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The Other Dream Team

Cast: Greg Speirs, Jim Lampley, Bill Walton, Dan Majerle, Mickey Hart, Arvydas Sabonis, David Stern, David Remnick, Jonas Valanciunas, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, Chris Mullin, Mitch Richmond, Arturas Karnisovas

trailer for The Other Dream Team, directed by Marius A. Markevicius (2012)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tale VI

THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

Grave Jonas Kindred, Sybil Kindred's sire,
Was six feet high, and look'd six inches higher;
Erect, morose, determined, solemn, slow,
Who knew the man could never cease to know:
His faithful spouse, when Jonas was not by,
Had a firm presence and a steady eye;
But with her husband dropp'd her look and tone,
And Jonas ruled unquestion'd and alone.
He read, and oft would quote the sacred words,
How pious husbands of their wives were lords;
Sarah called Abraham Lord! and who could be,
So Jonas thought, a greater man than he?
Himself he view'd with undisguised respect,
And never pardon'd freedom or neglect.
They had one daughter, and this favourite child
Had oft the father of his spleen beguiled;
Soothed by attention from her early years,
She gained all wishes by her smiles or tears;
But Sybil then was in that playful time,
When contradiction is not held a crime;
When parents yield their children idle praise
For faults corrected in their after days.
Peace in the sober house of Jonas dwelt,
Where each his duty and his station felt:
Yet not that peace some favour'd mortals find,
In equal views and harmony of mind;
Not the soft peace that blesses those who love,
Where all with one consent in union move;
But it was that which one superior will
Commands, by making all inferiors still;
Who bids all murmurs, all objections, cease,
And with imperious voice announces--Peace!
They were, to wit, a remnant of that crew,
Who, as their foes maintain, their Sovereign slew;
An independent race, precise, correct,
Who ever married in the kindred sect:
No son or daughter of their order wed
A friend to England's king who lost his head;
Cromwell was still their Saint, and when they met,
They mourn'd that Saints were not our rulers yet.
Fix'd were their habits; they arose betimes,
Then pray'd their hour, and sang their party-

rhymes:
Their meals were plenteous, regular and plain;
The trade of Jonas brought him constant gain;
Vender of hops and malt, of coals and corn -
And, like his father, he was merchant born:

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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poem by Caasder Fronds
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Big Jilm

Rollin and wheelin, stealin and dealin - big jim
Bol weevil, its a pleasel, its a pleasel, my weasel - big jim
Dreamin and schemin, screamin and bleedin - big jim
Froggy in the meadow under the log - big jim
Rollin and wheelin, stealin and dealin - big jim
Bol weevil, its a pleasel, its a pleasel, my weasel - big jim
Big jim
Whats the biggest thing you ever did done see?
Big jim
I mean, whats the biggest, biggest thing you ever did done see?
Big jim
Rollin and wheelin, stealin and dealin - big jim (big jim! big jim!)
(doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo)
Bol weevil, its a pleasel, its a pleasel, my weasel - big jim (big jim!)
Dreamin and schemin, screamin and bleedin - big jim (big jim! big jim!)
Froggy in the meadow under the log - big jim (big jim!)
Big jim
I mean, biggest thing you ever did done see?
Big jim (big jim)
Biggest thing you ever did done see - big jim (big jim! big jim!)
Doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo (big jim)
Doo doo doo

song performed by Ween
Added by Lucian Velea
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Patience

