The Auld Shop and the New

by

Henry Lawson

Note: The original manuscript was presented to the publishers by Henry Lawson in 1910. It was held by the publishers until 1923 after the author's death and only 75 copies were printed. Since no copies could be located of the original publication, this is based on the handwritten manuscript.

an ebook published by Project Gutenberg Australia

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Lawson’s Preface

The Auld Shop and the New

The Scots

Dedication

Writen specially for

“The Chief”,

George Robertson

of

Angus & Robertson

As some slight acknowledgment of and small return for His splendid generosity during years of trouble and addressed to Donald Angus.

Sydney January 1910

Lawson’s Preface

Note to The Auld Shop and the New

No attempt is made to stick to the Scottish or any dialect—I have many “dialects” and much slang to choose from, including my own gude Outback Australian, “Bingi’s” and Pigin (sic) English and intend to use my (i.e. Henry Lawson's) privelege (sic) in all semi Scottish rhymes—notably one on massage to be published—that I may write.

“The Auld Shop and the New” to be the property of the Head of the Firm, to do with as he likes and to be added to as the years go on.

I trust he and his partners will take it in the “spirit”in which it was written—To express great praise or gratitude in the rhyme itself or tone or smooth down would be to spoil the “art” (or artfulness) of the thing and be false to the idea or “inspiration” of it. It is written hurridly (sic), as composed, and, as any one may see, not revised.

The “chief” knows where it was actively composed, and under what circumstances.  H L

The Auld Shop and The New

Oh! do you mind the auld shop, Dan?

They’ve scarcely left a hint —

Where Banjo and meself, lang syne,

Brot our furse books to print.

They’ve partly left the auld front, Dan,

But that is going too —

An’ sae I sadly sing the sang:

“The Auld Shop an’ the New!”

Twa boxes ’neath the window-sills

Stood open to the glare,

An’ soiled and tattered Secon’-Han’

Took dust, or fluttered there.

Twa cards stood on the pavement stanes,

Writ large for great an’ sma’,

Wi’ ALL IN THIS BOX SAXPENCE, Dan,

An’ A’ IN THIS BOX TWA.

Our furse bukes made them publishers

Weel kent throughout the wirl —

The young chief gave his leg a fling

And gie’d his pipes a skirl:

He took those boxes from the door

In all his prideful sin,

And ca’ed a saw-and-hammer man

To board the spaces in.

Depar-r-tments grew by yards since then,

The shelves have run by miles,

But, save his winsome selling-smile,

The Black Chief seldom smiles.

And mony a time he thinks an’ sighs,

An’ longs, wi’ bitter pain,

(As Banjo put it aince) to see

Those boxes back again!

We had no blue agreements then

To blaw us North and South,

For, when I made anither buke,

We went by word o’ mouth.

Then I’d gang hame and gang to bed,

An’ he’d sit up an’ write —

An’ what we signed at morn was not

The things we said at night.

He was a bonny leer, Dan —

Gie him the time to think —

And waur than a’ the lawyer clerks

When he took pen and ink.

But neither party said a word,

And neither soul was vext,

For gin he had me ane year, Dan,

I sure had him the next.

A big bird telt me, Dan, when furse

He fixed his furse shop right,

An’ stock’t the shelves wi’ Secon’-Han’,

He’d aft gang back at night

An’ light an’ tak a candle roun’,

An’ tak it roun’ again,

An’ pinch himsel’ tae prove it true

That it was a’ his ain!

An’, losh! how he lo’ed Dymock’s, Dan!

Wi’ luve surpassing sin —

An’ upstarts — as, in my ain time,

He lo’ed the Bulletin.

An’ do you mind the priest wha came,

An’, wi’ a father’s air,

Bade him gang doon to Dymock’s, Dan,

An’ get some wrinkles there?

He wadna serve that priest agen —

Sent Wymark when he’d come —

Lord! how the young chief hated him

Wi’ hate that went to Rome.

(He prided his arrangement, Dan —

From pamphlet up to tome —

An’ warked on it by candle-light,

An’ warked on it at home.)

He didna ken that priest wad gang

To Dymock’s, peerin’ through,

An’ say he kent his father, Dan,

His father’s father too,

An’ ask him why he didna gang

To see how it was done —

An’ get some hints to clear his mess —

At Angus Robertson.

An’ they importit skeletons

In those auld days, lang dead,

An’ kept them (where we used to “crack”)

In boxes, in the shed:

A skull, an’ half a skeleton,

Frae places oversea,

To sell to prentice sawbones at

Oor Univairsity.

Do you mind how I bought ane, Dan,

An’ showed it everywhere,

An’ tuk it hame to orniment

Ma dressing-table there;

An’ how the landlord cast me oot

Upon the pavement stane? —

Because it scared the landlady

An’ she was sax months gane!

Do you mind how I sel’t my ain?

