A. B. Paterson

“ And, of course, there's no denying that the bushman's life is rough, But a man can easy stand it if he's built of sterling stuff; Tho' it's seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down, Yet the man who's born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town, For he's jotting down the figures, and he's adding up the bills While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills. Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch, And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch. ”

“ Only the hand of Night can free them— That's when the dead men fly! Only the frightened cattle see them— See the dead men go by! Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, Bidding the stockman know no leisure— That's when the dead men take their pleasure! That's when the dead men fly!
Cattle on a camp see ghosts, sure enough—else, why is it that, when hundreds are in camp at night—some standing, some lying asleep, all facing different ways—in an instant, at some invisible cause of alarm, the whole mob are on their feet and all racing in the same direction, away from some unseen terror? ”

“ Saltbush Bill 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. ”

“ Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, his fowls were his sole delight; He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight. He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win! The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock; The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock; For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all — And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall. ”

“ You can see in their eyes the same hard glitter that shows in the bulldog's eyes as he limps across the ring, or in the eye of the racehorse as he lies down to it when his opponent is outpacing him. It is grit, pluck, vim, nerve force; call it what you like, and there is no created thing that has more of it than the dog.
The blood-lust is a dog-phase that has never been quite understood. Every station-owner knows that sometimes the house-dogs are liable to take a sudden fit of sheep-killing. ”

“ Well done, Jim! They're sure to get them now, of course, That Tambourine is a spanking horse. And Crazy Jane is good as gold. And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold; Not like your father, but very fair. Jim will have to follow the mare.” “It never was yet in father's hide To best my Jim on the mountain-side. Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.” But here again Amelia cried. . . . . . The sound of a whip comes faint and far, A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, In all their tameless pride. The fleet wild horses snort with fear, And wheel and break as the yard draws near. Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! ”

“ At the back were a well, a windlass, and a trough for water, round which about a hundred goats were encamped. Hugh sat and smoked, and looked at the prospect. By-and-by out of the bush came two men, a Chinaman and a white man. The Chinaman was like all Chinamen; the white man was a fiery, red-faced, red-bearded, red-nosed little fellow. The Chinee was dragging a goat along by the horns, the goat hanging back and protesting loudly in semi-human screams; every now and again a black mongrel dog would make sudden fiendish dashes at the captive, and fasten its teeth in its neck. ”

“ For the night has come and it brings to naught Thy projects cherished, And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought — 'He lived and perished.' Art I wait for thee at the outer gate, My love, mine only; Wherefore tarriest thou so late While I am lonely. Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, In thee implanted Is the love of Art and the greatest gift That God has granted. And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs Shall seem but small things — Poet or painter, a singer of songs, Thine art is all things. For the wine of life is a woman's love To keep beside thee ”

“ It is flowing, ever flowing, in a free, unstinted measure From 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 plain It is bringing hope and comfort to the thirsty land again. Flowing down, further down; It is flowing further down To the tortured thirsty cattle, bringing gladness in its going ”

“ Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, The soil is turned on the plain; Better than silver and better than gold Is the surface-mine of the grain; Better than cattle and better than sheep In the fight with drought and heat; For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, Lies hid in a grain of Wheat. When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, Deep down in his bed of clay The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait For the resurrection day: Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead ”

“ In a well-conducted dog-fight each dog in turn has to attack the other dog, and one can see fierce earnestness blazing in the eye of the attacker as he hurls himself on the foe. What makes him fight like that? It is not bloodthirstiness, because they are neither savage nor quarrelsome dogs: a bulldog will go all his life without a fight, unless put into a ring. It is simply their strong self-respect and stubborn pride which will not let them give in. The greyhound snaps at his opponent and then runs for his life, but the fighting dog stands to it till death. ”

“ Hugh walked across the quadrangle, under the acacia tree, heavy with blossoms, in which a myriad bees were droning at their work, and through the house on to the front verandah, which looked over the wide sweep of river-flat. Here he found his mother and Miss Harriott, the governess, peeling apples for dumplings—great rosy-checked, solid-fleshed apples, that the hill-country turns out in perfection. The old lady was slight in figure, with a refined face, and a carriage erect in spite of her years. Miss Harriott was of a languid Spanish type, with black eyes and strongly-marked eyebrows. ”

“ Where are the children that throve and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die. One in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill. One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil, Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil. ”

“ And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride, The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?' 'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea, From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me. I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows, Although I'm not the one to talk — I HATE a man that blows. But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight; Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight. ”

“ Song of the Wheat We have sung the song of the droving days, Of the march of the travelling sheep; By silent stages and lonely ways Thin, white battalions creep. But the man who now by the land would thrive Must his spurs to a plough-share beat. Is there ever a man in the world alive To sing the song of the Wheat! It's west by south of the Great Divide The grim grey plains run out, Where the old flock-masters lived and died In a ceaseless fight with drought. ”

“ Sheep are all alike, but cattle are all different. The drovers on the road get to know the habits and tendencies of each particular bullock—the one-eyed bullock that pokes out to the side of the mob, the inquisitive bullock that is always walking over towards the drover as if he were going to speak to him, the agitator bullock who is always trying to get up a stampede and prodding the others with his horns. ”

“ Charlie Gordon was simply mad with the lust of fighting, and was locked in a death-grip with Red Mick; they swayed and struggled on the ground, while the crowd punched at them indiscriminately. In the middle of all this business, the two ladies and Alick, the eldest of the children, had started Gentle Annie for home, straight down the centre of the course. The big mare, hearing the yelling, and recognising that she was once more on a race-track, suddenly caught hold of the bit, and came sweeping up the straight full-stretch, her great legs flying to and fro like pistons. ”

“ 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. ”