THE GREEN-HAND ROUSEABOUT

Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!— you don’ t know what it means.

( What’ s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you — mine is beef and greens.

Bread and butter while I’ m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes — a bucketful. )

I’ m just in from west the Darling,‘ picking-up’ and‘ rolling wool.’

Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;

Bread or brownie, tea or coffee — two hours’ graft in front of that;

Legs of mutton boiled for dinner — mutton greasy-warm for tea —

Mutton curried ( gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me. )

Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,

And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.

All day long with living mutton — bits and belly-wool and fleece;

Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,

Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,

And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.

Dusty patch in baking mulga — glaring iron hut and shed —

Feel and smell of rain forgotten — water scarce and feed-grass dead.

Hot and suffocating sunrise — all-pervading sheep-yard smell —

Stiff and aching green-hand stretches —‘ Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell —

Pint of tea and hunk of brownie — sinners string towards the shed —

Great, black, greasy crows round carcass — screen behind of dust-cloud red.

Engine whistles.‘ Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,

Picking up for seven devils out of Hades — for my sins;

Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!

Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep — half a-dozen Christs they’ d sell!

Day grows hot as where they come from — too damned hot for men or brutes;

Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!

Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;

Blasphemy of five-and-forty — prickly heat — and stink of rams!

‘ Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;

When the rouser goes to pen them,‘ Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.

Injury with insult added — trial of our cursing powers —

Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.

‘ Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’‘ Seen my cattle-pup?’

‘ There’ s a sheep fell down in my shoot — just jump down and pick it up.’

‘ Give the office when the boss comes.’‘ Catch that gory sheep, old man.’

‘ Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’‘ Fetch my combs back when yer can.’

‘ When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’

‘ Fetch my pipe — the cook’ ll show yer — and I’ ll let yer have a cut.’

Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’ s roaring like a bull:

‘ Wool away, you ( son of angels ). Where the hell’ s the ( foundling ) WOOL!!’

Pound a week and station prices — mustn’ t kick against the pricks —

Seven weeks of lurid mateship — ruined soul and four pounds six.

What’ s that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,

I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef — moo-cow — Roast Bullock — BEEF!