I'm packing up "Matilda" and we're heading for the ranges,
For the big town job that's waiting I don't seem to care a fig.
On the stations all along the South the sheep are heavy covered.
They'll be mustering for the shearing, and the tally's always big!
I can cut my hundred daily, even crossbreds are not troubles,
I'll be "rep." on many old gangs once again.
I've been "ringer" of my shed, and so the tar is in my nostrils,
I can hear the sheep dogs whimper as they pull the fretting chain.
So I'll call "So long" to home ones and I'll swing the leg o'er "Baldy,"
With my flannels and my "bowyangs" in the blanket on my pack,
And the wet days I'll be writing home -- there's poker matches to be won.
And all the Bushland calling to the old hand, going back!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 2 October 1926
Author: Nothing is known about the author of this poem.
Author reference site: Austlit
For the big town job that's waiting I don't seem to care a fig.
On the stations all along the South the sheep are heavy covered.
They'll be mustering for the shearing, and the tally's always big!
I can cut my hundred daily, even crossbreds are not troubles,
I'll be "rep." on many old gangs once again.
I've been "ringer" of my shed, and so the tar is in my nostrils,
I can hear the sheep dogs whimper as they pull the fretting chain.
So I'll call "So long" to home ones and I'll swing the leg o'er "Baldy,"
With my flannels and my "bowyangs" in the blanket on my pack,
And the wet days I'll be writing home -- there's poker matches to be won.
And all the Bushland calling to the old hand, going back!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 2 October 1926
Author: Nothing is known about the author of this poem.
Author reference site: Austlit
