Chapter 3
“Do you know how to snob?”—A snob in English slang is a bootmaker, so the squatter wanted his man to do a bit of boot-repairing.
“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that made up the weekly ration on the stations.
THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO
I’m a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain, Which often times has caused me to lie in frost and rain. Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do, I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus
Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo, Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo, I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.
Ten bob an acre was his price—with promise of fairish board. He said his crops were very light, ’twas all he could afford. He drove me out in a bullock dray, and his piggery met my view. Oh, the pigs and geese were in the wheat of the stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
The hut was made of the surface mud, the roof of a reedy thatch. The doors and windows open flew without a bolt or latch. The pigs and geese were in the hut, the hen on the table flew, And she laid an egg in the old tin plate for the stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s paste. To help it down we had to eat brown bread with vinegar taste. The tea was made of the native hops, which out on the ranges grew; ’Twas sweetened with honey bees and wax for the stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty hard; They wouldn’t give us butter, so we forced down bread and lard. Quondong duff, paddy-melon pie, and wallaby Irish stew We used to eat while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
When we started to cut the rust and smut was just beginning to shed, And all we had to sleep on was a dog and sheep-skin bed. The bugs and fleas tormented me, they made me scratch and screw; I lost my rest while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child, And when I’d say a joking word, the mother would laugh and smile. The old cocky, he grew jealous, and he thumped me black and blue, And he drove me off without a rap—the stringy-bark cockatoo.
Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
[For note on this song, see Introduction.]
THE EUMERELLA SHORE
There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore, Where I’ve lingered many happy hours away, On my little free selection I have acres by the score, Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.
Chorus
To my bullocks then I say No matter where you stray, You will never be impounded any more; For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s piece of land, Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are shining bright, Then we saddle up our horses and away, And we yard the squatters’ cattle in the darkness of the night, And we have the calves all branded by the day.
Chorus
Oh, my pretty little calf, At the squatter you may laugh, For he’ll never be your owner any more; For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s piece of land, Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down, Although before they’re never known to stray, Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town, And sell them into slav’ry far away.
Chorus
To Jack Robertson we’ll say You’ve been leading us astray, And we’ll never go a-farming any more; For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO
(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)
If you want a situation, I’ll just tell you the plan To get on to a station, I am just your very man. Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo, With a name aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make a fuss, And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s we, and ours, and us. Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, too And your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to ride But run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide, His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two, Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo. Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
When the boss wants information, on the men you’ll do a sneak, And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week. Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you. Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be, But if the banks once get you, they’ll put you up a tree. To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do, ’Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo. Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
A “Jackaroo” is a young man who comes to a station to get experience. He occupies a position much like that of an apprentice on a ship, and has to work with the men though supposed to be above them in social status. Hence these sneers at the Jackaroo.
THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE
I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be glad to bear, Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year. So kindly pay attention, and I’ll pass the whisper round, The squatters of their own free will this year will pay the pound.
For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows, We’ll take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to the toes, But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrown in free. That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s Jubilee.
And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshing rains. The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains, The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green, It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er the plains of Riverine.
Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps her wing. Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and crickets sing. Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, may be seen, For prosperity is hovering o’er the plains of Riverine.
Yes, ’twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-block pioneers, Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot the bunny’s ears; And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been, Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains of Riverine.
You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their faces beam, As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, and their team. They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen. They’ll show the “cookies” how to plough the plains of Riverine.
Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee, And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea. Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seen Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.
They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum, But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates come. From New Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s meadows green, We’ll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.
Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions bold; Victoria will send her “cockies,” too, her honour to uphold. They’ll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs between, For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of Riverine.
I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell, Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to tell; Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that’s what they want to see, That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
“This year will pay the pound.”—A pound a hundred is the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out strikes have taken place about it.
“We’ll take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the toes.”—Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and wool down on the legs.
“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.
THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT
(Air: “The Bonnie Irish Boy.”)
Come now, ye sighing washers all, Join in my doleful lay, Mourn for the times none can recall, With hearts to grief a prey. We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall In our regretful strain, Lamenting on the days gone by Ne’er to return again.
When first I went a-washing sheep The year was sixty-one, The master was a worker then, The servant was a man; But now the squatters, puffed with pride, They treat us with disdain; Lament the days that are gone by Ne’er to return again.
From sixty-one to sixty-six, The bushman, stout and strong, Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune, And sing his cheerful song, As wanton as the kangaroo That bounds across the plain. Lament the days that are gone by Ne’er to return again.
Supplies of food unstinted, good, No squatter did withhold. With plenty grog to cheer our hearts, We feared nor heat nor cold. With six-and-six per man per day We sought not to complain. Lament the days that are gone by Ne’er to return again.
With perfect health, a mine of wealth, Our days seemed short and sweet, On pleasure bent our evenings spent, Enjoyment was complete. But now we toil from morn till night, Though much against the grain, Lamenting on the days gone by, Ne’er to return again.
I once could boast two noble steeds, To bear me on my way, My good revolver in my belt, I never knew dismay. But lonely now I hump my drum In sunshine and in rain, Lamenting on the days gone by Ne’er to return again.
