60 Classic Australian Poems for Children Read Free

recognise him.’
    But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
    Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
    Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
    With his ear to the keyhole was listenin’,
    And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white
    â€˜What the divil and all is this christenin’?’
    He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts
    And it seemed to his small understanding
    If the man in the frock made him ‘one of the flock’
    It must mean something very like branding.
    So away with a rush he set off for the brush
    While the tears in his eyelids they glistened—
    â€˜â€™Tis outrageous,’ says he, ‘to brand youngsters like me,
    I’ll be dashed if I’ll stop to be christened!’
    Like a young native dog he ran into a log
    And his father with language uncivil,

    Never heeding the ‘praste’ cried aloud in his haste
    â€˜Come out and be christened, you divil!’
    But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug
    And his parents in vain might reprove him,
    Till His Reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
    â€˜I’ve a notion,’ says he, ‘that’ll move him!’
    â€˜Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog—
    Poke him aisy,—don’t hurt him or maim him,
    â€™Tis not long that he’ll stand, I’ve the wather at hand,
    As he rushes out this end I’ll name him!
    Here he comes, and for shame! ye’ve forgotten the name—
    Is it Patsey or Michael or Dinnis?’
    Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout—
    â€˜Take your chance, anyhow, wid Maginnis!’
    As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
    Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
    The priest, as he fled flung a flask at his head
    That was labelled ‘MAGINNIS’S WHISKY!’
    And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.
    And the one thing he hates more than sin is
    To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
    How he came to be christened ‘Maginnis’!
    The Bulletin , 1893

8
A Bush Christmas
CJ Dennis
    The sun burns hotly thro’ the gums
    As down the road old Rogan comes—
    The hatter from the lonely hut
    Beside the track to Woollybutt,
    He likes to spend his Christmas with us here.
    He says a man gets sort of strange
    Livin’ alone without a change,
    Gets sort of settled in his way;
    And so he comes each Christmas day
    To share a bite of tucker and a beer.
    Dad and the boys have nought to do,
    Except a stray odd job or two.
    Along the fence or in the yard,
    â€˜It ain’t a day for workin’ hard.’
    Says Dad: ‘One day a year don’t matter much.’
    And then dishevelled, hot and red,
    Mum, thro’ the doorway puts her head
    And says, ‘This Christmas cooking! My!
    The sun’s near fit for cooking by.’
    Upon her word she never did see such.
    â€˜Your fault,’ says Dad, ‘you know it is.
    Plum puddin’! On a day like this,
    And roasted turkeys! Spare me days!
    I can’t get over women’s ways.
    In climates such as this the thing’s all wrong.
    A bit of cold corn-beef an’ bread
    Would do us very well instead.’
    Then Rogan says, ‘You’re right; it’s hot.
    It makes a feller drink a lot.’
    And Dad gets up and says, ‘Well, come along.’
    The dinner’s served—full bite and sup.
    â€˜Come on,’ says Mum, ‘Now all sit up.’
    The meal takes on a festive air;
    And even father eats his share
    And passes up his plate to have some more.
    He laughs and says it’s Christmas time,
    â€˜That’s cookin’, Mum. The stuffin’s prime.’
    But Rogan pauses once to praise,
    Then eats as tho’ he’d starved for days.
    And pitches turkey bones outside the door.
    The sun burns hotly thro’ the gums,
    The chirping of the locusts comes
    Across the paddocks, parched and grey.
    â€˜Whew!’ wheezes Father. ‘What