A Bush Christening

This poem was one of my Dads favourites and is also

one of mine, we played a recorded version recited by
Dad at his funeral service.

My son Marcus conducted the service which made it

very special, I have agreed that he conduct my funeral

service too, as long as the other kids make sure that

he says some nice things about me, “be creative, lie.”

if need be.

A Bush Christening

On the outer Barcoo where churches are few,

And men of religion are scanty,

On a road never crossed ’cept by folk that are lost,

One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,

Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;

He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest

For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, ”If our darlin’ should die

Saint Peter would not recognize him,”

But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,

Who agreed straightaway to baptize him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,

With his ear to the keyhole was listenin’,

And he muttered in fright while his features turned white,

What the divil and all is this christenin’?”

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,

And it seemed to his small understanding,

If that man in the frock made him one of the flock,

It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,

While the tears in his eyelids they glistened –

“’Tis outrageous,” says he, “to brand youngsters like me,

I’ll be dashed if I’ll wait to be christened.”

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,

And his father with language uncivil,

Never heeding the “praste” cried aloud in his haste,

“Come out and be christened you divil!”

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,

And his parents in vain might reprove him,

Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)

“I’ve a notion” says he, “that’ll move him.”

“Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prod;

Poke him aisy – don’t hurt him or maim him,

‘Tis not long that he’ll stand, I’ve the water at hand,

As he rushes out of this end here I’ll name him.”

Here he comes, and for shame! I’ve forgotten the name,

Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?”

Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout,

“Take a chance anyhow wid Maginnis."

As the howling youg cub ran away to the scrub

Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,

The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head

That was labeled “Maginnis’s Whiskey.”

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.

And the one thing he hates more than sin is

To be asked by the folk who have heard of the joke,

How he came to be christened “Maginnis” !

By A B “banjo” Patterson.