The Travelling Post Office

   The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway,
   The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way,
   It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh.

       .   .   .   .   .

   The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow,
   He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go.
   'He's gone so long,' the old man said, 'he's dropped right out of mind,
   But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind;
   He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray,
   He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

   'The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow;
   They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Overflow,
   Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong,
   But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong,
   The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep,
   It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep',
   For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray,
   You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'.'

       .   .   .   .   .

   By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone,
   Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on.
   A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare,
   She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air,
   Then launches down the other side across the plains away
   To bear that note to 'Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh'.

   And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town,
   And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it 'further down'.
   Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides,
   A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides.
   Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep
   He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep.
   By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock,
   By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock,
   And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away
   My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

Saltbush Bill

   Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey,
   A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
   But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
   They travel their stage where the grass is bad,
     but they camp where the grass is good;
   They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains,
   Then they drift away as the white clouds drift
     on the edge of the saltbush plains,
   From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand,
   For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
   For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes,
     'tis written in white and black —
   The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
   And the drovers keep to a half-mile track
     on the runs where the grass is dead,
   But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run
     till they go with a two-mile spread.
   So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
   And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight;
   Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob,
     are willing the peace to keep,
   For the drovers learn how to use their hands
     when they go with the travelling sheep;
   But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
   And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.

   Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew,
   He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes
     from the sea to the big Barcoo;
   He could tell when he came to a friendly run
     that gave him a chance to spread,
   And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
   He was drifting down in the Eighty drought
     with a mob that could scarcely creep,
   (When the kangaroos by the thousands starve,
     it is rough on the travelling sheep),
   And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run,
   'We must manage a feed for them here,' he said,
     'or the half of the mob are done!'
   So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
   Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow,
   And they set to work on the straggling sheep,
     and with many a stockwhip crack
   They forced them in where the grass was dead
     in the space of the half-mile track;
   So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue
   But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep
     in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
   So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead,
   From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head,
   With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
   Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man;
   With the station-hand for his picker-up,
     though the sheep ran loose the while,
   They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style.

   Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake
     and the pride of the English race,
   But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
   So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill,
   And from time to time as his scouts came in
     they whispered to Saltbush Bill —
   'We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread,
     and the grass it is something grand,
   You must stick to him, Bill, for another round
     for the pride of the Overland.'
   The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
   Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky
     and glared on the brick-red loam,
   Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest,
   Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his opponent best.

   So the new chum rode to the homestead straight
     and he told them a story grand
   Of the desperate fight that he fought that day
     with the King of the Overland.
   And the tale went home to the Public Schools
     of the pluck of the English swell,
   How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
   But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep
     were boxed on the Old Man Plain.
   'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again,
   With a week's good grass in their wretched hides,
     with a curse and a stockwhip crack,
   They hunted them off on the road once more
     to starve on the half-mile track.
   And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
   How the best day's work that ever he did
     was the day that he lost the fight.

A Mountain Station

   I bought a run a while ago,
    On country rough and ridgy,
   Where wallaroos and wombats grow —
    The Upper Murrumbidgee.
   The grass is rather scant, it's true,
    But this a fair exchange is,
   The sheep can see a lovely view
    By climbing up the ranges.

   And She-oak Flat's the station's name,
    I'm not surprised at that, sirs:
   The oaks were there before I came,
    And I supplied the flat, sirs.
   A man would wonder how it's done,
    The stock so soon decreases —
   They sometimes tumble off the run
    And break themselves to pieces.

   I've tried to make expenses meet,
    But wasted all my labours,
   The sheep the dingoes didn't eat
    Were stolen by the neighbours.
   They stole my pears — my native pears —
    Those thrice-convicted felons,
   And ravished from me unawares
    My crop of paddy-melons.

   And sometimes under sunny skies,
    Without an explanation,
   The Murrumbidgee used to rise
    And overflow the station.
   But this was caused (as now I know)
    When summer sunshine glowing
   Had melted all Kiandra's snow
    And set the river going.

   And in the news, perhaps you read:
    'Stock passings.  Puckawidgee,
   Fat cattle:  Seven hundred head
    Swept down the Murrumbidgee;
   Their destination's quite obscure,
    But, somehow, there's a notion,
   Unless the river falls, they're sure
    To reach the Southern Ocean.'

   So after that I'll give it best;
    No more with Fate I'll battle.
   I'll let the river take the rest,
    For those were all my cattle.
   And with one comprehensive curse
    I close my brief narration,
   And advertise it in my verse —
    'For Sale!  A Mountain Station.'

Been There Before

   There came a stranger to Walgett town,
    To Walgett town when the sun was low,
   And he carried a thirst that was worth a crown,
    Yet how to quench it he did not know;
   But he thought he might take those yokels down,
   The guileless yokels of Walgett town.

   They made him a bet in a private bar,
    In a private bar when the talk was high,
   And they bet him some pounds no matter how far
    He could pelt a stone, yet he could not shy
   A stone right over the river so brown,
   The Darling river at Walgett town.

   He knew that the river from bank to bank
    Was fifty yards, and he smiled a smile
   As he trundled down, but his hopes they sank
    For there wasn't a stone within fifty mile;
   For the saltbush plain and the open down
   Produce no quarries in Walgett town.

   The yokels laughed at his hopes o'erthrown,
    And he stood awhile like a man in a dream;
   Then out of his pocket he fetched a stone,
    And pelted it over the silent stream —
   He had been there before:  he had wandered down
   On a previous visit to Walgett town.

