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‘Who’ll come a waltzing matilda with me?’ The 

swagman trudged through the bush. His tuneless voice 

woke the bush animals who had been drowsing in the 

late afternoon heat. They froze, anxious not to answer 

his invitation.

‘Waltzing Matilda! Waltzing Matilda!’ the bushman 

yowled again, as he squatted down beside a deep 

billabong. He filled his billy. High above him on a bare 

branch of a coolabah tree, a kookaburra ruffled its 

feathers. 

‘Call that a song?’ the kookaburra laughed, startling 

the man. ‘You sound as melodic as a flock of bloomin’ 

cockatoos!’ Chuckling loudly again, he flew off.

The tired, dusty old swagman sighed and began gathering 

twigs and grass. Soon, he had made a small fire. Then he sat 

down on his swag and waited patiently for his billy to boil. The 

man was as lean as a hound and his sunburnt skin was the 

colour of his tea. 

"No wonder I’m all worn out," he thought. "Tea and damper 

has been my dinner for weeks. I’ve been shearin’ sheep but 

not tastin’ them! I haven’t had decent grub or decent wages 

lately. I hope that the next station is better."

The swaggie drank his tea. Then he closed his eyes and dozed 

underneath the majestic coolabah tree. When he awoke later, 

he felt refreshed. The sun was low in the sky by now and the 

tree’s spreading branches pointed in surprise at their own 

strange shadows.  

He was about to stand when he heard a rustling sound. He stayed still. 

He watched as a scrawny young sheep approached. The swaggie’s 

eyes widened. He held his breath. The jumbuck was trotting towards 

the billabong because he desperately wanted a drink after a day in the 

hot sun.

The suddenly jolly swagman didn’t doubt for a moment what he would 

do next. He was hungry. 

Who will miss this silly lost sheep until it is too late? he thought. 

Tomorrow I’ll be a long way from here.

He grabbed his tucker bag. Crouching low, he retreated a little way. 

Then he silently inched across the scrub, until he was directly behind 

the jumbuck. It was about twenty feet away. Still closer he moved. 

The sheep by now was at the water’s edge. The swagman watched and 

waited, until it lowered its head to drink. Then he leapt forward in a 

mad dance, grabbed the jumbuck and waltzed the poor creature right 

into his open tucker bag.   

‘Yes!’ the swaggie gleefully cried. ‘It’ll be roast mutton tonight!’

The swaggie happily placed more logs onto his fire. Because 

the crackling of the fire was roaring in his ears, he did not hear 

the approach of four horsemen a few minutes later. It was a 

squatter mounted on his thoroughbred, followed by three 

stern-looking troopers. They had seen the fire, so they found 

him easily.

In the fading light, they dismounted in a clearing. When they 

were about fifty feet away, the swaggie heard their footsteps. 

He turned around in panic. He saw the troopers’ uniforms. He 

knew immediately that he was in terrible trouble. The penalty 

for stock theft was a long sentence in gaol. Heart thumping, he 

grabbed the tucker bag in an instant and threw it behind the 

large tree.  

‘Baaahh!’ protested the unhappy jumbuck. 

Did they see me with the tucker bag? the swaggie wondered 

desperately. Please let the bad light save me!

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