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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Old Bush Songs
+
+Author: A. B. Paterson
+
+Release Date: December 18, 2003 [EBook #10493]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+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 GRANDE’S 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
+PADDY’S 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 SQUATTER’S 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
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT
+THE LOAFER’S 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 STOCKMAN’S 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
+BOURKE’S 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.
+
+
+Australia’s 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 hole—like a rabbit out of his burrow—at the license
+hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated
+audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was
+full of ne’er-do-wells—singers and professional entertainers
+and so on—who 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 prisoners—ballads 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 writes—“I could never find out what the words meant,
+and I don’t 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 Squatter’s 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 Selector—a 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 “Squatter’s 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 cattle—it 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 through—chorus and all—and 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, we’ll bless them one and
+      all,
+   And we’ll sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert,
+      and Ben Hall.”
+
+Another line ran—
+
+  “It’s 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 writes—“I could never
+find out what the words meant, and I don’t think the blacks
+themselves knew.”
+
+
+
+PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA
+
+
+Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
+  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
+And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
+  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
+’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
+  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
+And from that day to this there’s 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,
+  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
+And he said—as 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 you’ll find yourself at home.
+I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
+  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
+    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re 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 couldn’t, 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-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
+The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s 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 he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
+    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
+    We’ll 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, we’re 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! you’ve 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 name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
+I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
+  “No, faith, but I’m 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 it’s roll up your blankets,
+     And let’s make a push,
+   I’ll take you up the country,
+     And show you the bush.
+   I’ll be bound you won’t get
+     Such a chance another day,
+   So come and take possession
+     Of my old bullock dray.
+
+Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
+  I mean to buy a team,
+And when I get a wife, boys,
+  I’ll be all-serene
+For calling at the depôt.
+  They say there’s no delay
+To get an off-sider
+  For the old bullock dray.
+
+Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
+  For good living, I’m your man.
+We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
+  And fritters in the pan;
+Or if you’d like some fish
+  I’ll catch you some soon,
+For we’ll bob for barramundies
+  Round the banks of a lagoon.
+
+Oh! yes, of beef and damper
+  I take care we have enough,
+And we’ll 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! we’ll have plenty girls,
+  We must mind that.
+There’ll be flash little Maggie,
+  And buckjumping Pat.
+There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
+  And Green-hide Mike.
+Yes, my Colonials, just
+  As many as you like.
+
+Now we’ll stop all immigration,
+  We won’t need it any more;
+We’ll 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! it’s time I had an answer,
+  If there’s one to be had,
+I wouldn’t 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 I’ll go up country
+  And marry a black gin.
+Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
+  This is what she’ll 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
+assistant—one 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 you”—good fellow you.
+
+
+
+PADDY’S LETTER, 1857
+
+
+I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
+  But now I have somebody’s 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 you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
+  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!
+
+Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
+  Though that same I ne’er 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,
+  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.
+
+I’m 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 harm—not a word of a lie!
+
+But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
+  And every flockmaster’s 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 Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
+  Lives on the Barcoo that’s 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 sickly—I think it was that—
+And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
+  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”
+
+’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
+  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
+But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
+  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof
+
+P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
+  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
+Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
+  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.
+
+
+The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.
+
+
+
+THE OLD BARK HUT
+
+
+Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
+And I’ve 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 I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
+      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
+     some tea,
+That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
+If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
+     gut—
+For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
+           bark hut.
+
+The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
+And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
+     for two.
+I’ve 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, I’d think myself serene—
+’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God 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, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
+     place,
+Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s 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,
+They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
+But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
+      fill up—
+For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
+            bark hut.
+
+In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
+      nice and cool,
+And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
+      hole.
+You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
+There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
+      treat
+Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
+      sleet.
+
+The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
+    with soot—
+That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
+Especially through that great big hole where once the table
+    stood.
+There’s 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 you’d 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, he’ll 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, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
+     could,
+And I hope the ladies present won’t 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 money’s 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 we’ll 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 money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
+  We all are bound to ride.
+O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
+  And mark the settler’s way—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
+  And traverse far below;
+Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
+  The limits of endless snow;
+
+Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
+  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
+  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
+And the very bad scrawl that’s 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 you’ll 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 you’d mourn,
+’Tis there you’d mourn
+The sweet woodbine
+That round your lattice now doth twine.
+
+Fond friends, don’t 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 I—how 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 danger’s 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 I’ve had you’ll 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 I’ve come,
+Determined never more to roam,
+  At least, to the bush of Australia.
+And stones upon the road I’ll 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 wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
+  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.
+
+
+
+ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI
+
+
+Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut
+    out.
+We’d 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
+  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
+  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, 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 we’d Sydney in our eye.
+
+
+But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+  Chorus: But we camped, &c.
+
+Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
+And I’ve 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+
+Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
+    into the bar,
+And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
+But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
+And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  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 Harry’s, not five miles from
+    Gundagai;
+
+          Chorus: And we tramped, &c.
+
+
+ “Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry
+one’s 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
+
+
+I’ve shore at Burrabogie, and I’ve shore at Toganmain,
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine,
+But before the shearin’ was over I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve 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, whate’er it might
+    contain,
+While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.
+
+I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
+    Creek,
+And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
+But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
+    morning train,
+And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
+    Plain.
+
+
+“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve 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 week’s 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 fortnight’s time or more,
+  And the shearers had been driving might and main,
+For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
+  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s 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 thunder’s muttering
+    loud,
+  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er 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 we’ll 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 we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
+    through,
+  For everything is merry since the rain.
+
+And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
+    shorn,
+  And the wringer’s wrist won’t 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 convict’s
+    chain.
+
+                      Chorus
+
+   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
+   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
+        plains—
+   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
+        chains.
+
+I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
+    Australian shore,
+When I took to the highway, as I’d 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 summer’s 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 you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
+For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+“I’d 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 father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
+And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
+   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
+   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
+       chains.
+
+
+He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
+    home,
+And through Australia’s 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 he’d 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 along—Kelly,  Davis, and
+    FitzRoy.
+They thought that they would capture him—the wild
+    Colonial boy.
+
+    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.
+
+“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
+Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
+He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
+“I’ll 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 that’s the way they captured him—the 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 mates—“Though 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, “Here’s 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, “We’ll 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 O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
+Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.
+
+And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
+    him
+They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
+And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
+That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
+    institution.
+
+So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
+    him,
+For well he knows the Government don’t 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 Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
+Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
+To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
+But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.
+
+Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll 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,
+    you’ll see.
+
+Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
+    walk,
+But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
+Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
+    night,
+And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.
+
+Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
+    maybe die of thirst;
+But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
+    first,
+For there’s 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 SQUATTER’S MAN
+
+
+Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
+That’s 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 you’ll 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 squatter’s 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 about—a regular drove—
+  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
+But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
+Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
+And very soon I hope you’ll be
+  A handy squatter’s 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, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
+    mouth;
+  And my youngsters don’t 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 squatter’s 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 I’m looking for a job,
+Without a copper in my fob.
+With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
+  Than be a squatter’s 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.
+
+“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers
+to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that
+made up the weekly ration on the stations.
+
+
+
+THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO
+
+
+I’m 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 price—with 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 cobbler’s
+    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 wouldn’t 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 I’d nurse the youngest child,
+And when I’d 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 rap—the stringy-bark
+    cockatoo.
+
+   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
+
+
+[For note on this song, see Introduction.]
+
+
+
+THE EUMERELLA SHORE
+
+
+There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
+  Where I’ve 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 you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+       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 he’ll never be your owner any more;
+For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+    piece of land,
+  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+
+If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
+  Although before they’re never known to stray,
+Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
+  And sell them into slav’ry far away.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
+   You’ve been leading us astray,
+     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
+   For it’s 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, I’ll 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 aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
+    a fuss,
+And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s 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 you’ll do a
+    sneak,
+And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
+Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
+Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
+But if the banks once get you, they’ll 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 you’ll all be
+    glad to bear,
+Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
+So kindly pay attention, and I’ll 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,
+We’ll 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.
+That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
+    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,
+It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er 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 o’er 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
+    bunny’s 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.
+They’ll 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 Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
+    meadows green,
+We’ll 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.
+They’ll 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, that’s 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.
+
+“We’ll 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 sixteen”—sixteen 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.
+We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
+  In our regretful strain,
+Lamenting on the days gone by
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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,
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er to return again.
+
+A worthy cheque I always earned,
+  And spent it like a lord.
+My dress a prince’s 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,
+  Ne’er 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: “It’s 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 Eva’s 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 he’s 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 won’t 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
+  Ain’t 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 it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
+  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
+And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
+  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
+No odds what I feel, there’s 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 o’er 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!
+Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
+The world a desert—no oasis green
+A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
+Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
+An Eden to form—a 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 sea—brightest 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 o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
+To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
+
+Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
+And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
+The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
+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 earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
+No sick’ning 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 there’s not a country in the world where all that’s 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 that’s fair prevails,
+   Our colour’s 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 e’er would guess.
+Why, we’ve 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, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
+    ne’er 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.
+There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
+    Wales.
+
+    Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.
+
+Our climate’s 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 ocean’s 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 mountain’s 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 wealth’s 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 we’ll watch our servant bringing
+  Mine and Mary’s 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 can’t molest me,
+     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
+
+“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
+  Far o’er 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 there’s a stockman below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
+
+“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
+  Watchful and weird—I must go,
+For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
+  From the gloom of the scrub down below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
+
+“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
+  Place the pannikins out in a row,
+And we’ll 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 dark’ning shadows are falling,
+  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
+
+       Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
+
+
+
+MY MATE BILL
+
+
+That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
+  And them’s his spurs up there
+On the wall-plate over yonder—
+  You ken see they ain’t 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 he’s gone to heaven,
+  And shook off all worldly cares
+But I can’t 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+He’d 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 couldn’t ’arp for apples,
+  His voice had tones as jarred,
+And he’d 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 throne—not William,
+  Unless they could make it prop.
+
+He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
+  Or chum with the cherubim,
+But if ever them seraph johnnies
+  Get a-poking it like at him—
+
+Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
+  And silk for to make a lash,
+He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
+  In a blinded lightning flash.
+
+If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
+  As mobs most always will,
+Who’ll 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
+  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
+And wake him up at the judgment
+  To draft those goats and sheep.
+
+It’s playing it low on William,
+  But perhaps he’ll 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—
+
+He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
+  In a way that it’s safe to swear
+Will make them tony seraphs
+  Sit back on their thrones and stare.
+
+
+
+SAM HOLT
+
+   (Air: “Ben Bolt.”)
+
+
+Oh! don’t 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! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
+  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
+And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
+  We caught in our blankets at night?
+
+Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
+  That scattered their fragrance around?
+And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
+  You sold me, and swore he was sound?
+
+And don’t 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 I’ll whistle a good many tunes
+  Ere you think of that fiver or me.
+
+Oh! don’t 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 don’t you remember the pasting you got
+  By the boys down in Callaghan’s 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 you’ve 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 who’d 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.
+
+When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
+  And it’s 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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
+             Who true bushmen are,
+  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
+
+When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
+O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
+He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
+So him also we’ll 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 we’ll 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 won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.
+
+Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
+To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
+Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en 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, we’ll 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 penmanship’s no requisite,
+  Keep matters square by chalking
+With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
+  Exact enough for hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
+
+The hawker’s gay for half the day,
+  While others work he’s 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 fortune’s envied height
+  The path I have unfolded,
+We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
+  And don tweeds without joking,
+And honest men as well as rogues
+  We’ll 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 ne’er did see
+Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
+
+             Chorus
+
+   Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s toiling in the morning,
+   It’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s 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! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Next day into the bush I went,
+On wild adventure I was bent,
+Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
+All thought of danger would ignore.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s 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! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+This lovely country, I’ve been told,
+Abounds in silver and in gold.
+You may pick it up all day,
+Just as leaves in autumn lay!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Marines will chance this yarn believe,
+But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
+Such pretty stories will not fit,
+Nor can I their truth admit.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Some say there’s 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! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Mayhap such good things there may be,
+But you may have them all, for me,
+Instead of roaming foreign parts
+I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s 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,
+He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
+He’ll 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 won’t delay,
+For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
+
+     Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.
+
+Then here’s 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,
+Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
+
+     Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &c.
+
+
+
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT
+
+   (As sung by the camp fire.)
+
+
+No doubt the saying’s all abroad,
+  And rattling through the land.
+We hear it at the mangle, too,
+  With “What are you going to stand?”
+I’m sure I don’t know which to choose,
+  There’s really such a lot—
+But I hope my song you’ll not refuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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 you’ll excuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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,
+  It’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
+
+Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,”
+  And arter him I flies,
+When another stepped up and knocked my hat
+  Completely o’er my eyes.
+He from my pocket drew my purse,
+  And off with it did trot;
+Says she, “It’s well it is no worse,
+ But it’s only a way he’s 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 he’d 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,
+  It’s only a way we’ve got!”
+
+        Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
+
+I have grown tired of Sydney town
+  Since I’ve lost all my cash,
+And so will up the country go,
+  And tell them of my smash.
+Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun,
+  I’ll court Miss Polly Scott;
+And if she asks me what I mean
+  I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve 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, they’re 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, they’re 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.
+
+They’ll 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 it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and
+    Ainley.
+
+If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
+I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an
+    introduction.
+One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a
+    brother,
+And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll 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, they’ll think they’ve
+    failed in duty.
+But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
+And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out
+    completely.
+
+
+
+THE OLD KEG OF RUM
+
+
+My name is old Jack Palmer,
+  I’m 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 we’d get our harvest fee,
+We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg,
+  And then we’d have a spree.
+We’d sit and sing together
+  Till we got that blind and dumb
+That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+  Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+     Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Its jovially together, boys—
+  We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing;
+Sometimes we’d have a little row
+  Some argument would bring.
+
+And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys,
+  I’ve 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.
+We’d rap it with our knuckles—
+  If it sounded like a drum,
+We’d know the life and spirit
+  Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   We’d know the life and spirit
+     Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Those happy days have passed away,
+  I’ve 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 we’ll meet again,
+And, as I’ve tried to please you all,
+  I hope you won’t 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 I’ll relate to you
+Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few.
+I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
+And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
+
+I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too,
+I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
+I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
+I’ve 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, I’ve touched the shepherd’s 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, I’ve done it on the cross.
+Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse.
+I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s 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.
+
+I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair.
+Anxiety and misery my grim companions there.
+I’ve 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,
+I’m 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 I’ll not detain you long.
+Up and down this country
+  I travel, don’t you see,
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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! don’t you pity me, &c.
+
+I started station loafing,
+  Short stages and took my ease;
+So all day long till sundown
+  I’d camp beneath the trees.
+Then I’d walk up to the station,
+  The manager to see.
+“Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me,” &c.
+
+Says the overseer: “Go to the hut.
+  In the morning I’ll tell you
+If I’ve any work about
+  I can find for you to do.”
+But at breakfast I cuts off enough
+  For dinner, don’t you see.
+And then my name is Walker.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman, &c.
+
+And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye,
+  For I must go and camp.
+For if the Sergeant sees me
+  He may take me for a tramp;
+But if there’s any covey here
+  What’s got a cheque, d’ye see,
+I’ll stop and help him smash it.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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 dawn’s 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.
+
+There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
+  There’s danger in you cow;
+Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
+  The wild mob’s bolting now—
+The wild mob’s 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 childhood’s home,
+  Our heritage the whip.
+
+
+
+THE MARANOA DROVERS
+
+   (Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)
+
+
+The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
+  Our horses we will mount and ride away,
+To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
+  night,
+And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
+
+                  Chorus
+
+   For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
+     And we’ll 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, I’m sure
+That I wish for two o’clock 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 we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
+And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
+  It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
+  For we always have to go ten miles or more;
+It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
+  He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
+    too;
+  Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
+We’ll 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 pony—I 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; that’s 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 they’d robbed it themselves—had 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 Commissioner’s 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 I’d a fancy for any more land
+For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
+
+I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
+Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
+Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
+Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
+
+
+
+WALLABI JOE
+
+   (Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)
+
+
+The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
+And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
+For there never was seen such a regular screw
+As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
+Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
+That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse;
+But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
+He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+           O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried,
+“I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
+For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
+And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
+
+Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
+Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
+And off he rode with a whip in his hand
+To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
+
+Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
+And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
+Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
+So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
+He searched up and down every gully he knew,
+But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
+And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
+“Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
+
+Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
+It came into his head to go poking for gold;
+So away he went with a spade in his fist,
+To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
+One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
+He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
+The hobbles being jammed in a root below
+Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
+
+
+
+THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME
+
+   (Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)
+
+
+I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
+Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
+Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
+That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
+    great—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
+   and shoes,
+And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
+And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
+    snooze,
+And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
+    choose—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
+And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
+    them all,
+Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
+For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
+    small—
+  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
+His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
+The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
+He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
+    free—
+  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
+
+And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
+But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
+His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
+    free,
+And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
+    chance to see—
+  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
+
+
+
+THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED
+
+
+Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
+Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
+The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot,
+His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
+   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.
+
+Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
+“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
+For I never again shall my saddle regain,
+Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”
+
+His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
+His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
+No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
+Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.
+
+Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
+After the wild mob you happen to stray,
+Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
+Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.
+
+
+
+MUSTERING SONG
+
+   (Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)
+
+
+The boss last night in the hut did say—
+“We start to muster at break of day;
+So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
+Saddle your horses and off you go.”
+
+               Chorus
+
+   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
+   So early in the morning, before the break of day.
+
+Such a night in the yard there never was seen
+(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
+Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
+As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+Across the plain we jog along
+Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
+We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
+We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
+A regular caution to this ’ere child—
+A new chum man on an old chum horse,
+Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
+I got a buster jumping a log;
+I found this scouting rather hot,
+So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
+With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
+He came too close to a knocked up steer,
+Who up a sapling made him clear.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+Now on every side we faintly hear
+The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
+To the camp the cattle soon converge,
+As from the thick scrub they emerge.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+We hastily comfort the inner man
+With the warm contents of the billy can;
+The beef and damper are passed about
+Before we tackle the cutting out.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+We’re at it now—that bally calf
+Would surely make a sick man laugh;
+The silly fool can’t take a joke;
+I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
+(Things here are never done by halves);
+Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
+Of scrubbers also not a few.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+It’s getting late, we’d better push;
+’Tis a good long way across the bush,
+And the mob to drive are middling hard;
+I do not think we’ll reach the yard.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+
+
+THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN
+
+
+The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
+  dense,
+Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
+  stockyard fence,
+Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
+And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
+  shuddering shadows throng
+Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
+  goburra’s song.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song;
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song.
+
+The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
+  pomp
+Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
+  swamp;
+Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.
+
+The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
+  along,
+And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
+  song.
+
+   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &c.
+
+Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
+  town;
+Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
+  dark-faced frown—
+The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
+When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
+  crack of the sounding thong
+Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.
+
+   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &c.
+
+
+
+THE SHEPHERD
+
+   (Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”)
+
+
+He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
+An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
+His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
+Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
+  wandered home.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
+   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
+     mountain brow.
+
+When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
+  gone;
+A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
+Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
+To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
+
+   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
+   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
+     face.
+
+When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
+The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
+Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
+  track
+From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
+
+   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
+   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
+     in his eye.
+
+
+
+THE OVERLANDER
+
+
+There’s a trade you all know well—
+  It’s bringing cattle over—
+I’ll tell you all about the time
+  When I became a drover.
+I made up my mind to try the spec,
+  To the Clarence I did wander,
+And bought a mob of duffers there
+  To begin as an overlander.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
+     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
+   For to-night we’ll drink the health
+     Of every overlander.
+
+Next morning counted the cattle
+  Saw the outfit ready to start,
+Saw all the lads well mounted,
+  And their swags put in a cart.
+
+All kinds of men I had
+  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
+Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
+  In the mob of overlanders.
+
+Next morning I set out
+  When the grass was green and young;
+And they swore they’d break my snout
+  If I did not move along.
+I said, “You’re very hard;
+  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
+For I’m a regular knowing card,
+  The Queensland overlander.”
+
+’Tis true we pay no license,
+  And our run is rather large;
+’Tis not often they can catch us,
+  So they cannot make a charge.
+They think we live on store beef,
+  But no, I’m not a gander;
+When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
+  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.
+
+One day a squatter rode up.
+  Says he, “You’re on my run;
+I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
+  Consider your stock in pound.”
+
+I tried to coax, then bounce him,
+  But my tin I had to squander,
+For he put threepence a head
+  On the mob of the overlander.
+
+The pretty girls in Brisbane
+  Were hanging out their duds.
+I wished to have a chat with them,
+  So steered straight for the tubs.
+Some dirty urchins saw me,
+  And soon they raised my dander,
+Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
+  Here comes an overlander!”
+
+In town we drain the wine cup,
+  And go to see the play,
+And never think to be hard up
+  For how to pass the day.
+Each has a sweetheart there,
+  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
+Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
+  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.
+
+
+
+A THOUSAND MILES AWAY
+
+   (Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”)
+
+
+Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
+And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward
+  Ho—
+To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
+  stray
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+   away.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
+   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
+     some folks say;
+   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
+   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
+     away.
+
+Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
+  bound to tell—
+Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—
+
+As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
+  weigh,
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+  away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.
+
+No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
+No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
+  seas—
+As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
+  weigh—
+From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
+  miles away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.
+
+
+
+THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN
+
+   (Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”)
+
+
+I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
+  Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
+My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
+  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+                     Chorus
+
+   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
+       tumbling in;
+     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
+   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
+     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
+  When fortune followed in my train;
+But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
+  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.
+
+I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
+  Of her I have no reason to complain;
+For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
+  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.
+
+And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
+  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
+And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
+  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.
+
+
+
+THE WALLABY BRIGADE
+
+
+You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
+But we are the bravest in the land;
+We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
+We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
+   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
+   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
+   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
+If there are any jobs to be had,
+Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
+For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
+If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
+To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
+Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
+  run,
+But a prettier mistake they never made;
+You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
+There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
+Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
+But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
+  rank,
+Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+
+To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
+slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
+
+
+
+MY RELIGION
+
+
+Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
+  Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
+Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
+  Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
+
+From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
+  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
+To be upright and downright and act like a man,
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
+  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
+And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
+  To injure a poor fellow-creature.
+
+For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
+  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
+But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]
+
+Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
+  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
+They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
+  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
+
+But let man unto man like brethren act,
+  My doctrine this suits to a T,
+The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
+  Oh, that’s the religion for me.
+
+
+
+BOURKE’S DREAM
+
+
+Lonely and sadly one night in November
+  I laid down my weary head in search of repose
+On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
+  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
+      Tired from working hard
+      Down in the labour yard,
+Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
+      Locked in my prison cell,
+      Surely an earthly hell,
+I fell asleep and began for to dream.
+
+I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
+  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
+Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
+  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
+       On came the Saxons then,
+       Fighting our Fenian men,
+Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
+       Loud was the fight and shrill,
+       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
+Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.
+
+I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
+  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
+He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
+    sabre
+  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
+      “On,” was the battle cry,
+      “Conquer this day or die,
+Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
+      Show neither fear nor dread,
+      Strike at the foeman’s head,
+Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”
+
+I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
+  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
+Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
+  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
+      The green flag was waving high,
+      Under the bright blue sky,
+  And each man was singing most gloriously.
+      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
+      We Irishmen have done our work,
+God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”
+
+I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
+  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
+With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
+  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.
+
+
+
+BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA
+
+
+When I was at home I was down on my luck,
+And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
+But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh,
+I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
+
+When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
+Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
+He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
+Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow.
+
+When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
+He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
+I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
+And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
+
+So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
+And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
+But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
+Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow.
+
+
+At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
+A constable came up, and to me did say,
+“Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?”
+And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow.
+
+Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
+Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
+When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
+“I must send you down to be i—dentified.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
+
+They at last let me go, and I then did repair
+For my station once more, and at length I got there;
+But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
+Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And for nine months before no rain there had been,
+So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
+And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
+And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
+So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
+He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because
+The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+I applied; to renew he was quite content,
+If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
+But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
+Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
+
+For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
+And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
+He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
+“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
+      Barlow?”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He’d got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow.
