Chapter 5 of 6 · 3987 words · ~20 min read

Part 5

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.]

The Commissioner bet me a pony—I won; So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run; For he said I was making a fortune too fast, And profit gained slower the longer would last.

He remarked as devouring my mutton he sat, That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat; That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown, And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;—

That the creek that divided my station in two Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due. Mr. Riddle assured me ’twas paid but for show; But he kept it and spent it; that’s all that I know.

The Commissioner fined me because I forgot To return an old ewe that was ill of the rot, And a poor wry-necked lamb that we kept for a pet; And he said it was treason such things to forget.

The Commissioner pounded my cattle because They had mumbled the scrub with their famishing jaws On the part of the run he had taken away; And he sold them by auction the costs to defray.

The Border Police they were out all the day To look for some thieves who had ransacked my dray; But the thieves they continued in quiet and peace, For they’d robbed it themselves—had the Border Police!

When the white thieves had left me the black thieves appeared, My shepherds they waddied, my cattle they speared; But for fear of my licence I said not a word, For I knew it was gone if the Government heard.

The Commissioner’s bosom with anger was filled Against me because my poor shepherd was killed; So he straight took away the last third of my run, And got it transferred to the name of his son.

The son had from Cambridge been lately expelled, And his licence for preaching most justly withheld! But this is no cause, the Commissioner says, Why he should not be fit for a licence to graze.

The cattle that had not been sold at the pound He took with the run at five shillings all round; And the sheep the blacks left me at sixpence a head— “A very good price,” the Commissioner said.

The Governor told me I justly was served, That Commissioners never from duty had swerved; But that if I’d a fancy for any more land For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.

I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog, Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log, Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down— Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.

WALLABI JOE

(Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)

The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail, And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail, For there never was seen such a regular screw As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo; Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course, That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse; But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside, He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.

Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe. O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.

“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried, “I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide; For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore, And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”

Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag, Put under the saddle a soojee bag, And off he rode with a whip in his hand To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.

Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.

Now stockman Bill camped out that night, And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight; Next day of old Joe he found not a track, So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back. He searched up and down every gully he knew, But he found not a hair of his poor old screw, And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe, “Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”

Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.

Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old, It came into his head to go poking for gold; So away he went with a spade in his fist, To hunt for a nugget among the schist. One day as a gully he chanced to cross, He came on the bones of his poor old horse; The hobbles being jammed in a root below Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.

Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.

THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME

(Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)

I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate, Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate, Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great— Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes, And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews; And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze, And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose— Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.

And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all, And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all, Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all; For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small— Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.

And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see, His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily; The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P., He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely free— This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.

And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he, But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be. His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free, And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see— This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.

THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED

Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear. Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot, His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.

Chorus

For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed, And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.

Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow. “Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now, For I never again shall my saddle regain, Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”

His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn, His steed looks in vain for his master’s return; No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies; Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.

Now, stockman, if ever on some future day After the wild mob you happen to stray, Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread, Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.

MUSTERING SONG

(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)

The boss last night in the hut did say— “We start to muster at break of day; So be up first thing, and don’t be slow; Saddle your horses and off you go.”

Chorus

So early in the morning, so early in the morning, So early in the morning, before the break of day.

Such a night in the yard there never was seen (The horses were fat and the grass was green); Bursting of girths and slipping of packs As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.