The Courtship of John Bryce

In early Australia, convicts were allowed to choose their wives from the female convicts in the factory.

John Bryce set sail on a winter’s morn,

A hell-ship, travelling south,

His spirit so low as to match the

Noisome ashes in his mouth,

And he felt the craft of the Smithy’s trade,

A chastening, sad reminder,

And he felt the wind as it caught the sail

Following on behind her.

 

Bryce was a man who had kicked a Lord

On a drunken spending spree,

‘Bryce’, said the judge, ‘you’ll assuredly hang

For this piece of villainy.’

But they sent him on to the prison hulks,

They tossed a coin on his fate,

And he found himself in the foetid air

Of the Neptune's sorry state.

 

At once assigned to a freeman’s land

In the colony’s lawful way,

With seven long years of purgatory

To hold him in their sway,

He kept his peace and he bent his back

To the task, so not to grieve,

And before too long he had earned respect

And a welcome ticket-of-leave.

 

But he stayed and he worked for wages then,

For wages and for rum,

And he spent his nights at the tavern door,

(Would his freedom never come?)

For the loneliness was eating away

At his convict’s sorry life,

Would it help at all if he settled him down

And took a factory wife?

 

So come on down to the factory

And look the ladies over,

You’ll have a choice of the best

This foundling colony can offer.

Set your sights on their buxom charms

The prettiest you can find,

But beware that the tongue of the viper

Is the one you leave behind.

 

John Bryce paid heed to the wisdom of

His master’s sound advice,

And along the line of a hundred strong

He tried to make his choice,

When a wench with a bold, resentful air

He suddenly espied,

Her hair in a coil that would look so fair

When he made the girl his bride.

 

He gave her the sign to step aside

Which she did, as bold as brass,

A sway of the hips to show how

Wonderfully well she filled her dress.

‘What makes you think that you’re good enough?’

The Irish colleen said;

‘I have to judge if you are that,’

Young John replied instead.

 

‘Now when I take this bride of mine

She must be ever true,

None of this old flirtatious stuff

You Irish colleens do,

And in my house my word will be

Regarded as the law,

So think you quickly on it

And we’ll dally here no more.’

 

‘I like the cut o’ your jib, me bhoy,

Though nothing to goggle at.’

He said: ‘You’re right, and yerself is fairly plain

To come to that.’

‘Well that’s a fine upstanding thing

To say to a future bride!’

‘Oh, there’s more, but I’ll let it rest

‘Til I can beat your pretty hide.’

 

‘So, beating is it? Lord, that you should

Ever have the nerve,

I’ll black your eye in a trice if you

Should look at a pretty curve.’

‘Well then, we seem agreed on just

Exactly what we’re at,

The curves you have will amply

Suit my appetite for that.’

 

No more did poor John Bryce stand lonely

Out by the tavern door,

No more did Sheila have to stand

And weave on the factory floor.

Their children three would all agree

She never looked askance,

And John himself was always true

To her Irish countenance.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Chad Wesley Allbrett]

Brilliant! Love the narrative and storys That I find in your work.