Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!— you don’ t know what it means. ( What’ s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you — mine is beef and greens. Bread and butter while I’ m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes — a bucketful. ) I’ m just in from west the Darling,‘ picking-up’ and‘ rolling wool.’
Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat; Bread or brownie, tea or coffee — two hours’ graft in front of that; Legs of mutton boiled for dinner — mutton greasy-warm for tea — Mutton curried ( gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me. )
Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice, And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice. All day long with living mutton — bits and belly-wool and fleece; Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear, And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer. Dusty patch in baking mulga — glaring iron hut and shed — Feel and smell of rain forgotten — water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise — all-pervading sheep-yard smell — Stiff and aching green-hand stretches —‘ Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell — Pint of tea and hunk of brownie — sinners string towards the shed — Great, black, greasy crows round carcass — screen behind of dust-cloud red.
Engine whistles.‘ Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins, Picking up for seven devils out of Hades — for my sins; Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell! Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep — half a-dozen Christs they’ d sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from — too damned hot for men or brutes; Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots! Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams; Blasphemy of five-and-forty — prickly heat — and stink of rams!
‘ Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out; When the rouser goes to pen them,‘ Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout. Injury with insult added — trial of our cursing powers — Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.
‘ Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’‘ Seen my cattle-pup?’ ‘ There’ s a sheep fell down in my shoot — just jump down and pick it up.’ ‘ Give the office when the boss comes.’‘ Catch that gory sheep, old man.’ ‘ Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’‘ Fetch my combs back when yer can.’
‘ When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?’ ‘ Fetch my pipe — the cook’ ll show yer — and I’ ll let yer have a cut.’ Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’ s roaring like a bull: ‘ Wool away, you ( son of angels ). Where the hell’ s the ( foundling ) WOOL!!’
Pound a week and station prices — mustn’ t kick against the pricks — Seven weeks of lurid mateship — ruined soul and four pounds six. What’ s that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief, I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef — moo-cow — Roast Bullock — BEEF!
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