This
talk of wild bulls of the Dawson scrubs, says old Joe, leaves me cold.
But I tells you bulls were dinkum cows in them Speewah days of old,
More fiercer than the fiercest cat – more cunning than the blacks,
You’d see ’em drag branches on their tails to cover up their tracks.You must put right out on leaving camp the fire you’ve had at night,
For them bulls would carry firesticks in their teeth and set your yards alight,
To bellow they had the bower-birds squared to coax you off your course,
Why they even had the dingoes trained to heel your blanky horse.
I mind one day there’s six of us to muster back to Jackass
yard,
There was never better ringers in the land, used we was to riding fast and hard;
The boss was there on a raking bay, his pet camp-horse, Swift Desire,
While I kids meself I looks a treat on my black mare, Opal Fire.
Soon we sights a score or so of bulls, they’re as contented
as you please,
Some is sharpening horns on sandstone rocks while some is skewering trees;
Well, we makes them blooming cattle go as hard as they can lick,
Though every time I looks behind seems to me they’re gaining quick.
There’s a big roan bloke about a yard behind when down comes
me mare and me,
So just to see the other blokes is right I starts up the nearest tree;
That old bull ain’t a bloomin’ snob, he helps me with a whack,
Perhaps I goes up a little fast, I grabs a good limb coming back.
Well, I’m up here and he’s down there, seems as if
he’d like to stay,
Then as I have no use for him I lets him mooch away,
Down I comes and grabs me mare (her foot’s caught in the rein),
And I’m as keen as mustard now to help me mates again.
I circles round and cuts their tracks but stares hard at the
trail,
All them blokes has still been in the lead, there’s been none on wing and tail;
They’re heading straight for Jackass yard, it’s plain the way they went
They’ve torn two-foot trees out by the roots, even the hills seem bent.
But when I gets in sight of that there yard I just stops
goggle-eyed,
For them blarmed bulls is camping by the gate, it’s the ringers wot’s inside.
So now when I hears them talk of Dawson days my thoughts fly back to when
The wild bulls of the Speewah scrubs would muster up the men.