Backblock Ballads and Later Verses

Front matter

And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin But with firm, determined bearin', as he flung the whip on high.

BACKBLOCK BALLADS

AND LATER VERSES

An Old Master

An Old Master

We were cartin' laths and palin's from the slopes of Mount St. Leonard, With our axles near the road-bed and the mud as stiff as glue; And our bullocks weren't precisely what you'd call conditioned nicely, And meself and Messmate Mitchell had our doubts of gettin' through.

It had rained a tidy skyful in the week before we started, But our tucker-bag depended on the sellin' of our load; So we punched 'em on by inches, liftin' 'em across the pinches, Till we struck the final section of the worst part of the road.

We were just congratulatin' one another on the goin', When we blundered in a pot-hole right within the sight of goal, Where the bush-track joins the metal. Mitchell, as he saw her settle, Justified his reputation at the peril of his soul.

We were in a glue-pot, certain—red and stiff and most tenacious; Over naves and over axles—waggon sittin' on the road. "'Struth," says I, "they'll never lift her. Take a shot from Hell to shift her. Nothin' left us but unyoke 'em and sling off the blessed load."

Now, beside our scene of trouble stood a little one-roomed humpy, Home of an enfeebled party by the name of Dad McGee. Daddy was, I pause to mention, livin' on an old-age pension Since he gave up bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three.

Startled by our exclamations, Daddy hobbled from the shanty, Gazin' where the stranded waggon looked like some half-foundered ship. When the state o' things he spotted, "Looks," he says, "like you was potted," And he toddles up to Mitchell. "Here," says he, "gimme that whip."

Well! I've heard of transformations ; heard of fellers sort of changin' In the face of sudden danger or some great emergency; Heard the like in song and story and in bush traditions hoary, But I nearly dropped me bundle as I looked at Dad McGee.

While we gazed he seemed to toughen; as his fingers gripped the handle His old form grew straight and supple, and a light leapt in his eye; And he stepped around the waggon, not with footsteps weak and laggin', But with firm, determined bearin', as he flung the whip on high.

Now he swung the leaders over, while the whip-lash snarled and volleyed; And they answered like one bullock, strainin' to each crack and clout; But he kept his cursin' under till old Brindle made a blunder; Then I thought all Hell had hit me, and the master opened out.

And the language! Oh, the language! Seemed to me I must be dreamin'; While the wondrous words and phrases only genius could produce Roared and rumbled, fast and faster, in the throat of that Old Master— Oaths and curses tipped with lightning, cracklin' flames of fierce abuse.

Then we knew the man before us was a Master of our callin'; One of those great lords of language gone for ever from Out-back; Heroes of an ancient order; men who punched across the border; Vanished giants of the sixties; puncher-princes of the track.

Now we heard the timbers straining heard the waggon's loud complainin', And the master cried triumphant, as he swung 'em into line, As they put their shoulders to it, lifted her, and pulled her through it: "That's the way we useter do it in the days o' sixty-nine!"

Near the foot of Mount St. Leonard lives an old, enfeebled party Who retired from bullock-punchin' at the age of eighty-three. If you seek him folk will mention, merely, that he draws the pension; But to us he looms a Master—Prince of Punchers, Dad McGee!

Paw

"Paw"

Haw! Ai've just obteened a pension for mai Paw. And you should hev seen the people thet were theah. Re-ally, it was surpraising! Maind, Ai am not criticaising, But it was embarrassing, Ai do decleah. Ai met the Snobson-Smythes and Toady-Browns, and many moah Belonging to ouah set; and wondahed what they came theah foah.

And, of course, Ai didn't say a word of Paw. Ai rather think they've nevah heard of Paw. But Ai thought it well to mention That Ai came to get the pension For an agéd person who had worked for Maw. The Snobson-Smythes said, "Fancy! That is just why we came dahn." But Ai've heard they hev a mothah hidden somewheah out of tahn.

Haw! Ai do deserve some gratitude from Paw. To think what Ai've gone thro foah him to-day! Mixing with the lowah classes And Ai never saw such masses Of disreputable creatuahs, Ai must say. Impostors, Ai've no doubt, if most of them were but unmasked. And then, the most humiliating questions Ai was asked!