+
+What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
+And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
+Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
+At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
+Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
+How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
+And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
+
+And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
+Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
+Having got all he could by the writ of fi. fa.,
+By way of a change he’d brought up a ca. sa.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
+
+He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
+Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;”
+And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
+The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
+
+Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil;
+I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
+I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
+If it was only the making of portable soup.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
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+<title>The Old Bush Songs</title>
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Old Bush Songs
+
+Author: A. B. Paterson
+
+Release Date: December 18, 2003 [EBook #10493]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<p>This ebook was prepared by Jeffrey Kraus-yao</p>
+
+<p><img src="cover.jpg" width="660" height="1065" alt="Man singing and leading cattle on a dirt road pulling a wagon."/></p>
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+
+
+<p>Second Impression<br/>
+completing the Tenth Thousand</p>
+
+
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+<p>Composed and sung in the Bushranging,<br/>
+Digging, and Overlanding Days</p>
+
+
+<p>EDITED BY</p>
+
+<p>A. B. PATERSON<br/>
+AUTHOR OF “THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER,” AND<br/>
+“RIO GRANDE’S LAST RACE”</p>
+
+
+<p>SYDNEY<br/>
+ANGUS AND ROBERTSON<br/>
+89 CASTLEREAGH STREET<br/>
+1906</p>
+
+
+
+<p>Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PREFACE</h2>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<p>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS<br/>
+PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA<br/>
+THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY<br/>
+PADDY’S LETTER, 1857<br/>
+THE OLD BARK HUT<br/>
+THE OLD SURVEY<br/>
+DWELL NOT WITH ME<br/>
+THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI<br/>
+FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI<br/>
+ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN<br/>
+BOLD JACK DONAHOO<br/>
+THE WILD COLONIAL BOY<br/>
+JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)<br/>
+IMMIGRATION<br/>
+THE SQUATTER’S MAN<br/>
+THE STRINGY BARK COCKATOO<br/>
+THE EUMERELLA SHORE<br/>
+JIMMY SAGO JACKAROO<br/>
+THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE<br/>
+THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT<br/>
+THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER<br/>
+THE FREE SELECTOR<br/>
+A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX<br/>
+SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES<br/>
+BRINGING HOME THE COWS<br/>
+THE DYING STOCKMAN<br/>
+MY MATE BILL<br/>
+SAM HOLT<br/>
+THE BUSHMAN<br/>
+HAWKING<br/>
+COLONIAL EXPERIENCE<br/>
+THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT<br/>
+THE LOAFER’S CLUB<br/>
+THE OLD KEG OF RUM<br/>
+THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER<br/>
+THE SWAGMAN<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE MARANOA DROVERS<br/>
+RIVER BEND<br/>
+SONG OF THE SQUATTER<br/>
+WALLABI JOE<br/>
+THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED<br/>
+MUSTERING SONG<br/>
+THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE SHEPHERD<br/>
+THE OVERLANDER<br/>
+A THOUSAND MILES AWAY<br/>
+THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN<br/>
+THE WALLABY BRIGADE<br/>
+MY RELIGION<br/>
+BOURKE’S DREAM<br/>
+BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+
+<p>“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.”—
+<i>Macaulay</i>.</p>
+<hr style="width:20%"/>
+
+<p>Australia’s 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 hole—like a rabbit out of his burrow—at the license
+hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated
+audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was
+full of ne’er-do-wells—singers and professional entertainers
+and so on—who 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 prisoners—ballads 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 writes—“I could never find out what the words meant,
+and I don’t 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>terra incognita</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Squatter’s 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Selector—a 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</p>
+<pre>
+                        “We may reside
+   In a home of our own by some clear waterside.”
+</pre>
+<p>The squatters also had a word to say, and “The Broken-down
+Squatter” puts their side of the case in a sort of
+<i>ad misericordiam</i> 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 “Squatter’s man.”</p>
+
+<p>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 cattle—it 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 through—chorus and all—and 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.</p>
+
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “But, oh, boys, such sheep I never shore,
+    As those that made us knuckle down at Goorianawa”
+</pre>
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “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, we’ll bless them one and
+      all,
+   And we’ll sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert,
+      and Ben Hall.”
+</pre>
+<p>Another line ran—</p>
+<pre>
+  “It’s a thousand pounds alive or dead, for Dunn, Gilbert,
+    and Ben Hall”
+</pre>
+<p>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.</p>
+
+                               <p class="signature">A. B. PATERSON.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS</h2>
+
+
+<h3>I</h3>
+<pre>
+Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang
+iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo,
+iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwaringime. Iwaringiang, iwaringdoo,
+ilanenienow,  coombagongniengowe, ilanenienow, coombagongniengowe,
+ilanenienowe combagoniengowe, ilanenienimme.
+</pre>
+<h3>II</h3>
+<pre>
+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.
+</pre>
+<p>Of the above songs Mr. Mowle writes—“I could never
+find out what the words meant, and I don’t think the blacks
+themselves knew.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
+  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
+And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
+  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
+’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
+  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
+And from that day to this there’s 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,
+  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
+And he said—as 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 you’ll find yourself at home.
+I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
+  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
+    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re 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 couldn’t, 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-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
+The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s 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 he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
+    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
+    We’ll 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, we’re 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! you’ve 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 name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
+I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
+  “No, faith, but I’m 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 it’s roll up your blankets,
+     And let’s make a push,
+   I’ll take you up the country,
+     And show you the bush.
+   I’ll be bound you won’t get
+     Such a chance another day,
+   So come and take possession
+     Of my old bullock dray.
+
+Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
+  I mean to buy a team,
+And when I get a wife, boys,
+  I’ll be all-serene
+For calling at the depôt.
+  They say there’s no delay
+To get an off-sider
+  For the old bullock dray.
+
+Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
+  For good living, I’m your man.
+We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
+  And fritters in the pan;
+Or if you’d like some fish
+  I’ll catch you some soon,
+For we’ll bob for barramundies
+  Round the banks of a lagoon.
+
+Oh! yes, of beef and damper
+  I take care we have enough,
+And we’ll 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! we’ll have plenty girls,
+  We must mind that.
+There’ll be flash little Maggie,
+  And buckjumping Pat.
+There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
+  And Green-hide Mike.
+Yes, my Colonials, just
+  As many as you like.
+
+Now we’ll stop all immigration,
+  We won’t need it any more;
+We’ll 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! it’s time I had an answer,
+  If there’s one to be had,
+I wouldn’t 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 I’ll go up country
+  And marry a black gin.
+Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
+  This is what she’ll say,
+“Budgery you
+  And your old bullock dray.”
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>“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
+assistant—one 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.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“Budgery you”—good fellow you.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY’S LETTER, 1857</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
+  But now I have somebody’s 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 you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
+  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!
+
+Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
+  Though that same I ne’er 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,
+  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.
+
+I’m 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 harm—not a word of a lie!
+
+But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
+  And every flockmaster’s 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 Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
+  Lives on the Barcoo that’s 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 sickly—I think it was that—
+And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
+  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”
+
+’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
+  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
+But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
+  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof
+
+P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
+  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
+Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
+  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.
+</pre>
+
+<p>The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BARK HUT</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
+And I’ve 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 I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
+      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
+     some tea,
+That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
+If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
+     gut—
+For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
+           bark hut.
+
+The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
+And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
+     for two.
+I’ve 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, I’d think myself serene—
+’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God 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, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
+     place,
+Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s 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,
+They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
+But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
+      fill up—
+For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
+            bark hut.
+
+In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
+      nice and cool,
+And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
+      hole.
+You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
+There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
+      treat
+Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
+      sleet.
+
+The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
+    with soot—
+That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
+Especially through that great big hole where once the table
+    stood.
+There’s 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 you’d 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, he’ll 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, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
+     could,
+And I hope the ladies present won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD SURVEY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Our money’s 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 we’ll 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 money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
+  We all are bound to ride.
+O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
+  And mark the settler’s way—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
+  And traverse far below;
+Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
+  The limits of endless snow;
+
+Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
+  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
+  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
+And the very bad scrawl that’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>DWELL NOT WITH ME</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dwell, not with me,
+For you’ll 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 you’d mourn,
+’Tis there you’d mourn
+The sweet woodbine
+That round your lattice now doth twine.
+
+Fond friends, don’t grieve
+For scenes like these,
+Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas.
+Dwell not with me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 I—how 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 danger’s 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 I’ve had you’ll 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 I’ve come,
+Determined never more to roam,
+  At least, to the bush of Australia.
+And stones upon the road I’ll 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 wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
+  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut
+    out.
+We’d 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
+  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
+  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, 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 we’d Sydney in our eye.
+
+
+But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+  Chorus: But we camped, &amp;c.
+
+Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
+And I’ve 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+
+Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
+    into the bar,
+And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
+But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
+And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  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 Harry’s, not five miles from
+    Gundagai;
+
+          Chorus: And we tramped, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry
+one’s swag, and the name bluey comes from the blue blankets.
+To “Shoulder Matilda” is the same thing as to “hump
+bluey.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve shore at Burrabogie, and I’ve shore at Toganmain,
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine,
+But before the shearin’ was over I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve 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, &amp;c.
+
+I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve 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, whate’er it might
+    contain,
+While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.
+
+I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
+    Creek,
+And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
+But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
+    morning train,
+And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
+    Plain.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve 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 week’s drunkenness.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Low Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+The weather had been sultry for a fortnight’s time or more,
+  And the shearers had been driving might and main,
+For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
+  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s 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 thunder’s muttering
+    loud,
+  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er 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 we’ll 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 we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
+    through,
+  For everything is merry since the rain.
+
+And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
+    shorn,
+  And the wringer’s wrist won’t ache much with the pain
+Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more,
+  And the second man will press him hard again.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>BOLD JACK DONAHOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 convict’s
+    chain.
+
+                      Chorus
+
+   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
+   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
+        plains—
+   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
+        chains.
+
+I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
+    Australian shore,
+When I took to the highway, as I’d 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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+As Donahoo was cruising, one summer’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+“Resign to you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
+For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+“I’d rather roam these hills and dales, like wolf or kangaroo,
+Than work one hour for Government!” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+
+   Chorus: Then come, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WILD COLONIAL BOY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+’Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
+Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
+He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
+And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
+   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
+   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
+       chains.
+
+
+He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
+    home,
+And through Australia’s 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+He bade the Judge “Good morning,” and told him to beware,
+That he’d 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, &amp;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 along—Kelly,  Davis, and
+    FitzRoy.
+They thought that they would capture him—the wild
+    Colonial boy.
+
+    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+
+“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
+Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
+He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
+“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild Colonial boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;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 that’s the way they captured him—the wild Colonial
+    boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)</h2>
+
+<p>[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for
+                 two days in 1859.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 mates—“Though 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, “Here’s 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, “We’ll 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 O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
+Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.
+
+And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
+    him
+They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
+And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
+That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
+    institution.
+
+So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
+    him,
+For well he knows the Government don’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IMMIGRATION</h2>
+
+
+<p>[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.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
+Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
+To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
+But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.
+
+Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll 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,
+    you’ll see.
+
+Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
+    walk,
+But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
+Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
+    night,
+And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.
+
+Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
+    maybe die of thirst;
+But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
+    first,
+For there’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER’S MAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
+That’s 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 you’ll 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 squatter’s 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 about—a regular drove—
+  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
+But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
+Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
+And very soon I hope you’ll be
+  A handy squatter’s 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, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
+    mouth;
+  And my youngsters don’t 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 squatter’s 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 I’m looking for a job,
+Without a copper in my fob.
+With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
+  Than be a squatter’s man.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers
+to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that
+made up the weekly ration on the stations.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’m 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 price—with 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s
+    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, &amp;c.
+
+For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty
+    hard;
+They wouldn’t 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,
+And when I’d 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 rap—the stringy-bark
+    cockatoo.
+
+   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>[For note on this song, see Introduction.]</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE EUMERELLA SHORE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
+  Where I’ve 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 you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+       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 he’ll never be your owner any more;
+For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+    piece of land,
+  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+
+If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
+  Although before they’re never known to stray,
+Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
+  And sell them into slav’ry far away.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
+   You’ve been leading us astray,
+     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
+   For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
+     Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+If you want a situation, I’ll 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 aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
+    a fuss,
+And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s 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 you’ll do a
+    sneak,
+And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
+Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
+Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
+But if the banks once get you, they’ll 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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be
+    glad to bear,
+Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
+So kindly pay attention, and I’ll 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,
+We’ll 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.
+That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
+    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,
+It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er 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 o’er 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
+    bunny’s 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.
+They’ll 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 Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
+    meadows green,
+We’ll 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.
+They’ll 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, that’s what they
+    want to see,
+That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll 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.</p>
+
+<p>“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Bonnie Irish Boy.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Come now, ye sighing washers all,
+  Join in my doleful lay,
+Mourn for the times none can recall,
+  With hearts to grief a prey.
+We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
+  In our regretful strain,
+Lamenting on the days gone by
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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,
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er to return again.
+
+A worthy cheque I always earned,
+  And spent it like a lord.
+My dress a prince’s 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,
+  Ne’er 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “It’s a fine hunting day.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 Eva’s 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 he’s 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 won’t 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, &amp;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
+  Ain’t 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, &amp;c.
+
+’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
+  No squatter could stand such a rub;
+For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
+  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
+And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
+  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
+No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal
+  For a broken-down squatter like me.
+
+   Chorus: For the banks, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREE SELECTOR</h2>
+
+   <h3>(A Song of 1861.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
+And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,
+Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won
+Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come
+   Now the Land Bill, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dark over the face of Nature sublime!
+Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
+The world a desert—no oasis green
+A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
+Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
+An Eden to form—a 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 sea—brightest 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 o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
+To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
+
+Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
+And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
+The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
+Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.
+
+   Chorus: First isle of the sea, &amp;c.
+
+Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine;
+’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
+No sick’ning 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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 there’s not a country in the world where all that’s 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 that’s fair prevails,
+   Our colour’s 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 e’er would guess.
+Why, we’ve 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, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
+    ne’er fails,
+Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South
+    Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;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.
+There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
+    Wales.
+
+    Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+
+Our climate’s 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 ocean’s gales;
+But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New
+    South Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BRINGING HOME THE COWS</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Shadows of the twilight falling
+  On the mountain’s 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 wealth’s 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 we’ll watch our servant bringing
+  Mine and Mary’s cows.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE DYING STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Old Stable Jacket.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 can’t molest me,
+     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
+
+“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
+  Far o’er the plains would I fly,
+Straight to the land of my childhood,
+  And there would I lay down and die.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;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 there’s a stockman below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
+  Watchful and weird—I must go,
+For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
+  From the gloom of the scrub down below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
+  Place the pannikins out in a row,
+And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
+  In the place where all good fellows go.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
+  When the soft winds are whispering low,
+And the dark’ning shadows are falling,
+  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
+
+       Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY MATE BILL</h2>
+
+<pre>
+That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
+  And them’s his spurs up there
+On the wall-plate over yonder—
+  You ken see they ain’t 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 he’s gone to heaven,
+  And shook off all worldly cares
+But I can’t 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+He’d 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 couldn’t ’arp for apples,
+  His voice had tones as jarred,
+And he’d 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 throne—not William,
+  Unless they could make it prop.
+
+He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
+  Or chum with the cherubim,
+But if ever them seraph johnnies
+  Get a-poking it like at him—
+
+Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
+  And silk for to make a lash,
+He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
+  In a blinded lightning flash.
+
+If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
+  As mobs most always will,
+Who’ll 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
+  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
+And wake him up at the judgment
+  To draft those goats and sheep.
+
+It’s playing it low on William,
+  But perhaps he’ll 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—
+
+He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
+  In a way that it’s safe to swear
+Will make them tony seraphs
+  Sit back on their thrones and stare.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SAM HOLT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ben Bolt.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Oh! don’t 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! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
+  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
+And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
+  We caught in our blankets at night?
+
+Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
+  That scattered their fragrance around?
+And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
+  You sold me, and swore he was sound?
+
+And don’t 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 I’ll whistle a good many tunes
+  Ere you think of that fiver or me.
+
+Oh! don’t 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 don’t you remember the pasting you got
+  By the boys down in Callaghan’s 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 you’ve 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 who’d 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.
+
+When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
+  And it’s likely enough your old mate
+Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road
+  To the end of the chapter of fate.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BUSHMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
+             Who true bushmen are,
+  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
+
+When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
+O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
+He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
+So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;c.
+
+Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
+To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
+Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>HAWKING</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Bow, Wow, Wow.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, we’ll 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, &amp;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 penmanship’s no requisite,
+  Keep matters square by chalking
+With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
+  Exact enough for hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+
+The hawker’s gay for half the day,
+  While others work he’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+Since pedlaring yields more delight
+  Than ever digging gold did,
+And since to fortune’s envied height
+  The path I have unfolded,
+We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
+  And don tweeds without joking,
+And honest men as well as rogues
+  We’ll scour the country hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>COLONIAL EXPERIENCE</h2>
+
+   <p>[By A New Chum]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+When first I came to Sydney Cove
+And up and down the streets did rove,
+I thought such sights I ne’er did see
+Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
+
+             Chorus
+
+   Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s toiling in the morning,
+   It’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Next day into the bush I went,
+On wild adventure I was bent,
+Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
+All thought of danger would ignore.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+This lovely country, I’ve been told,
+Abounds in silver and in gold.
+You may pick it up all day,
+Just as leaves in autumn lay!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Marines will chance this yarn believe,
+But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
+Such pretty stories will not fit,
+Nor can I their truth admit.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Some say there’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Mayhap such good things there may be,
+But you may have them all, for me,
+Instead of roaming foreign parts
+I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp,
+He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
+He’ll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea,
+For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.
+
+      Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;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, &amp;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 won’t delay,
+For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
+
+     Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;c.
+
+Then here’s 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,
+Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
+
+     Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(As sung by the camp fire.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+No doubt the saying’s all abroad,
+  And rattling through the land.
+We hear it at the mangle, too,
+  With “What are you going to stand?”
+I’m sure I don’t know which to choose,
+  There’s really such a lot—
+But I hope my song you’ll not refuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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 you’ll excuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,”
+  And arter him I flies,
+When another stepped up and knocked my hat
+  Completely o’er my eyes.
+He from my pocket drew my purse,
+  And off with it did trot;
+Says she, “It’s well it is no worse,
+ But it’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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 he’d got!
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way we’ve got!”
+
+        Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+I have grown tired of Sydney town
+  Since I’ve lost all my cash,
+And so will up the country go,
+  And tell them of my smash.
+Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun,
+  I’ll court Miss Polly Scott;
+And if she asks me what I mean
+  I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve got.
+
+         Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE LOAFERS’ CLUB</h2>
+
+<pre>
+A club there is established here, whose name they say is
+    Legion
+From Melbourne to the Billabong, they’re 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, they’re 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.
+
+They’ll 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 it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and
+    Ainley.
+
+If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
+I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an
+    introduction.
+One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a
+    brother,
+And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll 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, they’ll think they’ve
+    failed in duty.
+But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
+And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out
+    completely.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD KEG OF RUM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+My name is old Jack Palmer,
+  I’m 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 we’d get our harvest fee,
+We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg,
+  And then we’d have a spree.
+We’d sit and sing together
+  Till we got that blind and dumb
+That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+  Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+     Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Its jovially together, boys—
+  We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing;
+Sometimes we’d have a little row
+  Some argument would bring.
+
+And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys,
+  I’ve 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.
+We’d rap it with our knuckles—
+  If it sounded like a drum,
+We’d know the life and spirit
+  Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   We’d know the life and spirit
+     Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Those happy days have passed away,
+  I’ve 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 we’ll meet again,
+And, as I’ve tried to please you all,
+  I hope you won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all you jolly natives, and I’ll relate to you
+Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few.
+I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
+And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
+
+I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too,
+I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
+I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
+I’ve 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, I’ve touched the shepherd’s 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, I’ve done it on the cross.
+Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse.
+I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s 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.
+
+I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair.
+Anxiety and misery my grim companions there.
+I’ve 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,
+I’m a Murrumbidgee shearer, and one of the good old time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SWAGMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Kind friends, pray give attention
+  To this, my little song.
+Some rum things I will mention,
+  And I’ll not detain you long.
+Up and down this country
+  I travel, don’t you see,
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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! don’t you pity me, &amp;c.
+
+I started station loafing,
+  Short stages and took my ease;
+So all day long till sundown
+  I’d camp beneath the trees.
+Then I’d walk up to the station,
+  The manager to see.
+“Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me,” &amp;c.
+
+Says the overseer: “Go to the hut.
+  In the morning I’ll tell you
+If I’ve any work about
+  I can find for you to do.”
+But at breakfast I cuts off enough
+  For dinner, don’t you see.
+And then my name is Walker.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman, &amp;c.
+
+And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye,
+  For I must go and camp.
+For if the Sergeant sees me
+  He may take me for a tramp;
+But if there’s any covey here
+  What’s got a cheque, d’ye see,
+I’ll stop and help him smash it.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“A Swagman on the Wallaby.”—A nomad following
+track of the wallaby, i.e., loafing aimlessly.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A wet sheet and a flowing sea.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 dawn’s 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.
+
+There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
+  There’s danger in you cow;
+Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
+  The wild mob’s bolting now—
+The wild mob’s 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 childhood’s home,
+  Our heritage the whip.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MARANOA DROVERS</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
+  Our horses we will mount and ride away,
+To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
+  night,
+And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
+
+                  Chorus
+
+   For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
+     And we’ll 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, I’m sure
+That I wish for two o’clock 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 we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
+And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
+  It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
+  For we always have to go ten miles or more;
+It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
+  He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
+    too;
+  Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
+We’ll shout “Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy
+    coolibah,
+  And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.”
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>RIVER BEND</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Belle Mahone.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>SONG OF THE SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <p>[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.]</p>
+<pre>
+The Commissioner bet me a pony—I 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; that’s 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 they’d robbed it themselves—had 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 Commissioner’s 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 I’d a fancy for any more land
+For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
+
+I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
+Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
+Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
+Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>WALLABI JOE</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
+And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
+For there never was seen such a regular screw
+As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
+Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
+That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse;
+But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
+He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+           O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried,
+“I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
+For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
+And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
+
+Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
+Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
+And off he rode with a whip in his hand
+To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
+And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
+Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
+So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
+He searched up and down every gully he knew,
+But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
+And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
+“Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
+It came into his head to go poking for gold;
+So away he went with a spade in his fist,
+To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
+One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
+He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
+The hobbles being jammed in a root below
+Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
+Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
+Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
+That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
+    great—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
+   and shoes,
+And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
+And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
+    snooze,
+And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
+    choose—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
+And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
+    them all,
+Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
+For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
+    small—
+  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
+His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
+The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
+He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
+    free—
+  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
+
+And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
+But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
+His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
+    free,
+And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
+    chance to see—
+  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
+Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
+The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot,
+His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
+   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.
+
+Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
+“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
+For I never again shall my saddle regain,
+Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”
+
+His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
+His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
+No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
+Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.
+
+Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
+After the wild mob you happen to stray,
+Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
+Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MUSTERING SONG</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The boss last night in the hut did say—
+“We start to muster at break of day;
+So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
+Saddle your horses and off you go.”
+
+               Chorus
+
+   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
+   So early in the morning, before the break of day.
+
+Such a night in the yard there never was seen
+(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
+Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
+As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Across the plain we jog along
+Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
+We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
+We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
+A regular caution to this ’ere child—
+A new chum man on an old chum horse,
+Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
+I got a buster jumping a log;
+I found this scouting rather hot,
+So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
+With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
+He came too close to a knocked up steer,
+Who up a sapling made him clear.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now on every side we faintly hear
+The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
+To the camp the cattle soon converge,
+As from the thick scrub they emerge.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We hastily comfort the inner man
+With the warm contents of the billy can;
+The beef and damper are passed about
+Before we tackle the cutting out.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’re at it now—that bally calf
+Would surely make a sick man laugh;
+The silly fool can’t take a joke;
+I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
+(Things here are never done by halves);
+Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
+Of scrubbers also not a few.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+It’s getting late, we’d better push;
+’Tis a good long way across the bush,
+And the mob to drive are middling hard;
+I do not think we’ll reach the yard.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
+  dense,
+Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
+  stockyard fence,
+Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
+And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
+  shuddering shadows throng
+Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
+  goburra’s song.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song;
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song.
