Drought
Posted: Mon Jun 27, 2016 7:21 am
The journey to Warren meant traversing hills one after another ... ups and downs continually. It was the first time I saw for myself what old Reg must have meant when he spoke about:
"Those darn devastating droughts."
Obviously no rain had fallen here for some time as the ground was looking devoid of grass, while what was left was tufted and brown, coated with dust from soil turned to powder. The sheep that I saw were lean and surviving on pulled scrub, which covered acre after acre. Even the kangaroos were doing it tough, scarcely having the energy to hop about. I saw what they called out here my first native dog or Dingo, standing a couple of hundred yards off from the rail track, though only for a moment, as he quickly disappeared into some scrub.
DROUGHT
The desperation drought can bring was cast before my eyes;
a squatter's run with starving sheep, their weak and feeble cries.
The days of cutting mulga scrub and pulling sheep from bogs;
of feral pigs and old black crows, along with native dogs.
The fine red dust which dries one's throat and sticks to face and limb;
hot summer days with cloudless skies when hope of rains grow dim.
The squatter who will not give in, whose pluck is never lost,
whose steadfast wife will stand by him no matter what the cost.
The days they then run into months, the months then into years;
at times you'll bet his nerve will crack, reduce him down to tears.
The sight of death is everywhere in bleached and scattered bones;
no vegetation on the ground, just paddocks full of stones.
The 'roos that usually hop about begin to move real slow,
but still they hang around the place, there's nowhere else to go.
The wedge tail eagle soars the skies; there's much on which to dine;
goannas they just crawl about for they all do just fine.
The water holes all turn to mud; the creek too turns to sand.
Poor squatter knows if rains don't come he'll surely lose his land.
The mortgage at the banks still there; the overdraft cut out.
He then begins to lay men off, there's not a soul about.
The wife and kids then take their place and do the work instead.
From dawn to dark they battle on and live on jam and bread.
The final blow then comes by mail; the Squatter’s worst of fears.
So sorry Sir we have foreclosed you’re too far in arrears.
From the book In Days Gone By.
© Merv Webster
http://users.tpg.com.au/thegrey/InDaysGoneBy.htm
"Those darn devastating droughts."
Obviously no rain had fallen here for some time as the ground was looking devoid of grass, while what was left was tufted and brown, coated with dust from soil turned to powder. The sheep that I saw were lean and surviving on pulled scrub, which covered acre after acre. Even the kangaroos were doing it tough, scarcely having the energy to hop about. I saw what they called out here my first native dog or Dingo, standing a couple of hundred yards off from the rail track, though only for a moment, as he quickly disappeared into some scrub.
DROUGHT
The desperation drought can bring was cast before my eyes;
a squatter's run with starving sheep, their weak and feeble cries.
The days of cutting mulga scrub and pulling sheep from bogs;
of feral pigs and old black crows, along with native dogs.
The fine red dust which dries one's throat and sticks to face and limb;
hot summer days with cloudless skies when hope of rains grow dim.
The squatter who will not give in, whose pluck is never lost,
whose steadfast wife will stand by him no matter what the cost.
The days they then run into months, the months then into years;
at times you'll bet his nerve will crack, reduce him down to tears.
The sight of death is everywhere in bleached and scattered bones;
no vegetation on the ground, just paddocks full of stones.
The 'roos that usually hop about begin to move real slow,
but still they hang around the place, there's nowhere else to go.
The wedge tail eagle soars the skies; there's much on which to dine;
goannas they just crawl about for they all do just fine.
The water holes all turn to mud; the creek too turns to sand.
Poor squatter knows if rains don't come he'll surely lose his land.
The mortgage at the banks still there; the overdraft cut out.
He then begins to lay men off, there's not a soul about.
The wife and kids then take their place and do the work instead.
From dawn to dark they battle on and live on jam and bread.
The final blow then comes by mail; the Squatter’s worst of fears.
So sorry Sir we have foreclosed you’re too far in arrears.
From the book In Days Gone By.
© Merv Webster
http://users.tpg.com.au/thegrey/InDaysGoneBy.htm