Yes, he forced me to admit it was foah Paw. Asked me, brutally, if it was foah mai Paw. Some low-bred official fellow, Who conversed in quaite a bellow, And he patronised me laike a high Bashaw. And his questions, rudely personal, Ai hardly could enduah. The Government should teach its people mannahs, Ai am suah!

Haw! Ai'm glad we've got the pension foah pooah Paw. His maintenance has been—O, such a strain. Ouah establishment's extensive And exceedingly expensive, As mai husband has remawked taime and again. It's quaite a miracle how Ai contrive to dress at all. He cut me dahn to twenty guineas for last Mayoral Ball!

And it's such a boah to hev to think of Paw— To hev a secret skeleton laike Paw. Paw, you know, was once a diggah, And he cuts no social figgah. And his mannahs! O, they touch us on the raw. Of course, we're very fond of him, and all thet sort of thing; But we couldn't hev him—could we?—when theah's naice folk visiting.

Haw! It's cost us pawnds and pawnds to care foah Paw. And then, it is so hard to keep him dawk. Why, no later than last Mond'y, Ai was out with Lady Grundy, When we ran raight into him outsaide the Pawk. Goodness knows! Ai managed, somehow, to elude him with a nod, And Ai said he was a tradesman; but she must hev thought it odd.

You can't picture the ubiquity of Paw, And he's really very obstinate, is Paw. Why, he held to the contention That this most convenient pension Was a thing he hadn't any raight to draw! He said we'd kept him eighteen months, and ought to keep him yet. But mai husband soon convinced him thet he couldn't count on thet.

Haw! He was a pioneah, you know, mai Paw. But of mai early laife Ai never tell. Paw worked, as Ai hev stated; And he had us educated; And, later on, Ai married rather well. And then, you know, deah Paw became—er—well, embarrassing. For he is so unconventional and—all thet sort of thing.

But the Government has taken ovah Paw. We are happy now we've aisolated Paw. And a bettah era's dawning, For mai husband said this mawning Thet the money saved would buy a motah-caw. Paw was so good to us when we were young, that, you'll allow, It's really taime the Government did something foah him now.

The Builders

The Builders

Behold, I built a fowlhouse in my yard! Two months ago the great work was begun, And every eventide I laboured hard, What time my daily office grind was done. 'Tis to my industry a monument. The fowls, my wife, and I are well content.

Indeed, I built a fowlhouse. God forbid— Although I made it, floor and roof and wall— That I should boast about this thing I did. I mention it most modestly withal. Just these two hands, this brain were all I had. I built it on my own, and I am glad.

And, as I toiled at eve, my wife would come, The candle, nails and divers tools to hold; And when I swore because I hit my thumb She did not hang the contract up to scold, Nor move a vote of censure, and maintain The thing should be pulled down and built again.

She is my helpmate, both in name and deed; Nor does she deem it policy to nag. And when she saw my wounded finger bleed She bound it up, most tenderly, with rag. Thus, for one end, did both of us conspire— To have a fowlhouse was our joint desire.

And, when I went about my work in town, No haunting vision filled my day with dread That she would pull the whole contraption down And start a building of her own instead. I knew, indeed, she would take care to leave Unharmed my handiwork of yester eve.

You'll note—if you're at all intelligent— Our system was simplicity itself: We wanted something, that was evident, To wit, a fowlhouse, perches, and a shelf For nests. I got some timber, tools and nails, And set to work. This method seldom fails.

And when I'd done, and saw it stand complete, With triumph was I most absurdly filled. A tiny thing, enclosing ten square feet, That any deft suburbanite might build— Yet was my soul with satisfaction seized; And, on the whole, I think the fowls were pleased.

Now that my hens are well and snugly housed, And given cosy nests in which to lay, It seems their gratitude has been aroused; Our egg supply increases day by day. And yet, I vow, when I their house designed No sordid thought of eggs was in my mind.

Maybe I seem a trifle too inclined To brag about a very simple feat. Yet strange ideas crowd into my mind When I sit down to scan my morning sheet, And read of other builders who should be Goliaths in comparison with me.

Their mighty undertakings, I've no doubt— Vast railway lines that span a continent, And other matters that I read about— Are apt to cause much wordy argument. Yet I, who calmly built a house for fowls, Can feel contempt for these unseemly howls.

