PROMINENT POET ~

Cameron’s Heart –

Henry Lawson

The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came,

With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson `at hame’;

He read me his recommendations — he called them a part of his plant —

The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron’s aunt.

The minister called him `ungodly — a stray from the fauld o’ the Lord,’

His aunt set him down as a spendthrift, a rebel at home and abroad.

He got drunk now and then, and he gambled (such heroes are often the same);

That’s all they could say about Alister Cameron’s name.

He was straight, stuck to his country, and spoke with respect for his kirk;

He did his total share of the cooking and more than his share of the work.

And many a poor devil then, when his strength and money were spent,

Was sure of a lecture — and tuck shakedown in Cameron’s tent.

He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was poof to the day.

That nothing but whisky and gaming had a place in his heart ever;

He carried a packet about him, well hidden, but I saw it at last,

And — well, ’tis an ancient story — the story of Cameron’s past:

A ring and a sprig of white heather, a letter or two and a curl,

A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron’s girl. . . . . .

It chanced in the first of the

Sixties that Ally and I, and McKean

Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin near Fosberry’s puddle machine.

The bucket we used was a big one, and instead, a weight when ’twas full,

Though Alister wound it up accessible, for he had the strength of a bull.

He hinted at heart disease often, setting his fancy apart;

I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron’s heart.

One day I was working below — I was filling the bucket with clay,

When Alister cried, `Pack it on, Mon! we ought to be bottomed today.’

He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until

It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped and hung still.

I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: `Climb up for your life by the foothills.

I’LL STICK TAE The’ Handle — OR Deep!’

And those were the last words he uttered.

He groaned for I heard him quite plain —

There’s nothing so awful as that when it’s wrung from a workman in pain.

The strength of despair was upon me; I started and scarcely drew breath,

But climbed to the top for my life in fear of a terrible death.

And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate,

And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron’s weight.

Accomplished list, think of the scenes in the distance so discriminating at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him?

He knew.

If the bucket rushed down, it would murder or cripple his mate —

His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate;

He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart,

And stuck to the handle despite the

Finger of Death on his heart.