I found this in a very old school excercise book tossed among a heap of rubbish at the local dump. The pencil has faded a bit in places and I have had to improvise somewhat, but I hope that the finished work meet's with Jack's approval. I can't understand why anyone would want to toss it away.  By the age of the excercise book I reckon it was written about the beginning of the 20th century. Is it just a story - or was it true?
 (David Hardy)

The Phantom of The Bush

By Jack Vincent. 

Well – no, I don’t believe in ghosts, and neither does my mate
But still I rather think we used to, ‘till a very recent date
When the notion was exploded, in a most effective way
By an incident that happened, in a kauri bush one day
There was me and Hokitika Dan, and poor old German Fred
We’re breaking out an awkward jam, that blocked the river bed
The job was rather risky, and our jacks were far from new
But we had to take our chances, as often bushmen do
The days were at their shortest, ‘twas early in July
That time of year at six o’clock, the stars are in the sky

But we had to grin and bear it, tho’ as Daniel used to say
In his most perculiar, quiet unsophisticated way,
‘If we’re made in God’s own image, as those blessed wowsers tell
Why the image of a bullock, would have answered just as well
One day, ‘twas in the gloaming, and I‘d just laid down my axe
For I began to think ’twas time we should be making tracks
And then I heared a sound of fear and pain, that sent my hair erect with fright
It was a strong man’s cry of agony, that rang out upon the night
So sudden, so appalling, it seemed to pierce the brain
With a world of woeful meaning, suggested in it’s strain
I knew well what had happened, ere I dashed upon the scene
I’d seen such things occur before, in the forests where I’d been

A warning cry, a sudden crash, a stifled shriek of pain
A mangled corpse, an inquest – then all went on again
Before in such emergencies, I had always done my part 
But now the blood rushed back, upon my bleeding heart
As there before me I beheld, stretched out between the skids
A prostrate form with half closed eyes, and ‘neath those drooping lids
That look of suffering so intense, that haunts one night and day
Who've seen the spirit rudely torn, from it’s fragile house of clay
Twas poor old Fred, a jack had slipped, no matter which or whose
The tide of life was ebbing fast, there was no time to loose
His lower limbs were shattered, and the death sweat on his brow
Gave plainly in its solemn tones, the awful summons, Now!

I knelt beside my dying mate, and raised his languid head
And bent my own attentively, to catch the words he said
For we had taken to the bush, when  the Thames began to wain
And worked together hand in hand, through sunshine and through rain
We loved the gloomy forest, with it’s free unfettered ways
We twirled the old bush organ, and ne’er wished for better days
And now the end had come at last, he laid his hand on mine
‘Ach! I never more shall see again, dot dear old German Rhine
But lay me in the silent woods, beneath zome giant dree
I’ll roam the bush ‘till judgement day, and dakes mine chanct, dats me’!
And that was all, without a groan, the careless spirit fled
The Southern Cross beamed down, upon the living and the dead

He died among the scenes he loved, the wild bush overhead
The drooping ferns his funeral plumes, the kauri moss his bed
The sadness that we shared that day, meant not a word was said
We raised him gently in our arms, and bore him down the track
He took that morn in pride of life, but never to come back
No soldier showed more fortitude, when stricken in the field
Without a sigh or vain regret, his being he did yield
Fighting life’s long battle, in harness fell poor Fred
We sat throughout that cheerless night, the watchers of the dead
Twelve men reviewed the incident, and heared with bated breath
our simple story. Eh? The verdict; Accidental death

Phantom of the Bush – part 2

Well, boys, the moon had waxed and wained, since fate o’er took poor Fred
But still I couldn’t help reflecting, on the words the old man said
And something in his dying look, I couldn’t fathom quite
But perhaps his mind was wandering, his head a little light
We fulfilled his last injunctions, and as he wished to be
We laid him in a gully, beneath a hollow rimu tree
We skinned the bark and carved his name, fair in the solid wood
A tribute to his memory – and, that was all we could
They sent us up another mate, to finish up the job
A cornstalk of the purest type, his name was Lanky Bob

He could judge a prospect, shear a sheep, or guide the wily ox
And while scouting in the Transvaal, had received some nasty knocks
He could yank you from Johannesburgh, to Burke or Ballarat
He could make his money fly in town, and never whipped the cat
An awkward member in a row, a sterling chap withal
And just the proper sort of party, for a little she oak ball

