It's Grand
It’s grand to be a squatter And sit upon a post, And watch your little ewes and lambs A-giving up the ghost. It’s grand to be a “cockie” With wife and kids to keep,
Song of the Artesian Water
Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought; But we’re sick of prayers and Providence we’re going to do without; With the derricks up above us and the solid
The Road to Hogan's Gap
Now look, you see, it’s this way like, You cross the broken bridge And run the crick down till you strike The second right-hand ridge. The track is hard to see in parts, But
Sunrise on the Coast
Grey dawn on the sand-hills the night wind has drifted All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, At the call of
A Change of Menu
Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three, It’s a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big. “I am fed to the teeth with old ewe,” said he, “And I might be able to shoot
Pioneers
They came of bold and roving stock that would not fixed abide; There were the sons of field and flock since e’er they learned to ride; We may not hope to see such men
Riders in the Stand
There’s some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride; While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride. There’s some that ride as sailors do, with legs, and
The Silent Shearer
Weary and listless, sad and slow, Without any conversation, Was a man that worked on The Overflow, The butt of the shed and the station. The shearers christened him Noisy Ned, With an alias
At the Melting of the Snow
There’s a sunny Southern land, And it’s there that I would be Where the big hills stand, In the South Countrie! When the wattles bloom again, Then it’s time for us to go To
Lost
“He ought to be home,” said the old man, “without there’s something amiss. He only went to the Two-mile he ought to be back by this. He would ride the Reckless filly, he would
The Matrimonial Stakes
I wooed her with a steeplechase, I won her with a fall, I made her heartstrings quiver on the flat When the pony missed his take-off, and we crached into the wall; Well, she
On Kiley's Run
The roving breezes come and go On Kiley’s Run, The sleepy river murmurs low, And far away one dimly sees Beyond the stretch of forest trees Beyond the foothills dusk and dun The ranges
The Lost Leichardt
Another search for Leichhardt’s tomb, Though fifty years have fled Since Leichhardt vanished in the gloom, Our one Illustrious Dead! But daring men from Britain’s shore, The fearless bulldog breed, Renew the fearful task
Tommy Corrigan
You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase. It’s right enough, while horses pull and take their faces
The Army Mules
Oh the airman’s game is a showman’s game, for we all of us watch him go With his roaring soaring aeroplane and his bombs for the blokes below, Over the railways and over the