But being full up of the myths that are Greek—
Of the classic, and noble, and nude, and antique,
            Which means not a rag but the pelt on;
This poet intends to give Daphne the slip,
For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip,
            With a jumper and snake-buckle belt on.

No party is Jim of the Pericles type—
He is modern right up from the toe to the pipe;
            And being no reader or roamer,
He hasn’t Euripides much in the head;
And let it be carefully, tenderly said,
            He never has analysed Homer.

He can roar out a song of the twopenny kind;
But, knowing the beggar so well, I’m inclined
            To believe that a “par” about Kelly,
The rascal who skulked under shadow of curse,
Is more in his line than the happiest verse
            On the glittering pages of Shelley.

You mustn’t, however, adjudge him in haste,
Because a red robber is more to his taste
            Than Ruskin, Rossetti, or Dante!
You see, he was bred in a bangalow wood,
And bangalow pith was the principal food
            His mother served out in her shanty.

His knowledge is this—he can tell in the dark
What timber will split by the feel of the bark;
            And rough as his manner of speech is,
His wits to the fore he can readily bring
In passing off ash as the genuine thing
            When scarce in the forest the beech is.

In girthing a tree that he sells in the round,
He assumes, as a rule, that the body is sound,
            And measures, forgetting to bark it!
He may be a ninny, but still the old dog
Can plug to perfection the pipe of a log
            And palm it away on the market.

He splits a fair shingle, but holds to the rule
Of his father’s, and, haply, his grandfather’s school;
            Which means that he never has blundered,
When tying his shingles, by slinging in more
Than the recognized number of ninety and four
            To the bundle he sells for a hundred!

When asked by the market for ironbark red,
It always occurs to the Wollombi head
            To do a “mahogany” swindle.
In forests where never the ironbark grew,
When Jim is at work, it would flabbergast you
            To see how the ironbarks dwindle.

He can stick to the saddle, can Wollombi Jim,
And when a buckjumper dispenses with him,
            The leather goes off with the rider.
And, as to a team, over gully and hill
He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill
            And boss the unlucky offsider.

He shines at his best at the tiller of saw,
On the top of the pit, where his whisper is law
            To the gentleman working below him.
When the pair of them pause in a circle of dust,
Like a monarch he poses—exalted, august—
            There’s nothing this planet can show him!

For a man is a man who can sharpen and set,
And he is the only thing masculine yet
            According to sawyer and splitter—
Or rather according to Wollombi Jim;
And nothing will tempt me to differ from him,
            For Jim is a bit of a hitter.

But, being full up, we’ll allow him to rip,
Along with his lingo, his saw, and his whip—
            He isn’t the classical notion.
And, after a night in his humpy, you see,
A person of orthodox habits would be
            Refreshed by a dip in the ocean.

To tot him right up from the heel to the head,
He isn’t the Grecian of whom we have read—
            His face is a trifle too shady.
The nymph in green valleys of Thessaly dim
Would never “jack up” her old lover for him,
            For she has the tastes of a lady.

So much for our hero! A statuesque foot
Would suffer by wearing that heavy-nailed boot—
            Its owner is hardly Achilles.
However, he’s happy! He cuts a great “fig”
In the land where a coat is no part of the rig—
            In the country of damper and billies.