+
+The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
+  pomp
+Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
+  swamp;
+Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.
+
+The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
+  along,
+And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
+  song.
+
+   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+
+Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
+  town;
+Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
+  dark-faced frown—
+The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
+When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
+  crack of the sounding thong
+Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.
+
+   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEPHERD</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
+An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
+His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
+Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
+  wandered home.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
+   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
+     mountain brow.
+
+When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
+  gone;
+A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
+Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
+To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
+
+   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
+   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
+     face.
+
+When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
+The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
+Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
+  track
+From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
+
+   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
+   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
+     in his eye.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OVERLANDER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a trade you all know well—
+  It’s bringing cattle over—
+I’ll tell you all about the time
+  When I became a drover.
+I made up my mind to try the spec,
+  To the Clarence I did wander,
+And bought a mob of duffers there
+  To begin as an overlander.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
+     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
+   For to-night we’ll drink the health
+     Of every overlander.
+
+Next morning counted the cattle
+  Saw the outfit ready to start,
+Saw all the lads well mounted,
+  And their swags put in a cart.
+
+All kinds of men I had
+  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
+Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
+  In the mob of overlanders.
+
+Next morning I set out
+  When the grass was green and young;
+And they swore they’d break my snout
+  If I did not move along.
+I said, “You’re very hard;
+  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
+For I’m a regular knowing card,
+  The Queensland overlander.”
+
+’Tis true we pay no license,
+  And our run is rather large;
+’Tis not often they can catch us,
+  So they cannot make a charge.
+They think we live on store beef,
+  But no, I’m not a gander;
+When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
+  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.
+
+One day a squatter rode up.
+  Says he, “You’re on my run;
+I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
+  Consider your stock in pound.”
+
+I tried to coax, then bounce him,
+  But my tin I had to squander,
+For he put threepence a head
+  On the mob of the overlander.
+
+The pretty girls in Brisbane
+  Were hanging out their duds.
+I wished to have a chat with them,
+  So steered straight for the tubs.
+Some dirty urchins saw me,
+  And soon they raised my dander,
+Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
+  Here comes an overlander!”
+
+In town we drain the wine cup,
+  And go to see the play,
+And never think to be hard up
+  For how to pass the day.
+Each has a sweetheart there,
+  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
+Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
+  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A THOUSAND MILES AWAY</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
+And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward
+  Ho—
+To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
+  stray
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+   away.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
+   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
+     some folks say;
+   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
+   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
+     away.
+
+Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
+  bound to tell—
+Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—
+
+As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
+  weigh,
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+  away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+
+No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
+No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
+  seas—
+As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
+  weigh—
+From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
+  miles away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
+  Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
+My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
+  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+                     Chorus
+
+   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
+       tumbling in;
+     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
+   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
+     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
+  When fortune followed in my train;
+But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
+  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
+  Of her I have no reason to complain;
+For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
+  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
+  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
+And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
+  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WALLABY BRIGADE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
+But we are the bravest in the land;
+We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
+We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
+   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
+   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
+   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
+If there are any jobs to be had,
+Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
+For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
+If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
+To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
+Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
+  run,
+But a prettier mistake they never made;
+You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
+There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
+Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
+But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
+  rank,
+Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+
+To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
+slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY RELIGION</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
+  Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
+Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
+  Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
+
+From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
+  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
+To be upright and downright and act like a man,
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
+  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
+And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
+  To injure a poor fellow-creature.
+
+For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
+  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
+But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]
+
+Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
+  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
+They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
+  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
+
+But let man unto man like brethren act,
+  My doctrine this suits to a T,
+The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
+  Oh, that’s the religion for me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BOURKE’S DREAM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Lonely and sadly one night in November
+  I laid down my weary head in search of repose
+On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
+  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
+      Tired from working hard
+      Down in the labour yard,
+Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
+      Locked in my prison cell,
+      Surely an earthly hell,
+I fell asleep and began for to dream.
+
+I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
+  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
+Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
+  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
+       On came the Saxons then,
+       Fighting our Fenian men,
+Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
+       Loud was the fight and shrill,
+       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
+Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.
+
+I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
+  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
+He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
+    sabre
+  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
+      “On,” was the battle cry,
+      “Conquer this day or die,
+Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
+      Show neither fear nor dread,
+      Strike at the foeman’s head,
+Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”
+
+I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
+  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
+Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
+  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
+      The green flag was waving high,
+      Under the bright blue sky,
+  And each man was singing most gloriously.
+      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
+      We Irishmen have done our work,
+God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”
+
+I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
+  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
+With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
+  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+When I was at home I was down on my luck,
+And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
+But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh,
+I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
+
+When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
+Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
+He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
+Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow.
+
+When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
+He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
+I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
+And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
+
+So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
+And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
+But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
+Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow.
+
+
+At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
+A constable came up, and to me did say,
+“Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?”
+And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow.
+
+Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
+Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
+When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
+“I must send you down to be i—dentified.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
+
+They at last let me go, and I then did repair
+For my station once more, and at length I got there;
+But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
+Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And for nine months before no rain there had been,
+So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
+And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
+And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
+So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
+He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because
+The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+I applied; to renew he was quite content,
+If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
+But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
+Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
+
+For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
+And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
+He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
+“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
+      Barlow?”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He’d got a <i>fi. fa.</i> for poor Billy Barlow.
+
+What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
+And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
+Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
+At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
+Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
+How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
+And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
+
+And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
+Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
+Having got all he could by the writ of <i>fi. fa.</i>,
+By way of a change he’d brought up a <i>ca. sa.</i>
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
+
+He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
+Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;”
+And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
+The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
+
+Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil;
+I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
+I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
+If it was only the making of portable soup.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #10493 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10493)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Old Bush Songs
+
+Author: A. B. Paterson
+
+Release Date: December 18, 2003 [EBook #10493]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+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 GRANDE’S 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
+PADDY’S 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 SQUATTER’S 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
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT
+THE LOAFER’S 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 STOCKMAN’S 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
+BOURKE’S 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.
+
+
+Australia’s 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 hole—like a rabbit out of his burrow—at the license
+hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated
+audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was
+full of ne’er-do-wells—singers and professional entertainers
+and so on—who 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 prisoners—ballads 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 writes—“I could never find out what the words meant,
+and I don’t 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 Squatter’s 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 Selector—a 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 “Squatter’s 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 cattle—it 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 through—chorus and all—and 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, we’ll bless them one and
+      all,
+   And we’ll sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert,
+      and Ben Hall.”
+
+Another line ran—
+
+  “It’s 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 writes—“I could never
+find out what the words meant, and I don’t think the blacks
+themselves knew.”
+
+
+
+PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA
+
+
+Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
+  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
+And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
+  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
+’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
+  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
+And from that day to this there’s 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,
+  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
+And he said—as 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 you’ll find yourself at home.
+I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
+  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
+    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re 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 couldn’t, 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-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
+The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s 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 he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
+    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
+    We’ll 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, we’re 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! you’ve 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 name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
+I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
+  “No, faith, but I’m 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 it’s roll up your blankets,
+     And let’s make a push,
+   I’ll take you up the country,
+     And show you the bush.
+   I’ll be bound you won’t get
+     Such a chance another day,
+   So come and take possession
+     Of my old bullock dray.
+
+Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
+  I mean to buy a team,
+And when I get a wife, boys,
+  I’ll be all-serene
+For calling at the depôt.
+  They say there’s no delay
+To get an off-sider
+  For the old bullock dray.
+
+Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
+  For good living, I’m your man.
+We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
+  And fritters in the pan;
+Or if you’d like some fish
+  I’ll catch you some soon,
+For we’ll bob for barramundies
+  Round the banks of a lagoon.
+
+Oh! yes, of beef and damper
+  I take care we have enough,
+And we’ll 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! we’ll have plenty girls,
+  We must mind that.
+There’ll be flash little Maggie,
+  And buckjumping Pat.
+There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
+  And Green-hide Mike.
+Yes, my Colonials, just
+  As many as you like.
+
+Now we’ll stop all immigration,
+  We won’t need it any more;
+We’ll 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! it’s time I had an answer,
+  If there’s one to be had,
+I wouldn’t 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 I’ll go up country
+  And marry a black gin.
+Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
+  This is what she’ll 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
+assistant—one 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 you”—good fellow you.
+
+
+
+PADDY’S LETTER, 1857
+
+
+I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
+  But now I have somebody’s 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 you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
+  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!
+
+Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
+  Though that same I ne’er 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,
+  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.
+
+I’m 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 harm—not a word of a lie!
+
+But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
+  And every flockmaster’s 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 Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
+  Lives on the Barcoo that’s 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 sickly—I think it was that—
+And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
+  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”
+
+’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
+  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
+But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
+  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof
+
+P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
+  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
+Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
+  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.
+
+
+The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.
+
+
+
+THE OLD BARK HUT
+
+
+Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
+And I’ve 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 I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
+      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
+     some tea,
+That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
+If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
+     gut—
+For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
+           bark hut.
+
+The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
+And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
+     for two.
+I’ve 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, I’d think myself serene—
+’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God 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, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
+     place,
+Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s 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,
+They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
+But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
+      fill up—
+For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
+            bark hut.
+
+In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
+      nice and cool,
+And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
+      hole.
+You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
+There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
+      treat
+Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
+      sleet.
+
+The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
+    with soot—
+That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
+Especially through that great big hole where once the table
+    stood.
+There’s 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 you’d 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, he’ll 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, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
+     could,
+And I hope the ladies present won’t 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 money’s 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 we’ll 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 money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
+  We all are bound to ride.
+O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
+  And mark the settler’s way—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
+  And traverse far below;
+Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
+  The limits of endless snow;
+
+Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
+  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
+  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
+And the very bad scrawl that’s 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 you’ll 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 you’d mourn,
+’Tis there you’d mourn
+The sweet woodbine
+That round your lattice now doth twine.
+
+Fond friends, don’t 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 I—how 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 danger’s 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 I’ve had you’ll 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 I’ve come,
+Determined never more to roam,
+  At least, to the bush of Australia.
+And stones upon the road I’ll 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 wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
+  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.
+
+
+
+ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI
+
+
+Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut
+    out.
+We’d 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
+  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
+  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, 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 we’d Sydney in our eye.
+
+
+But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+  Chorus: But we camped, &c.
+
+Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
+And I’ve 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+
+Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
+    into the bar,
+And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
+But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
+And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  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 Harry’s, not five miles from
+    Gundagai;
+
+          Chorus: And we tramped, &c.
+
+
+ “Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry
+one’s 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
+
+
+I’ve shore at Burrabogie, and I’ve shore at Toganmain,
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine,
+But before the shearin’ was over I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve 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, whate’er it might
+    contain,
+While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.
+
+I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
+    Creek,
+And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
+But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
+    morning train,
+And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
+    Plain.
+
+
+“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve 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 week’s 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 fortnight’s time or more,
+  And the shearers had been driving might and main,
+For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
+  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s 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 thunder’s muttering
+    loud,
+  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er 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 we’ll 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 we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
+    through,
+  For everything is merry since the rain.
+
+And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
+    shorn,
+  And the wringer’s wrist won’t 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 convict’s
+    chain.
+
+                      Chorus
+
+   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
+   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
+        plains—
+   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
+        chains.
+
+I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
+    Australian shore,
+When I took to the highway, as I’d 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 summer’s 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 you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
+For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+“I’d 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 father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
+And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
+   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
+   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
+       chains.
+
+
+He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
+    home,
+And through Australia’s 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 he’d 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 along—Kelly,  Davis, and
+    FitzRoy.
+They thought that they would capture him—the wild
+    Colonial boy.
+
+    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &c.
+
+“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
+Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
+He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
+“I’ll 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 that’s the way they captured him—the 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 mates—“Though 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, “Here’s 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, “We’ll 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 O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
+Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.
+
+And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
+    him
+They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
+And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
+That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
+    institution.
+
+So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
+    him,
+For well he knows the Government don’t 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 Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
+Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
+To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
+But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.
+
+Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll 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,
+    you’ll see.
+
+Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
+    walk,
+But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
+Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
+    night,
+And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.
+
+Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
+    maybe die of thirst;
+But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
+    first,
+For there’s 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 SQUATTER’S MAN
+
+
+Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
+That’s 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 you’ll 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 squatter’s 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 about—a regular drove—
+  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
+But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
+Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
+And very soon I hope you’ll be
+  A handy squatter’s 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, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
+    mouth;
+  And my youngsters don’t 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 squatter’s 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 I’m looking for a job,
+Without a copper in my fob.
+With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
+  Than be a squatter’s 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.
+
+“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers
+to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that
+made up the weekly ration on the stations.
+
+
+
+THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO
+
+
+I’m 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 price—with 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 cobbler’s
+    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 wouldn’t 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 I’d nurse the youngest child,
+And when I’d 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 rap—the stringy-bark
+    cockatoo.
+
+   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &c.
+
+
+[For note on this song, see Introduction.]
+
+
+
+THE EUMERELLA SHORE
+
+
+There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
+  Where I’ve 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 you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+       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 he’ll never be your owner any more;
+For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+    piece of land,
+  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+
+If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
+  Although before they’re never known to stray,
+Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
+  And sell them into slav’ry far away.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
+   You’ve been leading us astray,
+     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
+   For it’s 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, I’ll 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 aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
+    a fuss,
+And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s 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 you’ll do a
+    sneak,
+And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
+Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
+Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
+But if the banks once get you, they’ll 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 you’ll all be
+    glad to bear,
+Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
+So kindly pay attention, and I’ll 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,
+We’ll 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.
+That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
+    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,
+It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er 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 o’er 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
+    bunny’s 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.
+They’ll 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 Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
+    meadows green,
+We’ll 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.
+They’ll 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, that’s 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.
+
+“We’ll 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 sixteen”—sixteen 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.
+We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
+  In our regretful strain,
+Lamenting on the days gone by
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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,
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er to return again.
+
+A worthy cheque I always earned,
+  And spent it like a lord.
+My dress a prince’s 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,
+  Ne’er 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: “It’s 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 Eva’s 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 he’s 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 won’t 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
+  Ain’t 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 it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
+  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
+And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
+  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
+No odds what I feel, there’s 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 o’er 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!
+Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
+The world a desert—no oasis green
+A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
+Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
+An Eden to form—a 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 sea—brightest 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 o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
+To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
+
+Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
+And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
+The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
+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 earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
+No sick’ning 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 there’s not a country in the world where all that’s 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 that’s fair prevails,
+   Our colour’s 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 e’er would guess.
+Why, we’ve 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, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
+    ne’er 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.
+There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
+    Wales.
+
+    Chorus: Then toast with me, &c.
+
+Our climate’s 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 ocean’s 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 mountain’s 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 wealth’s 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 we’ll watch our servant bringing
+  Mine and Mary’s 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 can’t molest me,
+     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
+
+“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
+  Far o’er 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 there’s a stockman below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
+
+“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
+  Watchful and weird—I must go,
+For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
+  From the gloom of the scrub down below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
+
+“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
+  Place the pannikins out in a row,
+And we’ll 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 dark’ning shadows are falling,
+  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
+
+       Chorus: Wrap me up, &c.
+
+
+
+MY MATE BILL
+
+
+That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
+  And them’s his spurs up there
+On the wall-plate over yonder—
+  You ken see they ain’t 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 he’s gone to heaven,
+  And shook off all worldly cares
+But I can’t 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+He’d 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 couldn’t ’arp for apples,
+  His voice had tones as jarred,
+And he’d 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 throne—not William,
+  Unless they could make it prop.
+
+He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
+  Or chum with the cherubim,
+But if ever them seraph johnnies
+  Get a-poking it like at him—
+
+Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
+  And silk for to make a lash,
+He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
+  In a blinded lightning flash.
+
+If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
+  As mobs most always will,
+Who’ll 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
+  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
+And wake him up at the judgment
+  To draft those goats and sheep.
+
+It’s playing it low on William,
+  But perhaps he’ll 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—
+
+He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
+  In a way that it’s safe to swear
+Will make them tony seraphs
+  Sit back on their thrones and stare.
+
+
+
+SAM HOLT
+
+   (Air: “Ben Bolt.”)
+
+
+Oh! don’t 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! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
+  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
+And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
+  We caught in our blankets at night?
+
+Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
+  That scattered their fragrance around?
+And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
+  You sold me, and swore he was sound?
+
+And don’t 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 I’ll whistle a good many tunes
+  Ere you think of that fiver or me.
+
+Oh! don’t 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 don’t you remember the pasting you got
+  By the boys down in Callaghan’s 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 you’ve 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 who’d 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.
+
+When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
+  And it’s 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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
+             Who true bushmen are,
+  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
+
+When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
+O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
+He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
+So him also we’ll 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 we’ll 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 won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &c.
+
+Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
+To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
+Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en 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, we’ll 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 penmanship’s no requisite,
+  Keep matters square by chalking
+With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
+  Exact enough for hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &c.
+
+The hawker’s gay for half the day,
+  While others work he’s 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 fortune’s envied height
+  The path I have unfolded,
+We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
+  And don tweeds without joking,
+And honest men as well as rogues
+  We’ll 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 ne’er did see
+Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
+
+             Chorus
+
+   Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s toiling in the morning,
+   It’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s 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! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Next day into the bush I went,
+On wild adventure I was bent,
+Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
+All thought of danger would ignore.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s 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! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+This lovely country, I’ve been told,
+Abounds in silver and in gold.
+You may pick it up all day,
+Just as leaves in autumn lay!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Marines will chance this yarn believe,
+But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
+Such pretty stories will not fit,
+Nor can I their truth admit.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Some say there’s 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! it’s broiling, &c.
+
+Mayhap such good things there may be,
+But you may have them all, for me,
+Instead of roaming foreign parts
+I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s 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,
+He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
+He’ll 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 won’t delay,
+For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
+
+     Chorus: For the stockmen, &c.
+
+Then here’s 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,
+Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
+
+     Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &c.
+
+
+
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT
+
+   (As sung by the camp fire.)
+
+
+No doubt the saying’s all abroad,
+  And rattling through the land.
+We hear it at the mangle, too,
+  With “What are you going to stand?”
+I’m sure I don’t know which to choose,
+  There’s really such a lot—
+But I hope my song you’ll not refuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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 you’ll excuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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,
+  It’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
+
+Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,”
+  And arter him I flies,
+When another stepped up and knocked my hat
+  Completely o’er my eyes.
+He from my pocket drew my purse,
+  And off with it did trot;
+Says she, “It’s well it is no worse,
+ But it’s only a way he’s 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 he’d 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,
+  It’s only a way we’ve got!”
+
+        Chorus: Tol, lol, &c.
+
+I have grown tired of Sydney town
+  Since I’ve lost all my cash,
+And so will up the country go,
+  And tell them of my smash.
+Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun,
+  I’ll court Miss Polly Scott;
+And if she asks me what I mean
+  I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve 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, they’re 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, they’re 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.
+
+They’ll 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 it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and
+    Ainley.
+
+If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
+I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an
+    introduction.
+One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a
+    brother,
+And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll 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, they’ll think they’ve
+    failed in duty.
+But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
+And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out
+    completely.
+
+
+
+THE OLD KEG OF RUM
+
+
+My name is old Jack Palmer,
+  I’m 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 we’d get our harvest fee,
+We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg,
+  And then we’d have a spree.
+We’d sit and sing together
+  Till we got that blind and dumb
+That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+  Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+     Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Its jovially together, boys—
+  We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing;
+Sometimes we’d have a little row
+  Some argument would bring.
+
+And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys,
+  I’ve 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.
+We’d rap it with our knuckles—
+  If it sounded like a drum,
+We’d know the life and spirit
+  Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   We’d know the life and spirit
+     Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Those happy days have passed away,
+  I’ve 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 we’ll meet again,
+And, as I’ve tried to please you all,
+  I hope you won’t 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 I’ll relate to you
+Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few.
+I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
+And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
+
+I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too,
+I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
+I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
+I’ve 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, I’ve touched the shepherd’s 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, I’ve done it on the cross.
+Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse.
+I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s 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.
+
+I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair.
+Anxiety and misery my grim companions there.
+I’ve 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,
+I’m 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 I’ll not detain you long.
+Up and down this country
+  I travel, don’t you see,
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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! don’t you pity me, &c.
+
+I started station loafing,
+  Short stages and took my ease;
+So all day long till sundown
+  I’d camp beneath the trees.
+Then I’d walk up to the station,
+  The manager to see.
+“Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me,” &c.
+
+Says the overseer: “Go to the hut.
+  In the morning I’ll tell you
+If I’ve any work about
+  I can find for you to do.”
+But at breakfast I cuts off enough
+  For dinner, don’t you see.
+And then my name is Walker.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman, &c.
+
+And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye,
+  For I must go and camp.
+For if the Sergeant sees me
+  He may take me for a tramp;
+But if there’s any covey here
+  What’s got a cheque, d’ye see,
+I’ll stop and help him smash it.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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 dawn’s 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.
+
+There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
+  There’s danger in you cow;
+Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
+  The wild mob’s bolting now—
+The wild mob’s 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 childhood’s home,
+  Our heritage the whip.
+
+
+
+THE MARANOA DROVERS
+
+   (Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)
+
+
+The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
+  Our horses we will mount and ride away,
+To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
+  night,
+And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
+
+                  Chorus
+
+   For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
+     And we’ll 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, I’m sure
+That I wish for two o’clock 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 we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
+And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
+  It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
+  For we always have to go ten miles or more;
+It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
+  He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
+    too;
+  Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
+We’ll 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 pony—I 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; that’s 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 they’d robbed it themselves—had 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 Commissioner’s 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 I’d a fancy for any more land
+For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
+
+I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
+Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
+Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
+Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
+
+
+
+WALLABI JOE
+
+   (Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)
+
+
+The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
+And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
+For there never was seen such a regular screw
+As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
+Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
+That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse;
+But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
+He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+           O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried,
+“I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
+For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
+And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
+
+Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
+Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
+And off he rode with a whip in his hand
+To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
+
+Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
+And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
+Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
+So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
+He searched up and down every gully he knew,
+But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
+And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
+“Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
+
+Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
+It came into his head to go poking for gold;
+So away he went with a spade in his fist,
+To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
+One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
+He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
+The hobbles being jammed in a root below
+Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &c.
+
+
+
+THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME
+
+   (Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)
+
+
+I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
+Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
+Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
+That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
+    great—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
+   and shoes,
+And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
+And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
+    snooze,
+And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
+    choose—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
+And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
+    them all,
+Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
+For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
+    small—
+  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
+His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
+The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
+He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
+    free—
+  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
+
+And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
+But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
+His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
+    free,
+And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
+    chance to see—
+  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
+
+
+
+THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED
+
+
+Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
+Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
+The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot,
+His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
+   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.
+
+Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
+“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
+For I never again shall my saddle regain,
+Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”
+
+His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
+His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
+No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
+Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.
+
+Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
+After the wild mob you happen to stray,
+Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
+Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.
+
+
+
+MUSTERING SONG
+
+   (Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)
+
+
+The boss last night in the hut did say—
+“We start to muster at break of day;
+So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
+Saddle your horses and off you go.”
+
+               Chorus
+
+   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
+   So early in the morning, before the break of day.
+
+Such a night in the yard there never was seen
+(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
+Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
+As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+Across the plain we jog along
+Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
+We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
+We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
+A regular caution to this ’ere child—
+A new chum man on an old chum horse,
+Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
+I got a buster jumping a log;
+I found this scouting rather hot,
+So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
+With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
+He came too close to a knocked up steer,
+Who up a sapling made him clear.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+Now on every side we faintly hear
+The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
+To the camp the cattle soon converge,
+As from the thick scrub they emerge.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+We hastily comfort the inner man
+With the warm contents of the billy can;
+The beef and damper are passed about
+Before we tackle the cutting out.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+We’re at it now—that bally calf
+Would surely make a sick man laugh;
+The silly fool can’t take a joke;
+I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
+(Things here are never done by halves);
+Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
+Of scrubbers also not a few.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+It’s getting late, we’d better push;
+’Tis a good long way across the bush,
+And the mob to drive are middling hard;
+I do not think we’ll reach the yard.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &c.
