(Mostly by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Patterson)
(what can I say, "I'm a Fan"!!)

She fouled a bush and he roared "You scow!" and "Keep to the open sea!"
From ears to tail he rode her hard, from tail to ears again
One mile beyond the cattle-yard, and back across the plain.

Now high upon the pommel bumped, now clinging on the side
And on behind the saddle lumped, with arms and legs flung wide
They only laughed the louder then, when the mare began to back
Until she struck the fence at last, then sat and looked at Jack.

He gasped, "I'm safe in port at last, I'll quit your bounding mane!"
Dropped off and sang, "All danger's passed, and Jack's come home again."
Old Jack has been a stockman now, on Bandy's Run for years
Yet memories of that morning's fun, to many still bring tears.

How McDougal Topped the Score

(Thomas E. Spencer)
A peaceful spot is Piper's Flat. The folk that live around
They keep themselves by keeping sheep and turning up the ground
But the climate is erratic, and the consequences are
The struggle with the elements is everlasting war.
We plough, and sow, and harrow-then sit down and pray for rain
And then we all get flooded out and have to start again.
But the folk are now rejoicing as they ne'er rejoiced before
For we've played Molongo cricket, and McDougal topped the score!

Molongo had a head on it, and challenged us to play
A single-innings match for lunch-the losing team to pay.
We were not great guns at cricket, but we couldn't well say no
So we all began to practice, and we let the reaping go
We scoured the Flat for ten miles round to muster up our men
But when the list was totaled we could only number ten.
Then up spoke big Tim Brady: he was always slow to speak
And he said "What price McDougal, who lives down at Cooper's Creek?"

So we sent for old McDougal, and he stated in reply
That he d never played at cricket but he'd half a mind to try.
He couldn't come to practice -he was getting in his hay
But he guessed he'd show the beggars from Molongo how to play.
Now, McDougal was a Scotchman, and a canny one at that
So he started in to practice with a paling for a bat.
He got Mrs Mac to bowl to him, but she couldn't run at all
So he trained his sheep-dog, Pincher, how to scout and fetch the ball.

Now, Pincher was no puppy; he was old, and worn, and gray
But he understood McDougal, and-accustomed to obey.
When McDougal cried out "Fetch it!" he would fetch it in a trice
But, until the word was "Drop it!" he would grip it like a vice.
And each succeeding night they played until the light grew dim
Sometimes McDougal struck the ball-sometimes the ball struck him.
Each time he struck, the ball would plough a furrow in the ground
And when he missed, the impetus would turn him three times round.

The fatal day at length arrived - the day that was to see
Molongo bite the dust, or Piper's Flat knocked up a tree!
Molongo's captain won the toss, and sent his men to bat
And they gave some leather-hunting to the men of Piper's Flat.
When the ball sped where McDougal stood, firm planted in his track
He shut his eyes, and turned him round, and stopped it-with his back!
The highest score was twenty-two, the total sixty-six
When Brady sent a yorker down that scattered. Johnson's sticks.

Then Piper's Flat went in to bat, for glory and renown
But, like the grass before the scythe, our wickets tumbled down.
"Nine wickets down for seventeen, with fifty more to win!"
Our captain heaved a heavy sigh, and sent McDougal in.
"Ten pounds to one you'll lose it!" cried a barracker from town
But McDougal said, "I'll tak it, mon" and planked the money down.
Then he girded up his moleskins in a self-reliant style
Threw off his hat and boots and faced the bowler with a smile.

He held the bat the wrong side out, and Johnson with a grin
Stepped lightly to the bowling crease, and sent a "wobbler" in
McDougal spooned it softly back, and Johnson waited there
But McDougal, crying "Fetch it!" started running like a hare.
Molongo shouted "Victory! He's out as sure as eggs,"
When Pincher started through the crowd, and ran through Johnson's legs.
He seized the ball like lightning; then he ran behind a log
And McDougal kept on running, while Molongo chased the dog!

They chased him up, chased him down, chased him round and then
He darted through the slip-rail as the scorer shouted "Ten!"
McDougal puffed; Molongo swore; excitement was intense
As the scorer marked down twenty, Pincher cleared a barbed-wire fence.
"Let us head him!" shrieked Molongo. "Brain the mongrel with a bat!"
"Run it out! Good old McDougal!" yelled the men of Piper's Flat.
And McDougal kept on jogging, and then Pincher doubled back
And the scorer counted "Forty" as they raced across the track.

McDougal's legs were going fast, Molongo's breath was gone
But still Molongo chased the dog-McDougal struggled on.
When the scorer shouted "Fifty" then they knew the chase could cease
And McDougal gasped out "Drop it!" as he dropped within his crease.
Then Pincher dropped the ball, and as instinctively he knew
Discretion was the wiser plan, he disappeared from view
And as Molongo's beaten men exhausted lay around
We raised McDougal shoulder-high, and bore him from the ground.

We bore him to McGinniss's, where lunch was ready laid
And filled him up with whisky-punch, for which Molongo paid.
We drank his health in bumpers and we cheered him three times three
And when Molongo got its breath Molongo joined the spree.
And the critics say they never saw cricket match like that
When McDougal broke the record in the game at Piper's Flat
And the folk are jubilating as they never did before
For we played Molongo cricket-and McDougal topped the score!

Said Hanrahan

(P.J. Hartigan ("John O’Brien")
"We’ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, In accents most forlorn
Outside the church ere Mass began one frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about, coat-collars to the ears
And talked of stock and crops and drought as it had done for years.

"It’s lookin’ crook," said Daniel Croke;"Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad
For never since the banks went broke has seasons been so bad."
"It’s dry, all right," said young O’Neil, with which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel and chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran "It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt."
"We’ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."
"The crops are done; ye’ll have your work to save one bag of grain
From here way out to Back-O’-Bourke they’re singin’ out for rain.

"They’re singin’ out for rain," he said, "and all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head, and gazed around the sky.
"There won’t be grass, in any case, enough to feed an ass
There’s not a blade on Casey’s place as I came down to Mass."

"If rain don’t come this month," said Dan, and cleared his throat to speak
"We’ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, " if rain don’t come this week."
A heavy silence seemed to steal on all at this remark
And each man squatted on his heel, and chewed a piece of bark.

"We want an inch of rain, we do," O’Neil observed at last
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two to put the danger past.
"If we don’t get three inches, man, or four to break this drought
We’ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."

In God’s good time down came the rain; and all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane it drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still, and lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long, a-singing at its work
Till every heart took up the song way out to Back-O’-Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran, and dams filled overtop
"We’ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If this rain doesn’t stop."

And stop it did, in God’s good time: and spring came in to fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet, with harvest-hopes immense
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face, as happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel discoursed the men of mark
And each man squatted on his heel, and chewed his piece of bark.

"There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man, there will, without a doubt
We’ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."

Saltbush Bill

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
Now this is the law of the Overland,
that all in the West obey;
A man must cover with travelling sheep,
a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make,
right easily understood;
They travel their stage where the grass is bad,
but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass,
till never a blade remains;
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift,
on the edge of the saltbush plains;
From camp to camp and from run to run,
they battle it hand to hand;
For a blade of grass and the right to pass,
on the track of the Overland;

For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes,
'tis written in white and black ;
The man that goes with a travelling mob,
must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track,
on the runs where the grass is dead;
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run,
till they go with a two-mile spread;
So the squatters hurry the drovers on,
from dawn till the fall of night;
And the squatters'dogs and the drovers'dogs,
get mixed in a deadly fight;
Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob,
are willing the peace to keep;
For the drovers learn how to use their hands,
when they go with the travelling sheep;

But this is the tale of a jackeroo,
that came from a foreign strand;
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill,
the King of the Overland;
Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough,
as ever the country knew;
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes,
from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly,
run that gave him a chance to spread;
And he knew where the hungry owners were,
that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the 'Eighty drought,
with a mob that could scarcely creep;
When kangaroos by the thousands starve,
it is rough on the travelling sheep;

And he camped one night at the crossing-place,
on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said,
"or half of the mob are done!";
So he spread them out when they left the camp,
wherever they liked to go;
Till he grew aware of a jackeroo,
with a station-hand in tow;
And they set to work on the straggling sheep,
and with many a stockwhip crack;
They forced them in where the grass was dead,
in the space of the half mile track;
And William prayed that the hand of Fate,
might suddenly strike him blue;
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep,
in the teeth of that jackeroo;

So he turned and cursed the jackeroo,
he cursed him alive or dead;
From the soles of his great unwieldy feet,
to the crown of his ugly head;
With an extra curse on the moke he rode,
and the cur at his heels that ran;
Till the jackeroo from his horse got down,
and went for the droving man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up,
though the sheep ran loose the while;
They battled it out on the saltbush plain,
in the regular prize-ring style;
Now the new-chum fought for his honour's sake,
and the pride of the English race;
But the drover fought for his daily bread,
with a smile on his bearded face;

So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind,
and he made it a lengthy mill;
And from time to time as his scouts came in,
they whispered to Saltbush Bill;
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread,
and the grass it is something grand;
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round,
for the pride of the Overland.";
The new-chum made it a rushing fight,
though never a blow got home;
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky,
and glared on the brick-red loam;
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees,
and settled them down to rest;
Then the drover said he would fight no more,
and gave his opponent best;

So the new-chum rode to the station straight,
and he told them a story grand;
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day,
with the King of the Overland;
And the tale went home to the Public Schools,
of the pluck of the English swell;
How the drover fought for his very life,
but blood in the end must tell;
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep,
were boxed on the Old Man Plain;
Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out,
and hunted them off again;
With a week's good grass in their wretched hides,
with a curse and a stockwhip crack;
They hunted them off on the road once more,
to starve on the half-mile track;

