Saltbush Bill, J. P.

The Mountain Squatter

  Here in my mountain home,
   On rugged hills and steep,
  I sit and watch you come,
   O Riverina Sheep!

  You come from fertile plains
   Where saltbush (sometimes) grows,
  And flats that (when it rains)
   Will blossom like the rose.

  But, when the summer sun
   Gleams down like burnished brass,
  You have to leave your run
   And hustle off for grass.

  'Tis then that—forced to roam—
   You come to where I keep,
  Here in my mountain home,
   A boarding-house for sheep.

  Around me where I sit
   The wary wombat goes—
  A beast of little wit,
   But what he knows, he knows.

  The very same remark
   Applies to me also;
  I don't give out a spark,
   But what I know, I know.

  My brain perhaps would show
   No convolutions deep,
  But anyhow I know
   The way to handle sheep.

  These Riverina cracks,
   They do not care to ride
  The half-inch hanging tracks
   Along the mountain side.

  Their horses shake with fear
   When loosened boulders go,
  With leaps, like startled deer,
   Down to the gulfs below.

  Their very dogs will shirk,
   And drop their tails in fright
  When asked to go and work
   A mob that's out of sight.

  My little collie pup
   Works silently and wide;
  You'll see her climbing up
   Along the mountain side.

  As silent as a fox
   You'll see her come and go,
  A shadow through the rocks
   Where ash and messmate grow.

  Then, lost to sight and sound
   Behind some rugged steep,
  She works her way around
   And gathers up the sheep;

  And, working wide and shy,
   She holds them rounded up.
  The cash ain't coined to buy
   That little collie pup.

  And so I draw a screw
   For self and dog and keep
  To boundary-ride for you,
   O Riverina Sheep!

  And when the autumn rain
   Has made the herbage grow,
  You travel off again,
   And glad—no doubt—to go.

  But some are left behind
   Around the mountain's spread,
  For those we cannot find
   We put them down as dead.

  But when we say adieu
   And close the boarding job,
  I always find a few
   Fresh ear-marks in my mob.

  So what with those I sell,
   And what with those I keep,
  You pay me pretty well,
   O Riverina Sheep!

  It's up to me to shout
   Before we say good-bye—
  “Here's to a howlin' drought
   All west of Gundagai!”