For when they move to build, unholy shouts Go up to Heaven from opponent throats; The Ins are ever brawling with the Outs; And both are scheming sordidly for votes. They build not as true builders, such as I, Who build for love, and scorn the trade they ply.

Thank God, my wife and I are well content In doing things to win a modest name Without the aid of Party Government And all the meanness of that paltry Game. Honest endeavour, and some boards and nails, Pride in your work—this method seldom fails.

I am so diffident, I hardly care To give advice to statesmen eminent, And yet, on this occasion, shall I dare To offer them some small encouragement: Let them forgo their wrangles, curses, howls, And strive to build a little place for fowls.

'Tis sheer presumption, surely, to compare Myself with statesmen in high honour decked; Yet do I feel emboldened to declare That I am more deserving of respect. They, by their brawls, a mighty work have marred; I built an honest fowlhouse in my yard.

Wheat

Wheat

"Sowin' things an' growin' things, an' watchin' of 'em grow; That's the game," my father said, an' father ought to know. "Settin' things an' gettin' things to grow for folks to eat: That's the life," my father said, "that's very hard to beat." For my father was a farmer, as his father was before, Just sowin' things an' growin' things in far-off days of yore, In the far-off land of England, till my father found his feet In the new land, in the true land, where he took to growin' wheat. Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the sound of it is sweet! I've been praisin' it an' raisin' it in rain an' wind an' heat Since the time I learned to toddle, till it's beatin' in my noddle, Is the little song I'm singin' you of Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Plantin' things—an' grantin' things is goin' as they should, An' the weather altogether is behavin' pretty good— Is a pleasure in a measure for a man that likes the game, An' my father he would rather raise a crop than make a name.

For my father was a farmer, an' "All fame," he said, "ain't reel; An' the same it isn't fillin' when you're wantin' for a meal." So I'm followin' his footsteps, an' a-keepin' of my feet, While I cater for the nation with my Wheat, Wheat, Wheat. Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When the poets all are beat By the reason that the season for the verse crop is a cheat, Then I comes tip bright an' grinnin' with the knowledge that I'm winnin', With the rhythm of my harvester an' Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

Readin' things an' heedin' things that clever fellers give, An' ponderin' an' wonderin' why we was meant to live— Muddlin' through an' fuddlin' through philosophy an' such Is a game I never took to, an' it doesn't matter much. For my father was a farmer, as I might 'a' said before, An' the sum of his philosophy was, "Grow a little more. For growin' things," my father said, "it makes life sort o' sweet An' your conscience never swats you if your game is growin' wheat." Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Oh, the people have to eat! An' you're servin' , an' deservin' of a velvet-cushion seat In the cocky-farmers' heaven when you come to throw a seven; An' your password at the portal will be, "Wheat, Wheat, Wheat."

Now, the preacher an' the teacher have a callin' that is high While they're spoutin' to the doubtin' of the happy by an' by; But I'm sayin' that the prayin' it is better for their souls When they've plenty wheat inside 'em in the shape of penny rolls. For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' grieve When he thought about the apple that old Adam got from Eve. It was foolin' with an orchard where the serpent got 'em beat, An' they might 'a' kept the homestead if they'd simply stuck to wheat. Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! If you're seekin' to defeat Care an' worry in the hurry of the crowded city street, Leave the hustle all behind you; come an' let contentment find you In a cosy little cabin lyin' snug among the wheat.

In the city, more's the pity, thousands live an' thousands die Never carin', never sparin' pains that fruits may multiply; Breathin', livin', never givin'; greedy but to have an' take, Dyin' with no day behind 'em lived for fellow-mortals' sake. Now my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit and laugh At the "fools o' life," he called 'em, livin' on the other half. Dyin' lonely, missin' only that one joy that makes life sweet— Just the joy of useful labour, such as comes of growin' wheat. Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! Let the foolish scheme an' cheat; But I'd rather, like my father, when my span o' life's complete,

Feel I'd lived by helpin' others; earned the right to call 'em brothers Who had gained while I was gamin' from God's earth His gift of wheat.