Pacience is a poynt, þa33e,
& quo for þro may no3t þole, þe þikker he sufferes.
&Thorn;en is better to abyde þe bur vmbestoundes
&Thorn;en ay þrow forth my þro, þa33e masse,
How Mathew melede þat his Mayster His meyny con teche.
A3t happes He hem hy3t & vcheon a mede,
Sunderlupes, for hit dissert, vpon a ser wyse:
Thay arn happen þat han in hert pouerte,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche to holde for euer;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat haunte mekenesse,
For þay schal welde þis worlde & alle her wylle haue;
Thay ar happen also þat for her harme wepes,
For þay schal comfort encroche in kythes ful mony;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat hungeres after ry3t,
For þay schal frely be refete ful of alle gode;
Thay ar happen also þat han in hert rauþe,
For mercy in alle maneres her mede schal worþe;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat arn of hert clene,
For þay her Sauyour in sete schal se with her y3en;
Thay ar happen also þat halden her pese,
For þay þe gracious Godes sunes schal godly be called;
&Thorn;ay ar happen also þat con her hert stere,
For hores is þe heuen-ryche, as I er sayde.
These arn þe happes alle a3t þat vus bihy3t weren,
If we þyse ladyes wolde lof in lyknyng of þewes:
Dame Pouert, Dame Pitee, Dame Penaunce þe þrydde,
Dame Mekenesse, Dame Mercy, & miry Clannesse,
& þenne Dame Pes, & Pacyence put in þerafter.
He were happen þat hade one; alle were þe better.
Bot [s]yn I am put to a poynt þat pouerte hatte,
I schal me poruay pacyence & play me with boþe,
For in þe tyxte þere þyse two arn in teme layde,
Hit arn fettled in on forme, þe forme & þe laste,
& by quest of her quoyntyse enquylen on mede.
& als, in myn vpynyoun, hit arn of on kynde:
For þeras pouert hir proferes ho nyl be put vtter,
Bot lenge wheresoeuer hir lyst, lyke oþer greme;
& þereas pouert enpresses, þa33tloker hit lyke & her lotes prayse,
&Thorn;enne wyþer wyth & be wroth & þe wers haue.
3if me be dy3t a destyne due to haue,
What dowes me þe dedayn, oþer dispit make?
Oþer 3if my lege lorde lyst on lyue me to bidde
Oþer to ryde oþer to renne to Rome in his ernde,
What grayþed me þe grychchyng bot grame more seche?
Much 3if he me ne made, maugref my chekes,
& þenne þrat moste I þole & vnþonk to mede,
&Thorn;e had bowed to his bode bongre my hyure.
Did not Jonas in Jude suche jape sumwhyle?
To sette hym to sewrte, vnsounde he hym feches.
Wyl 3e tary a lyttel tyne & tent me a whyle,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Railroad Bill

Railroad bill were gonna railroad bill
He never works and he never will
Im gonna ride on a railroad bill
Im gonna ride on a railroad bill
Railroad bill he was a mighty bad man
Kill anybody that he think he can
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Im singin railroad bill,
Im talkin railroad bill, uh-huh-huh
He never worked and he never will
Im gonna ride on railroad bill, yeah
(cmon) Im gonna ride on railroad bill
Well old railroad bill he done stole my wife
Im gonna check him down Im gonna take his life
Gonna ride on railroad bill
Gonna ride railroad bill
Im singin railroad bill
On a railroad bill
He never worked and he never will
Im gonna ride on railroad bill
Im gonna ride on railroad bill
Railroad bill he was a mighty bad man
Kill anybody that he think he can
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Gonna ride railroad bill
Im talkin railroad bill
I love him railroad bill
Uh-huh-huh
He never worked and he never will
Gonna ride on railroad bill
Yeah, gonna ride on railroad bill
Well Im goin up the mountain
Yes Im goin out west
I got a mighty big pistol
Stickin out of my vest
Gonna ride old railroad bill
Gonna ride (alright)
Railroad bill, I love that railroad bill
Uh-huh-huh
He never works and he never will
Im gonna ride on a railroad bill
Im gonna ride on railroad bill

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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James Holladay (Demo)

James Holladay was a working man
He made his living on the land
But living alone was too much to stand
So Jim found a woman to understand
Two years passed living in joy
When out of the blue came a baby boy
Just to keep up the family name
Mister Holladay said we'll call him little James
So you better run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
You better better run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
You better better run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away (Jim you gotta get away)
Little James became a working man
He followed his pa right across the land
At the end of the day when his work was done
He'd sit and watch the setting southern sun
Nineteen years had come and gone
Little Jimmy had grown up big and strong
He didn't know that his time had come
When they handed him a shiny black gun
So his pa said, run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta getaway
So you better run, run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
So you better run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away (Jim you gotta get away)
Run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta getaway
You better better run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
You better better run, run, run, run, run, run (Jim you gotta get away)
Jim, you gotta get away
(fade)

song performed by America
Added by Lucian Velea
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Punch Up At 'Dart Man's Aim

Fifteen stone and just five foot eight
And yet he doesn't seem overweight
Deep, deep chest and shoulders wide
The strongest in this countryside.

