I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill,
And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill.'
. . . . .
'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way
On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run,
on their six-mile stage a day;
And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along,
And, when Stingy Smith came up, Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong;
And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed
and strayed from their camp at night,
But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight:
So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground
and never a sound was heard
But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word,
Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout,
And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow -- and Saltbush Bill `went out'.
He fell face down, and towards the blow;
and their hearts with fear were filled,
For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed.
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