Saltbush Bill, J.P.

Beyond the land where Leichhardt went,Beyond Sturt's Western track,The rolling tide of change has sentSome strange J.P.'s out back.

And Saltbush Bill, grown old and grey,And worn for want of sleep,Received the news in camp one dayBehind the travelling sheep

That Edward Rex, confiding inHis known integrity,By hand and seal on parchment skinHad made hiim a J.P.

He read the news with eager faceBut found no word of pay."I'd like to see my sister's placeAnd kids on Christmas Day.

"I'd like to see green grass again,And watch clear water run,Away from this unholy plain,And flies, and dust, and sun."

At last one little clause he foundThat might some hope inspire,"A magistrate may charge a poundFor inquest on a fire."

A big blacks' camp was built close by,And Saltbush Bill, says he,"I think that camp might well supplyA job for a J.P."

That night, by strange coincidence,A most disastrous fireDestroyed the country residenceOf Jacky Jack, Esquire.

'Twas mostly leaves, and bark, and dirt;The party most concernedAppeared to think it wouldn't hurtIf forty such were burned.

Quite otherwise thought Saltbush Bill,Who watched the leaping flame."The home is small," said he, "but stillThe principle's the same.

"Midst palaces though you should roam,Or follow pleasure's tracks,You'll find," he said, "no place like home --At least like Jacky Jack's.

"Tell every man in camp, 'Come quick,'Tell every black MariaI give tobacco, half a stick --Hold inquest long-a fire."

Each juryman received a nameWell suited to a Court."Long Jack" and "Stumpy Bill" became"John Long" and "William Short".

While such as "Tarpot", "Bullock Dray",And "Tommy Wait-a-While",Became, for ever and a day,"Scot", "Dickens", and "Carlyle".

And twelve good sable men and trueWere soon engaged uponThe conflagration that o'erthrewThe home of John A. John.

Their verdict, "Burnt by act of Fate",They scarcely had returnedWhen, just behind the magistrate,Another humpy burned!

The jury sat again and drewAnother stick of plug.Said Saltbush Bill, "It's up to youPut some one long-a Jug."

"I'll camp the sheep," he said, "and siftThe evidence about."For quite a week he couldn't shift,The way the fires broke out.

The jury thought the whole concernAs good as any play.They used to "take him oath" and earnThree sticks of plug a day.

At last the tribe lay down to sleepHomeless, beneath a tree;And onward with his travelling sheepWent Saltbush Bill, J.P.

His sheep delivered, safe and sound,His horse to town he turned,And drew some five-and-twenty poundFor fees that he had earned.

And where Monaro's ranges hideTheir little farms away --His sister's children by his side --He spent his Christmas Day.

The next J.P. that went out backWas shocked, or pained, or both,At hearing every pagan blackRepeat the juror's oath.

No matter how he turned and fledThey followed faster still;"You make it inkwich, boss," they said,"All same like Saltbush Bill."

They even said they'd let him seeThe fires originate.When he refused they said that heWas "No good magistrate".

And out beyond Sturt's western track,And Leichhardt's farthest tree,They wait till fate shall send them backTheir Saltbush Bill, J.P.