When the settin' sun is gettin' low above the western hills, When the creepin' shadows deepen, and a peace the whole land fills, Then I often sort o' soften with a feelin' like content, An' I feel like thankin' Heaven for a day in labour spent. For my father was a farmer, an' he used to sit an' smile, Realizin' he was wealthy in what makes a life worth while. Smilin', he has told me often, "After all the toil an' heat, Lad, he's paid in more than silver who has grown one field of wheat." Wheat, Wheat, Wheat! When it comes my turn to meet Death the Reaper, an' the Keeper of the Judgment Book I greet, Then I'll face 'em sort o' calmer with the solace of the farmer That he's fed a million brothers with his Wheat, Wheat, Wheat.

The Lovers

The Lovers

One idle hour she sought to see Whose image 'twas he cherished so, (All fondly certain whose 'twould be) And found a—girl she did not know.

A trusting maiden's modest face, All innocence and purity. "What nun is this that fills my place? Alas, he loves me not!" sighed she.

"Nay, daughter, let no foolish fears Your trust in his devotion mar," Her mother said. "Come, dry your tears ; That is the girl he thinks you are."

All fondly curious with love— (Half guessing what he would lay bare) He rifled her heart's treasure-trove, And found—a stranger's image there.

"This is the man she loves!" said he, And, searching in the noble face, Read high resolve and constancy. "This saint," he cried, "usurps my place!"

"Nay," spake his friend. "Your anger cool ; Gaze on that godlike face once more; And then be satisfied, O fool; That is the man she takes you for."

"Got-A-Fag"

"Got-a-Fag"

He was tall and tough and stringy, with the shoulders of an axe-man, Broad and loose, with greenhide muscles; and a hand shaped to the reins; He was slow of speech and prudent, something of a Nature student, With the eye of one who gazes far across the saltbush plains.

Smith, by name; but long forgotten was his legal patronymic In a land where every bushman wears some unbaptismal tag; And through frequent repetition of a well-worn requisition, "Smith" had long retired in favour of the title, "Got-a-Fag."

Not until the war was raging for a month, or maybe longer, Did the tidings reach the station, blest with quite unfrequent mails; And, though still a steady grafter, he grew restless ever after, And he pondered long of evenings, seated on the stockyard rails.

Primed with sudden resolution, he arose one summer morning, Casually mentioned fighting, as he deftly rolled his swag; Then, in accents almost hearty, bade his mate, "So long, old Party! I am on some Square-head huntin'. See you later. Got a fag?"

Ten long, sunburned days in saddle, down through spinifex and saltbush, Then a two-days' railroad journey landed him at last in town Charged with an aggressive feeling, heightened by the forthright dealing With a shrewd but chastened spieler who had sought to take him down.

"Smart and stern" describes the war-lord who presided at recruiting. To him slouched an apparition, drawling, "Boss, I've got a nag; Risin' four—good prad he's counted. Better shove me in the mounted; Done a little bit o' shootin'—gun an' rifle. Got a fag?"

Two months later, drilled and kneaded to a shape approaching martial, Yet with hints of that lithe looseness discipline can never kill, With that keen eye grown yet shrewder, an example to the cruder, Private Smith (and, later, Sergeant) stinted speech and studied drill.

"Smith" indeed but briefly served him, and his former appellation In its aptness seized the fancy of the regimental wag, When an apoplectic Colonel gasped, "Of all the dashed, infernal. . . ." As this Private Smith saluted, with "Ribuck, Sir! Got a fag?"

What he thought, or how he marvelled at the unfamiliar customs Of those ancient and historic lands that later met his eyes, He was never heard to mention; though he voiced one bold contention, That the absence of wire fences marked a lack of enterprise.

Soon his shrewd resource, his deftness, won him fame in many places. Things he did with wire and whipcord moved his company to brag. And when aught concerning horses called for knowledge in the forces Came a hurried, anxious message, "Hang the vet! Send Got-a-Fag!"

Then, one morning, he was missing, and a soldier who had seen him Riding for the foe's entrenchments bade his mates abandon hope.

Calm he seemed, but strangely daring; some weird weapons he was bearing Built of twisted wire and iron, and a dozen yards of rope.

At the dawn a startled sentry, through the early morn-mists peering, Saw a dozen shackled foemen down the sand dunes slowly drag. Sore they seemed, and quite dejected, while behind them, cool, collected, Swearing at a busy sheep-dog, rode their drover, Got-a-Fag.

