The sun strikes down with a blinding glare,The skies are blue and the plains are wide,The saltbush plains that are burnt and bareBy Walgett out on the Barwon side —The Barwon river that wanders downIn a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.There came a stranger — a 'Cockatoo' —The word means farmer, as all men knowWho dwell in the land where the kangarooBarks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crowUplifts his song on the stock-yard fenceAs he watches the lambkins passing hence.The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown,But it soon appeared that he meant to floutThe 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 discourseConcerning a new chum who of lateHad bought such a thoroughly lazy horse;They would wager that no one could ride him downThe length of the city of Walgett Town.The stranger was born on a horse's hide;So he took the wagers, and made them goodWith 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 downFull 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 whileIn 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 Wingadee,At Wingadee where he had for saleSome fifty skins and would guaranteeThey were full-sized skins, with the ears and tailComplete, and he sold them for money downTo 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 downLike a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.
'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dogBy 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 lateAnd a whisper 'Father Riley — come across!'So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gateAnd admitted Andy Regan — and a horse!'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say,For its close upon my death I am to-night.With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the dayIn 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 nextAn' be buried on the Thursday — and, of course,I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexedAnd it's — Father, it's this jewel of a horse!He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swearTo his owner or his breeder, but I know,That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mareAnd 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 plainIf you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye,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 dipWhere the wattle bloom is waving overhead.Sure he'll jump them fences easy — you must never raise the whipOr he'll rush 'em! — now, good-bye!' 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 fightsTill 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 lashins of the liquor! And the lavins 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 courseFor 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 surpriseAnd amusement at the Father's little joke,For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize,And they found that 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 it, 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 beardThey'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!'And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at ChristmastideOf 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 outFor the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!
With eyes that searched in the dark,Peering along the line,Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark,Driver of 'Forty-nine',And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead,Like a blood-red beacon sign.There was word of a fight to the north,And a column hard-pressed,So they started the Highlanders forth,Without food, without rest.But the pipers gaily played,Chanting their fierce delight,And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed,Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade,Hurrying up to the fight,And the grim, grey Highland engineer,Driving them into the night.Then a signal light glowed red,And a picket came to the track.'Enemy holding the line ahead,Three of our mates we have left for dead,Only we two got back.'And far to the north through the still night air,They heard the rifles crack.And the boom of a gun rang out,Like the sound of a deep appeal,And the picket stood in doubtBy the side of the driving-wheel.But the Engineer looked down,With his hand on the starting-bar,'Ride ye back to the town,Ye know what my orders are,Maybe they're wanting the Scotch BrigadeUp on those hills afar.'I am no soldier at all,Only an engineer,But I could not bear that the folk should say,Over in Scotland — Glasgow way —That Hector Clark stayed hereWith the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone,With ever a rail to run her on.Ready behind! Stand clear!'Fireman, get you goneInto the armoured train,I will drive her alone;One more trip — and perhaps the last —With a well-raked fire and an open blast —Hark to the rifles again.'. . . . .On through the choking dark,Never a lamp nor a light,Never an engine spark,Showing her hurried flight.Over the lonely plainRushed the great armoured train,Hurrying up to the fight.Then with her living freightOn to the foe she came,And the rifles snapped their hate,And the darkness spouted flame.Over the roar of the frayThe hungry bullets whined,As she dashed through the foe that layLoading and firing blind,Till the glare of the furnace burning clearShowed them the form of the engineer,Sharply and well defined.Through! They were safely through!Hark to the column's cheer!Surely the driver knewHe was to halt her here;But he took no heed of the signals red,And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead,There on the floor of his engine — dead,Lay the Scotch Engineer!
