Written by Dick Roberts
There’s an era, not so long ago,
please let me take you all back.
To point in time written in rhyme,
down a lonely old bush track.
The dusty haze from the droving days,
and the old-time cattle camps.
Where the lignum scrub and bidgee floods,
on the flats that were once damp.
Where the shearing sheds once danced a jig,
on their final cut-out day.
When rum would flow on their final blow,
and the shearers count their pay.
When bullock teams hauled the wool away,
to the cities and the ports.
They battled heat, but were never beat,
following the water course.
When swaggies walked all the old bush tracks,
travelling to find a feed.
Where rabbits pried the whole countryside,
and wealth was owning a steed.
When two pound a week was steady pay,
and the bush still fed you well.
Where a homeless sheep provided meat,
and to no-one you would tell.
When the big floods came and quenched the thirst,
of the inland plains out west.
Where grass was king and birds would sing,
and the bush was at its best.
Where gidgee post and rails still stand,
built there many years ago.
With crosscut saw and the crowbar fall,
would bury them deep below.
Where coaches would bring the mail from kin,
every four weeks or so.
Camp their horses at the local Inn,
in the days of Cobb and Co.
When steamers travelled the rivers course,
with trade, timber, and supplies.
Wherever it flowed the towns would grow,
a country now on the rise.
A country that was once filled with hope,
has now squandered it away.
Our elected leaders sold us all out,
but tomorrow is another day.
Nelle's journey 