Recently in Rivers and Streams Category

Hark, the sound of it drawing nearer,
Clink of hobble and brazen bell;
Mark the passage of stalwart shearer,
Bidding Monaro soil farewell.

Where is he making for?  Down the river,
Down the river with eager tread;
Where is he making for?  Down the river,
Down the river to seek a 'shed'.

Where is his dwelling on old Monaro?
Buckley's Crossing, or Jindaboine?
Dry Plain is it, or sweet Bolaira?
P'raps 'tis near where the rivers join
Where is he making for? Down the river.
When, oh when, will he turn him back?
Soft sighs follow him down the river,
Moist eyes gaze at his fading track.

See, behind him his pack-horse, ambling,
Bears the weight of his master's kit,
Oft and oft from the pathway rambling,
Crops unhampered by cruel bit.
Where is he making for?  Equine rover,
Sturdy nag from the Eucumbene,
Tempted down by the thought of clover,
Springing luscious in Riverine.

Dreams of life and its future chances,
Snatch of song to beguile the way;
Through green crannies the sunlight glances,
Silver-gilding the bright 'Jack Shay'.
"So long, mate, I can stay no longer,
So long, mate, I've no time to stop,
Pens are waiting me at Mahonga,
Bluegong, Grubben and Pullitop.

"What! you say that the river's risen?
What! that the melted snow has come?
What! that it locks and bars our prison?
Many's the mountain stream I've swum.
I must onward and cross the river,
So long, mate, for I cannot stay;
I must onward and cross the river,
Over the river there lies my way."

One man short when the roll they're calling;
One man short at old Bobby Rand's;
Heads are drooping and tears are falling
Up on Monaro's mountain lands.

Where is he making for? Down the river,
Down the river of slimy bed;
Where is he making for? Down the river,
Down the river that bears him, dead.

First published in The Bulletin, 6 February 1892;
and later in
Where the Dead Men Lie and Other Poems by Barcroft Boake, 1897;
A Collection of Australian Bush Verse, 1989;
Classic Australian Verse edited by Maggie Pinkney, 2001;
An Australian Treasury of Popular Verse edited by Jim Haynes, 2002;
Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007; and
Barcroft Boake: Collected Works, Edited, With a Life edited by W. F. Refshauge, 2007.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Darling at Bourke is 16ft. above summer level, and still rising.---News item from Outback.

The squatters down its winding course
   Will watch the rising flood,
And Optimism's tingling force
   Is surging through their blood.
For should the stream its volume lack
   To bear the golden bales,
The wool that counts for all Outback
   Will miss the London sales!

The woodmen and the watermen,
   And all the old brigade,
Will seek the Trickle once again --
   The Trickle that is Trade!
The lonely swagmen in the bends
   The whalers' tracks will shirk,
And claim the skippers as their friends,
   For Bourke is always --- Bourke!

The message of a thousand miles
  Is in that yellow mud,
Symbolical of Nature's smiles
   (The Fortune of the Flood!).
The crazy little river craft
   Will waken from their sleep,
And, like Titanic imps of Graft,
   Go threshing down the deep!

Once more the eagle, high above
   Against the vault of blue,
Will see the sailor-men make love
   To Jenny Jamberoo!
And Hebe of the River's Arms
   (Who long since smiled for me)
Will show once more her olden charms ---
   Red lips and lingerie!

For Jack he is a sailor, though
   The heaving deep he sails
Is where the Northern Waters flow
   Through Sunset New South Wales!
The same old voices call to him,
   The name old passions leap
As where the flattened fishes swim
   A hundred fathoms deep!

For I have waited for the Rise
   And idled in the bars
Of Bourke --- and heard the bo'sun's lies
   Beneath the Desert Stars!
And I have waited for the wire
   From sleepy Walgett town:
"The Barwon and the McIntyre
   In flood are coming down."

The coach goes rocking through the dust --
   Its old romance is dead
(Its driver never paints "a bust"
   A thousand miles ahead!);
For all the waters of the North
   Shall take the cargoes South,
And, like lorn lovers, hasten forth
   To kiss the Harbor's mouth!

I wish that I could tread the decks
   And hear the captain swear
At eerie hypothetic wrecks,
   That ancient mariner!
I feel inclined to leave my den
   And sail in quest of work --
For all the sirens call me when
   The River's Up at Bourke!

First published in The Bulletin, 4 November 1909

Author: Robert John Cassidy (1880-1948) was born in Coolac in New South Wales, and was, for a time, editor of the Broken Hill newspaper Sport.  He wrote one novel and published the bulk of his poetry in The Bulletin. He died in 1948. 

Author reference site: Austlit

There's a river to the nor'ard,
   And a breeze across a bay,
And the breeze is on my forehead,
   Though I'm scores of leagues away.
There is mud there, black and clinging,
   When the tide is half or low,
But I hear the river singing
   River-songs I used to know;
And 'tis calling me, that river --
I can see the ripples shiver
On its breast, and see the quiver
   Of the moon deep down below.

There's a river, and I hear it
   Telling stories to the breeze,
And I'm longing to go near it
   O'er the weary, plunging seas.
When you swing around Cape Moreton,
   Where the silver sandbanks are,
Where the rollers trip and shorten
   Ere they sprawl across the bar;
Then you'll see the river streaming
As I see it now, day-dreaming,
And the Pile Light's lazy gleaming,
   Like an earth-attracted star.

There's a river, and it's muddy,
   But its banks are always green,
And its dark-brown stream is ruddy
   In the sunset's bronzelike sheen.
And 'tis always softly singing
   To fond favored ones like me,
As it takes its course a-swinging
   To the bay that woos the sea,
With a greeting to the bridges
And the mud-banks' rosy ridges
Where the rusty, ugly dredges
   Clank and clatter noisily.

There's a river, haunt of dreamers,
   Black and silver 'neath the moon,
Where the yellow-lighted steamers
   Thrub and hum an ocean-tune.
I can hear the rollers sprawling
   As they stumble o'er the bar,
And I hear the river calling,
   Calling, calling, faint and far.
I can see the moonbeams shiver
On that muddy, brown old river,
And the Pile Light's sleepy quiver
   Like a tired and dozing star.

First published in The Bulletin, 14 July 1900

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.