And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland,
will many a time recite;
How the best day's work that he ever did,
was the day that he lost the fight;

Saltbush Bill's Second Fight

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The news came down on the Castlereagh,
and went to the world at large;
That twenty thousand travelling sheep,
with Saltbush Bill in charge;
Were drifting down from a dried-out run,
to ravage the Castlereagh;
And the squatters swore when they heard the news,
and wished they were well away:
For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill,
were over the countryside;
For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep,
and the dodges and tricks he tried;
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route,
and stray to the squatters' grass;
He would come to a run with the boss away,
and swear he had leave to pass;
And back of all and behind it all,
as well the squatters knew;
If he had to fight, he would fight all day,
so long as his sheep got through:
But this is the story of Stingy Smith,
the owner of Hard Times Hill;
And the way that he chanced on a fighting man,
to reckon with Saltbush Bill;

Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat,
and prayed for an early spring;
When he stared at sight of a clean-shaved tramp,
who walked with jaunty swing;
For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk,
a-swinging along the track;
Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog,
on the desolate roads outback;
So the tramp he made for the traveler's' hut,
and asked could he camp the night;
But Stingy Smith had a bright idea,
and he said to him, "Can you fight?";
Why, what's the game?" said the clean-shaved tramp,
as he looked at him up and down;
"If you want a battle get off that fence,
and I'll kill you for half-a-crown!;
But boss you'd better not fight with me,
it wouldn't be fair nor right;
I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade,
and I killed a man in a fight;
I served two years for it, fair and square,
and now I'm a trampin' back;
To look for a peaceful quiet life,
away on the outside track;
"Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap",
said Stingy Smith with glee;
"A bullying fellow, called Saltbush Bill,
and you are the man for me;
He's on the road with his hungry sheep,
and he's certain to raise a row;
For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh,
till he's got them under cow;
Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight,
and leather him good and hard;
And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep,
don't wander a half a yard;
Its a five pound job if you belt him well,
do anything short of kill;
For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh,
will fine you for Saltbush Bill.";

"I'll take the job " said the fighting man,
"and hot as this cove appears;
He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me,
what's lived on the game for years;
For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school,
and sparred for a round or so;
But I've fought all hands in a ten foot ring,
each night in a travelling show;
They earnt a pound if they stayed three rounds,
and they tried for it every night;
In a ten foot ring! Oh, that's the game,
that teaches a bloke to fight;
For they'd rush and clinch, it was Dublin Rules,
and we drew no colour line;
And they all tried hard for to earn the pound,
but they got no pound of mine:
If I saw no chance in the opening round,
I'd slog at their wind, and wait;
Till an opening came - and it always came,
and I settled 'em, sure as fate;
Left on the ribs and right on the jaw,
and, when the chance comes, make sure!;
And it's there a professional bloke like me,
gets home on an amateur;

"For it's my experience every day,
and I make no doubt it's yours;
That a third-class pro is an over-match,
for the best of the amateurs;
"Oh, take your swag to the traveler's' hut",
said Smith, "for you waste your breath;
You've a first-class chance if you lose the fight,
of talking your man to death;
I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub,
and see that you eat your fill;
And come to the scratch all fit and well,
to leather this Saltbush Bill.";

Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep,
were wending their weary way;
On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run,
on their six-mile stage a day;
And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route,
and started to feed along;
And, when Stingy Smith came up,
Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong;
And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed,
and strayed from their camp at night;
But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog,
and of course that meant a fight;

So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground,
and never a sound was heard;
But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs,
and the seconds' muttered word;
Till the fighting man shot home his left,
on the ribs with a mighty clout;
And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow,
and Saltbush Bill "went out";
He fell face down, and towards the blow,
and their hearts with fear were filled;
For he lay as still as a fallen tree,
and they thought that he must be killed;

So Stingy Smith and the fighting man,
they lifted him from the ground;
And sent to home for a brandy flask,
and they slowly fetched him round;
But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt,
in fact, he could scarcely speak;
So they let him spell till he got his wits,
and he camped on the run a week;
While the travelling sheep went here and there,
wherever they liked to stray;
Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more,
for the track to the Castlereagh;

Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note,
and gave to the fighting man;
Twas writ to the boss of the neighboring run,
and thus the missive ran;
"The man with this is a fighting man,
one Stiffener Joe by name;
He came near murdering Saltbush Bill,
and I found it a costly game;
But it's worth your while to employ the chap,
for there isn't the slightest doubt;
You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill,
while this man hangs about;
But an answer came by the next week's mail,
with news that might well appal;
"The man you sent with a note is not,
a fighting man at all!;
He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair,
but I spotted him at a look;
He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years,
for Saltbush Bill as cook;
Bill coached him up in the fighting yarn,
and taught him the tale by rote;
And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass,
and divided your five-pound note;
Twas a clean take-in, and you'll find it wise,
'twill save you a lot of pelf;
When next you're hiring a fighting man,
just fight him a round yourself.";

And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh,
when they meet with a week of rain;
And the wagon sinks to its axle-tree,
deep down in the black soil plain;
When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud,
and strain at the load of wool;
And the cattle dogs at the bullocks' heels,
are biting to make them pull;
When the offside driver flays the team,
and curses them while he flogs;
And the air is thick with the language used,
and the clamour of men and dogs;
The teamsters say, as they pause to rest,
and moisten each hairy throat;
They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith,
when he read that neighbor's note;

My Country

(Dorothea MacKella)
The love of field and coppice, Of green and shaded lanes
Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins
Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it, My love is otherwise

I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains
Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains
I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea
Her beauty and her terror- This wide brown land for me

The stark white ring-barked forests, All tragic to the moon
The saphirre misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon
Green tangle of the brushes Where lithe lianas coil
And orchids deck the tree-tops, And ferns the warm dark soil

Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky
When sick at heart around us, We watch the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again
The drumming of an army, The steady soaking rain

Core of my heart, my country! Land of the rainbow gold
For flood and fire and famine, She pays us back threefold
Over the thirsty paddocks Watch, after many days
The filmy veil of greenness, That thickens as we gaze

An opal hearted country, A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her, You will not understand
Though earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die
I know to what brown country, My homing thoughts will fly

Shearing at Castlereagh

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The bell is set a-ringing, and the engine gives a toot
There's five-and-thirty shearers here a-shearing for the loot
So stir yourselves, you penners-up, and shove the sheep along
The musterers are fetching them a hundred thousand strong
And make your collie dogs speak up; what would the buyers say
In London if the wool was late this year from Castlereagh?
The man that "rung" the Tubbo shed is not the ringer here
That stripling from the Cooma-side can teach him how to shear
They trim away the ragged locks, and rip the cutter goes
And leaves a track of snowy fleece from brisket to the nose
It's lovely how they peel it off with never stop nor stay
They're racing for the ringer's place this year at Castlereagh

The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage
He's always in a hurry; and he's always in a rage
"You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick
You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick
Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke today
It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh."
The youngsters picking up the fleece enjoy the merry din
They throw the classer up the fleece, he throws it to the bin
The pressers standing by the rack are watching for the wool
There's room for just a couple more, the press is nearly full
Now jump upon the lever, lads, and heave and heave away
Another bale of golden fleece is branded "Castlereagh"

Father Riley's Horse

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
By the troopers of the upper Murray side
They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log
But never sight or track of him they spied
Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late
And a whisper "Father Riley -- come across!"
So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate
And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse!

"Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say
For it's close upon my death I am tonight
With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day
In the gullies keeping close and out of sight
But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly
And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife
So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die
'Tis the only way I see to save my life

"Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next
An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course
I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed
And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse!
He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear
To his owner or his breeder, but I know
That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare
And his dam was close related to The Roe

"And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step
He could canter while they're going at their top
He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep
A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop!
So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again
Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course
You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain
If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!

"But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say goodbye
For the stars above the east are growing pale
And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die!
But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol!
You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip
Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead
Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip
Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, goodbye!" and he had fled!

So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights
In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill
There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights
Till the very boldest fighters had their fill
There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub
And their riders flogged each other all the while
And the lashin's of the liquor! And the lavin's of the grub!
Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style

Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all
For the folk were mostly Irish round about
And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall
They were training morning in and morning out
But they never started training till the sun was on the course
For a superstitious story kept 'em back
That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse
Had been training by the starlight on the track

And they read the nominations for the races with surprise
And amusement at the Father's little joke
For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize
And they found it was Father Riley's moke!
He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay!
But his owner's views of training were immense
For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day
And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence

And the priest would join the laughter: "Oh," said he, "I put him in
For there's five-and-twenty sovereigns to be won
And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win
And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!"
He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for 'Clear the course'
And his colours were a vivid shade of green
All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse
While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin!

It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise
Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag
And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise
That the race would go to Father Riley's nag
"You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled
And the fences is terrific, and the rest!
When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled
And the chestnut horse will battle with the best

"For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure
And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight
But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor
Will be running by his side to keep him straight
And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track
Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course!
I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back!
And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!"

Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round
And the fences rang and rattled where they struck
There was some that cleared the water, there was more fell in and drowned
Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck!
But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view
For the finish down the long green stretch of course
And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo
Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse!

Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post!
For he left the others standing, in the straight
And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost
And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight!
But he weighed in, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared
Like a banshee (which is Spanish for an elf)
And old Hogan muttered sagely, "If it wasn't for the beard
They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!"

And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide
Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green
There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died
And they wondered who on earth he could have been
But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about
'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course
That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out
For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!