He's the mighty Dan the frog
From the house beside the bog
Swarthy looking with raven hair
A happy man without a care.

He's no plans to take a wife
As he prefers the single life
And he's still a young man anyway
Just twenty five on his last birthday

Froggy is his dad's nickname
And that's from where the name frog came
But his nickname of frog he doesn't appreciate
In fact the word called frog he's grown to hate.

Fastest man for miles around
To part with the green back pound
In him you'll find nothing cheap
Money he can't seem to keep.

He's a happy sort of bloke
Happy even when he's broke
He's got the right mentality
Never down, always carefree.

Likes his guinness doesn't like beer
Drinks his liquor with good cheer,
Whiskey makes the man walk tall
And he likes whiskey best of all.

He is merciful though strong
And without good reason won't do wrong
But do him wrong and he will fight
And with his fists he'll put things right.

He'd prefer to crack your jaw
Than chastise you with the law
Solves his problems like a man
That's the way it is with Dan.

And though when need arise he can be hard
Dan the frog is no blaghguard
But his type you don't kick around
As men like him do not yield ground

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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Mylora Elopement

By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep,
And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep,
Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun
Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, "cocky" on Mylora Run.
Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath.
Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa;
And Amelia loved him truly -- but the course of love, if true,
Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.

Pondering o'er his predilection, Jimmy watched McGrath, the boss,
Riding past his lone selection, looking for a station 'oss
That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
Mac the time of day exchanges -- off goes Jim to see his child;

Says, "The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job,
And tomorrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob.
Will you come with me tomorrow? I will let the parson know,
And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.

"I will bring the nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine,
One more kiss -- don't think I'm greedy -- good-bye, lass, before I'm seen --
Just one more -- God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here,
Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear."

* * * * *
The daylight shines on figures twain
That ride across Mylora Plain,
Laughing and talking -- Jim and Jane.
"Steady, darling. There's lots of time,
Didn't we slip the old man prime!
I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob,
I reckon he'll find it too big a job.
They've beaten us all. I had a try,
But the warrigal devils seem to fly.
That Sambo's a real good but of stuff
No doubt, but not quite good enough.
He'll have to gallop the livelong day,
To cut and come, to race and stay.
I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good;
To see us going I don't think would."
A turn in the road and, fair and square,
They meet the old man standing there.
"What's up?" "Why, running away, of course,"
Says Jim, emboldened. The old man turned,
His eye with wild excitement burned.
"I've raced all day through the scorching heat
After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat.
But over that range I think you'll find
The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Absalom and Achitophel

In pious times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before Polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'r one to one was, cursedly, confind:
When Nature prompted, and no law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did, variously, impart
To Wives and Slaves; And, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Maker's Image through the Land.
Michal, of Royal blood, the Crown did wear,
A Soyl ungratefull to the Tiller's care;
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To Godlike David, several Sons before.
But since like slaves his bed they did ascend,
No True Succession could their seed attend.
Of all this Numerous Progeny was none
So Beautifull, so brave as Absalon:
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his Conscious destiny made way
By manly beauty to Imperiall sway.
Early in Foreign fields he won Renown,
With Kings and States ally'd to Israel's Crown
In Peace the thoughts of War he could remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for love.
What e'er he did was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please.
His motions all accompanied with grace;
And Paradise was open'd in his face.
With secret Joy, indulgent David view'd
His Youthfull Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes Nothing he deny'd,
And made the Charming Annabel his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His Father could not, or he would not see.
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constru'd Youth that purg'd by boyling o'r:
And Amnon's Murther, by a specious Name,
Was call'd a Just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus Prais'd, and Lov'd, the Noble Youth remain'd,
While David, undisturb'd, in Sion raign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heaven punishes the bad, and proves the best.
The Jews, a Headstrong, Moody, Murmuring race,
As ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
God's pamper'd people whom, debauch'd with ease,
No King could govern, nor no God could please;
(Gods they had tri'd of every shape and size
That Gods-smiths could produce, or Priests devise.)

