They'll show the "cookies" how to plough the plains of Riverine.

Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee, And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea.

Once more the Maorilander and the Ta.s.sey will be seen Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.

They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum, But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates come.

From New Zealand's snow-clad summits or Tasmania's meadows green, We'll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.

Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions bold; Victoria will send her "c.o.c.kies," too, her honour to uphold.

They'll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs between, For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of Riverine.

I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell, Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to tell; Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that's what they want to see, That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.

"This year will pay the pound."-A pound a hundred is the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out strikes have taken place about it.

"We'll take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the toes."-Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and wool down on the legs.

"To steer sixteen"-sixteen horses in the team.

THE SHEEP-WASHERS' LAMENT

(Air: "The Bonnie Irish Boy.")

Come now, ye sighing washers all, Join in my doleful lay, Mourn for the times none can recall, With hearts to grief a prey.

We'll mourn the washer's sad downfall In our regretful strain, Lamenting on the days gone by Ne'er to return again.

When first I went a-washing sheep The year was sixty-one, The master was a worker then, The servant was a man; But now the squatters, puffed with pride, They treat us with disdain; Lament the days that are gone by Ne'er to return again.

From sixty-one to sixty-six, The bushman, stout and strong, Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune, And sing his cheerful song, As wanton as the kangaroo That bounds across the plain.

Lament the days that are gone by Ne'er to return again.

Supplies of food unstinted, good, No squatter did withhold.

With plenty grog to cheer our hearts, We feared nor heat nor cold.

With six-and-six per man per day We sought not to complain.

Lament the days that are gone by Ne'er to return again.

With perfect health, a mine of wealth, Our days seemed short and sweet, On pleasure bent our evenings spent, Enjoyment was complete.

But now we toil from morn till night, Though much against the grain, Lamenting on the days gone by, Ne'er to return again.

I once could boast two n.o.ble steeds, To bear me on my way, My good revolver in my belt, I never knew dismay.

But lonely now I hump my drum In sunshine and in rain, Lamenting on the days gone by Ne'er to return again.

A worthy cheque I always earned, And spent it like a lord.

My dress a prince's form would grace.

And spells I could afford.

But now in tattered rags arrayed, My limbs they ache with pain, Lamenting on the days gone by, Ne'er to return again.

May bushmen all in unity Combine with heart and hand, May cursed cringing poverty Be banished from the land.

In Queensland may prosperity In regal glory reign, And washers in the time to come Their vanished rights regain.

THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER

(Air: "It's a fine hunting day.")

Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can; All our mates in the paddock are dead.

Let us wave our farewells to Glen Eva's sweet dells And the hills where your lordship was bred; Together to roam from our drought-stricken home- It seems hard that such things have to be, And its hard on a "hogs" when he's nought for a boss But a broken-down squatter like me!

Chorus

For the banks are all broken, they say, And the merchants are all up a tree.

When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court, What chance for a squatter like me.

No more shall we muster the river for fats, Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain, Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon, Or see the old stockyard again.

Leave the slip-panels down, it won't matter much now, There are none but the crows left to see, Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine On a broken-down squatter like me.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst, And the cattle were dying in scores, Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck, Thinking justice might temper the laws.

But the farce has been played, and the Government aid Ain't extended to squatters, old son; When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent, And resumed the best half of the run.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

'Twas done without reason, for leaving the season No squatter could stand such a rub; For it's useless to squat when the rents are so hot That one can't save the price of one's grub; And there's not much to choose 'twixt the banks and the Jews Once a fellow gets put up a tree; No odds what I feel, there's no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

THE FREE SELECTOR

(A Song of 1861.)

Ye sons of industry, to you I belong, And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song, Rejoicing o'er the victory John Robertson has won Now the Land Bill has pa.s.sed and the good time has come Now the Land Bill, &c.

No more with our swags through the bush need we roam For to ask of another there to give us a home, Now the land is unfettered and we may reside In a home of our own by some clear waterside.

In a home of our own, &c.

On some fertile spot which we may call our own, Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home.

There industry will flourish and content will smile, While our children rejoicing will share in our toil.

While our children, &c.