+
+
+
+THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN
+
+
+The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
+  dense,
+Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
+  stockyard fence,
+Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
+And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
+  shuddering shadows throng
+Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
+  goburra’s song.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song;
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song.
+
+The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
+  pomp
+Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
+  swamp;
+Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.
+
+The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
+  along,
+And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
+  song.
+
+   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &c.
+
+Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
+  town;
+Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
+  dark-faced frown—
+The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
+When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
+  crack of the sounding thong
+Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.
+
+   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &c.
+
+
+
+THE SHEPHERD
+
+   (Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”)
+
+
+He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
+An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
+His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
+Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
+  wandered home.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
+   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
+     mountain brow.
+
+When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
+  gone;
+A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
+Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
+To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
+
+   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
+   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
+     face.
+
+When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
+The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
+Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
+  track
+From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
+
+   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
+   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
+     in his eye.
+
+
+
+THE OVERLANDER
+
+
+There’s a trade you all know well—
+  It’s bringing cattle over—
+I’ll tell you all about the time
+  When I became a drover.
+I made up my mind to try the spec,
+  To the Clarence I did wander,
+And bought a mob of duffers there
+  To begin as an overlander.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
+     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
+   For to-night we’ll drink the health
+     Of every overlander.
+
+Next morning counted the cattle
+  Saw the outfit ready to start,
+Saw all the lads well mounted,
+  And their swags put in a cart.
+
+All kinds of men I had
+  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
+Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
+  In the mob of overlanders.
+
+Next morning I set out
+  When the grass was green and young;
+And they swore they’d break my snout
+  If I did not move along.
+I said, “You’re very hard;
+  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
+For I’m a regular knowing card,
+  The Queensland overlander.”
+
+’Tis true we pay no license,
+  And our run is rather large;
+’Tis not often they can catch us,
+  So they cannot make a charge.
+They think we live on store beef,
+  But no, I’m not a gander;
+When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
+  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.
+
+One day a squatter rode up.
+  Says he, “You’re on my run;
+I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
+  Consider your stock in pound.”
+
+I tried to coax, then bounce him,
+  But my tin I had to squander,
+For he put threepence a head
+  On the mob of the overlander.
+
+The pretty girls in Brisbane
+  Were hanging out their duds.
+I wished to have a chat with them,
+  So steered straight for the tubs.
+Some dirty urchins saw me,
+  And soon they raised my dander,
+Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
+  Here comes an overlander!”
+
+In town we drain the wine cup,
+  And go to see the play,
+And never think to be hard up
+  For how to pass the day.
+Each has a sweetheart there,
+  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
+Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
+  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.
+
+
+
+A THOUSAND MILES AWAY
+
+   (Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”)
+
+
+Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
+And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward
+  Ho—
+To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
+  stray
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+   away.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
+   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
+     some folks say;
+   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
+   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
+     away.
+
+Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
+  bound to tell—
+Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—
+
+As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
+  weigh,
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+  away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.
+
+No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
+No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
+  seas—
+As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
+  weigh—
+From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
+  miles away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &c.
+
+
+
+THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN
+
+   (Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”)
+
+
+I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
+  Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
+My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
+  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+                     Chorus
+
+   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
+       tumbling in;
+     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
+   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
+     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
+  When fortune followed in my train;
+But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
+  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.
+
+I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
+  Of her I have no reason to complain;
+For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
+  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.
+
+And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
+  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
+And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
+  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &c.
+
+
+
+THE WALLABY BRIGADE
+
+
+You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
+But we are the bravest in the land;
+We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
+We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
+   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
+   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
+   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
+If there are any jobs to be had,
+Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
+For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
+If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
+To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
+Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
+  run,
+But a prettier mistake they never made;
+You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
+There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
+Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
+But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
+  rank,
+Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c.
+
+
+To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
+slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
+
+
+
+MY RELIGION
+
+
+Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
+  Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
+Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
+  Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
+
+From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
+  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
+To be upright and downright and act like a man,
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
+  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
+And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
+  To injure a poor fellow-creature.
+
+For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
+  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
+But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]
+
+Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
+  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
+They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
+  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
+
+But let man unto man like brethren act,
+  My doctrine this suits to a T,
+The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
+  Oh, that’s the religion for me.
+
+
+
+BOURKE’S DREAM
+
+
+Lonely and sadly one night in November
+  I laid down my weary head in search of repose
+On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
+  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
+      Tired from working hard
+      Down in the labour yard,
+Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
+      Locked in my prison cell,
+      Surely an earthly hell,
+I fell asleep and began for to dream.
+
+I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
+  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
+Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
+  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
+       On came the Saxons then,
+       Fighting our Fenian men,
+Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
+       Loud was the fight and shrill,
+       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
+Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.
+
+I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
+  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
+He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
+    sabre
+  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
+      “On,” was the battle cry,
+      “Conquer this day or die,
+Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
+      Show neither fear nor dread,
+      Strike at the foeman’s head,
+Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”
+
+I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
+  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
+Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
+  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
+      The green flag was waving high,
+      Under the bright blue sky,
+  And each man was singing most gloriously.
+      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
+      We Irishmen have done our work,
+God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”
+
+I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
+  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
+With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
+  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.
+
+
+
+BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA
+
+
+When I was at home I was down on my luck,
+And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
+But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh,
+I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
+
+When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
+Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
+He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
+Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow.
+
+When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
+He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
+I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
+And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
+
+So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
+And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
+But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
+Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow.
+
+
+At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
+A constable came up, and to me did say,
+“Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?”
+And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow.
+
+Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
+Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
+When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
+“I must send you down to be i—dentified.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
+
+They at last let me go, and I then did repair
+For my station once more, and at length I got there;
+But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
+Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And for nine months before no rain there had been,
+So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
+And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
+And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
+So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
+He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because
+The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+I applied; to renew he was quite content,
+If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
+But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
+Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
+
+For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
+And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
+He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
+“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
+      Barlow?”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He’d got a fi. fa. for poor Billy Barlow.
+
+What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
+And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
+Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
+At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
+Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
+How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
+And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
+
+And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
+Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
+Having got all he could by the writ of fi. fa.,
+By way of a change he’d brought up a ca. sa.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
+
+He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
+Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;”
+And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
+The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
+
+Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil;
+I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
+I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
+If it was only the making of portable soup.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
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+    "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html>
+<head>
+<title>The Old Bush Songs</title>
+<style type="text/css">
+h1 {text-align:center}
+h2 {text-align:center; page-break-before:always}
+h3 {text-align:center}
+p.signature {text-align:right}
+</style>
+</head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Old Bush Songs
+
+Author: A. B. Paterson
+
+Release Date: December 18, 2003 [EBook #10493]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<p>This ebook was prepared by Jeffrey Kraus-yao</p>
+
+<p><img src="cover.jpg" width="660" height="1065" alt="Man singing and leading cattle on a dirt road pulling a wagon."/></p>
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+
+
+<p>Second Impression<br/>
+completing the Tenth Thousand</p>
+
+
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+<p>Composed and sung in the Bushranging,<br/>
+Digging, and Overlanding Days</p>
+
+
+<p>EDITED BY</p>
+
+<p>A. B. PATERSON<br/>
+AUTHOR OF “THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER,” AND<br/>
+“RIO GRANDE’S LAST RACE”</p>
+
+
+<p>SYDNEY<br/>
+ANGUS AND ROBERTSON<br/>
+89 CASTLEREAGH STREET<br/>
+1906</p>
+
+
+
+<p>Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PREFACE</h2>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<p>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS<br/>
+PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA<br/>
+THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY<br/>
+PADDY’S LETTER, 1857<br/>
+THE OLD BARK HUT<br/>
+THE OLD SURVEY<br/>
+DWELL NOT WITH ME<br/>
+THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI<br/>
+FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI<br/>
+ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN<br/>
+BOLD JACK DONAHOO<br/>
+THE WILD COLONIAL BOY<br/>
+JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)<br/>
+IMMIGRATION<br/>
+THE SQUATTER’S MAN<br/>
+THE STRINGY BARK COCKATOO<br/>
+THE EUMERELLA SHORE<br/>
+JIMMY SAGO JACKAROO<br/>
+THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE<br/>
+THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT<br/>
+THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER<br/>
+THE FREE SELECTOR<br/>
+A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX<br/>
+SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES<br/>
+BRINGING HOME THE COWS<br/>
+THE DYING STOCKMAN<br/>
+MY MATE BILL<br/>
+SAM HOLT<br/>
+THE BUSHMAN<br/>
+HAWKING<br/>
+COLONIAL EXPERIENCE<br/>
+THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT<br/>
+THE LOAFER’S CLUB<br/>
+THE OLD KEG OF RUM<br/>
+THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER<br/>
+THE SWAGMAN<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE MARANOA DROVERS<br/>
+RIVER BEND<br/>
+SONG OF THE SQUATTER<br/>
+WALLABI JOE<br/>
+THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED<br/>
+MUSTERING SONG<br/>
+THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE SHEPHERD<br/>
+THE OVERLANDER<br/>
+A THOUSAND MILES AWAY<br/>
+THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN<br/>
+THE WALLABY BRIGADE<br/>
+MY RELIGION<br/>
+BOURKE’S DREAM<br/>
+BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+
+<p>“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.”—
+<i>Macaulay</i>.</p>
+<hr style="width:20%"/>
+
+<p>Australia’s 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 hole—like a rabbit out of his burrow—at the license
+hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated
+audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was
+full of ne’er-do-wells—singers and professional entertainers
+and so on—who 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 prisoners—ballads 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 writes—“I could never find out what the words meant,
+and I don’t 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>terra incognita</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Squatter’s 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Selector—a 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</p>
+<pre>
+                        “We may reside
+   In a home of our own by some clear waterside.”
+</pre>
+<p>The squatters also had a word to say, and “The Broken-down
+Squatter” puts their side of the case in a sort of
+<i>ad misericordiam</i> 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 “Squatter’s man.”</p>
+
+<p>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 cattle—it 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 through—chorus and all—and 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.</p>
+
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “But, oh, boys, such sheep I never shore,
+    As those that made us knuckle down at Goorianawa”
+</pre>
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “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, we’ll bless them one and
+      all,
+   And we’ll sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert,
+      and Ben Hall.”
+</pre>
+<p>Another line ran—</p>
+<pre>
+  “It’s a thousand pounds alive or dead, for Dunn, Gilbert,
+    and Ben Hall”
+</pre>
+<p>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.</p>
+
+                               <p class="signature">A. B. PATERSON.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS</h2>
+
+
+<h3>I</h3>
+<pre>
+Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang
+iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo,
+iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwaringime. Iwaringiang, iwaringdoo,
+ilanenienow,  coombagongniengowe, ilanenienow, coombagongniengowe,
+ilanenienowe combagoniengowe, ilanenienimme.
+</pre>
+<h3>II</h3>
+<pre>
+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.
+</pre>
+<p>Of the above songs Mr. Mowle writes—“I could never
+find out what the words meant, and I don’t think the blacks
+themselves knew.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
+  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
+And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
+  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
+’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
+  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
+And from that day to this there’s 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,
+  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
+And he said—as 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 you’ll find yourself at home.
+I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
+  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
+    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re 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 couldn’t, 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-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
+The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s 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 he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
+    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
+    We’ll 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, we’re 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! you’ve 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 name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
+I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
+  “No, faith, but I’m 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 it’s roll up your blankets,
+     And let’s make a push,
+   I’ll take you up the country,
+     And show you the bush.
+   I’ll be bound you won’t get
+     Such a chance another day,
+   So come and take possession
+     Of my old bullock dray.
+
+Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
+  I mean to buy a team,
+And when I get a wife, boys,
+  I’ll be all-serene
+For calling at the depôt.
+  They say there’s no delay
+To get an off-sider
+  For the old bullock dray.
+
+Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
+  For good living, I’m your man.
+We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
+  And fritters in the pan;
+Or if you’d like some fish
+  I’ll catch you some soon,
+For we’ll bob for barramundies
+  Round the banks of a lagoon.
+
+Oh! yes, of beef and damper
+  I take care we have enough,
+And we’ll 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! we’ll have plenty girls,
+  We must mind that.
+There’ll be flash little Maggie,
+  And buckjumping Pat.
+There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
+  And Green-hide Mike.
+Yes, my Colonials, just
+  As many as you like.
+
+Now we’ll stop all immigration,
+  We won’t need it any more;
+We’ll 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! it’s time I had an answer,
+  If there’s one to be had,
+I wouldn’t 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 I’ll go up country
+  And marry a black gin.
+Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
+  This is what she’ll say,
+“Budgery you
+  And your old bullock dray.”
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>“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
+assistant—one 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.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“Budgery you”—good fellow you.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY’S LETTER, 1857</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
+  But now I have somebody’s 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 you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
+  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!
+
+Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
+  Though that same I ne’er 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,
+  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.
+
+I’m 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 harm—not a word of a lie!
+
+But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
+  And every flockmaster’s 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 Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
+  Lives on the Barcoo that’s 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 sickly—I think it was that—
+And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
+  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”
+
+’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
+  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
+But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
+  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof
+
+P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
+  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
+Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
+  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.
+</pre>
+
+<p>The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BARK HUT</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
+And I’ve 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 I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
+      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
+     some tea,
+That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
+If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
+     gut—
+For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
+           bark hut.
+
+The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
+And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
+     for two.
+I’ve 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, I’d think myself serene—
+’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God 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, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
+     place,
+Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s 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,
+They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
+But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
+      fill up—
+For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
+            bark hut.
+
+In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
+      nice and cool,
+And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
+      hole.
+You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
+There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
+      treat
+Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
+      sleet.
+
+The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
+    with soot—
+That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
+Especially through that great big hole where once the table
+    stood.
+There’s 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 you’d 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, he’ll 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, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
+     could,
+And I hope the ladies present won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD SURVEY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Our money’s 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 we’ll 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 money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
+  We all are bound to ride.
+O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
+  And mark the settler’s way—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
+  And traverse far below;
+Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
+  The limits of endless snow;
+
+Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
+  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
+  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
+And the very bad scrawl that’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>DWELL NOT WITH ME</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dwell, not with me,
+For you’ll 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 you’d mourn,
+’Tis there you’d mourn
+The sweet woodbine
+That round your lattice now doth twine.
+
+Fond friends, don’t grieve
+For scenes like these,
+Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas.
+Dwell not with me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 I—how 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 danger’s 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 I’ve had you’ll 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 I’ve come,
+Determined never more to roam,
+  At least, to the bush of Australia.
+And stones upon the road I’ll 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 wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
+  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut
+    out.
+We’d 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
+  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
+  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, 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 we’d Sydney in our eye.
+
+
+But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+  Chorus: But we camped, &amp;c.
+
+Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
+And I’ve 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+
+Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
+    into the bar,
+And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
+But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
+And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  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 Harry’s, not five miles from
+    Gundagai;
+
+          Chorus: And we tramped, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry
+one’s swag, and the name bluey comes from the blue blankets.
+To “Shoulder Matilda” is the same thing as to “hump
+bluey.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve shore at Burrabogie, and I’ve shore at Toganmain,
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine,
+But before the shearin’ was over I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve 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, &amp;c.
+
+I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve 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, whate’er it might
+    contain,
+While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.
+
+I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
+    Creek,
+And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
+But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
+    morning train,
+And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
+    Plain.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve 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 week’s drunkenness.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Low Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+The weather had been sultry for a fortnight’s time or more,
+  And the shearers had been driving might and main,
+For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
+  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s 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 thunder’s muttering
+    loud,
+  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er 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 we’ll 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 we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
+    through,
+  For everything is merry since the rain.
+
+And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
+    shorn,
+  And the wringer’s wrist won’t ache much with the pain
+Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more,
+  And the second man will press him hard again.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>BOLD JACK DONAHOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 convict’s
+    chain.
+
+                      Chorus
+
+   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
+   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
+        plains—
+   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
+        chains.
+
+I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
+    Australian shore,
+When I took to the highway, as I’d 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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+As Donahoo was cruising, one summer’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+“Resign to you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
+For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+“I’d rather roam these hills and dales, like wolf or kangaroo,
+Than work one hour for Government!” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+
+   Chorus: Then come, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WILD COLONIAL BOY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+’Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
+Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
+He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
+And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
+   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
+   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
+       chains.
+
+
+He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
+    home,
+And through Australia’s 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+He bade the Judge “Good morning,” and told him to beware,
+That he’d 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, &amp;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 along—Kelly,  Davis, and
+    FitzRoy.
+They thought that they would capture him—the wild
+    Colonial boy.
+
+    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+
+“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
+Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
+He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
+“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild Colonial boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;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 that’s the way they captured him—the wild Colonial
+    boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)</h2>
+
+<p>[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for
+                 two days in 1859.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 mates—“Though 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, “Here’s 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, “We’ll 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 O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
+Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.
+
+And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
+    him
+They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
+And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
+That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
+    institution.
+
+So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
+    him,
+For well he knows the Government don’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IMMIGRATION</h2>
+
+
+<p>[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.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
+Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
+To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
+But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.
+
+Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll 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,
+    you’ll see.
+
+Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
+    walk,
+But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
+Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
+    night,
+And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.
+
+Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
+    maybe die of thirst;
+But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
+    first,
+For there’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER’S MAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
+That’s 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 you’ll 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 squatter’s 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 about—a regular drove—
+  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
+But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
+Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
+And very soon I hope you’ll be
+  A handy squatter’s 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, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
+    mouth;
+  And my youngsters don’t 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 squatter’s 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 I’m looking for a job,
+Without a copper in my fob.
+With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
+  Than be a squatter’s man.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers
+to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that
+made up the weekly ration on the stations.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’m 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 price—with 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s
+    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, &amp;c.
+
+For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty
+    hard;
+They wouldn’t 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,
+And when I’d 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 rap—the stringy-bark
+    cockatoo.
+
+   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>[For note on this song, see Introduction.]</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE EUMERELLA SHORE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
+  Where I’ve 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 you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+       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 he’ll never be your owner any more;
+For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+    piece of land,
+  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+
+If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
+  Although before they’re never known to stray,
+Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
+  And sell them into slav’ry far away.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
+   You’ve been leading us astray,
+     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
+   For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
+     Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+If you want a situation, I’ll 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 aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
+    a fuss,
+And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s 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 you’ll do a
+    sneak,
+And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
+Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
+Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
+But if the banks once get you, they’ll 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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be
+    glad to bear,
+Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
+So kindly pay attention, and I’ll 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,
+We’ll 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.
+That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
+    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,
+It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er 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 o’er 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
+    bunny’s 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.
+They’ll 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 Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
+    meadows green,
+We’ll 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.
+They’ll 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, that’s what they
+    want to see,
+That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll 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.</p>
+
+<p>“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Bonnie Irish Boy.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Come now, ye sighing washers all,
+  Join in my doleful lay,
+Mourn for the times none can recall,
+  With hearts to grief a prey.
+We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
+  In our regretful strain,
+Lamenting on the days gone by
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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,
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er to return again.
+
+A worthy cheque I always earned,
+  And spent it like a lord.
+My dress a prince’s 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,
+  Ne’er 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “It’s a fine hunting day.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 Eva’s 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 he’s 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 won’t 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, &amp;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
+  Ain’t 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, &amp;c.
+
+’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
+  No squatter could stand such a rub;
+For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
+  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
+And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
+  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
+No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal
+  For a broken-down squatter like me.
+
+   Chorus: For the banks, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREE SELECTOR</h2>
+
+   <h3>(A Song of 1861.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
+And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,
+Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won
+Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come
+   Now the Land Bill, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dark over the face of Nature sublime!
+Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
+The world a desert—no oasis green
+A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
+Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
+An Eden to form—a 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 sea—brightest 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 o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
+To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
+
+Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
+And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
+The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
+Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.
+
+   Chorus: First isle of the sea, &amp;c.
+
+Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine;
+’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
+No sick’ning 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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 there’s not a country in the world where all that’s 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 that’s fair prevails,
+   Our colour’s 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 e’er would guess.
+Why, we’ve 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, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
+    ne’er fails,
+Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South
+    Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;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.
+There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
+    Wales.
+
+    Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+
+Our climate’s 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 ocean’s gales;
+But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New
+    South Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BRINGING HOME THE COWS</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Shadows of the twilight falling
+  On the mountain’s 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 wealth’s 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 we’ll watch our servant bringing
+  Mine and Mary’s cows.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE DYING STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Old Stable Jacket.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 can’t molest me,
+     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
+
+“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
+  Far o’er the plains would I fly,
+Straight to the land of my childhood,
+  And there would I lay down and die.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;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 there’s a stockman below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
+  Watchful and weird—I must go,
+For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
+  From the gloom of the scrub down below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
+  Place the pannikins out in a row,
+And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
+  In the place where all good fellows go.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
+  When the soft winds are whispering low,
+And the dark’ning shadows are falling,
+  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
+
+       Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY MATE BILL</h2>
+
+<pre>
+That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
+  And them’s his spurs up there
+On the wall-plate over yonder—
+  You ken see they ain’t 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 he’s gone to heaven,
+  And shook off all worldly cares
+But I can’t 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+He’d 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 couldn’t ’arp for apples,
+  His voice had tones as jarred,
+And he’d 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 throne—not William,
+  Unless they could make it prop.
+
+He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
+  Or chum with the cherubim,
+But if ever them seraph johnnies
+  Get a-poking it like at him—
+
+Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
+  And silk for to make a lash,
+He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
+  In a blinded lightning flash.
+
+If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
+  As mobs most always will,
+Who’ll 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
+  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
+And wake him up at the judgment
+  To draft those goats and sheep.
+
+It’s playing it low on William,
+  But perhaps he’ll 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—
+
+He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
+  In a way that it’s safe to swear
+Will make them tony seraphs
+  Sit back on their thrones and stare.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SAM HOLT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ben Bolt.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Oh! don’t 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! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
+  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
+And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
+  We caught in our blankets at night?
+
+Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
+  That scattered their fragrance around?
+And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
+  You sold me, and swore he was sound?
+
+And don’t 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 I’ll whistle a good many tunes
+  Ere you think of that fiver or me.
+
+Oh! don’t 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 don’t you remember the pasting you got
+  By the boys down in Callaghan’s 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 you’ve 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 who’d 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.
+
+When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
+  And it’s likely enough your old mate
+Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road
+  To the end of the chapter of fate.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BUSHMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
+             Who true bushmen are,
+  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
+
+When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
+O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
+He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
+So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;c.
+
+Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
+To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
+Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>HAWKING</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Bow, Wow, Wow.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, we’ll 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, &amp;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 penmanship’s no requisite,
+  Keep matters square by chalking
+With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
+  Exact enough for hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+
+The hawker’s gay for half the day,
+  While others work he’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+Since pedlaring yields more delight
+  Than ever digging gold did,
+And since to fortune’s envied height
+  The path I have unfolded,
+We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
+  And don tweeds without joking,
+And honest men as well as rogues
+  We’ll scour the country hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>COLONIAL EXPERIENCE</h2>
+
+   <p>[By A New Chum]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+When first I came to Sydney Cove
+And up and down the streets did rove,
+I thought such sights I ne’er did see
+Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
+
+             Chorus
+
+   Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s toiling in the morning,
+   It’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Next day into the bush I went,
+On wild adventure I was bent,
+Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
+All thought of danger would ignore.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+This lovely country, I’ve been told,
+Abounds in silver and in gold.
+You may pick it up all day,
+Just as leaves in autumn lay!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Marines will chance this yarn believe,
+But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
+Such pretty stories will not fit,
+Nor can I their truth admit.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Some say there’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Mayhap such good things there may be,
+But you may have them all, for me,
+Instead of roaming foreign parts
+I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp,
+He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
+He’ll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea,
+For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.
+
+      Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;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, &amp;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 won’t delay,
+For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
+
+     Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;c.
+
+Then here’s 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,
+Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
+
+     Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(As sung by the camp fire.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+No doubt the saying’s all abroad,
+  And rattling through the land.
+We hear it at the mangle, too,
+  With “What are you going to stand?”
+I’m sure I don’t know which to choose,
+  There’s really such a lot—
+But I hope my song you’ll not refuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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 you’ll excuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,”
+  And arter him I flies,
+When another stepped up and knocked my hat
+  Completely o’er my eyes.
