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“Tear-All” Thomson

Edward S. Sorenson

There’s a chap at Coolabinda, where the sun’s like burning brass,
    Widely known as “Tear-all” Thomson’ of the rip-or-bust-it class;
Who has sworn off weekly wages, and is sinking tanks instead,
    At a contract price per cubic that allows but little bed.
You will hear him in the morning ere the stars have ceased to shine,
    Bawling to his weary henchmen that it’s time to up and dine;
Then you’ll hear him pelting outward, and you’ll hear his splitting yells
    As he musters up the horses, with a deafning clang of bells.

He is bent with ever rushing, and through peering in the dark,
    And the fear to lose a minute on his face has left its mark;
You will never hear him whistle, and you seldom hear him talk,
    While his calmest gait’s a shuffle—that’s when Thomson tries to walk.
When he’s catching Cramp and Bowler it would quite astonish you
    To see him diving under just to save a step or two.
Then it’s tear away with scoop and plough, full rip from bank to bank—
    ‘Tis a sight to see the energy of Thomson in a tank.

Now ‘n’ again a sportive cyclone calls upon him unawares,
    Takes him topsy-turvy downwards (Lord above us, how he swears!)
You can hear the old scoop rattle and the handles of it slam,
    As a perfect avalanche of dust goes hurtling ‘cross the dam;
You will hear his frantic “whoa-back,” or exasperated “gee!”
    As he urges on the horses where no mortal eye can see,
Till the blow is o’er, and Thomson with a gasp comes stagg’ring out,
    And the “Missus” grasps the water-bag and runs to quench his drought.

After him adown the batters, faith, she hasn’t time to think,
    When she catches up he tells her, “ Keep a-drivin’ while I drink!”
Then it’s “Lend me that there bonnet, for me hat ‘as blown away—
    Cop old Ikey, now, an’ stop it—there’s a bridle in the dray!”
When it’s smoke-o time with others you will hear old Thomson shout,
    “Get me pipe and fill it, Missus—hurry up an’ trot it out!”
Lighting up and running after, with the smoke-cloud veering south,
    She will dab the smoker at him till she gets it in his mouth.

He is rushing down the batters, and he’s dashing up the bank—
    Lord, his hurry’s real surprising when he’s putting down a tank!
He is lifting here and dipping there, ne’er screened by leaf nor bough,
    With a dozen lathered horses harnessed to an iron plough.
He is shouting to the leaders to “get over, damn your eyes!”
    As he shakes his head like fury to unship a hundred flies.
So he’ll go it hell-for-leather till the bloomin’ tank is down,
    And his cheque is writ and ready for the bars down in the town.

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