Shearers' Cook (1898)
SHEARERS' cook, with face of sorrow, mutters I will go to-morrow,Too long have I stood their nonsense, been a butt for all their chaff,
Snakes in bed are incommoding, powdered logs may kill exploding,
Cayenne pepper on one's blanket doesn't tend to make one laugh. Every hour I live in terror they may overdo in error
Some of their eternal joking, and I die some luckless day,
I must leave ; but one last dinner I'll prepare for every sinner
That he will remember ever, when I shall be far away. Shearers' cook, with face all smiling, told that night a tale beguiling,
Tale of next night's sumptuous feasting, of a pudding he would make,
Just to show that he was able to cook fit for any table,
Even could if fate permitted the Queen's cooking undertake. At the store next morn he pleaded for the many things he needed-
Currants, plums, spice, peel, and sugar : some he paid for, most they gave,
Stole a 'Bough on Bats' tin's label loosely lying on a table,
And marched homeward parcel-laden with a face benignly grave. On his way he stopped to gather flowers (which was unusual rather),
And he took them home and boiled them ('twas wild camomile), and then
Mixed the liquor with his cooking just to flavour (none were looking),
Then the purloined label pasted round his baking powder tin. All that day the shearers toiling thought upon the pudding boiling ;
Pictured to themselves the banquet which the coming night would bring,
When at last the day was ended, hastily their way they wended,
To the hut where supper waited, each man happy as a king. Presently the wretched creatures lay with wan and altered features, men
too exhausted for more efforts. Only waiting now to die.
Shearers' cook outside came crawling, uttering groans the most appalling,
Till he reached the spot, all darkness, where his hidden swag did lie. Shearers' cook remarked (with winking) Now they're paid in full, I'm thinking.
I forgive them all their joking. They will long remember me.
When this night's long years behind them they'll need no one to remind them
Of the cook they used to harass day and night unceasingly. Mutton, damper, hardly tasted, passed, no man his hunger wasted
On such fare. Then came the pudding. Truly 'twas a glorious sight ;
Big enough for e'en their wish's. Rich and brown and quite delicious,
With its lofty summit coated thickly with soft sugar white.
Shearers' cook, with face of pleasure, helped each man with bounteous measure,
And they ate, and cook ate also, till they all could eat no more,
Then they spoke of the strange flavour, an unknown scarce noticed savour,
And the cook seemed puzzled greatly. Never lasted such before. Scratched his head and deeply pondered ; "could it be the flour?" he wondered,
Or the spice ? Perhaps baking powder. From the shelf he reached the tin-
'Bough on Bats' All saw the label, though he dashed it 'neath the table,
And for all those hapless shearers did a time of woe begin. Shearers' cook, with face of terror, loudly cursed his fatal error.
Oh had they but spared his 'glasses,' ne'er he groaned would this have been.
But that kangaroo that wore them till in pieces broke and tore them ;
Spectacleless in his blindness, he had used the poison tin. Horrible the scene that followed ; men lay on the floor and wallowed.
Loud the yells for oil, salt, mustard, turpentine, and kerosene,
Cook the last two recommended, though his life he said was ended,
Some might yet be saved : his anguish seemed to glow for words too keen. Some for doctors' aid kept shrieking, doctors all too far for seeking,
One man got a scrap of paper and essayed to make his will,
Others to their prayers betook them, though their calmness soon forsook them,
Some begged all their comrades pardon if they'd over done them ill.
Notes
From the New South Wales Newspaper The Sydney Mail and New South Wales Advertiser Sat 17 Dec 1898.