When the work was all but finished and the day was trouble-free 

The old man poured a cuppa, and he sat beneath a tree 

Every wrinkle in his forehead paid a tribute to the past 

As, towards the far horizon, now his gaze was duly cast 

 

And it seemed like he was floating on a most nostalgic stream 

As if mesmerized by music in some eucalyptic dream 

His eyes closed for a moment and a smile became his face 

And he saw his life unfolding and he knew his rightful place 

 

It was in an open paddock, Hoover heeling by his side 

With a sea of sheep converging on a fleece-inspired tide 

And the heartbeat of his country was in rhythm with the mob 

It was hard and it was humble, but he knew he’d done his job 

 

When the shepherd called him forward to that great flock in the sky 

And he waltzed amongst the mulga of the Milky Way on high 

He looked down at Australia, emotion running deep 

And for all that it had given him… he thanked God for his sheep… 

 

So…. this one’s for the swagmen! and the farmers! and the shearers! 

Having bent their back in earnest through the many sunburnt eras 

For their grit and their persistence in a life of uphill trails 

For the sweat above their brow and for the dirt beneath their nails 

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This one’s for the rouseabouts, the classers and the pressers! 

And the solitude of freedom that the open highway blesses 

The magic of the muster like an art that seals their fate 

With a cry and with a whistle then a closing of the gate

 

In the picture-painting stanzas of the great Australian book 

This one’s for the cocky and the kelpie and the cook! 

And the triumph of the battler who wanted not for much 

Except a coldie in the company of honest folk, as such 
 

This one’s for the patriot whose sentiment was cast 

To that treasure-trove of history in pages of the past 

When the colony was settled, and the industry began 

And potential was befriended by an optimistic plan… 
 

Yes, here’s to John McArthur and the beautiful precision 

Of Australia’s first Merino and the splendour of his vision 

That had grown, by 1800, to four thousand strong ‘a nation 

Then a hundred million bleating by the time of Federation! 
 

But not without Elizabeth, his wife who steered the flock 

In the chapters of his absence, she the undisputed rock 

For the women of the story, this one praises their persona 

None the lesser, for the processor, the butcher and the boner!   
 

Here’s to David Unaipon whose genius changed the game 

When the patent of his handpiece earned him fifty-dollar fame! 

As it sparked a revolution from the Isa to the Gong 

And confined the clicking shear blade to the glory of a song  
 

This one’s for the wethers and the hoggets, ewes and lambs 

And the brush of Thomas Roberts in the Shearing of the Rams! 

For the drafting and the crutching and the drenching on repeat 

And not just for their wool, but for the legend of their meat!  
 

For that roast on Sunday evening in the company of kin 

This one’s for the underdog who never once gave in 

For the backbone of a country that lent action to its vow 

For the stud of JC Cochrane and the ghost of Jackie Howe!  

 

For the export of an icon that would guide us through the storm 

For our soldiers in the trenches and the fleece that kept them warm 

A tribute to the heritage of toil and tears and blood! 

And the guts it took to field the blow of fire, drought and flood 
 

This one’s for the courage and the honour and the fight 

Of the one who stood for something -in belief of what was right 

Through disease and through depression or when politics was played 

Yes, many souls departed but the farmer’s spirit stayed!  
 

Now the rise of new technology creates a modern hum 

That extends towards tomorrow where the best is yet to come 

For the journey of the jumbuck! For the instinct to prevail! 

For the imprint of a family that’s etched in every bale  
 

This one makes a statement for the born and for the bred 

For the way you can’t forget that smell – the smell that filled the shed 
For the hope and opportunity to buckle down and bloom 

For the pride of every single person sitting in this room 
 

For your humble contribution, for your strength and inspiration 

For the tune that echoed sweetly from the plains of Dagworth Station 

For the heartbeat of a people, for their passion running deep 

This one’s for a nation that depends upon its sheep… 

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Returning to the moment and awaking from his dream 

Now the old man rose with gratitude and stood with wise esteem 

He gathered up his billy and, with Hoover by his side 

He looked towards the future on a fleece-inspired tide 

 

And in seeing where it led him, something wonderful imparted 

For he knew the wave to follow would improve on what he’d started 

Yes, the coming generations with their brilliance and ambition 

Would expand this mighty legacy and write their own tradition 

 

In the words his mother taught him, so he thought about that poem 

And he felt the sky above him and he knew that he was home 

Then he took a big step forward and he asked with honest glee… 

Who’ll come a waltzing… Matilda… with me? 

 

Rupert McCall © 2024 

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