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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The Brus Book 20

King Robert in Northumberland]

Sone eftre that the erle Thomas
Fra Wardaill thus reparyt was
The king assemblyt all his mycht
And left nane that wes worth to fycht,
5 A gret ost than assemblit he
And delt his ost in partis thre.
A part to Norame went but let
And a stark assege has set
And held thaim in rycht at thar dyk,
10 The tother part till Anwyk
Is went and thar a sege set thai,
And quhill that thir assegis lay
At thir castellis I spak off ar,
Apert eschewys oft maid thar war
15 And mony fayr chevalry
Eschevyt war full douchtely.
The king at thai castellis liand
Left his folk, as I bar on hand
And with the thrid ost held hys way
20 Fra park to park hym for to play
Huntand as all hys awn war,
And till thaim that war with him thar
The landis off Northummyrland
That neyst to Scotland war liand
25 In fe and heritage gave he,
And thai payit for the selys fe.

[The peace with England]

On this wys raid he destroyand
Quhill that the king of Ingland
Throu consaill of the Mortymar
30 And his moder that that tym war
Ledaris of him that than young wes
To King Robert to tret off pes
Send messyngeris, and sua sped thai
That thai assentyt on this way
35 Than a perpetuale pes to tak,
And thai a mariage suld mak
Off the King Robertis sone Davy
That than bot fyve yer had scarsly
And off Dame Jhone als off the Tour
40 That syne wes of full gret valour,
Systre scho wes to the ying king
That had Ingland in governyng,
That than of eild had sevyn yer.
And monymentis and lettrys ser
45 That thai of Ingland that tyme had

[...] Read more

poem by John Barbour
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The Court Of Love

With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence,
Unto the flour of port in womanhede
I write, as he that non intelligence
Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence;
Sauf that me list my writing to convey,
In that I can to please her hygh nobley.

The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote
Present thaim not, my mater for to borne:
Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,
Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne:
Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne,
For lak of science that I can-not write
Unto the princes of my life a-right

No termes digne unto her excellence,
So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high:
A world of honour and of reverence
There is in her, this wil I testifie.
Calliope, thou sister wise and sly,
And thou, Minerva, guyde me with thy grace,
That langage rude my mater not deface.

Thy suger-dropes swete of Elicon
Distill in me, thou gentle Muse, I pray;
And thee, Melpomene, I calle anon,
Of ignoraunce the mist to chace away;
And give me grace so for to write and sey,
That she, my lady, of her worthinesse,
Accepte in gree this litel short tretesse,

That is entitled thus, 'The Court of Love.'
And ye that ben metriciens me excuse,
I you besech, for Venus sake above;
For what I mene in this ye need not muse:
And if so be my lady it refuse
For lak of ornat speche, I wold be wo,
That I presume to her to writen so.

But myn entent and all my besy cure
Is for to write this tretesse, as I can,
Unto my lady, stable, true, and sure,
Feithfull and kind, sith first that she began
Me to accept in service as her man:

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Bill and Jim Fall Out

Bill and Jim are mates no longer—they would scorn the name of mate—
Those two bushmen hate each other with a soul-consuming hate;
Yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be (tho’ they never will):
Ne’er were mates to one another half so true as Jim and Bill.
Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die—
Though, of course, he swore ’twas Jim who always itched to argufy.
They would, on most abstract subjects, contradict each other flat
And at times in lurid language—they were mates in spite of that.

Bill believed the Bible story re the origin of him—
He was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox; while Jim,
Who, we grieve to state, was always getting into drunken scrapes,
Held that man degenerated from degenerated apes.

Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through;
Jim declared that Blucher’s Prussians won the fight at Waterloo,
And he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white—
And it rather strained their mateship, but it didn’t burst it quite.

They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—
And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;
Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grow up—
Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.

Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,
And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,
Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—
Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.

They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,
Re conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars
‘Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’
Jim declared it was too thick, if anythin—yet they were mates

Bill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was best
For the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!
They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,
And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.

Till one night the two together tried to light a fire in camp,
When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.
And . . . No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:
One alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Tearful Tale Of Captain Dan

A sinner was old Captain Dan;
His wives guv him no rest:
He had one wife to East Skiddaw
And one to Skiddaw West.

