It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out; Was I to touch my hat to him? -- was I his bloomin' dog? So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog.
But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below; Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down, And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town.
So, it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt We've got to make a shift to the stations further out; The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog, And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog.
There's never a stone at the sleeper's head, There's never a fence beside, And the wandering stock on the grave may tread Unnoticed and undenied, But the smallest child on the Watershed Can tell you how Gilbert died.
For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn To the hut at the Stockman's Ford, In the waning light of the sinking sun They peered with a fierce accord. They were outlaws both -- and on each man's head Was a thousand pounds reward.
They had taken toll of the country round, And the troopers came behind With a black that tracked like a human hound In the scrub and the ranges blind: He could run the trail where a white man's eye No sign of a track could find.
He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill And over the Old Man Plain, But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast's skill, And they made for the range again. Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt, They rode with a loosened rein.
And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold: 'Come in and rest in peace, No safer place does the country hold -- With the night pursuit must cease, And we'll drink success to the roving boys, And to hell with the black police.'
But they went to death when they entered there, In the hut at the Stockman's Ford, For their grandsire's words were as false as fair -- They were doomed to the hangman's cord. He had sold them both to the black police For the sake of the big reward.
In the depth of night there are forms that glide As stealthy as serpents creep, And around the hut where the outlaws hide They plant in the shadows deep, And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn Shall waken their prey from sleep.