Australian Tales - Setis

“Dear, dear me!” apostrophised Mr. Hopewell. “There is certainly great
need for the ‘Bush Mission,’ and I trust it will be supported. Have you
not divine service, of some kind, on your station on Sundays, Micky?”
“Sometimes we have, sir, at the head station,” replied Micky, “a
minister calls there now an agin; an then all the men as likes to go are
axed into the house; or if its shearin time, they muster in the wool shed.
But at most of the out-stations there is no Sunday to be seen, — Sunday
and Saturday are all alike there; an we don't know no difference, bekase
some of us have lost count of the days intirely. I've often thought the
masthers an supers might take jist a trifle ov care about their men's
manners, an it wud be all the better for iverybody. Most ov em take a
mortial sight ov pains about the breed ov their sheep; in trainin their
kangaroo dogs, or breakin in their saddle horses; but sorra a bit do they
care for the sowls of their servants, and not much for their bodies ayther,
forbye kapin them in workin trim.”
“Stay, my friend,” said Mr. Hopewell, gently. “It would be unfair to
say that such selfishness is general; for I have met with several squatters,
and superintendents, who have a kind regard for the welfare of their
servants; for their bodies and souls too.”
“Have you so, sir?” replied Micky. “Troth then I'm glad enough to hear
that same; still-an-all, I haven't had the good luck to fall in wid the like,
all the time I've bin in the bush. I will spake me own experience, an its
ivery worrd thrue. Nayther masther nor mishtress, nor super, nor any
body else belongin to em, iver said a single worrd to me about me sowl,
if they thought I'd got one at all. I've niver heerd so much of the Scripture
(so that I could understand it, I mane), as yez have tould me this blessed
night, niver since I wer born into the worrld; an that's a fact, sir. I niver
knowed that I could git forgiveness from God for robbin that church, and
for doing no end ov wicked things beside. I'd have bin afraid to ax for it.
If I'd a know'd as much as that I should huv jumped for joy hundreds ov
times, when I've been wretched enough to hang meself, wid the
remembrance ov me blagger'd tricks, soh. I allers thought I was damn'd,
for sartain; an that it wor no good frettin about what couldn't be cured at
all. ‘Och! happy go lucky: I'll live till I die!’ I used to shout, when I was
half drunk, an then I used to say the divil was me best friend, bekase I'd
heerd tell that he firsht invinted rum. But, forbye all me blather an
bounce, and me haythenish schaymes for drivin away ugly thoughts ov
me past wicked life, I used to feel as miserable as a murtherer
sometimes; an many's the time I've wished meself a bullock, or a
bandicoot, or anythin else that I know'd had nothin at all to do wid any
other worrld, but this one. Och musha musha! many's the melancholy
day I've spent in the bush, sittin under a gum tree, thinkin upon nothin
but me own miseries; while me sheep have been bitin away at their green
feed, or jumpin with joy, like young wallabies, till I've felt quite savage