Now Ann Eliza was the name
Of her at East Skiddaw;
She was the most cantankerous
Female you ever saw.

I don’t know but one crosser-grained,
And of this Captain Dan
She was the wife at Skiddaw West—
She was Eliza Ann.

Well, this old skeesicks, Captain Dan,
He owned a ferryboat;
From East Skiddaw to Skiddaw West
That vessel used to float.

She was as trim a ferry-craft
As ever I did see,
And on each end a p’inted bow
And pilothouse had she.

She had two bows that way, so when
She went acrost the sound
She could, to oncet, run back ag’in
Without a-turnin’ round.

Now Captain Dan he sailed that boat
For nigh on twenty year
Acrost that sound and back ag’in,
Like I have stated here.

And never oncet in all them years
Had Ann Eliza guessed
That Dan he had another wife
So nigh as Skiddaw West.

Likewise, Eliza Ann was blind,
Howas she never saw
As Dan he had another wife
Acrost to East Skiddaw.

The way he fooled them female wives
Was by a simple plan
That come into the artful brain
Of that there Captain Dan.

[...] Read more

poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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The Bar-Room Patriot

Why, 'ow's she goin', Bill, ole sport?
I thort I knoo your dile!
My oath! You look the proper sort!
That khaki soots your style.
I never 'eard you'd joined, yeh know
It makes me feel I want to go.

Must be a year or more, I s'pose,
Since last time we two met!
An' then, to see you in them clothes
Can't realise it yet!
I'm proud to think a friend o' mine
Is off to biff the German swine!

You look slap-up in that rig-out.
We ort to celebrate
I fell it's up to me to shout!
But - can't be done, ole mate!
For I 'ave took a solemn vow
I never shout for soldiers now.

No, Bill; you mustn't take offence;
You'll undertsand, I thnk.
I've come to see there ain't no sense
In buyin' soldiers drink.
I loves me country an' me king;
An' boozin' soldiers ain't the thing.

An' yet it's sich a time ago
Since you an' me 'ave met,
It's sorter 'ard to let you go
Without one little wet.
Say, come in 'ere, an' you can take
A soft'un, jist fer ole time's sake.

Well, Bill - 'ere MIss! Don't you attend
To customers in 'ere?
A lime-an'-soder fer me friend:
And' mine's a long, cool beer.
Ah, Bill, you stick to that soft stuff;
Chuck booze, an' you'll be right enough.

Well, 'ere's a go!...My oath, that's goo!
Bets beer I've 'ad to-day....
Yes, Bill, I 'olds no soldier should
Drink all 'is brains away.
I'm patriotic, that I am;
To fight on beer ain't worth a damn.

Now, Bill, look 'ere, you take my tip

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Feast

Mari kita memulai kisah
Tentang sang raja dan sang singa
Anak manusia dan penguasa rimba
Dari padang rumput mereka terlahir
Dengan kebanggaan dan harapan
Dengan bahaya dan cobaan
Jauh, jauhkan dahulu kedengkian itu
Kita buka dengan babak penuh kedamaian
Menghisap embun pagi yang sama
Menatap dunia baru dengan mata terbuka
Alangkah manis pemandangan mereka yang tak berdosa
Lalu perjumpaan sederhana di tepi kolam
Di mana surga dan neraka amatlah tipis bedanya
Tempat kau mengangkat taring untuk musuh
Atau mencakar lembut tangan sahabat
Bermain bersama di sela-sela semak
Berguling penuh debu di bawah sinar matahari terik
Sungguhkah mereka akan menjadi raja dan singa
Tubuh yang tumbuh menjadi sempurna
Pikiran yang terjalin menjadi pemahaman
Gerbang kedewasaan mengantar mereka pada perpisahan
Peraturan istana dan insting liar
Demi kekuasaan dan harga diri
Mereka tidak berpisah dengan air mata
Karena mereka diajari untuk tidak menangis
Mereka berpisah dengan darah
Tradisi dan perburuan
Pembantaian dan penghinaan
Sang singa mengaum dengan keras
Dengan surainya yang kini lebat terurai
Sementara sang raja terpencil
Di tahtanya yang dingin dan sorak sorai penonton
Mereka merindukan masa-masa itu
Masa saat mereka bertatapan tanpa penuh kebencian
Dan bilamana bulu keemasan itu tiba di pangkuan sang raja
Sang raja menandai pemerintahannya
Dan sang singa mati demi sahabatnya
Ini bukanlah cerita yang perlu diratapi
Baik sang raja maupun sang singa

