Will and the Thief

[thestoryteller]

WILL AND THE THIEF

Young Will was eighteen and a Publican’s son,
a strapping young lad and a son of a gun;
the love of his darling old mum.
He worked for his dad in the Prairie Hotel
but Saturday nights he would date his sweet Nell;
a beauty to whom he’d succumb.

Now Will did not mind all the toil through the week
and worked morn ‘til night but the one thing he’d seek
was Saturday night with his Nell.
This coming weekend was the B & S Ball
and with his dear Nell he’d be feeling quite tall;
our Will was in love you could tell.

Will’s dad though had plans for that Saturday night
which crushed his young Will but he’d see his dad right
and Nell she could work by his side.
“Now Will,” said his dad, “keep an eye out my lad
as kegs have gone missing, some locals gone bad
and thieving I just can’t abide.”

With dad out of town Will and Nell ran the pub
and served eager ringers fresh in from the scrub;
all planning to go to the ball.
Quite rushed off their feet they were felling near beat
when Councillor Jones fin’lly gave up his seat,
“I’m off,” he said with a drawl.

Will walked his Nell home and ‘round one in the morn
both sat on the porch and they talked on ‘til dawn,
then will stole a kiss but was brief.
Eyes barely awake weary Will wandered in
and climbed the pub stairs but then heard a loud din.
Good lord! Thought young Will it’s the thief.

Then Will saw a figure whose shoulders did hold
two shapes that were round and his blood it went cold;
then he ran for the gun in his room.
Both barrels were aimed just above the thief’s head
as Will squeezed both the triggers, releasing the lead
and did they go off with a BOOM.

The thief struck with fear then disposed of his load
and screamed like a madman and fled down the road
while Will he retired with a smile.
Then later that morn came a knock at his door
and standing outside; the long arm of the law;
a rather stern look on his dial.

“It’s rumour young Will that you fired of a gun,
‘round dawn I believe, am I right on that son?”
“Too right!” replied Will unashamed.
“I fired at a thief who was pinching dad’s kegs
and foiled his foul plot; made him weak in the legs.
Darn lucky his frame is not maimed.”

“That right?” said the Sarge, “well I’ve news and it’s bad.
‘Twas Nell’s poor dad Mick carting nightsoil my lad;
The man’s in a hell of a state.”
He dropped both the cans in the laneway out back
and smells darn horrific so out of the sack;
there’s business to deal with old mate.”

Old Mick put a stop to his calling on Nell
and Will found the town knew the story as well.
The tale it was spread throughout Oz.
“What business of theirs is it?” was Will’s outcry.
“But Will.” said his dad in a def’nite reply,
“I know for a fact that it was!”

© Merv Webster

This experience was related to me by a well-known bush poet and yarn spinner called Bill Hay on our way out to Camooweal for the 1998 Drover’s Yesteryear Festival. “See what you can do with it,” requested Bill and with a bit of imagination thrown in I wrote the above.

From the book Laughter & Tears from the Bush