BILL JINKS.

Hawera & Normanby Star, Volume I, Issue 14, 29 May 1880, Page 4

BILL JINKS.

A ROMANCE ASTER THE AMERICAN MANNER. Bill Jinks was a miner on Bollarat, A most tremenjiouß bloke ; fie lived in a cabin on Murderer's Flat, And did nothing but sweav and smoke ; And when he'd got on his " whisky hot," " My word," says Parson Barr, " When Bill Jinks drinks, I always thinks The gate o' hell's ajar!" There was n report that Bill was brought From the Island of Cockatoo, Where the cheerful wretch hod got fifteen stretch, With five still left to do. 'Twos Porkey Clark made that remark, As a sort of amusin' rumor; But Jinks let drive with a bowie knife, 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 there Of some one crying " Fire ! " We rushed the door, and Bill, before A blessed soul could speak, Cries, " By the hokey, its Flinders' store, My mate on Gaffney's Creek J" The flames ran, roaring like the sea, All yellow, blue, and green j " It's all along," says Bill to me, "O ' that blasted kerosene. Serves Flinder right for being an ass, An' storing 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 fIfI.TTIA Was split by a woman's shriek That cleft, all quivering, clear, and keen, The rolling fiery reek. The place was two storey high, and wood, And there at the garret winder Old Maggie Dodd, the cripple, stood — She hod 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 Bollarat fire brigade). "That -woman," said he, "is a frizzlin' brown," 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," he says, " if that bag o' bones Was a woman plump and young, A callin' for help in her fresh voting tones, There'd be all of ye givin' tongue ; But because she's nought but the rum old sort, A virgin of eighty-three, You'll — well, you'll see herd 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-hose, And seated himself on the muzzle. *' Now pump like blazes, my boys," he cries, " And pump me up to glory !" They pumped ! and Bill on the stream-jet flies, Borne straight to the upper-storey. He gripp'd a holt o' the window ledge (Old Maggie was turning brown) And waited, hanging on by the edge, For the jet to take him down. 'JChey pumped J 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 cheering firemen bore. 'Twos Meg survived. — This smoke, I guess, Just makes my eyelids smart ; But Bill was just an unpleasant mess, Like a trod-upon raspberry tart. • * # # # Perhapß in Heaven there ain't no Bars 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.

Maecus Clarke.

Melbourne.