'Tis strange that in a land so strong,So strong and bold in mighty youth,We have no poet's voice of truthTo sing for us a wondrous song.Our chiefest singer yet has sungIn wild, sweet notes a passing strain,All carelessly and sadly flungTo that dull world he thought so vain.'I care for nothing, good nor bad,My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,I am but sifting sand,' he said:What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!And yet, not always sad and hard;In cheerful mood and light of heartHe told the tale of Britomarte,And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard.And some have said that Nature's faceTo us is always sad; but theseHave never felt the smiling graceOf waving grass and forest treesOn sunlit plains as wide as seas.'A land where dull Despair is kingO'er scentless flower and songless bird!'But we have heard the bell-birds ringTheir silver bells at eventide,Like fairies on the mountain side,The sweetest note man ever heard.The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth;The bronzewing pigeons call and cooBeside their nests the long day through;The magpie warbles clear and strongA joyous, glad, thanksgiving song,For all God's mercies upon earth.And many voices such as theseAre joyful sounds for those to tell,Who know the Bush and love it well,With all its hidden mysteries.We cannot love the restless sea,That rolls and tosses to and froLike some fierce creature in its glee;For human weal or human woeIt has no touch of sympathy.For us the bush is never sad:Its myriad voices whisper low,In tones the bushmen only know,Its sympathy and welcome glad.For us the roving breezes bringFrom many a blossom-tufted tree —Where wild bees murmur dreamily —The honey-laden breath of Spring.. . . . .We have no tales of other days,No bygone history to tell;Our tales are told where camp-fires blazeAt midnight, when the solemn hushOf that vast wonderland, the Bush,Hath laid on every heart its spell.Although we have no songs of strife,Of bloodshed reddening the land,We yet may find achievements grandWithin the bushman's quiet life.Lift ye your faces to the skyYe far blue mountains of the West,Who lie so peacefully at restEnshrouded in a haze of blue;'Tis hard to feel that years went byBefore the pioneers broke throughYour rocky heights and walls of stone,And made your secrets all their own.For years the fertile Western plainsWere hid behind your sullen walls,Your cliffs and crags and waterfallsAll weatherworn with tropic rains.Between the mountains and the sea,Like Israelites with staff in hand,The people waited restlessly:They looked towards the mountains oldAnd saw the sunsets come and goWith gorgeous golden afterglow,That made the West a fairyland,And marvelled what that West might beOf which such wondrous tales were told.For tales were told of inland seasLike sullen oceans, salt and dead,And sandy deserts, white and wan,Where never trod the foot of man,Nor bird went winging overhead,Nor ever stirred a gracious breezeTo wake the silence with its breath —A land of loneliness and death.At length the hardy pioneersBy rock and crag found out the way,And woke with voices of to-day,A silence kept for years and years.Upon the Western slope they stoodAnd saw — a wide expanse of plainAs far as eye could stretch or seeGo rolling westward endlessly.The native grasses, tall as grain,Were waved and rippled in the breeze;From boughs of blossom-laden treesThe parrots answered back again.They saw the land that it was good,A land of fatness all untrod,And gave their silent thanks to God.The way is won! The way is won!And straightway from the barren coastThere came a westward-marching host,That aye and ever onward prestWith eager faces to the West,Along the pathway of the sun.The mountains saw them marching by:They faced the all-consuming drought,They would not rest in settled land:But, taking each his life in hand,Their faces ever westward bentBeyond the farthest settlement,Responding to the challenge cryOf 'better country further out.'And lo a miracle! the landBut yesterday was all unknown,The wild man's boomerang was thrownWhere now great busy cities stand.It was not much, you say, that theseShould win their way where none withstood;In sooth there was not much of bloodNo war was fought between the seas.It was not much! but we who knowThe strange capricious land they trod —At times a stricken, parching sod,At times with raging floods beset —Through which they found their lonely way,Are quite content that you should sayIt was not much, while we can feelThat nothing in the ages old,In song or story written yetOn Grecian urn or Roman arch,Though it should ring with clash of steel,Could braver histories unfoldThan this bush story, yet untold —The story of their westward march.. . . . .But times are changed, and changes rungFrom old to new — the olden days,The old bush life and all its waysAre passing from us all unsung.The freedom, and the hopeful senseOf toil that brought due recompense,Of room for all, has passed away,And lies forgotten with the dead.Within our streets men cry for breadIn cities built but yesterday.About us stretches wealth of land,A boundless wealth of virgin soilAs yet unfruitful and untilled!Our willing workmen, strong and skilledWithin our cities idle stand,And cry aloud for leave to toil.The stunted children come and goIn squalid lanes and alleys black;We follow but the beaten trackOf other nations, and we growIn wealth for some — for many, woe.And it may be that we who liveIn this new land apart, beyondThe hard old world grown fierce and fondAnd bound by precedent and bond,May read the riddle right and giveNew hope to those who dimly seeThat all things may be yet for good,And teach the world at length to beOne vast united brotherhood.. . . . .So may it be, and he who singsIn accents hopeful, clear, and strong,The glories which that future bringsShall sing, indeed, a wond'rous song.