+He from my pocket drew my purse,
+  And off with it did trot;
+Says she, “It’s well it is no worse,
+ But it’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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 he’d got!
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way we’ve got!”
+
+        Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+I have grown tired of Sydney town
+  Since I’ve lost all my cash,
+And so will up the country go,
+  And tell them of my smash.
+Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun,
+  I’ll court Miss Polly Scott;
+And if she asks me what I mean
+  I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve got.
+
+         Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE LOAFERS’ CLUB</h2>
+
+<pre>
+A club there is established here, whose name they say is
+    Legion
+From Melbourne to the Billabong, they’re 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, they’re 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.
+
+They’ll 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 it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and
+    Ainley.
+
+If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
+I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an
+    introduction.
+One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a
+    brother,
+And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll 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, they’ll think they’ve
+    failed in duty.
+But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
+And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out
+    completely.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD KEG OF RUM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+My name is old Jack Palmer,
+  I’m 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 we’d get our harvest fee,
+We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg,
+  And then we’d have a spree.
+We’d sit and sing together
+  Till we got that blind and dumb
+That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+  Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+     Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Its jovially together, boys—
+  We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing;
+Sometimes we’d have a little row
+  Some argument would bring.
+
+And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys,
+  I’ve 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.
+We’d rap it with our knuckles—
+  If it sounded like a drum,
+We’d know the life and spirit
+  Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   We’d know the life and spirit
+     Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Those happy days have passed away,
+  I’ve 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 we’ll meet again,
+And, as I’ve tried to please you all,
+  I hope you won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all you jolly natives, and I’ll relate to you
+Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few.
+I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
+And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
+
+I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too,
+I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
+I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
+I’ve 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, I’ve touched the shepherd’s 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, I’ve done it on the cross.
+Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse.
+I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s 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.
+
+I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair.
+Anxiety and misery my grim companions there.
+I’ve 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,
+I’m a Murrumbidgee shearer, and one of the good old time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SWAGMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Kind friends, pray give attention
+  To this, my little song.
+Some rum things I will mention,
+  And I’ll not detain you long.
+Up and down this country
+  I travel, don’t you see,
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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! don’t you pity me, &amp;c.
+
+I started station loafing,
+  Short stages and took my ease;
+So all day long till sundown
+  I’d camp beneath the trees.
+Then I’d walk up to the station,
+  The manager to see.
+“Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me,” &amp;c.
+
+Says the overseer: “Go to the hut.
+  In the morning I’ll tell you
+If I’ve any work about
+  I can find for you to do.”
+But at breakfast I cuts off enough
+  For dinner, don’t you see.
+And then my name is Walker.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman, &amp;c.
+
+And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye,
+  For I must go and camp.
+For if the Sergeant sees me
+  He may take me for a tramp;
+But if there’s any covey here
+  What’s got a cheque, d’ye see,
+I’ll stop and help him smash it.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“A Swagman on the Wallaby.”—A nomad following
+track of the wallaby, i.e., loafing aimlessly.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A wet sheet and a flowing sea.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 dawn’s 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.
+
+There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
+  There’s danger in you cow;
+Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
+  The wild mob’s bolting now—
+The wild mob’s 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 childhood’s home,
+  Our heritage the whip.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MARANOA DROVERS</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
+  Our horses we will mount and ride away,
+To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
+  night,
+And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
+
+                  Chorus
+
+   For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
+     And we’ll 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, I’m sure
+That I wish for two o’clock 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 we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
+And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
+  It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
+  For we always have to go ten miles or more;
+It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
+  He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
+    too;
+  Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
+We’ll shout “Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy
+    coolibah,
+  And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.”
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>RIVER BEND</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Belle Mahone.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>SONG OF THE SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <p>[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.]</p>
+<pre>
+The Commissioner bet me a pony—I 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; that’s 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 they’d robbed it themselves—had 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 Commissioner’s 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 I’d a fancy for any more land
+For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
+
+I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
+Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
+Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
+Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>WALLABI JOE</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
+And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
+For there never was seen such a regular screw
+As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
+Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
+That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse;
+But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
+He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+           O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried,
+“I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
+For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
+And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
+
+Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
+Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
+And off he rode with a whip in his hand
+To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
+And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
+Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
+So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
+He searched up and down every gully he knew,
+But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
+And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
+“Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
+It came into his head to go poking for gold;
+So away he went with a spade in his fist,
+To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
+One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
+He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
+The hobbles being jammed in a root below
+Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
+Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
+Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
+That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
+    great—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
+   and shoes,
+And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
+And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
+    snooze,
+And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
+    choose—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
+And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
+    them all,
+Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
+For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
+    small—
+  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
+His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
+The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
+He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
+    free—
+  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
+
+And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
+But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
+His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
+    free,
+And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
+    chance to see—
+  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
+Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
+The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot,
+His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
+   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.
+
+Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
+“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
+For I never again shall my saddle regain,
+Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”
+
+His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
+His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
+No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
+Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.
+
+Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
+After the wild mob you happen to stray,
+Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
+Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MUSTERING SONG</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The boss last night in the hut did say—
+“We start to muster at break of day;
+So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
+Saddle your horses and off you go.”
+
+               Chorus
+
+   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
+   So early in the morning, before the break of day.
+
+Such a night in the yard there never was seen
+(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
+Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
+As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Across the plain we jog along
+Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
+We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
+We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
+A regular caution to this ’ere child—
+A new chum man on an old chum horse,
+Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
+I got a buster jumping a log;
+I found this scouting rather hot,
+So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
+With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
+He came too close to a knocked up steer,
+Who up a sapling made him clear.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now on every side we faintly hear
+The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
+To the camp the cattle soon converge,
+As from the thick scrub they emerge.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We hastily comfort the inner man
+With the warm contents of the billy can;
+The beef and damper are passed about
+Before we tackle the cutting out.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’re at it now—that bally calf
+Would surely make a sick man laugh;
+The silly fool can’t take a joke;
+I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
+(Things here are never done by halves);
+Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
+Of scrubbers also not a few.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+It’s getting late, we’d better push;
+’Tis a good long way across the bush,
+And the mob to drive are middling hard;
+I do not think we’ll reach the yard.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
+  dense,
+Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
+  stockyard fence,
+Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
+And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
+  shuddering shadows throng
+Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
+  goburra’s song.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song;
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song.
+
+The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
+  pomp
+Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
+  swamp;
+Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.
+
+The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
+  along,
+And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
+  song.
+
+   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+
+Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
+  town;
+Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
+  dark-faced frown—
+The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
+When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
+  crack of the sounding thong
+Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.
+
+   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEPHERD</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
+An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
+His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
+Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
+  wandered home.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
+   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
+     mountain brow.
+
+When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
+  gone;
+A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
+Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
+To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
+
+   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
+   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
+     face.
+
+When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
+The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
+Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
+  track
+From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
+
+   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
+   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
+     in his eye.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OVERLANDER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a trade you all know well—
+  It’s bringing cattle over—
+I’ll tell you all about the time
+  When I became a drover.
+I made up my mind to try the spec,
+  To the Clarence I did wander,
+And bought a mob of duffers there
+  To begin as an overlander.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
+     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
+   For to-night we’ll drink the health
+     Of every overlander.
+
+Next morning counted the cattle
+  Saw the outfit ready to start,
+Saw all the lads well mounted,
+  And their swags put in a cart.
+
+All kinds of men I had
+  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
+Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
+  In the mob of overlanders.
+
+Next morning I set out
+  When the grass was green and young;
+And they swore they’d break my snout
+  If I did not move along.
+I said, “You’re very hard;
+  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
+For I’m a regular knowing card,
+  The Queensland overlander.”
+
+’Tis true we pay no license,
+  And our run is rather large;
+’Tis not often they can catch us,
+  So they cannot make a charge.
+They think we live on store beef,
+  But no, I’m not a gander;
+When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
+  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.
+
+One day a squatter rode up.
+  Says he, “You’re on my run;
+I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
+  Consider your stock in pound.”
+
+I tried to coax, then bounce him,
+  But my tin I had to squander,
+For he put threepence a head
+  On the mob of the overlander.
+
+The pretty girls in Brisbane
+  Were hanging out their duds.
+I wished to have a chat with them,
+  So steered straight for the tubs.
+Some dirty urchins saw me,
+  And soon they raised my dander,
+Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
+  Here comes an overlander!”
+
+In town we drain the wine cup,
+  And go to see the play,
+And never think to be hard up
+  For how to pass the day.
+Each has a sweetheart there,
+  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
+Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
+  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A THOUSAND MILES AWAY</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
+And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward
+  Ho—
+To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
+  stray
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+   away.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
+   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
+     some folks say;
+   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
+   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
+     away.
+
+Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
+  bound to tell—
+Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—
+
+As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
+  weigh,
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+  away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+
+No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
+No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
+  seas—
+As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
+  weigh—
+From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
+  miles away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
+  Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
+My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
+  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+                     Chorus
+
+   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
+       tumbling in;
+     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
+   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
+     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
+  When fortune followed in my train;
+But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
+  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
+  Of her I have no reason to complain;
+For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
+  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
+  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
+And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
+  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WALLABY BRIGADE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
+But we are the bravest in the land;
+We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
+We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
+   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
+   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
+   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
+If there are any jobs to be had,
+Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
+For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
+If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
+To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
+Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
+  run,
+But a prettier mistake they never made;
+You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
+There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
+Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
+But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
+  rank,
+Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+
+To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
+slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY RELIGION</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
+  Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
+Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
+  Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
+
+From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
+  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
+To be upright and downright and act like a man,
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
+  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
+And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
+  To injure a poor fellow-creature.
+
+For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
+  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
+But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]
+
+Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
+  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
+They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
+  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
+
+But let man unto man like brethren act,
+  My doctrine this suits to a T,
+The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
+  Oh, that’s the religion for me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BOURKE’S DREAM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Lonely and sadly one night in November
+  I laid down my weary head in search of repose
+On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
+  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
+      Tired from working hard
+      Down in the labour yard,
+Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
+      Locked in my prison cell,
+      Surely an earthly hell,
+I fell asleep and began for to dream.
+
+I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
+  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
+Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
+  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
+       On came the Saxons then,
+       Fighting our Fenian men,
+Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
+       Loud was the fight and shrill,
+       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
+Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.
+
+I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
+  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
+He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
+    sabre
+  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
+      “On,” was the battle cry,
+      “Conquer this day or die,
+Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
+      Show neither fear nor dread,
+      Strike at the foeman’s head,
+Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”
+
+I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
+  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
+Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
+  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
+      The green flag was waving high,
+      Under the bright blue sky,
+  And each man was singing most gloriously.
+      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
+      We Irishmen have done our work,
+God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”
+
+I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
+  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
+With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
+  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+When I was at home I was down on my luck,
+And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
+But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh,
+I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
+
+When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
+Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
+He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
+Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow.
+
+When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
+He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
+I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
+And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
+
+So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
+And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
+But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
+Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow.
+
+
+At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
+A constable came up, and to me did say,
+“Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?”
+And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow.
+
+Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
+Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
+When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
+“I must send you down to be i—dentified.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
+
+They at last let me go, and I then did repair
+For my station once more, and at length I got there;
+But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
+Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And for nine months before no rain there had been,
+So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
+And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
+And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
+So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
+He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because
+The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+I applied; to renew he was quite content,
+If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
+But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
+Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
+
+For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
+And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
+He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
+“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
+      Barlow?”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He’d got a <i>fi. fa.</i> for poor Billy Barlow.
+
+What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
+And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
+Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
+At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
+Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
+How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
+And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
+
+And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
+Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
+Having got all he could by the writ of <i>fi. fa.</i>,
+By way of a change he’d brought up a <i>ca. sa.</i>
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
+
+He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
+Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;”
+And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
+The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
+
+Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil;
+I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
+I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
+If it was only the making of portable soup.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
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+</body>
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+<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+    "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
+<head>
+  <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
+<title>The Old Bush Songs</title>
+<style type="text/css">
+h1 {text-align:center}
+h2 {text-align:center; page-break-before:always}
+h3 {text-align:center}
+p.signature {text-align:right}
+</style>
+</head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Old Bush Songs
+
+Author: A. B. Paterson
+
+Release Date: December 18, 2003 [EBook #10493]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<p>This ebook was prepared by Jeffrey Kraus-yao</p>
+
+<p><img src="cover.jpg" width="660" height="1065" alt="Man singing and leading cattle on a dirt road pulling a wagon."/></p>
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+
+
+<p>Second Impression<br/>
+completing the Tenth Thousand</p>
+
+
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+<p>Composed and sung in the Bushranging,<br/>
+Digging, and Overlanding Days</p>
+
+
+<p>EDITED BY</p>
+
+<p>A. B. PATERSON<br/>
+AUTHOR OF “THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER,” AND<br/>
+“RIO GRANDE’S LAST RACE”</p>
+
+
+<p>SYDNEY<br/>
+ANGUS AND ROBERTSON<br/>
+89 CASTLEREAGH STREET<br/>
+1906</p>
+
+
+
+<p>Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PREFACE</h2>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<p>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS<br/>
+PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA<br/>
+THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY<br/>
+PADDY’S LETTER, 1857<br/>
+THE OLD BARK HUT<br/>
+THE OLD SURVEY<br/>
+DWELL NOT WITH ME<br/>
+THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI<br/>
+FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI<br/>
+ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN<br/>
+BOLD JACK DONAHOO<br/>
+THE WILD COLONIAL BOY<br/>
+JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)<br/>
+IMMIGRATION<br/>
+THE SQUATTER’S MAN<br/>
+THE STRINGY BARK COCKATOO<br/>
+THE EUMERELLA SHORE<br/>
+JIMMY SAGO JACKAROO<br/>
+THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE<br/>
+THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT<br/>
+THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER<br/>
+THE FREE SELECTOR<br/>
+A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX<br/>
+SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES<br/>
+BRINGING HOME THE COWS<br/>
+THE DYING STOCKMAN<br/>
+MY MATE BILL<br/>
+SAM HOLT<br/>
+THE BUSHMAN<br/>
+HAWKING<br/>
+COLONIAL EXPERIENCE<br/>
+THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT<br/>
+THE LOAFER’S CLUB<br/>
+THE OLD KEG OF RUM<br/>
+THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER<br/>
+THE SWAGMAN<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE MARANOA DROVERS<br/>
+RIVER BEND<br/>
+SONG OF THE SQUATTER<br/>
+WALLABI JOE<br/>
+THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED<br/>
+MUSTERING SONG<br/>
+THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE SHEPHERD<br/>
+THE OVERLANDER<br/>
+A THOUSAND MILES AWAY<br/>
+THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN<br/>
+THE WALLABY BRIGADE<br/>
+MY RELIGION<br/>
+BOURKE’S DREAM<br/>
+BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+
+<p>“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.”—
+<i>Macaulay</i>.</p>
+<hr style="width:20%"/>
+
+<p>Australia’s 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 hole—like a rabbit out of his burrow—at the license
+hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated
+audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was
+full of ne’er-do-wells—singers and professional entertainers
+and so on—who 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 prisoners—ballads 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 writes—“I could never find out what the words meant,
+and I don’t 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>terra incognita</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Squatter’s 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Selector—a 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</p>
+<pre>
+                        “We may reside
+   In a home of our own by some clear waterside.”
+</pre>
+<p>The squatters also had a word to say, and “The Broken-down
+Squatter” puts their side of the case in a sort of
+<i>ad misericordiam</i> 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 “Squatter’s man.”</p>
+
+<p>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 cattle—it 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 through—chorus and all—and 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.</p>
+
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “But, oh, boys, such sheep I never shore,
+    As those that made us knuckle down at Goorianawa”
+</pre>
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “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, we’ll bless them one and
+      all,
+   And we’ll sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert,
+      and Ben Hall.”
+</pre>
+<p>Another line ran—</p>
+<pre>
+  “It’s a thousand pounds alive or dead, for Dunn, Gilbert,
+    and Ben Hall”
+</pre>
+<p>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.</p>
+
+                               <p class="signature">A. B. PATERSON.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS</h2>
+
+
+<h3>I</h3>
+<pre>
+Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang
+iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo,
+iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwaringime. Iwaringiang, iwaringdoo,
+ilanenienow,  coombagongniengowe, ilanenienow, coombagongniengowe,
+ilanenienowe combagoniengowe, ilanenienimme.
+</pre>
+<h3>II</h3>
+<pre>
+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.
+</pre>
+<p>Of the above songs Mr. Mowle writes—“I could never
+find out what the words meant, and I don’t think the blacks
+themselves knew.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
+  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
+And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
+  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
+’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
+  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
+And from that day to this there’s 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,
+  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
+And he said—as 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 you’ll find yourself at home.
+I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
+  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
+    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re 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 couldn’t, 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-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
+The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s 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 he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
+    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
+    We’ll 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, we’re 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! you’ve 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 name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
+I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
+  “No, faith, but I’m 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 it’s roll up your blankets,
+     And let’s make a push,
+   I’ll take you up the country,
+     And show you the bush.
+   I’ll be bound you won’t get
+     Such a chance another day,
+   So come and take possession
+     Of my old bullock dray.
+
+Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
+  I mean to buy a team,
+And when I get a wife, boys,
+  I’ll be all-serene
+For calling at the depôt.
+  They say there’s no delay
+To get an off-sider
+  For the old bullock dray.
+
+Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
+  For good living, I’m your man.
+We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
+  And fritters in the pan;
+Or if you’d like some fish
+  I’ll catch you some soon,
+For we’ll bob for barramundies
+  Round the banks of a lagoon.
+
+Oh! yes, of beef and damper
+  I take care we have enough,
+And we’ll 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! we’ll have plenty girls,
+  We must mind that.
+There’ll be flash little Maggie,
+  And buckjumping Pat.
+There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
+  And Green-hide Mike.
+Yes, my Colonials, just
+  As many as you like.
+
+Now we’ll stop all immigration,
+  We won’t need it any more;
+We’ll 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! it’s time I had an answer,
+  If there’s one to be had,
+I wouldn’t 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 I’ll go up country
+  And marry a black gin.
+Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
+  This is what she’ll say,
+“Budgery you
+  And your old bullock dray.”
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>“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
+assistant—one 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.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“Budgery you”—good fellow you.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY’S LETTER, 1857</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
+  But now I have somebody’s 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 you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
+  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!
+
+Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
+  Though that same I ne’er 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,
+  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.
+
+I’m 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 harm—not a word of a lie!
+
+But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
+  And every flockmaster’s 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 Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
+  Lives on the Barcoo that’s 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 sickly—I think it was that—
+And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
+  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”
+
+’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
+  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
+But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
+  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof
+
+P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
+  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
+Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
+  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.
+</pre>
+
+<p>The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BARK HUT</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
+And I’ve 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 I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
+      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
+     some tea,
+That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
+If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
+     gut—
+For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
+           bark hut.
+
+The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
+And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
+     for two.
+I’ve 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, I’d think myself serene—
+’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God 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, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
+     place,
+Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s 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,
+They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
+But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
+      fill up—
+For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
+            bark hut.
+
+In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
+      nice and cool,
+And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
+      hole.
+You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
+There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
+      treat
+Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
+      sleet.
+
+The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
+    with soot—
+That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
+Especially through that great big hole where once the table
+    stood.
+There’s 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 you’d 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, he’ll 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, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
+     could,
+And I hope the ladies present won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD SURVEY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Our money’s 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 we’ll 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 money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
+  We all are bound to ride.
+O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
+  And mark the settler’s way—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
+  And traverse far below;
+Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
+  The limits of endless snow;
+
+Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
+  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
+  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
+And the very bad scrawl that’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>DWELL NOT WITH ME</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dwell, not with me,
+For you’ll 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 you’d mourn,
+’Tis there you’d mourn
+The sweet woodbine
+That round your lattice now doth twine.
+
+Fond friends, don’t grieve
+For scenes like these,
+Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas.
+Dwell not with me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 I—how 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 danger’s 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 I’ve had you’ll 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 I’ve come,
+Determined never more to roam,
+  At least, to the bush of Australia.
+And stones upon the road I’ll 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 wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
+  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut
+    out.
+We’d 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
+  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
+  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, 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 we’d Sydney in our eye.
+
+
+But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+  Chorus: But we camped, &amp;c.
+
+Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
+And I’ve 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+
+Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
+    into the bar,
+And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
+But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
+And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  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 Harry’s, not five miles from
+    Gundagai;
+
+          Chorus: And we tramped, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry
+one’s swag, and the name bluey comes from the blue blankets.
+To “Shoulder Matilda” is the same thing as to “hump
+bluey.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve shore at Burrabogie, and I’ve shore at Toganmain,
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine,
+But before the shearin’ was over I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve 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, &amp;c.
+
+I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve 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, whate’er it might
+    contain,
+While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.
+
+I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
+    Creek,
+And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
+But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
+    morning train,
+And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
+    Plain.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve 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 week’s drunkenness.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Low Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+The weather had been sultry for a fortnight’s time or more,
+  And the shearers had been driving might and main,
+For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
+  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s 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 thunder’s muttering
+    loud,
+  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er 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 we’ll 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 we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
+    through,
+  For everything is merry since the rain.
+
+And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
+    shorn,
+  And the wringer’s wrist won’t ache much with the pain
+Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more,
+  And the second man will press him hard again.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>BOLD JACK DONAHOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 convict’s
+    chain.
+
+                      Chorus
+
+   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
+   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
+        plains—
+   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
+        chains.
+
+I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
+    Australian shore,
+When I took to the highway, as I’d 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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+As Donahoo was cruising, one summer’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+“Resign to you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
+For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+“I’d rather roam these hills and dales, like wolf or kangaroo,
+Than work one hour for Government!” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+
+   Chorus: Then come, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WILD COLONIAL BOY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+’Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
+Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
+He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
+And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
+   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
+   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
+       chains.
+
+
+He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
+    home,
+And through Australia’s 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+He bade the Judge “Good morning,” and told him to beware,
+That he’d 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, &amp;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 along—Kelly,  Davis, and
+    FitzRoy.
+They thought that they would capture him—the wild
+    Colonial boy.
+
+    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+
+“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
+Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
+He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
+“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild Colonial boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;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 that’s the way they captured him—the wild Colonial
+    boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)</h2>
+
+<p>[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for
+                 two days in 1859.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 mates—“Though 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, “Here’s 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, “We’ll 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 O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
+Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.
+
+And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
+    him
+They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
+And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
+That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
+    institution.
+
+So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
+    him,
+For well he knows the Government don’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IMMIGRATION</h2>
+
+
+<p>[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.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
+Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
+To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
+But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.
+
+Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll 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,
+    you’ll see.
+
+Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
+    walk,
+But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
+Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
+    night,
+And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.
+
+Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
+    maybe die of thirst;
+But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
+    first,
+For there’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER’S MAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
+That’s 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 you’ll 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 squatter’s 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 about—a regular drove—
+  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
+But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
+Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
+And very soon I hope you’ll be
+  A handy squatter’s 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, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
+    mouth;
+  And my youngsters don’t 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 squatter’s 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 I’m looking for a job,
+Without a copper in my fob.
+With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
+  Than be a squatter’s man.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers
+to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that
+made up the weekly ration on the stations.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’m 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 price—with 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s
+    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, &amp;c.
+
+For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty
+    hard;
+They wouldn’t 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,
+And when I’d 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 rap—the stringy-bark
+    cockatoo.
+
+   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>[For note on this song, see Introduction.]</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE EUMERELLA SHORE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
+  Where I’ve 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 you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+       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 he’ll never be your owner any more;
+For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+    piece of land,
+  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+
+If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
+  Although before they’re never known to stray,
+Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
+  And sell them into slav’ry far away.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
+   You’ve been leading us astray,
+     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
+   For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
+     Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+If you want a situation, I’ll 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 aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
+    a fuss,
+And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s 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 you’ll do a
+    sneak,
+And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
+Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
+Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
+But if the banks once get you, they’ll 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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be
+    glad to bear,
+Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
+So kindly pay attention, and I’ll 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,
+We’ll 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.
+That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
+    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,
+It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er 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 o’er 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
+    bunny’s 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.
