Travelling Down the Castlereagh
words by Banjo Paterson
There’s a lot of interesting history in this song. In the verse about shearing, the non-union shearers in the shed are referred to as ‘chinamen’. In the interests of political correctness, that is often changed nowadays to ‘non-union men’. I have two problems with this: you can’t tell a non-union man just by looking at him, and they were men from China, willing to work for whatever they could get – and willing to work hard. Once the gold petered out, they did whatever they could, the majority of them taking their earnings back to their families in China. In the interests of preserving history, I choose to retain the original reference.
I'm travellin' down the Castlereagh, and I'm a station-hand
I'm handy with the ropin' pole, I'm handy with the brand
And I can ride a rowdy colt, or swing an axe all day
But there's no demand for a station-hand along the Castlereagh
So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
That we've got to make a shift for the stations further out
With the pack-horse runnin' after, for he follows me like a dog
We must strike across the country at the old jig-jog
This old black horse I'm riding, if you notice what's his brand
He wears the crooked R, you see, none better in the land
He takes a lot of beatin', and the other day we tried
For a bit of a joke, with a racing bloke, for twenty pounds a side
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
That I had to make him shift, for the money was nearly out
But he cantered home a winner, with the other one at the flog
He's a red-hot sort to pick up with his old jig-jog
I asked a cove for shearin' once along the Marthaguy
"We shear non-union here," says he. "I call it scab," says I
I looked along the shearin' floor before I turned to go
There were eight or ten Chinamen a-shearin' in a row
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
It was time to make a shift with the leprosy about
So I saddled up my horses, and I whistled to my dog
And I left his scabby station at the old jig-jog
I went to Illawarra, where my brother's got a farm
He has to ask the landlord's leave before he lifts an arm
The landlord owns the countryside, man, woman, dog and cat
They haven't the cheek to dare to speak without they touch their hat
It was shift, boys, shift, for there wasn't the slightest doubt
Their little landlord god and I would soon have fallen out
Was I to touch my hat to him? was I his bloomin' dog?
So I makes for up the country at the old jig-jog
But it's time that I was movin', I've a mighty way to go
Till I drink artesian water from a thousand feet below
Till I meet the overlanders with the cattle comin' down
And I'll work a while till I make a pile, then have a spree in town
So it's shift, boys, shift, for there isn't the slightest doubt
We've got to make a shift for the stations further out
The pack-horse runs behind us, for he follows like a dog
And we cross a lot of country at the old jig-jog
Where did that go wrong?
This song reminds me of what my father wasn’t – competent in practical endeavors. He did try handyman chores from time to time, sometimes with spectacular results.
Here’s a story told to me by my mother and, much later, by my grandmother.
Shortly after Mum and Dad were married, my very capable grandfather extended the kitchen in the family home, often with the help of Uncle Ray. Dad decided he wanted part of the action and offered his assistance. I can’t recall the exact details, but it involved Dad working in the roof space, walking carefully along the beams. Not carefully enough. He missed his footing and fell through the newly installed plaster ceiling.
He was off Grandpa’s list as a builder’s laborer. Grandpa did a lot of work on our house in Tontaquon Avenue after the fires but I don’t ever recall my father helping him.
Dad in his pirate hat
Dad couldn’t even get the drinking ritual sorted out. Grandpa and my uncles would often slip in a depth charge in their drinking session. This involves a glass of beer and a shot of whiskey. Drink off the top of the beer to make room, drop in the shot, glass and all, and toss it back.
The glass was slightly conical, the shot glass was a miniature beer glass with a handle. For some reason, it was Dad’s shot glass that got stuck in the beer glass. I remember his embarrassed laugh.
He once put up a simple shelf in the bathroom. Even though he had used right angle brackets, items would still manage to roll off.
When he was living with me in Newstead, I came home one day to find him standing at the kitchen bench, fiddling with his glasses. I asked if he needed help. Yes, he did. While trying to glue the broken frame, he had superglued his finger to the lens.
He was a somewhat better mechanic, but in that area he also had his trials.
He was working on the Harley in the front yard. He had it laying on its side and was walking around the machine, smoking, pondering the problem. Unobserved, gasoline dribbled from the tank.
He tossed his cigarette away. It landed in the invisible trail of gasoline, which ignited. The fire developed quickly, too fast for him to do anything about it.
Mum called the fire department and the kids were shooed out of the yard. The fire truck arrived post-haste, the firemen hauled out the foam and began to apply it to the fire starting to spread over the motorcycle.
The foam gave one brave spurt and died out. They had brought along a virtually empty tank.
Another call to the fire department, and a second truck arrived in no time, but it was time enough for the fire to engulf the large snowball bush and leap to the wisteria vine which grew around the front porch.
Then the tank exploded.
There was very little damage to the front porch, the snowball bush would recover, but that was the end of the Harley.
