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I work on the border fence, a boundary rider's mission
And you should see the old Dodge and me when her engine starts a-missin'
I wind and crank all day, to get her on her way,
but the damned old thing, she needs new rings and valves ground all her way
And the station owners say, they can get no sleep
Instead they're chasing dingoes that are killing lots of sheep
They brag about the holes they find, where the dogs just gallop through
Then go to report to the Sydney heads and half of its not true
You get no flaming meat, depend on myxo rabbits
A knagaroo, a g'lah or two, or a snake if you can grab it.
But we are paid so well, or that what the big boys think.
But they way they treat the border boys, I reckon that the whole show stinks.
You'll never keep the dingo out, it's fifty that I'm betting
For every time he strikes a fence he'll pull and chew the netting
Until he makes a hole to squeeze his carcass through
Then he howls all night in New South Wales, "I've got the best of you"
Mister Commissioner you're the trump of the Western lands
Supply the boys a four wheel drive to pull through the drifting sands
An extra 44 each month, a quid or two more pay
We'd feel relief, and banish grief and work like mad each day.
Another from the October 1964 edition of Singabout:
This song was collected by Glen Hamilton from an unknown person who was born in 1927. He has wandered about the bush, droving, fencing, wood-cutting, tank sinking etc, and first started to write songs when his girl friend shot-off with his best mate. This is sung to a tune popular a few years ago, "She Wore Red Feathers And A Hula-Hula Skirt".
The illustration to this post is Lionel Lindsay's The Border Rider's Home.