Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes
from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run
that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought
with a mob that could scarcely creep,
(When the kangaroos by the thousands starve,
it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run,
`We must manage a feed for them here,' he said,
`or the half of the mob are done!'
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow,
And they set to work on the straggling sheep,
and with many a stockwhip crack
They forced them in where the grass was dead
in the space of the half-mile track;
So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep
in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up,
though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style.