Chapter 2

'Oh, Lord! we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst! We all chucked-up our daily work and went upon the burst. The very blacks about the town that used to cadge for grub, They made an organised attack and tried to loot the pub.

'We couldn't leave the private bar no matter how we tried; Shearers and squatters, union-men and blacklegs side by side Were drinkin' there and dursn't move, for each was sure, he said, Before he'd get a half-a-mile the thirst would strike him dead!

'We drank until the drink gave out, we searched from room to room, And round the pub, like drunken ghosts, went howling through the gloom. The shearers found some kerosene and settled down again, But all the squatter chaps and I, we staggered to the train.

'And, once outside the cloud of thirst, we felt as right as pie, But while we stopped about the town we had to drink or die. But now I hear it's safe enough, I'm going back to work Because they say the cloud of thirst has shifted on to Bourke.

'But when you see those clouds about -- like this one over here -- All white and frothy at the top, just like a pint of beer, It's time to go and have a drink, for if that cloud should burst You'd find the drink would all be gone, for that's a cloud of thirst!'

. . . . .

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.

Then he smiled a smile as he pouched the pelf, 'I'm glad that I'm quit of them, win or lose: You can fetch them in when it suits yourself, And you'll find the skins -- on the kangaroos!' Then he left -- and the silence settled down Like a tangible thing upon Walgett Town.

Father Riley's Horse

'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog By the troopers of the Upper Murray side, They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log, But never sight or track of him they spied, Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late And a whisper 'Father Riley -- come across!' So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse!

'Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say, For its close upon my death I am to-night. With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day In the gullies keeping close and out of sight. But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly, And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife, So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die, 'Tis the only way I see to save my life.

'Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course, I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse! He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear To his owner or his breeder, but I know, That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare And his dam was close related to The Roe.

'And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step, He could canter while they're going at their top: He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep, A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop! So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again, 'Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course, You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!

'But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say good-bye, For the stars above the East are growing pale. And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die! But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol! You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead. Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, good-bye!' and he had fled!

So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights, In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill; There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights Till the very boldest fighters had their fill. There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub, And their riders flogged each other all the while. And the lashins of the liquor! And the lavins of the grub! Oh, poor Andy went to rest in proper style.

Then the races came to Kiley's -- with a steeplechase and all, For the folk were mostly Irish round about, And it takes an Irish rider to be fearless of a fall, They were training morning in and morning out. But they never started training till the sun was on the course For a superstitious story kept 'em back, That the ghost of Andy Regan on a slashing chestnut horse, Had been training by the starlight on the track.

And they read the nominations for the races with surprise And amusement at the Father's little joke, For a novice had been entered for the steeplechasing prize, And they found that it was Father Riley's moke! He was neat enough to gallop, he was strong enough to stay! But his owner's views of training were immense, For the Reverend Father Riley used to ride him every day, And he never saw a hurdle nor a fence.

And the priest would join the laughter; 'Oh,' said he, 'I put him in, For there's five and twenty sovereigns to be won. And the poor would find it useful, if the chestnut chanced to win, And he'll maybe win when all is said and done!' He had called him Faugh-a-ballagh, which is French for clear the course, And his colours were a vivid shade of green: All the Dooleys and O'Donnells were on Father Riley's horse, While the Orangemen were backing Mandarin!

It was Hogan, the dog poisoner -- aged man and very wise, Who was camping in the racecourse with his swag, And who ventured the opinion, to the township's great surprise, That the race would go to Father Riley's nag. 'You can talk about your riders -- and the horse has not been schooled, And the fences is terrific, and the rest! When the field is fairly going, then ye'll see ye've all been fooled, And the chestnut horse will battle with the best.

'For there's some has got condition, and they think the race is sure, And the chestnut horse will fall beneath the weight, But the hopes of all the helpless, and the prayers of all the poor, Will be running by his side to keep him straight. And it's what's the need of schoolin' or of workin' on the track, Whin the saints are there to guide him round the course! I've prayed him over every fence -- I've prayed him out and back! And I'll bet my cash on Father Riley's horse!'

. . . . .

Oh, the steeple was a caution! They went tearin' round and round, And the fences rang and rattled where they struck. There was some that cleared the water -- there was more fell in and drowned, Some blamed the men and others blamed the luck! But the whips were flying freely when the field came into view, For the finish down the long green stretch of course, And in front of all the flyers -- jumpin' like a kangaroo, Came the rank outsider -- Father Riley's horse!

Oh, the shouting and the cheering as he rattled past the post! For he left the others standing, in the straight; And the rider -- well they reckoned it was Andy Regan's ghost, And it beat 'em how a ghost would draw the weight! But he weighed it, nine stone seven, then he laughed and disappeared, Like a Banshee (which is Spanish for an elf), And old Hogan muttered sagely, 'If it wasn't for the beard They'd be thinking it was Andy Regan's self!'

And the poor of Kiley's Crossing drank the health at Christmastide Of the chestnut and his rider dressed in green. There was never such a rider, not since Andy Regan died, And they wondered who on earth he could have been. But they settled it among 'em, for the story got about, 'Mongst the bushmen and the people on the course, That the Devil had been ordered to let Andy Regan out For the steeplechase on Father Riley's horse!

The Scotch Engineer

With eyes that searched in the dark, Peering along the line, Stood the grim Scotchman, Hector Clark, Driver of 'Forty-nine', And the veldt-fire flamed on the hills ahead, Like a blood-red beacon sign.

