I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be
glad to bear,
Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
So kindly pay attention, and I’ll pass the whisper round,
The squatters of their own free will this year will pay the
pound.
For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows,
We’ll take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to the
toes,
But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrown
in free.
That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
Jubilee.
And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshing
rains.
The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains,
The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green,
It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er the plains of Riverine.
Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps her
wing.
Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and crickets
sing.
Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, may
be seen,
For prosperity is hovering o’er the plains of Riverine.
Yes, ’twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-block
pioneers,
Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot the
bunny’s ears;
And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been,
Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains of
Riverine.
You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their faces
beam,
As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, and
their team.
They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen.
They’ll show the “cookies” how to plough the plains of
Riverine.
Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee,
And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea.
Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seen
Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.
They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum,
But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates
come.
From New Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
meadows green,
We’ll always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.
Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions
bold;
Victoria will send her “cockies,” too, her honour to uphold.
They’ll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs
between,
For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of
Riverine.
I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell,
Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to
tell;
Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, that’s what they
want to see,
That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
“This year will pay the pound.”—A pound a hundred is
the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out
strikes have taken place about it.
“We’ll take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the
toes.”—Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the
excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of
the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and
wool down on the legs.
“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.