A Walgett Episode

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The sun strikes down with a blinding glare
The skies are blue and the plains are wide
The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare
By Walgett out on the Barwon side
The Barwon River that wanders down
In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town

There came a stranger -- a "Cockatoo"
The word means farmer, as all men know
Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo
Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow
Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence
As he watches the lambkins passing hence

The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown
But it soon appeared that he meant to flout
The iron law of the country town
Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout
"If he will not shout we must take him down,"
Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town

They baited a trap with a crafty bait
With a crafty bait, for they held discourse
Concerning a new chum who there of late
Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse
They would wager that no one could ride him down
The length of the city of Walgett Town

The stranger was born on a horse's hide
So he took the wagers, and made them good
With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died
For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood!
'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down
Full many a stranger in Walgett Town

The stranger smiled with a sickly smile
'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins
And he said he had travelled for quite a while
A-trying to sell some marsupial skins
"And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down
You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!"

He said that his home was at Wingalee
At Wingalee, where he had for sale
Some fifty skins and would guarantee
They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail
Complete he sold them for money down
To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town

Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf
"I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose
You can fetch them in when it suits yourself
And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!"
Then he left -- and the silence settled down
Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town

In The Droving Days

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
"Only a pound," said the auctioneer,
"Only a pound; and I'm standing here
Selling this animal, gain or loss --
Only a pound for the drover's horse?
One of the sort that was ne'er afraid,
One of the boys of the Old Brigade;
Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear,
Only a little the worse for wear;
Plenty as bad to be seen in town,
Give me a bid and I'll knock him down;
Sold as he stands, and without recourse,
Give me a bid for the drover's horse."

Loitering there in an aimless way
Somehow I noticed the poor old grey,
Weary and battered and screwed, of course;
Yet when I noticed the old grey horse,
The rough bush saddle, and single rein
Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane,
Straighway the crowd and the auctioneer
Seemed on a sudden to disappear,
Melted away in a kind if haze --
For my heart went back to the droving days.
Back to the road, and I crossed again
Over the miles of the saltbush plain --

The shining plain that is said to be
The dried-up bed of an inland sea.
Where the air so dry and so clear and bright
Refracts the sun with a wondrous light,
And out in the dim horizon makes
The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes.
At dawn of day we could feel the breeze
That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees,
And brought a breath of the fragrance rare
That comes and goes in that scented air;
For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain
A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain.

For those that love it and understand
The saltbush plain is a wonderland,
A wondrous country, were Nature's ways
Were revealed to me in the droving days.
We saw the fleet wild horses pass,
And kangaroos through the Mitchell grass;
The emu ran with her frightened brood
All unmolested and unpursued.
But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub
When the dingo raced for his native scrub,
And he paid right dear for his stolen meals
With the drovers' dogs at his wretched heels.

For we ran him down at a rattling pace,
While the pack-horse joined in the stirring chase.
And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise --
We were light of heart in the droving days.
'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again
Made a move to close on a fancied rein.
For I felt a swing and the easy stride
Of the grand old horse that I used to ride.
In drought or plenty, in good or ill,
The same old steed was my comrade still;
The old grey horse with his honest ways
Was a mate to me in the droving days.

When we kept our watch in the cold and damp,
If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp,
Over the flats and across the plain,
With my head bent down on his waving mane,
Through the boughs above and the stumps below,
On the darkest night I could let him go
At a racing speed; he would choose his course,
And my life was safe with the old grey horse.
But man and horse had a favourite job,
When an outlaw broke from the station mob;
With a right good will was the stockwhip plied,
As the old horse raced at the straggler's side,

And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise --
We could use the whip in the droving days.
"Only a pound!" and was this the end --
Only a pound for the drover's friend.
The drover's friend that has seen his day,
And now was worthless and cast away
With a broken knee and a broken heart
To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart.
Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame
And the memories of the good old game.
"Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that!
Against you there in the curly hat!


Only a guinea, and one more chance,
Down he goes if there's no advance,
Third, and last time, one! two! three!"
And the old grey horse was knocked down to me.
And now he's wandering, fat and sleek,
On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek;
I dare not ride him for fear he's fall,
But he does a journey to beat them all,
For though he scarcely a trot can raise,
He can take me back to the droving days.

The Road to Old Man's Town

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The fields of youth are filled with flowers,
The wine of youth is strong:
What need have we to count the hours?
The summer days are long.
But soon we find to our dismay,
That we are drifting down
The barren slopes that fall away,
Towards the foothills grim and grey
That lead to Old Man's Town.

And marching with us on the track
Full many friends we find:
We see them looking sadly back
For those who've dropped behind
But God forfend a fate so dread
Alone to travel down
The dreary road we all must tread,
With faltering steps and whitening head,
The road to Old Man's Town!

The Road to Hogan's Gap

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
Now look, you see, it's this way like, you cross the broken bridge
And run the crick down, till you strike, the second right-hand ridge.
The track is hard to see in parts, but still it's pretty clear;
There's been two Injun hawkers' carts, along that road this year.

Well, run that right-hand ridge along, it ain't, to say, too steep
There's two fresh tracks might put you wrong
where blokes went out with sheep.
But keep the crick upon your right, and follow pretty straight
Along the spur, until you sight, a wire and sapling gate.

Well, that's where Hogan's old grey mare, fell off and broke her back;
You'll see her carcass layin' there, jist down below the track.
And then you drop two mile, or three, it's pretty steep and blind;
You want to go and fall a tree, and tie it on behind.

And then you pass a broken cart, below a granite bluff;
And that is where you strike the part, they reckon pretty tough.
But by the time you've got that far, it's either cure or kill,
So turn your horses round the spur, and face them up the hill.

For look, if you should miss the slope, and get below the track,
You haven't got the slightest hope, of ever gettin' back.
An' half way up you'll see the hide, of Hogan's brindled bull;
Well, mind and keep the right-hand side, the left's too steep a pull.

And both the banks is full of cracks; an' just about as dark
You'll see the last year's bullock tracks, where Hogan drew the bark.
The marks is old and pretty faint, o'ergrown with scrub and such;
Of course the track to Hogan's ain't, a road that's travelled much.

But turn and run the tracks along, for half a mile or more,
And then, of course, you can't go wrong, you're right at Hogan's door.
When first you come to Hogan's gate, he mightn't show perhaps;
He's pretty sure to plant, and wait, to see it ain't the traps.

I wouldn't call it good enough, to let your horses out;
There's some that's pretty extra rough, is livin' round about.
It's likely, if your horses did, get feedin' near the track,
It's going to cost at least a quid, or more to get them back.

So, if you find they're off the place, it's up to you to go
And flash a quid in Hogan's face, he'll know the blokes that know.
But listen -- if you're feelin' dry, just see there's no one near,
And go and wink the other eye, and ask for ginger beer.

The blokes come in from near and far, to sample Hogan's pop;
They reckon once they breast the bar, they stay there till they drop.
On Sundays you can see them spread, like flies around the tap.
It's like that song "The Livin' Dead", up there at Hogan's Gap.

They like to make it pretty strong, whenever there's a chance;
So when a stranger comes along, they always hold a dance.
There's recitations, songs, and fights, a willin' lot you'll meet.
There's one long bloke up there recites; I'll tell you he's a treat.

They're lively blokes all right up there, it's never dull a day.
I'd go meself if I could spare, the time to get away.
The stranger turned his horses quick, he didn't cross the bridge;
He didn't go along the crick, to strike the second ridge;

He didn't make the trip, because, he wasn't feeling fit.
His business up at Hogan's was, to serve him with a writ.
He reckoned, if he faced the pull, and climbed the rocky stair,
The next to come might find his hide, a landmark on the mountain side,
Along with Hogan's brindled bull, and Hogan's old grey mare!

When Dacey Rode the Mule

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
'Twas to a small, up-country town, when we were boys at school,
There came a circus with a clown, likewise a bucking mule.
The clown announced a scheme they had, spectators for to bring
They'd give a crown to any lad, who's ride him round the ring.
And, Gentle reader, do not scoff, nor think a man a fool
To buck a porous-plaster off, was pastime to that mule.

The boys got on he bucked like sin; he threw them in the dirt.
What time the clown would raise a grin, by asking, "Are you hurt?"
But Johnny Dacey came one night, the crack of all the school;
Said he, "I'll win the crown all right; bring in your bucking mule."
The elephant went off his trunk, the monkey played the fool,
And all the band got blazing drunk, when Dacey rode the mule.

But soon there rose a galling shout, of laughter, for the clown
From somewhere in his pants drew out, a little paper crown.
He placed the crown on Dacey's head, while Dacey looked a fool;
"Now there's your crown, my lad," he said, "For riding of the mule!"
The band struck up with "Killaloe", and "Rule, Britannia, Rule",
And "Young Man from the Country", too, when Dacey rode the mule.

Then Dacey, in a furious rage, for vengeance on the show
Ascended to the monkeys' cage, and let the monkeys go;
The blue-tailed ape and the chimpanzee, he turned abroad to roam;
Good faith! It was a sight to see, the people step for home.
For big baboons with canine snout, are spiteful, as a rule
The people didn't sit it out, when Dacey rode the mule.

And from the beasts he let escape, the bushmen all declare,
Were born some creatures partly ape, and partly native-bear.
They're rather few and far between, the race is nearly spent;
But some of them may still be seen, in Sydney Parliament.
And when those legislators fight, and drink, and act the fool,
Just blame it on that torrid night, when Dacey rode the mule.

The Great Australian Adjective

(W.T.Goodge)

The sunburnt "bloody" stockman stood
And, in a dismal "bloody" mood
Apostrophized his "bloody" cuddy
The "bloody" nag's no "bloody" good
He could'nt earn his "bloody" food
A regular "bloody" brumby,
"Bloody!!"

