HotFreeBooks.com
The Old Bush Songs
by A. B. Paterson
1  2     Next Part
Home - Random Browse

This ebook was prepared by Jeffrey Kraus-yao

THE OLD BUSH SONGS



Second Impression completing the Tenth Thousand



THE OLD BUSH SONGS

Composed and sung in the Bushranging, Digging, and Overlanding Days

EDITED BY

A. B. PATERSON AUTHOR OF THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER, AND RIO GRANDES LAST RACE

SYDNEY ANGUS AND ROBERTSON 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET 1906



Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney



PREFACE

The object of the present publication is to gather together all the old bush songs that are worth remembering. Apart from other considerations, there are many Australians who will be reminded by these songs of the life of the shearing sheds, the roar of the diggings townships, and the campfires of the overlanders. The diggings are all deep sinking now, the shearing is done by contract, and the cattle are sent by rail to market, while newspapers travel all over Australia; so there will be no more bush ballads composed and sung, as these were composed and sung, as records of the early days of the nation. In their very roughness, in their absolute lack of any mention of home ties or of the domestic affections, they proclaim their genuineness. They were collected from all parts of Australia, and have been patched together by the compiler to the best of his ability, with the idea of presenting the song as nearly as possible as it was sung, rather than attempting to soften any roughness or irregularity of metre. Attempts to ascertain the names of the authors have produced contradictory statements, and no doubt some of the songs were begun by one man and finished or improved by another, or several others. Some few fairly recent ballads have been included, but for the most part no attempt has been made to include any of the more ambitious literary productions of modern writers. This collection is intended to consist of the old bush songs as they were sung in the early days, and as such it is placed before the reader.

Most cordial thanks are due to those who have sent contributions, and it is hoped that others who can remember any old songs not included here will forward them for inclusion in a future edition.



CONTENTS

TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY PADDYS LETTER, 1857 THE OLD BARK HUT THE OLD SURVEY DWELL NOT WITH ME THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN BOLD JACK DONAHOO THE WILD COLONIAL BOY JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER) IMMIGRATION THE SQUATTERS MAN THE STRINGY BARK COCKATOO THE EUMERELLA SHORE JIMMY SAGO JACKAROO THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE THE SHEEP-WASHERS LAMENT THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER THE FREE SELECTOR A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES BRINGING HOME THE COWS THE DYING STOCKMAN MY MATE BILL SAM HOLT THE BUSHMAN HAWKING COLONIAL EXPERIENCE THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA ITS ONLY A WAY HES GOT THE LOAFERS CLUB THE OLD KEG OF RUM THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER THE SWAGMAN THE STOCKMAN THE MARANOA DROVERS RIVER BEND SONG OF THE SQUATTER WALLABI JOE THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME THE STOCKMANS LAST BED MUSTERING SONG THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN THE SHEPHERD THE OVERLANDER A THOUSAND MILES AWAY THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN THE WALLABY BRIGADE MY RELIGION BOURKES DREAM BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA



INTRODUCTION

All human beings not utterly savage long for some information about past times, and are delighted by narratives which present pictures to the eye of the mind. But it is only in very enlightened communities that books are readily accessible. Metrical composition, therefore, which, in a highly civilised nation, is a mere luxury, is in nations imperfectly civilised almost a necessity of life, and is valued less on account of the pleasure which it gives to the ear than on account of the help which it gives to the memory. A man who can invent or embellish an interesting story and put it into a form which others may easily retain in their recollection will always be highly esteemed by a people eager for amusement and information, but destitute of libraries. Such is the origin of ballad poetry, a species of composition which scarcely ever fails to spring up and flourish in every society at a certain point in the progress towards refinement. Macaulay.

Australias history is so short, and her progress has been so wonderfully rapid, that, seeing things as they are to-day, it is hard to believe that among us still are men who can remember the days when convicts in irons tramped the streets of Sydney, and it was unsafe to go to and from Sydney and Parramatta without an armed escort; who were partakers of the roaring days of the diggings when miners lit their pipes with five-pound notes and shod their horses with gold; who have exchanged shots with Gilbert and Morgan, and have watched the lumbering police of the old days scouring the country to earn the thousand pounds reward on the head of Ben Hall. So far as materials for ballads go, the first sixty or seventy years of our history are equal to about three hundred years of the life of an old and settled nation. The population of the country comprised a most curious medley. Among the early settlers were some of the most refined and educated, and some of the most ignorant, people on the face of the earth. Among the assisted immigrants and currency lads of the earlier days education was not a strong point; and such newspapers as there were could not be obtained by one-half of the population, and could not be read by a very large percentage of the other half. It is no wonder, then, that the making of ballads flourished in Australia just as it did in England, Scotland, and Ireland in the days before printing was in common use. And it was not only in the abundance of matter that the circumstances of the infant Colony were favourable to ballad-making. The curious upheavals of Australian life had set the Oxford graduate carrying his swag and cadging for food at the prosperous homestead of one who could scarcely write his name; the digger, peeping out of his holelike a rabbit out of his burrowat the license hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was full of neer-do-wellssingers and professional entertainers and so onwho had come to grief and had to take to hard work to earn a crust to carry them on until they could strike a new patch. No wonder that, with all this talent to hand, songs and ballads of a rough sort were plentiful enough.

Most of these songs, even in the few years that they have been extant, have developed three or four different readings, and not only have the ballads been altered, but many of them have been forgotten altogether. Only one very imperfect song has come to hand dealing directly with the convict days, but there must have been many ballads composed and sung by the prisonersballads in which the horrors of Port Arthur in Tasmania, the grim, grey prisons of Norfolk Island, the curse of official tyranny, and the humours of the rum traffic had their share. Possibly some lost singer of convictdom poured out his regrets in words straight from the soul, and produced a song worthy to rank as a classic: but all the songs of that day have been mercifully allowed to drift into oblivion; and their singers, with their grey clothes and their fetters, have gone clanking down to the limbo of forgotten things.

The collection begins with two aboriginal songs. These songs were supplied by Mr. S. M. Mowle, a very old colonist, with much experience of the blacks fifty years ago. He writesI could never find out what the words meant, and I dont think the blacks themselves knew. Other authorities, however, say that the blacks songs were very elaborate, and that they composed corroborees which reached a high dramatic level. The question is of interest, and might be worth investigation.

It is interesting to see how the progress of settlement is reflected in the various songs. Beginning with the crude early days, when there was land and to spare, and when labour was in demand and Australia was terra incognita to all, we find in Paddy Malone a fitting chronicle in rhyme. In this ballad a raw, Irish immigrant tells of his adventures in the Australian bush. He was put to shepherding and bullock-driving, which in itself proves that labourers were at a premium, and that instead of a man having to hunt for a job the job had to hunt for the man. He lost his sheep, and the bullocks got away from him. It will be noticed that there is no mention of fences or roads in this ballad, as in the Paddy Malone days fences and roads were not very much met with. Compare also The Beautiful Land of Australia. In this the settler reaches Sydney, and Upon the map I chose my land, which shows that there was land enough and to spare, and that the system of grants to free immigrants was in full swing. It is noticeable that in all the ballads of early days there is a sort of happy-go-lucky spirit which reflects the easy-come, easy-go style of the times.

Next in order come the ballads of the days when the squatters had established themselves, and the poorer classes found it harder to live. The Squatters Man is a balled of these harder times. Compare it with Paddy Malone. There is no talk of sending a new-chum out with sheep and bullocks now. The first rush of settlement is over, and the haughty squatter contemptuously offers ten shillings a week as wages to a man for a variety of drudgery that is set out with much spirit in the song.

Next come the free-selection days, when the runs of these squatters were thrown open to purchase on certain easy conditions, and at once the ballads change their tone, and there is quite a pæan of victory in The Free Selectora Song of 1861. The reader will note that The Land Bill has passed and the good time has come, and further on the singer says

We may reside In a home of our own by some clear waterside.

The squatters also had a word to say, and The Broken-down Squatter puts their side of the case in a sort of ad misericordiam appeal; while The Eumerella Shore is a smart hit at the cattle-stealers who availed themselves of the chances afforded by the new state of things in the country. Later still comes the time when the selectors became employers of labour, and The Stringy-bark Cockatoo, though rough in style and versification, is a splendid hit at the new squireens. A cockatoo, it should be explained, is a small settler, and the stringy-bark tree is an unfailing sign of poor land; and the minstrel was much worse treated when working for The Stringy-bark Cockatoo than when he was a Squatters man.

