While The Billy BoilsSearchA Tale of the TerritoryThe run of Billabong-go-dryIs just beyond Lime Burner’s Gap;Its waterhole and tank supplyIs excellent—upon the map.But, lacking nature’s liquid drench,The station staff are wont to tryWith “Bob-in Sweeps” their thirst to quench,Or nearly quench, at Bong-go-dry.
The parson made five-yearly roundsThat soil of arid souls to delve,He wrote, “I’ll come for seven pounds,Or I could stop away for twelve.”But lack of lucre brought aboutThe pusillanimous reply:“Our luxuries are all cut out,You’ll have to come to Bong-go-dry.”
Now rabbit skins were very highThere’d been a kind of rabbit rush—And what with traps and sticks they’d shy,The station blacks were very flush,And each was taught his churchman’s job,“When that one parson’s plate comes roun’No good you put in sprat or bob,Too quick you put in harp-a-crown.”
The parson’s word was duly kept,He came and did his bit of speak;The boss remarked he hadn’t sleptSo sound and well for many a week.But Gilgai Jack and Monkey JawRegarded preaching as a crimeAgainst good taste; they said, “What forThat one chap yabber all the time?”
Proceedings ceased: the boss’s hatWas raked from underneath his chair;The coloured congregation satAnd waited with expectant air.At last from one far-distant seatWhere Gilgai’s Mary’d been asleep,There came a kind of plaintive bleat,“Say, boss! Who won the harp-crown sweep?”