He jumped across the " bloody" horse
And cantered off, of "bloody" course!
The roads were bad and "bloody" muddy
Said he, Well spare me "bloody" days
The "bloody" government's "bloody" way's
"Bloody!!"

He rode up hill, down "bloody" dale
The wind it blew a "bloody" gale
The creek was high and "bloody" floody
Said he, The "bloody" horse must swim
The same for "bloody" me and him
Is something "bloody" sickening
"Bloody!!"

He plunged into the "bloody" creek
The "bloody" horse was "bloody" weak
The stockman's face a "bloody" study
And though the "bloody" horse was drowned
The "bloody" rider reached high ground
Ejaculating,"Bloody?" "Bloody!!!"

Shearing in the Bar

(H.P."Duke"Tritton)

My shearing days are over, though I never was a Gun
I could always count my twenty, at the end of every run
I used the old Trade Union shears, the blades were running full
As I shoved them to the knockers and pushed away the wool
I shore at Goorianawa and never got the sack
From Breeza out to Comprador I always could go back
But though I am a truthful man, I find when in a bar
That my tally's always doubled but-I never call for tar

Now shearing on the Western Plains, the fleece is full of sand
Clover-burr and cork-screw grass, is the place to try your hand
For the sheep are tough and wiry, they feed on Mitchell grass
And every second one of them, is close to 'cobbler' class
And a pen choked full of 'cobblers' is a shearers dream of hell
And loud and lurid are their words when they catch one on the bell
But when we're pouring down the grog, you'll hear no call for tar
For the shearer never cuts them-when he's shearing in a bar

At Louth I got the bell-sheep, a wrinkly tough-wooled brute
Who never stopped his kicking, till I tossed him down the shute
Though my wrist was aching badly, I fought him all the way
I could'nt afford to miss a blow- I must earn my pound a day
So when I took a strip of skin, I would hide it with my knee
Gently turn the sheep around so the bower could'nt see
Then try to catch the rousy's eye, and softly whisper "Tar"
But it never seems to happen-when I'm shearing in a bar

I shore away the belly-wool, and trmmed the crutch and hocks
Then opened up along the neck, while rousy swept the locks
Then smartly swung the sheep around,and dumped him on his rear
Two blows to chip away the wig-(I also took an ear)
Then down around the shoulder, and the blades were open wide
As I drove them on the long blow and down the whipping side
and when I tossed him down the shute, he was nearly black with tar
But it never seems to happen--when I'm shearing in a bar

The Little Worn Out Pony

(Anon)

There's a little worn out pony, this side of Hogan's shack
With a snip upon his muzzle and a mark upon his back
Just a common little pony is what most folk say
But then of course they've never heard what happened in his day
I was droving on the Leichhardt with a mob of pikers wild
When this tibby little pony belonged to Hogan's child

One night it started raining--we were camping on a rise
When the wind blew cold and bleakly and thunder shook the skies
The lightning cut a figure eight around the startled cattle
Then down there fell torrential rains and then began a battle
In a fraction of an instant the wild mob became insane
Careering through the timber helter-skelter for the plain

The timber fell before them like grass before a scythe
And heavy rain in torrents poured from the grimly blackened sky
The mod rushed ever onward through the slippery sodden ground
While the men and I worked frantically to veer their heads around
And then arose an aweful cry--it came from Jimmy Rild
For there between two saplings straight ahead was Hogan's child

I owned not man or devil, I had not prayed since when
But called upon the blessed Lord to show his mercy then
I shut my eyes and ground my teeth, the end I dare not see
Great God- the cattle a thousand head were crashing through the tree's
God pity us bush children in our darkest hour of need
Were the words I prayed though I followed neither church or creed

Then my right-hand man was shouting, the faithful Jimmy Rild
Did you see it Harry, see the way he saved that child
Saved! Saved! did you say? and I shot upright with a bound
Yes saved he said Indeed old man, the child is safe and sound
I was feeling pretty shaky and was gazing up the track
Just then a pony galloped, and the kid hopped on its back

A blinding flash of lightning then the thunder's rolling crack
With two hands clasped upon his mane he raced towards the shack
Good heavens man! I shouted then, if that is truly so
To blazes with the cattle, to the shanty we must go
We reached Bill Hogan's shanty in fifteen minutes ride
Then left our horses standing and wildly rushed inside

The little child was there unhurt but shivering with fear
And Hogan told us, Yes thank god, the pony brought her here
There's a little worn-out pony just this side of Hogan's shack
With a snip upon his muzzle and a mark upon his back
Just a common little pony is what most people say
But I doubt if there's his equal in the pony world today

The Fire at Ross's Farm

(Henry Lawson)

The squatter saw his pastures wide, decrease,as one by one
The farmers moving to the west, selected on his run
Selectors took the water up, and all the black soil round
The best grass-land the squatter had, was spoilt by Ross's ground
Now many schemes to shift old Ross, had racked the squatters brains
But Sandy had the stubborn blood, of Scotland in his veins
He held the land and fenced it in, he cleared and ploughed the soil
And year by year a richer crop repaid him for his toil

Between the homes for many years,the devil left his tracks
The squatter pounded Ross's stock, and Sandy pounded back
A well upon the lower run,was filled with earth and logs
And Black laid baits about the farm, to poison Ross's dogs
It was indeed, a deadly feud, of class and creed and race
But yet, there was a Romeo and Juliet in the case
And more than once across the flats, beneath the Southern Cross
Young Robert Black was seen to ride, with pretty Jenny Ross

One christmas time when months of drought had parched the western creeks
The bushfires started in the north, and travelled south for weeks
At night along the river side, the scene was grand and strange
The hill-fires looked like lighted streets, of cities in the range
The cattle tracks between the trees, were like long dusky aisles
And on a sudden breeze the fire, would sweep along for miles
Like sounds of distant musketry, it crackled through the brakes
And o'er thr flat of silver grass, it hissed like angry snakes

It leapt across the flowing streams, and raced the pastures broad
It climbed the trees and lit the boughs, and through the scrub it roared
The bees fell stifled by the smoke, or perished in their hives
And with the stock the kangaroos, went flying for their lives
The sun had set on Christmas eve, when through the scrub-lands wide
Young Robert Black came riding home, as only natives ride
He galloped to the homestead door, and gave the first alarm
The fire is past the granite spur, and close to Ross's farm

Now father send the men at once, they won't be wanted here
Poor Ross's wheat is all he has, to pull him through this year
"Then let it burn" the squatter said, I'd like to see it done
I'd bless the fire if it would clear, Selectors from the run
"Go if you will" the squatter said, you shall not take the men
Go out and join your precious friends, and don't come back again
"I won't come back" young Robert cried, and reckless in his ire
He sharply turned his horse's head, and galloped towards the fire

And there for three long weary hours, half blind with smoke and heat
Old Ross and Robert fought the flames, that neared the ripened wheat
The farmers hand was nerved by fears, of danger and of loss
And Robert fought the stubborn foe, for the love of Jenny Ross
But serpent like the curves and lines, slipped past them and between
Until they reached the bound'ry where, the old coach road had been
The track is now our only hope, there we must stand , cried Ross
For nought on earth can stop the fire, if once it gets across

Then came a cruel gust if wind, and with a fiendish rush
The flames leapt o'er the narrow path, and lit the fence of brush
The crop must burn, the farmer cried, we cannot save it now
And down upon the blackened ground, he dashed the ragged bough
But wildly, in a rush of hope, his heart began to beat
For o'er the crackling fire he heard, the sound of horses feet
Here's help at last, young Robert cried, and even as he spoke
The squatter and a dozen men, came racing through the smoke

Down on the ground the stockmen jumped,and bared each brawny arm
They tore green branches from the trees, and fought for Ross's farm
And when before the gallant band, the beaten flames gave way
Two grimy hands in friendship joined--and it was Christmas day

Lost

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)

"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile -- he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown -- and what will his mother say?

"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her -- and what will his mother say?"

The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"

Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.

And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.

And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!

Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.

But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.

"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness -- she had found the boy at last.

Waltzing Matilda

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah-tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the billabong:
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee.
And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker-bag,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker-bag,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

Up rode a squatter, mounted on his thoroughbred;
Down came the troopers, one, two, three:
"Whose' that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker-bag?"
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
"Whose' that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker-bag?"
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!

Up jumped the swagman and sprang into the billabong;
"You'll never catch me alive!" said he;
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
"You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

Songs of the Squatters

(Robert Lowe)
The gum has no shade, the wattle no fruit
The parrot don't warble, in trolls like the flute
The cockatoo cooeth, not much like a dove
Yet fear not to ride, to my station my love
Four hundred miles, is the goal of our way
It is done in a week, at but sixty a day
The plains are all dusty, the creeks are all dried
Tis the fairest of weather, to bring home my bride
The blue vault of heaven, shall curtain thy form
One side of a gum tree, the moonbeam must warm
The whizzing mosquito, shall dance o'er thy head
And the guana shall squat, at the foot of thy bed
The brave laughing jackass, shall sing thee to sleep
And the snake o'er thy slumbers, his vigils shall keep
Then sleep lady sleep, without dreaming of pain
Till the frost of the morning, shall wake thee again
Our brave bridal bower, I build not of stone
Though like old Doubting Castle,It is paved with bones
The bones of the sheep, on whose flesh I have fed
Where thy thin silken slipper, unshrinking may tread
For the dogs have all polished, them clean with their teeth
And they're better, believe me,than what lies beneath
My door has no hinge, and the window no pane
They let out the smoke, but they let in the rain
The frying pan serves us, for table and dish
And the tin pot of tea stands, still filled for your wish
The sugar is brown, the milk is all done
But the stick it is stirred with, is better than none
The stockmen will swear, and the shepherds won't sing
but a dog's a companion, enough for a king
So fear not, fair lady, your desolate way
Your clothes will arrive, in three months with my dray
Then mount, Lady mount, to the wilderness fly
My stores are laid in, and my shearing is nigh
And our steeds, that through Sydney exultingly wheel
Must graze in a week on the banks of the Peel

Pioneers

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride,
We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
As those explorers of the bush -- the brave old pioneers.

