They are mustering cattle on Brigalow Vale
Where the stock-horses whinny and stamp,
And where long Andy Ferguson, you may go bail,
Is yet boss on a cutting-out camp.
The world around is sleeping,
The stars are bright o'erhead,
The shades of myalls weeping
Upon the sward are spread;
Athwart the star-lit midnight sky
Luminous fleecy clouds drift by,
As the mysterious, pallid moon
Sinks in the waveless still lagoon.
There's a damper in the ashes, tea and sugar in the bags,
There's whips of feed and shelter on the sandridge for the nags,
There's gidya wood about us and water close at hand,
And just one bottle left yet of the good Glenlivet brand.
The sun may shine, the rain may fall,
And the world roll round about, -
The king's men and king's horses all
Can never rub one thing out.
Never before was daughter of Eve endow'd with a face so fair,
There be none of God's holy angels with a beauty half so rare
As thine, nor dreamer has ever dreamed the loveliness you wear.
There's a gleam in your golden tress, Lieb! a light in your melting eye!
We've drunk our wine, we've kissed our girls, and funds are sinking low,
The horses must be thinking it's a fair thing now to go;
Sling the swags on Condamine and strap the billies fast,
And stuff a bottle in the bags and let's be off at last.
One fox-faced virgin, word for word,
Repeats each sland'rous thing she's heard,
And sourly smiles as scandal slips
With gusto from her thin white lips.
Now, all the world is green and bright
Outside the latticed pane;
The fields are decked with gold and white,
And Spring has come again.