The railway rattled and roared and swung With jolting and bumping trucks. The sun, like a billiard red ball, hung In the Western sky: and the tireless tongue Of the wild-eyed man in the
We have sung the song of the droving days, Of the march of the travelling sheep; By silent stages and lonely ways Thin, white battalions creep. But the man who now by the land
Our fathers, brave men were and strong, And whisky was their daily liquor; They used to move the world along In better style than now and quicker. Elections then were sport, you bet! A
‘Twas in scientific circles That the great Professor Brown Had a world-wide reputation As a writer of renown. He had striven finer feelings In our natures to implant By his Treatise on the Morals
Beside the bare and beaten track of travelling flocks and herds The woodpecker went tapping on, the postman of the birds, “I’ve got a letter here,” he said, “that no one’s understood, Addressed as
Australia takes her pen in hand To write a line to you, To let you fellows understand How proud we are of you. From shearing shed and cattle run, From Broome to Hobson’s Bay,
Morgan the drover explained, As he drank from his battered quart-pot, Many a slut I have trained; This is the best of the lot. Crossing these stringybark hills, Hungry and rocky and steep This
The Honourable M. T. Nutt About the bush did jog. Till, passing by a settler’s hut, He stopped and bought a dog. Then started homewards full of hope, Alas, that hopes should fail! The
ALL of us play our very best game – Any other time. Golf or billiards, it’s all the same – Any other time. Lose a match and you always say, “Just my luck! I
“HALT! Who goes there?” The sentry’s call Rose on the midnight air Above the noises of the camp, The roll of wheels, the horses’ tramp. The challenge echoed over all – “Halt! Who goes
‘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
Let us cease our idle chatter, Let the tears bedew our cheek, For a man from Tallangatta Has been missing for a week. Where the roaring flooded Murray Covered all the lower land, There
Oh, there’s some that breeds the Devon that’s as solid as a stone, And there’s some that breeds the brindle which they call the “Goulburn Roan”; But amongst the breeds of cattle there are
The fields of youth are filled with flowers, The wine of youth is strong: What need have we to count the hours? The summer days are long. But soon we find to our dismay
I dreamt a dream at the midnight deep, When fancies come and go To vex a man in his soothing sleep With thoughts of awful woe I dreamed that I was the corner man
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