The Paroo

It was a week from Christmas-time, As near as I remember, And half a year since in the rear We’d left the Darling Timber. The track was hot and more than drear; The long day seemed forever; But now we knew that we were near Our camp--the Paroo River.

With blighted eyes and blistered feet, With stomachs out of order, Half mad with flies and dust and heat We’d crossed the Queensland Border. I longed to hear a stream go by And see the circles quiver; I longed to lay me down and die That night on Paroo River.

’Tis said the land out West is grand-- I do not care who says it-- It isn’t even decent scrub, Nor yet an honest desert; It’s plagued with flies, and broiling hot, A curse is on it ever; I really think that God forgot The country round that river.

My mate--a native of the land-- In fiery speech and vulgar, Condemned the flies and cursed the sand, And doubly damned the mulga. He peered ahead, he peered about-- A bushman he, and clever-- ‘Now mind you keep a sharp look-out; ‘We must be near the river.’

The ‘nose-bags’ heavy on each chest (God bless one kindly squatter!) With grateful weight our hearts they pressed-- We only wanted water. The sun was setting (in the west) In colour like a liver-- We’d fondly hoped to camp and rest That night on Paroo River.

A cloud was on my mate’s broad brow, And once I heard him mutter: ‘I’d like to see the Darling now, ‘God bless the Grand Old Gutter!’ And now and then he stopped and said In tones that made me shiver-- ‘It cannot well be on ahead, ‘I think we’ve crossed the river.’

But soon we saw a strip of ground That crossed the track we followed-- No barer than the surface round, But just a little hollowed. His brows assumed a thoughtful frown-- This speech he did deliver: ‘I wonder if we’d best go down ‘Or up the blessed river?’

‘But where,’ said I, ‘’s the blooming stream?’ And he replied, ‘We’re at it!’ I stood awhile, as in a dream, ‘Great Scott!’ I cried, ‘is that it? ‘Why, that is some old bridle-track!’ He chuckled, ‘Well, I never! ‘It’s nearly time you came out-back-- ‘This is the Paroo River!’

No place to camp--no spot of damp-- No moisture to be seen there; If e’er there was it left no sign That it had ever been there. But ere the morn, with heart and soul We’d cause to thank the Giver-- We found a muddy water-hole Some ten miles down the river.