Now this was what Macpherson told
   While waiting in the stand;
  A reckless rider, over-bold,
  The only man with hands to hold
   The rushing Rio Grande.

  He said, 'This day I bid good-bye
   To bit and bridle rein,
  To ditches deep and fences high,
  For I have dreamed a dream, and I
   Shall never ride again.

  'I dreamt last night I rode this race
   That I to-day must ride,
  And cant'ring down to take my place
  I saw full many an old friend's face
   Come stealing to my side.

  'Dead men on horses long since dead,
   They clustered on the track;
  The champions of the days long fled,
  They moved around with noiseless tread —
   Bay, chestnut, brown, and black.

  'And one man on a big grey steed
   Rode up and waved his hand;
  Said he, "We help a friend in need,
  And we have come to give a lead
   To you and Rio Grande.

  '"For you must give the field the slip,
   So never draw the rein,
  But keep him moving with the whip,
  And if he falter — set your lip
   And rouse him up again.

  '"But when you reach the big stone wall,
   Put down your bridle hand
  And let him sail — he cannot fall —
  But don't you interfere at all;
   You trust old Rio Grande."

  'We started, and in front we showed,
   The big horse running free:
  Right fearlessly and game he strode,
  And by my side those dead men rode
   Whom no one else could see.

  'As silently as flies a bird,
   They rode on either hand;
  At every fence I plainly heard
  The phantom leader give the word,
   "Make room for Rio Grande!"

  'I spurred him on to get the lead,
   I chanced full many a fall;
  But swifter still each phantom steed
  Kept with me, and at racing speed
   We reached the big stone wall.

  'And there the phantoms on each side
   Drew in and blocked his leap;
  "Make room! make room!" I loudly cried,
  But right in front they seemed to ride —
   I cursed them in my sleep.

  'He never flinched, he faced it game,
   He struck it with his chest,
  And every stone burst out in flame,
  And Rio Grande and I became
   As phantoms with the rest.

  'And then I woke, and for a space
   All nerveless did I seem;
  For I have ridden many a race,
  But never one at such a pace
   As in that fearful dream.

  'And I am sure as man can be
   That out upon the track,
  Those phantoms that men cannot see
  Are waiting now to ride with me,
   And I shall not come back.

  'For I must ride the dead men's race,
   And follow their command;
  'Twere worse than death, the foul disgrace
  If I should fear to take my place
   To-day on Rio Grande.'

  He mounted, and a jest he threw,
   With never sign of gloom;
  But all who heard the story knew
  That Jack Macpherson, brave and true,
   Was going to his doom.

  They started, and the big black steed
   Came flashing past the stand;
  All single-handed in the lead
  He strode along at racing speed,
   The mighty Rio Grande.

  But on his ribs the whalebone stung,
   A madness it did seem!
  And soon it rose on every tongue
  That Jack Macpherson rode among
   The creatures of his dream.

  He looked to left and looked to right,
   As though men rode beside;
  And Rio Grande, with foam-flecks white,
  Raced at his jumps in headlong flight
   And cleared them in his stride.

  But when they reached the big stone wall,
   Down went the bridle-hand,
  And loud we heard Macpherson call,
  'Make room, or half the field will fall!
   Make room for Rio Grande!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  'He's down! he's down!'  And horse and man
   Lay quiet side by side!
  No need the pallid face to scan,
  We knew with Rio Grande he ran
   The race the dead men ride.

  Far to the Northward there lies a land,
   A wonderful land that the winds blow over,
  And none may fathom nor understand
   The charm it holds for the restless rover;
  A great grey chaos — a land half made,
   Where endless space is and no life stirreth;
  And the soul of a man will recoil afraid
   From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth.
  But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves
   Her dole of death and her share of slaughter;
  Many indeed are the nameless graves
   Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water.

  Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide,
   Drifting along with a languid motion,
  Lapping the reed-beds on either side,
   Wending their way to the Northern Ocean.
  Grey are the plains where the emus pass
   Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour;
  Over the dead men's graves the grass
   Maybe is waving a trifle greener.
  Down in the world where men toil and spin
   Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her;
  Only the dead men her smiles can win
   In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water.

  For the strength of man is an insect's strength
   In the face of that mighty plain and river,
  And the life of a man is a moment's length
   To the life of the stream that will run for ever.
  And so it cometh they take no part
   In small-world worries; each hardy rover
  Rideth abroad and is light of heart,
   With the plains around and the blue sky over.
  And up in the heavens the brown lark sings
   The songs that the strange wild land has taught her;
  Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings —
   And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water.

  The drought is down on field and flock,
   The river-bed is dry;
  And we must shift the starving stock
   Before the cattle die.
  We muster up with weary hearts
   At breaking of the day,
  And turn our heads to foreign parts,
   To take the stock away.
      And it's hunt 'em up and dog 'em,
      And it's get the whip and flog 'em,
  For it's weary work is droving when they're dying every day;
      By stock-routes bare and eaten,
      On dusty roads and beaten,
  With half a chance to save their lives we take the stock away.