A worthy cheque I always earned, And spent it like a lord. My dress a prince’s form would grace. And spells I could afford. But now in tattered rags arrayed, My limbs they ache with pain, Lamenting on the days gone by, Ne’er to return again.
May bushmen all in unity Combine with heart and hand, May cursed cringing poverty Be banished from the land. In Queensland may prosperity In regal glory reign, And washers in the time to come Their vanished rights regain.
THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER
(Air: “It’s a fine hunting day.”)
Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can; All our mates in the paddock are dead. Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva’s sweet dells And the hills where your lordship was bred; Together to roam from our drought-stricken home— It seems hard that such things have to be, And its hard on a “hogs” when he’s nought for a boss But a broken-down squatter like me!
Chorus
For the banks are all broken, they say, And the merchants are all up a tree. When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court, What chance for a squatter like me.
No more shall we muster the river for fats, Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain, Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon, Or see the old stockyard again.
Leave the slip-panels down, it won’t matter much now, There are none but the crows left to see, Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine On a broken-down squatter like me.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.
When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst, And the cattle were dying in scores, Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck, Thinking justice might temper the laws. But the farce has been played, and the Government aid Ain’t extended to squatters, old son; When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent, And resumed the best half of the run.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.
’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season No squatter could stand such a rub; For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot That one can’t save the price of one’s grub; And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews Once a fellow gets put up a tree; No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me.
Chorus: For the banks, &c.
THE FREE SELECTOR
(A Song of 1861.)
Ye sons of industry, to you I belong, And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song, Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come Now the Land Bill, &c.
No more with our swags through the bush need we roam For to ask of another there to give us a home, Now the land is unfettered and we may reside In a home of our own by some clear waterside. In a home of our own, &c.
On some fertile spot which we may call our own, Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home. There industry will flourish and content will smile, While our children rejoicing will share in our toil. While our children, &c.
We will plant our garden and sow our own field, And eat from the fruits which industry will yield, And be independent, what we long for have strived, Though those that have ruled us the right long denied. Though those that have ruled us, &c.
A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX
Dark over the face of Nature sublime! Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime; The world a desert—no oasis green A man-loving soul on its surface had seen; Then mercy above a mandate sent forth An Eden to form—a refuge for worth. From the ocean it came, with halo so bright, Want, strife, and oppression were lost in its sight.
Chorus
First isle of the sea—brightest gem of the earth In thee every virtue and joy shall have birth. A land of the just, the brave, and the free, Australia the happy, thou ever shalt be.
So earth in the flood no place for rest gave, At length a green isle arose from the wave; The dove o’er the waters the olive branch bore, To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
Australia thus shall be sounded by fame, And Europe shall echo the glorious name; The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d, Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.
Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.
Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine; ’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine; No sick’ning vapours are borne on thy air, But fragrance and melody twine sweetly there; Thy ever-green fields proclaim plenty and peace, If man doth his part, heaven sends the increase; No customs to fetter, no enemy near, Independence thy sons for ever must cheer.
Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.
SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES
We often hear men boast about the land which gave them birth, And each one thinks his native land the fairest spot on earth; In beauty, riches, power, no land can his surpass; To his, all other lands on earth cannot even hold a glass. Now, if other people have their boasts, then, say, why should not we, For we can drink our jovial toast and sing with three times three; For there’s not a country in the world where all that’s fair prevails As here it does in this our land, our sunny New South Wales.
Chorus
Then toast with me our happy land, Where all that’s fair prevails, Our colour’s blue and our hearts are true, In sunny New South Wales.
Now let us take a passing glance at all that we possess. That ours is such a wealthy land no stranger e’er would guess. Why, we’ve land in store, indeed far more than ever we shall require, And trees grow thick on every side in spite of axe and fire. Our sheep and cattle millions count, our wool is classed A1; In beef and mutton our fair land is not to be outdone. Why, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock ne’er fails, Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South Wales.
Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.
In childhood California was to us a land of gold, And people said its riches were so vast, immense, untold. But time has proved that mineral wealth exists not there alone, For New South Wales possesses gold in many, many a stone. And when the gold is taken from out its quartzy veins A heap of silver, copper, tin, as a residue remains. In fact we are a mass of wealth in all our hills and dales. There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South Wales.
Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.
Our climate’s good, that all admit, our flowers are sweet and rare; And scenes abound on every hand so marvellously fair. Shame on the men who went away and of us wrote such lies. Why, when Anthony Trollope came out here he nearly lost his eyes. Our native girls are fair and good, their hearts are pure and true; And to their colour stick like bricks, the bright Australian blue. Some never loved a roving life, nor blest the ocean’s gales; But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New South Wales.
Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.
BRINGING HOME THE COWS
Shadows of the twilight falling On the mountain’s brow, To each other birds are calling, In the leafy bough. Where the daisies are a-springing, And the cattle bells are ringing, Comes my Mary, gaily singing, Bringing home the cows.
By a bush the pathway skirted, Room for two allows. All the cornfields are deserted, Idle are the ploughs. Striving for wealth’s spoil and booty, Farmer boys have finished duty, When I meet my little beauty, Bringing home the cows.