To the Colonel's tent he drove them, brandishing a stock-whip featly, Briskly calling "Heel 'em, Laddie!" While the warrior of rank Sniffed, and then exclaimed with loathing, "What's this smell of burning clothing?" Said the drover, "Got 'em branded 'A.—Broad Arrow'—off-side flank.

"A," he drawled, "stan's for Australia, an' the Gov'ment brand's in order. 'Crown—G.R.' upon the shoulder marks 'em for the King an' flag.

Roped the blighters, same as how we fix the calves on Kinchacowie. But it's dead slow sort o' must'rin'," he concluded. "Got a fag?"

When the weary war is over, back to his old cattle station, If luck holds, he'll one day journey, casually drop his swag, Drawling, "Been up yonder—fightin' . . . Not much doin' . . . mostly skitin' . . . Gimme drovin' for excitement. . . . Rain seems wantin'. . . . Got a fag?"

The Chase of Ages

The Chase of Ages

Light of my lives! Is the time not yet? Lo, I've brooded on a star Through many a year, with the hope held dear That, in some future far, I would know the joy of a love returned. Are my lives lived vainly, all, Since that cosmic morn when life, new-born, First moved on this mundane ball?

Yea, I mind it yet, when first we met On a tertiary rock, How the graceful charm of your rudiments Imparted love's first shock. But I was a mere organic cell In that early Eocene, While you were a prim, primordial germ, And the mother of protogene.

So I loved and died, and the ages sped Till the time of my second birth; When I took my place in the cosmic race, And again came down to earth. Once more we met. Ah, Love, not yet! You were far above my state! For how could I raise my mollusc gaze To a virtuous vertebrate?

Again we died, and again we slept, And again we came to be— I as an anthropoidal ape, And you as a chimpanzee. You as a charming chimpanzee, With a high patrician air; And I watched you waltz from tree to tree As I slunk in my lowly lair.

And yet again, in an age or so, We met, and I mind the sob I sobbed when I found that I was—what? And you were a thingumbob. You had sold your tail for a kind of soul, You had grown two thumbs beside; And I knew again that my love was vain, So I went to the woods and died.

As a humble homunculus, later on, I crept to your cave at night, And howled long, love-lorn howls in vain To my lady troglodyte. And I grew insane at your cold disdain, And my howlings filled the place, Till your father sought me out one night, And again I yearned in space.

Then, Light of my lives! Is the time not yet? Say, in what distant life— In what dim age that is still to come May I win and call you wife? Still high above! My Love, my Love! Nay, how can I raise my eyes To you, my Star of the Eocene, My ever elusive prize?

Lo, Time speeds on, the suns grow cold, And the earth infirm and hoar, And, ages past, we are here at last— Ay, both on the earth once more. But, alas, Dear Heart, as far apart As e'er in this cosmic whirl; For I'm but a lowly writer-man And you are a tea-room girl.

A Guide for Poits

A Guide for Poits

(Compiled by The Sentimental Bloke.)

I ain't no verse-'og. When I busts in song An' fills the air wiv choonful melerdy, I likes fer uvver coves to come along An' biff the lyre in company wiv me.

So, when I sees some peb beguile an hour Be joinin' in the chorus o' me song, I never sees no use in turnin' sour; Fer singin' days wiv no one larsts too long.

I'd like to see the Rocks an' Little Lon Grow centres for the art uv weavin' rhyme, Wiv dinky 'arps fer blokes to plunk upon, An' spruikin' poits workin' overtime.

I'd love to listen to each choonful lay Uv soulful coots who scorn to write fer gain; To see True Art bloom down in Chowder Bay, An' Culcher jump the joint in Spadger's Lane.

Gawstruth! Fer us life's got no joy to spare, We're short uv bird-songs, "soarin' clear an' pure." A bloke is 'ardly orf the bottle there Before 'e's in the jug—a bird fer sure.

So 'oo am I to say no blokes shall sing Jist 'ow 'an where an' when sich blokes may choose? She's got no lines to show, nor yet no ring. Lor' bli'me! I ain't married to me Muse!

An', square an' all, to show there's no offence, To show that in me 'eart true friendship lies, I gives free gratis, an' wivout ixpense, A few igzamples, jist to put 'em wise.

