The Bards Who Lived At Manly

The camp of high-class spielers,     Who sneered in summer dress,     And doo-dah dilettante,     And scornful venuses,     House agents, and storekeepers,     All eager they to bleed,     The bards who tackled Manly,     Were plucky bards indeed!     With shops that feared to trust them,     And pubs that looked askance;     And prigs who read their verses,     But gave them not a glance;,     When all were vain and selfish,     And editors were hard,     The bard that stuck to Manly     Was sure a mighty bard.     What mattered floors were barren,     And windows curtainless,     And our life seemed to others     But blackguard recklessness?     We wore our clothes for comfort,     We earned our bread alway,     And beer and good tobacco     Came somehow every day.     Came kindred souls to Manly,     Outsiders that we knew,     And with them scribes and artists,     And low comedians too;     And sometimes bright girl writers,     Called Tommy, Jack, or Pat,     (Though each one had a sweetheart     The rest knew nought of that).     Twas not the paltry village     We honoured unaware,     Or welcome warm, or friendship,     Or tone that took us there;     We longed to sing for mankind,     Where heavens breath was free     We only sought the grandeur     Of sea-cliff, sands and sea.     And we were glad at Manly,     All unaware of swells,     Of doctors and of nurses,     And private hospitals;     With little fear of bailiffs,     And great contempt for greed,     The bards who lived at Manly,     They were a healthy breed.     Oh! moonlit nights at Manly,     When all the world was fair!     In shirts and turned-up trousers     We larked like big boys there.     Oh! glorious autumn mornings,     The gold and green and blue,     We stripped as well as any,     And swam as strongly too.     The artist had a missus,     Who rather loved the wretch,     And so for days together     Hed stay at home and sketch.     And then, I fear twas only     When things were getting tight,     The bards would shun each other,     And hump themselves, and write.     When bailiffs came to Manly     Theyd find no sticks to take,     Wed welcome them as brothers,     Their grimy hands wed shake;     Wed send for beer in billies,     And straightway send for more,     And bailiff nights in Manly     Were merry nights of yore.     There are some things that landlords     And law cant do at all:     They could not take the pictures     We painted on the wall;     They could not take the table,     The table was a door;     They could not take the bedsteads,     The beds were on the floor.     The door of some old stable,     Wed borrowed for a drink,     A page of rhymes and sketches,     And stained with beer and ink;     A dead hand drew the portraits,     And, say, should I be shamed,     To seek it out in Manly     And get the old door framed?     They left the masterpieces     The artist dreamed of long;     They could not take the gardens     From Victor Daleys song;     They left his summer islands     And fairy ships at sea,     They could not take my mountains     And western plains from me.     One bailiff was our brother,     No better and no worse,     And, oh! the yarns he told us     To put in prose and verse,     And sorry we to lose him,     And sorry he to go,     (Oh! skeletons of Potts Point,     How many things we know)!     The very prince of laughter,     With brains and sympathy;     And with us on the last night     He spent his bailiffs fee.     He banished Durkins gruffness,     He set my soul afloat,     And drew till day on Daleys     Bright store of anecdote.     He said hed stick to business,     Though he could well be free,     If but to save poor devils     From harder bums than he,     Now artist, bard and bailiff     Have left this vale of sin,     I trust, if they reach Heaven,     Theyll take that bailiff in.     The bards that lived in Manly     Have vanished one and one;     But do not think in Manly     Bohemian days are done.     They bled me white in Manly     When rich and tempest-tossed,     Ill leave some bills in Manly     To pay for what I lost.     Theyd grab and grind in Manly,     Then slander, sneer, and flout.     The shocked of moral Manly!     They starved my brothers out.     The miserable village,     Set in a scene so fair,     Were honester and cleaner     If some of us were there!     But one went with December,     These last lines seem to-night     Like some song I remember,     And not a song I write.     With vision strangely clearer     My old chums seem to be,     In death and absence, nearer     Than eer they were to me.     Alone, and still not lonely,     When tears will not be shed,     I wish that I could only     Believe that they were dead.     With hardly curbed emotion,     I cant but think, somehow,     In Manly by the ocean     Theyre waiting for me now.