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 the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

To the East or to the West, Or wherever you may be, You will find no place Like the South Countrie.

For the skies are blue above, And the gra.s.s is green below, In the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

Now the team is in the plough, And the thrushes start to sing, And the pigeons on the bough Sit a-welcoming the Spring.

So come my comrades all, Let us saddle up and go To the old Monaro country At the melting of the snow.

A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

(1886)

Bring me a quart of colonial beer And some doughy damper to make good cheer, I must make a heavy dinner; Heavily dine and heavily sup, Of indigestible things fill up, Next month they run the Melbourne Cup, And I have to dream the winner.

Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham, The rich ragout and the charming cham., I've got to mix my liquor; Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg, Hard and tough as a wooden peg, And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg, 'Twill make me dream the quicker.

Now I am full of fearful feed, Now I may dream a race indeed, In my restless, troubled slumber; While the night-mares race through my heated brain And their devil-riders spur amain, The tip for the Cup will reward my pain, And I'll spot the winning number.

Thousands and thousands and thousands more, Like sands on the white Pacific sh.o.r.e, The crowding people cl.u.s.ter; For evermore it's the story old, While races are bought and backers are sold, Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold, In their thousands still they muster.

And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot, "I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!"

"Five monkeys, Little John, sir!"

"Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!"

And so they shout through the livelong day, And stick to the game that is sure to pay, While fools put money on, sir!

And now in my dream I seem to go And bet with a "book" that I seem to know-- A Hebrew money-lender; A million to five is the price I get-- Not bad! but before I book the bet The horse's name I clean forget, Its number and even gender.

Now for the start, and here they come, And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum Beat by a hand unsteady; They come like a rushing, roaring flood, Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood; For Acme is making the pace so good There are some of 'em done already.

But round the back she begins to tire, And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!"

The magpie jacket's leading; And Crossfire challenges, fierce and bold, And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold, But at length gives way to the black and gold, Which away to the front is speeding.

Carry them on and keep it up-- A flying race is the Melbourne Cup, You must race and stay to win it; And old Commotion, Victoria's pride, Now takes the lead with his raking stride, And a mighty roar goes far and wide-- "There's only Commotion in it!"

But one draws out from the beaten ruck And up on the rails by a piece of luck He comes in a style that's clever; "It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!"

"Go at 'em now while their courage fails;"

"Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!"

"The blue and white for ever!"

Under the whip! with the ears flat back, Under the whip! though the sinews crack, No sign of the base white feather; Stick to it now for your breeding's sake, Stick to it now though your hearts should break, While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake, They come down the straight together.

Trident slowly forges ahead, The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red, The pace is undiminished; Now for the Panics that never fail!

But many a backer's face grows pale As old Commotion swings his tail And swerves--and the Cup is finished.

And now in my dream it all comes back: I bet my coin on the Sydney crack, A million I've won, no question!

"Give me my money, you hooked-nosed hog!

Give me my money, bookmaking dog!"

But he disappeared in a kind of fog, And I woke with "the indigestion".

The Gundaroo Bullock

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 very, very few Like the hairy-whiskered bullock that they bred at Gundaroo.

Far away by Grabben Gullen, where the Murrumbidgee flows, There's a block of broken countryside where no one ever goes; For the banks have gripped the squatters, and the free selectors too, And their stock are always stolen by the men of Gundaroo.

There came a low informer to the Grabben Gullen side, And he said to Smith the squatter, "You must saddle up and ride, For your bullock's in the harness-cask of Morgan Donahoo-- He's the greatest cattle-stealer that abides in Gundaroo."

"Oh, ho!" said Smith, the owner of the Grabben Gullen run, "I'll go and get the troopers by the sinking of the sun, And down into his homestead to-night we'll take a ride, With warrants to identify the carcase and the hide."

That night rode down the troopers, the squatter at their head, They rode into the homestead, and pulled Morgan out of bed.

"Now, show to us the carcase of the bullock that you slew-- The great marsupial bullock that you killed in Gundaroo."

They peered into the harness-cask, and found it wasn't full, But down among the brine they saw some flesh and bits of wool.

"What's this?" exclaimed the trooper--"an infant, I declare;"

Said Morgan, "'Tis the carcase of an old man native bear.

I heard that ye were coming, so an old man bear I slew, Just to give you kindly welcome to my home in Gundaroo.

"The times is something awful, as you can plainly see, The banks have broke the squatters, and they've broke the likes of me; We can't afford a bullock--such expense would never do-- So an old man bear for breakfast is a treat in Gundaroo."

And along by Grabben Gullen, where the rushing river flows, In the block of broken country where there's no one ever goes, On the Upper Murrumbidgee they're a hospitable crew, But you mustn't ask for "bullock" when you go to Gundaroo.

Lay of the Motor-Car

We're away! and the wind whistles shrewd In our whiskers and teeth; And the granite-like grey of the road Seems to slide underneath.

As an eagle might sweep through the sky, So we sweep through the land; And the pallid pedestrians fly When they hear us at hand.

We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip!

Not the fast-fleeing hare, Nor the racehorses under the whip, Nor the birds of the air Can compete with our swiftness sublime, Our ease and our grace.

We annihilate chickens and time And policemen and s.p.a.ce.