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todayiamadaisyLast week I briefly saw a picture of a pair of shoes and I have spent the whole week trying to find it again. Not full time, mind. I've done other stuff. Anyway, I've finally found them again. We'll all be wearing them this time next year. Or maybe not.
Yesterday I read this article, which purports to be a list of Australia's funniest place names. Except it isn't. I don't see how Boyland made the list and Wee Waa didn't. Still, it taught me of a town called Wonglepong, so that's something.
It mentions too a poem by AB Paterson, who is probably best known outside Australia as the man who wrote 'Waltzing Matilda'. He is quite, er, Kipling-esque. In fact, I read a parody of one of his poems once in which every two-syllable word had been replaced by 'kipling'. Highly amusing. But in the poem at hand, 'Come-by-chance', he seems to be copying Edgar Allan Poe instead, don't you think? At least in the first verse.
Come-by-chance - AB 'Banjo' Paterson
As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary —
For the plot was void of interest — 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, —
There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population
Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.
And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee,
And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year,
Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector,
Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.
But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me,
Quite by chance I came across it — 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read;
No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it,
Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.
I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward
Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down,
For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry
Where the telegraph don’t reach you nor the railways run to town.
And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges,
Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week,
And the good news grows by keeping, and you’re spared the pain of weeping
Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.
But I fear, and more's the pity, that there’s really no such city,
For there’s not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know,
'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, —
It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.
* * * * *
Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle,
All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free;
Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune
Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.
All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing,
Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance:
When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain,
You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'.
Yesterday I read this article, which purports to be a list of Australia's funniest place names. Except it isn't. I don't see how Boyland made the list and Wee Waa didn't. Still, it taught me of a town called Wonglepong, so that's something.
It mentions too a poem by AB Paterson, who is probably best known outside Australia as the man who wrote 'Waltzing Matilda'. He is quite, er, Kipling-esque. In fact, I read a parody of one of his poems once in which every two-syllable word had been replaced by 'kipling'. Highly amusing. But in the poem at hand, 'Come-by-chance', he seems to be copying Edgar Allan Poe instead, don't you think? At least in the first verse.
Come-by-chance - AB 'Banjo' Paterson
As I pondered very weary o'er a volume long and dreary —
For the plot was void of interest — 'twas the Postal Guide, in fact, —
There I learnt the true location, distance, size, and population
Of each township, town, and village in the radius of the Act.
And I learnt that Puckawidgee stands beside the Murrumbidgee,
And that Booleroi and Bumble get their letters twice a year,
Also that the post inspector, when he visited Collector,
Closed the office up instanter, and re-opened Dungalear.
But my languid mood forsook me, when I found a name that took me,
Quite by chance I came across it — 'Come-by-Chance' was what I read;
No location was assigned it, not a thing to help one find it,
Just an N which stood for northward, and the rest was all unsaid.
I shall leave my home, and forthward wander stoutly to the northward
Till I come by chance across it, and I'll straightway settle down,
For there can't be any hurry, nor the slightest cause for worry
Where the telegraph don’t reach you nor the railways run to town.
And one's letters and exchanges come by chance across the ranges,
Where a wiry young Australian leads a pack-horse once a week,
And the good news grows by keeping, and you’re spared the pain of weeping
Over bad news when the mailman drops the letters in the creek.
But I fear, and more's the pity, that there’s really no such city,
For there’s not a man can find it of the shrewdest folk I know,
'Come-by-chance', be sure it never means a land of fierce endeavour, —
It is just the careless country where the dreamers only go.
* * * * *
Though we work and toil and hustle in our life of haste and bustle,
All that makes our life worth living comes unstriven for and free;
Man may weary and importune, but the fickle goddess Fortune
Deals him out his pain or pleasure, careless what his worth may be.
All the happy times entrancing, days of sport and nights of dancing,
Moonlit rides and stolen kisses, pouting lips and loving glance:
When you think of these be certain you have looked behind the curtain,
You have had the luck to linger just a while in 'Come-by-chance'.