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.
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