A Mountain Station
I bought a run a while ago,On country rough and ridgy,Where wallaroos and wombats grow—The Upper Murrumbidgee.The grass is rather scant, it’s true,But this a fair exchange is,The sheep can see a lovely viewBy climbing up the ranges.
And She-oak Flat’s the station’s name,I’m not surprised at that, sirs:The oaks were there before I came,And I supplied the flat, sirs.A man would wonder how it’s done,The stock so soon decreases—They sometimes tumble off the runAnd break themselves to pieces.
I’ve tried to make expenses meet,But wasted all my labours,The sheep the dingoes didn’t eatWere stolen by the neighbours.They stole my pears—my native pears—Those thrice-convicted felons,And ravished from me unawaresMy crop of paddy-melons.
And sometimes under sunny skies,Without an explanation,The Murrumbidgee used to riseAnd overflow the station.But this was caused (as now I know)When summer sunshine glowingHad melted all Kiandra’s snowAnd set the river going.
And in the news, perhaps you read:‘Stock passings. Puckawidgee,Fat cattle: Seven hundred headSwept down the Murrumbidgee;Their destination’s quite obscure,But, somehow, there’s a notion,Unless the river falls, they’re sureTo reach the Southern Ocean.’
So after that I’ll give it best;No more with Fate I’ll battle.I’ll let the river take the rest,For those were all my cattle.And with one comprehensive curseI close my brief narration,And advertise it in my verse—‘For Sale! A Mountain Station.’