The Big rough boys from the runs out back were first where the balls flew free,
And yelled in the slang of the Outside Track: -By God, it-s a Christmas spree!-
-It-s not too rusty--and -Wool away!---stand clear of the blazing shoots!--
-Sheep O! Sheep O!---We-ll cut out to-day---Look out for the boss-s boots!-
-What price the tally in camp to-night!---What price the boys Out Back!-
-Go it, you tigers, for Right or Might and the pride of the Outside Track!-
-Needle and thread!---I have broke my comb!---Now ride, you flour-bags, ride!-
-Fight for your mates and the folk at home!---Here-s for the Lachlan side!-
Those men of the West would sneer and scoff at the gates of hell ajar,
And oft the sight of a head cut off was hailed by a yell for -Tar!-

I heard the push in the Red Redoubt, irate at a luckless shot:
-Look out for the blooming shell, look out!---Gor- bli-me, but that-s red-hot!-
-It-s Bill the Slogger-poor bloke-he-s done. A chunk of the shell was his;
-I wish the beggar that fired that gun could get within reach of Liz.-
-Those foreign gunners will give us rats, but I wish it was Bill they missed.-
-I-d like to get at their bleeding hats with a rock in my (something) fist.-
-Hold up, Billy; I-ll stick to you; they-ve hit you under the belt;
-If we get the waddle I-ll swag you through, if the blazing mountains melt;
-You remember the night when the traps got me for stoushing a bleeding Chow,
-And you went for -em proper and laid out three, and I won-t forget it now.-
And, groaning and swearing, the pug replied: -I-m done . . . they-ve knocked me out!
-I-d fight them all for a pound a-side, from the boss to the rouseabout.
-My nut is cracked and my legs is broke, and it gives me worse than hell;
-I trained for a scrap with a twelve-stone bloke, and not with a bursting shell.
-You needn-t mag, for I knowed, old chum, I knowed, old pal, you-d stick;
-But you can-t hold out till the reg-lars come, and you-d best be nowhere quick.
-They-ve got a force and a gun ashore, both of our wings is broke;
-They-ll storm the ridge in a minute more, and the best you can do is smoke.-

And Jim exclaimed: -You can smoke, you chaps, but me-Gor- bli-me, no!
-The push that ran from the George-street traps won-t run from a foreign foe.
-I-ll stick to the gun while she makes them sick, and I-ll stick to what-s left of Bill.-
And they hiss through their blackened teeth: -We-ll stick! by the blazing flame, we will!-
And long years after the war was past, they told in the town and bush
How the ridge of death to the bloody last was held by a Sydney push;
How they fought to the end in a sheet of flame, how they fought with their rifle-stocks,
And earned, in a nobler sense, the name of their ancient weapons--rocks.-


In the western camps it was ever our boast, when -twas bad for the kangaroo:
If the enemy-s forces take the coast, they must take the mountains, too;
-They may force their way by the western line or round by a northern track,
But they won-t run short of a decent spree with the men who are left out back!-
When we burst the enemy-s ironclads and won by a run of luck,
We whooped as loudly as Nelson-s lads when a French three-decker struck-
And when the enemy-s troops prevailed the truth was never heard-
We lied like heroes who never failed explaining how that occurred.
You bushmen sneer in the old bush way at the new-chum jackeroo,
But -cuffs--n--collers- were out that day, and they stuck to their posts like glue;
I never believed that a dude could fight till a Johnny led us then;
We buried his bits in the rear that night for the honour of George-street men.
And Jim the Ringer-he fought, he did. The regiment nicknamed Jim,
-Old Heads a Caser- and -Heads a Quid,- but it never was -tails- with him.
The way that he rode was a racing rhyme, and the way that he finished grand;
He backed the enemy every time, and died in a hand-to-hand!


I-ll never forget when the ringer and I were first in the Bush Brigade,
With Warrego Bill, from the Live-till-you-Die, in the last grand charge we made.
And Billy died-he was full of sand-he said, as I raised his head:
-I-m full of love for my native land, but a lot too full of lead.
-Tell -em,- said Billy, -and tell old dad, to look after the cattle pup;-
But his eyes grew bright, though his voice was sad, and he said, as I held him up:
-I have been happy on western farms. And once, when I first went wrong,
-Around my neck were the trembling arms of the girl I-d loved so long.
-Far out on the southern seas I-ve sailed, and ridden where brumbies roam,
-And oft, when all on the station failed, I-ve driven the outlaw home.
-I-ve spent a cheque in a day and night, and I-ve made a cheque as quick;
-I struck a nugget when times were tight, and the stores had stopped our tick.
-I-ve led the field on the old bay mare, and I hear the cheering still,
-When mother and sister and she were there, and the old man yelled for Bill;
-But, save for her, could I live my while again in the old bush way,
-I-d give it all for the last half-mile in the race we rode to-day!-
And he passed away as the stars came out-he died as old heroes die-
I heard the sound of the distant rout, and the Southern Cross was high.