West of Dubbo the west begins The land of leisure and hope and trust, Where the black man stalks with his dogs and gins And Nature visits the settlers’ sins
With the Bogan shower, that is mostly dust.
He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide, He was just a wand’ring mongrel from the weary world outside; He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair, With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear.
Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three, It’s a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big. “I am fed to the teeth with old ewe,” said he, “And I might be able to shoot a pig.”
I’m travellin’ down the Castlereagh, and I’m a station hand, I’m handy with the ropin’ pole, I’m handy with the brand, And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing the axe all day, But there’s no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh.
When Ironbark the turtle came to Anthony’s lagoon The hills were hid behind a mist of equinoctal rain, The ripple of the rivulets was like a cheerful tune And wild companions waltzed among the grass as tall as grain.