There was word of a fight to the north, And a column hard-pressed, So they started the Highlanders forth, Without food, without rest.

But the pipers gaily played, Chanting their fierce delight, And the armoured carriages rocked and swayed, Laden with men of the Scotch Brigade, Hurrying up to the fight, And the grim, grey Highland engineer, Driving them into the night.

Then a signal light glowed red, And a picket came to the track. 'Enemy holding the line ahead, Three of our mates we have left for dead, Only we two got back.' And far to the north through the still night air, They heard the rifles crack.

And the boom of a gun rang out, Like the sound of a deep appeal, And the picket stood in doubt By the side of the driving-wheel.

But the Engineer looked down, With his hand on the starting-bar, 'Ride ye back to the town, Ye know what my orders are, Maybe they're wanting the Scotch Brigade Up on those hills afar.

'I am no soldier at all, Only an engineer, But I could not bear that the folk should say, Over in Scotland -- Glasgow way -- That Hector Clark stayed here With the Scotch Brigade till the foe were gone, With ever a rail to run her on. Ready behind! Stand clear!

'Fireman, get you gone Into the armoured train, I will drive her alone; One more trip -- and perhaps the last -- With a well-raked fire and an open blast -- Hark to the rifles again.'

. . . . .

On through the choking dark, Never a lamp nor a light, Never an engine spark, Showing her hurried flight. Over the lonely plain Rushed the great armoured train, Hurrying up to the fight.

Then with her living freight On to the foe she came, And the rifles snapped their hate, And the darkness spouted flame.

Over the roar of the fray The hungry bullets whined, As she dashed through the foe that lay Loading and firing blind, Till the glare of the furnace burning clear Showed them the form of the engineer, Sharply and well defined.

Through! They were safely through! Hark to the column's cheer! Surely the driver knew He was to halt her here; But he took no heed of the signals red, And the fireman found, when he climbed ahead, There on the floor of his engine -- dead, Lay the Scotch Engineer!

Song of the Future

'Tis strange that in a land so strong, So strong and bold in mighty youth, We have no poet's voice of truth To sing for us a wondrous song.

Our chiefest singer yet has sung In wild, sweet notes a passing strain, All carelessly and sadly flung To that dull world he thought so vain.

'I care for nothing, good nor bad, My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled, I am but sifting sand,' he said: What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!

And yet, not always sad and hard; In cheerful mood and light of heart He told the tale of Britomarte, And wrote the Rhyme of Joyous Guard.

And some have said that Nature's face To us is always sad; but these Have never felt the smiling grace Of waving grass and forest trees On sunlit plains as wide as seas.

'A land where dull Despair is king O'er scentless flower and songless bird!' But we have heard the bell-birds ring Their silver bells at eventide, Like fairies on the mountain side, The sweetest note man ever heard.

The wild thrush lifts a note of mirth; The bronzewing pigeons call and coo Beside their nests the long day through; The magpie warbles clear and strong A joyous, glad, thanksgiving song, For all God's mercies upon earth.

And many voices such as these Are joyful sounds for those to tell, Who know the Bush and love it well, With all its hidden mysteries.

We cannot love the restless sea, That rolls and tosses to and fro Like some fierce creature in its glee; For human weal or human woe It has no touch of sympathy.

For us the bush is never sad: Its myriad voices whisper low, In tones the bushmen only know, Its sympathy and welcome glad.

For us the roving breezes bring From many a blossom-tufted tree -- Where wild bees murmur dreamily -- The honey-laden breath of Spring.

. . . . .

We have no tales of other days, No bygone history to tell; Our tales are told where camp-fires blaze At midnight, when the solemn hush Of that vast wonderland, the Bush, Hath laid on every heart its spell.

Although we have no songs of strife, Of bloodshed reddening the land, We yet may find achievements grand Within the bushman's quiet life.

Lift ye your faces to the sky Ye far blue mountains of the West, Who lie so peacefully at rest Enshrouded in a haze of blue; 'Tis hard to feel that years went by Before the pioneers broke through Your rocky heights and walls of stone, And made your secrets all their own.

For years the fertile Western plains Were hid behind your sullen walls, Your cliffs and crags and waterfalls All weatherworn with tropic rains.

Between the mountains and the sea, Like Israelites with staff in hand, The people waited restlessly: They looked towards the mountains old And saw the sunsets come and go With gorgeous golden afterglow, That made the West a fairyland, And marvelled what that West might be Of which such wondrous tales were told.

For tales were told of inland seas Like sullen oceans, salt and dead, And sandy deserts, white and wan, Where never trod the foot of man, Nor bird went winging overhead, Nor ever stirred a gracious breeze To wake the silence with its breath -- A land of loneliness and death.

At length the hardy pioneers By rock and crag found out the way, And woke with voices of to-day, A silence kept for years and years.

Upon the Western slope they stood And saw -- a wide expanse of plain As far as eye could stretch or see Go rolling westward endlessly. The native grasses, tall as grain, Were waved and rippled in the breeze; From boughs of blossom-laden trees The parrots answered back again. They saw the land that it was good, A land of fatness all untrod, And gave their silent thanks to God.

The way is won! The way is won! And straightway from the barren coast There came a westward-marching host, That aye and ever onward prest With eager faces to the West, Along the pathway of the sun.