So much for the historical element; now as to the songs themselves. As metrical compositions they cannot be expected to rank high. In all her history England has produced only a few good ballads, and ballads do not get justice from cold print. An old Scotchman, to whom Sir Walter Scott read some of his collected ballads, expressed the opinion that the ballads were spoilt by printing. And these bush songs, to be heard at their best, should be heard to an accompaniment of clashing shears when the voice of a shearer rises through the din caused by the rush and bustle of a shearing shed, the scrambling of the sheep in their pens, and the hurry of the pickers-up; or when, on the roads, the cattle are restless on their camp at night and the man on watch, riding round them, strikes up Bold Jack Donahoo to steady their nerves a little. Drovers know that they must not sneak quietly about restless cattleit is better to sing to them and let them know that someone is stirring and watching; and many a mob of wild, pike-horned Queensland cattle, half inclined to stampede, has listened contentedly to the Wild Colonial Boy droned out in true bush fashion till the daylight began to break and the mob was safe for another day. Heard under such circumstances as these the songs have quite a character of their own. A great deal depends, too, on the way in which they are sung. The true bushman never hurries his songs. They are designed expressly to pass the time on long journeys or slow, wearisome rides after sheep or tired cattle; so the songs are sung conscientiously throughchorus and alland the last three words of the song are always spoken, never sung. There is, too, a strong Irish influence in the greater number of the songs; quite a large proportion are sung to the tune of the Wearing of the Green, and the admixture of Irish wit and Irish pathos in their composition can only be brought out by a good singer.

One excuse, if excuse be needed, for the publication of this collection is the fact that the songs it contains are fast being forgotten. Thirty or forty years ago every station and every shearing shed had its singer, who knew some of the bush songs. Nowadays they are never sung, and even in districts where they took their rise they have pretty well died out. Only a few years ago, every shearing shed had at least one minstrel who could drone out the refrain of a shearing song

But, oh, boys, such sheep I never shore, As those that made us knuckle down at Goorianawa

But the Goorianawa sheep are not celebrated in song nowadays, and advertisement has failed to produce a copy of the song. Down in the rough country near the Upper Murrumbidgee, where the bushranger Gilbert was betrayed by a relative and was shot by the police, there was a song about Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall It commenced

Come all ye lads of loyalty and listen to my tale, A story of bushranging days I will to you unveil, Tis of those gallant heroes, well bless them one and all, And well sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall.

Another line ran

Its a thousand pounds alive or dead, for Dunn, Gilbert, and Ben Hall

Thirty years ago every one in the district had heard this song, and all the sympathisers with the bushrangers (which meant the bulk of the wild and scattered population) used to sing it on occasion; but to-day the most persistent inquiry has failed to reveal one man who can remember more than a few fragments of it; and yet it is only forty years since Ben Hall was shot. It is in the hope of rescuing these rough bush ballads from oblivion that the present collection is placed before the public.

A. B. PATERSON.



TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS

I

Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwaringime. Iwaringiang, iwaringdoo, ilanenienow, coombagongniengowe, ilanenienow, coombagongniengowe, ilanenienowe combagoniengowe, ilanenienimme.

II

Buddha-buddharo nianga, boomelana, bulleranga, crobinea, narnmala, yibbilwaadjo nianga, boomelana, a, boomelana, buddha-buddharo, nianga, boomelana, buddharo nianga, boomelana, bulleranga, crobinea, narnmala, yibbilwaadjo, nianga, croilanume, a, croilanga, yibbilwaadjo, nianga, croilanga, yibbilwaadjo, nianga croilanga, coondheranea, tabiabina, boorganmala, yibbilwaadjo, nianga, croilanoome.

Of the above songs Mr. Mowle writesI could never find out what the words meant, and I dont think the blacks themselves knew.



PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA

Och! my names Pat Malone, and Im from Tipperary. Sure, I dont know it now Im so bothered, Ohone! And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy, Its scarcely theyd notice poor Paddy Malone. Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor In happy Australia, the Emigrants home, And from that day to this theres been nothing but canker, And grafe and vexation for Paddy Malone. Oh, Paddy Malone! Oh, Paddy, Ohone! Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.

Wid a man called a squatter I soon got a place, sure, Hed a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone! And he saidas he peeped through the hair on his faitures That he liked the appearance of Paddy Malone. Wid him I agreed to go up to his station, Saying abroad in the bush youll find yourself at home. I liked his proposal, and out hesitation Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone. Oh, Paddy Malone, youre no scholard, Ohone! Sure, I made a cris-crass that spelt Paddy Malone.

A-herding my sheep in the bush, as they call it It was no bush at all, but a mighty great wood, Wid all the big trees that were small bushes one time, A long time ago, faith I spose fore the flood. To find out this big bush one day I went further, The trees grew so thick that I couldnt, Ohone! I tried to go back then, but that I found harder, And bothered and lost was poor Paddy Malone. Oh, Paddy Malone, through the bush he did roam What a Babe in the Wood was poor Paddy Malone.

I was soon overcome, sure, wid grafe and vexation, And camped, you must know, by the side of a log; I was found the next day by a man from the station, For I coo-eyd and roared like a bull in a bog. The man said to me, Arrah, Pat! wheres the sheep now? Says I, I dunno! barring one here at home, And the master began and kicked up a big row too, And swore hed stop the wages of Paddy Malone. Arrah! Paddy Malone, youre no shepherd, Ohone! Well try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone.

To see me dressed out with my team and my dray too, Wid a whip like a flail and such gaiters, Ohone! But the bullocks, as they eyed me, they seemed for to say too, You may do your best, Paddy, were blest if we go. Gee whoa! Redman! come hither, Damper! Hoot, Magpie! Gee, Blackbird! Come hither, Whalebone!

But the brutes turned round sharp, and away they did scamper, And heels over head turned poor Paddy Malone. Oh, Paddy Malone! youve seen some bulls at home, But the bulls of Australia cows Paddy Malone.

I was found the next day where the brutes they did throw me By a man passing by, upon hearing me groan, And wiping the mud from my face that he knew me, Says he, Your names Paddy? Yes! Paddy Malone. I thin says to him, Youre an angel sent down, sure! No, faith, but Im not; but a friend of your own! And by his persuasion, for home then I started, And you now see before you poor Paddy Malone. Arrah, Paddy Malone! you are now safe at home. Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.



THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY

Oh! the shearing is all over, And the wool is coming down, And I mean to get a wife, boys, When I go up to town. Everything that has two legs Represents itself in view, From the little paddy-melon To the bucking kangaroo.

CHORUS

So its roll up your blankets, And lets make a push, Ill take you up the country, And show you the bush. Ill be bound you wont get Such a chance another day, So come and take possession Of my old bullock dray.

Now, Ive saved up a good cheque, I mean to buy a team, And when I get a wife, boys, Ill be all-serene For calling at the depôt. They say theres no delay To get an off-sider For the old bullock dray.

Oh! well live like fighting cocks, For good living, Im your man. Well have leather jacks, johnny cakes, And fritters in the pan; Or if youd like some fish Ill catch you some soon, For well bob for barramundies Round the banks of a lagoon.

Oh! yes, of beef and damper I take care we have enough, And well boil in the bucket Such a whopper of a duff, And our friends will dance To the honour of the day, To the music of the bells, Around the old bullock dray.

Oh! well have plenty girls, We must mind that. Therell be flash little Maggie, And buckjumping Pat. Therell be Stringy bark Joe, And Green-hide Mike. Yes, my Colonials, just As many as you like.

Now well stop all immigration, We wont need it any more; Well be having young natives, Twins by the score. And I wonder what the devil Jack Robertson would say If he saw us promenading Round the old bullock dray.

Oh! its time I had an answer, If theres one to be had, I wouldnt treat that steer In the body half as bad; But he takes as much notice Of me, upon my soul, As that old blue stag Off-side in the pole.

Oh! to tell a lot of lies, You know, it is a sin, But Ill go up country And marry a black gin. Oh! Baal gammon white feller, This is what shell say, Budgery you And your old bullock dray.

This song may require a few notes for the benefit of non-Australian readers. A paddy-melon is a small and speedy marsupial, a sort of poor relation of the great kangaroo family.

Calling at the depôt to get an offsider.Female immigrants were housed at the depôt on arrival, and many found husbands within a few hours of their landing. The minstrel, therefore, proposes to call at the depôt to get himself a wife from among the immigrants. An offsider is a bullock-drivers assistantone who walks on the off-side of the team and flogs the bullocks on that side when occasion arises. The word afterwards came to mean an assistant of any kind.

Jack Robertson.Sir John Robertson, as he afterwards became, was a well-known politician, who believed in Australians doing their best to populate their own country.

Budgery yougood fellow you.



PADDYS LETTER, 1857

Ive had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better, But now I have somebodys luck and my own, For I stooped in the street and I picked up a letter, Which some one had written to send away home.

The old adage says, What you find, you may keep it, And as most of these old sayings are very true, I straight broke the seal, and then having read it, The contents of this letter I tell unto you.

The Letter

Dear Dermot, I hope when this letter gets to you Twill find you in health, as now it leaves me; But I hope youre more happy than I am in Australia If not, its small comfort that you have, achree!

Hard fortunes been mine since crossing the line, Though that same I neer saw, for we crossed it at night; But they say twas laid down at expense of the Crown, To divide the wrong side of the world from the right.

But what should a boy placed in my situation Know about lines laid across the big sea! But, faith, this I know, and without navigation, Im at the wrong side of the line, anyway.