One night a gentle zephyr, was careering through the trees
In a manner calculated, to set Satan’s mind at ease
And we crowded round the fire, in our little hut so warm
Whilst the monarchs of the forest, bowed their heads before the storm
The cornstalk was discussing the last trip of poor Leichardts
And young Dan was slyly doctoring, a pack of euchre cards
When we saw him lift his head up, with a gesture of surprise
A look of blank astonishment, and horror in his eyes
Holding up his hand for silence, as he strained to catch some sound 
He heard amid the turmoil, that was going on around
To account for such behaviour, no ideas could we form
We could barely hear our voices, amid the raging of the storm
But just as our attention was beginning to relax
We distinctly heared the slogging, of a bushman’s heavy axe
Coming straight from the direction, of the hollow rimu tree
Where the old man solved the question, of to be or not to be

And coming from the grave, it seemed a summons from the dead
Young Daniel’s teeth were playing, Yankee Doodle in his head
The circumstance, the old man’s words, so forcibly recalled
We stood and listened, spellbound, dumbfounded and appalled
Long Bob was quick to break the spell, as laying down his pipe
Said, ‘this rough and ready Christian, of the true colonial type
Some fellow’s in the bush boys, dead beat and off the track
Just light the old bush lantern, and I’ll go and bring him back
He can’t be far away - a quarter of a mile
To leave him out at night like this, it ain’t my country’s style
So throw another backlog on, and sling the billy too
Some time perhaps t’will be his turn, to do as much for you

Then out he hawked his lanky frame, into the dismal night
Guided only by the chopping, and the lantern’s fitfull light
His fancy broidered singlet, flying open at the throat
For except in town a bushmen never deigns to wear a coat
He hadn’t any notion, what was passing through our heads
For Bob you see had never heared, that last remark of Fred’s
But the horrible conviction, that was shared be me and Dan
Was that the chopping never came, from any mortal man
And although at rash conclusions, it’s not always safe to rush
We had our own opinion, of the joker in the bush
As I waited and I listened, dark foreboding on my mind
Of something going to happen, tragic weird and undefined

Then as the minutes slowly passed, nothing strange occurred
I thought perhaps that after all, our fancies were absurd
And we both began to hope that things, would turn out for the best
When a frantic and unearthly yell, set all our doubts at rest
On which young Dan had raised a howl, of horror and dismay
And falling on his knees began to grown, and swear and pray
His hair was standing straight on end, such conduct made me roar
‘Dry up you blasted lunatic, come in and shut the door’
Bring in the axe and latch the bolt. I’ll double shot the gun.
If Satan comes to claim his own, I guess we’ll have some fun
We made the door secure, and in agonised suspense
We struck a noble attitude of gallant self defence.

Dan swung aloft the savage axe, I clutched the trusty gun
Chock full of bullets, nails and slugs, to bust the evil one
We could hear a dreadful uproar, drawing nearer to the hut
Which made us half inclined, to toss our weapons and swiftly “cut”
We could hear the brushwood crackle, as Bob came crashing through
His ears laid back and bounding, like a hunted kangaroo
Then yelling Murder, save me, Help, and bursting in the door
Six foot three of scared humanity, came scrawling on the floor
And thinking all the fiends in Hell, were coming at his back.
I promptly fired the gun off, right straight along the track
What happened next I do not know, but Bob and Daniel say
That something sent me flying, half a dozen yards away

And with a look of dazed enquire, I lay staring at the roof.
‘twas the Devil kicked me sideways, with his ugly cloven hoof
Ere he vanished in the darkness, with his horrid grinning crew
Astonished and disgusted, at the way we shot them through
Long Bob was lying on the floor, exhausted and dead beat
We raised him on his pins, and propped him in a seat
O dear, O Lord, he faintly cried, whatever have I done!
To be hunted through the bush at night, by the Infernal one
We soothed him down and by degrees, we got him to recite
The horrors that befell him, in the bush that awful night
‘Well boys, I took my bearing from the chopping of that axe
Which led in a direction, from off all beaten tracks
For this provoking circumstance, I didn’t care to rush
Being one of those unfortunates, that’s dragged up in the bush
And when I got up nearer, I coeed more than once
But the chopping just continued, and I met with no response
So when I got up close, to where the fellow ought to be
So close in fact that I could, almost tell the very tree
The wind fell off, the chopping ceased, and seaching all around
Not a vestige of the axeman, or his work I ever found
This circumstance you may be sure, seemed very strange to me
I searched around examining, the bark of every tree
What lunatic was prowling round, chopping in the dark?
When all at once it flashed on me, his axe had left no mark