The Man Who Was Away

   The widow sought the lawyer's room with children three in tow,
   She told the lawyer man her tale in tones of deepest woe.
   Said she, 'My husband took to drink for pains in his inside,
   And never drew a sober breath from then until he died.

   'He never drew a sober breath, he died without a will,
   And I must sell the bit of land the childer's mouths to fill.
   There's some is grown and gone away, but some is childer yet,
   And times is very bad indeed — a livin's hard to get.

   'There's Min and Sis and little Chris, they stops at home with me,
   And Sal has married Greenhide Bill that breaks for Bingeree.
   And Fred is drovin' Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh,
   And Charley's shearin' down the Bland, and Peter is away.'

   The lawyer wrote the details down in ink of legal blue —
   'There's Minnie, Susan, Christopher, they stop at home with you;
   There's Sarah, Frederick, and Charles, I'll write to them to-day,
   But what about the other one — the one who is away?

   'You'll have to furnish his consent to sell the bit of land.'
   The widow shuffled in her seat, 'Oh, don't you understand?
   I thought a lawyer ought to know — I don't know what to say —
   You'll have to do without him, boss, for Peter is away.'

   But here the little boy spoke up — said he, 'We thought you knew;
   He's done six months in Goulburn gaol — he's got six more to do.'
   Thus in one comprehensive flash he made it clear as day,
   The mystery of Peter's life — the man who was away.

The Man from Ironbark

   It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
   He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
   He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
   Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
   ''Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
   I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'

   The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
   He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:
   He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
   He laid the odds and kept a 'tote', whatever that may be,
   And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered 'Here's a lark!
   Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'

   There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall,
   Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
   To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
   'I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'
   And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
   'I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'

   A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
   Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
   He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
   Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
   Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark —
   No doubt it fairly took him in — the man from Ironbark.

   He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
   And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
   He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
   'You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!
   I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
   But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.'

   He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
   He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
   He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;
   He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
   And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
   And 'Murder!  Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.

   A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
   He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
   And when at last the barber spoke, and said, ''Twas all in fun —
   'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'
   'A joke!' he cried, 'By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
   I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'

   And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
   He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
   'Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
   One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'
   And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
   That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

The Open Steeplechase

   I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice,
   By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called 'The Ace'.
   And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider Jimmy Rice,
   Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice —
   Me, that never wore the colours, for the Open Steeplechase.

   'Make the running,' said the trainer, 'it's your only chance whatever,
   Make it hot from start to finish, for the old black horse can stay,
   And just think of how they'll take it, when they hear on Snowy River
   That the country boy was plucky, and the country horse was clever.
   You must ride for old Monaro and the mountain boys to-day.'

   'Are you ready?' said the starter, as we held the horses back,
   All ablazing with impatience, with excitement all aglow;
   Before us like a ribbon stretched the steeplechasing track,
   And the sun-rays glistened brightly on the chestnut and the black
   As the starter's words came slowly, 'Are — you — ready?  Go!'

   Well, I scarcely knew we'd started, I was stupid-like with wonder
   Till the field closed up beside me and a jump appeared ahead.
   And we flew it like a hurdle, not a baulk and not a blunder,
   As we charged it all together, and it fairly whistled under,
   And then some were pulled behind me and a few shot out and led.

   So we ran for half the distance, and I'm making no pretences
   When I tell you I was feeling very nervous-like and queer,
   For those jockeys rode like demons;
     you would think they'd lost their senses
   If you saw them rush their horses at those rasping five foot fences —
   And in place of making running I was falling to the rear.

   Till a chap came racing past me on a horse they called 'The Quiver',
   And said he, 'My country joker, are you going to give it best?
   Are you frightened of the fences? does their stoutness make you shiver?
   Have they come to breeding cowards by the side of Snowy River?
   Are there riders on Monaro?  ——' but I never heard the rest.

   For I drove the Ace and sent him just as fast as he could pace it,
   At the big black line of timber stretching fair across the track,
   And he shot beside the Quiver.  'Now,' said I, 'my boy, we'll race it.
   You can come with Snowy River if you're only game to face it,
   Let us mend the pace a little and we'll see who cries a crack.'

   So we raced away together, and we left the others standing,
   And the people cheered and shouted as we settled down to ride,
   And we clung beside the Quiver.  At his taking off and landing
   I could see his scarlet nostril and his mighty ribs expanding,
   And the Ace stretched out in earnest and we held him stride for stride.

   But the pace was so terrific that they soon ran out their tether —
   They were rolling in their gallop, they were fairly blown and beat —
   But they both were game as pebbles — neither one would show the feather.
   And we rushed them at the fences, and they cleared them both together,
   Nearly every time they clouted, but they somehow kept their feet.

   Then the last jump rose before us, and they faced it game as ever —
   We were both at spur and whipcord, fetching blood at every bound —
   And above the people's cheering and the cries of 'Ace' and 'Quiver',
   I could hear the trainer shouting, 'One more run for Snowy River.'
   Then we struck the jump together and came smashing to the ground.

   Well, the Quiver ran to blazes, but the Ace stood still and waited,
   Stood and waited like a statue while I scrambled on his back.
   There was no one next or near me for the field was fairly slated,
   So I cantered home a winner with my shoulder dislocated,
   While the man that rode the Quiver followed limping down the track.

   And he shook my hand and told me that in all his days he never
   Met a man who rode more gamely, and our last set to was prime,
   And we wired them on Monaro how we chanced to beat the Quiver.
   And they sent us back an answer, 'Good old sort from Snowy River:
   Send us word each race you start in and we'll back you every time.'