You bot it on the chance —

We drew a firm agreement up,

Five shillings in advance! —

To hae a night wi’ Robbie Burns;

An’, after years of fret,

The only harm I wish you, Dan,

You’ll live to claim it yet.

Oh! do you min’ the day when, full

Of poetry an’ grief —

An’ a’ because I lo’ed him weel —

I longed to fight the chief?

I’d fight Maccallum, sober times,

The chief when I was tight —

Do you mind how I greeted, Dan,

Because he wadna fight?

Maccallum steered me to the shed

Behin’ (lang vanished, too),

An’ said “Exactly!” ilka time

An’ gie’d his promise true;

He soothed me there wi’ promises

Sae cunning, smooth, an’ sly —

He tauld me that the chief would come

An’ fight me by-an’-by!

Oh! do you min’ the morn I brot,

Like bottle by the throat,

The “Star o’ Australasia”, Dan? —

The graundest thing I wrote.

O’Connor’s pillar-boxes, Dan,

Went reeling doon the Street —

Drunk wi’ deevine afflatus, Dan,

I cudna keep ma feet!

They helped me to the shed behind,

Those preenting Philisteens,

An’ proodly spread for me a bed

O’ dusty magazines.

They gie’d me something on account,

An’ something for my cough,

An’ left me there all day to sleep

The inspiration off.

Oh, do you mind the auld lees, Dan,

The dear old lees of auld? —

The dear auld lees that warmed the heart,

Nor left the pockets cauld.

But now they’ve got braw legal lees

In red an’ black an’ blue;

An’ sae I sadly sing the sang,

“The Auld Lees, an’ the New!”

The chief has grown more plausible,

More polished an’ polite,

An’ a’ the customers he kens

Are “straight” men, Dan, or “white”

(Sma’ blame) so lang’s the bawbees come;

He never draws the line —

Gin a’ he kens are white men, Dan,

Gie me some black in mine.

We spoke and wrote of a’ things plain,

Left naething understood —

There were twa bards in a’ the land,

But baith o’ them were gude ....

Now Bush Bards flock to Redfern, Dan,

The sinfu’ toon to see,

An’ publishers hae nephews there

Wi’ uncles in Feegee.

They publish bukes to praise bukes up,

And ithers to condemn —

They publish bukes on ither bukes

And ither bukes on them.

They publish bukes on garden stuff,

An’ how to roast an’ scald —

Twixt midwif’ry an’ poetry

Poor Shenstone’s gangin’ bald!

They caught a braw new partner, Dan,

An’ banked his gear away;

Down columns ruled in red an’ black

He runs his beak all day,

Like chalk-marked rooster mesmerised —

I dinna like his looks;

But, maist the time, you canna tell

His backside from his books.

An’ Wymark’s grown more hatchet-faced

An’ white about the gills;

Wi’ musty food for reading runts

The table-troughs he fills.

His nose is growing, ilka day,

More like a parson’s snoot

That ploughs between the leaves to sniff

The Social Evil oot.

He’s got a braw new Gallery,

Wi’ skylights in the air —

An’ one square foot of polished floor’s

Worth all the pictures there!

The folk gang peerin’ round all day,

A bitter payin’ farse —

He doesna’ ken a painting, Dan,

Frae a painted monkey’s—!

I didna mean it that way, Dan —

We a’ must cheat to earn —

He doesna ken a picture from

A painted monkey’s stern.

The she baboon he’s put in chairge,

An’ the public ken nae mair;

An’ a’ day lang the fules peer round,

An’ some are fleeced fu’ sair.

Your auld desk’s gane, for privy seats,

That held my I.O.U.

(I sing the auld deposites, Dan,

The auld anes, an’ the new).

The weel-worn stair is taken down

To fit the stroan saloon —

An’ you awa in Scotian’, Dan,

When a’ these things were dune.

The Scots

A Dirge

(Wi’ a’ affection)

Black Scots and red Scots,

Red Scots and black;

I hae dealt wi’ the red Scot,

An’ dealt wi’ the black.

The Red Scot is angry

Among the sons o’ men—

He’ll pay you a bawbee,

An’ steal it back again.

Black Scots and red Scots,

Red Scots and black;

I hae dealt wi’ the red Scot,

An’ dealt wi’ the black.

The Black Scot is frien’ly—

A brither an’ a’—

He’ll pay you a bawbee,

An’ steal back twa.

The Ginger Scot o’ a’ Scots,

The warst shade o’ Scot,

For he’ll pay ye naething,

An’ tak’ a’ you’ve got.

Black Scots and red Scots,

Short Scots an’ lang,

Ginger Scots an’ bald Scots—

I dealt wi’ the gang.

THE END

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Table of Contents

CONTENTS

Dedication

Lawson’s Preface Note to The Auld Shop and the New

The Auld Shop and The New

The Scots

THE END