Out in the wastes of the West countrie,Out where the white stars shine,Grim and silent as such men be,Rideth a man with a history —Anthony Considine.For the ways of men they are manifoldAs their differing views in life;For some are sold for the lust of goldAnd some for the lust of strife:But this man counted the world well lostFor the love of his neighbour's wife.They fled together, as those must fleeWhom all men hold in blame;Each to the other must all things beWho cross the gulf of iniquityAnd live in the land of shame.But a light-o'-love, if she sins with one,She sinneth with ninety-nine:The rule holds good since the world begun —Since ever the streams began to runAnd the stars began to shine.The rule holds true, and he found it true —Anthony Considine.A nobler spirit had turned in scornFrom a love that was stained with mire;A weaker being might mourn and mournFor the loss of his Heart's Desire:But the anger of Anthony ConsidineBlazed up like a flaming fire.And she, with her new love, presentlyCame past with her eyes ashine;And God so willed it, and God knows why,She turned and laughed as they passed him by —Anthony Considine.Her laughter stung as a whip might sting;And mad with his wounded prideHe turned and sprang with a panther's springAnd struck at his rival's side:And only the woman, shuddering,Could tell how the dead man died!She dared not speak — and the mysteryIs buried in auld lang syne,But out on the wastes of the West countrie,Grim and silent as such men be,Rideth a man with a history —Anthony Considine.
Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought;But we're sick of prayers and Providence — we're going to do without;With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below,We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go.Sinking down, deeper down,Oh, we'll sink it deeper down:As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level,If the Lord won't send us water, oh, we'll get it from the devil;Yes, we'll get it from the devil deeper down.Now, our engine's built in Glasgow by a very canny Scot,And he marked it twenty horse-power, but he don't know what is what:When Canadian Bill is firing with the sun-dried gidgee logs,She can equal thirty horses and a score or so of dogs.Sinking down, deeper down,Oh, we're going deeper down:If we fail to get the water then it's ruin to the squatter,For the drought is on the station and the weather's growing hotter,But we're bound to get the water deeper down.But the shaft has started caving and the sinking's very slow,And the yellow rods are bending in the water down below,And the tubes are always jamming and they can't be made to shiftTill we nearly burst the engine with a forty horse-power lift.Sinking down, deeper down,Oh, we're going deeper downThough the shaft is always caving, and the tubes are always jamming,Yet we'll fight our way to water while the stubborn drill is ramming —While the stubborn drill is ramming deeper down.But there's no artesian water, though we've passed three thousand feet,And the contract price is growing and the boss is nearly beat.But it must be down beneath us, and it's down we've got to go,Though she's bumping on the solid rock four thousand feet below.Sinking down, deeper down,Oh, we're going deeper down:And it's time they heard us knocking on the roof of Satan's dwellin';But we'll get artesian water if we cave the roof of hell in —Oh! we'll get artesian water deeper down.But it's hark! the whistle's blowing with a wild, exultant blast,And the boys are madly cheering, for they've struck the flow at last,And it's rushing up the tubing from four thousand feet belowTill it spouts above the casing in a million-gallon flow.And it's down, deeper down —Oh, it comes from deeper down;It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measureFrom the silent hidden places where the old earth hides her treasure —Where the old earth hides her treasure deeper down.And it's clear away the timber, and it's let the water run:How it glimmers in the shadow, how it flashes in the sun!By the silent belts of timber, by the miles of blazing plainIt is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again.Flowing down, further down;It is flowing further downTo the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going;Through the droughty days of summer it is flowing, ever flowing —It is flowing, ever flowing, further down.
