Chapter 2

Chapter 24,335 wordsPublic domain

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.