”
But when I listen’d to that there tale,
At times I felt my cheeks a flushing,
And then I fancied they turned quite pale;
Tears in my eyes at times were starting—
But hang it, lads, I’ve a way to walk,
Fill up the glasses, as we’re parting,
We’ll drink to Rogers of Eaglehawk.”