Rio Grandes Last Race, Etc. | Page 8

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.
Saltbush Bill's Gamecock
'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