I know this isn't the one you were looking for, but it is a lovely piece of Austrine verse by E.J, Brady, around 1910 or so:

For God hath made the Black-soil; and spread it near and far,
From down the sweeping Namoi bends, away to Talbragar:
Its richness no man questions, its wealth no man denies,
But Sheol 'tis in rain time; and Tophet when it dries.

The drought hath cracked and torn it; the rain hath lent it seams.
God help the Black-soil teamster! God help the Black-soil teams!
God grace the toiling teamster! God give him strength and hope!
Spare swingle-bars and traces, spare curses, chains and rope!

A-ploughing down the gilgas — the mud as close as glue —
A-plunging past the myall, the squatter's wool goes through!
A-plunging through the gilgas, a-ploughing up the track,
With four and twenty horses, the squatter's stores come back.

New saddles for the stockmen, new dresses for the girls —
And round the straining leader the wicked whipthong curls.
Their flanks are all a-lather, the black mud axle-high,
But trust the Black-soil teamster; he'll take her through or die.

Who sees the trace-chains snapping, who sees the harness fly,
May kneel and pray for weather; may kneel and ask it dry.
But when the starved team staggers across a sun-scorched plain,
He'll change his plea, mayhappen and kneel and pray for rain.

But rain or draught, whatever, all flood or dry reverse,
The teamster's duty's patent — Pull out, pull through and curse.
Ay, pull her down the rivers: drag through the clinging loam,
Then turn-about, my brother, curse hard, and crawl her home!

God grant him grace hereafter; of grace, aye hath he dearth, —
Though fearing no hereafter — whose Hell is all on Earth.
Sun-tanned, mud-caked and hairy; morose and most profane,
God grace the Lean Lost Legion who plod the Black-soil plain!

A.