Saltbush Bill's Gamecock

'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; / He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; / He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard: / For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard. / He bore no malice to Stingy Smith -- 'twas simply the hand of fate / That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate; / And, being only the hand of fate, it follows, without a doubt, / It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out. / So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall, / Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Rooster Hall.

'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft, / Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft; / And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame / As breeder of champion fighting cocks -- his 'forte' was the British Game. / The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall / Was forced to talk about fowls all night, or else not talk at all. / Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, / his fowls were his sole delight; / He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two gamecocks fight. / He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; / In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win!