I bought a run a while ago
On country rough and ridgy, Where wallaroos and wombats grow -- The Upper Murrumbidgee. The grass is rather scant, it's true, But this a fair exchange is, The sheep can see a lovely view By climbing up the ranges.
And She-oak Flat's the station's name, I'm not surprised at that, sirs: The oaks were there before I came, And I supplied the flat, sirs. A man would wonder how it's done, The stock so soon decreases -- They sometimes tumble off the run And break themselves to pieces.
I've tried to make expenses meet, But wasted all my labours; The sheep the dingoes didn't eat Were stolen by the neighbours. They stole my pears -- my native pears -- Those thrice-convicted felons, And ravished from me unawares My crop of paddy-melons.
And sometimes under sunny skies, Without an explanation, The Murrumbidgee used to rise And overflow the station. But this was caused (as now I know) When summer sunshine glowing Had melted all kiandra's snow And set the river going.
Then in the news, perhaps, you read: "Stock Passings. Puckawidgee, Fat cattle: Seven hundred head Swept down the Murrumbidgee; Their destination's quite obscure, But, somehow, there's a notion, Unless the river falls, they're sure To reach the Southern Ocean."
So after that I'll give it best; No more with Fate I'll battle. I'll let the river take the rest, For those were all my cattle. And with one comprehensive curse I close my brief narration, And advertise it in my verse -- "For Sale! A Mountain Station."