You see, the thing was this way — there was me,That rode Panoppoly, the Splendor mare,And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook,And Smith, the half-caste rider, on Regret,And that long bloke from Wagga — him what rodeVeronikew, the Snowy River horse.Well, none of them had chances — not a chanceAmong the lot, unless the rest fell deadOr wasn't trying — for a blind man's dogCould see Enchantress was a certain cop,And all the books was layin' six to four.They brought her out to show our lot the road,Or so they said; but, then, Gord's truth! you know,You can't believe 'em, though they took an oathOn forty Bibles that they'd tell the truth.But anyhow, an amateur was upOn this Enchantress, and so Ike and me,We thought that we might frighten him a bitBy asking if he minded riding rough —'Oh, not at all,' says he, 'oh, not at all!I learnt at Robbo Park, and if it comesTo bumping I'm your Moses! Strike me blue!'Says he, 'I'll bump you over either rail,The inside rail or outside — which you chooseIs good enough for me' — which settled Ike;For he was shaky since he near got killedFrom being sent a buster on the rail,When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him downAt Stony Bridge, so Ikey thought it bestTo leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.So all the books was layin' six to fourAgainst the favourite, and the amateurWas walking this Enchantress up and down,And me and Smithy backed him; for we thoughtWe might as well get something for ourselves,Because we knew our horses couldn't win.But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob;Because he said he reckoned he was stiff,And all the books was layin' six to four.Well, anyhow, before the start, the newsGot round that this here amateur was stiff,And our good stuff was blued, and all the booksWas in it, and the prices lengthened out,And every book was bustin' of his throat,And layin' five to one the favourite.So there was we that couldn't win ourselves,And this here amateur that wouldn't try,And all the books was layin' five to one.So Smithy says to me, 'You take a holdOf that there moke of yours, and round the turnCome up behind Enchantress with the whipAnd let her have it; that long bloke and meWill wait ahead, and when she comes to usWe'll pass her on and belt her down the straight,And Ikey'll flog her home, because his bossIs judge and steward and the Lord knows what,And so he won't be touched — and, as for us,We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!'And all the books was layin' five to one.Well, off we went, and comin' to the turnI saw the amateur was holding backAnd poking into every hole he couldTo get her blocked, and so I pulled behindAnd drew the whip and dropped it on the mare —I let her have it twice, and then she shotAhead of me, and Smithy opened outAnd let her up beside him on the rails,And kept her there a-beltin' her like smokeUntil she struggled past him pullin' hardAnd came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whipAnd hit her on the nose and sent her backAnd won the race himself — for, after all,It seems he had a fiver on the DookAnd never told us — so our stuff was lost.And then they had us up for ridin' foul,And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each,To get our livin' any way we could;But Ikey wasn't touched, because his bossWas judge and steward and the Lord knows what.But Mister — if you'll lend us half-a-crown,I know three certain winners at the Park —Three certain cops as no one knows but me;And — thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer(I always like a beer about this time) . . .Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.
The mountain road goes up and down,From Gundagai to Tumut Town.And branching off there runs a track,Across the foothills grim and black,Across the plains and ranges greyTo Sydney city far away.. . . . .It came by chance one day that IFrom Tumut rode to Gundagai.And reached about the evening tideThe crossing where the roads divide;And, waiting at the crossing place,I saw a maiden fair of face,With eyes of deepest violet blue,And cheeks to match the rose in hue —The fairest maids Australia knowsAre bred among the mountain snows.Then, fearing I might go astray,I asked if she could show the way.Her voice might well a man bewitch —Its tones so supple, deep, and rich.'The tracks are clear,' she made reply,'And this goes down to Sydney town,And that one goes to Gundagai.'Then slowly, looking coyly back,She went along the Sydney track.And I for one was well contentTo go the road the lady went;But round the turn a swain she met —The kiss she gave him haunts me yet!. . . . .I turned and travelled with a sighThe lonely road to Gundagai.
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 country sideFor 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 trackIs as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back.So the tramp he made for the travellers' 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.It's 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 earned 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 waitTill 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 travellers' 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 wayOn 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 rushedand 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 groundand never a sound was heardBut 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 neighbouring 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 doubtYou'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 grassand 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 waggon 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 off-side 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 Smithwhen he read that neighbour's note.
