Part 4
“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.