Classic Poem

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.