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The Cattle Camps

Edward S. Sorenson

“Wild cattle from the Mooni!”
    The speeding stockmen shout
As dashing through the goondi,
    They turn the scrubbers out
Full gallop from the ranges,
    Brush-tangled, stern and steep,
Where never yard or grange is
    And watch-beasts never sleep.

Swift-footed wild scrub cattle
    Adown the cleft spurs swing,
While clustering dead ferns rattle,
    And vines to long horns cling;
And soon, with saddles creaking,
    Strong horses ring the mob,
Their heaving flanks all reeking,
    Their eager hearts a-throb.

No fence is there to hold them,
    They tread on broken ground,
Where clumps of brush enfold them,
    With billabongs around;
And whilst the whips are swinging,
    Among the trees they tramp,
To lusty voices ringing
    Across the grassy camp.

Ten thousand horns are clashing
    And tossing to and fro,
A hundred colors flashing

    As round and round they go;
And high above the lowing
    The rounding riders shout,
And lash through timber glowing
    The mickies breaking out.

The old stock-horses lightly,
    And yet with reefing heads,
Move where the hides gleam whitely
    Among the roans and reds;
Well trained by mountain riders,
    They watch the wanted steer,
And quick as preying spiders,
    They drive the rebel clear.

They’ve drafted in the ranges,
    They’ve cut out on the flats,
They’ve run the wild scrub strangers,
    And blocked the station fats;
They need no reins to guide them
    Where mustered cattle tramp,
As well as those who ride them
    They know the work on camp.

“Wild cattle from the Mooni!”
    They quicken at the sound,
And dawn or night or noon high
    They’re ready for the bound;
Where’er the wild calls greet them,
    Old warriors staunch and true,
All eagerness they meet them,
    And put the scrubbers through.

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