Cuyp.

Fair Play, Volume I, Issue 21, 1 May 1894, Page 21

Cuyp.

We described in one of our recent issues, under the title of the “ Barrier Barmaid,” an incident that occurred in Broken Hill during, the “ flush times.” On that great silver field, in the following lines, another incident which actually occurred there s told in verse : W T hat, you never knew Cuyp, The Hutch Barrier Bloke ? Who loved nought but his pipe, And his beer and his smoke ? Well, I’ll tell you the tale, If you’ll set up the drink; Mine? oh Bass’ pale ale, That’s tha best stuff I think. Well, this leary old chap, Always worked by himself, Unless sometimes, mayhap, He’d a poor little elf, Whom ho got for his grub, Or some paltry amount; We called the kid “ Bub,” And he called Cuyp the “ Count.” Now, by day or by night, No one ever saw Cuyp, Whether sober or tight, But he had that old pipe.

And the kid used to say, *• When he went to his cot, That he smoked as he lay Whether sleeping or not. Cuyp had got on odd job, Digging somebody’s well, At a foot for five bob * Which the man’s name was Jel Ho’d-been at it a week, And was down forty feet, When one day at the ‘.‘peak” As we boys chawed our meat, Who should come up the road, Yelling “ help 1" all his might, Till he dropped down fair blowod, With the run and his fright, But the kid trying to tell, As ho gasped for his breath, Cuyp had foil down the well, And had sure got his death. Wo thought likely he lmd, For a forty foot fall As a rule turns out bad If the chap lives at all. And wo made up our mind, As wo hurried along, That we’d pretty well find, Cuyp’s life not worth a song. So we yelled out “ Halloa 1 ’’ "When wo got to the holo, “ Anything broke below ? ” And he groans up “ the bowl.” Down I goes with a light, And the first thing I found, When I got back my sight, Was the “ Count ” on tho ground Badly hurt ? no not Cuyp, Bar a jar to his wits. But that blasted old pipe Had been smashed clean to bits Well, we hauls up the duck, And so sure as you’re there, ’Stead of blessing his luck, He starts tearing his hair. “Why, what’s up ? ” cries out we, And here’s just what he spoke, “ Ach, I’d rather t’was me, Als rfiy pipe dot got broke. A clean forty foot fall, Without hardly a bruise, And ho had the blamed gall, Such good luck to abuse. , . * I Eh ? perhaps I am dry, After such a tall tale Sir! by jove It’s no lie • But—l will take an ole. W.E;H