The Ballad of Gilbey's Pub (1954)
In a distant Melee scrub--land,To the south of Riverine,
There's a little heap of rubble
Where an old hotel has been.
It was shingled roofed and shanty hung
In a snake-trap kind of style,
But the only pub--in that patch of scrub--
You'd find for many a mile. The teams would make for the kindly light
That glimmered across the track,
And the driver's shout brought the lead about
To pass by the hitching rack.
The smouldering log was poked again
To strike a reluctant blaze,
And the billy hung from the crane that swung,
As it did in the good old days. A mate came out from the firelight,
With a cheerful word to say
And they stacked the yokes by the waggon spokes,
Content to call it a day.
The leader's bell, with its booming note,
Made off through the Malee scrub,
The feed was right for the team that night,
So they headed for Gilbey's Pub. The red coals glowed on the blackened hearth,
Warm welcome to those that came
By their devious ways; in the golden days
The reception was still the same.
To the spieler who worked a thimble and pea,
Or a vagrant rouseabout,
A teamster man or a swart Afghan
Who was headed for Further Out. Times there were when the rain fell down--
You could measure it by the yard--
The waggons bogged on the black-soil plain,
And the way to the pub was barred.
But the teamsters rallied, as teamsters will,
Hooked on in a double bank;
They cursed the flood as they spurned the mud,
And the language, at least, was frank! Now the lowan calls as the daylight dies
From the lip of his leaf-mould hill,
And the curlews cry where the sand-hills lie,
Ere the voice of the bush is still.
The boomers break on the boundless plain
And make for the Mallee scrub,
Like silent wraiths as they slowly pass
The site of old Gilbey's Pub. Just memories now in the bushland grove,
With the serried ranks of grass,
And the ghost-gums glow where the sky blue doe,
With her furtive tread, shall pass.
For the travellers now are dead and gone,
And the trucks replace the teams,
The shadows sway in a wild array
From the glare of the headlight beams. There's a little heap of rubble
To the south of Riverine.
That served its earthly purpose,
In the stirring years between.
It's a monument to the bygone days,
In that patch of Mallee scrub,
As it stands alone in the lieu of stone,
To the memory of Gilbey's Pub. --DUD MILLS Notes From the NSW Newspaper Mudgee Guardian and North-Western Representative 12 Apr 1954 p. 11.