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The following lines were written by James Gormly in 1847, when he returned to New South Wales after assisting
to drive one thousand young bullocks to the Western part of Australia.
We will now start back on the overland track,
We’ve no cattle to drive or tend;
The count is made and the price is paid;
We have sold them at Wester Bend.
‘Tis a thousand miles to those rocky piles;
‘Tis now six months to a day,
Since we mustered the stock in the yard by the rock,
And started from Eastern Bay.
When we climbed the hills, there were bubbling rills,
Through the mountains and gores we go;
We passed the last peak, then followed a creek,
And the streams as to westward they flow.
No autumn rains had watered the plains,
The winter was cold and dry;
We kept wide at night from our camp-fire’s light,
For the black men we hovering nigh.
Our party was strong as we drove along,
And the savage tribes we passed through;
Now, as backward we ride to the old home side,
There are only I and you.
Roll up the swags while I catch the nags,
We must go thro’ the sandy waste;
We will put the pack on the old Skylark’s back,
You remember how ell he raced.
And the finishing rush he made at Homebush,
When we won the three-mile plate;
How he made the pace in the steeplechase,
When he cleared the five-foot gate.
Those times are long past, but I know he will last,
For although he is old, he is game,
And those prads we ride, have often been tried,
And their courage is just the same.
The Camerton colt used to buck and bolt,
But this journey has toned him down;
In a hard day’s ride, I have never tried
A better horse than the brown.
We are now on the tracks of the warrior blacks;
See, they round that mallee bluff;
They will not fail to make up our trail,
And will follow us sure enough.
We must go on, till the day is done,
Through our horses begin to tire;
And now that we camp, tho’ the night is damp,
‘Tis not safe to light a fire.
Keep a sharp lookout, there is danger about,
Do you see that rising smoke ?
‘Tis here, they tell, that the white man fell
By a treacherous savage stroke.
See the bleaching bones by those sandy cones,
And that dray with a broken rim;
I heard the tale and a woman’s wail
When ‘twas told by the stockman, Jim.
‘Twas a bright spring day when they started away;
Three strong men went from their home,
And a woman and child, in the back bush wild,
Were waiting till back they would come.
At the dawn of the day they would watch the way
Where the tracked crossed the brow of the hill,
And when evening came it was just the same,
You would find them watching still.
Until ragged and lame the stockman came
To the lonely hut in the dell,
Then a wail of despair rent the evening air
When he told how his comrade fell.
And those are the bones, those the sandy cones
That the stockman described so well;
In the sand laying here is the shaft of the spear
That he broke from his horse when he fell.
We will bury their bones by the base of those cones
We will scrape them a bed with our hands;
Roll the wreck of the dray on the place where they lay,
It will mark the spot in the sands.
How that signal flies, see the smoke spires rise
From the river and lakes out back;
Tribes in front block our way, by the close of the day,
Tribes behind will be upon our track.
When smoke signals pass round, those black men are bound
Who hunt on the front or out back,
To muster or fight - be it day, or by night -
Whites who drove on this overland track.
It was only last year, on a camp close to here,
Men, with stock, were attacked in the night;
But early next day was a bloody affray
When the black men went down in the fight.
Round those lakes there are reeds, we can cut for our steeds,
We shall feed them so that they won’t fail;
Those smoke signals extend, so we now must depend
On our horses to weather this gale.
The night is now cold and our garments are old,
They are light and have many a rent;
We must use with great care our scanty fare,
For our rations are nearly spent.
Keep your ear to the ground, I can hear a faint sound,
‘Tis a signal - the mopok’s call;
Now I hear the beat of some naked feet -
How cautious those footsteps fall.
I’ve the gun in my hand, but can’t make a stand
Against those hosts, for too many are around;
We won’t waste powder and shot, we must keep what we’ve got
To get food when some game may be found.
Now those blacks crawl and sneak down the bank of the creek -
They are round us at every turn;
Oh, now but alas ! they have fired the grass
How the mallee and spinifex burn.
The Warrigal’s howl comes up from the cowl,
And the boom of the crane from the sedge;
So now we will pass from this patch of grass
And go down to the river’s edge.
‘Tis a furlong wide to the other side
And the stream rushes swiftly along;
Those horses were tried in a stream full as wide
And the current was twice as strong.
But then, you may say, we’d the light of day
And the water was warmed by the sun;
The have hemmed us around on the rising ground -
We must swim, for we cannot run.
I will lead the way, you keep close to the bay,
Old Skylark will follow behind
The river’s in flood, sop avoid the drift wood,
The smoke rolls this way with the wind.
How those savages jeer, we are clear of their spear;
Now watch for a safe place to land.
The bank here is steep, down the stream we must keep;
Oh, here is a strip of white sand.
Now the river’s crossed o’er ‘tis plain sailing before,
Neither horse has a mark from a spear;
The blacks we’ll outpace if it comes to a chase,
For in front the whole country is clear.
Though my horse has swum deep, I have managed to keep
The gun and the powder dry;
We’ll slacken our reins and push on through the plains
And to those savage hoards say "good-bye."
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