+They’ll 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 Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
+    meadows green,
+We’ll 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.
+They’ll 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, that’s what they
+    want to see,
+That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll 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.</p>
+
+<p>“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Bonnie Irish Boy.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Come now, ye sighing washers all,
+  Join in my doleful lay,
+Mourn for the times none can recall,
+  With hearts to grief a prey.
+We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
+  In our regretful strain,
+Lamenting on the days gone by
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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,
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er to return again.
+
+A worthy cheque I always earned,
+  And spent it like a lord.
+My dress a prince’s 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,
+  Ne’er 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “It’s a fine hunting day.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 Eva’s 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 he’s 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 won’t 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, &amp;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
+  Ain’t 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, &amp;c.
+
+’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
+  No squatter could stand such a rub;
+For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
+  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
+And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
+  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
+No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal
+  For a broken-down squatter like me.
+
+   Chorus: For the banks, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREE SELECTOR</h2>
+
+   <h3>(A Song of 1861.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
+And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,
+Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won
+Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come
+   Now the Land Bill, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dark over the face of Nature sublime!
+Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
+The world a desert—no oasis green
+A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
+Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
+An Eden to form—a 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 sea—brightest 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 o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
+To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
+
+Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
+And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
+The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
+Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.
+
+   Chorus: First isle of the sea, &amp;c.
+
+Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine;
+’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
+No sick’ning 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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 there’s not a country in the world where all that’s 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 that’s fair prevails,
+   Our colour’s 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 e’er would guess.
+Why, we’ve 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, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
+    ne’er fails,
+Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South
+    Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;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.
+There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
+    Wales.
+
+    Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+
+Our climate’s 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 ocean’s gales;
+But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New
+    South Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BRINGING HOME THE COWS</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Shadows of the twilight falling
+  On the mountain’s 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 wealth’s 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 we’ll watch our servant bringing
+  Mine and Mary’s cows.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE DYING STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Old Stable Jacket.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 can’t molest me,
+     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
+
+“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
+  Far o’er the plains would I fly,
+Straight to the land of my childhood,
+  And there would I lay down and die.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;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 there’s a stockman below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
+  Watchful and weird—I must go,
+For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
+  From the gloom of the scrub down below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
+  Place the pannikins out in a row,
+And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
+  In the place where all good fellows go.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
+  When the soft winds are whispering low,
+And the dark’ning shadows are falling,
+  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
+
+       Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY MATE BILL</h2>
+
+<pre>
+That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
+  And them’s his spurs up there
+On the wall-plate over yonder—
+  You ken see they ain’t 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 he’s gone to heaven,
+  And shook off all worldly cares
+But I can’t 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+He’d 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 couldn’t ’arp for apples,
+  His voice had tones as jarred,
+And he’d 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 throne—not William,
+  Unless they could make it prop.
+
+He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
+  Or chum with the cherubim,
+But if ever them seraph johnnies
+  Get a-poking it like at him—
+
+Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
+  And silk for to make a lash,
+He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
+  In a blinded lightning flash.
+
+If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
+  As mobs most always will,
+Who’ll 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
+  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
+And wake him up at the judgment
+  To draft those goats and sheep.
+
+It’s playing it low on William,
+  But perhaps he’ll 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—
+
+He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
+  In a way that it’s safe to swear
+Will make them tony seraphs
+  Sit back on their thrones and stare.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SAM HOLT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ben Bolt.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Oh! don’t 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! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
+  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
+And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
+  We caught in our blankets at night?
+
+Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
+  That scattered their fragrance around?
+And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
+  You sold me, and swore he was sound?
+
+And don’t 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 I’ll whistle a good many tunes
+  Ere you think of that fiver or me.
+
+Oh! don’t 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 don’t you remember the pasting you got
+  By the boys down in Callaghan’s 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 you’ve 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 who’d 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.
+
+When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
+  And it’s likely enough your old mate
+Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road
+  To the end of the chapter of fate.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BUSHMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
+             Who true bushmen are,
+  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
+
+When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
+O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
+He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
+So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;c.
+
+Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
+To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
+Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>HAWKING</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Bow, Wow, Wow.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, we’ll 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, &amp;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 penmanship’s no requisite,
+  Keep matters square by chalking
+With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
+  Exact enough for hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+
+The hawker’s gay for half the day,
+  While others work he’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+Since pedlaring yields more delight
+  Than ever digging gold did,
+And since to fortune’s envied height
+  The path I have unfolded,
+We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
+  And don tweeds without joking,
+And honest men as well as rogues
+  We’ll scour the country hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>COLONIAL EXPERIENCE</h2>
+
+   <p>[By A New Chum]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+When first I came to Sydney Cove
+And up and down the streets did rove,
+I thought such sights I ne’er did see
+Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
+
+             Chorus
+
+   Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s toiling in the morning,
+   It’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Next day into the bush I went,
+On wild adventure I was bent,
+Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
+All thought of danger would ignore.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+This lovely country, I’ve been told,
+Abounds in silver and in gold.
+You may pick it up all day,
+Just as leaves in autumn lay!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Marines will chance this yarn believe,
+But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
+Such pretty stories will not fit,
+Nor can I their truth admit.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Some say there’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Mayhap such good things there may be,
+But you may have them all, for me,
+Instead of roaming foreign parts
+I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp,
+He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
+He’ll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea,
+For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.
+
+      Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;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, &amp;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 won’t delay,
+For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
+
+     Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;c.
+
+Then here’s 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,
+Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
+
+     Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(As sung by the camp fire.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+No doubt the saying’s all abroad,
+  And rattling through the land.
+We hear it at the mangle, too,
+  With “What are you going to stand?”
+I’m sure I don’t know which to choose,
+  There’s really such a lot—
+But I hope my song you’ll not refuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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 you’ll excuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,”
+  And arter him I flies,
+When another stepped up and knocked my hat
+  Completely o’er my eyes.
+He from my pocket drew my purse,
+  And off with it did trot;
+Says she, “It’s well it is no worse,
+ But it’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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 he’d got!
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way we’ve got!”
+
+        Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+I have grown tired of Sydney town
+  Since I’ve lost all my cash,
+And so will up the country go,
+  And tell them of my smash.
+Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun,
+  I’ll court Miss Polly Scott;
+And if she asks me what I mean
+  I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve got.
+
+         Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE LOAFERS’ CLUB</h2>
+
+<pre>
+A club there is established here, whose name they say is
+    Legion
+From Melbourne to the Billabong, they’re 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, they’re 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.
+
+They’ll 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 it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and
+    Ainley.
+
+If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
+I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an
+    introduction.
+One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a
+    brother,
+And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll 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, they’ll think they’ve
+    failed in duty.
+But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
+And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out
+    completely.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD KEG OF RUM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+My name is old Jack Palmer,
+  I’m 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 we’d get our harvest fee,
+We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg,
+  And then we’d have a spree.
+We’d sit and sing together
+  Till we got that blind and dumb
+That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+  Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+     Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Its jovially together, boys—
+  We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing;
+Sometimes we’d have a little row
+  Some argument would bring.
+
+And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys,
+  I’ve 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.
+We’d rap it with our knuckles—
+  If it sounded like a drum,
+We’d know the life and spirit
+  Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   We’d know the life and spirit
+     Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Those happy days have passed away,
+  I’ve 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 we’ll meet again,
+And, as I’ve tried to please you all,
+  I hope you won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all you jolly natives, and I’ll relate to you
+Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few.
+I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
+And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
+
+I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too,
+I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
+I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
+I’ve 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, I’ve touched the shepherd’s 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, I’ve done it on the cross.
+Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse.
+I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s 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.
+
+I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair.
+Anxiety and misery my grim companions there.
+I’ve 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,
+I’m a Murrumbidgee shearer, and one of the good old time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SWAGMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Kind friends, pray give attention
+  To this, my little song.
+Some rum things I will mention,
+  And I’ll not detain you long.
+Up and down this country
+  I travel, don’t you see,
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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! don’t you pity me, &amp;c.
+
+I started station loafing,
+  Short stages and took my ease;
+So all day long till sundown
+  I’d camp beneath the trees.
+Then I’d walk up to the station,
+  The manager to see.
+“Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me,” &amp;c.
+
+Says the overseer: “Go to the hut.
+  In the morning I’ll tell you
+If I’ve any work about
+  I can find for you to do.”
+But at breakfast I cuts off enough
+  For dinner, don’t you see.
+And then my name is Walker.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman, &amp;c.
+
+And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye,
+  For I must go and camp.
+For if the Sergeant sees me
+  He may take me for a tramp;
+But if there’s any covey here
+  What’s got a cheque, d’ye see,
+I’ll stop and help him smash it.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“A Swagman on the Wallaby.”—A nomad following
+track of the wallaby, i.e., loafing aimlessly.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A wet sheet and a flowing sea.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 dawn’s 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.
+
+There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
+  There’s danger in you cow;
+Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
+  The wild mob’s bolting now—
+The wild mob’s 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 childhood’s home,
+  Our heritage the whip.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MARANOA DROVERS</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
+  Our horses we will mount and ride away,
+To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
+  night,
+And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
+
+                  Chorus
+
+   For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
+     And we’ll 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, I’m sure
+That I wish for two o’clock 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 we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
+And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
+  It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
+  For we always have to go ten miles or more;
+It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
+  He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
+    too;
+  Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
+We’ll shout “Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy
+    coolibah,
+  And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.”
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>RIVER BEND</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Belle Mahone.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>SONG OF THE SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <p>[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.]</p>
+<pre>
+The Commissioner bet me a pony—I 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; that’s 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 they’d robbed it themselves—had 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 Commissioner’s 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 I’d a fancy for any more land
+For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
+
+I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
+Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
+Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
+Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>WALLABI JOE</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
+And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
+For there never was seen such a regular screw
+As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
+Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
+That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse;
+But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
+He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+           O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried,
+“I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
+For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
+And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
+
+Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
+Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
+And off he rode with a whip in his hand
+To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
+And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
+Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
+So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
+He searched up and down every gully he knew,
+But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
+And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
+“Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
+It came into his head to go poking for gold;
+So away he went with a spade in his fist,
+To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
+One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
+He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
+The hobbles being jammed in a root below
+Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
+Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
+Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
+That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
+    great—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
+   and shoes,
+And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
+And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
+    snooze,
+And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
+    choose—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
+And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
+    them all,
+Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
+For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
+    small—
+  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
+His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
+The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
+He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
+    free—
+  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
+
+And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
+But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
+His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
+    free,
+And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
+    chance to see—
+  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
+Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
+The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot,
+His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
+   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.
+
+Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
+“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
+For I never again shall my saddle regain,
+Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”
+
+His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
+His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
+No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
+Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.
+
+Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
+After the wild mob you happen to stray,
+Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
+Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MUSTERING SONG</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The boss last night in the hut did say—
+“We start to muster at break of day;
+So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
+Saddle your horses and off you go.”
+
+               Chorus
+
+   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
+   So early in the morning, before the break of day.
+
+Such a night in the yard there never was seen
+(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
+Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
+As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Across the plain we jog along
+Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
+We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
+We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
+A regular caution to this ’ere child—
+A new chum man on an old chum horse,
+Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
+I got a buster jumping a log;
+I found this scouting rather hot,
+So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
+With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
+He came too close to a knocked up steer,
+Who up a sapling made him clear.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now on every side we faintly hear
+The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
+To the camp the cattle soon converge,
+As from the thick scrub they emerge.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We hastily comfort the inner man
+With the warm contents of the billy can;
+The beef and damper are passed about
+Before we tackle the cutting out.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’re at it now—that bally calf
+Would surely make a sick man laugh;
+The silly fool can’t take a joke;
+I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
+(Things here are never done by halves);
+Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
+Of scrubbers also not a few.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+It’s getting late, we’d better push;
+’Tis a good long way across the bush,
+And the mob to drive are middling hard;
+I do not think we’ll reach the yard.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
+  dense,
+Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
+  stockyard fence,
+Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
+And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
+  shuddering shadows throng
+Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
+  goburra’s song.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song;
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song.
+
+The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
+  pomp
+Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
+  swamp;
+Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.
+
+The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
+  along,
+And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
+  song.
+
+   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+
+Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
+  town;
+Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
+  dark-faced frown—
+The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
+When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
+  crack of the sounding thong
+Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.
+
+   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEPHERD</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
+An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
+His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
+Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
+  wandered home.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
+   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
+     mountain brow.
+
+When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
+  gone;
+A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
+Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
+To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
+
+   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
+   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
+     face.
+
+When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
+The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
+Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
+  track
+From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
+
+   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
+   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
+     in his eye.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OVERLANDER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a trade you all know well—
+  It’s bringing cattle over—
+I’ll tell you all about the time
+  When I became a drover.
+I made up my mind to try the spec,
+  To the Clarence I did wander,
+And bought a mob of duffers there
+  To begin as an overlander.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
+     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
+   For to-night we’ll drink the health
+     Of every overlander.
+
+Next morning counted the cattle
+  Saw the outfit ready to start,
+Saw all the lads well mounted,
+  And their swags put in a cart.
+
+All kinds of men I had
+  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
+Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
+  In the mob of overlanders.
+
+Next morning I set out
+  When the grass was green and young;
+And they swore they’d break my snout
+  If I did not move along.
+I said, “You’re very hard;
+  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
+For I’m a regular knowing card,
+  The Queensland overlander.”
+
+’Tis true we pay no license,
+  And our run is rather large;
+’Tis not often they can catch us,
+  So they cannot make a charge.
+They think we live on store beef,
+  But no, I’m not a gander;
+When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
+  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.
+
+One day a squatter rode up.
+  Says he, “You’re on my run;
+I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
+  Consider your stock in pound.”
+
+I tried to coax, then bounce him,
+  But my tin I had to squander,
+For he put threepence a head
+  On the mob of the overlander.
+
+The pretty girls in Brisbane
+  Were hanging out their duds.
+I wished to have a chat with them,
+  So steered straight for the tubs.
+Some dirty urchins saw me,
+  And soon they raised my dander,
+Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
+  Here comes an overlander!”
+
+In town we drain the wine cup,
+  And go to see the play,
+And never think to be hard up
+  For how to pass the day.
+Each has a sweetheart there,
+  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
+Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
+  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A THOUSAND MILES AWAY</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
+And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward
+  Ho—
+To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
+  stray
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+   away.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
+   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
+     some folks say;
+   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
+   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
+     away.
+
+Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
+  bound to tell—
+Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—
+
+As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
+  weigh,
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+  away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+
+No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
+No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
+  seas—
+As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
+  weigh—
+From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
+  miles away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
+  Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
+My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
+  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+                     Chorus
+
+   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
+       tumbling in;
+     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
+   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
+     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
+  When fortune followed in my train;
+But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
+  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
+  Of her I have no reason to complain;
+For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
+  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
+  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
+And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
+  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WALLABY BRIGADE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
+But we are the bravest in the land;
+We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
+We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
+   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
+   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
+   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
+If there are any jobs to be had,
+Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
+For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
+If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
+To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
+Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
+  run,
+But a prettier mistake they never made;
+You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
+There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
+Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
+But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
+  rank,
+Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+
+To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
+slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY RELIGION</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
+  Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
+Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
+  Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
+
+From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
+  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
+To be upright and downright and act like a man,
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
+  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
+And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
+  To injure a poor fellow-creature.
+
+For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
+  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
+But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]
+
+Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
+  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
+They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
+  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
+
+But let man unto man like brethren act,
+  My doctrine this suits to a T,
+The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
+  Oh, that’s the religion for me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BOURKE’S DREAM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Lonely and sadly one night in November
+  I laid down my weary head in search of repose
+On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
+  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
+      Tired from working hard
+      Down in the labour yard,
+Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
+      Locked in my prison cell,
+      Surely an earthly hell,
+I fell asleep and began for to dream.
+
+I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
+  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
+Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
+  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
+       On came the Saxons then,
+       Fighting our Fenian men,
+Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
+       Loud was the fight and shrill,
+       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
+Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.
+
+I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
+  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
+He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
+    sabre
+  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
+      “On,” was the battle cry,
+      “Conquer this day or die,
+Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
+      Show neither fear nor dread,
+      Strike at the foeman’s head,
+Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”
+
+I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
+  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
+Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
+  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
+      The green flag was waving high,
+      Under the bright blue sky,
+  And each man was singing most gloriously.
+      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
+      We Irishmen have done our work,
+God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”
+
+I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
+  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
+With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
+  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+When I was at home I was down on my luck,
+And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
+But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh,
+I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
+
+When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
+Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
+He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
+Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow.
+
+When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
+He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
+I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
+And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
+
+So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
+And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
+But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
+Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow.
+
+
+At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
+A constable came up, and to me did say,
+“Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?”
+And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow.
+
+Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
+Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
+When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
+“I must send you down to be i—dentified.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
+
+They at last let me go, and I then did repair
+For my station once more, and at length I got there;
+But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
+Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And for nine months before no rain there had been,
+So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
+And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
+And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
+So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
+He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because
+The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+I applied; to renew he was quite content,
+If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
+But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
+Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
+
+For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
+And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
+He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
+“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
+      Barlow?”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He’d got a <i>fi. fa.</i> for poor Billy Barlow.
+
+What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
+And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
+Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
+At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
+Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
+How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
+And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
+
+And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
+Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
+Having got all he could by the writ of <i>fi. fa.</i>,
+By way of a change he’d brought up a <i>ca. sa.</i>
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
+
+He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
+Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;”
+And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
+The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
+
+Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil;
+I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
+I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
+If it was only the making of portable soup.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
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+</pre>
+
+</body>
+</html>
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+<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
+<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+    "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html>
+<head>
+<title>The Old Bush Songs</title>
+<style type="text/css">
+h1 {text-align:center}
+h2 {text-align:center; page-break-before:always}
+h3 {text-align:center}
+p.signature {text-align:right}
+</style>
+</head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Old Bush Songs
+
+Author: A. B. Paterson
+
+Release Date: December 18, 2003 [EBook #10493]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD BUSH SONGS ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<p>This ebook was prepared by Jeffrey Kraus-yao</p>
+
+<p><img src="cover.jpg" width="660" height="1065" alt="Man singing and leading cattle on a dirt road pulling a wagon."/></p>
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+
+
+<p>Second Impression<br/>
+completing the Tenth Thousand</p>
+
+
+
+<h1>THE OLD BUSH SONGS</h1>
+
+<p>Composed and sung in the Bushranging,<br/>
+Digging, and Overlanding Days</p>
+
+
+<p>EDITED BY</p>
+
+<p>A. B. PATERSON<br/>
+AUTHOR OF “THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER,” AND<br/>
+“RIO GRANDE’S LAST RACE”</p>
+
+
+<p>SYDNEY<br/>
+ANGUS AND ROBERTSON<br/>
+89 CASTLEREAGH STREET<br/>
+1906</p>
+
+
+
+<p>Websdale, Shoosmith and Co., Printers, Sydney</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PREFACE</h2>
+
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+<p>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS<br/>
+PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA<br/>
+THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY<br/>
+PADDY’S LETTER, 1857<br/>
+THE OLD BARK HUT<br/>
+THE OLD SURVEY<br/>
+DWELL NOT WITH ME<br/>
+THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI<br/>
+FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI<br/>
+ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN<br/>
+BOLD JACK DONAHOO<br/>
+THE WILD COLONIAL BOY<br/>
+JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)<br/>
+IMMIGRATION<br/>
+THE SQUATTER’S MAN<br/>
+THE STRINGY BARK COCKATOO<br/>
+THE EUMERELLA SHORE<br/>
+JIMMY SAGO JACKAROO<br/>
+THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE<br/>
+THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT<br/>
+THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER<br/>
+THE FREE SELECTOR<br/>
+A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX<br/>
+SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES<br/>
+BRINGING HOME THE COWS<br/>
+THE DYING STOCKMAN<br/>
+MY MATE BILL<br/>
+SAM HOLT<br/>
+THE BUSHMAN<br/>
+HAWKING<br/>
+COLONIAL EXPERIENCE<br/>
+THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA<br/>
+IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT<br/>
+THE LOAFER’S CLUB<br/>
+THE OLD KEG OF RUM<br/>
+THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER<br/>
+THE SWAGMAN<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE MARANOA DROVERS<br/>
+RIVER BEND<br/>
+SONG OF THE SQUATTER<br/>
+WALLABI JOE<br/>
+THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME<br/>
+THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED<br/>
+MUSTERING SONG<br/>
+THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN<br/>
+THE SHEPHERD<br/>
+THE OVERLANDER<br/>
+A THOUSAND MILES AWAY<br/>
+THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN<br/>
+THE WALLABY BRIGADE<br/>
+MY RELIGION<br/>
+BOURKE’S DREAM<br/>
+BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+
+<p>“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.”—
+<i>Macaulay</i>.</p>
+<hr style="width:20%"/>
+
+<p>Australia’s 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 hole—like a rabbit out of his burrow—at the license
+hunters, had, perhaps, in another clime charmed cultivated
+audiences by his singing and improvisation; the bush was
+full of ne’er-do-wells—singers and professional entertainers
+and so on—who 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 prisoners—ballads 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 writes—“I could never find out what the words meant,
+and I don’t 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>terra incognita</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Squatter’s 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.</p>
+
+<p>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 Selector—a 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</p>
+<pre>
+                        “We may reside
+   In a home of our own by some clear waterside.”
+</pre>
+<p>The squatters also had a word to say, and “The Broken-down
+Squatter” puts their side of the case in a sort of
+<i>ad misericordiam</i> 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 “Squatter’s man.”</p>
+
+<p>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 cattle—it 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 through—chorus and all—and 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.</p>
+
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “But, oh, boys, such sheep I never shore,
+    As those that made us knuckle down at Goorianawa”
+</pre>
+<p>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—</p>
+<pre>
+  “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, we’ll bless them one and
+      all,
+   And we’ll sit and sing long live the King, Dunn, Gilbert,
+      and Ben Hall.”
+</pre>
+<p>Another line ran—</p>
+<pre>
+  “It’s a thousand pounds alive or dead, for Dunn, Gilbert,
+    and Ben Hall”
+</pre>
+<p>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.</p>
+
+                               <p class="signature">A. B. PATERSON.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>TWO ABORIGINAL SONGS</h2>
+
+
+<h3>I</h3>
+<pre>
+Korindabria, korindabria, bogarona, bogarona. Iwariniang
+iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwariniang, iwaringdo,
+iwariniang, iwaringdo, iwaringime. Iwaringiang, iwaringdoo,
+ilanenienow,  coombagongniengowe, ilanenienow, coombagongniengowe,
+ilanenienowe combagoniengowe, ilanenienimme.
+</pre>
+<h3>II</h3>
+<pre>
+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.
+</pre>
+<p>Of the above songs Mr. Mowle writes—“I could never
+find out what the words meant, and I don’t think the blacks
+themselves knew.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY MALONE IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Och! my name’s Pat Malone, and I’m from Tipperary.
+  Sure, I don’t know it now I’m so bothered, Ohone!
+And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
+  It’s scarcely they’d notice poor Paddy Malone.
+’Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
+  In happy Australia, the Emigrant’s home,
+And from that day to this there’s 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,
+  He’d a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
+And he said—as 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 you’ll find yourself at home.
+I liked his proposal, and ’out hesitation
+  Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
+    Oh, Paddy Malone, you’re 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 couldn’t, 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-ey’d and roared like a bull in a bog.
+The man said to me, “Arrah, Pat! where’s 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 he’d stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
+    Arrah! Paddy Malone, you’re no shepherd, Ohone!
+    We’ll 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, we’re 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! you’ve 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 name’s Paddy?” “Yes! Paddy Malone.”
+I thin says to him, “You’re an angel sent down, sure!”
+  “No, faith, but I’m 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BULLOCK DRAY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 it’s roll up your blankets,
+     And let’s make a push,
+   I’ll take you up the country,
+     And show you the bush.
+   I’ll be bound you won’t get
+     Such a chance another day,
+   So come and take possession
+     Of my old bullock dray.
+
+Now, I’ve saved up a good cheque,
+  I mean to buy a team,
+And when I get a wife, boys,
+  I’ll be all-serene
+For calling at the depôt.
