Southerly Busters. Gibson George Herbert

      No need to tread the weary track,

      Or work his strength away;

      He lay extended on his back

      Each happy summer day.

      When sun-set comes and day-light flags,

      And dusky looms the scrub,

      He'd bundle up his ration-bags

      And toddle for his grub,

      And to some station-store he'd go

      And get the traveller's dower —

      "A pint o' dust" – that was his low

      Expression meaning flour;

      But now he couldn't cadge about,

      For squatters wasn't game

      To give their tea and sugar out

      To every tramp that came.

      The country's strength, he thought, was gone,

      Or going very fast,

      And feeding tramps now ranked among

      The glories of the past.

      He'd seen the "Yanko" in its pride,

      When every night a host

      Of hungry tramps at supper tried

      For who could eat the most.

      A squatter then had feelin's strong

      And tender in his breast,

      And if a trav'ller came along

      He'd ask him in to rest.

      "But squatters now!" – he stamped the soil,

      And muttered in his beard,

      He wished they'd got a whopping boil

      For every sheep they sheared!

      His language got so very bad —

      It couldn't well be worse,

      For every second word he had

      Now seemed to be a curse.

      And shaking was his withered hand

      With passion, not with age —

      I never thought so old a man

      Could get in such a rage.

      His eyes seemed starting from his head,

      They glared in such a way;

      And half the wicked words he said

      I shouldn't like to say;

      But from his language I inferred

      There wasn't one in three,

      Of squatters worth that little word

      Commencing with a "D."

      Alas! for my poetic lore,

      I fear it was astray,

      It never said that shepherds swore,

      Or talked in such a way.

      The knotted cordage of his brow

      Was tightened in a frown —

      He seemed the sort of party, now,

      To burn a wool-shed down.

      He told me, further, and his voice

      Grew very plaintive here,

      That now he'd got to make the choice

      And work, or give up beer!

      From heavy toil he'd always found

      'Twas healthiest to keep,

      And mostly stuck to cadgin' round,

      And lookin' after sheep.

      But shepherdin' was nearly "cooked" —

      I think he meant to say

      That shepherds' prospects didn't look

      In quite a hopeful way.

      A new career he must begin,

      (And fresh it roused his ire)

      For squatters they was fencin' in

      With that infernal wire;

      And sheep was paddocked everywhere —

      'Twas like them squatters' cheek! —

      And shepherds now, for all they'd care,

      Might go to Cooper's Creek.

      He said he couldn't use an axe,

      And wouldn't if he could;

      He'd see 'em blistered on their backs

      'Fore he'd go choppin' wood;

      That nappin' stones, or shovellin',

      Warn't good enough for he,

      And work it was a cussed thing

      As didn't ought to be.

      He'd known the Lachlan, man and boy,

      For close on forty year,

      But now they'd pisoned every joy,

      He thought it time to clear.

      They gave him sorrow's bitter cup,

      And filled his heart with woe,

      And now at last his back was up,

      He felt he ought to go.

      He'd heard of regions far away

      Across the barren plains,

      Where shepherds might be blythe and gay

      And bust the squatters' chains.

      To reach that land he meant to try,

      He didn't care a cuss,

      If 'twasn't any better, why,

      It couldn't be much wuss.

      Amongst the blacks, though old and grey,

      Existence he'd begin,

      And give his ancient hand away

      In marriage to a "gin."

      He really was so old and grim,

      The thought was in my mind,

      That any gin to marry him

      Would have to be stone blind.

      'Twould make an undertaker smile:

      What tickled me was this,

      The thought of such an ancient file

      Indulging in a kiss!

      And, if it's true, as Shakespeare said,

      That equal justice whirls,

      He ought to think of Nick instead

      Of thinking of the girls.

      Then drooped his grim and aged head,

      And closed that glaring eye,

      And not another word he said

      .Except a grunt or sigh.

      More lean he looks and still more lank

      Such changes o'er him pass,

      And down his ancient body sank

      In slumber on the grass.

      I thought, old chap, you're wearing out,

      And not the sort of coon

      To lead a blushing bride about,

      Or spend a honeymoon;

      Or