Bill Jinks (1904)
A Romance in the American Manner.
Bill Jinks was a miner on Ballarat,A most tremenjious bloke ;
He lived in a cabin on Murderer's Flat,
And did nothing but swear and smoke ;
And when he'd got on his "whisky hot,"
"My word,' says Parson Parr,
"When Bill Jinks drinks I always thinks
That gate o' hell's ajar !" There was a report that Bill was brought
From the Island of Cockatoo,
Where the cheerful wretch had got fifteen stretch,
With five still left to do.
'Twas Porkey Clark made that remark,
As a sort of amusin' rumour ;
But Jinks let drive with a bowie knive,
And spoiled his sense of humor ! Now, drinking one night at the old Napier,
Where Bill would oft retire,
There comes in a horror upon us theer
Of some one crying "Fire !"
We rushed to the door, and Bill, before
A blessed soul could speak,
Cries, "By the hokey, it's Flinder's store
My mate on Gaffney's Creek !" The flames ran roaring like the sea,
All yellow, blue, and green ;
"It's all along," says Bill to me,
"O' that blasted kerosene.
Serve Flinder right for being an ass,
An' storin' the cussed stuff ;
Say, let's go back for another glass,
I guess we've seen enough." I thought the same, when the roar o' the flame
Was split by a woman's shriek
That cleft, all quivering clear and keen,
The roiling fire reck.
The place was two storey high, and wood,
And there at the garret winder
Old Maggie Dodd, the cripple, stood--
She as minded the kids for Flinder. Out jumps our Bill—I feels a thrill
When I think o' the figger he made,
(Just then came thunderin' over the hill
The Ballarat Fire Brigade).
"That woman," said he, "is a frizzlin'
But the crowd said never a word :
"Who'll come with me to help her down?"
But never a man of 'em stirred. "You curs," be says, "If that bag o' bones
Was a woman plump and young,
A callin' for help in her fresh young tones,
There'd be all of ye giviin' tongue ;
But because she's naught but that rum old sort,
A virgin of eighty-three,
You'll-well you'll see her d---d, in short,
'Ere you'll' burn for such as she." Now how he did it no one knows,
It has always been a puzzle,
But he seized the end of the engine-hot.
And seated himself on the muzzle,
"Now pump like blazes, any boys", he cries
"And pump me up to glory !"
They pumped! and Bill on the stream jet flies,
Borne straight to the upper story. He gripp'd a holt of the window ledge
(Old Maggie was tuming brown)
And waited, hanging on by the edge,
For the jet to take him down.
They pumped ! and Bill on the sinking stream,
With Meg in his arms descended,
When something got wrong with the engine beam,
And the water suddenly ended ! An awful thud-a splash of blood-
A silence-then a roar,
As through the crowd the one that lived
The cheerinq firemen bore.
'Twas Meg survived. This smoke, I guess,
Just makes my eyelids smart ;
But Bill was just an unpleasant mess,
Like a trod-upon raspberry tart ! Perhaps in heaven there ain't no liars,
Where friends can meet each other
(I haven't made out this world yet,
Lord, let alone the other) ;
But if there be, I'll there meet him-
For God is just I thinks-
And liquorin' up with the seraphim
Sits the soul of William Jinks ! --Marcus-Clarke. [The author of 'For The Term of His Natural Life" always argued that verses like "Jim Bludso," printed and commented on in this column last week, were trashy-that the striking effect produced by sandwiching pathos with extravagance of epithet, was but a literary Yankee trick, which anybody could do. A Melbourne friend disagreed, and Clarke wrote "Bill Brinks" to show how easy the trick was.] Ed C. Notes From the Tasmanian Newspaper The Clipper 3 Sep 1904 p. 1.