Im telling you now how strange seasons fall. We have here rain and sleet in the month of July, And hailstones as big as a small cannon-ball And they do as much harmnot a word of a lie!

But the making of magistrates now all the rage is, And every flockmasters a justice of peace; They find it so easy to cancel the wages, The law is their own and they rob whom they please.

Pat Murphys boy Tim, that married Moll Casey, Lives on the Barcoo thats away in the bush. Himself and the wife, why they lived mighty aisy, Till one day on Tim, oh, the blacks they did rush.

They killed little Paddy, but spared the young baby, Because it was sicklyI think it was that And while Molly was crying, a gin said, No habbie Your thin picaninnywell wait till its fat.

Tis a beautiful country to practise economy. Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof, But theyre illigant houses for studying astronomy You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof

P.S.This is crampedif theres no one to read it, Send for Tim Murphy, hell know every stroke. Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it, So no more at present from Teddy ORourke.

The above to an old tune called Barney OKeefe, 1848.



THE OLD BARK HUT

Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand, And Ive had many ups and downs while travelling through the land. I once was well-to-do, my boys, but now I am stumped up, And Im forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. Im forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.

Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and some tea, Thats all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day. If you dont be moighty sparing, youll go with a hungry gut For thats one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. For thats one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.

The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too, And theyll say youre getting mighty flash if you should ask for two. Ive a billy, and a pint pot, and a broken-handled cup, And they all adorn the table in the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. And they all adorn the table in the old bark hut.

Faith, the table is not made of wood, as many you have seen For if I had one half so good, Id think myself serene Tis only an old sheet of barkGod knows when it was cut It was blown from off the rafters of the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. It was blown from off the rafters of the old bark hut.

And of furniture, theres no such thing, twas never in the place, Except the stool I sit uponand thats an old gin case. It does us for a safe as well, but you must keep it shut, Or the flies would make it canter round the old hark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. Or the flies would make it canter round the old bark hut.

If you should leave it open, and the flies should find your meat, Theyll scarcely leave a single piece thats fit for man to eat. But you mustnt curse, nor grumblewhat wont fatten will fill up For whats out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.

Chorus In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. For whats out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.

In the summer time, when the weathers warm, this hut is nice and cool, And youll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every hole. You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut, Theres no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. Theres no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.

In the winter timepreserve us allto live in theres a treat Especially when its raining hard, and blowing wind and sleet.

The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black with soot Thats a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. Thats a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.

Ive seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood, Especially through that great big hole where once the table stood. Theres not a blessed spot, me boys, where you could lay your nut, But the rain is sure to find you in the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. But the rain is sure to find you in the old bark hut.

So beside the fire I make me bed, and there I lay me down, And think myself as happy as the king that wears a crown. But as youd be dozing off to sleep a flea will wake you up, Which makes you curse the vermin in the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. Which makes you curse the vermin in the old bark hut.

Faith, such flocks of fleas you never saw, they are so plump and fat, And if you make a grab at one, hell spit just like a cat. Last night they got my pack of cards, and were fighting for the cut I thought the devil had me in the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. I thought the devil had me in the old bark hut.

So now, my friends, Ive sung my song, and that as well as I could, And I hope the ladies present wont think my language rude, And all ye younger people, in the days when you grow up, Remember Bob the Swagman, and the old bark hut.

Chorus

In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut. Remember Bob the Swagman, and the old bark hut.



THE OLD SURVEY

Our moneys all spent, to the deuce went it! The landlord, he looks glum, On the tap-room wall, in a very bad scrawl, He has chalked to us a sum. But a glass well take, ere the grey dawn break, And then saddle up and away Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

With a measured beat fall our horses feet, Galloping side by side; When the moneys done, and weve had our fun, We all are bound to ride. Oer the far-off plain well drag the chain, And mark the settlers way Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Well range from the creeks to the mountain peaks, And traverse far below; Where foot never trod, well mark with a rod The limits of endless snow;

Each lofty crag well plant with a flag, To flash in the suns bright ray Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.

Till with cash hard-earned once more returned, At The Beaver bars well shout; And the very bad scrawl thats against the wall Ourselves shall see wiped out. Such were the ways in the good old days! The days of the old survey! Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.



DWELL NOT WITH ME

Dwell, not with me, For youll never see More than a possum or a kangaroo, And now and then a cockatoo.

Oh, would you wish, Without a dish, Your scanty meal from a piece of bark, And a wood fire to illume the dark.

Tis there youd mourn, Tis there youd mourn The sweet woodbine That round your lattice now doth twine.

Fond friends, dont grieve For scenes like these, Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas. Dwell not with me.



THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA

All you on emigration bent, With home and England discontent, Come, listen to my sad lament, All about the bush of Australia. I once possessed a thousand pounds. Thinks Ihow very grand it sounds For a man to be farming his own grounds In the beautiful land of Australia.

Chorus

Illawarra, Mittagong, Parramatta, Wollongong. If you wish to become an ourang-outang, Then go to the bush of Australia.

Upon the voyage the ship was lost. In wretched plight I reached the coast, And was very nigh being made a roast, By the savages of Australia.

And in the bush I lighted on A fierce bushranger with his gun, Who borrowed my garments, every one, For himself in the bush of Australia.

Chorus

Illawarra, Mittagong, Parramatta, Wollongong. If you wish to become an ourang-outang, Then go to the bush of Australia.

Sydney town I reached at last, And now, thinks I, all dangers past, And I shall make my fortune fast In this promising land of Australia. I quickly went with cash in hand, Upon the map I chose my land. When I got there twas barren sand In the beautiful land of Australia.

Chorus

Illawarra, Mittagong, Parramatta, Wollongong- If you wish to become an ourang-outang, Then go to the bush of Australia.

Of sheep I got a famous lot. Some died of hunger, some of rot, For the devil a drop of rain they got, In this flourishing land of Australia. My convict men were always drunk, They kept me in a constant funk. Says I to myself, as to bed I slunk, How I wish I was out of Australia!

Chorus

Booligal, Gobarralong, Emu Flat and Jugiong. If you wish to become an ourang-outang, Then go to the bush of Australia.

Of ills, enough Ive had youll own. And then at last, my woes to crown, One night my log house was blown down That settled us all in Australia And now of home and all bereft, The horrid spot I quickly left, Making it over by deed of gift To the savages of Australia.

Chorus

Booligal, Gobarralong, Emu Flat and Jugiong. If you wish to become an ourang-outang, Then go to the bush of Australia

I gladly worked my passage home, And now to England back Ive come, Determined never more to roam, At least, to the bush of Australia. And stones upon the road Ill break, And earn my seven bob a week, Which is surely better than the freak Of settling down in Australia.

Chorus

Currabubula, Bogolong, Ulladulla, Gerringong. If you wouldnt become an ourang-outang, Dont go to the bush of Australia.



ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI

Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut out. Wed whips and whips of Rhino as we meant to push about, So we humped our blues serenely and made for Sydney town, With a three-spot cheque between us, as wanted knocking down.

Chorus

But we camped at Lazy Harrys, on the road to Gundagai The road to Gundagai! Not five miles from Gundagai! Yes, we camped at Lazy Harrys, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we struck the Murrumbidgee near the Yanko in a week, And passed through old Narrandera and crossed the Burnet Creek. And we never stopped at Wagga, for wed Sydney in our eye.

But we camped at Lazy Harrys, on the road to Gundagai. Chorus: But we camped, &c.

Oh, Ive seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer, And Ive met with some of both, chaps, as has left me mighty queer; But for beer to knock you sideways, and for girls to make you sigh, You must camp at Lazy Harrys, on the road to Gundagai.

Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked into the bar, And we called for rum-an-raspbry and a shilling each cigar. But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I And we camped at Lazy Harrys, not five miles from Gundagai.

In a week the spree was over and the cheque was all knocked down, So we shouldered our Matildas, and we turned our backs on town, And the girls they stood a nobbler as we sadly said Good bye, And we tramped from Lazy Harrys, not five miles from Gundagai;

Chorus: And we tramped, &c.

Humped our blues serenely.To hump bluey is to carry ones swag, and the name bluey comes from the blue blankets. To Shoulder Matilda is the same thing as to hump bluey.



FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI

Ive shore at Burrabogie, and Ive shore at Toganmain, Ive shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine, But before the shearin was over Ive wished myself back, again Shearin for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.

Chorus

All among the wool, boys, Keep your wide blades full, boys, I can do a respectable tally myself whenever I like to try, But they know me round the back blocks as Flash Jack from Gundagai.

Ive shore at big Willandra and Ive shore at Tilberoo, And once I drew my blades, my boys, upon the famed Barcoo, At Cowan Downs and Trida, as far as Moulamein, But I always was glad to get back again to the One Tree Plain.

Chorus: All among the wool, &c.

Ive pinked em with the Wolseleys and Ive rushed with B-bows, too, And shaved em in the grease, my boys, with the grass seed showing through. But I never slummed my pen, my lads, whateer it might contain, While shearin for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.