  We cannot use the whip for shame
   On beasts that crawl along;
  We have to drop the weak and lame,
   And try to save the strong;
  The wrath of God is on the track,
   The drought fiend holds his sway,
  With blows and cries and stockwhip crack
   We take the stock away.
      As they fall we leave them lying,
      With the crows to watch them dying,
  Grim sextons of the Overland that fasten on their prey;
      By the fiery dust-storm drifting,
      And the mocking mirage shifting,
  In heat and drought and hopeless pain we take the stock away.

  In dull despair the days go by
   With never hope of change,
  But every stage we draw more nigh
   Towards the mountain range;
  And some may live to climb the pass,
   And reach the great plateau,
  And revel in the mountain grass,
   By streamlets fed with snow.
      As the mountain wind is blowing
      It starts the cattle lowing,
  And calling to each other down the dusty long array;
      And there speaks a grizzled drover:
      'Well, thank God, the worst is over,
  The creatures smell the mountain grass that's twenty miles away.'

  They press towards the mountain grass,
   They look with eager eyes
  Along the rugged stony pass,
   That slopes towards the skies;
  Their feet may bleed from rocks and stones,
   But though the blood-drop starts,
  They struggle on with stifled groans,
   For hope is in their hearts.
      And the cattle that are leading,
      Though their feet are worn and bleeding,
  Are breaking to a kind of run — pull up, and let them go!
      For the mountain wind is blowing,
      And the mountain grass is growing,
  They settle down by running streams ice-cold with melted snow.

       .    .    .    .    .

  The days are done of heat and drought
   Upon the stricken plain;
  The wind has shifted right about,
   And brought the welcome rain;
  The river runs with sullen roar,
   All flecked with yellow foam,
  And we must take the road once more,
   To bring the cattle home.
      And it's 'Lads! we'll raise a chorus,
      There's a pleasant trip before us.'
  And the horses bound beneath us as we start them down the track;
      And the drovers canter, singing,
      Through the sweet green grasses springing,
  Towards the far-off mountain-land, to bring the cattle back.

  Are these the beasts we brought away
   That move so lively now?
  They scatter off like flying spray
   Across the mountain's brow;
  And dashing down the rugged range
   We hear the stockwhip crack,
  Good faith, it is a welcome change
   To bring such cattle back.
      And it's 'Steady down the lead there!'
      And it's 'Let 'em stop and feed there!'
  For they're wild as mountain eagles and their sides are all afoam;
      But they're settling down already,
      And they'll travel nice and steady,
  With cheery call and jest and song we fetch the cattle home.

  We have to watch them close at night
   For fear they'll make a rush,
  And break away in headlong flight
   Across the open bush;
  And by the camp-fire's cheery blaze,
   With mellow voice and strong,
  We hear the lonely watchman raise
   The Overlander's song:
      'Oh! it's when we're done with roving,
      With the camping and the droving,
  It's homeward down the Bland we'll go, and never more we'll roam;'
      While the stars shine out above us,
      Like the eyes of those who love us —
  The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home.

  The plains are all awave with grass,
   The skies are deepest blue;
  And leisurely the cattle pass
   And feed the long day through;
  But when we sight the station gate,
   We make the stockwhips crack,
  A welcome sound to those who wait
   To greet the cattle back:
      And through the twilight falling
      We hear their voices calling,
  As the cattle splash across the ford and churn it into foam;
      And the children run to meet us,
      And our wives and sweethearts greet us,
  Their heroes from the Overland who brought the cattle home.

The First Surveyor

  'The opening of the railway line! — the Governor and all!
  With flags and banners down the street, a banquet and a ball.
  Hark to 'em at the station now!  They're raising cheer on cheer!
  "The man who brought the railway through — our friend the engineer!"

  'They cheer HIS pluck and enterprise and engineering skill!
  'Twas my old husband found the pass behind that big Red Hill.
  Before the engineer was grown we settled with our stock
  Behind that great big mountain chain, a line of range and rock —
  A line that kept us starving there in weary weeks of drought,
  With ne'er a track across the range to let the cattle out.

  ''Twas then, with horses starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl,
  My husband went to find a way across that rocky wall.
  He vanished in the wilderness, God knows where he was gone,
  He hunted till his food gave out, but still he battled on.
  His horses strayed — 'twas well they did — they made towards the grass,
  And down behind that big red hill they found an easy pass.

  'He followed up and blazed the trees, to show the safest track,
  Then drew his belt another hole and turned and started back.
  His horses died — just one pulled through with nothing much to spare;
  God bless the beast that brought him home, the old white Arab mare!
  We drove the cattle through the hills, along the new-found way,
  And this was our first camping-ground — just where I live to-day.

