Part 11

Their horses shake with fear When loosened boulders go, With leaps, like startled deer, Down to the gulfs below.

Their very dogs will shirk, And drop their tails in fright When asked to go and work A mob that's out of sight.

My little collie pup Works silently and wide; You'll see her climbing up Along the mountain side.

As silent as a fox You'll see her come and go, A shadow through the rocks Where ash and messmate grow.

Then, lost to sight and sound Behind some rugged steep, She works her way around And gathers up the sheep;

And, working wide and shy, She holds them rounded up. The cash ain't coined to buy That little collie pup.

And so I draw a screw For self and dog and keep To boundary-ride for you, O Riverina Sheep!

And when the autumn rain Has made the herbage grow, You travel off again, And glad--no doubt--to go.

But some are left behind Around the mountain's spread, For those we cannot find We put them down as dead.

But when we say adieu And close the boarding job, I always find a few Fresh ear-marks in my mob.

So what with those I sell, And what with those I keep, You pay me pretty well, O Riverina Sheep!

It's up to me to shout Before we say good-bye-- “Here's to a howlin' drought All west of Gundagai!”

Pioneers

They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; They were the sons of field and flock since e'er they learnt to ride, We may not hope to see such men in these degenerate years As those explorers of the bush--the brave old pioneers.

'Twas they who rode the trackless bush in heat and storm and drought; 'Twas they who heard the master-word that called them farther out; 'Twas they who followed up the trail the mountain cattle made, And pressed across the mighty range where now their bones are laid.

But now the times are dull and slow, the brave old days are dead When hardy bushmen started out, and forced their way ahead By tangled scrub and forests grim towards the unknown west, And spied the far-off promised land from off the range's crest.

Oh! ye that sleep in lonely graves by far-off ridge and plain, We drink to you in silence now as Christmas comes again, To you who fought the wilderness through rough unsettled years-- The founders of our nation's life, the brave old pioneers.

Santa Claus in the Bush

It chanced out back at the Christmas time, When the wheat was ripe and tall, A stranger rode to the farmer's gate-- A sturdy man and a small.

“Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, And bid the stranger stay; And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, For the morn is Christmas Day.”

“Nay now, nay now,” said the dour good-wife, “But ye should let him be; He's maybe only a drover chap Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.

“Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst To swiggle the hail nicht through; Or he's maybe a life assurance carle To talk ye black and blue.”

“Guid wife, he's never a drover chap, For their swags are neat and thin; And he's never a life assurance carle, Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin.

“Guid wife, guid wife, be nae sae dour, For the wheat stands ripe and tall, And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, Ewes and weaners and all.

“There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, So we maun ask him in.

“Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, And gi' him a bite tae eat; An omelette made of a new-laid egg, Or a tasty bit of meat.”

“But the native cats hae taen the fowls, They havena left a leg; And he'll get nae omelette here at a' Till the emu lays an egg!”

“Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, To whaur the emus bide, Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, While the auld cock sits beside.