Ive been whalin up the Lachlan, and Ive dossed on Coopers Creek, And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week. But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, Ill catch the morning train, And Ill push for old Tom Pattersons, on the One Tree Plain.

Ive pinked em with the Wolseleys, and Ive rushed with B-bows, too. Wolseleys and B-bows are respectively machines and hand-shears, and pinking means that he had shorn the sheep so closely that the pink skin showed through. I rung Cudjingie shed and blued it in a week, i.e., he was the ringer or fastest shearer of the shed, and he dissipated the earnings in a single weeks drunkenness.

Whalin up the Lachlan. In the old days there was an army of sundowners or professional loafers who walked from station to station, ostensibly to look for work, but without any idea of accepting it. These nomads often followed up and down certain rivers, and would camp for days and fish for cod in the bends of the river. Hence whaling up the Lachlan.



ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN

(Air: Little Low Log Cabin in the Lane.)

The weather had been sultry for a fortnights time or more, And the shearers had been driving might and main, For some had got the century whod neer got it before, And now all hands were wishing for the rain.

Chorus

For the boss is getting rusty and the ringers caving in, For his bandaged wrist is aching with the pain, And the second man, I fear, will make it hot for him, Unless we have another fall of rain.

A few had taken quarters and were coiling in their bunks When we shore the six-tooth wethers from the plain. And if the sheep get harder, then a few more men will funk, Unless we get another fall of rain.

But the sky is clouding over, and the thunders muttering loud, And the clouds are driving eastward oer the plain,

And I see the lightning flashing from the edge of yon black cloud, And I hear the gentle patter of the rain.

So, lads, put on your stoppers, and let us to the hut, Where well gather round and have a friendly game, While some are playing music and some play ante up, And some are gazing outwards at the rain.

But now the rain is over, let the pressers spin the screw, Let the teamsters back the waggons in again, And well block the classers table by the way well put them through, For everything is merry since the rain.

And the boss he wont be rusty when his sheep they all are shorn, And the wringers wrist wont ache much with the pain Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more, And the second man will press him hard again.

Another Fall of Rain is a song that needs a little explanation. The strain of shearing is very severe on the wrists, and the ringer or fastest shearer is very apt to go in the wrists, especially at the beginning of a season. Hence the desire of the shearers for a fall of rain after a long stretch of hot weather.



BOLD JACK DONAHOO

In Dublin town I was brought up, in that city of great fame My decent friends and parents, they will tell to you the same. It was for the sake of five hundred pounds I was sent across the main, For seven long years, in New South Wales, to wear a convicts chain.

Chorus

Then come, my hearties, well roam the mountains high! Together we will plunder, together we will die! Well wander over mountains and well gallop over plains For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron chains.

Id scarce been there twelve months or more upon the Australian shore, When I took to the highway, as Id oft-times done before. There was me and Jacky Underwood, and Webber and Webster, too. These were the true associates of bold Jack Donahoo.

Chorus: Then come, &c.

Now, Donahoo was taken, all for a notorious crime, And sentenced to be hanged upon the gallows-tree so high. But when they came to Sydney gaol, he left them in a stew, And when they came to call the roll, they missed bold Donahoo.

Chorus: Then come, &c.

As Donahoo made his escape, to the bush he went straight- way. The people they were all afraid to travel night or day For every week in the newspapers there was published some-thing new Concerning this dauntless hero, the bold Jack Donahoo!

Chorus: Then come, &c.

As Donahoo was cruising, one summers afternoon, little was his notion his death was near so soon, When a sergeant of the horse police discharged his car-a-bine, And called aloud on Donahoo to fight or to resign.

Chorus: Then come, &c.

Resign to youyou cowardly dogs! a thing I neer will do, For Ill fight this night with all my might, cried bold Jack Donahoo. Id rather roam these hills and dales, like wolf or kangaroo, Than work one hour for Government! cried bold Jack Donahoo.

Chorus: Then come, &c.

He fought six rounds with the horse police until the fatal ball, Which pierced his heart and made him start, caused Donahoo to fall. And as he closed his mournful eyes, he bade this world Adieu, Saying, Convicts all, both large and small, say prayers for Donahoo!

Chorus: Then come, &c.



THE WILD COLONIAL BOY

Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name, Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine. He was his fathers only hope, his mothers only joy, And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.

Chorus

Come, all my hearties, well roam the mountains high, Together we will plunder, together we will die. Well wander over valleys, and gallop over plains, And well scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron chains.

He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his fathers home, And through Australias sunny clime a bushranger did roam. He robbed those wealthy squatters, their stock he did destroy, And a terror to Australia was the wild Colonial boy.

Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

In sixty-one this daring youth commenced his wild career, With a heart that knew no danger, no foeman did he fear. He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach, and robbed Judge MacEvoy, Who trembled, and gave up his gold to the wild Colonial boy.

Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

He bade the Judge Good morning, and told him to beware, That hed never rob a hearty chap that acted on the square, And never to rob a mother of her son and only joy, Or else you may turn outlaw, like the wild Colonial boy.

Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

One day as he was riding the mountain side along, A-listening to the little birds, their pleasant laughing song, Three mounted troopers rode alongKelly, Davis, and FitzRoy. They thought that they would capture himthe wild Colonial boy.

Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see theres three to one. Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman. He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy. Ill fight, but not surrender, said the wild Colonial boy.

Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

He fired at Trooper Kelly, and brought him to the ground, And in return from Davis received a mortal wound. All shattered through the jaws he lay still firing at FitzRoy, And thats the way they captured himthe wild Colonial boy.

Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.

It will be noticed that the same chorus is sung to both The Wild Colonial Boy and Bold Jack Donahoo. Several versions of both songs were sent in, but the same chorus was always made to do duty for both songs.



JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)

[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for two days in 1859.]

(Air: Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.)

John Gilbert was a bushranger of terrible renown, For sticking lots of people up and shooting others down. John Gilbert said unto his pals, Although they make a bobbery About our tricks we have never done a tip-top thing in robbery.

We have all of us a fancy for experiments in pillage, Yet never have we seized a town, or even sacked a village. John Gilbert said unto his matesThough partners we have been In all rascality, yet we no festal day have seen.

John Gilbert said he thought he saw no obstacle to hinder a Piratical descent upon the town of Canowindra. So into Canowindra town rode Gilbert and his men, And all the Canowindra folk subsided there and then.

The Canowindra populace cried, Heres a lot of strangers!!! But immediately recovered when they found they were bushrangers. And Johnny Gilbert said to them, You need not be afraid. We are only old companions whom bushrangers you have made.

And Johnny Gilbert said, said he, Well never hurt a hair Of men who bravely recognise that we are just all there. The New South Welshmen said at once, not making any fuss, That Johnny Gilbert, after all, was Just but one of us.

So Johnny Gilbert took the town (including public houses), And treated all the cockatoos and shouted for their spouses. And Miss OFlanagan performed in manner quite gintailly Upon the grand planner for the bushranger OMeally.

And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got him They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him. And Johnnys enigmatic feat admits of this solution, That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured institution.

So Johnny Gilbert neer allows an anxious thought to fetch him, For well he knows the Government dont really want to ketch him. And if such practices should be to New South Welshmen dear, With not the least demurring word ought we to interfere.



IMMIGRATION

[Mr. Jordan was sent to England by the Queensland Government in 1858, 1859, and 1860 to lecture on the advantages of immigration, and told the most extraordinary tales about the place.]

(Air: Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.)

Now Jordans land of promise is the burden of my song. Perhaps youve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong; To hear him talk youd think it was a heaven upon earth, But listen and Ill tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.

Here mutton, beef, and damper are all youll get to eat, From Monday morn till Sunday night, all through the blessed week. And should the flour bag run short, then mutton, beef, and tea Will be your lot, and whether or not, twill have to do, youll see.

Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you walk, But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordans talk; Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the night, And until you get quite colonised youll be a pretty sight.

Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and youll maybe die of thirst; But should you so dispose your bones, youll scarcely be the first, For theres many a strong and stalwart man come out to make his pile, Who never leaves the fatal shore of this thrice accursed isle.

To sum it up in few short words, the place is only fit For those who were sent out here, for from this they cannot flit. But any other men who come a living here to try, Will vegetate a little while and then lie down and die.



THE SQUATTERS MAN

Come, all ye lads an list to me, Thats left your homes an crossed the sea, To try your fortune, bound or free, All in this golden land. For twelve long months I had to pace, Humping my swag with a cadging face, Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race, As in my song youll understand.

Unto this country I did come, A regular out-and-out new chum. I then abhorred the sight of rum Teetotal was my plan. But soon I learned to wet one eye Misfortune oft-times made me sigh. To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly, And be a squatters man.

Soon at a station I appeared. I saw the squatter with his beard, And up to him I boldly steered, With my swag and billy-can.

I said, Kind sir, I want a job! Said he, Do you know how to snob Or can you break in a bucking cob? Whilst my figure he well did scan.