+  They say there’s no delay
+To get an off-sider
+  For the old bullock dray.
+
+Oh! we’ll live like fighting cocks,
+  For good living, I’m your man.
+We’ll have leather jacks, johnny cakes,
+  And fritters in the pan;
+Or if you’d like some fish
+  I’ll catch you some soon,
+For we’ll bob for barramundies
+  Round the banks of a lagoon.
+
+Oh! yes, of beef and damper
+  I take care we have enough,
+And we’ll 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! we’ll have plenty girls,
+  We must mind that.
+There’ll be flash little Maggie,
+  And buckjumping Pat.
+There’ll be Stringy bark Joe,
+  And Green-hide Mike.
+Yes, my Colonials, just
+  As many as you like.
+
+Now we’ll stop all immigration,
+  We won’t need it any more;
+We’ll 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! it’s time I had an answer,
+  If there’s one to be had,
+I wouldn’t 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 I’ll go up country
+  And marry a black gin.
+Oh! “Baal gammon white feller,”
+  This is what she’ll say,
+“Budgery you
+  And your old bullock dray.”
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>“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
+assistant—one 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.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“Budgery you”—good fellow you.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>PADDY’S LETTER, 1857</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve had all sorts of luck, sometimes bad, sometimes better,
+  But now I have somebody’s 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 you’re more happy than I am in Australia—
+  If not, it’s small comfort that you have, achree!
+
+Hard fortune’s been mine since crossing the line,
+  Though that same I ne’er 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,
+  I’m at the wrong side of the line, anyway.
+
+I’m 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 harm—not a word of a lie!
+
+But the making of magistrates now all the rage is,
+  And every flockmaster’s 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 Murphy’s boy Tim, that married Moll Casey,
+  Lives on the Barcoo that’s 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 sickly—I think it was that—
+And while Molly was crying, a gin said, “No habbie
+  Your thin picaninny—well wait till it’s fat.”
+
+’Tis a beautiful country to practise economy.
+  Though the houses out here are not quite waterproof,
+But they’re illigant houses for studying astronomy—
+  You can lie on your back and read stars through the roof
+
+P.S.—This is cramped—if there’s no one to read it,
+  Send for Tim Murphy, he’ll know every stroke.
+Ye all have my blessing, I know that yell need it,
+  So no more at present from Teddy O’Rourke.
+</pre>
+
+<p>The above to an old tune called “Barney O’Keefe,” 1848.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD BARK HUT</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, my name is Bob the Swagman, before you all I stand,
+And I’ve 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 I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut.  In an old bark hut.
+      I’m forced to go on rations in an old bark hut.
+
+Ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of beef, some sugar and
+     some tea,
+That’s all they give to a hungry man, until the Seventh Day.
+If you don’t be moighty sparing, you’ll go with a hungry
+     gut—
+For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      For that’s one of the great misfortunes in an old
+           bark hut.
+
+The bucket you boil your beef in has to carry water, too,
+And they’ll say you’re getting mighty flash if you should ask
+     for two.
+I’ve 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, I’d think myself serene—
+’Tis only an old sheet of bark—God 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, there’s no such thing, ’twas never in the
+     place,
+Except the stool I sit upon—and that’s 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,
+They’ll scarcely leave a single piece that’s fit for man to eat.
+But you mustn’t curse, nor grumble—what won’t fatten will
+      fill up—
+For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       For what’s out of sight is out of mind in an old
+            bark hut.
+
+In the summer time, when the weather’s warm, this hut is
+      nice and cool,
+And you’ll find the gentle breezes blowing in through every
+      hole.
+You can leave the old door open, or you can leave it shut,
+There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+       In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+       There’s no fear of suffocation in the old bark hut.
+
+In the winter time—preserve us all—to live in there’s a
+      treat
+Especially when it’s raining hard, and blowing wind and
+      sleet.
+
+The rain comes down the chimney, and your meat is black
+    with soot—
+That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+      In an old bark hut. In an old bark hut.
+      That’s a substitute for pepper in an old bark hut.
+
+I’ve seen the rain come in this hut just like a perfect flood,
+Especially through that great big hole where once the table
+    stood.
+There’s 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 you’d 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, he’ll 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, I’ve sung my song, and that as well as I
+     could,
+And I hope the ladies present won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD SURVEY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Our money’s 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 we’ll 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 money’s done, and we’ve had our fun,
+  We all are bound to ride.
+O’er the far-off plain we’ll drag the chain,
+  And mark the settler’s way—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+We’ll range from the creeks to the mountain peaks,
+  And traverse far below;
+Where foot never trod, we’ll mark with a rod
+  The limits of endless snow;
+
+Each lofty crag we’ll plant with a flag,
+  To flash in the sun’s bright ray—
+Theodolite-tum, theodolite-ti, theodolite-too-ral-ay.
+
+Till with cash hard-earned once more returned,
+  At “The Beaver” bars we’ll shout;
+And the very bad scrawl that’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>DWELL NOT WITH ME</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dwell, not with me,
+For you’ll 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 you’d mourn,
+’Tis there you’d mourn
+The sweet woodbine
+That round your lattice now doth twine.
+
+Fond friends, don’t grieve
+For scenes like these,
+Or smart from bugs, mosquitoes, fleas.
+Dwell not with me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 I—how 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 danger’s 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 I’ve had you’ll 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 I’ve come,
+Determined never more to roam,
+  At least, to the bush of Australia.
+And stones upon the road I’ll 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 wouldn’t become an ourang-outang,
+  Don’t go to the bush of Australia.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>ON THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Oh, we started down from Roto when the sheds had all cut
+    out.
+We’d 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai
+  The road to Gundagai!  Not five miles from Gundagai!
+  Yes, we camped at Lazy Harry’s, 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 we’d Sydney in our eye.
+
+
+But we camped at Lazy Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+  Chorus: But we camped, &amp;c.
+
+Oh, I’ve seen a lot of girls, my boys, and drunk a lot of beer,
+And I’ve 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 Harry’s, on the road to Gundagai.
+
+Well, we chucked our blooming swags off, and we walked
+    into the bar,
+And we called for rum-an’-raspb’ry and a shilling each cigar.
+But the girl that served the pizen, she winked at Bill and I—
+And we camped at Lazy Harry’s,  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 Harry’s, not five miles from
+    Gundagai;
+
+          Chorus: And we tramped, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“Humped our blues serenely.”—To hump bluey is to carry
+one’s swag, and the name bluey comes from the blue blankets.
+To “Shoulder Matilda” is the same thing as to “hump
+bluey.”</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>FLASH JACK FROM GUNDAGAI</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’ve shore at Burrabogie, and I’ve shore at Toganmain,
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and upon the old Coleraine,
+But before the shearin’ was over I’ve 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.
+
+I’ve shore at big Willandra and I’ve 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, &amp;c.
+
+I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys and I’ve 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, whate’er it might
+    contain,
+While shearin’ for old Tom Patterson, on the One Tree Plain.
+
+I’ve been whalin’ up the Lachlan, and I’ve dossed on Cooper’s
+    Creek,
+And once I rung Cudjingie shed, and blued it in a week.
+But when Gabriel blows his trumpet, lads, I’ll catch the
+    morning train,
+And I’ll push for old Tom Patterson’s, on the One Tree
+    Plain.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“I’ve pinked ’em with the Wolseleys, and I’ve 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 week’s drunkenness.</p>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>ANOTHER FALL OF RAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Low Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+The weather had been sultry for a fortnight’s time or more,
+  And the shearers had been driving might and main,
+For some had got the century who’d ne’er got it before,
+  And now all hands were wishing for the rain.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   For the boss is getting rusty and the ringer’s 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 thunder’s muttering
+    loud,
+  And the clouds are driving eastward o’er 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 we’ll 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 we’ll block the classer’s table by the way we’ll put them
+    through,
+  For everything is merry since the rain.
+
+And the boss he won’t be rusty when his sheep they all are
+    shorn,
+  And the wringer’s wrist won’t ache much with the pain
+Of pocketing his cheque for fifty pounds or more,
+  And the second man will press him hard again.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>BOLD JACK DONAHOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 convict’s
+    chain.
+
+                      Chorus
+
+   Then come, my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high!
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die!
+   We’ll wander over  mountains and we’ll gallop over
+        plains—
+   For we scorn to live in slavery, bound down in iron
+        chains.
+
+I’d scarce been there twelve months or more upon the
+    Australian shore,
+When I took to the highway, as I’d 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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+As Donahoo was cruising, one summer’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+“Resign to you—you cowardly dogs! a thing I ne’er will do,
+For I’ll fight this night with all my might,” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+“I’d rather roam these hills and dales, like wolf or kangaroo,
+Than work one hour for Government!” cried bold Jack
+    Donahoo.
+
+   Chorus: Then come, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WILD COLONIAL BOY</h2>
+
+<pre>
+’Tis of a wild Colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
+Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
+He was his father’s only hope, his mother’s only joy,
+And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Come, all my hearties, we’ll roam the mountains high,
+   Together we will plunder, together we will die.
+   We’ll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
+   And we’ll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron
+       chains.
+
+
+He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father’s
+    home,
+And through Australia’s 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+He bade the Judge “Good morning,” and told him to beware,
+That he’d 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, &amp;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 along—Kelly,  Davis, and
+    FitzRoy.
+They thought that they would capture him—the wild
+    Colonial boy.
+
+    Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+
+“Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there’s three to one.
+Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.”
+He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
+“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild Colonial boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;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 that’s the way they captured him—the wild Colonial
+    boy.
+
+   Chorus: Come, all my hearties, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>JOHN GILBERT (BUSHRANGER)</h2>
+
+<p>[He and his gang stuck up the township of Canowindra for
+                 two days in 1859.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 mates—“Though 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, “Here’s 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, “We’ll 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 O’Flanagan performed in manner quite gintailly
+Upon the grand planner for the bushranger O’Meally.
+
+And every stranger passing by they took, and when they got
+    him
+They robbed him of his money and occasionally shot him.
+And Johnny’s enigmatic feat admits of this solution,
+That bushranging in New South Wales is a favoured
+    institution.
+
+So Johnny Gilbert ne’er allows an anxious thought to fetch
+    him,
+For well he knows the Government don’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IMMIGRATION</h2>
+
+
+<p>[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.]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”)</h3>
+<pre>
+Now Jordan’s land of promise is the burden of my song.
+Perhaps you’ve heard him lecture, and blow about it strong;
+To hear him talk you’d think it was a heaven upon earth,
+But listen and I’ll tell you now the plain unvarnished truth.
+
+Here mutton, beef, and damper are all you’ll 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,
+    you’ll see.
+
+Here snakes and all vile reptiles crawl around you as you
+    walk,
+But these you never hear about in Mr. Jordan’s talk;
+Mosquitoes, too, and sandflies, they will tease you all the
+    night,
+And until you get quite colonised you’ll be a pretty sight.
+
+Here are boundless plains where it seldom rains, and you’ll
+    maybe die of thirst;
+But should you so dispose your bones, you’ll scarcely be the
+    first,
+For there’s 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER’S MAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all ye lads an’ list to me,
+That’s 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 you’ll 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 squatter’s 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 about—a regular drove—
+  I ’spose you’re one of the clan?
+But I’ll give ten—ten, sugar an’ tea;
+Ten bob a week, if you’ll suit me,
+And very soon I hope you’ll be
+  A handy squatter’s 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, ma’am,’ and  ‘No, sir,’ mind your
+    mouth;
+  And my youngsters don’t 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 squatter’s 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 I’m looking for a job,
+Without a copper in my fob.
+With Ben Hall or Gardiner I’d rather rob,
+  Than be a squatter’s man.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll give ten, ten, sugar and tea.”—The “ten, ten” refers
+to the amount—ten pounds weight—of flour and meat that
+made up the weekly ration on the stations.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STRINGY-BARK COCKATOO</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I’m 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 price—with 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+For breakfast we had pollard, boys, it tasted like cobbler’s
+    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, &amp;c.
+
+For dinner we had goanna hash, we thought it mighty
+    hard;
+They wouldn’t 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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+At night when work was over I’d nurse the youngest child,
+And when I’d 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 rap—the stringy-bark
+    cockatoo.
+
+   Chorus: Oh, the stringy-bark, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+<p>[For note on this song, see Introduction.]</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE EUMERELLA SHORE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
+  Where I’ve 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 you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+       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 he’ll never be your owner any more;
+For you’re running, running, running on the duffer’s
+    piece of land,
+  Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+
+If we find a mob of horses when the paddock rails are down,
+  Although before they’re never known to stray,
+Oh, quickly will we drive them to some distant inland town,
+  And sell them into slav’ry far away.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   To Jack Robertson we’ll say
+   You’ve been leading us astray,
+     And we’ll never go a-farming any more;
+   For it’s easier duffing cattle on the little piece of land
+     Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>JIMMY SAGO, JACKAROO</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+If you want a situation, I’ll 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 aristocratic—Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+When you get on to the station, of small things you’ll make
+    a fuss,
+And in speaking of the station, mind, it’s 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 you’ll do a
+    sneak,
+And don a paper collar on your fifteen bob a week.
+Then at the lamb-marking a boss they’ll make of you.
+Now that’s the way to get on, Jimmy Sago, Jackaroo.
+
+A squatter in the future I’ve no doubt you may be,
+But if the banks once get you, they’ll 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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE PLAINS OF RIVERINE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+I have come to tell you of the glorious news you’ll all be
+    glad to bear,
+Of the pleasant alterations that are taking place this year.
+So kindly pay attention, and I’ll 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,
+We’ll 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.
+That’s how the squatters say they’ll keep their Sovereign’s
+    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,
+It’s a pleasure for to ramble o’er 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 o’er 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
+    bunny’s 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.
+They’ll 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 Zealand’s snow-clad summits or Tasmania’s
+    meadows green,
+We’ll 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.
+They’ll 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, that’s what they
+    want to see,
+That your tallies may do you credit in this year of Jubilee.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll 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.</p>
+
+<p>“To steer sixteen”—sixteen horses in the team.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEEP-WASHERS’ LAMENT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Bonnie Irish Boy.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Come now, ye sighing washers all,
+  Join in my doleful lay,
+Mourn for the times none can recall,
+  With hearts to grief a prey.
+We’ll mourn the washer’s sad downfall
+  In our regretful strain,
+Lamenting on the days gone by
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er 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,
+  Ne’er 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
+  Ne’er to return again.
+
+A worthy cheque I always earned,
+  And spent it like a lord.
+My dress a prince’s 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,
+  Ne’er 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BROKEN-DOWN SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “It’s a fine hunting day.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 Eva’s 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 he’s 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 won’t 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, &amp;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
+  Ain’t 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, &amp;c.
+
+’Twas done without reason, for leaving the season
+  No squatter could stand such a rub;
+For it’s useless to squat when the rents are so hot
+  That one can’t save the price of one’s grub;
+And there’s not much to choose ’twixt the banks and the Jews
+  Once a fellow gets put up a tree;
+No odds what I feel, there’s no court of appeal
+  For a broken-down squatter like me.
+
+   Chorus: For the banks, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREE SELECTOR</h2>
+
+   <h3>(A Song of 1861.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Ye sons of industry, to you I belong,
+And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song,
+Rejoicing o’er the victory John Robertson has won
+Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come
+   Now the Land Bill, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A NATIONAL SONG FOR AUSTRALIA FELIX</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Dark over the face of Nature sublime!
+Reign’d tyranny, warfare, and every crime;
+The world a desert—no oasis green
+A man-loving soul on its surface had seen;
+Then mercy above a mandate sent forth
+An Eden to form—a 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 sea—brightest 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 o’er the waters the olive branch bore,
+To show that one spot was cover’d no more;
+
+Australia thus shall be sounded by fame,
+And Europe shall echo the glorious name;
+The brave, wise, and good, wherever oppress’d,
+Shall fly to thy shores as a haven of rest.
+
+   Chorus: First isle of the sea, &amp;c.
+
+Land of the orange, fig, olive, and vine;
+’Midst earth’s fairest daughters the chaplet is thine;
+No sick’ning 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, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SUNNY NEW SOUTH WALES</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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 there’s not a country in the world where all that’s 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 that’s fair prevails,
+   Our colour’s 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 e’er would guess.
+Why, we’ve 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, we’ve lately seen old England, who boasts her stock
+    ne’er fails,
+Has had to send for wholsome meat preserved in New South
+    Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;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.
+There’s not a country half as rich as sunny New South
+    Wales.
+
+    Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+
+Our climate’s 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 ocean’s gales;
+But they bless the breeze that blew them to a life in New
+    South Wales.
+
+   Chorus: Then toast with me, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BRINGING HOME THE COWS</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Shadows of the twilight falling
+  On the mountain’s 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 wealth’s 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 we’ll watch our servant bringing
+  Mine and Mary’s cows.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE DYING STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Old Stable Jacket.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 can’t molest me,
+     In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
+
+“Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
+  Far o’er the plains would I fly,
+Straight to the land of my childhood,
+  And there would I lay down and die.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;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 there’s a stockman below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“Hark! there’s the wail of a dingo,
+  Watchful and weird—I must go,
+For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
+  From the gloom of the scrub down below.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“There’s tea in the battered old billy;
+  Place the pannikins out in a row,
+And we’ll drink to the next merry meeting,
+  In the place where all good fellows go.
+
+        Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+
+“And oft in the shades of the twilight,
+  When the soft winds are whispering low,
+And the dark’ning shadows are falling,
+  Sometimes think of the stockman below.”
+
+       Chorus: Wrap me up, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY MATE BILL</h2>
+
+<pre>
+That’s his saddle on the tie-beam,
+  And them’s his spurs up there
+On the wall-plate over yonder—
+  You ken see they ain’t 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 he’s gone to heaven,
+  And shook off all worldly cares
+But I can’t 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+He’d 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 couldn’t ’arp for apples,
+  His voice had tones as jarred,
+And he’d 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 throne—not William,
+  Unless they could make it prop.
+
+He mightn’t freeze to the seraphs,
+  Or chum with the cherubim,
+But if ever them seraph johnnies
+  Get a-poking it like at him—
+
+Well! if there’s hide in heaven,
+  And silk for to make a lash,
+He’ll yard ’em all in the Jasper Lake
+  In a blinded lightning flash.
+
+If the heavenly hosts get boxed now,
+  As mobs most always will,
+Who’ll 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
+  They’ll find for Bill to do.
+
+It’s hard if there ain’t no cattle,
+  And perhaps they’ll let him sleep,
+And wake him up at the judgment
+  To draft those goats and sheep.
+
+It’s playing it low on William,
+  But perhaps he’ll 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—
+
+He’ll yard them blamed Angoras
+  In a way that it’s safe to swear
+Will make them tony seraphs
+  Sit back on their thrones and stare.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>SAM HOLT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ben Bolt.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Oh! don’t 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! don’t you remember the moon’s silver sheen,
+  And the Warrego sand-ridges white?
+And don’t you remember those big bull-dog ants
+  We caught in our blankets at night?
+
+Oh! don’t you remember the creepers, Sam Holt,
+  That scattered their fragrance around?
+And don’t you remember that broken-down colt
+  You sold me, and swore he was sound?
+
+And don’t 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 I’ll whistle a good many tunes
+  Ere you think of that fiver or me.
+
+Oh! don’t 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 don’t you remember the pasting you got
+  By the boys down in Callaghan’s 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 you’ve 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 who’d 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.
+
+When’s my time coming?  Perhaps never, I think,
+  And it’s likely enough your old mate
+Will be humping his drum on the Hughenden-road
+  To the end of the chapter of fate.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE BUSHMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Wearing of the Green.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are,
+             Who true bushmen are,
+  So him alone we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are!
+
+When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
+O’er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
+He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
+So him also we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 we’ll envy not, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;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 won’t fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
+
+     Chorus: Who true bushmen are, &amp;c.
+
+Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I’ll give you, then,
+To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
+Here’s a health to the soldier and e’en 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>HAWKING</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Bow, Wow, Wow.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, we’ll 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, &amp;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 penmanship’s no requisite,
+  Keep matters square by chalking
+With pencil or with ruddle, that’s
+  Exact enough for hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+
+The hawker’s gay for half the day,
+  While others work he’s 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, &amp;c.
+
+Since pedlaring yields more delight
+  Than ever digging gold did,
+And since to fortune’s envied height
+  The path I have unfolded,
+We’ll fling our moleskins to the dogs
+  And don tweeds without joking,
+And honest men as well as rogues
+  We’ll scour the country hawking.
+
+   Chorus: Hawk, hawk, hawk, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>COLONIAL EXPERIENCE</h2>
+
+   <p>[By A New Chum]</p>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+When first I came to Sydney Cove
+And up and down the streets did rove,
+I thought such sights I ne’er did see
+Since first I learnt my A, B, C.
+
+             Chorus
+
+   Oh! it’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s toiling in the morning,
+   It’s broiling in the morning,
+   It’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Next day into the bush I went,
+On wild adventure I was bent,
+Dame Nature’s wonders I’d explore,
+All thought of danger would ignore.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+This lovely country, I’ve been told,
+Abounds in silver and in gold.
+You may pick it up all day,
+Just as leaves in autumn lay!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Marines will chance this yarn believe,
+But bluejackets you can’t deceive.
+Such pretty stories will not fit,
+Nor can I their truth admit.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Some say there’s 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! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+
+Mayhap such good things there may be,
+But you may have them all, for me,
+Instead of roaming foreign parts
+I wish I’d studied the Fine Arts!
+
+   Chorus: Oh! it’s broiling, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMEN OF AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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, &amp;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, &amp;c.
+
+If you should chance to lose yourself and drop upon his camp,
+He’s there reclining on the ground, be it dry or be it damp.
+He’ll give you hearty welcome, and a stunning pot of tea,
+For the stockmen of Australia, good-natured boys are they.
+
+      Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;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, &amp;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 won’t delay,
+For the stockmen of Australia, light-hearted boys are they.
+
+     Chorus: For the stockmen, &amp;c.
+
+Then here’s 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,
+Here’s to the stockmen of Australia—hip, hip, hooray!
+
+     Chorus: Here’s to the stockmen, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>IT’S ONLY A WAY HE’S GOT</h2>
+
+   <h3>(As sung by the camp fire.)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+No doubt the saying’s all abroad,
+  And rattling through the land.
+We hear it at the mangle, too,
+  With “What are you going to stand?”
+I’m sure I don’t know which to choose,
+  There’s really such a lot—
+But I hope my song you’ll not refuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve 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 you’ll excuse,
+  For it’s only a way I’ve got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+Says I, “I’ll soon catch you, my chap,”
+  And arter him I flies,
+When another stepped up and knocked my hat
+  Completely o’er my eyes.
+He from my pocket drew my purse,
+  And off with it did trot;
+Says she, “It’s well it is no worse,
+ But it’s only a way he’s got.”
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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 he’d got!
+
+       Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;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,
+  It’s only a way we’ve got!”
+
+        Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+
+I have grown tired of Sydney town
+  Since I’ve lost all my cash,
+And so will up the country go,
+  And tell them of my smash.
+Oh, then we’ll have such lots of fun,
+  I’ll court Miss Polly Scott;
+And if she asks me what I mean
+  I’ll tell her it’s a way I’ve got.
+
+         Chorus: Tol, lol, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE LOAFERS’ CLUB</h2>
+
+<pre>
+A club there is established here, whose name they say is
+    Legion
+From Melbourne to the Billabong, they’re 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, they’re 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.
+
+They’ll 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 it’s completely up the spout with Messrs. Scrase and
+    Ainley.
+
+If, feeling thirsty, you should go to take a little suction,
+I’ll swear they’ll not be long before they’ll force an
+    introduction.
+One knew you here, one knew you there, all love you like a
+    brother,
+And if one plan will not succeed, they’ll 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, they’ll think they’ve
+    failed in duty.
+But, truth to say, they seldom fail to do that duty neatly,
+And very few escape their hands who’re not cleared out
+    completely.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OLD KEG OF RUM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+My name is old Jack Palmer,
+  I’m 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 we’d get our harvest fee,
+We’d meet, and quickly rise the keg,
+  And then we’d have a spree.
