A. B. Paterson

“ 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 from the Overland who brought the cattle home. ”

“ They never hear in blossomed trees The music low and sweet Of wild birds making melodies, Nor catch the little laughing breeze That whispers in the wheat. Our fathers came of roving stock That could not fixed abide: And we have followed field and flock Since 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 ahead And always further out. The wind is in the barley-grass, The wattles are in bloom; The breezes greet us as they pass With honey-sweet perfume ”

“ With the Cattle 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 follow but the beaten track Of other nations, and we grow In wealth for some — for many, woe. And it may be that we who live In this new land apart, beyond The hard old world grown fierce and fond And bound by precedent and bond, May read the riddle right and give New hope to those who dimly see That all things may be yet for good, And teach the world at length to be One vast united brotherhood. ”

“ For the mountain wind is blowing, And the mountain grass is growing, They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow. . . . . . The days are done 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 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! ”

“ Never a gunner was seen to run! Never a gunner would leave his gun! Not though his mates dropped all around! Always a gunner would stand his ground. Take the army — the infantry, Mounted rifles, and cavalry, Twice the numbers I'd give away, And I'd fight the lot with the R.H.A., For they showed us how a corps SHOULD be run, That's what the gunners done! ”

“ And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze Towards the land we left behind — The good old land of 'never mind', And old Australian ways. The narrow ways of English folk Are not for such as we; They bear the long-accustomed yoke Of staid conservancy: But all our roads are new and strange, And through our blood there runs The vagabonding love of change That drove us westward of the range And westward of the suns. The city folk go to and fro Behind a prison's bars, They never feel the breezes blow And never see the stars ”

“ For when the Lord He made the earth, it seems uncommon clear, He gave the job of Africa to some good engineer, Who started building fortresses on fashions of his own — Lunettes, redoubts, and counterscarps all made of rock and stone. The Boer needs only bring a gun, for ready to his hand He finds these heaven-built fortresses all scattered through the land; And there he sits and winks his eye and wheels his gun about, And we must charge across the plain to hunt the beggar out. It ain't a game that grows on us, there's lots of better fun Than charging at old Johnny with his little Maxim gun. ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain? Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough? Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again, For we're going on a long job now. In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep, With the endless line of waggons stretching back, While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep, Plodding silent on the never-ending track, While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see Makes you wonder will your turn come — when and how? ”

“ He's the fellow that can give or take a knock. For he's hairy and he's hard, And his feet are by the yard, And his face is like the face what's on a clock. But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry — 'Send for Jock!' The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance, Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead. The Mounted Fut are hampered in advance By holding of their helmets on their head. And when the Boer has dug himself a trench And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, These mounted heroes — pets of Johnny French — They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! ”

“ But you can talk about riding — I've ridden a lot in the past — Wait till there's rifles behind you, you'll know what it means to go fast! I've steeplechased, raced, and 'run horses', but I think the most dashing of all Was the ride when the old fellow saved me from Gilbert, O'Maley and Hall!
"He Giveth His Beloved Sleep" The long day passes with its load of sorrow: In slumber deep I lay me down to rest until to-morrow — Thank God for sleep. Thank God for all respite from weary toiling, From cares that creep Across our lives like evil shadows, spoiling God's kindly sleep. ”

“ For the ways of men they are manifold As their differing views in life; For some are sold for the lust of gold And some for the lust of strife: But this man counted the world well lost For the love of his neighbour's wife. They fled together, as those must flee Whom all men hold in blame; Each to the other must all things be Who cross the gulf of iniquity And 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 run And the stars began to shine. ”

“ 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. ”

“ They opened fire on the mountain side, a-peppering by and large, When over the hill above their flank the Boers came down at the charge; They rushed the guns with a daring rush, a-volleying left and right, And Driver Smith with his ambulance moved up to the edge of the fight. The gunners stuck to their guns like men, and fought like the wild cats fight, For a Battery man don't leave his gun with ever a hope in sight; But the bullets sang and the Mausers cracked and the Battery men gave way, Till Driver Smith with his ambulance drove into the thick of the fray. ”

“ 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 stockwhip crack, Good faith, it is a welcome change To bring such cattle back. ”

“ 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. ”

“ But times are changed, and changes rung From old to new — the olden days, The old bush life and all its ways Are passing from us all unsung. The freedom, and the hopeful sense Of toil that brought due recompense, Of room for all, has passed away, And lies forgotten with the dead. ”

“ But, if there SHOULD come any rain, You couldn't cross the black-soil plain — You'd have to stop in Booligal.' . . . . . 'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath We prayed that both in life and death Our fate in other lines might fall: 'Oh, send us to our just reward In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, Deliver us from Booligal!'
A Walgett Episode 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. ”

“ You can track us by the blood drops on the gravel On 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Suppose we let him have The Trap To win Wargeilah Handicap!' And here, I must explain to you That, round about Wargeilah run, There lived a very aged screw Whose days of brilliancy were done: A grand old warrior in his prime — But age will beat us all in time. ”

“ The drovers mostly pass it by; They reckon that they'd rather die Than spend a night in Booligal. 'The big mosquitoes frighten some — You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum — And snakes about the township crawl; But shearers, when they get their cheque, They never come along and wreck The blessed town of Booligal. 'But down in Hay the shearers come And fill themselves with fighting-rum, And chase blue devils up the wall, And fight the snaggers every day, Until there is the deuce to pay — There's none of that in Booligal. ”

“ And when they ran the last time round the prophecy was right — For he was in the ambulance, and safely 'out of sight'.
The Road to Old Man's Town 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 that dropped behind. ”

“ Tramp, tramp, tramp Under the blazin' sun, With never the sight of a bloomin' Boer, 'Cause they'd hunted 'em long before — That's what the cavalry done! What have the gunners done Battlin' every day, Battlin' any way. Boers outranged 'em, but what cared they? 'Shoot and be damned,' said the R.H.A.! See! when the fight grows hot, Under the rifles or not, Always the order runs, 'Fetch up the bloomin' guns!' And you'd see them great gun-horses spring To the 'action front' — and around they'd swing. ”

“ Without a thought of fear The Yankees raised a cheer — A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world.
Do They Know Do they know? At the turn to the straight Where the favourites fail, And every atom of weight Is telling its tale; As some grim old stayer hard-pressed Runs true to his breed, And with head just in front of the rest Fights on in the lead; When the jockeys are out with the whips, With a furlong to go ”