The River Call
From Cooktown 40 years ago I wandered to The Yodda.
Lucky years, or scarce a cent, As following the Fields I went. (Ain’t a creek but where I’ve bent Fossicking The Yodda.) With roarin’ nights and many types, We’ve boozed up on the river.
We emptied shammys to make glad, We cursed Les when his booze was bad.
He calaboosed us blokes when mad, That storeman on The Yodda.
Fever? True, I’ve had my whack, In wet camps on the River; Days I’ve crawled back to me pack And lay a week there on me back. (The line cleared out, save One-eyed Jack, The best coon on The Yodda.) Then that there Dook, or Marquis chap (Sir Hiccups to the River)— Bit dumb! But the finest pal; Flood time swam with hefty Hal.
His weakness was a nigger gal— They speared him up The Yodda.
You’ve heard of ‘'Turpentine Malloy”
Who doctored un the River?
He’d poultice till your back was red, Cured your innards, eyes or head. (He poulticed one bloke three days dead — That tickled all The Yodda.) A bloomin’ mixed lot are these coves That drift around the River.
Weird toffs, studyin’ things, they roves, Chasin’ crocs or paintin’ doves.
One emptyologist in gloves Could stouch tho’ —ask The Yodda!
Times I clear out to Samarai . , .
Just finished with the River.
Me shammy’s full, I mean to hie Southward . . . I’m fed up, says I. (Do me cheque and back here fly— It gets you, does The Yodda.)