I left the course, and by my sideThere walked a ruined tout —A hungry creature evil-eyed,Who poured this story out.'You see,' he said, 'there came a swellTo Kensington to-day,And if I picked the winners well,A crown at least he'd pay.'I picked three winners straight, I did,I filled his purse with pelf,And then he gave me half-a-quid,To back one for myself.'A half-a-quid to me he cast,I wanted it indeed.So help me Bob, for two days pastI haven't had a feed.'But still I thought my luck was in,I couldn't go astray,I put it all on Little Min,And lost it straightaway.'I haven't got a bite or bed,I'm absolutely stuck,So keep this lesson in your head:Don't over-trust your luck!'The folks went homeward, near and far,The tout, Oh! where was he?Ask where the empty boilers are,Beside the Circular Quay.
As the nations sat together, grimly waiting —The fierce old nations battle-scarred —Grown grey in their lusting and their hating,Ever armed and ever ready keeping guard,Through the tumult of their warlike preparationAnd the half-stilled clamour of the drumsCame a voice crying, 'Lo! a new-made nation,To her place in the sisterhood she comes!'And she came — she was beautiful as morning,With the bloom of the roses in her mouth,Like a young queen lavishly adorningHer charms with the splendours of the South.And the fierce old nations, looking on her,Said, 'Nay, surely she were quickly overthrown,Hath she strength for the burden laid upon her,Hath she power to protect and guard her own?Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and ringingIn the ears of the nations old and gray,Saying, 'Hark, and ye shall hear my children singingTheir war-song in countries far away.They are strangers to the tumult of the battle,They are few but their hearts are very strong,'Twas but yesterday they called unto the cattle,But they now sing Australia's marching song.'
Song of the Australians in Action
For the honour of Australia, our mother,Side by side with our kin from over sea,We have fought and we have tested one another,And enrolled among the brotherhood are we.There was never post of danger but we sought itIn the fighting, through the fire, and through the flood.There was never prize so costly but we bought it,Though we paid for its purchase with our blood.Was there any road too rough for us to travel?Was there any path too far for us to tread?You can track us by the blood drops on the gravelOn the roads that we milestoned with our dead!And for you, oh our young and anxious mother,O'er your great gains keeping watch and ward,Neither fearing nor despising any other,We will hold your possessions with the sword.. . . . .Then they passed to the place of world-long sleeping,The grey-clad figures with their dead,To the sound of their women softly weepingAnd the Dead March moaning at their head:And the Nations, as the grim procession ended,Whispered, 'Child! But ye have seen the price we pay,From War may we ever be defended,Kneel ye down, new-made Sister — Let us Pray!'
The London lights are far abeamBehind a bank of cloud,Along the shore the gaslights gleam,The gale is piping loud;And down the Channel, groping blind,We drive her through the hazeTowards the land we left behind —The good old land of 'never mind',And old Australian ways.The narrow ways of English folkAre not for such as we;They bear the long-accustomed yokeOf staid conservancy:But all our roads are new and strange,And through our blood there runsThe vagabonding love of changeThat drove us westward of the rangeAnd westward of the suns.The city folk go to and froBehind a prison's bars,They never feel the breezes blowAnd never see the stars;They never hear in blossomed treesThe music low and sweetOf wild birds making melodies,Nor catch the little laughing breezeThat whispers in the wheat.Our fathers came of roving stockThat could not fixed abide:And we have followed field and flockSince e'er we learnt to ride;By miner's camp and shearing shed,In land of heat and drought,We followed where our fortunes led,With fortune always on aheadAnd always further out.The wind is in the barley-grass,The wattles are in bloom;The breezes greet us as they passWith honey-sweet perfume;The parakeets go screaming byWith flash of golden wing,And from the swamp the wild-ducks cryTheir long-drawn note of revelry,Rejoicing at the Spring.So throw the weary pen asideAnd let the papers rest,For we must saddle up and rideTowards the blue hill's breast;And we must travel far and fastAcross their rugged maze,To find the Spring of Youth at last,And call back from the buried pastThe old Australian ways.When Clancy took the drover's trackIn years of long ago,He drifted to the outer backBeyond the Overflow;By rolling plain and rocky shelf,With stockwhip in his hand,He reached at last, oh lucky elf,The Town of Come-and-help-yourselfIn Rough-and-ready Land.And if it be that you would knowThe tracks he used to ride,Then you must saddle up and goBeyond the Queensland side —Beyond the reach of rule or law,To ride the long day through,In Nature's homestead — filled with aweYou then might see what Clancy sawAnd know what Clancy knew.