Tis now I want a useful cove To stop at home and not to rove. The scamps go abouta regular drove I spose youre one of the clan? But Ill give tenten, sugar an tea; Ten bob a week, if youll suit me, And very soon I hope youll be A handy squatters man.

At daylight you must milk the cows, Make butter, cheese, an feed the sows, Put on the kettle, the cook arouse, And clean the family shoes. The stable an sheep yard clean out, And always answer when we shout, With Yes, maam, and No, sir, mind your mouth; And my youngsters dont abuse.

You must fetch wood an water, bake an boil, Act as butcher when we kill; The corn an taters you must hill, Keep the garden spick and span.

You must not scruple in the rain To take to market all the grain. Be sure you come sober back again To be a squatters man.

He sent me to an old bark hut, Inhabited by a greyhound slut, Who put her fangs through my poor fut, And, snarling, off she ran. So once more Im looking for a job, Without a copper in my fob. With Ben Hall or Gardiner Id rather rob, Than be a squatters man.

Do you know how to snob?A snob in English slang is a bootmaker, so the squatter wanted his man to do a bit of boot-repairing.

Ill give ten, ten, sugar and tea.The ten, ten refers to the amountten pounds weightof flour and meat that made up the weekly ration on the stations.



THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO

Im a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain, Which often times has caused me to lie in frost and rain. Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do, I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus

Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo, Oh, the stringy-bark cockatoo, I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.

Ten bob an acre was his pricewith promise of fairish board. He said his crops were very light, twas all he could afford. He drove me out in a bullock dray, and his piggery met my view. Oh, the pigs and geese were in the wheat of the stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

The hut was made of the surface mud, the roof of a reedy thatch. The doors and windows open flew without a bolt or latch. The pigs and geese were in the hut, the hen on the table flew, And she laid an egg in the old tin plate for the stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobblers paste. To help it down we had to eat brown bread with vinegar taste. The tea was made of the native hops, which out on the ranges grew; Twas sweetened with honey bees and wax for the stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty hard; They wouldnt give us butter, so we forced down bread and lard. Quondong duff, paddy-melon pie, and wallaby Irish stew We used to eat while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

When we started to cut the rust and smut was just beginning to shed, And all we had to sleep on was a dog and sheep-skin bed. The bugs and fleas tormented me, they made me scratch and screw; I lost my rest while reaping for the stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

At night when work was over Id nurse the youngest child, And when Id say a joking word, the mother would laugh and smile. The old cocky, he grew jealous, and he thumped me black and blue, And he drove me off without a rapthe stringy-bark cockatoo.

Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.

[For note on this song, see Introduction.]



THE EUMERELLA SHORE

Theres a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore, Where Ive lingered many happy hours away, On my little free selection I have acres by the score, Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.

Chorus

To my bullocks then I say No matter where you stray, You will never be impounded any more; For youre running, running, running on the duffers piece of land, Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are shining bright, Then we saddle up our horses and away, And we yard the squatters cattle in the darkness of the night, And we have the calves all branded by the day.

Chorus

Oh, my pretty little calf, At the squatter you may laugh, For hell never be your owner any more; For youre running, running, running on the duffers piece of land, Free selected on the Eumerella shore.

If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down, Although before theyre never known to stray, Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town, And sell them into slavry far away.

Chorus

To Jack Robertson well say Youve been leading us astray, And well never go a-farming any more; For its easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land Free selected on the Eumerella shore.



JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO

(Air: Wearing of the Green.)

If you want a situation, Ill just tell you the plan To get on to a station, I am just your very man. Pack up the old portmanteau, and label it Paroo, With a name aristocraticJimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When you get on to the station, of small things youll make a fuss, And in speaking of the station, mind, its we, and ours, and us. Boast of your grand connections and your rich relations, too And your own great expectations, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

They will send you out on horseback, the boundaries to ride But run down a marsupial and rob him of his hide, His scalp will fetch a shilling and his hide another two, Which will help to fill your pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo. Yes, to fill your empty pockets, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

When the boss wants information, on the men youll do a sneak, And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week. Then at the lamb-marking a boss theyll make of you. Now thats the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A squatter in the future Ive no doubt you may be, But if the banks once get you, theyll put you up a tree. To see you humping bluey, I know, would never do, Twould mean good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo. Yes, good-bye to our new chum, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.

A Jackaroo is a young man who comes to a station to get experience. He occupies a position much like that of an apprentice on a ship, and has to work with the men though supposed to be above them in social status. Hence these sneers at the Jackaroo.



THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE

I have come to tell you of the glorious news youll all be glad to bear, Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year. So kindly pay attention, and Ill pass the whisper round, The squatters of their own free will this year will pay the pound.

For this is a year of great prosperity, that everybody knows, Well take no top knots off this year, nor trim them to the toes, But a level cut for a level pound, and the rations thrown in free. Thats how the squatters say theyll keep their Sovereigns Jubilee.

And kind Providence once more has sent the sweet, refreshing rains. The trefoil and the barley grass wave high upon the plains, The tanks all overflowing and the saltbush fresh and green, Its a pleasure for to ramble oer the plains of Riverine.

Once more upon the rippling lake the wild swan flaps her wing. Out in the lignum swamps once more frogs croak and crickets sing. Once more the wild fowl, sporting midst the crab-holes, may be seen, For prosperity is hovering oer the plains of Riverine.

Yes, twill be a year of full and plenty for those back-block pioneers, Though behind each scrub and saltbush you can spot the bunnys ears; And although the price for scalps is not so high as it has been, Yet the bunny snappers they will thrive on the plains of Riverine.

You should see the jolly teamsters how with joy their faces beam, As they talk about the crowfoot, carrots, crab-holes, and their team. They tell you that this year they do intend to steer sixteen. Theyll show the cookies how to plough the plains of Riverine.

Yes, in more respects than one it is a year of joy and glee, And the news of our prosperity has crossed the briny sea. Once more the Maorilander and the Tassey will be seen Cooking Johnny cakes and jimmies on the plains of Riverine.

They will gather like a regiment to the beating of the drum, But it matters not to us from whence our future penmates come. From New Zealands snow-clad summits or Tasmanias meadows green, Well always make them welcome on the plains of Riverine.

Down from her rocky peaks Monaro will send her champions bold; Victoria will send her cockies, too, her honour to uphold. Theyll be here from Cunnamulla, and the rolling downs between, For this is the real convincing ground, these plains of Riverine.

I have a message to deliver now, before I say farewell, Some news which all the squatters have commissioned me to tell; Your backs well bent, bows long and clean, thats what they want to see, That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.

This year will pay the pound.A pound a hundred is the price for shearing sheep, and several bitterly fought-out strikes have taken place about it.

Well take no topknots off this year nor trim them to the toes.Owing to the amiability of the squatters and the excellence of the season, the shearers intend to leave some of the wool on the sheep, i.e., the topknots on the head and wool down on the legs.

To steer sixteensixteen horses in the team.



THE SHEEP-WASHERS LAMENT

(Air: The Bonnie Irish Boy.)

Come now, ye sighing washers all, Join in my doleful lay, Mourn for the times none can recall, With hearts to grief a prey. Well mourn the washers sad downfall In our regretful strain, Lamenting on the days gone by Neer to return again.

When first I went a-washing sheep The year was sixty-one, The master was a worker then, The servant was a man; But now the squatters, puffed with pride, They treat us with disdain; Lament the days that are gone by Neer to return again.

From sixty-one to sixty-six, The bushman, stout and strong, Would smoke his pipe and whistle his tune, And sing his cheerful song, As wanton as the kangaroo That bounds across the plain. Lament the days that are gone by Neer to return again.

Supplies of food unstinted, good, No squatter did withhold. With plenty grog to cheer our hearts, We feared nor heat nor cold. With six-and-six per man per day We sought not to complain. Lament the days that are gone by Neer to return again.

With perfect health, a mine of wealth, Our days seemed short and sweet, On pleasure bent our evenings spent, Enjoyment was complete. But now we toil from morn till night, Though much against the grain, Lamenting on the days gone by, Neer to return again.

I once could boast two noble steeds, To bear me on my way, My good revolver in my belt, I never knew dismay. But lonely now I hump my drum In sunshine and in rain, Lamenting on the days gone by Neer to return again.

A worthy cheque I always earned, And spent it like a lord. My dress a princes form would grace. And spells I could afford. But now in tattered rags arrayed, My limbs they ache with pain, Lamenting on the days gone by, Neer to return again.

May bushmen all in unity Combine with heart and hand, May cursed cringing poverty Be banished from the land. In Queensland may prosperity In regal glory reign, And washers in the time to come Their vanished rights regain.



THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER

(Air: Its a fine hunting day.)

Come, Stumpy, old man, we must shift while we can; All our mates in the paddock are dead. Let us wave our farewells to Glen Evas sweet dells And the hills where your lordship was bred; Together to roam from our drought-stricken home It seems hard that such things have to be, And its hard on a hogs when hes nought for a boss But a broken-down squatter like me!

