In the Days When the World Was Wide [25]
many a change Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range, For the curse of the town with the railroad had come, And the goldfields were dead. And the girl and the chum And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek.
And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold, When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold, And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks, Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks; For the years waste away like the waters that leak Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek.
Mount Bukaroo
Only one old post is standing -- Solid yet, but only one -- Where the milking, and the branding, And the slaughtering were done. Later years have brought dejection, Care, and sorrow; but we knew Happy days on that selection Underneath old Bukaroo.
Then the light of day commencing Found us at the gully's head, Splitting timber for the fencing, Stripping bark to roof the shed. Hands and hearts the labour strengthened; Weariness we never knew, Even when the shadows lengthened Round the base of Bukaroo.
There for days below the paddock How the wilderness would yield To the spade, and pick, and mattock, While we toiled to win the field. Bronzed hands we used to sully Till they were of darkest hue, `Burning off' down in the gully At the back of Bukaroo.
When we came the baby brother Left in haste his broken toys, Shouted to the busy mother: `Here is dadda and the boys!' Strange it seems that she was able For the work that she would do; How she'd bustle round the table In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!
When the cows were safely yarded, And the calves were in the pen, All the cares of day discarded, Closed we round the hut-fire then. Rang the roof with boyish laughter While the flames o'er-topped the flue; Happy days remembered after -- Far away from Bukaroo.
But the years were full of changes, And a sorrow found us there; For our home amid the ranges Was not safe from searching Care. On he came, a silent creeper; And another mountain threw O'er our lives a shadow deeper Than the shade of Bukaroo.
All the farm is disappearing; For the home has vanished now, Mountain scrub has choked the clearing, Hid the furrows of the plough. Nearer still the scrub is creeping Where the little garden grew; And the old folks now are sleeping At the foot of Bukaroo.
The Fire at Ross's Farm
The squatter saw his pastures wide Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west Selected on his run; Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round; The best grass-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.
Now many schemes to shift old Ross Had racked the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood Of Scotland in his veins; He held the land and fenced it in, He cleared and ploughed the soil, And year by year a richer crop Repaid him for his toil.
Between the homes for many years The devil left his tracks: The squatter pounded Ross's stock, And Sandy pounded Black's. A well upon the lower run Was filled with earth and logs, And Black laid baits about the farm To poison Ross's dogs.
It was, indeed, a deadly feud Of class and creed and race; But, yet, there was a Romeo And a Juliet in the case; And more than once across the flats, Beneath the Southern Cross, Young Robert Black was seen to ride With pretty Jenny Ross.
One Christmas time, when months of drought Had parched the western creeks, The bush-fires started in the north And travelled south for weeks. At night along the river-side The scene was grand and strange -- The hill-fires looked like lighted streets Of cities in the range.
The cattle-tracks between the trees Were like long dusky aisles, And on a sudden breeze the fire Would sweep along for miles; Like sounds of distant musketry It crackled through the brakes, And o'er the flat of silver grass It hissed like angry snakes.
It leapt across the flowing streams And raced o'er pastures broad; It climbed the
And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold, When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold, And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks, Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks; For the years waste away like the waters that leak Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek.
Mount Bukaroo
Only one old post is standing -- Solid yet, but only one -- Where the milking, and the branding, And the slaughtering were done. Later years have brought dejection, Care, and sorrow; but we knew Happy days on that selection Underneath old Bukaroo.
Then the light of day commencing Found us at the gully's head, Splitting timber for the fencing, Stripping bark to roof the shed. Hands and hearts the labour strengthened; Weariness we never knew, Even when the shadows lengthened Round the base of Bukaroo.
There for days below the paddock How the wilderness would yield To the spade, and pick, and mattock, While we toiled to win the field. Bronzed hands we used to sully Till they were of darkest hue, `Burning off' down in the gully At the back of Bukaroo.
When we came the baby brother Left in haste his broken toys, Shouted to the busy mother: `Here is dadda and the boys!' Strange it seems that she was able For the work that she would do; How she'd bustle round the table In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!
When the cows were safely yarded, And the calves were in the pen, All the cares of day discarded, Closed we round the hut-fire then. Rang the roof with boyish laughter While the flames o'er-topped the flue; Happy days remembered after -- Far away from Bukaroo.
But the years were full of changes, And a sorrow found us there; For our home amid the ranges Was not safe from searching Care. On he came, a silent creeper; And another mountain threw O'er our lives a shadow deeper Than the shade of Bukaroo.
All the farm is disappearing; For the home has vanished now, Mountain scrub has choked the clearing, Hid the furrows of the plough. Nearer still the scrub is creeping Where the little garden grew; And the old folks now are sleeping At the foot of Bukaroo.
The Fire at Ross's Farm
The squatter saw his pastures wide Decrease, as one by one The farmers moving to the west Selected on his run; Selectors took the water up And all the black soil round; The best grass-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.
Now many schemes to shift old Ross Had racked the squatter's brains, But Sandy had the stubborn blood Of Scotland in his veins; He held the land and fenced it in, He cleared and ploughed the soil, And year by year a richer crop Repaid him for his toil.
Between the homes for many years The devil left his tracks: The squatter pounded Ross's stock, And Sandy pounded Black's. A well upon the lower run Was filled with earth and logs, And Black laid baits about the farm To poison Ross's dogs.
It was, indeed, a deadly feud Of class and creed and race; But, yet, there was a Romeo And a Juliet in the case; And more than once across the flats, Beneath the Southern Cross, Young Robert Black was seen to ride With pretty Jenny Ross.
One Christmas time, when months of drought Had parched the western creeks, The bush-fires started in the north And travelled south for weeks. At night along the river-side The scene was grand and strange -- The hill-fires looked like lighted streets Of cities in the range.
The cattle-tracks between the trees Were like long dusky aisles, And on a sudden breeze the fire Would sweep along for miles; Like sounds of distant musketry It crackled through the brakes, And o'er the flat of silver grass It hissed like angry snakes.
It leapt across the flowing streams And raced o'er pastures broad; It climbed the