The Old Bush Songs

by Unknown

A bright sun and a loosened rein,
A whip whose pealing sound
Rings forth amid the forest trees
As merrily forth we bound—
As merrily forth we bound, my boys,
And, by the dawn’s pale light,
Speed fearless on our horses true
From morn till starry night.
“Oh! for a tame and quiet herd,”
I hear some crawler cry;
But give to me the mountain mob
With the flash of their tameless eye—
With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys,
As down the rugged spur
Dash the wild children of the woods,
And the horse that mocks at fear.
There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
There’s danger in you cow;
Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
The wild mob’s bolting now—
The wild mob’s bolting now, my boys,
But ’twas never in their hides
To show the way to the well-trained nags
That are rattling by their sides.
Oh! ’tis jolly to follow the roving herd
Through the long, long summer day,
And camp at night by some lonely creek
When dies the golden ray.
Where the jackass laughs in the old gum tree,
And our quart-pot tea we sip;
The saddle was our childhood’s home,
Our heritage the whip.

THE MARANOA DROVERS

(Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)

The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
Our horses we will mount and ride away,
To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
night,
And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
Chorus
For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
And we’ll soon be into sunny New South Wales;
We shall bid farewell to Queensland, with its swampy
coolibah—
Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of
the night,
And the cattle camping quiet, well, I’m sure
That I wish for two o’clock when I call the other watch—
This is droving from the sandy Maranoa.
Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound
When we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
For we always have to go ten miles or more;
It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
too;
Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
We’ll shout “Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy
coolibah,
And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.”

RIVER BEND

(Air: “Belle Mahone.”)

At River Bend, in New South Wales,
All alone among the whales,
Busting up some post and rails,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
In the blazing sun we stand,
Cabbage-tree hat, black velvet band,
Moleskins stiff with sweat and sand,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
Chorus: Sweet Belle Mahone, &c.
In the burning sand we pine,
No one asks us to have a wine,
’Tis a jolly crooked line,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
When I am sitting on a log,
Looking like a great big frog,
Waiting for a Murray cod,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
Land of snakes and cockatoos,
Native bears and big emus,
Ugly blacks and kangaroos,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
Paddymelons by the score,
Wild bulls, you should hear them roar,
They all belong to Johnny Dore,
Sweet Belle Mahone.

“River Bend.”—This song certainly cannot boast of antiquity, as it is a parody on a recent sentimental song, but so many correspondents sent it in that it was decided to include it. Perhaps it is to its obvious sincerity of sentiment that it owes its popularity.

SONG OF THE SQUATTER

[The subjoined is one of the “Songs of the Squatters,” written by the Hon. Robert Lowe (afterwards Viscount Sherbrooke), while resident in New South Wales.]