Song Of The Old Bullock-Driver

Far back in the days when the blacks used to ramble In long single file ’neath the evergreen tree, The wool-teams in season came down from Coonamble, And journeyed for weeks on their way to the sea. ’Twas then that our hearts and our sinews were stronger, For those were the days when the bushman was bred. We journeyed on roads that were rougher and longer Than roads where the feet of our grandchildren tread.

With mates who have gone to the great Never-Never, And mates whom I’ve not seen for many a day, I camped on the banks of the Cudgegong River And yarned at the fire by the old bullock-dray. I would summon them back from the far Riverina, From days that shall be from all others distinct, And sing to the sound of an old concertina Their rugged old songs where strange fancies were linked.

We never were lonely, for, camping together, We yarned and we smoked the long evenings away, And little I cared for the signs of the weather When snug in my hammock slung under the dray. We rose with the dawn, were it ever so chilly, When yokes and tarpaulins were covered with frost, And toasted the bacon and boiled the black billy, Where high on the camp-fire the branches were tossed.

On flats where the air was suggestive of ’possums, And homesteads and fences were hinting of change, We saw the faint glimmer of appletree blossoms, And far in the distance the blue of the range; And here in the rain, there was small use in flogging The poor, tortured bullocks that tugged at the load, When down to the axles the waggons were bogging And traffic was making a marsh of the road.

’Twas hard on the beasts on the terrible pinches, Where two teams of bullocks were yoked to a load, And tugging and slipping, and moving by inches, Half-way to the summit they clung to the road. And then, when the last of the pinches was bested, (You’ll surely not say that a glass was a sin?) The bullocks lay down ’neath the gum trees and rested-- The bullockies steered for the bar of the inn.

Then slowly we crawled by the trees that kept tally Of miles that were passed on the long journey down. We saw the wild beauty of Capertee Valley, As slowly we rounded the base of the Crown. But, ah! the poor bullocks were cruelly goaded While climbing the hills from the flats and the vales; ’Twas here that the teams were so often unloaded That all knew the meaning of ‘counting your bales.’

And, oh! but the best-paying load that I carried Was one to the run where my sweetheart was nurse. We courted awhile, and agreed to get married, And couple our futures for better or worse. And as my old feet grew too weary to drag on The miles of rough metal they met by the way, My eldest grew up and I gave him the waggon-- He’s plodding along by the bullocks to-day.

THE LIGHTS OF COBB AND CO.

Fire lighted, on the table a meal for sleepy men, A lantern in the stable, a jingle now and then; The mail coach looming darkly by light of moon and star, The growl of sleepy voices--a candle in the bar; A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad; A swear-word from a bedroom--the shout of ‘All aboard!’ ‘Tchk-tchk! Git-up!’ ‘Hold fast, there!’ and down the range we go; Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co.

Old coaching towns already ‘decaying for their sins,’ Uncounted ‘Half-Way Houses,’ and scores of ‘Ten Mile Inns;’ The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks; The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks; The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a ‘Digger’s Rest;’ The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Furthest West; Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe; The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co.

The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone, In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn; A flask of friendly whisky--each other’s hopes we share-- And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air. The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete; The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses’ feet, The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go-- The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co.

We take a bright girl actress through western dust and damps, To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps, To wake the hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache-- (Ah! when she thinks of those days her own must nearly break!) Five miles this side the gold-field, a loud, triumphant shout: Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out: With ‘Auld Lang Syne’ in chorus through roaring camps they go-- That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co.

Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep, A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidings sweep, A flash on shrouded waggons, on water ghastly white; Weird bush and scattered remnants of ‘rushes in the night;’ Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford: Ride hard to warn the driver! He’s drunk or mad, good Lord!’ But on the bank to westward a broad, triumphant glow-- A hundred miles shall see to-night the lights of Cobb and Co.!

Swift scramble up the siding where teams climb inch by inch; Pause, bird-like, on the summit--then breakneck down the pinch Past haunted half-way houses--where convicts made the bricks-- Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six-- By clear, ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high, Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky; Through stringy-bark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go; New camps are stretching ’cross the plains the routes of Cobb and Co.

* * * * *

Throw down the reins, old driver--there’s no one left to shout; The ruined inn’s survivor must take the horses out. A poor old coach hereafter!--we’re lost to all such things-- No bursts of songs or laughter shall shake your leathern springs When creeping in unnoticed by railway sidings drear, Or left in yards for lumber, decaying with the year-- Oh, who’ll think how in those days when distant fields were broad You raced across the Lachlan side with twenty-five on board.

Not all the ships that sail away since Roaring Days are done-- Not all the boats that steam from port, nor all the trains that run, Shall take such hopes and loyal hearts--for men shall never know Such days as when the Royal Mail was run by Cobb and Co. The ‘greyhounds’ race across the sea, the ‘special’ cleaves the haze, But these seem dull and slow to me compared with Roaring Days! The eyes that watched are dim with age, and souls are weak and slow, The hearts are dust or hardened now that broke for Cobb and Co.