'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out;
'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made,
And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.

But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
And spied at last the promised land from off the range's crest.

O ye that sleep in lonely graves by distant ridge and plain,
We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years --
The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers.

The Passing of Gundagai

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
"I'll introduce a friend!" he said,
"And if you've got a vacant pen
You'd better take him in the shed
And start him shearing straight ahead;
He's one of these here quiet men.

"He never strikes -- that ain't his game;
No matter what the others try
He goes on shearing just the same.
I never rightly knew his name --
We always call him 'Gundagai!'"

Our flashest shearer then had gone
To train a racehorse for a race;
And, while his sporting fit was on
He couldn't be relied upon,
So Gundagai shore in his place.

Alas for man's veracity!
For reputations false and true!
This Gundagai turned out to be
For strife and all-round villainy
The very worst I ever knew!

He started racing Jack Devine,
And grumbled when I made him stop.
The pace he showed was extra fine,
But all those pure-bred ewes of mine
Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.

He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,
From roof to rafter, floor to shelf:
As for my mongrel ewes, he said,
I ought to get a razor-blade
And shave the blooming things myself.

On Sundays he controlled a "school",
And played "two-up" the livelong day;
And many a young confiding fool
He shore of his financial wool;
And when he lost he would not pay.

He organised a shearers' race,
And "touched" me to provide the prize.
His pack-horse showed surprising pace
And won hands down -- he was The Ace,
A well-known racehorse in disguise.

Next day the bruiser of the shed
Displayed an opal-tinted eye,
With large contusions on his head,
He smiled a sickly smile, and said
He's "had a cut at Gundagai!"

But, just as we were getting full
Of Gundagai and all his ways,
A telgram for "Henry Bull"
Arrived. Said he, "That's me -- all wool!
Let's see what this here message says."

He opened it; his face grew white,
He dropped the shears and turned away
It ran, "Your wife took bad last night;
Come home at once -- no time to write,
We fear she may not last the day."

He got his cheque -- I didn't care
To dock him for my mangled ewes;
His store account, we called it square,
Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,
Confronted by such dreadful news.

The shearers raised a little purse
To help a mate, as shearers will.
"To pay the doctor and the nurse.
And, if there should be something worse,
To pay the undertaker's bill."

They wrung his hand in sympathy,
He rode away without a word,
His head hung down in misery . . .
A wandering hawker passing by
Was told of what had just occurred.

"Well! that's a curious thing," he siad,
"I've known that feller all his life --
He's had the loan of this here shed!
I know his wife ain't nearly dead,
Because he hasn't got a wife!"

You should have heard the whipcord crack
As angry shearers galloped by;
In vain they tried to fetch him back --
A little dust along the track
Was all they saw of "Gundagai".

The Silent Shearer

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
Weary and listless, sad and slow,
without any conversation,
Was a man that worked on The Overflow,
the butt of the shed and the station.
The shearers christened him Noisy Ned,
with an alias "Silent Waters",
But never a needless word he said,
In the hut or the shearers' quarters.

Which caused annoyance to Big Barcoo,
the shed's unquestioned ringer,
Whose name was famous Australia through,
as a dancer, fighter and singer.
He was fit for the ring, if he'd had his rights,
as an agent of devastation;
And the number of men he had killed in fights,
was his principal conversation.

"I have known blokes go to their doom," said he,
through actin' with haste and rashness:
But the style that this Noisy Ned assumes,
It's nothing but silent flashness.
"We may just be dirt, from his point of view,
unworthy a word in season;
But I'll make him talk like a cockatoo,
or I'll get him to show the reason."

Was it chance or fate, that King Condamine,
a king who had turned a black tracker,
Had captured a baby purcupine,
which he swapped for a "fig tobacker"?
With the porcupine in the Silent's bed,
the shearers were quite elated,
And the things to be done, and the words to be said,
were anxiously awaited.

With a screech and a howl and an eldritch cry,
that nearly deafened his hearers
He sprang from his bunk, and his fishy eye,
looked over the laughing shearers.
He looked them over and he looked them through,
as a cook might look through a larder;
"Now, Big Barcoo, I must pick on you, you're big,
but you'll fall the harder."

Now, the silent man was but slight and thin
and of middleweight conformation,
But he hung one punch on the Barcoo's chin
and it ended the altercation.
"You've heard of the One-round Kid," said he,
"That hunted 'em all to shelter?
The One-round Finisher -- that was me,
when I fought as the Champion Welter.

"And this Barcoo bloke on his back reclines,
for being a bit too clever,
For snakes and wombats and porcupines,
are nothing to me whatever.
"But the golden rule that I've had to learn,
In the ring, and for years I've tried it,
Is only to talk when it comes your turn,

The Swagman's Rest

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
We buried old Bob where the bloodwoods wave
At the foot of the Eaglehawk;
We fashioned a cross on the old man's grave
For fear that his ghost might walk;
We carved his name on a bloodwood tree
With the date of his sad decease
And in place of "Died from effects of spree"
We wrote "May he rest in peace".

For Bob was known on the Overland,
A regular old bush wag,
Tramping along in the dust and sand,
Humping his well-worn swag.
He would camp for days in the river-bed,
And loiter and "fish for whales".
"I'm into the swagman's yard," he said.
"And I never shall find the rails."

But he found the rails on that summer night
For a better place -- or worse,
As we watched by turns in the flickering light
With an old black gin for nurse.
The breeze came in with the scent of pine,
The river sounded clear,
When a change came on, and we saw the sign
That told us the end was near.

He spoke in a cultured voice and low --
"I fancy they've 'sent the route';
I once was an army man, you know,
Though now I'm a drunken brute;
But bury me out where the bloodwoods wave,
And, if ever you're fairly stuck,
Just take and shovel me out of the grave
And, maybe, I'll bring you luck.

"For I've always heard --" here his voice grew weak,
His strength was wellnigh sped,
He gasped and struggled and tried to speak,
Then fell in a moment -- dead.
Thus ended a wasted life and hard,
Of energies misapplied --
Old Bob was out of the "swagman's yard"
And over the Great Divide.

The drought came down on the field and flock,
And never a raindrop fell,
Though the tortured moans of the starving stock
Might soften a fiend from hell.
And we thought of the hint that the swagman gave
When he went to the Great Unseen --
We shovelled the skeleton out of the grave
To see what his hint might mean.

We dug where the cross and the grave posts were,
We shovelled away the mould,
When sudden a vein of quartz lay bare
All gleaming with yellow gold.
'Twas a reef with never a fault nor baulk
That ran from the range's crest,
And the richest mine on the Eaglehawk
Is known as "The Swagman's Rest".

Weary Will

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The strongest creature for his size
But least equipped for combat
That dwells beneath Australian skies
Is Weary Will the Wombat.

He digs his homestead underground,
He's neither shrewd nor clever;
For kangaroos can leap and bound
But wombats dig forever.

The boundary rider's netting fence
Excites his irritation;
It is to his untutored sense
His pet abomination.

And when to pass it he desires,
Upon his task he'll centre
And dig a hole beneath the wires
Through which the dingoes enter.

And when to block the hole they strain
With logs and stones and rubble,
Bill Wombat digs it out again
Without the slightest trouble.

The boundary rider bows to fate,
Admits he's made a blunder
And rigs a little swinging gate
To let Bill Wombat under.

So most contentedly he goes
Between his haunt and burrow:
He does the only thing he knows,
And does it very thorough.

Australian Scenary

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The Mountains
A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go
By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow
And the wind replies, in the river oaks, to the song of the stream below.

A land where the hills keep watch and ward, silent and wide awake
As those who sit by a dead campfire, and wait for the dawn to break,
Or those who watched by the Holy Cross for the dead Redeemer's sake.

A land where silence lies so deep that sound itself is dead
And a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless, overhead
And the world's great story is left untold, and the message is left unsaid.

The Plains
A land as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred -- land where you never know.

Land of plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.

And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor,
where the bones of the cattle lie.

Black Harry's Team

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
No soft-skinned Durham steers are they, no Devons plump and red,
But brindled, black, and iron-grey, that mark the mountain-bred;
For mountain-bred and mountain-broke, with sullen eyes agleam,
No stranger's hand could pull a yoke, on old Black Harry's team.

Pull out, pull out, at break of morn, the creeks are running white,
And Tiger, Spot, and Snailey-horn, must bend their bows by night;
And axles, wheels and flooring boards, are swept with flying spray
As shoulder-deep, through mountain fords, the leaders feel their way.

He needs no sign of cross or kirn, to guide him as he goes,
For every twist and every turn, that old black leader knows.
Up mountains steep they heave and strain, where never wheel has rolled,
And what the toiling leaders gain, the body bullocks hold.

Where eaglehawks their eyries make, on sidelings steep and blind,
He rigs the good old-fashioned brake, a tree tied on behind.
Up mountains, straining to the full, each poler plays his part
The sullen, stubborn, bullock pull, that breaks a horse's heart.

Beyond the furthest bridle track, his wheels have blazed the way;
The forest giants, burnt and black, are earmarked by his dray.
Through belts of scrub where messmates grow, his juggernaut has rolled,
For stumps and saplings have to go, when Harry's team takes hold.

