The Old Bush Songs

by Unknown

THE EUMERELLA SHORE

There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
Where I’ve lingered many happy hours away,
On my little free selection I have acres by the score,
Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.
Chorus
To my bullocks then I say
No matter where you stray,
You will never be impounded any more;
For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
piece of land,
Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are
shining bright,
Then we saddle up our horses and away,
And we yard the squatters’ cattle in the darkness of the
night,
And we have the calves all branded by the day.
Chorus
Oh, my pretty little calf,
At the squatter you may laugh,
For he’ll never be your owner any more;
For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
piece of land,
Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
Although before they’re never known to stray,
Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
And sell them into slav’ry far away.
Chorus
To Jack Robertson we’ll say
You’ve been leading us astray,
And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO

(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)

If you want a situation, I’ll just tell you the plan
To get on to a station, I am just your very man.
Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo,
With a name aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
a fuss,
And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s we, and ours, and
us.
Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, too
And your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to ride
But run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide,
His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two,
Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
When the boss wants information, on the men you’ll do a
sneak,
And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
But if the banks once get you, they’ll put you up a tree.
To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do,
’Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago,
Jackaroo.
Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A “Jackaroo” is a young man who comes to a station to get experience. He occupies a position much like that of an apprentice on a ship, and has to work with the men though supposed to be above them in social status. Hence these sneers at the Jackaroo.

THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE

I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be
glad to bear,
Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
So kindly pay attention, and I’ll pass the whisper round,
The squatters of their own free will this year will pay the
pound.
For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows,
We’ll take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to the
toes,
But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrown
in free.
That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
Jubilee.
And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshing
rains.
The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains,
The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green,
It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er the plains of Riverine.
Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps her
wing.
Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and crickets
sing.
Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, may
be seen,
For prosperity is hovering o’er the plains of Riverine.
Yes, ’twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-block
pioneers,
Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot the
bunny’s ears;
And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been,
Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains of
Riverine.
You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their faces
beam,
As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, and
their team.
They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen.
They’ll show the “cookies” how to plough the plains of
Riverine.
Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee,
And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea.
Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seen
Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.
They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum,
But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates
come.
From New Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
meadows green,
We’ll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.
Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions
bold;
Victoria will send her “cockies,” too, her honour to uphold.
They’ll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs
between,
For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of
Riverine.
I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell,
Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to
tell;
Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that’s what they
want to see,
That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.

“This year will pay the pound.”—A pound a hundred is the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out strikes have taken place about it.

“We’ll take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the toes.”—Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and wool down on the legs.