Part 6

We stood the man from Narromine a pint of half-and-half; He drank it off without a gasp in one tremendous quaff; 'I joined some friends last night,' he said, 'in what THEY called a spree; But after Narromine 'twas just a holiday to me.'

And now beyond the Western Range, where sunset skies are red, And clouds of dust, and clouds of thirst, go drifting overhead, The railway-train is taking back, along the Western Line, That narrow-minded person on his road to Narromine.

Saltbush Bill's Gamecock

'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard: For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard. He bore no malice to Stingy Smith -- 'twas simply the hand of fate That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate; And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt, It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out. So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall, Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall.

'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft, Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft; And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame As breeder of champion fighting cocks -- his 'forte' was the British Game. The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all. Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, his fowls were his sole delight; He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight. He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win! The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock; The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock; For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all -- And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall.

. . . . .

'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep, And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep -- A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came -- 'A drover has an Australian Bird to match with your British Game.' 'Twas done, and done in a half a trice; a five-pound note aside; Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried. 'Steel spurs, of course?' said old Rooster Hall; 'you'll need 'em, without a doubt!' 'You stick the spurs on your bird!' said Bill, 'but mine fights best without.' 'Fights best without?' said old Rooster Hall; 'he can't fight best unspurred! You must be crazy!' But Saltbush Bill said, 'Wait till you see my bird!' So Rooster Hall to his fowlyard went, and quickly back he came, Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game. With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumpet call, He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall. Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with word to his cronies two, McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo. Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court, With Father D. as a picker-up -- a regular all-round Sport! They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came, Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game; They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before -- Old Rooster Hall was a blithesome man, when he thought of the treat in store. They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene, Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen.

'Take off the beef from the fire,' said Bill, 'and wait till you see the fight; There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare -- there's game-fowl stew to-night! For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred; And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird. I've made a match that our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock, But he's game enough, and it's many a mile that he's tramped with the travelling stock.' The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard, Under the dray, in the shadows hid, a something moved and stirred: A great tame Emu strutted out. Said Saltbush, 'Here's our bird!' But Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word.

The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all. For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault, That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard, Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird; And old McCrae, who was on the Bench, as soon as the case was tried, Remarked, 'Discharged with a clean discharge -- the assault was justified!'

Hay and Hell and Booligal

'You come and see me, boys,' he said; 'You'll find a welcome and a bed And whisky any time you call; Although our township hasn't got The name of quite a lively spot -- You see, I live in Booligal.

'And people have an awful down Upon the district and the town -- Which worse than hell itself they call; In fact, the saying far and wide Along the Riverina side Is "Hay and Hell and Booligal".

'No doubt it suits 'em very well To say it's worse than Hay or Hell, But don't you heed their talk at all; Of course, there's heat -- no one denies -- And sand and dust and stacks of flies, And rabbits, too, at Booligal.

'But such a pleasant, quiet place, You never see a stranger's face -- They hardly ever care to call; The drovers mostly pass it by; They reckon that they'd rather die Than spend a night in Booligal.

'The big mosquitoes frighten some -- You'll lie awake to hear 'em hum -- And snakes about the township crawl; But shearers, when they get their cheque, They never come along and wreck The blessed town of Booligal.

'But down in Hay the shearers come And fill themselves with fighting-rum, And chase blue devils up the wall, And fight the snaggers every day, Until there is the deuce to pay -- There's none of that in Booligal.

'Of course, there isn't much to see -- The billiard-table used to be The great attraction for us all, Until some careless, drunken curs Got sleeping on it in their spurs, And ruined it, in Booligal.

'Just now there is a howling drought That pretty near has starved us out -- It never seems to rain at all; But, if there SHOULD come any rain, You couldn't cross the black-soil plain -- You'd have to stop in Booligal.'

. . . . .

'WE'D HAVE TO STOP!' With bated breath We prayed that both in life and death Our fate in other lines might fall: 'Oh, send us to our just reward In Hay or Hell, but, gracious Lord, Deliver us from Booligal!'

A Walgett Episode

The sun strikes down with a blinding glare, The skies are blue and the plains are wide, The saltbush plains that are burnt and bare By Walgett out on the Barwon side -- The Barwon river that wanders down In a leisurely manner by Walgett Town.

There came a stranger -- a 'Cockatoo' -- The word means farmer, as all men know Who dwell in the land where the kangaroo Barks loud at dawn, and the white-eyed crow Uplifts his song on the stock-yard fence As he watches the lambkins passing hence.

The sunburnt stranger was gaunt and brown, But it soon appeared that he meant to flout The iron law of the country town, Which is -- that the stranger has got to shout: 'If he will not shout we must take him down,' Remarked the yokels of Walgett Town.

They baited a trap with a crafty bait, With a crafty bait, for they held discourse Concerning a new chum who of late Had bought such a thoroughly lazy horse; They would wager that no one could ride him down The length of the city of Walgett Town.

The stranger was born on a horse's hide; So he took the wagers, and made them good With his hard-earned cash -- but his hopes they died, For the horse was a clothes-horse, made of wood! -- 'Twas a well-known horse that had taken down Full many a stranger in Walgett Town.

The stranger smiled with a sickly smile -- 'Tis a sickly smile that the loser grins -- And he said he had travelled for quite a while In trying to sell some marsupial skins. 'And I thought that perhaps, as you've took me down, You would buy them from me, in Walgett Town!'

He said that his home was at Wingadee, At Wingadee where he had for sale Some fifty skins and would guarantee They were full-sized skins, with the ears and tail Complete, and he sold them for money down To a venturesome buyer in Walgett Town.