BILL JINKS, THE BALLARAT MINER.

Thames Guardian and Mining Record, Volume I, Issue 213, 14 June 1872, Page 3

BILL JINKS, THE BALLARAT MINER.

[We take the following from an article in the A ustralasian, entitled “ Noah’s Ark,” by Marcus Clarke.] Bill Jinks was a miner on Ballarat, A most tremendous bloke, He lived in a cabin in Murderer’s Flat, And did nothing but swear and smoke ; And when he’d got on his “ whiskey hot,” “ My word,” says Parson Parr, “ When Bill Jinks drinks I'always’thinks The gate o’ hell’s ajar 1” " There was a report that Bill was brought From the Island of Cockatoo, Where the cheerful wretch had got fifteen stretch, With five still left to do. ’Twas Porky Clark made that remark, As a sort of amusing humour ; But Jinks let drive with a bowie-knive, And spoiled his sense of humour ! Now, drinking one night at the old Napier, Where Bill would oft retire, There comes in upon us a horror there Of some one crying “ Fire 1” We rushed the door, and Bill before A blessed soul could speak, Cries, “ By the hoky, it’s Kinder’s store, My mate on Gaffney’s Creek I” The flames ran roaring like the sea, All yellow, blue, aud green—- “ It’s all along,” says Bill to me, O’ that blasted kerosene Serves Kinder right for being an ass An’ storing the cussed stuff ; Say, Let’s go back for another glass, I guess.we’ve seen enough.” I thought the same, when the roar o’ the flame Was split by a woman’s shriek That cleft, all quivering clear, and keen, The rolling fire reck. The place was two-story high, and wood, And there at the garret window Old Maggie Dodd, the cripple stood— She as minded the kids for Kinder. Out jumps our Bill —I feels a tbrdl When I think o’ the figger he made (Just then came thunderin’ over the hill the Ballarat Fire Brigade). “ That woman” says he “is a frizzlin’ brown,” But the crowd said never a word : “ Who’ll come with me to help her down ?” But never a man of ’em stirred. “ You curs,” says he, “ if that bag o’ bones Was a woman plump and young A callin’ l'or help in her fresh young tones, There’d be all of ye givin’ tongue ; But because she’s naught but that rum old sort, A virgin of eighty-three, You’ll —well, you’ll see her d...d, in short, ’Ere you’ll bum for such as she.” Now how he did it no one knows, It has always been a puzzle, But he seized the end of the engine-hose, And seated himself on the muzzle. “Now pump like furies, my boys,” he cries, “ And pump me up to glory !” They pumped ! and Bill on the stream jet flies, Borne straight to the upper story. He gripp’d a holt o’ the window ledge (Old Maggie was turning browu), Aud waited, hanging on by the edge, For the jet to take him down. They pumped! aud Bill on the sinking stream With Meg in his arms descended, When something got wrong with the enginebeam, And the water suddenly ended I An awful thud—a splash of blood A silence —then a roar, As through the crowd the oue that lived The cheering firemen bore. ’Twas Meg survived.—This smoke, I guess, Just makes my eyelids smart; But Bill was just an unpleasant mess, Like a trod-upou raspberry tart! • • • Perhaps in heaven them ain’t no Bars, Where friends can meet each other (I haven't made out this world yet, Lord, let alone the other). But if there be, I’ll there meet him— For God is just I thiuis — And liquorin’ up with the seraphim gits the soul of William Jinks [