If your browser is not Java enabled, use the links at the bottom of the page.
|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 day dragged out for ever;
But now we knew that we were near
Our camp - the Paroo River.
With blighted eyes and
The "nose-bags" heavy on each chest
|A cloud was on my mate's broad brow,
And once I heard him mutter:
'What price the good old Darling now? -
God bless that grand old gutter!"
And then he stopped and slowly 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
"But where," said I, " 's the blooming stream?'
Home Banjo Paterson Henry Lawson Henry Kendall John O'Brien Other Poets The Showcase Bio Page