Over the plains of the whitening grass and the stunted mulga the drovers pass, and in the red dust cloud, each side of the cattle, the native stockmen ride.
And day after day lays bare the same endless plains as the way they came, and ever the cloven ranges lie at the end of the land and the opal sky.
With creak of pack and saddle leather, and chink of chain and bit together, with moan of the herd with hobble and bell they come to the tanks at the tea-tree well.
And through corroding blood-red hills by sanded rivers the Gulf-rain fills, far, where the morning star has shone and paled above, their tracks are gone.
- by Roland Robinson25
From the hollow trees in their native home them old fellows cut the honeycomb. On honey and little white grubs they fed, 'cause them young bees was blackfeller's bread. That's why they was so mighty and strong in their native home in Currarong. An' them old fellers' drink was honey-bul; honey and water, a coolamon full. Naked through the bush they went, an' never knew what sickness meant, them native bees could do you no harm, they'd crawl all over your honey-smeared arm. But them Eyetalian bees, they'd bung your eyes right up. When we was young we used to rob their honey-trees, Savage! they'd fetch your blood, Them bees would zoom an' zing an' chase a feller from Bombaderry to Bodalla Well Old Uncle Ninah, and Billy Bulloo Old Jacky Mumbulla, King Merriman too, them fierce old fellers, they're all gone now. An' the wild honey's still in the gumtree bough.
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