And boys, it was enough to scare, the bravest of the brave
To find that I was standing, right on a human grave
Then, as I stood transfixed with fear, my very soul displayed
A grisley fleshless bony hand, was on my shoulder laid
And turning round mechanically, the object to define
Two gleaming eyes like coals of fire, were glaring into mine
And when a sudden gust of wind, blew out my wretched light
I got a dreadful swinging kick, just down below my back
That doubled me completely, like a wombat in a sack
Delivered by an unseen foot, I don’t know any more
‘till you two boys were lifting me, from off the whare floor

Chaps, I’ve had a loaded rifle, pointed straight into my ear
And the feelings I experienced, were mixed, and vague, and queer
I’ve had a mortal tussle, with an old man walleroo
Been lost on arid plains and chased by bunyips too
But in all the darkest moments, of a chequered wild career
I never knew the meaning, of that term called craven fear
Until tonight, the bare idea, just makes me faint and sick
My mother’s best son Robert, to be hunted by Old Nick
I’m out of this polluted hole, at early dawn of day
That’s the sort of Bathurst Burr I am, from sunny Cornerway’

We listened to this cheerless tale, in horror most profound
‘twas evident the old man’s ghost, was back and waltzing round
‘I thought I knowed the old’uns stroke’, was Daniel’s first remark
‘Jest ketch me venture out, from now on after dark’!

But, when the welcome dawn arrived, and cheerful day began
That sweet returning confidence, that sunshine brings to man
Dispelled the horrid incubus, that stared us in the face
We all resolved together, to investigate the case
We weren’t a bit afraid, not us, we rather liked the fun
Says Bob, I hear a pigeon boys, I think I’ll take the gun.
Says Dan – ‘I’spcts the gale has blown, some timber on the tracks
It wouldn’t be amiss, I think, to bring along the axe.’

Ah do, says I, there’s bound to be, a fallen limb or two
So in case it may be wanted, I’ll bring the slasher too
So off we set without concern, a stranger would have thought
But you can bet our nervous temperament, was pretty highly wrought
And things seemed much as usual, and all went on serene
Until we neared the dread locality, of Robert’s mid-night scene
And then we heared a sound, that stopped usin our tracks
Not twenty yards ahead of us, Bang ! went the phantom’s axe
My heart sank down into my boot. Bob motioned us to stand
Then creeping through the underscrub, the gun cocked in his hand
We waited for the signal, from Australia’s gallant son
Resolved to fight a noble fight, or run a willing run
Then bursts of hearty laughter, just left us quite amazed.
On which we both devoutly said  ‘The blessed lord be praised’
And so we reached the hollow rimu, in half a dozen strides
Where Bob in strong convulsions, was holding both his sides
O’ boys it was a nasty jar, too rough on us by half
To say we old’uns could be caught, by such delusive chaff
In clearing for the grave we'd cut, a monsterous rata vine
Whose overhanging creepers, through the branches did entwine
And when the wind was high, it swung both to and fro
And dealt the hollow rimu tree, a heavy sounding blow
Which rang throughout the neighbourhood, just like a bushman’s axe
This heavy wooden pendulum, dealt out its steady whacks

And with a lady’s dainty fan, you might have knocked us down all three
When from a sheltered knothole, halfway up the aged tree
A big ungainly morepork, with its gleaming eyes looked out
Just to see what all the fuss, among the bushmen was about
And just as if ‘twer saying, ‘Gentlemen, this swindle I’ll expose
It settled on a branch, within a yard of Robert’s nose
So when it flew the stormy midnight air, attracted by the light
It had settled on his shoulder, and gripped him very tight
Don’t talk to Bob of fleshless hands, and eyes like coals of fire
Unless you really wish to rouse, that rough disciple’s ire
It really was enough to scare, the stoutest heart that beat
The devil on his shoulder, the dead beneath his feet
Bob shot the morepork dead, for spite, and picking up our tools
We sneaked away in silence, like a pack of gallus fools

By some it’s still believed, that poor old German Fred
Is working out his contract, for the awful words he said
And when the wind is moaning, around the bushman’s hut
This poor old joker’s ghost, on whom the gate of heaven shut
Is heared at midnight out in the bush, performing on some tree
Compelled to put his sentence, into all eternity
And when the awful sound is heared, the bushman’s mirth is quelled
The cards are dropped, the yarn is stopped, the passing breath is held
And one will whisper, soft and low, amid the solemn hush
It’s Fredrick Carl von Sausageburg, the 'Phantom of the Bush'.

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