Chorus

For the banks are all broken, they say, And the merchants are all up a tree. When the bigwigs are brought to the Bankruptcy Court, What chance for a squatter like me.

No more shall we muster the river for fats, Or spiel on the Fifteen-mile plain, Or rip through the scrub by the light of the moon, Or see the old stockyard again.

Leave the slip-panels down, it wont matter much now, There are none but the crows left to see, Perching gaunt in yon pine, as though longing to dine On a broken-down squatter like me.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

When the country was cursed with the drought at its worst, And the cattle were dying in scores, Though down on my luck, I kept up my pluck, Thinking justice might temper the laws. But the farce has been played, and the Government aid Aint extended to squatters, old son; When my dollars were spent they doubled the rent, And resumed the best half of the run.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.

Twas done without reason, for leaving the season No squatter could stand such a rub; For its useless to squat when the rents are so hot That one cant save the price of ones grub; And theres not much to choose twixt the banks and the Jews Once a fellow gets put up a tree; No odds what I feel, theres no court of appeal For a broken-down squatter like me.

Chorus: For the banks, &c.



THE FREE SELECTOR

(A Song of 1861.)

Ye sons of industry, to you I belong, And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song, Rejoicing oer the victory John Robertson has won Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come Now the Land Bill, &c.

No more with our swags through the bush need we roam For to ask of another there to give us a home, Now the land is unfettered and we may reside In a home of our own by some clear waterside. In a home of our own, &c.

On some fertile spot which we may call our own, Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home. There industry will flourish and content will smile, While our children rejoicing will share in our toil. While our children, &c.

We will plant our garden and sow our own field, And eat from the fruits which industry will yield, And be independent, what we long for have strived, Though those that have ruled us the right long denied. Though those that have ruled us, &c.



A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX

Dark over the face of Nature sublime! Reignd tyranny, warfare, and every crime; The world a desertno oasis green A man-loving soul on its surface had seen; Then mercy above a mandate sent forth An Eden to forma refuge for worth. From the ocean it came, with halo so bright, Want, strife, and oppression were lost in its sight.

Chorus

First isle of the seabrightest gem of the earth In thee every virtue and joy shall have birth. A land of the just, the brave, and the free, Australia the happy, thou ever shalt be.

So earth in the flood no place for rest gave, At length a green isle arose from the wave; The dove oer the waters the olive branch bore, To show that one spot was coverd no more;

Australia thus shall be sounded by fame, And Europe shall echo the glorious name; The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppressd, Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.

Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.

Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine; Midst earths fairest daughters the chaplet is thine; No sickning vapours are borne on thy air, But fragrance and melody twine sweetly there; Thy ever-green fields proclaim plenty and peace, If man doth his part, heaven sends the increase; No customs to fetter, no enemy near, Independence thy sons for ever must cheer.

Chorus: First isle of the sea, &c.



SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES

We often hear men boast about the land which gave them birth, And each one thinks his native land the fairest spot on earth; In beauty, riches, power, no land can his surpass; To his, all other lands on earth cannot even hold a glass. Now, if other people have their boasts, then, say, why should not we, For we can drink our jovial toast and sing with three times three; For theres not a country in the world where all thats fair prevails As here it does in this our land, our sunny New South Wales.

Chorus

Then toast with me our happy land, Where all thats fair prevails, Our colours blue and our hearts are true, In sunny New South Wales.

Now let us take a passing glance at all that we possess. That ours is such a wealthy land no stranger eer would guess. Why, weve land in store, indeed far more than ever we shall require, And trees grow thick on every side in spite of axe and fire. Our sheep and cattle millions count, our wool is classed A1; In beef and mutton our fair land is not to be outdone. Why, weve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock neer fails, Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South Wales.

Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.

In childhood California was to us a land of gold, And people said its riches were so vast, immense, untold. But time has proved that mineral wealth exists not there alone, For New South Wales possesses gold in many, many a stone. And when the gold is taken from out its quartzy veins A heap of silver, copper, tin, as a residue remains. In fact we are a mass of wealth in all our hills and dales. Theres not a country half as rich as sunny New South Wales.

Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.

Our climates good, that all admit, our flowers are sweet and rare; And scenes abound on every hand so marvellously fair. Shame on the men who went away and of us wrote such lies. Why, when Anthony Trollope came out here he nearly lost his eyes. Our native girls are fair and good, their hearts are pure and true; And to their colour stick like bricks, the bright Australian blue. Some never loved a roving life, nor blest the oceans gales; But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New South Wales.

Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.



BRINGING HOME THE COWS

Shadows of the twilight falling On the mountains brow, To each other birds are calling, In the leafy bough. Where the daisies are a-springing, And the cattle bells are ringing, Comes my Mary, gaily singing, Bringing home the cows.

By a bush the pathway skirted, Room for two allows. All the cornfields are deserted, Idle are the ploughs. Striving for wealths spoil and booty, Farmer boys have finished duty, When I meet my little beauty, Bringing home the cows.

Tender words and kind addresses, Most polite of bows, Rosy cheeks and wavy tresses Do my passions rouse

Dress so natty and so cleanly, Air so modest and so queenly. Oh! so haughty, yet serenely, Bringing home the cows.

Arm-in-arm together walking, While the cattle browse, Earnestly together talking, Plighting lovers vows. Where the daisies are a-springing, Wedding bells will soon be ringing, Then well watch our servant bringing Mine and Marys cows.



THE DYING STOCKMAN

(Air: The Old Stable Jacket.)

A strapping young stockman lay dying, His saddle supporting his head; His two mates around him were crying, As he rose on his pillow and said:

Chorus

Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket, And bury me deep down below, Where the dingoes and crows cant molest me, In the shade where the coolibahs grow.

Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing, Far oer the plains would I fly, Straight to the land of my childhood, And there would I lay down and die.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

Then cut down a couple of saplings, Place one at my head and my toe, Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle, To show theres a stockman below.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

Hark! theres the wail of a dingo, Watchful and weirdI must go, For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman From the gloom of the scrub down below.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

Theres tea in the battered old billy; Place the pannikins out in a row, And well drink to the next merry meeting, In the place where all good fellows go.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.

And oft in the shades of the twilight, When the soft winds are whispering low, And the darkning shadows are falling, Sometimes think of the stockman below.

Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.



MY MATE BILL

Thats his saddle on the tie-beam, And thems his spurs up there On the wall-plate over yonder You ken see they aint a pair.

For the daddy of all the stockmen As ever come mustering here Was killed in the flaming mulga, A-yarding a bald-faced steer.

They say as hes gone to heaven, And shook off all worldly cares But I cant sight Bill in a halo Set up on three blinded hairs.

In heaven! what next I wonder, For strike me pink and blue, If I see whatever in thunder Theyll find for Bill to do.

Hed never make one of them angels, With faces as white as chalk, All wool to the toes like hoggets, And wings like an eagle-hawk.

He couldnt arp for apples, His voice had tones as jarred, And hed no more ear than a bald-faced steer, Or calves in a branding yard.

He could sit on a bucking brumbie Like a nob in an easy chair, And chop his name with a greenhide fall On the flank of a flying steer.

He could show them saints in glory The way that a fall should drop, But sit on a thronenot William, Unless they could make it prop.

He mightnt freeze to the seraphs, Or chum with the cherubim, But if ever them seraph johnnies Get a-poking it like at him

Well! if theres hide in heaven, And silk for to make a lash, Hell yard em all in the Jasper Lake In a blinded lightning flash.

If the heavenly hosts get boxed now, As mobs most always will, Wholl cut em out like William, Or draft on a camp like Bill?

An orseman would find it awkward At first with a push that flew, But blame my cats if I know what else Theyll find for Bill to do.

Its hard if there aint no cattle, And perhaps theyll let him sleep, And wake him up at the judgment To draft those goats and sheep.

Its playing it low on William, But perhaps hell buckle to, To show them high-toned seraphs What a Mulga man can do.

If they saddles a big-boned angel, With a turn of speed, of course, As can spiel like a four-year brumbie, And prop like an old camp horse,

And puts Bill up with a snaffle, A four or five inch spur, And eighteen foot of greenhide To chop the blinded fur

Hell yard them blamed Angoras In a way that its safe to swear Will make them tony seraphs Sit back on their thrones and stare.



SAM HOLT

(Air: Ben Bolt.)

Oh! dont you remember Black Alice, Sam Holt Black Alice, so dusky and dark, The Warrego gin, with the straw through her nose, And teeth like a Moreton Bay shark.

The terrible sheepwash tobacco she smoked In the gunyah down there by the lake, And the grubs that she roasted, and the lizards she stewed, And the damper you taught her to bake.

Oh! dont you remember the moons silver sheen, And the Warrego sand-ridges white? And dont you remember those big bull-dog ants We caught in our blankets at night?

Oh! dont you remember the creepers, Sam Holt, That scattered their fragrance around? And dont you remember that broken-down colt You sold me, and swore he was sound?

And dont you remember that fiver, Sam Holt, You borrowed so frank and so free, When the publican landed your fifty-pound cheque At Tambo your very last spree?