+We’d sit and sing together
+  Till we got that blind and dumb
+That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+  Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   That we couldn’t find the bunghole
+     Of the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Its jovially together, boys—
+  We’d laugh, we’d chat, we’d sing;
+Sometimes we’d have a little row
+  Some argument would bring.
+
+And oftimes in a scrimmage, boys,
+  I’ve 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.
+We’d rap it with our knuckles—
+  If it sounded like a drum,
+We’d know the life and spirit
+  Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Oh! the Old Keg of Rum! the Old Keg of Rum!
+   We’d know the life and spirit
+     Had left the Old Keg of Rum.
+
+Those happy days have passed away,
+  I’ve 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 we’ll meet again,
+And, as I’ve tried to please you all,
+  I hope you won’t 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.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MURRUMBIDGEE SHEARER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Come, all you jolly natives, and I’ll relate to you
+Some of my observations—adventures, too, a few.
+I’ve travelled about the country for miles, full many a score,
+And oft-times would have hungered, but for the cheek I bore.
+
+I’ve coasted on the Barwon—low down the Darling, too,
+I’ve been on the Murrumbidgee, and out on the Paroo;
+I’ve been on all the diggings, boys, from famous Ballarat;
+I’ve 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, I’ve touched the shepherd’s 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, I’ve done it on the cross.
+Although I carry bluey now, I’ve sweated many a horse.
+I’ve helped to ease the escort of many’s 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.
+
+I’ve been hunted like a panther into my mountain lair.
+Anxiety and misery my grim companions there.
+I’ve 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,
+I’m a Murrumbidgee shearer, and one of the good old time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SWAGMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Kind friends, pray give attention
+  To this, my little song.
+Some rum things I will mention,
+  And I’ll not detain you long.
+Up and down this country
+  I travel, don’t you see,
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t 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! don’t you pity me, &amp;c.
+
+I started station loafing,
+  Short stages and took my ease;
+So all day long till sundown
+  I’d camp beneath the trees.
+Then I’d walk up to the station,
+  The manager to see.
+“Boss, I’m hard up and I want a job,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me,” &amp;c.
+
+Says the overseer: “Go to the hut.
+  In the morning I’ll tell you
+If I’ve any work about
+  I can find for you to do.”
+But at breakfast I cuts off enough
+  For dinner, don’t you see.
+And then my name is Walker.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman, &amp;c.
+
+And now, my friends, I’ll say good-bye,
+  For I must go and camp.
+For if the Sergeant sees me
+  He may take me for a tramp;
+But if there’s any covey here
+  What’s got a cheque, d’ye see,
+I’ll stop and help him smash it.
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+I’m a swagman on the wallaby,
+  Oh! don’t you pity me.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“A Swagman on the Wallaby.”—A nomad following
+track of the wallaby, i.e., loafing aimlessly.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A wet sheet and a flowing sea.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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 dawn’s 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.
+
+There’s mischief in you wide-horned steer,
+  There’s danger in you cow;
+Then mount, my merry horsemen all,
+  The wild mob’s bolting now—
+The wild mob’s 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 childhood’s home,
+  Our heritage the whip.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE MARANOA DROVERS</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Little Sally Waters.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The night is dark and stormy, and the sky is clouded o’er;
+  Our horses we will mount and ride away,
+To watch the squatters’ cattle through the darkness of the
+  night,
+And we’ll keep them on the camp till break of day.
+
+                  Chorus
+
+   For we’re going, going, going to Gunnedah so far,
+     And we’ll 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, I’m sure
+That I wish for two o’clock 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 we’re wakened by the distant thunder’s roar,
+And the lightning’s vivid flash, followed by an awful crash-
+  It’s rough on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We are up at break of day, and we’re all soon on the way,
+  For we always have to go ten miles or more;
+It don’t do to loaf about, or the squatter will come out—
+  He’s strict on drovers from the sandy Maranoa.
+
+We shall soon be on the Moonie, and we’ll cross the Barwon,
+    too;
+  Then we’ll be out upon the rolling plains once more;
+We’ll shout “Hurrah! for old Queensland, with its swampy
+    coolibah,
+  And the cattle that come off the Maranoa.”
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>RIVER BEND</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Belle Mahone.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+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, &amp;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.
+</pre>
+
+<p>“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.</p>
+
+
+
+<h2>SONG OF THE SQUATTER</h2>
+
+   <p>[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.]</p>
+<pre>
+The Commissioner bet me a pony—I 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; that’s 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 they’d robbed it themselves—had 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 Commissioner’s 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 I’d a fancy for any more land
+For one pound an acre he’d plenty on hand.
+
+I’m not very proud! I can dig in a bog,
+Feed pigs or for firewood can split up a log,
+Clean shoes, riddle cinders, or help to boil down—
+Or whatever you please, but graze lands of the Crown.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>WALLABI JOE</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Mistletoe Bough.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The saddle was hung on the stockyard rail,
+And the poor old horse stood whisking his tail,
+For there never was seen such a regular screw
+As Wallabi Joe, of Bunnagaroo;
+Whilst the shearers all said, as they say, of course,
+That Wallabi Joe’s a fine lump of a horse;
+But the stockmen said, as they laughed aside,
+He’d barely do for a Sunday’s ride.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+           O—oh! poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+“I’m weary of galloping now,” he cried,
+“I wish I were killed for my hide, my hide;
+For my eyes are dim, and my back is sore,
+And I feel that my legs won’t stand much more.”
+
+Now stockman Bill, who took care of his nag,
+Put under the saddle a soojee bag,
+And off he rode with a whip in his hand
+To look for a mob of the R.J. brand.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now stockman Bill camped out that night,
+And he hobbled his horse in a sheltered bight;
+Next day of old Joe he found not a track,
+So he had to trudge home with his swag on his back.
+He searched up and down every gully he knew,
+But he found not a hair of his poor old screw,
+And the stockmen all said as they laughed at his woe,
+“Would you sell us the chance of old Wallabi Joe.”
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+
+Now as years sped by, and as Bill grew old,
+It came into his head to go poking for gold;
+So away he went with a spade in his fist,
+To hunt for a nugget among the schist.
+One day as a gully he chanced to cross,
+He came on the bones of his poor old horse;
+The hobbles being jammed in a root below
+Had occasioned the death of poor Wallabi Joe.
+
+   Chorus: Oh! poor Wallabi Joe, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SQUATTER OF THE OLDEN TIME</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “A fine old English gentleman.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’ll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
+Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
+Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
+That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made
+    great—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots
+   and shoes,
+And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
+And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and
+    snooze,
+And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums
+    choose—
+  Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
+And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears
+    them all,
+Even to the scabby wanderer you’d think no good at all;
+For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the
+    small—
+  Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
+
+And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
+His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
+The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
+He darkly hints that Thompson’s run from scab is scarcely
+    free—
+  This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
+
+And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
+But finds with grief he’s not received as he had hoped to be.
+His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too
+    free,
+And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they
+    chance to see—
+  This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE STOCKMAN’S LAST BED</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Be ye stockmen or no, to my story give ear.
+Alas! for poor Jack, no more shall we hear
+The crack of his stockwhip, his steed’s lively trot,
+His clear “Go ahead, boys,” his jingling quart pot.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   For we laid him where wattles their sweet fragrance shed,
+   And the tall gum trees shadow the stockman’s last bed.
+
+Whilst drafting one day he was horned by a cow.
+“Alas!” cried poor Jack, “it’s all up with me now,
+For I never again shall my saddle regain,
+Nor bound like a wallaby over the plain.”
+
+His whip it is silent, his dogs they do mourn,
+His steed looks in vain for his master’s return;
+No friend to bemoan him, unheeded he dies;
+Save Australia’s dark sons, few know where he lies.
+
+Now, stockman, if ever on some future day
+After the wild mob you happen to stray,
+Tread softly where wattles their sweet fragrance spread,
+Where alone and neglected poor Jack’s bones are laid.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MUSTERING SONG</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “So Early in the Morning.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+The boss last night in the hut did say—
+“We start to muster at break of day;
+So be up first thing, and don’t be slow;
+Saddle your horses and off you go.”
+
+               Chorus
+
+   So early in the morning, so early in the morning,
+   So early in the morning, before the break of day.
+
+Such a night in the yard there never was seen
+(The horses were fat and the grass was green);
+Bursting of girths and slipping of packs
+As the stockmen saddled the fastest hacks.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Across the plain we jog along
+Over gully, swamp, and billabong;
+We drop on a mob pretty lively, too
+We round ’em up and give ’em a slue.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now the scrub grows thick and the cattle are wild,
+A regular caution to this ’ere child—
+A new chum man on an old chum horse,
+Who sails through the scrub as a matter of course.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+I was close up stuck in a rotten bog;
+I got a buster jumping a log;
+I found this scouting rather hot,
+So I joined the niggers with the lot we’d got.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+A long-haired shepherd we chanced to meet
+With a water bag, billy, and dog complete;
+He came too close to a knocked up steer,
+Who up a sapling made him clear.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+Now on every side we faintly hear
+The crack of the stockwhip drawing near;
+To the camp the cattle soon converge,
+As from the thick scrub they emerge.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We hastily comfort the inner man
+With the warm contents of the billy can;
+The beef and damper are passed about
+Before we tackle the cutting out.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’re at it now—that bally calf
+Would surely make a sick man laugh;
+The silly fool can’t take a joke;
+I hope some day in the drought he’ll croak.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+We’ve ’em now—the cows and calves
+(Things here are never done by halves);
+Strangers, workers, and milkers, too,
+Of scrubbers also not a few.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+
+It’s getting late, we’d better push;
+’Tis a good long way across the bush,
+And the mob to drive are middling hard;
+I do not think we’ll reach the yard.
+
+   Chorus: So early in the morning, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKMAN</h2>
+
+<pre>
+The sun peers o’er you wooded ridge and thro’ the forest
+  dense,
+Its golden edge o’er the mountain ledge looks down on the
+  stockyard fence,
+Looks down, looks down, looks down on the stockyard fence;
+And dark creeks rush thro’ the tangled brush, when their
+  shuddering shadows throng
+Until they chime in the rude rough rhyme of the wild
+  goburra’s song.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song;
+   Till they chime, ha! ha! till they chime, ha! ha! in the
+     wild goburra’s song.
+
+The night owl to her home hath fled, to shun the glorious
+  pomp
+Of golden day she speeds away to her nest in the tea-tree
+  swamp;
+Away, away to her nest in the tea-tree swamp.
+
+The dingo looks with a timid stare as he stealthily prowls
+  along,
+And his pattering feet in concert beat with the wild goburra’s
+  song.
+
+   Chorus: And they beat, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+
+Oh! let them boast their city’s wealth, who toil in a dusty
+  town;
+Give me the beam on the mountain stream, and the range’s
+  dark-faced frown—
+The stream, the stream, and the range’s dark-faced frown.
+When our steed shall pass o’er the quiv’ring grass, and the
+  crack of the sounding thong
+Shall bid the startled echoes join the wild goburra’s song.
+
+   Chorus: And they join, ha! ha! &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE SHEPHERD</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “She Wore a Wreath of Roses.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
+An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
+His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
+Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly
+  wandered home.
+
+                   Chorus
+
+   I saw him but a moment—yet methinks I see him now—
+   While his sheep were gently feeding ’neath the rugged
+     mountain brow.
+
+When next we met, the old blue shirt and cabbage-tree were
+  gone;
+A brand new suit of tweed and “Doctor Dod” he had put on;
+Arm in arm with him was one who strove, and not in vain,
+To ease his pockets of their load by drinking real champagne.
+
+   I saw him but a moment, and he was going a pace,
+   Shouting nobbler after nobbler, with a smile upon his
+     face.
+
+When next again I saw that man his suit of tweed was gone,
+The old blue shirt and cabbage-tree once more he had put on;
+Slowly he trudged along the road and took the well-known
+  track
+From the station he so lately left with a swag upon his back.
+
+   I saw him but a moment as he was walking by
+   With two black eyes and broken nose and a tear-drop
+     in his eye.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE OVERLANDER</h2>
+
+<pre>
+There’s a trade you all know well—
+  It’s bringing cattle over—
+I’ll tell you all about the time
+  When I became a drover.
+I made up my mind to try the spec,
+  To the Clarence I did wander,
+And bought a mob of duffers there
+  To begin as an overlander.
+
+               Chorus
+
+   Pass the wine cup round, my boys;
+     Don’t let the bottle stand there,
+   For to-night we’ll drink the health
+     Of every overlander.
+
+Next morning counted the cattle
+  Saw the outfit ready to start,
+Saw all the lads well mounted,
+  And their swags put in a cart.
+
+All kinds of men I had
+  From France, Germany, and Flanders;
+Lawyers, doctors, good and bad,
+  In the mob of overlanders.
+
+Next morning I set out
+  When the grass was green and young;
+And they swore they’d break my snout
+  If I did not move along.
+I said, “You’re very hard;
+  Take care, don’t raise my dander,
+For I’m a regular knowing card,
+  The Queensland overlander.”
+
+’Tis true we pay no license,
+  And our run is rather large;
+’Tis not often they can catch us,
+  So they cannot make a charge.
+They think we live on store beef,
+  But no, I’m not a gander;
+When a good fat stranger joins the mob,
+  “He’ll do,” says the overlander.
+
+One day a squatter rode up.
+  Says he, “You’re on my run;
+I’ve got two boys as witnesses.
+  Consider your stock in pound.”
+
+I tried to coax, then bounce him,
+  But my tin I had to squander,
+For he put threepence a head
+  On the mob of the overlander.
+
+The pretty girls in Brisbane
+  Were hanging out their duds.
+I wished to have a chat with them,
+  So steered straight for the tubs.
+Some dirty urchins saw me,
+  And soon they raised my dander,
+Crying, “Mother, quick! take in the clothes,
+  Here comes an overlander!”
+
+In town we drain the wine cup,
+  And go to see the play,
+And never think to be hard up
+  For how to pass the day.
+Each has a sweetheart there,
+  Dressed out in all her grandeur—
+Dark eyes and jet black flowing hair.
+  “She’s a plum,” says the overlander.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>A THOUSAND MILES AWAY</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “Ten Thousand Miles Away.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+Hurrah for the Roma railway! Hurrah for Cobb and Co.,
+And oh! for a good fat horse or two to carry me Westward
+  Ho—
+To carry me Westward Ho! my boys, that’s where the cattle
+  stray
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+   away.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Then give your horses rein across the open plain,
+   We’ll ship our meat both sound and sweet, nor care what
+     some folks say;
+   And frozen we’ll send home the cattle that now roam
+   On the far Barcoo and the Flinders too, a thousand miles
+     away.
+
+Knee-deep in grass we’ve got to pass—for the truth I’m
+  bound to tell—
+Where in three weeks the cattle get as fat as they can swell—
+
+As fat as they can swell, my boys; a thousand pounds they
+  weigh,
+On the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand miles
+  away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+
+No Yankee hide e’er grew outside such beef as we can freeze;
+No Yankee pastures make such steers as we send o’er the
+  seas—
+As we send o’er the seas, my boys, a thousand pounds they
+  weigh—
+From the far Barcoo, where they eat nardoo, a thousand
+  miles away.
+
+   Chorus: Then give your horses rein, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE FREEHOLD ON THE PLAIN</h2>
+
+   <h3>(Air: “The Little Old Log Cabin in the Lane.”)</h3>
+
+<pre>
+I’m a broken-down old squatter, my cash it is all gone,
+  Of troubles and bad seasons I complain;
+My cattle are all mortgaged, of horses I have none,
+  And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+                     Chorus
+
+   The stockyard’s broken down, and the woolshed’s
+       tumbling in;
+     I’ve written to the mortgagees in vain;
+   My wool it is all damaged and it is not worth a pin,
+     And I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+I commenced life as a squatter some twenty years ago,
+  When fortune followed in my train;
+But I speculated heavy and I’d have you all to know
+  That I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+I built myself a mansion, and chose myself a wife;
+  Of her I have no reason to complain;
+For I thought I had sufficient to last me all my life,
+  But I’ve lost that little freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+
+And now I am compelled to take a drover’s life,
+  To drive cattle through the sunshine and the rain,
+And to leave her behind me, my own dear loving wife—
+  We were happy on that freehold on the plain.
+
+   Chorus: The stockyard’s broken down, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>THE WALLABY BRIGADE</h2>
+
+<pre>
+You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
+But we are the bravest in the land;
+We’re called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
+We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+                    Chorus
+
+   Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
+   The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
+   When the shearing’s at an end we’ll go fishing in a bend.
+   Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
+If there are any jobs to be had,
+Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
+For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
+If they don’t stump up a warning should be made;
+To teach them better sense—why, “Set fire to their fence”
+Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their
+  run,
+But a prettier mistake they never made;
+You’ve only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over—
+There’s cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+Now when the shearing’s in our harvest will begin,
+Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
+But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag
+  rank,
+Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
+
+   Chorus: Tramp, tramp, tramp, &amp;c.
+
+
+To knock a monkey over is to kill a sheep, monkey being
+slang for sheep in many parts of the bush.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>MY RELIGION</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Let Romanists all at the Confessional kneel,
+  Let the Jew with disgust turn from it,
+Let the mighty Crown Prelate in Church pander zeal,
+  Let the Mussulman worship Mahomet.
+
+From all these I differ—truly wise is my plan,
+  With my doctrine, perhaps, you’ll agree,
+To be upright and downright and act like a man,
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+I will go to no Church and to no house of Prayer
+  To see a white shirt on a preacher.
+And in no Courthouse on a book will I swear
+  To injure a poor fellow-creature.
+
+For parsons and preachers are all a mere joke,
+  Their hands must be greased by a fee;
+But with the poor toiler to share your last “toke”*
+  That’s the religion for me.
+
+[Footnote: “Toke” is a slang word for bread.]
+
+Let Psalm-singing Churchmen and Lutheran sing,
+  They can’t deceive God with their blarney;
+They might just as well dance the Highland Fling,
+  Or sing the fair fame of Kate Kearney.
+
+But let man unto man like brethren act,
+  My doctrine this suits to a T,
+The heart that can feel for the woes of another,
+  Oh, that’s the religion for me.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BOURKE’S DREAM</h2>
+
+<pre>
+Lonely and sadly one night in November
+  I laid down my weary head in search of repose
+On my wallet of straw, which I long shall remember,
+  Tired and weary I fell into a doze.
+      Tired from working hard
+      Down in the labour yard,
+Night brought relief to my sad, aching brain.
+      Locked in my prison cell,
+      Surely an earthly hell,
+I fell asleep and began for to dream.
+
+I dreamt that I stood on the green fields of Erin,
+  In joyous meditation that victory was won.
+Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
+  “Stand,” was the cry, “every man to his gun.”
+       On came the Saxons then,
+       Fighting our Fenian men,
+Soon they’ll reel back from our piked volunteers.
+       Loud was the fight and shrill,
+       Wexford and Vinegar Hill,
+Three cheers for Father Murphy and the bold cavaliers.
+
+I dreamt that I saw our gallant commander
+  Seated on his charger in gorgeous array.
+He wore green trimmed with gold and a bright shining
+    sabre
+  On which sunbeams of Liberty shone brightly that day.
+      “On,” was the battle cry,
+      “Conquer this day or die,
+Sons of Hibernia, fight for Liberty!
+      Show neither fear nor dread,
+      Strike at the foeman’s head,
+Cut down horse, foot, and artillery!”
+
+I dreamt that the night was quickly advancing,
+  I saw the dead and dying on the green crimson plain.
+Comrades I once knew well in death’s sleep reposing,
+  Friends that I once loved but shall ne’er see again.
+      The green flag was waving high,
+      Under the bright blue sky,
+  And each man was singing most gloriously.
+      “Come from your prison, Bourke,
+      We Irishmen have done our work,
+God has been with us, and old Ireland is free.”
+
+I dreamt I was homeward, back over the mountain track,
+  With joy my mother fainted and gave a loud scream.
+With the shock I awoke, just as the day had broke,
+  And found myself an exile, and ’twas all but a dream.
+</pre>
+
+
+<h2>BILLY BARLOW IN AUSTRALIA</h2>
+
+<pre>
+When I was at home I was down on my luck,
+And I earned a poor living by drawing a truck;
+But old aunt died, and left me a thousand—“Oh, oh,
+I’ll start on my travels,” said Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So off to Australia came Billy Barlow.
+
+When to Sydney I got, there a merchant I met,
+Who said he would teach me a fortune to get;
+He’d cattle and sheep past the colony’s bounds,
+Which he sold with the station for my thousand pounds.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He gammon’d the cash out of Billy Barlow.
+
+When the bargain was struck, and the money was paid,
+He said, “My dear fellow, your fortune is made;
+I can furnish supplies for the station, you know,
+And your bill is sufficient, good Mr. Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    A gentleman settler was Billy Barlow.
+
+So I got my supplies, and I gave him my bill,
+And for New England started, my pockets to fill;
+But by bushrangers met, with my traps they made free,
+Took my horse and left Billy bailed to a tree.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall die of starvation,” thought Billy Barlow.
+
+
+At last I got loose, and I walked on my way;
+A constable came up, and to me did say,
+“Are you free?” Says I, “Yes, to be sure; don’t you know?”
+And I handed my card, “Mr. William Barlow.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He said, “That’s all gammon,” to Billy Barlow.
+
+Then he put on the handcuffs, and brought me away
+Right back down to Maitland, before Mr. Day.
+When I said I was free, why the J.P. replied,
+“I must send you down to be i—dentified.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    So to Sydney once more went poor Billy Barlow.
+
+They at last let me go, and I then did repair
+For my station once more, and at length I got there;
+But a few days before, the blacks, you must know,
+Had spear’d all the cattle of Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “It’s a beautiful country,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And for nine months before no rain there had been,
+So the devil a blade of grass could be seen;
+And one-third of my wethers the scab they had got,
+And the other two-thirds had just died of the rot.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I shall soon be a settler,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+And the matter to mend, now my bill was near due,
+So I wrote to my friend, and just asked to renew;
+He replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because
+The bill had passed into a usurer’s claws.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “But perhaps he’ll renew it,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+I applied; to renew he was quite content,
+If secured, and allowed just three hundred per cent.;
+But as I couldn’t do, Barr, Rodgers, and Co.
+Soon sent up a summons for Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    They soon settled the business of Billy Barlow.
+
+For a month or six weeks I stewed over my loss,
+And a tall man rode up one day on a black horse;
+He asked, “Don’t you know me?” I answered him “No.”
+“Why,” said he, “my name’s Kinsmill; how are you,
+      Barlow?”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He’d got a <i>fi. fa.</i> for poor Billy Barlow.
+
+What I’d left of my sheep and my traps he did seize,
+And he said, “They won’t pay all the costs and my fees;”
+Then he sold off the lot, and I’m sure ’twas a sin,
+At sixpence a head, and the station giv’n in.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    “I’ll go back to England,” said Billy Barlow.
+
+My sheep being sold, and my money all gone,
+Oh, I wandered about then quite sad and forlorn;
+How I managed to live it would shock you to know,
+And as thin as a lath got poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Quite down on his luck was poor Billy Barlow.
+
+And in a few weeks more, the sheriff, you see,
+Sent the tall man on horseback once more unto me;
+Having got all he could by the writ of <i>fi. fa.</i>,
+By way of a change he’d brought up a <i>ca. sa.</i>
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    He seized on the body of Billy Barlow.
+
+He took me to Sydney, and there they did lock
+Poor unfortunate Billy fast “under the clock;”
+And to get myself out I was forced, you must know
+The schedule to file of poor Billy Barlow.
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    In the list of insolvents was Billy Barlow.
+
+Then once more I got free, but in poverty’s toil;
+I’ve no “cattle for salting,” no “sheep for to boil;”
+I can’t get a job—though to any I’d stoop,
+If it was only the making of portable soup.”
+    Oh dear, lackaday, oh,
+    Pray give some employment to Billy Barlow.
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Old Bush Songs, by A. B. Paterson
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+</pre>
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+</body>