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.