The City of Dreadful Thirst
The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke —
'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.
'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm —
Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm —
We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,
'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
They mostly bring a Bogan shower — three rain-drops and some dust;
But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think
That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!"
'There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust — we'd heard of them before,
And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war":
But — if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst —
That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.
'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.
'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst!
We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst.
The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub,
They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.
'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried;
Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side
Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said,
Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead!
'We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room,
And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom.
The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again,
But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.
'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie,
But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die.
But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work
Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.
'But when you see those clouds about — like this one over here —
All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer,
It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst
You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!'
. . . . .
We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half;
He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff;
'I joined some friends last night,' he said, 'in what THEY called a spree;
But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.'
And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red,
And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead,
The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line,
That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.
Saltbush Bill's Gamecock
'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town;
He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down;
He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard:
For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard.
He bore no malice to Stingy Smith — 'twas simply the hand of fate
That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate;
And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt,
It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out.
So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall,
Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall.
'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft,
Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft;
And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame
As breeder of champion fighting cocks — his 'forte' was the British Game.
The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall
Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all.
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.
. . . . .
'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep,
And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep —
A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came —
'A drover has an Australian Bird to match with your British Game.'
'Twas done, and done in a half a trice; a five-pound note aside;
Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried.
'Steel spurs, of course?' said old Rooster Hall;
'you'll need 'em, without a doubt!'
'You stick the spurs on your bird!' said Bill, 'but mine fights best without.'
'Fights best without?' said old Rooster Hall; 'he can't fight best unspurred!
You must be crazy!' But Saltbush Bill said, 'Wait till you see my bird!'
So Rooster Hall to his fowlyard went, and quickly back he came,
Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game.
With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumpet call,
He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall.
Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with word to his cronies two,
McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo.
Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court,
With Father D. as a picker-up — a regular all-round Sport!
They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came,
Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game;
They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before —
Old Rooster Hall was a blithesome man, when he thought of the treat in store.
They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene,
Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen.
'Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill,
'and wait till you see the fight;
There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare —
there's game-fowl stew to-night!
For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred;
And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird.
I've made a match that our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock,
But he's game enough, and it's many a mile
that he's tramped with the travelling stock.'
The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard,
Under the dray, in the shadows hid, a something moved and stirred:
A great tame Emu strutted out. Said Saltbush, 'Here's our bird!'
But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word.
The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall
Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all.
For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault,
That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault
On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard,
Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird;
And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried,
Remarked, 'Discharged with a clean discharge — the assault was justified!'
Hay and Hell and Booligal
'You come and see me, boys,' he said;
'You'll find a welcome and a bed
And whisky any time you call;
Although our township hasn't got
The name of quite a lively spot —
You see, I live in Booligal.
'And people have an awful down
Upon the district and the town —
Which worse than hell itself they call;
In fact, the saying far and wide
Along the Riverina side
Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal".
'No doubt it suits 'em very well
To say it's worse than Hay or Hell,
But don't you heed their talk at all;
Of course, there's heat — no one denies —
And sand and dust and stacks of flies,
And rabbits, too, at Booligal.
'But such a pleasant, quiet place,
You never see a stranger's face —
They hardly ever care to call;
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.
'Of course, there isn't much to see —
The billiard-table used to be
The great attraction for us all,
Until some careless, drunken curs
Got sleeping on it in their spurs,
And ruined it, in Booligal.
'Just now there is a howling drought
That pretty near has starved us out —
It never seems to rain at all;
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!'