With faded ink brandings and covered in dust,
Forgotten up there on the shelf out of view,
All these old station journals and cheque books and such,

Naming the founder with people I knew.

The names of old ringers, fencers and breakers,

Camp cooks and drovers and a house maid or two,
Firin' old mem'ries those station journals,
Shrouding the names of bush people I knew.


The names of hard toilers, the boozers and brawlers,
One or two names of good stockman I knew,

Indelibly etched in these old station ledgers,
Abandoned up here, choked in dust out of view.


[Instrumental]

Copies of records required by head office

Monthly reports from a man held in trust,
Fragile old entries on musty old foolscap,
Holes from red hornets and red Cooper dust.


Close to my hand lies a volume of history,
Listing some names long forgotten, deceased,

Dead though they might be, the day they come back to me,
Reading these pages so dust marked and creased.


And who in head office, evalues this history?
With which these old records are so richly filled.
How many shareholders honour the memory

Of the pound a week stockmen, at Station Colekell.

[Instrumental]


The bush breed young house-maid where has she wandered?
And where is the scribe who composed these reports?

And where is the dogger, the drover, the blacksmith?
And others who join a parade in my thoughts.


Yes these old station records, all covered in red dust,
Vanished from sight here, neglected alone,
You are fragile yet stronger than any flow'ry epitaph,

Man ever chiseled on marble headstone.

So I'll dust you and mend you and care for you now,

And place you out there at the front in full view,
And every so often I'll come by and squander
Some time with these pound a week people and you.