The colloquial New-Zealand and Australian phrase stone the crows—also stiffen the crows and starve the crows—is an exclamation of surprise, regret or disgust.

This is one of several similar phrases expressing those feelings. For example, the phrase stone the crows occurs together with starve the rats and stiffen the bees in The Register (Adelaide, South Australia, Australia) of Tuesday 16^th March 1915 [cf., below, quotation 5]. And the following is from the account of the annual championship meeting held by the Port Broughton Golf Club, published in The Recorder (Port Pirie, South Australia, Australia) of Wednesday 8^th August 1923:

Cottle swung and—hit the ball into the scrub. His supporters groaned. However they hoped. The trio hunted high and low. A lost ball also meant losing two strokes. They peered in this bush. They peered in that tree. They broke down the bushes, here, there, and everywhere. They hunted for an hour. They blighted the ball; they blasted the ball. They starved the rats, they stiffened the crows—they also went hopping to hell. They did everything possible, and looked in the most impossible places for the ball.

The earliest occurrences of the phrase stone the crows—also stiffen the crows and starve the crows—that I have found are as follows, in chronological order:

1[?]-: From The Evening Star (Boulder, Western Australia, Australia) of Saturday 18^th November 1905[?]—Starve the crows is the title given to a letter to the Editor, lambasting “the Rev. Alexander Crow’s utterances in the Scotchbyterian Church Assembly at Perth, on the subject of Sunday sports on the Goldfields”. The phrase does not occur in the letter itself, but the author writes:

Who is to pay, not the pulpiteer, but the people. He trades on their fears, and so they part with their money. Let Mr. Crow say: “Come to my church without money and without price;” then the starvation of the crows would be within measurable distance in regard to time.

2-: From the Stratford Evening Post (Stratford, Taranaki, New Zealand) of Friday 30^th January 1914:

The conversation had drifted round to the well-worn theme of stolen bicycles, when the silent member of the party rose in the corner and said: “This is true, Bill. Dinkum! It ’appened not a ’undred miles away from ’ere, Stratford, I mean—an’ not s’long ago, neither! I’d been in at the pub and’ ’ad one or two—per’aps more—’tanyrate, when I goes out, blime if the old jigger ’adn’t made ’erself scarce. […] For days I mourned ’er loss, an’ I watched ’em ’till I know’d every bike what goes up town: I was worsenor the inspector, so I was: ’cause I saw lots on ’em in the dark. But, stone the crows, if one day I didn’t spot the Sergeant no less aridin’ my pusher up the town. I says nothin’, says I, ’cept to myself, wait on! So up I goes to the Station next day, and I says to the Sergeant, says I: I’ve come for my bike.

3-: From the column The Moving Picture “Show”, published in The Sun (Sydney, New South Wales, Australia) of Wednesday 2^nd September 1914:

Peter Goes to the War.

Peter Persnurkus, puzzled by the apparent conflict between the statements of the Times correspondent at Amiens and the Official Press Bureau, has gone to find out for himself. Mrs. Peter voices her troubles:—
I am Mrs. P. Persnurkus, and Amelia is my name,
I am feeling pretty lonely at The Owls;
But that’s not an invitation, which it never was my game,
It is just a worried woman’s lawful growls.
When Peter read his Herald, all the atmosphere turned blue,
Which his langwidge it was horrible to hear;
“Oh! stone the crows, Ameliar, I dunno what to do,”
He said, “It fairly puzzles me, my Dear.”

4-: From The Star (Christchurch, Canterbury, New Zealand) of Friday 12^th February 1915:

A LUNCHEONTIME EPISODE.

The scene is laid in an “at any time” eating house well known to Christchurchians. It is about two o’clock and the regular three-course luncheon has come to a close. The waitresses are having a snack at one of the tables in the restaurant, and nothing is heard except a feverish clatter of the domestic weapons.
Enter a large proportioned man from the street entrance. He has a generally unkempt appearance, a smiling rotundity, a large shock of ill-kempt hair, and genuinely expansive features. He is followed by a small, unobtrusive little person, whose appearance is the opposite to dapper. They sit down at a handy table, having recognised the syrens at the chop with a nod.
The big man, breathing alcoholically and heavily: “Gor’ stone the crows. I’ve ’ad indergeschin orl the mornin’.”
The small man, sympathetically: “Gor’ struth.”

5-: From The Register (Adelaide, South Australia, Australia) of Tuesday 16^th March 1915:

“SOME” LANGUAGE.

Americans claim that they have so altered and improved on the English language that it deserves a title of its own. Certainly, it is quite an accomplishment to be au fait with the United States vocabulary of slang. But the Australian has also contributed his quota of “frills” to the mother tongue, some of the individual terms among which have become classics; for example, “wowser,” “bonzer,” “boshter,” and the like. Then, besides these Commonwealth coined nouns and adjectives, the ready-lipped Australian has framed phrases of exclamation every bit as boldly picturesque as those of the gay old English roysterers, with their, “By my halidom!” “Odd bodikins!” “Gadzooks!” “By our Lady!” and so on. Take the fervent phrase (oath, if you will), “S’truth!” A party of picnickers at Noarlunga the other day surprised some vivid expletives out of a thirsty wayfarer. They were seated around a holiday-spread by the side of their motor, and a variety of bottles graced the “table.” The “swaggie” “cadged” a “gurgle.” “What will you have?” asked one of the picknickers. “Well, what have you got, matey?” enquired the old fellow with the “bluey.” “Oh, here’s some tonic ale,” was the reply. “Starve the rats!” was the disgusted comment of the “sundowner.” “Well, how about soda and lime?” “Stone the crows!” he croaked. “Have a go at this can of ice-cream, then.” It was the positive, comparative, and superlative degree of insult, in rapid succession. “Gawd stiffen the bees!” croaked “Old Booze,” as he shuffled down the trail; “Good-night, you wowsers!”—Saturday’s Journal.