They battled round in Maoriland—they saw it through and through—
And argued on the rata, what it was and how it grew;
Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up—
Yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup.
Night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born,
And each one held the other’s stupid theories in scorn,
Bill believed it was ‘born inside,’ Jim declared it was born out—
Each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt.
They left the earth to argue and they went among the stars,
Re conditions atmospheric, Bill believed ‘the hair of Mars
Was too thin for human bein’s to exist in mortal states.’
Jim declared it was too thick, if anything—yet they were mates
Bill for Freetrade—Jim, Protection—argued as to which was best
For the welfare of the workers—and their mateship stood the test!
They argued over what they meant and didn’t mean at all,
And what they said and didn’t—and were mates in spite of all.
Till one night the two together tried to light a fire in camp,
When they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp.
And ... No matter: let the moral be distinctly understood:
One alone should tend the fire, while the other brings the wood.
THE PAROO
It was a week from Christmas-time,
As near as I remember,
And half a year since in the rear
We’d left the Darling Timber.
The track was hot and more than drear;
The long day seemed forever;
But now we knew that we were near
Our camp—the Paroo River.
With blighted eyes and blistered feet,
With stomachs out of order,
Half mad with flies and dust and heat
We’d crossed the Queensland Border.
I longed to hear a stream go by
And see the circles quiver;
I longed to lay me down and die
That night on Paroo River.
’Tis said the land out West is grand—
I do not care who says it—
It isn’t even decent scrub,
Nor yet an honest desert;
It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot,
A curse is on it ever;
I really think that God forgot
The country round that river.
My mate—a native of the land—
In fiery speech and vulgar,
Condemned the flies and cursed the sand,
And doubly damned the mulga.
He peered ahead, he peered about—
A bushman he, and clever—
‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out;
‘We must be near the river.’
The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest
(God bless one kindly squatter!)
With grateful weight our hearts they pressed—
We only wanted water.
The sun was setting (in the west)
In colour like a liver—
We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest
That night on Paroo River.
A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow,
And once I heard him mutter:
‘I’d like to see the Darling now,
‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’
And now and then he stopped and said
In tones that made me shiver—
‘It cannot well be on ahead,
‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’
But soon we saw a strip of ground
That crossed the track we followed—
No barer than the surface round,
But just a little hollowed.
His brows assumed a thoughtful frown—
This speech he did deliver:
‘I wonder if we’d best go down
‘Or up the blessed river?’