On easy grade and rubber tyre, the tourist car goes through;
They halt a moment and admire, the far-flung mountain view.
The tourist folk would be amazed, if they could get to know
They take the track Black Harry blazed, a hundred years ago.

A Word to Texas Jack

(Henry Lawson)
Texas Jack, you are amusin'. By Lord Harry, how I laughed
When I seen yer rig and saddle with it's bulwarks fore-and-aft;
Holy smoke! In such a saddle how the dickens can you fall?
Why, I seen a gal ride bareback with no bridle on at all!
Gosh! so-help-me! strike-me-barmy! if a bit o' scenery
Like ter you in all yer rig-out on the earth I ever see.
How I'd like to see a bushman use yer fixins, Texas Jack,
On the remnant of a saddle he can ride to hell and back.
Why, I heard a mother screamin' when her kid went tossin' by
Ridin' bareback on a bucker that had murder in his eye.
What? yer come to learn the natives how to squat on horse's back!
Learn the cornstalk ridin'! Blazes! - w'at yer givin us Texas Jack?
Learn the cornstalk - what the flamin, jumtup! where's my country gone?
Why, the cornstalk's mother often rides the day afore he's born!
You talk about your ridin' in the city bold and free,
Talk o' ridin' in the city, Texas Jack but where'd yer be
When the stock horse snorts and bunches all 'is quarters in a hump,
And the saddle climbs a sapling, an' the horse-shoes split a stump?
No, before yer teach the natives you must ride without a fall
Up a gum or down a gully nigh as steep as any wall -
You must swim the roaring Darlin' when the flood is at its height
Bearin' down the stock an' stations to the Great Autralian Bight.
You can't count the bulls an' bisons that yer copped with your lasso
But a stout old myall bullock p'raps 'ud learn yer somethin' new;
Yer'd better make yer will an' leave yer papers neat an' trim
Before yer make arrangements for the lassoin' of him;
Ere you 'n 'yer horse is catsmeat, fittin' fate for sich galoots,
And yer saddle's turned to laces like we put in blucher boots.
And yer say yer death n Injins! We got somethin' in yer line
If yer think your fitin's ekal to the likes of Tommy Ryan.
Take yer karcass up to Queensland where the allygators chew
And the carpet-snake is handy with his tail for a lasso;
Ride across the lazy regions where the lonely emus wail
An' ye'll find the black'll track yer while yer lookin' for his trail;
He can track yer without stoppin' for a thousand miles or more
Come again and he will show yer where yer spit the year before.
But yer'd best be mighty careful, you'll be sorry you kem here
When yer skewered to the fakements of yer saddle with a spear
When the boomerang is sailin' in the air may heaven help yer.
It will cut yer head off goin' and come back again and skelp yer.

P.S. - As poet and as Yankee I will greet you, Texas Jack,
For it isn't no ill-feelin' that is gettin up my back,
But I won't see this land crowded by each Yank and British cuss
Who takes it in his head to come a-civilisin' us.
So if yer feel like shootin' now, don't let yer pistol cough
(Our Government is very free at chokin' fellers off);
And though on your great continent there's misery in the towns
An' not a few untitled lords and kings without their crowns,
I will admit your countrymen is busted, big and free,
An' great on ekal rights of men and great on liberty;
I will admit yer fathers punched the gory tyrant's head,
But then we've got out heroes too, the diggers that is dead
The plucky men of Ballarat who toed the scratch right well,
And broke the nose of Tyranny and made his peepers swell
For yankin' Lib's gold tresses in the roaring' days gone by,
An' doublin' up his dirty fist to black her bonny eye;
So when it comes to ridin' mokes, or hoistin' out the Chow,
Or stickin' up for labour's rights, we don't want showin' how.
They come to learn us cricket in the days of long ago,
An' Hanlan come from Canada to learn us how to row,
An' doctors come from 'Frisco just to learn us how to skite
An' 'pugs' from all the lands on earth to show us how to fight;
An' when they go, as like or not, we find we're taken in,
They've left behind no larnin' - but they've carried off our tin.

Riders in the Stand

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride;
While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride.
There's some that ride as sailors do, with legs, and arms, and teeth;
And some that ride the horse's neck, and some ride underneath.

But all the finest horsemen out -- the men to Beat the Band
You'll find amongst the crowd that ride their races in the Stand.
They'll say "He had the race in hand, and lost it in the straight."
They'll know how Godby came too soon, and Barden came too late

They'll say Chevalley lost his nerve, and Regan lost his head;
They'll tell how one was "livened up" and something else was "dead"
In fact, the race was never run on sea, or sky, or land,
But what you'd get it better done by riders in the Stand.

The rule holds good in everything in life's uncertain fight;
You'll find the winner can't go wrong, the loser can't go right.
You ride a slashing race, and lose -- by one and all you're banned!
Ride like a bag of flour, and win -- they'll cheer you in the Stand.

With the Cattle

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
The drought is down on field and flock, the river-bed is dry;
And we must shift the starving stock, before the cattle die.
We muster up with weary hearts, at breaking of the day,
And turn our heads to foreign parts, to take the stock away.
And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em, and it's get the whip and flog 'em
For it's weary work, is droving, when they're dying every day
By stock routes bare and eaten, on dusty roads and beaten
With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.

We cannot use the whip for shame on beasts that crawl along
We have to drop the weak and lame, and try to save the strong
The wrath of God is on the track, the drought fiend holds his sway
With blows and cries and stockwhip crack we take the stock away.
As they fall we leave them lying, with the crows to watch them dying
Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey
By the fiery dust-storm drifting, and the mocking mirage shifting
In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.

In dull despair the days go by, with never hope of change
But every stage we feel more nigh, the distant mountain range
And some may live to climb the pass, and reach the great plateau
And revel in the mountain grass, by streamlets fed with snow.
As the mountain wind is blowing, it starts the cattle lowing
And calling to each other down the dusty long array
And there speaks a grizzled drover, "Well, thank God, the worst is over
The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away."

They press towards the mountain grass, they look with eager eyes
Along the rugged stony pass that slopes towards the skies
Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones, but though the blood-drop starts
They struggle on with stifled groans, for hope is in their hearts.
And the cattle that are leading, though their feet are worn and bleeding
Are breaking to a kind of run -- pull up, and let them go!
For the mountain wind is blowing, and the mountain grass is growing
They'll settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow.

The days are gone of heat and drought, upon the stricken plain
The wind has shifted right about, and brought the welcome rain
The river runs with sullen roar, all flecked with yellow foam
And we must take the road once more, to bring the cattle home.
And it's "Lads! we'll raise a chorus, there's a pleasant trip before us."
And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track
And the drovers canter, singing, through the sweet green grasses springing
Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back.

Are these the beasts we brought away, that move so lively now?
They scatter off like flying spray, across the mountain's brow
And dashing down the rugged range, we hear the stockwhips crack
Good faith, it is a welcome change, to bring such cattle back.
And it's "Steady down the lead there!" and it's "Let 'em stop and feed there!"
For they're wild as mountain eagles, and their sides are all afoam
But they're settling down already, and they'll travel nice and steady
With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home.

We have to watch them close at night, for fear they'll make a rush
And break away in headlong flight, across the open bush
And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze, with mellow voice and strong
We hear the lonely watchman raise the Overlander's song
"Oh! it's when we're done with roving, with the camping and the droving
It's homeward down the Bland we'll go, and never more we'll roam"
While the stars shine out above us, like eyes of those who love us
The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home.

The plains are all awave with grass, the skies are deepest blue
And leisurely the cattle pass, and feed the long day through
But when we sight the station gate we make the stockwhips crack
A welcome sound to those who wait to greet the cattle back
And through the twilight falling we hear their voices calling
As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam
And the children run to meet us, and our wives and sweethearts greet us
Their heroes of the Overland who brought the cattle home.

How Gilbert Died

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
There's never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied;
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.

For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn
To the hut at the Stockman's Ford;
In the waning light of the sinking sun
They peered with a fierce accord.
They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head
Was a thousand pounds reward.

They had taken toll of the country round,
And the troopers came behind
With a black who tracked like a human hound
In the scrub and the ranges blind:
He could run the trail where a white man's eye
No sign of track could find.

He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill
And over the Old Man Plain,
But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill,
And they made for the range again;
Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt
They rode with a loosened rein.

And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold:
"Come in and rest in peace,
No safer place does the country hold
With the night pursuit must cease,
And we'll drink success to the roving boys,
And to hell with the black police."

But they went to death when they entered there
In the hut at the Stockman's Ford,
For their grandsire's words were as false as fair
They were doomed to the hangman's cord.
He had sold them both to the black police
For the sake of the big reward.

In the depth of night there are forms that glide
As stealthily as serpents creep,
And around the hut where the outlaws hide
They plant in the shadows deep,
And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn
Shall waken their prey from sleep.

But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark
A restless sleeper aye.
He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog's bark,
And his horse's warning neigh,
And he says to his mate, "There are hawks abroad,
And it's time that we went away."

Their rifles stood at the stretcher head,
Their bridles lay to hand;
They wakened the old man out of his bed,
When they heard the sharp command:
"In the name of the Queen lay down your arms,
Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!"

Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true
That close at hand he kept;
He pointed straight at the voice, and drew,
But never a flash outleapt,
For the water ran from the rifle breech
It was drenched while the outlaws slept.

Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath,
And he turned to his comrade Dunn:
"We are sold," he said, "we are dead men both!
Still, there may be a chance for one;
I'll stop and I'll fight with the pistol here,
You take to your heels and run."

So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees
In the dim, half-dawning light,
And he made his way to a patch of trees,
And was lost in the black of night;
And the trackers hunted his tracks all day,
But they never could trace his flight.