  'Then others came across the range and built the township here,
  And then there came the railway line and this young engineer.
  He drove about with tents and traps, a cook to cook his meals,
  A bath to wash himself at night, a chain-man at his heels.
  And that was all the pluck and skill for which he's cheered and praised,
  For after all he took the track, the same my husband blazed!

  'My poor old husband, dead and gone with never feast nor cheer;
  He's buried by the railway line! — I wonder can he hear
  When down the very track he marked, and close to where he's laid,
  The cattle trains go roaring down the one-in-thirty grade.
  I wonder does he hear them pass and can he see the sight,
  When through the dark the fast express goes flaming by at night.

  'I think 'twould comfort him to know there's someone left to care,
  I'll take some things this very night and hold a banquet there!
  The hard old fare we've often shared together, him and me,
  Some damper and a bite of beef, a pannikin of tea:
  We'll do without the bands and flags, the speeches and the fuss,
  We know who OUGHT to get the cheers and that's enough for us.

  'What's that?  They wish that I'd come down — the oldest settler here!
  Present me to the Governor and that young engineer!
  Well, just you tell his Excellence and put the thing polite,
  I'm sorry, but I can't come down — I'm dining out to-night!'

  'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
  He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
  He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
  He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
  And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
  The grinning shop assistant said, 'Excuse me, can you ride?'

  'See, here, young man,' said Mulga Bill, 'from Walgett to the sea,
  From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
  I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
  Although I'm not the one to talk — I HATE a man that blows.
  But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
  Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.
  There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
  There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
  But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
  I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.'

  'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
  That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
  He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
  But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
  It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
  It whistled down the awful slope, towards the Dead Man's Creek.

  It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
  The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
  The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
  As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
  It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
  It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
  And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
  It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

  'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
  He said, 'I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
  I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five pound bet,
  But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
  I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
  To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
  It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
  A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.'

  Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee,
  Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea,
  Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously.

  Over the pearl-grounds, the lugger drifted — a little white speck:
  Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', holding the life-line on deck,
  Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check.

  Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one,
  Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none;
  Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun.

  Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye:
  This was his formula always, 'All man go dead by-and-bye —
  S'posing time come no can help it — s'pose time no come, then no die.'

  Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five;
  Down where by law and by reason, men are forbidden to dive;
  Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive:

  Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go,
  Forcing the air down that reached him heated, and tainted, and slow —
  Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below;

  Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain;
  Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain:
  Sailed once again to the Darnleys — laughed and descended again!

       .    .    .    .    .

  Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch;
  Always the take was so little, always the labour so much;
  Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch,

  Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay,
  Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day:
  But the lumbering Dutch, with their gunboats, hunted the divers away.

  Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', finding the profits grow small,
  Said, 'Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul!
  If we get caught, go to prison — let them take lugger and all!'

  Kanzo Makame, the diver — knowing full well what it meant —
  Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content,
  Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went.

  Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton,
  Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun,
  When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun.

  Once that the diver was sighted pearl-shell and lugger must go.
  Joe Nagasaki decided — quick was the word and the blow —
  Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below!

  Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand,
  Pulled the 'haul up' on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand;
  Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand.

  Joe Nagasaki, the 'tender', smiling a sanctified smile,
  Headed her straight for the gunboat — throwing out shells all the while —
  Then went aboard and reported, 'No makee dive in three mile!

  'Dress no have got and no helmet — diver go shore on the spree;
  Plenty wind come and break rudder — lugger get blown out to sea:
  Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!'

       .    .    .    .    .

  So the Dutch let him go, and they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran,
  Doubting him much, but what would you?  You have to be sure of your man
  Ere you wake up that nest-full of hornets — the little brown men of Japan.

  Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread,
  Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead:
  Joe Nagasaki, his 'tender', is owner and diver instead.

  Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can,
  These are the risks of the pearling — these are the ways of Japan,
  'Plenty more Japanee diver, plenty more little brown man!'

  The stranger came from Narromine and made his little joke —
  'They say we folks in Narromine are narrow-minded folk.
  But all the smartest men down here are puzzled to define
  A kind of new phenomenon that came to Narromine.

  'Last summer up in Narromine 'twas gettin' rather warm —
  Two hundred in the water-bag, and lookin' like a storm —
  We all were in the private bar, the coolest place in town,
  When out across the stretch of plain a cloud came rollin' down,

  'We don't respect the clouds up there, they fill us with disgust,
  They mostly bring a Bogan shower — three rain-drops and some dust;
  But each man, simultaneous-like, to each man said, "I think
  That cloud suggests it's up to us to have another drink!"

  'There's clouds of rain and clouds of dust — we'd heard of them before,
  And sometimes in the daily press we read of "clouds of war":
  But — if this ain't the Gospel truth I hope that I may burst —
  That cloud that came to Narromine was just a cloud of thirst.

  'It wasn't like a common cloud, 'twas more a sort of haze;
  It settled down about the streets, and stopped for days and days,
  And not a drop of dew could fall and not a sunbeam shine
  To pierce that dismal sort of mist that hung on Narromine.

  '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.

  '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!'

  '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!'