A pharmacopolist that I know,
And a sportsman bold from the Import Co.,
And another that plays on the pi-an-o,
They went a shooting the wild euro;
Accompanied by a medico,
And the bard that tells this tale of woe.
(Oh list, ye bushmen bold).
Into the hills of Beetaloo
They went to slay the kangaroo,
And the sportive hare and the wallaby too,
And the birds as overhead they flew;
And they took some beer of excellent brew,
But diel a thing these sportsmen slew.
(Oh, list till my tale if told).
Into the hills these sportsmen went,
Each on wholesale slaughter bent,
Sure of aim and keen of scent,
With trusty guns (that were mostly lent);
On making a mighty bag intent,
Prepared for any impediment,
(Ye bushmen, lend an ear).
And when they had climbed to the topmost height,
The musical gentleman wandered from sight --
Chasing a bird in its airy flight;
And though they searched with all their might,
Search to left and searched to right,
They searched in vain, till surprised by night
(Ye bearded bushmen, hear).
And then they turned to wander back,
And found, by jove, they'd lost the track,
And night was falling gloomy and black,
And each did the bump of locality lack,
And of steering by stars they hadn't the knack.
Since noontide they'd never a drink nor a snack.
(Oh, hark, ye bushmen brave).
They longed for compasses, plans, and maps,
For the bottles and things they'd left in the traps,
And a sigh might be heard, or a swear-word -- p'raps,
(Your sympathy I crave).
Of the gullies they knew not the outs and ins,
'Gainst cruel boulders they barked their shins,
They scarcely could manage to keep on their pins,
Then prayed they for rescue, and thought of their sins,
And spoke in whispers low.
But never a sign of the camp they saw,
And the wind grew cold and the air was raw,
And the pangs of hunger began to gnaw;
They'd give sovereigns for water -- for beer they'd give more.
(Ye bushmen, hear my woe).
At last, footsore and weary and lame,
To the home of a farming man they came,
Who gave them drink -- but not the same
As they left behind, but they'll bless his name,
And ever remember and honor the same,
For he drove them safely home.
And when they returned to the camp that night,
To search for the one who had wandered from sight,
They found, by gum, that he was "all right,"
Eating boiled eggs in the pale moonlight,
And this is the end of my poem.

"The Best of the Six"
Laura Standard, 8 April 1898, p3