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Jim

'Now, be the Hokey Fly!' sez Peter Begg.
'Suppose 'e comes 'ome with a wooden leg.
Suppose 'e isn't fit to darnce at all,
Then, ain't we 'asty fixin' up this ball?
A little tournament at Bridge is my
Idear,' sez Peter. 'Be the Hokey Fly!'

Ole Peter Begg is gettin' on in years.
'E owns a reel good farm; an' all 'e fears
Is that some girl will land 'im, by an' by,
An' shar it with 'im - be the Hokey Fly.
That's 'is pet swear-word, an' I dunno wot
'E's meanin', but 'e uses it a lot.

'Darncin'!' growls Begg. We're fixin' up the 'all
With bits uv green stuff for a little ball
To welcome Jim, 'oo's comin' 'ome nex' day.
We're 'angin' flags around to make things gay,
An' shiftin' chairs, an' candle-greasin' floors,
As is our way when blokes comes 'ome from wars.

'A little game uv Bridge,' sez Peter Begg.
'Would be more decent like, an' p'r'aps a keg
Uv somethin' if the 'ero's feelin' dry.
But this 'ere darncin'! Be the Hokey Fly,
These selfish women never thinks at all
About the guest; they only wants the ball.

'Now, cards,' sez Begg, 'amuses ev'ry one.
An' then our soldier guest could 'ave 'is fun
If 'e'd lost both 'is legs. It makes me sick
'Ere! Don't spread that candle-grease too thick
Yeh're wastin' it; an' us men 'as to buy
Enough for nonsense, be the Hokey Fly!'

Begg, 'e ain't never keen on wastin' much.
'Peter,' I sez, 'it's you that needs a crutch.
Why don't yeh get a wife, an' settle down?'
'E looks reel fierce, an' answers, with a frown,
'Do you think I am goin' to be rooked
For 'arf me tucker, jist to get it cooked?'

I lets it go at that, an' does me job;
An' when a little later on I lob
Along the 'omeward track, down by Flood's gate
I meet ole Digger Smith, an' stops to state
Me views about the weather an' the war…
'E tells me Jim gets 'ere nex' day, at four.

An' as we talk, I sees along the road

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bill's Grave

I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;
I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand;
'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill,
To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and.

For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best;
We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;
Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West,
So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums.

And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,
And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer,
If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round
Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere.

But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know.
'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore;
I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago;
But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war.

It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth
(Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit);
I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth;
But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit.

I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn.
Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three.
Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? JIM! And as sure as I'm born
'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me.

Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while,
Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?"
And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile:
"She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay."

So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck,
And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim,
When I makes me way to the boneyard, and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck,
For wot do I see? Bill's grave-mound strewn with the flowers of Jim.

Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad;
And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?"
Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad
When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?

poem by Robert William Service
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Runaway Jim

I had a dog.
His name was Jim
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Took all of my old clothes with him.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
He was twelve years old when his trip began,
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Hauling down the highway in my old sedan.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway.)
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Now I wish someone'd tell me where old Jim went,
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
'Cause he took all the money that I saved for rent.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
By the time he came home he was seventeen.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
That's a hundred nineteen to you and me.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Now I'm gonna go up to the mountain.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Singing for Jim who's swimming in the fountain.
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
Whoa-ooooooooooooooo oh Runaway Jim
"By the time he came home..."
before the 1st break, and comes out of it with:
He ran away again on the night he died
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)
'Cause I knew I would miss him from the other side *
(Runaway, runaway, runaway)*
or
"Cause I knew I'd be with him on the other side

song performed by Phish
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tambaroora Jim

He never drew a sword to fight a dozen foes alone,
Nor gave a life to save a life no better than his own.
He lived because he had been born—the hero of my song—
And fought the battle with his fist whene’er he fought a wrong.
Yet there are many men who would do anything for him—
A simple chap as went by name of ‘Tambaroora Jim.’
He used to keep a shanty in the ‘Come-and-find-it Scrub,’
And there were few but knew the name of Tambaroora’s pub.
He wasn’t great in lambing down, as many landlords are,
And never was a man less fit to stand behind a bar—
Off-hand, as most bush natives are, and freckled, tall, and slim,
A careless native of the land was ‘Tambaroora Jim.’