Luck changes some natures, but yours, Sammy Holt, Was a grand one as ever I see, And I fancy Ill whistle a good many tunes Ere you think of that fiver or me.

Oh! dont you remember the cattle you duffed, And your luck at the Sandy Creek rush, And the poker you played, and the bluffs that you bluffed, And your habits of holding a flush?

And dont you remember the pasting you got By the boys down in Callaghans store, When Tim Hooligan found a fifth ace in his hand, And you holding his pile upon four?

You were not the cleanest potato, Sam Holt, You had not the cleanest of fins. But you made your pile on the Towers, Sam Holt, And that covers the most of your sins.

They say youve ten thousand per annum, Sam Holt, In England, a park and a drag; Perhaps you forget you were six months ago In Queensland a-humping your swag.

But whod think to see you now dining in state With a lord and the devil knows who, You were flashing your dover, six short months ago, In a lambing camp on the Barcoo.

Whens my time coming? Perhaps never, I think, And its likely enough your old mate Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road To the end of the chapter of fate.



THE BUSHMAN

(Air: Wearing of the Green.)

When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep; His ships may be cast away or taken in a war, So him alone well envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are, So him alone well envy not, who true bushmen are!

When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought Oer seeking that promotion which so long he has sought; He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar, So him also well envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair. His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar, So him also well envy not, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care, He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear. Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war, Then bread and beef wont fail us boys, who true bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.

Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast Ill give you, then, To you who call yourselves true-hearted men. Heres a health to the soldier and een the jolly tar, And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.

Chorus: Who true bushmen are, Who true bushmen are,

And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.



HAWKING

(Air: Bow, Wow, Wow.)

Now, shut your mouths, you loafers all, You vex me with your twaddle, You own a nag or big or small, A bridle and a saddle; I you advise at once be wise And waste no time in talking, Procure some bags of damaged rags And make your fortune hawking.

Chorus

Hawk, hawk, hawk. Our bread to win, well all begin To hawk, hawk, hawk.

The stockmen and the bushmen and The shepherds leave the station, And the hardy bullock-punchers throw Aside their occupation;

While some have horses, some have drays, And some on foot are stalking; We surely must conclude it pays When all are going hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

A life it is so full of bliss Twould suit the very niggers, And lads I know a-hawking go Who scarce can make the figures But penmanships no requisite, Keep matters square by chalking With pencil or with ruddle, thats Exact enough for hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

The hawkers gay for half the day, While others work hes spelling, Though he may stay upon the way, His purse is always swelling; With work his back is never bent His hardest toil is talking; Three hundred is the rate per cent. Of profit when a-hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.

Since pedlaring yields more delight Than ever digging gold did, And since to fortunes envied height The path I have unfolded, Well fling our moleskins to the dogs And don tweeds without joking, And honest men as well as rogues Well scour the country hawking.

Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.



COLONIAL EXPERIENCE

[By A New Chum]

(Air: So Early in the Morning.)

When first I came to Sydney Cove And up and down the streets did rove, I thought such sights I neer did see Since first I learnt my A, B, C.

Chorus

Oh! its broiling in the morning, Its toiling in the morning, Its broiling in the morning, Its toiling all day long.

Into the park I took a stroll I felt just like a buttered roll. A pretty name The Sunny South! A better one The Land of Drouth!

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

Next day into the bush I went, On wild adventure I was bent, Dame Natures wonders Id explore, All thought of danger would ignore.

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

The mosquitoes and bull-dog ants Assailed me even through my pants. It nearly took my breath away To hear the jackass laugh so gay!

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

This lovely country, Ive been told, Abounds in silver and in gold. You may pick it up all day, Just as leaves in autumn lay!

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

Marines will chance this yarn believe, But bluejackets you cant deceive. Such pretty stories will not fit, Nor can I their truth admit.

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

Some say theres lots of work to do. Well, yes, but then, twixt me and you, A man may toil and broil all day The big, fat man gets all the pay,

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.

Mayhap such good things there may be, But you may have them all, for me, Instead of roaming foreign parts I wish Id studied the Fine Arts!

Chorus: Oh! its broiling, &c.



THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA

The stockmen of Australia, what rowdy boys are they, They will curse and swear an hurricane if you come in their way. They dash along the forest on black, bay, brown, or grey, And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

By constant feats of horsemanship, they procure for us our grub, And supply us with the fattest beef by hard work in the scrub. To muster up the cattle they cease not night nor day, And the stockmen of Australia, hard-riding boys are they.

Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

Just mark him as he jogs along, his stockwhip on his knee, His white mole pants and polished boots and jaunty cabbage- tree. His horsey-pattern Crimean shirt of colours bright and gay, And the stockmen of Australia, what dressy boys are they.

Chorus: And the stockmen, &c.

If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp, Hes there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp. Hell give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea, For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.

Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.

If down to Sydney you should go, and there a stockman meet, Remark the sly looks cast on him as he roams through the street. From the shade of lovely bonnets steal forth those glances gay, For the stockmen of Australia, the ladies pets are they.

Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.

Whatever fun is going on, the stockman will be there, Be it theatre or concert, or dance or fancy fair. To join in the amusements be sure he wont delay, For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.

Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.

Then heres a health to every lass, and let the toast go round, To as jolly a set of fellows as ever yet were found. And all good luck be with them, for ever and to-day, Heres to the stockmen of Australiahip, hip, hooray!

Chorus: Heres to the stockmen, &c.



ITS ONLY A WAY HES GOT

(As sung by the camp fire.)

No doubt the sayings all abroad, And rattling through the land. We hear it at the mangle, too, With What are you going to stand? Im sure I dont know which to choose, Theres really such a lot But I hope my song youll not refuse, For its only a way Ive got.

Chorus: Tol, lol, litter, tol, lol. Tol, lol, the rol, lay.

In Sydney town a gal I met, Her dress was rather gay, I think the place, it was Pitt Street, Or somewhere near that way. Says she, The night is very cold, Pray, stand a drop of Hot. I hope my freedom youll excuse, For its only a way Ive got.

Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.

The drink we soon put out of sight, And off for home did walk, When a fellow came up and quite polite To her began to talk. He drew my ticker from my fob, And bolted like a shot. Says she, Oh, take no notice, Bob, Its only a way hes got.

Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.

Says I, Ill soon catch you, my chap, And arter him I flies, When another stepped up and knocked my hat Completely oer my eyes. He from my pocket drew my purse, And off with it did trot; Says she, Its well it is no worse, But its only a way hes got.

Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.

A little further on we went. I had got rather shy. Then a butcher ran his tray Right bang into my eye. The fellow said it was my fault, Called me a drunken sot. Then, like a thief, he slunk away, Twas only a way hed got!

Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.

Now, as we walked along the street, A lot of chaps we met. I saw they on a game were bent; Says they, How fat you get! I got from them some ugly pokes, They made me a regular Scot. They said, Oh, never mind our jokes, Its only a way weve got!

Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.

I have grown tired of Sydney town Since Ive lost all my cash, And so will up the country go, And tell them of my smash. Oh, then well have such lots of fun, Ill court Miss Polly Scott; And if she asks me what I mean Ill tell her its a way Ive got.

Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.



THE LOAFERS CLUB

A club there is established here, whose name they say is Legion From Melbourne to the Billabong, theyre known in every region. They do not like the cockatoos, but mostly stick to stations, Where they keep themselves from starving by cadging shepherds rations.

The rules and regulations, theyre not difficult of learning, They are to live upon the cash which others have been earning. To never let a chance go by of being in a shout, sir, And if they see a slant to turn your pockets inside out, sir.

Theyll cadge your baccy, knife, and pipe, and tell a tale of sorrow Of how they cannot get a job, but mean to start to-morrow. But that to-morrow never comes, until they see quite plainly That its completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and Ainley.

If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction, Ill swear theyll not be long before theyll force an introduction. One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a brother, And if one plan will not succeed, theyll quickly try another.

I knew one poor, unhappy wight, having a little ready, Entered a Smeaton public-house, determined to keep steady. A celebrated loafer there determined upon showing him That he once had the pleasure and the privilege of knowing him.

Through hills and dales, by lakes and streams, he close pursued his victim, Until the miserable man confessed that be quite licked him. In vain the quarry tried to turn, pursuit was far too strong, sir, The loafer followed up the scent and earthed him in Geelong, sir.

The noble art of lambing down they know in all its beauty, And if they do not squeeze you dry, theyll think theyve failed in duty. But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly, And very few escape their hands whore not cleared out completely.



THE OLD KEG OF RUM

My name is old Jack Palmer, Im a man of olden days, And so I wish to sing a song To you of olden praise. To tell of merry friends of old When we were gay and young; How we sat and sang together Round the Old Keg of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! How we sat and sang together Round the Old Keg of Rum.

There was I and Jack the plough-boy, Jem Moore and old Tom Hines, And poor old Tom the fiddler, Who now in glory shines;

And several more of our old chums, Who shine in Kingdom Come, We all associated round the Old Keg of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! We all associated round the Old Keg of Rum.

