The Man from Snowy River Part 4

'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 gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 gra.s.s is bad, but they camp where the gra.s.s is good; They camp, and they ravage the squatter's gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s and the right to pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s is dead, But they spread their sheep on a well-gra.s.sed 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 gra.s.s was dead in the s.p.a.ce of the half-mile track; So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue But he'd get some gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 gra.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 suns.h.i.+ne glowing Had melted all Kiandra's snow And set the river going.

And in the news, perhaps you read: 'Stock pa.s.sings. 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.'