At last the tribe lay down to sleep
Homeless, beneath a tree;
And onward with his travelling sheep
Went Saltbush Bill, J.P.
The sheep delivered, safe and sound,
His horse to town he turned,
And drew some five-and-twenty pound
For fees that he had earned.
And where Monaro's ranges hide
Their little farms away --
His sister's children by his side --
He spent his Christmas Day.
The next J.P. that went out back
Was shocked, or pained, or both,
At hearing every pagan black
Repeat the juror's oath.
No matter though he turned and fled
They followed faster still;
"You make it inkwich, boss," they said,
"All same like Saltbush Bill."
They even said they'd let him see
The fires originate.
When he refused they said that he
Was "No good magistrate."
And out beyond Sturt's Western track,
And Leichhardt's farthest tree,
They wait till fate shall send them back
Their Saltbush Bill, J.P.
The Riders in the Stand
There's some that ride the Robbo style, and bump at every stride;
While others sit a long way back, to get a longer ride.
There's some that ride like sailors do, with legs and arms, and teeth;
And some ride on the horse's neck, and some ride underneath.
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