The Mountain Squatter
Here in my mountain home,
On rugged hills and steep,
I sit and watch you come,
O Riverina Sheep!
You come from fertile plains
Where saltbush (sometimes) grows,
And flats that (when it rains)
Will blossom like the rose.
But, when the summer sun
Gleams down like burnished brass,
You have to leave your run
And hustle off for grass.
'Tis then that—forced to roam—
You come to where I keep,
Here in my mountain home,
A boarding-house for sheep.
Around me where I sit
The wary wombat goes—
A beast of little wit,
But what he knows, he knows.
The very same remark
Applies to me also;
I don't give out a spark,
But what I know, I know.
My brain perhaps would show
No convolutions deep,
But anyhow I know
The way to handle sheep.
These Riverina cracks,
They do not care to ride
The half-inch hanging tracks
Along the mountain side.
Their horses shake with fear
When loosened boulders go,
With leaps, like startled deer,
Down to the gulfs below.
Their very dogs will shirk,
And drop their tails in fright
When asked to go and work
A mob that's out of sight.
My little collie pup
Works silently and wide;
You'll see her climbing up
Along the mountain side.
As silent as a fox
You'll see her come and go,
A shadow through the rocks
Where ash and messmate grow.
Then, lost to sight and sound
Behind some rugged steep,
She works her way around
And gathers up the sheep;
And, working wide and shy,
She holds them rounded up.
The cash ain't coined to buy
That little collie pup.
And so I draw a screw
For self and dog and keep
To boundary-ride for you,
O Riverina Sheep!
And when the autumn rain
Has made the herbage grow,
You travel off again,
And glad—no doubt—to go.
But some are left behind
Around the mountain's spread,
For those we cannot find
We put them down as dead.
But when we say adieu
And close the boarding job,
I always find a few
Fresh ear-marks in my mob.
So what with those I sell,
And what with those I keep,
You pay me pretty well,
O Riverina Sheep!
It's up to me to shout
Before we say good-bye—
“Here's to a howlin' drought
All west of Gundagai!”
Pioneers
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide;
They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride,
We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years
As those explorers of the bush—the brave old pioneers.
'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought;
'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out;
'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made,
And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.
But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead
When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead
By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west,
And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest.
Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain,
We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again,
To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years—
The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers.
Santa Claus in the Bush
It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
When the wheat was ripe and tall,
A stranger rode to the farmer's gate—
A sturdy man and a small.
“Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
And bid the stranger stay;
And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
For the morn is Christmas Day.”
“Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife,
“But ye should let him be;
He's maybe only a drover chap
Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.
“Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst
To swiggle the hail nicht through;
Or he's maybe a life assurance carle
To talk ye black and blue.”
“Guid wife, he's never a drover chap,
For their swags are neat and thin;
And he's never a life assurance carle,
Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin.
“Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour,
For the wheat stands ripe and tall,
And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year,
Ewes and weaners and all.
“There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat
Where they whiles are gaunt and thin,
And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor,
So we maun ask him in.
“Ye can set him a chair tae the table side,
And gi' him a bite tae eat;
An omelette made of a new-laid egg,
Or a tasty bit of meat.”
“But the native cats hae taen the fowls,
They havena left a leg;
And he'll get nae omelette here at a'
Till the emu lays an egg!”
“Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
To whaur the emus bide,
Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest,
While the auld cock sits beside.
“But speak them fair, and speak them saft,
Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt.
Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails
Or a rusty carriage bolt.”
So little son Jack ran blithely down,
With the rusty nails in hand,
Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched
By their nest in the open sand.
And there he has gathered the new-laid egg,
'Twould feed three men or four,
And the emus came for the half-inch nails
Right up to the settler's door.
“A waste o' food,” said the dour good-wife,
As she took the egg, with a frown,
“But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin
A paddy-melon down.”
“Gae oot, gae oot, my little son Jack,
Wi' your twa-three doggies sma';
Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon,
Then come nae back at a'.”
So little son Jack he raced and he ran,
And he was bare o' the feet,
And soon he captured a paddy-melon,
Was gorged with the stolen wheat.
“Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man,
To the best that the hoose can do—
An omelette made of the emu egg
And a paddy-melon stew.”
“'Tis well, 'tis well,” said the bonny wee man;
“I have eaten the wide world's meat,
And the food that is given with right good will
Is the sweetest food to eat.
“But the night draws on to the Christmas Day
And I must rise and go,
For I have a mighty way to ride
To the land of the Esquimaux.
“And it's there I must load my sledges up,
With reindeers four-in-hand,
That go to the North, South, East, and West,
To every Christian land.”
“Tae the Esquimaux,” said the dour good-wife,
“Ye suit my husband well!
For when he gets up on his journey horse
He's a bit of a liar himsel'.”
Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man
To his old horse grazing nigh,
And away like a meteor flash they went
Far off to the Northern sky.
. . . . .
When the children woke on the Christmas morn
They chattered with might and main—
For a sword and gun had little son Jack,
And a braw new doll had Jane,
And a packet o' nails had the twa emus;
But the dour good-wife got nane.