by Andree Hayward 1896 a verse
In the outback pub it was always know when ‘womenfolk’ would be arriving in town. The news could never be kept secret. When the weekly coach arrived all eyes would be on the lookout to catch a glimpse of the ‘new girl’. There was no lack of assistance in helping with the luggage, there would be a scramble to see who could assist first. Publicans were not to show mercy to a new barmaid even thought she may have just completed a journey of 600 miles, she was obliged to put in an appearance that first night at the bar. There would be a great roll up that night and a rivalry among the lads as to who would secure her smiles and there were no shortage of offers to dance, walk or drive. One young lady was heard to receive 40 such offers on her first night and wisely refused them all. There was plenty of time and she could have her pick at leisure. Everyone would be on their best behaviour and fighting and spitting was not to be seen.
Six months was thought to be a good while to last out and then the publican would have to cast around for a new ‘Hebe’ to lure the customers and part them from their gold. Many of the girls went on to marry bank managers, mine managers and some of the leading men of the day. They were spirited girls looking for adventure and usually they found it. The following poem is about the lovely ‘Belinda’ one of many such girls.
Belinda
‘Twas an unpretentious grog shop in a dust mining centre,
Flanked about with bottles that were growing more and more,
People called it “The Excelsior”, but “Abandon Hope who Enter”
Would have been a fitter legend for the board above the door.
Alexander was the landlord – Mr Patrick Alexander –
Strangers mostly called him Alec, but his boon companions Pat;
And his usual place of vantage was a broken down verandah
Where the townships hardest cases sprawled and swore, and smoked and spat
Then the local papers par spread the news one more afar,’
That an angel in a bodice had appeared behind the bar;
And the frenzied rush that followed marked an epoch new, methinks,
For that little corner shanty, where Belinda brought the drinks.
For indeed she seemed an angel to our starved imaginations,
Thought the unromantic Alec used to claim her for a niece.
Not a man would have bartered for her smile the Wealth of nations
From the youngest new chum digger to the sergeant of police;
And the magic of her presence shed a subtle hanky-panky
On that dingy shrine of Bacchus, and the crown assembled there,
Till the hardest heart was softened, and the synonym for ‘blanky’
Seldom rose above a whisper on the whiskey scented air.
Thought the rival barmaids there, in the fashion of the fair,
Tossed their heads in scornful comment on Belinda’s golden hair,
Thought they pulled her charms to pieces and declared she was a minx,
No one swerved from his allegiance – where Belinda brought the drinks.
Real chain lightening was the whiskey, and the rum sent strangers raging,
But Belinda’s thirsty lovers soon made havoc in the stock;
And the landlords smile grew daily, more expansive and engaging,
For the row of empty bottles would have paved an acre block
Never knights of old so loyally mustered to their sovereign banner
As the boys from shaft and windlass to the Queen of Alec’s bar;
Popping corks and jangling glasses nearly drowned the cracked ‘pianner’,
When the local Paderewski played “e dunno where ‘e are”.
Nights of revel, days of graft, when our luck was in we laughed,
And when fortune frowned, forget her in the fiery cups we quaffed –
Memory’s chains still binds her to me, and the strongest of the links,
Takes me back to Alec’s parlour – where Belinda Bought the drinks.
But one bitter day she left us, and the storm of lamentations
Echoed through out he tents and humpies in the days our darling went;
E’en the wild seductive “two-up” lost its ancient fascinations,
And the usual Sunday dog fight seemed a spiritless event
Nevermore shall I behold her, but my recollection lingers
On that tiny winsome figure, conjured up from days gone by;
Still I feast my eyes in visions on those ring’d and tapering fingers,
Flitting from the fierce Jamaica, to the flasks of ‘Real MacKay’.
Nevermore! aye, theres the rub! O that township in the scrub,
And the hurried nightly bee line from the campfire to the pub.
Every other scene of revel into dull oblivion sinks
By the side of Alec’s shanty – where Belinda brought the drinks.
Moya Sharp
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