First, choose some swingin' metre, sich as this, That Omar used—per Fitz—to boost the wine. An' 'ere's a point true artists shouldn't miss : Sling in a bit o' slang to ev'ry line.

An' when yer full o' them alternate rhymes— As all the true push poits is at times— Jist ring the changes, as I'm doin' now; An' find ixcuse to say : "The bloomin' cow!"

Or, comin' back to Omar's style again, It's easy fer to pen a sweet refrain Wiv this 'ere jist a dead-'ead sort o' line, An' this one rhymin' wiv the former twain.

An' though this style me soul 'as often vext, Wiv care an' pains the knack is easy cort: This line's rhymed wiv the first, an' then the next Is cut orf short. An' if yeh want to round it orf orl neat Jist add a couplet 'ere of equil feet.

An' 'ere's a style I've very often done: You swing orf 'ere, an' find a second rhyme, Then hitch the third line to the leadin' one. An' make the fourth lap wiv the second chime, An' then you sort o' come another time, An' jist end up the same as you begun.

It's orl dead easy when yeh know the way, An' 'ave the time to practise it—But, say, Although it sort o' takes the eye, no doubt (An', mind yeh, I'm not sayin' but it may)— Wivout a stock uv rhymes to see you out This style o' rhymin's like to turn yeh grey.

The triplets comes much 'arder than the twins; But I 'ave 'ad to bear 'em fer me sins. 'Ere, fer a single line, yeh change the style, Switch orf an' rhyme the same as you begins ; An' then yeh comes back at it wiv a smile, Pertendin' it's dead easy orl the while.

Them sawed-orf lines 'as often stood me friends ; Fer you kin cut 'em up to serve yer ends. An' frequent I 'ave slung the dotin' throng This sort o' song. To ring su'prises on the eye an' ear Is 'arf the game. It seems to kind o' queer The dull monotony. Yeh make a miss, An' then do this.

Aw, 'Struth! it's pretty; but you take my tip, It gives a bloke the everlastin' pip 'Oo tries to live upon the game and gets. . . . Corns on 'is brain an' melancholy debts!

Wiv sweat an' tears, wiv misery an' sighs, Yeh wring yer soul-case fer one drop of bliss To give the cold, 'ard world; an' it replies, "Prompt payment will erblige. Please settle this."

The rarest treasures of yer 'eart yeh spend On callous, thankless coots; an' in the end It comes to this: if you can't find a muse 'Oo takes in washin', wot's the flamin' use?

Grimbles and the Gnad

Grimbles and the Gnad

It was told me by a bushman, bald and bent, and very old, Upon the road to Poolyerleg; and here's the tale he told. 'Twould seem absurd to doubt his word, so honest he appeared— And, as he spoke, the sou'-west wind toyed gently with his beard.

"First it was the Grimble Grubs, Which they et his taters; An' all we buried in the end Was Martin's boots an gaiters."

With this cryptic observation he began his anecdote; And, when I sought particulars, he smiled and cleared his throat; Then sat him down, and with his brown, rough hands about his knees He told it all. And, as he spoke, his beard waved in the breeze.

"First it was the Grimble Grubs— As I sez at startin— Which they et his tater crop, Which it troubled Martin.

"Now, this Martin was a farmer with a scientific mind"— (It was thus the bushman started, as his beard blew out behind)— "He farmed the land and, understand, his luck was all tip-top, Till them there little Grimble Grubs got in his tater crop.

"P'raps you have heard of Grimble Grubs; more likely p'raps you've not; When once they taste your taters you can look to lose the lot. An' poor Martin, he was worried till he met a feller who Had read a book about the Swook, the which lives in Peru.

"Now the Swook it is a beetle that inhabits Wuzzle Shrubs, An' it makes a steady diet of the little Grimble Grubs; So Martin he imported some, at very great expense, An' turned 'em loose to play the dooce and teach the Grimbles sense.

"Then he swore by Wuzzle Swooks— Friends of cultivators— Which they et the Grimble Grubs, Which they et his taters.

"But when the Wuzzle Swooks had et the Grimble Grubs right up, Then they had to change their habits for to find a bite an' sup;

So they started on his turnips, which was summat to their taste, Till Mister Martin's turnip patch became a howlin' waste.