Tender words and kind addresses, Most polite of bows, Rosy cheeks and wavy tresses Do my passions rouse
Dress so natty and so cleanly, Air so modest and so queenly. Oh! so haughty, yet serenely, Bringing home the cows.
Arm-in-arm together walking, While the cattle browse, Earnestly together talking, Plighting lovers’ vows. Where the daisies are a-springing, Wedding bells will soon be ringing, Then we’ll watch our servant bringing Mine and Mary’s cows.
THE DYING STOCKMAN
(Air: “The Old Stable Jacket.”)
A strapping young stockman lay dying, His saddle supporting his head; His two mates around him were crying, As he rose on his pillow and said:
Chorus
“Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket, And bury me deep down below, Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me, In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing, Far o’er the plains would I fly, Straight to the land of my childhood, And there would I lay down and die.
Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
“Then cut down a couple of saplings, Place one at my head and my toe, Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle, To show there’s a stockman below.
Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo, Watchful and weird—I must go, For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman From the gloom of the scrub down below.
Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
“There’s tea in the battered old billy; Place the pannikins out in a row, And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting, In the place where all good fellows go.
Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
“And oft in the shades of the twilight, When the soft winds are whispering low, And the dark’ning shadows are falling, Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
MY MATE BILL
That’s his saddle on the tie-beam, And them’s his spurs up there On the wall-plate over yonder— You ken see they ain’t a pair.
For the daddy of all the stockmen As ever come mustering here Was killed in the flaming mulga, A-yarding a bald-faced steer.
They say as he’s gone to heaven, And shook off all worldly cares But I can’t sight Bill in a halo Set up on three blinded hairs.
In heaven! what next I wonder, For strike me pink and blue, If I see whatever in thunder They’ll find for Bill to do.
He’d never make one of them angels, With faces as white as chalk, All wool to the toes like hoggets, And wings like an eagle-hawk.
He couldn’t ’arp for apples, His voice had tones as jarred, And he’d no more ear than a bald-faced steer, Or calves in a branding yard.
He could sit on a bucking brumbie Like a nob in an easy chair, And chop his name with a greenhide fall On the flank of a flying steer.
He could show them saints in glory The way that a fall should drop, But sit on a throne—not William, Unless they could make it prop.
He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs, Or chum with the cherubim, But if ever them seraph johnnies Get a-poking it like at him—
Well! if there’s hide in heaven, And silk for to make a lash, He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake In a blinded lightning flash.
If the heavenly hosts get boxed now, As mobs most always will, Who’ll cut ’em out like William, Or draft on a camp like Bill?
An ’orseman would find it awkward At first with a push that flew, But blame my cats if I know what else They’ll find for Bill to do.
It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle, And perhaps they’ll let him sleep, And wake him up at the judgment To draft those goats and sheep.
It’s playing it low on William, But perhaps he’ll buckle to, To show them high-toned seraphs What a Mulga man can do.
If they saddles a big-boned angel, With a turn of speed, of course, As can spiel like a four-year brumbie, And prop like an old camp horse,
And puts Bill up with a snaffle, A four or five inch spur, And eighteen foot of greenhide To chop the blinded fur—
He’ll yard them blamed Angoras In a way that it’s safe to swear Will make them tony seraphs Sit back on their thrones and stare.
SAM HOLT
(Air: “Ben Bolt.”)
Oh! don’t you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt— Black Alice, so dusky and dark, The Warrego gin, with the straw through her nose, And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.
The terrible sheepwash tobacco she smoked In the gunyah down there by the lake, And the grubs that she roasted, and the lizards she stewed, And the damper you taught her to bake.
Oh! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen, And the Warrego sand-ridges white? And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants We caught in our blankets at night?
Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt, That scattered their fragrance around? And don’t you remember that broken-down colt You sold me, and swore he was sound?
And don’t you remember that fiver, Sam Holt, You borrowed so frank and so free, When the publican landed your fifty-pound cheque At Tambo your very last spree?
Luck changes some natures, but yours, Sammy Holt, Was a grand one as ever I see, And I fancy I’ll whistle a good many tunes Ere you think of that fiver or me.
Oh! don’t you remember the cattle you duffed, And your luck at the Sandy Creek rush, And the poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed, And your habits of holding a flush?
And don’t you remember the pasting you got By the boys down in Callaghan’s store, When Tim Hooligan found a fifth ace in his hand, And you holding his pile upon four?
You were not the cleanest potato, Sam Holt, You had not the cleanest of fins. But you made your pile on the Towers, Sam Holt, And that covers the most of your sins.
They say you’ve ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt, In England, a park and a drag; Perhaps you forget you were six months ago In Queensland a-humping your swag.
But who’d think to see you now dining in state With a lord and the devil knows who, You were flashing your dover, six short months ago, In a lambing camp on the Barcoo.
When’s my time coming? Perhaps never, I think, And it’s likely enough your old mate Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road To the end of the chapter of fate.
THE BUSHMAN
(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)
When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep; His ships may be cast away or taken in a war, So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.