Fytte the First.
The squatter kings of New South Wales—
The squatter kings who reign
O'er rocky hill, and scrubby ridge,
O'er swamp, and salt-bush plain—
Fenced in their runs, and coves applied
For shepherding in vain.
The squatters said that closed should be
To tramps each station-store;
That parties on the "cadging suit"
Should ne'er have succour more;
And when Bill the shepherd heard the same
He bowed his neck and swore.
Now, though that ancient shepherd felt
So mad he couldn't speak,
No sighs escape his breast, no tears
From out his eyelids leak,
But he swore upon the human race
A black revenge to wreak.
He brooded long, and a fiendish light
Lit up the face of Bill;
He saw the way to work on men
A dark and grievous ill,
And place them far beyond the aid
Of senna, salts, or pill.
He hied him to his lonely hut
By a deep dark, lakelet's shore;
He passed beneath its lowly roof—
He shut and locked the door;
And he emptied out his flour bag
Upon the hard clay floor.
Awhile he eyed the mighty mound
With dark, malignant zeal,
And then, a shovel having found,
"Their fates," said he, "I'll seal";
And he made a "damper" broad and round
As a Roman chariot-wheel.
He soddened it with water drawn
From out that black lagoon,
And he smiled to think that those who ate
A piece of it would soon
Be where they'd neither see the light
Of sun, nor stars, nor moon.
For when that damper came to be
Dug from its glowing bed,
Its fell specific gravity
Was far o'er gold or lead,
And a look of satisfaction o'er
That shepherd's features spread.