And when harvest time was over, And wed get our harvest fee, Wed meet, and quickly rise the keg, And then wed have a spree. Wed sit and sing together Till we got that blind and dumb That we couldnt find the bunghole Of the Old Keg of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! That we couldnt find the bunghole Of the Old Keg of Rum.

Its jovially together, boys Wed laugh, wed chat, wed sing; Sometimes wed have a little row Some argument would bring.

And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys, Ive corked it with my thumb, To keep the life from leaking From the Old Keg of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! To keep the life from leaking From the Old Keg of Rum.

But when our spree was ended, boys, And waking from a snooze, For to give another drain The old keg would refuse. Wed rap it with our knuckles If it sounded like a drum, Wed know the life and spirit Had left the Old Keg of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! Wed know the life and spirit Had left the Old Keg of Rum.

Those happy days have passed away, Ive seen their pleasures fade; And many of our good old friends Have with old times decayed.

But still, when on my travels, boys, If I meet with an old chum, We will sigh, in conversation, Of the Grand Old Keg of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! We will sigh, in conversation, Of the Grand Old Keg of Rum.

So now, kind friends, I end my song, I hope well meet again, And, as Ive tried to please you all, I hope you wont complain. You younger folks who learn my song, Will, perhaps, in years to come, Remember old Jack Palmer And the Old Rum Of Rum.

Chorus

Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum! Remember old Jack Palmer And the Old Keg of Rum.



THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER

Come, all you jolly natives, and Ill relate to you Some of my observationsadventures, too, a few. Ive travelled about the country for miles, full many a score, And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.

Ive coasted on the Barwonlow down the Darling, too, Ive been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo; Ive been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat; Ive loafed upon the Lachlan and fossicked Lambing Flat.

I went up to a squatter, and asked him for a feed, But the knowledge of my hunger was swallowed by his greed. He said I was a loafer and for work had no desire, And so, to do him justice, I set his shed on fire.

Oh, yes, Ive touched the shepherds hut, of sugar, tea, and flour; And a tender bit of mutton I always could devour. I went up to a station, and there I got a job; Plunged in the store, and hooked it, with a very tidy lob.

Oh, yes, my jolly dandies, Ive done it on the cross. Although I carry bluey now, Ive sweated many a horse. Ive helped to ease the escort of manys the ounce of gold; The traps have often chased me, more times than can be told.

Oh, yes, the traps have chased me, been frightened of their stripes They never could have caught me, they feared my cure for gripes. And well they knew I carried it, which they had often seen A-glistening in my flipper, chaps, a patent pill machine.

Ive been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair. Anxiety and misery my grim companions there. Ive planted in the scrub, my boys, and fed on kangaroo, And wound up my avocations by ten years on Cockatoo.

So you can understand, my boys, just from this little rhyme, Im a Murrumbidgee shearer, and one of the good old time.



THE SWAGMAN

Kind friends, pray give attention To this, my little song. Some rum things I will mention, And Ill not detain you long. Up and down this country I travel, dont you see, Im a swagman on the wallaby, Oh! dont you pity me. Im a swagman on the wallaby, Oh! dont you pity me.

At first I started shearing, And I bought a pair of shears. On my first sheep appearing, Why, I cut off both its ears. Then I nearly skinned the brute, As clean as clean could he. So I was kicked out of the shed, Oh! dont you pity me, &c.

I started station loafing, Short stages and took my ease; So all day long till sundown Id camp beneath the trees. Then Id walk up to the station, The manager to see. Boss, Im hard up and I want a job, Oh! dont you pity me, &c.

Says the overseer: Go to the hut. In the morning Ill tell you If Ive any work about I can find for you to do. But at breakfast I cuts off enough For dinner, dont you see. And then my name is Walker. Oh! dont you pity me. Im a swagman, &c.

And now, my friends, Ill say good-bye, For I must go and camp. For if the Sergeant sees me He may take me for a tramp; But if theres any covey here Whats got a cheque, dye see, Ill stop and help him smash it. Oh! dont you pity me. Im a swagman on the wallaby, Oh! dont you pity me.

A Swagman on the Wallaby.A nomad following track of the wallaby, i.e., loafing aimlessly.



THE STOCKMAN

(Air: A wet sheet and a flowing sea.)

A bright sun and a loosened rein, A whip whose pealing sound Rings forth amid the forest trees As merrily forth we bound As merrily forth we bound, my boys, And, by the dawns pale light, Speed fearless on our horses true From morn till starry night.

Oh! for a tame and quiet herd, I hear some crawler cry; But give to me the mountain mob With the flash of their tameless eye With the flash of their tameless eye, my boys, As down the rugged spur Dash the wild children of the woods, And the horse that mocks at fear.

Theres mischief in you wide-horned steer, Theres danger in you cow; Then mount, my merry horsemen all, The wild mobs bolting now The wild mobs bolting now, my boys, But twas never in their hides To show the way to the well-trained nags That are rattling by their sides.

Oh! tis jolly to follow the roving herd Through the long, long summer day, And camp at night by some lonely creek When dies the golden ray. Where the jackass laughs in the old gum tree, And our quart-pot tea we sip; The saddle was our childhoods home, Our heritage the whip.



THE MARANOA DROVERS

(Air: Little Sally Waters.)

The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded oer; Our horses we will mount and ride away, To watch the squatters cattle through the darkness of the night, And well keep them on the camp till break of day.

Chorus

For were going, going, going to Gunnedah so far, And well soon be into sunny New South Wales; We shall bid farewell to Queensland, with its swampy coolibah Happy drovers from the sandy Maranoa.

When the fires are burning bright through the darkness of the night, And the cattle camping quiet, well, Im sure That I wish for two oclock when I call the other watch This is droving from the sandy Maranoa.

Our beds made on the ground, we are sleeping all so sound When were wakened by the distant thunders roar, And the lightnings vivid flash, followed by an awful crash- Its rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.

We are up at break of day, and were all soon on the way, For we always have to go ten miles or more; It dont do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out Hes strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.

We shall soon be on the Moonie, and well cross the Barwon, too; Then well be out upon the rolling plains once more; Well shout Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy coolibah, And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.



RIVER BEND

(Air: Belle Mahone.)

At River Bend, in New South Wales, All alone among the whales, Busting up some post and rails, Sweet Belle Mahone. In the blazing sun we stand, Cabbage-tree hat, black velvet band, Moleskins stiff with sweat and sand, Sweet Belle Mahone.

Chorus: Sweet Belle Mahone, &c.

In the burning sand we pine, No one asks us to have a wine, Tis a jolly crooked line, Sweet Belle Mahone. When I am sitting on a log, Looking like a great big frog, Waiting for a Murray cod, Sweet Belle Mahone.

Land of snakes and cockatoos, Native bears and big emus, Ugly blacks and kangaroos, Sweet Belle Mahone. Paddymelons by the score, Wild bulls, you should hear them roar, They all belong to Johnny Dore, Sweet Belle Mahone.

River Bend.This song certainly cannot boast of antiquity, as it is a parody on a recent sentimental song, but so many correspondents sent it in that it was decided to include it. Perhaps it is to its obvious sincerity of sentiment that it owes its popularity.



SONG OF THE SQUATTER

[The subjoined is one of the Songs of the Squatters, written by the Hon. Robert Lowe (afterwards Viscount Sherbrooke), while resident in New South Wales.]

The Commissioner bet me a ponyI won; So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run; For he said I was making a fortune too fast, And profit gained slower the longer would last.

He remarked as devouring my mutton he sat, That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat; That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown, And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;

That the creek that divided my station in two Showed that Nature designed that two fees should be due. Mr. Riddle assured me twas paid but for show; But he kept it and spent it; thats all that I know.

The Commissioner fined me because I forgot To return an old ewe that was ill of the rot, And a poor wry-necked lamb that we kept for a pet; And he said it was treason such things to forget.

The Commissioner pounded my cattle because They had mumbled the scrub with their famishing jaws On the part of the run he had taken away; And he sold them by auction the costs to defray.

The Border Police they were out all the day To look for some thieves who had ransacked my dray; But the thieves they continued in quiet and peace, For theyd robbed it themselveshad the Border Police!

When the white thieves had left me the black thieves appeared, My shepherds they waddied, my cattle they speared; But for fear of my licence I said not a word, For I knew it was gone if the Government heard.

The Commissioners bosom with anger was filled Against me because my poor shepherd was killed; So he straight took away the last third of my run, And got it transferred to the name of his son.

The son had from Cambridge been lately expelled, And his licence for preaching most justly withheld! But this is no cause, the Commissioner says, Why he should not be fit for a licence to graze.

The cattle that had not been sold at the pound He took with the run at five shillings all round; And the sheep the blacks left me at sixpence a head A very good price, the Commissioner said.

The Governor told me I justly was served, That Commissioners never from duty had swerved; But that if Id a fancy for any more land For one pound an acre hed plenty on hand.

1  2     Next Part
Home - Random Browse