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Poem	It was a week from Christmas-time, As near as I remember, And half a year since, in the rear, We'd left the Darling timber. The track was hot and more than drear; The day dragged out for ever; But now we knew that we were near Our camp - the Paroo River. With blighted eyes and blistered feet, With stomachs out of order, Half-mad with flies and dust and heat We'd crossed the Queensland border. I longed to hear a stream go by And see the circles quiver; I longed to lay me down and die That night on Paroo River. The "nose-bags" heavy on each chest (God bless one kindly squatter!), With grateful weight our hearts they pressed - We only wanted water. The sun was setting in a spray Of colour like a liver - We'd fondly hoped to camp and stay That night by Paroo River. A cloud was on my mate's broad brow, And once I heard him mutter: 'What price the good old Darling now? - God bless that grand old gutter!" And then he stopped and slowly said In tones that made me shiver: "It cannot well be on ahead - I think we've crossed the river." But soon we saw a strip of ground Beside the track we followed, No damper than the surface round, But just a little hollowed. His brow assumed a thoughtful frown - This speech did he deliver: "I wonder if we'd best go down Or up the blessed river?" "But where," said I, " 's the blooming stream?' And he replied, 'we're at it!" I stood awhile, as in a dream, "Great Scott!" I cried, "is that it? Why, that is some old bridle-track!" He chuckled, "Well, I never! It's plain you've never been Out Back - This is the Paroo River!"
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