The Paroo River

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 day dragged out for ever;     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.     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 a spray     Of colour like a liver,     We'd fondly hoped to camp and stay     That night by Paroo River.     A cloud was on my mate's broad brow,     And once I heard him mutter:     'What price the good old Darling now?,     God bless that grand old gutter!"     And then he stopped and slowly 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     Beside the track we followed,     No damper than the surface round,     But just a little hollowed.     His brow assumed a thoughtful frown,     This speech did he 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 plain you've never been Out Back,     This is the Paroo River!"