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Some bushmen called him Cranky Jack,
But no one knew his name,
Unless it was his henchman black,
And none knew whence he came.
Though short, he had no modicum
Of size the other way:
If hairless was his cranium,
His beard was long and grey.
He kept no sheep, he browsed no kine,
And not a horse had he;
He bred no goats, nor grunting swine,
Nor owned one honey-bee;
The only stock that swelled his purse
Were emus, big and fat—
No squatter in the universe
Before had thought of that.
Four thousand birds were on his land,
‘Twas grand to see them play,
Whilst Jack and his one station hand
Among them worked by day.
They gathered eggs of noble size
(They lived upon them, too),
For every acre bore a prize
Where grass and lignum grew.
Long ere those eggs were carried down
Rough tracks by slow degrees,
In cases to the railway town,
Consigned to bakeries,
He’d wandered where his emus fed,
He’d studied emus long;
He’d measured them and scratched his head,
And swore those birds were strong.
Then he a low, light waggon made,
And special harness, too,
With strips of hide that he had flayed
From many a kangaroo;
And, though the birds at first would strike,
And plunge and peck and scream,
They learned to pull in traces like
An ordinary team.
He loaded up with egg and shell
And started off for town;
Across the country all went well
Until a train came down.
The emus heard the roar, and shied,
Their marrow seemed to freeze;
They stood and panted, stared—and spied
The monster through the trees.
Just then it screeched, and, panic sent,
The feathered team swung round,
And with wild strides and plunges went
Across the broken ground.
Still to the reins clung Cranky Jack,
Although the pace was strong,
Whilst Binghi tumbled on his back
An yabbered loud end long.
They bolted round a marshy bend
Where miles of rushes grew;
But where they went, and what the end,
The black man never knew;
Though where the homestead used to be,
When all the run was dry,
They said at midnight you could see
A phantom team go by.
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