He was working on a station in the Western when I knew him, 
   And he came from Conongamo, up the old surveyors’ track, 
And the fellows all admitted that no man in Vic. could do him, 
   Since he'd belted grease and sawdust out of Anderson, the black. 
Bob was modelled for a fighter, though he'd run to beef a trifle; 
   For his science every rouseabout was satisfied to vouch, 
And Red Fogarty advised us he delivered like a rifle, 
   And his stopping - well, beside him Harry Sallars was a slouch. 


Not a man of us had met him till he struck us on the station -   
   This was early in the Sixties, what we call the good old days - 
And it here must be acknowledged Robert owed his reputation 
   To a crippled jaw, a broken nose, and eyes that looked both ways. 
Sirs, the way that chap was butchered was a caution and no error, 
   Every feature of his face was marked, his chin was pulled askew, 
And The Critic passed the office: ‘Bet your buttons he's a terror! 
   That's the man who hammered Kelly on The Creek in '52!’ 


Bob was not a shrinking blossom, and he helped the first impressions 
   By his subsequent admissions to the ringers and the mugs, 
And he let himself be tickled into casual confessions 
   Of his battles with the bruisers and the scientific pugs. 
How he'd mangled Matty Hardy was his earliest narration; 
   He'd completely flummoxed Kitchen, and had made the climate hot 
For Timmins, Fee, and Curran. It was quite a consolation 
   When he graciously informed us that he hadn't licked the lot. 


The arrival of the Wonder gave a spurt to local science, 
   And we had an exhibition every evening in the week, 
For the lightest joke was answered in the lingo of defiance, 
   And our blood was cast like water on the grasses by the creek. 
Every fellow but the stranger had his scrap or rough-and-tumble; 
   No one thought of looking ugly at the slugger, Battered Bob; 
And whene'er the boys addressed him 'twas in language choice and humble, - 
   Though they ached to see him taken on not one there loved the job. 


How we honoured Bob, and yielded to his later information; 
   Let him lead in all the arguments, and gently run the ranche! 
And a very "small pertater" was the owner of the station 
   'Side the man who slaughtered Melody and fought a draw with Blanche. 
Battered Bob became our champion, our boss, and by degrees we 
   Sent his fame down to the Wannon, and right up to Spooner's Gap, 
But he'd scooped the honours smiling, and he held them just as easy, 
   For we'd never seen him shape yet, and he hadn't fought a tap. 


We'd a cook whose name was Han Cat - he was short, and fat, and yellow, 
   A common, ugly Chinky, with a constant current smile. 
Bob was careful not to hurt the corns of any other fellow, 
   But he filled Han Cat with sorrow, and he whaled him all the while. 
Han Cat groaned and bore it meekly, and we didn't care to figure 
   In the antics of the Wonder's little, pet partic'lar rows. 
Robert says, "I like a native, and I'll liquor with a nigger, 
   But I hate the skin and colour of these sanguinary Chows!" 


On Sunday Bob was sportive, and he took and sliced a section 
   Off the pig-tail of the pagan - 'twas Han's glory and his pride - 
But the trouble that came after is his saddest recollection, 
   And the boys were so disgusted that they very nearly died. 
Han Cat howled a spell, and then he up and scowled as black as thunder, 
   And he cursed the grinning spoiler till he had to stop for breath. 
When he clubbed his dukes, and pranced a bit, and he waltzed into the wonder, 
   We made a ring, and waited for the heathen's sudden death. 


Oh! the sorrow of that Sunday! Oh! the shame and degradation! 
   The chaps were simply paralyzed, and everyone was dumb, 
For the heathen pushed the battle in the fashion of our nation, 
   And he swung his mud-hooks in he made the Wonder hum. 
"Bob gammoning the Chow," we thought, "he'll wake things in a minute - 
   Soon he'll rise to the occasion, and display his proper form!" 
But, alas! we'd nursed a viper, for our pug was never in it,
   And he couldn't fight quite well enough to keep the monkey warm. 


Han Cat licked our battered champion, he whipped him into silence, 
   And he spread him round the paddock like a dummy stuffed with hair, 
And we never stirred to interfere and stop the Chinky's vi'lence 
   When he jumped upon the Wonder in a manner most unfair. 
You must fancy all our sorrow, and our shame and indignation, 
   For pen can never, never tell how really bad we felt. 
In the morning Little Finney, for the credit of the station, 
   Gave Han a proper hiding with one fist tucked in his belt. 


As for Battered, we discussed him in a solemn close convention, 
   And resolved that we were victims of a shicer's awful skite, 
And we put it up to tar him; but he dropped to our intention, 
   And he skipped, without a character, for Hamilton that night. 
There's a moral, boys: Don't think a mangled boko is a token 
   That a fellow is a fighter, as a simple thing of course; 
Like Battered Bob, he maybe had his features piled and broken 
   Through lying down when drunk and being walked on by a horse. 

"Edward Dyson"
The Bulletin, 10 September 1892, p19

Note:
This poem was published in slightly different form in Dyson's poetry collection Rhymes From the Mines and Other Lines.