When people said that loafers took the profit from his pub,
He’d ask them how they thought a chap could do without his grub;
He’d say, ‘I’ve gone for days myself without a bite or sup—
‘Oh! I’ve been through the mill and know what ’tis to be hard-up.’
He might have made his fortune, but he wasn’t in the swim,
For no one had a softer heart than ‘Tambaroora Jim.’

One dismal day I tramped across the Come-and-find-it Flats,
With ‘Ballarat Adolphus’ and a mate of ‘Ballarat’s’;
’Twas nearly night and raining fast, and all our things were damp,
We’d no tobacco, and our legs were aching with the cramp;
We couldn’t raise a cent, and so our lamp of hope was dim;
And thus we struck the shanty kept by ‘Tambaroora Jim.’

We dropped our swags beneath a tree, and squatted in despair,
But Jim came out to watch the rain, and saw us sitting there;
He came and muttered, ‘I suppose you haven’t half -a-crown,
‘But come and get some tucker, and a drink to wash it down.’
And so we took our blueys up and went along with him,
And then we knew why bushmen swore by ‘Tambaroora Jim.’

We sat beside his kitchen fire and nursed our tired knees,
And blessed him when we heard the rain go rushing through the trees.
He made us stay, although he knew we couldn’t raise a bob,
And tuckered us until we made some money on a job.
And many times since then we’ve filled our glasses to the brim,
And drunk in many pubs the health of ‘Tambaroora Jim.’

A man need never want a meal while Jim had ‘junk’ to carve,
For ‘Tambaroora’ always said a fellow couldn’t starve.
And this went on until he got a bailiff in his pub,
Through helping chaps as couldn’t raise the money for their grub.
And so, one rainy evening, as the distant range grew dim,
He humped his bluey from the Flats—did ‘Tambaroora Jim.’

I miss the fun in Jim’s old bar—the laughter and the noise,
The jolly hours I used to spend on pay-nights with the boys.

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Jim

Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim?
Bless you, there was the likely lad;
Supple and straight and long of limb,
Clean as a whistle, and just as glad.
Always laughing, wasn't he, dad?
Joy, pure joy to the heart of him,
And, oh, but the soothering ways he had,
Jim, our Jim!

But I see him best as a tiny tot,
A bonny babe, though it's me that speaks;
Laughing there in his little cot,
With his sunny hair and his apple cheeks.
And my! but the blue, blue eyes he'd got,
And just where his wee mouth dimpled dim
Such a fairy mark like a beauty spot --
That was Jim.

Oh, the war, the war! How my eyes were wet!
But he says: "Don't be sorrowing, mother dear;
You never knew me to fail you yet,
And I'll be back in a year, a year."
'Twas at Mons he fell, in the first attack;
For so they said, and their eyes were dim;
But I laughed in their faces: "He'll come back,
Will my Jim."

Now, we'd been wedded for twenty year,
And Jim was the only one we'd had;
So when I whispered in father's ear,
He wouldn't believe me -- would you, dad?
There! I must hurry . . . hear him cry?
My new little baby. . . . See! that's him.
What are we going to call him? Why,
Jim, just Jim.

Jim! For look at him laughing there
In the same old way in his tiny cot,
With his rosy cheeks and his sunny hair,
And look, just look . . . his beauty spot
In the selfsame place. . . . Oh, I can't explain,
And of course you think it's a mother's whim,
But I know, I know it's my boy again,
Same wee Jim.

Just come back as he said he would;
Come with his love and his heart of glee.
Oh, I cried and I cried, but the Lord was good;
From the shadow of Death he set Jim free.
So I'll have him all over again, you see.

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poem by Robert William Service
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