But Gilbert walked from the open door
In a confident style and rash;
He heard at his side the rifles roar,
And he heard the bullets crash.
But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand,
And he fired at the rifle-flash.

Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed
At his voice and the pistol sound.
With rifle flashes the darkness flamed
He staggered and spun around,
And they riddled his body with rifle balls
As it lay on the blood-soaked ground.

There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
There's never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied;
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.

It's Grand

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
It's grand to be a squatter
And sit upon a post,
And watch your little ewes and lambs
A-giving up the ghost.

It's grand to be a "cockie"
With wife and kids to keep,
And find an all-wise Providence
Has mustered all your sheep.

It's grand to be a Western man,
With shovel in your hand,
To dig your little homestead out
From underneath the sand.

It's grand to be a shearer
Along the Darling-side,
And pluck the wool from stinking sheep
That some days since have died.

It's grand to be a rabbit
And breed till all is blue,
And then to die in heaps because
There's nothing left to chew.

It's grand to be a Minister
And travel like a swell,
And tell the Central District folk
To go to -- Inverell.

It's grand to be a socialist
And lead the bold array
That marches to prosperity
At seven bob a day.

It's grand to be unemployed
And lie in the Domain,
And wake up every second day
And go to sleep again.

It's grand to borrow English tin
To pay for wharves and docks
And then to find it isn't in
The little money-box.

It's grand to be a democrat
And toady to the mob,
For fear that if you told the truth
They'd hunt you from your job.

It's grand to be a lot of things
In this fair Southern land,
But if the Lord would send us rain,
That would, indeed, be grand!

Shearing in the Bar

(H.P. "Duke" Tritton)
My shearing days are over, though I never was a gun:
I could always count my twenty at the end of every run.
I used the old Trade Union shears, and the blades were running full
As I shoved them to the knockers and I pushed away the wool.
I shore at Goorianawa and never got the sack;
From Breeza out to Comprador I always could go back;
But though I am a truthful man I find, when in a bar,
That my tally's always doubled but -- I never call for tar!

Now shearing on the Western Plains, where the fleece is full of sand
And clover-burr and cork-screw grass, is the place to try your hand;
For the sheep are tough and wiry where they feed on the Mitchell grass,
And every second one of them is close to the 'cobbler' class;
And a pen chocked full of 'cobblers' is a shearer's dream of hell,
And loud and lurid are their words when they catch one on the bell:
But when we're pouring down the grog you'll hear no call for tar,
For the shearer never cuts them -- when he's shearing in a bar!

At Louth I got the bell-sheep, a wrinkly tough-woolled brute,
Who never stopped his kicking till I tossed him down the 'chute.
Though my wrist was aching badly, I fought him all the way:
I couldn't afford to miss a blow -- I must earn my pound a day;
So when I took a strip of skin, I would hide it with my knee--
Gently turn the sheep around so the right bower couldn't see,
Then try to catch the rousy's eye, and softly whisper, "Tar";
But it never seems to happen -- when I'm shearing in a bar!

I shore away the belly-wool, and trimmed the crutch and hocks,
Then opened up along the neck, while the rousy swept the locks.
Then smartly swung the sheep around, and dumped him on his rear--
Two blows to chip away the wig -- (I also took an ear!)
Then down around the shoulder and the blades were opened wide,
As I drove them on the long blow and down the whipping side;
And whenI tossed him down the 'chute he was nearly black with tar
But it never seems to happen -- when I'm shearing in a bar!

Now when the season's ended and my grandsons all come back
In their Vanguards and their Holdens -- I was always 'on the track'
They come and take me into town to fill me up with beer,
And I sit on a corner-stool and listen to them shear:
There's not a bit of difference! It must make the angels weep,
To hear a mob of shearers in a bar-room shearing sheep;
The sheep go rattling down the race and there's never a call for tar,
For they still don't seem to cut them -- when they're shearing in the bar!

Then memories come crowding and they roll away the years,
And my hands begin to tighten and they seem to feel the shears:
I want to tell them of the sheds, of sheds where I have shorn,
Full fifty years, or maybe more, before the boys were born.
I want to speak of Yarragreen, Dunlop or Wingadee,
But the beer has started working and I find I cannot see.
So I'd better not start shearing -- I'd be bound to call for tar;
Then be treated like a blackleg -- when I'm shearing in a bar!

The Swagless Swaggie

(Edward Harrington)
This happened in the years gone by before the bush was cleared,
When every man was six foot high and wore a heavy beard;
One very hot and windy day along the old coach road,
Towards Joe Murphy's wayside pub a bearded stranger strode.

He was a huge and hairy man well over six foot high,
An old slouch hat was on his head and murder in his eye;
No billy can was in his hand, no heavy swag he bore,
But deep and awful were the oaths that swagless swaggie swore.

They were a rough and ready lot, the bushmen gathered there,
But every man was stricken dumb to hear that stranger swear;
He cursed the bush, he cursed mankind and all the universe,
It froze their very blood to hear that swagless swaggie curse.

"I met the Ben Hall gang," he said, "the bastards stuck me up,
They pinched me billy, pinched me swag, they pinched me flamin' pup;
They turned me pockets inside out and took me only quid,
I never thought they'd pinch me pipe, but s'elp me God they did.

"I never done the gang no harm, I thought 'em decent chaps;
But now I wouldn't raise a hand to save 'em from the traps;
I'm done forever with the bush, I'm makin' for the town,
Where they won't stick a swaggie up and take a swaggie down."

The bushmen were a decent lot, as bushmen mostly are,
They filled the stranger up with beer, the hat went round the bar;
The shearers threw some blankets in to make another swag,
The rousers gave a billycan and brand new tucker bag.

Joe Murphy gave a briar pipe he hadn't smoked for years,
The stranger was too full for words, his eyes were dim with tears;
The ringer shouted drinks all round, and then to top it up,
The shearer's cook, the babbling brook, gave him a kelpie pup.

Next day an hour before the dawn, the stranger took the track,
Complete with pup and billycan, his swag upon his back;
Along the most forsaken roads, intent on dodging graft,
He headed for the great north-west, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

The Last Parade

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
With never a sound of trumpet,
with never a flag displayed.
The last of the old campaigners,
lined up for the last parade.

Weary they were and battered,
shoeless, and knocked about.
From under their ragged forelocks,
their hungry eyes looked out.

And they watched as the old commander,
read out to the cheering men.
The Nation's thanks, and the orders,
to carry them home again.

And the last of the old campaigners,
sinewy, lean, and spare.
He spoke for his hungry comrades,
"Have we not done our share?"

"Starving and tired and thirsty,
we limped on the blazing plain.
And after a long night's picket,
you saddled us up again.

"We froze on the windswept kopjes,
when the frost lay snowy-white.
Never a halt in the daytime,
never a rest at night!

"We knew when the rifles rattled,
from the hillside bare and brown.
And over our weary shoulders,
we felt warm blood run down.

"As we turned for the stretching gallop,
crushed to the earth with weight.
But we carried our riders through it,
sometimes, perhaps, too late.

"Steel! We were steel to stand it,
we that have lasted through.
We that are old campaigners,
pitiful, poor, and few.

"Over the sea you brought us,
over the leagues of foam.
Now we have served you fairly,
will you not take us home?

"Home to the Hunter River,
to the flats where the lucerne grows.
Home where the Murrumbidgee,
runs white with the melted snows.

"This is a small thing, surely!
will not you give command.
That the last of the old campaigners,
Go back to their native land?"

They looked at the grim commander,
but never a sign he made.
"Dismiss!" and the old campaigners,
moved off from their last parade.

Any Other Time

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
All of us play our very best game,
Any other time.
Golf or billiards, it's all the same,
Any other time.
Lose a match and you always say,
"Just my luck! I was 'off' today!
I could have beaten him quite half-way
Any other time!"

After a fiver you ought to go,
Any other time.
Every man that you ask says "Oh,
Any other time.
Lend you a fiver? I'd lend you two,
But I'm overdrawn and my bills are due,
Wish you'd ask me -- now, mind you do,
Any other time!"

Fellows will ask you out to dine,
Any other time.
"Not tonight for we're twenty-nine,
Any other time.
Not tomorrow, for cook's on strike,
Not next day, I'll be out on the bike.
Just drop in whenever you like,
Any other time!"

Seasick passengers like the sea,
Any other time.
"Something I ate, disagreed with me!
Any other time.
Ocean-travelling is .. simply bliss,
Must be my liver, has gone amiss.
Why, I would laugh, at a sea like this,
Any other time!"

Most of us mean to be better men,
Any other time.
Regular upright characters then,
Any other time.
Yet somehow as the years go by,
Still we gamble and drink and lie.
When it comes to the last we'll want to die,
Any other time!"

Bluey Brink

(Anon)
There once was a shearer by name, Bluey Brink.
A devil for work and a devil for drink;
He'd shear his two hundred a day without fear,
And drink without stopping, two gallons of beer!

When the pub opened up, he was very first in,
Roaring for whiskey and howling for gin;
Saying-"Jimmy, me boy, I'm dying of thirst,
Whatever you've got here, just give to me first.

Now, Jimmy, the barman who served out the rum,
Hated the sight of old Bluey the bum;
He stayed far too late and he came much too soon,
At morning, at evening, at night and at noon.

One morning, while Jimmy was cleaning the bar
With sulphuric acid he kept in a jar.
He poured out a measure into a small glass,
Saying,"After this drink, you will surely say "Pass!"

Says Bluey to Jimmy, this stuff it tastes fine,
She's a new kind of liquor, not whisky or wine.
Yes, thats the stuff Jimmy, I'm as strong as a Turk,
I'll break all the records today at me work!

Well, all that day long, there was Jim at the bar,
And he was consumed with a terrible fear;
Too worried to argue, too anxious to fight,
Seeing that shearer a corpse in his fright.

