(A Shooter's Song).
When I am on the lonely plain,
And dark'nlng storm clouds frown,
I pitch my little tent again
And peg the corners down.
It needs repairing bye and bye,
A pitch or two maybe.
But stilll It always keeps us dry,
My little dog and me.
Whan dark clouds gather overhead,
And we are alone.
His mat I place beside my bed,
And in his dish a bone.
He always hears the slightest sound
Around the camp, and so,
When anything comes prowling round
He always lets me know.
When sunlight floods the smiling plain.
And all the storms are past.
And all the grass is green again,
And tanks are filled at lest.
Then once again in lonely lands.
Where western sunsets glow,
By timbered hills and drifting scads,
On lonely tracks we go.
We cadge our mutton here and there,
From stations round about,
But when they say there's none to spare,
Of course we go without.
Their killing sheep, they watch them so.
As It they had no more.
"We found a couple short, you know.
When you were here before."
It's hardly fair for squatter kings,
A shooter's word to doubt,
As though we'd take the blessed things,
With all the game about.
Let those who will with squatter's side,
But let the shooters be,
With what we've got we're eatlsfied,
My little dog and me.
Hughenden. Bert Dunne
Notes
From the Queensland Newspaper The Northern Miner 20 Jan 1940 p. 6.
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