But early next morn, Bluey came as before,
Roaring and bawling and howling for more;
His eyeballs all singed and his whiskers deranged,
He had holes in his hide like a dog with the mange.

Said Bluey to Jimmy, "That sure was fine stuff,
It made me feel well but I aint had enough!
It started me coughing, well, you know I'm no liar,
But every damn cough set me whiskers on fire!"

The Death of Jimmy Clarke

(H.H."Barwon" Parry)
The sun was blazing fiercely on the cracked and dusty plain
As Peter Clarke the drover rode towards his home again
for weeks he'd been a-droving where the golden sunsets glow
Behind the lowing cattle of a trail-herd moving slow
With stockwhip ringing loudly as the breaking steer he wheeled
And curses shouted fiercely at the yapping dogs that heeled
He'd taken cattle safely from his lower Hunter home
To where the Namoi River waters fields of reddened loam

He rode with one companion, a lad of fifteen years
A gamer little stockman never cracked a whip at steers
For when the herd was fractious or it broke in wild stampede
He'd ride to wheel the leaders and the danger never heed
The lad could sit an outlaw till "the sky was underneath"
Whose eyes would roll and whiten as bared the wicked teeth
While saddle-girths were creaking with the sudden reefs and strains
He'd sink the spur-rowels deeply as he loosed the foam-flecked reins

The drovers rode in silence to the distant range of blue
Where rise the giant Murrulla and the towering Tinagroo
In solitary grandeur, mighty monarchs of the range
That reign, their might unchallenged, o'er a kingdom wild and strange
Like sentinels that guard the plains their rugged summits rise
Against the dim horizons, as in challenge to the skies
And o'er the mighty gorges with a misty mantle hung
The soaring eagles circles o'er her unmolested young

As on the drovers travelled through the lazy afternoon
The youngster's heart was happy and he gaily hummed a tune
But Clarke was grim and silent as the horse he loved to ride
Moved on towards the ranges with a long and springy stride
For early in the morning when they paused their mounts to change
A squad of mounted troopers coming back from Warland's Range
Had said that dreaded Wilson, just a day or two before
Had swooped and robbed the mail coach of the golden freight it bore

They warned the elder drover, but his laugh was cold and strange
For well he knew that evening, they must camp on Warlands Range
As winding up, the roadway passed where range and foothill met
The drover knew they'd reached the spot just as the sun was set
but loudly he had boasted that they'd camp on yonder hill
No man in all the country could his heart with terror fill
He'd camp, in spite of Wilson, when the evening sun was low
And o'er the gloomy ranges cast its last departing glow

The troopers had not argued, for they knew the drover well
And knew he'd never waver at a devil straight from hell
As tough and game a fighter as the country ever knew
He'd fought on every stockroute from the coast to the Barcoo
And never man could stop him when across the overland
he rode behind the cattle with that burnt and hardy band
When drovers had to battle for the starving stock to pass
And squatters fought to keep them from the brown and dying grass

They reached the camp as darkness cast her shadows o'er the ground
And soon the weary horses grazed contented close around
The drovers by the fireside sat and drank their billy tea
While round about the hobble chains were clinking cheerily
They talked of home and people, as the gentle evening breeze
Would waft the smoke in spirals through the branches of the trees
Till tired, they sought the solace of the peaceful land of sleep
And never dreamed that danger through the silent night would creep

But through the inky darkness came a sharp and stern command
The drovers from their blankets were compelled to rise and stand
Each man to face the shadow with his hands above his head
One move, the man informed, and he'd riddle them with lead
But Clarke was calm and silent, as the outlaw came in sight
His thoughts were fast revolving, for he meant to rush and fight
And as the dreaded Wilson sought the plucky drover's gold
He sprang with arms extended seeking for a fatal hold

A gunshot stabbed the darkness with a crimson jet of flame
The wounded drover staggered, but he came on just the same
And closed upon the outlaw with a grip of tempered steel
His blood was flowing freely but the wound he did not feel
He strained and wrestled fiercely as he fought to gain a holt
Upon the arm of Wilson and the hand that held the "colt"
But in the deadly struggle, fate must play a leading part
The gun again exploding, shot the drover through the heart

The drover fell, but falling, threw his powerful arms around
The body of the outlaw as they crashed upon the ground
And thus the plucky drover drew a last and fleeting breath
With Wilson locked unconscious, in the mighty grip of death
The youngster, dumb with terror, as the two had fought and strained
Had watched the battle, helpless, but his mind he now regained
And rushing to his saddle for a length of greenhide rope
He bound the two together where they lay upon the slope

Then. mounting quickly, galloped through the darkness of the night
To tell the mounted troopers of the drover's fatal fight
With hoofbeats ringing loudly as the spur at every stride
Left blood from flank to shoulder on the sweating horse's side
He brought the racing troopers, till the light of breaking day
Revealed the bloody camp-sight, where in death the drover lay
Wrapped sound insleep eternal with his days of droving o'er
Still tightly locked with Wilson, who would scourge the range no more

And o'er the saddened country spread the tidings far and wide
The mountain breezes mourning through the wattle blossoms sighed
But on the Lower Hunter, where the swaying willows sweep
A someone's heart was bleeding for a drover wrapped in sleep
Through Wingen, Scone and Blanford spread the story of the death
And far away to westward, where the summers scorching breath
The dying herbage withers, where the rolling plains are wide
And horses groan and labour, as the teamsters ride beside

Conroy's Gap

(A.B."Banjo" Patterson)
This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford --
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.

D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap --
Under the shade of that frowning range
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath --
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death".

The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
to him that did not matter a rap --
Drunk or sober, he was the same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.

"I want you, Ryan," the trooper said,
"And listen to me, if you dare resist,
So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!"
He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist,
And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,
Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
For fright will sober a man as quick
As all the drugs that the doctors know.

There was a girl in that shanty bar
Went by the name of Kate Carew,
Quiet and shy as the bush girls are,
But ready-witted and plucky, too.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
And passing by, while her eyes were dim
With tears, she said in a careless way,
"The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim."

Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
Why should she care if he heard or not?
Plenty of swagmen far and near --
And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse
In all the district from east to west;
In every show ring, on every course,
They always counted The Swagman best.

He was a wonder, a raking bay --
One of the grand old Snowdon strain --
One of the sort that could race and stay
With his mighty limbs and his length of rein.
Born and bred on the mountain side,
He could race through scrub like a kangaroo;
The girl herself on his back might ride,
And The Swagman would carry her safely through.

He would travel gaily from daylight's flush
Till after the stars hung out their lamps;
There was never his like in the open bush,
And never his match on the cattle-camps.
For faster horses might well be found
On racing tracks, or a plain's extent,
But few, if any, on broken ground
Could see the way that The Swagman went.

When this girl's father, old Jim Carew,
Was droving out on the Castlereagh
With Conroy's cattle, a wire came through
To say that his wife couldn't live the day.
And he was a hundred miles from home,
As flies the crow, with never a track
Through plains as pathless as ocean's foam;
He mounted straight on The Swagman's back.

He left the camp by the sundown light,
And the settlers out on the Marthaguy
Awoke and heard, in the dead of night,
A single horseman hurrying by.
He crossed the Bogan at Dandaloo,
And many a mile of the silent plain
That lonely rider behind him threw
Before they settled to sleep again.

He rode all noght, and he steered his course
By the shining stars with a bushman's skill,
And every time that he pressed his horse
The Swagman answered him gamely still.
He neared his home as the east was bright.
The doctor met him outside the town
"Carew! How far did you come last night?"
"A hundred miles since the sun went down."

And his wife got round, and an oath he passed,
So long as he or one of his breed
Could raise a coin, though it took their last,
The Swagman never should want a feed.
And Kate Carew, when her father died,
She kept the horse and she kept him well;
The pride of the district far and wide,
He lived in style at the bush hotel.

Such wasThe Swagman; and Ryan knew
Nothing about could pace the crack;
Little he'd care for the man in blue
If once he got on The Swagman's back.
But how to do it? A word let fall
Gave him the hint as the girl passed by;
Nothing but "Swagman -- stable wall;
Go to the stable and mind your eye."

He caught her meaning, and quickly turned
To the trooper: "Reckon you'll gain a stripe
By arresting me, and it's easily earned;
Let's go to the stable and get my pipe,
The Swagman has it." So off they went,
And as soon as ever they turned their backs
The girl slipped down, on some errand bent
Behind the stable and seized an axe.

The trooper stood at the stable door
While Ryan went in quite cool and slow,
And then (the trick had been played before)
The girl outside gave the wall a blow.
Three slabs fell out of the stable wall --
'Twas done 'fore ever the trooper knew --
And Ryan, as soon as he saw them fall,
Mounted The Swagman and rushed him through.

The trooper heard the hoof-beats ring
In the stable yard, and he jammed the gate,
But The Swagman rose with a mighty spring
At the fence, and the trooper fired too late
As they raced away, and his shots flew wide,
And Ryan no longer need care a rap,
For never a horse that was lapped in hide
Could catch The Swagman in Conroy's Gap.

And that's the story. You want to know
If Ryan came back to his Kate Carew;
Of course he should have, as stories go,
But the worst of it is this story's true:
And in real life it's a certain rule,
Whatever poets and authors say
Of high-toned robbers and all their school,
These horsethief fellows aren't built that way.

Come back! Don't hope it -- the slinking hound,
He sloped across to the Queensland side,
And sold The Swagman for fifty pound,
And stole the money, and more beside.
And took to drink, and by some good chance
Was killed -- thrown out of a stolen trap.
And that was the end of this small romance,
The end of the story of Conroy's Gap.